by Logan Chance
“Not true.”
“So fucking true.”
And it is . . . but I can’t admit that. Not right now because in this case, when Vin wins, he actually loses. And so do I. There’s no way I’m green-lighting him as an infiltrator between a mob war.
Vin rises to his feet and pours us two glasses of champagne. He hands me one and then grabs the bottle with his glass, and sits back on the couch next to me. “Well, now that my guests have gone, I guess I’ll need you to entertain me.” He takes a long drink, emptying his glass and pouring another. “What do you know about Kesar? Has he been here, yet?”
“Not yet. Just a few people in his circle. But none that actually do much of anything other than screw girls in the backroom and demand expensive drinks.”
I sip at my glass, appreciating the bubbles as they dance on my tongue. “So, what exactly is your cover, Mills?”
“Dima Black,” he says immediately, as if he’s practiced that line a million times before. “I mostly work in the construction business owned by Kesar. And by construction I mean places to bury . . . major inconveniences.”
I shudder. “And this is more fulfilling to you than white collar crime? Doing dirty work for Kesar?”
“I also get free drinks.” He grins.
“I can’t even believe you, right now, Mills. But drinking definitely sounds like a plan.”
And stupidly, we do. I feel like I’m floating up to the ceiling. Laughing and joking with him for what feels like hours. The bubbles must go straight to my brain because I blurt, “Your suit is really nice. What is this . . . Italian silk, Vin?” I feel the lapels between my fingers.
Vin grins at me in a way that sends my heart flying. “Wouldn’t know. I leave that up to the professionals. Apparently this is how Russian mafia dudes dress. I don’t know. It’s nice but completely not me. Too stiff. What do you think of my look?”
What do I think?
What do I think?
I think I want to ride that ride.
I want a golden ticket to climb aboard the Detective Vin Mills train and choo choo that sucker all night long.
Can’t tell him that though.
“Mmm,” I squeak, trying not to sound impressed in the slightest because, well, he’s Vin and he already knows the kind of hold he has on me. It’s like tossing food to an alligator that pops up in your backyard. He’s enough of a beast on his own. I don’t need to hand feed him, ya know?
“That blush,” he croons. “You have no idea what it does to me, Addison.”
Vin slowly reaches out his hand. His fingers brush the apple of my cheek. It’s been weeks since he’s touched me due to the fact we haven’t seen each other. Both of us working seperate undercover assignments sucks. As he draws back I notice his fingers are blackened with fresh tattoos. My heart quickens at the burn his touch leaves on my skin and the added knowledge of his markings. Tattoos are common these days, but it’s all in the placement. Tattoos on your fingers are pretty damn bold. This role he’s playing is severe. You want people to see those for a reason. They’re impossible to hide and I imagine more painful than your average forearm tat—like his Captain America one. I look at him through new eyes, like if you squint and see the world through your lashes and blurry. And suddenly he is Dima Black, a dangerous criminal of organized crime.
The drinks get the best of me as I wrap my hands around his neck and whisper seductively, “Thank you, Mr. Black, for saving me from your unruly men earlier.”
His eyes ignite with desire.
“If you’re trying to kill me, Buckley, you’re doing a much better job than the Russians or Mexicans.”
“Maybe they need a woman on the inside . . . you know . . . to help them complete their mission. Someone who knows you. All of you. Your weaknesses, for a start.”
“You’re my weakness,” he says, cupping my face in his strong hands. “You’re the only one who could kill me, Buckley.””
Vin kisses me, a small taste at first like he’s unsure if I’m going to pop off at him like I did with Yegor. Foolish. He pulls back, still cupping my chin in his hand. His eyes wait, lingering on mine until I press back into him, allowing him to kiss me deeply. Everything in him pours into me—lust, greed, desire. And power.
I feel like Superwoman kissing Vin; bold and braver than I’ve ever been before. I move my body and hands in a foreign and satisfying pace, groping him beneath his suit jacket, crawling into his lap. He takes two handfuls of my ass into his palms, kneading my skin as we spiral out of control together in a twist of tongues and breath. I rip his jacket and shirt away, buttons flying until the tan skin of his chest is revealed.
“Fuck,” he growls in my ear, tearing my underwear away. Vin harshly tugs the straps of my dress down, spilling my breasts for his mouth to devour. I moan and claw at him for more, loving every single bit of how his mouth feels against my overheated skin.
I fist his hair tightly as he works his way up the column of my neck, biting and licking furiously.
My head spins with lust, my body soaked to the core with need for him. I inhale the scent of him, sweaty and masculine beneath me.
He bucks his hips and lifts me up just high enough to free himself. “My pocket,” he orders, nodding to his jacket that I discarded. I flutter about trying to search for what he wants. Finally, I find a condom. He tears it away from me and fixes it on himself before pulling my mouth back to his, until I’m drunk and lost in his kiss. I slide myself over him, slippery and eager. He’s long and thick.
“Shit, Vin, ” I grit out. “You’ll kill me with your cock.”
“Yes, let me,” he growls, gripping my hips again. Vin rocks against me, and then lifts me up until I’m sitting on him, his dick deep inside me. I cry out, clawing at his neck. The feeling is so intense. And I’m riding the Vin Mills train—choo fucking choo—loving every single second of it.
He bucks his hips in a steady deep rhythm until I’m speaking foolishness, begging for release. My body is as tight as a spring, teetering on the edge of explosion. I lean back, resting my palms on his knees and he drives deeper, quickening his movements.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” His hands grope my naked breasts, twisting at my nipples, pinching hard until sparks ignite inside me. “Yes, there you go, come like you deserve.” His cock hits deep and I sail over the moon, rocked with pleasure.
“Vin,” I moan. “Oh, Vin.”
“I’m coming.” He pulls me into him, chest to chest and fucks me so hard I have to hold on to him to keep my balance. “Addy,” he grunts. His body goes still and hard all over, only softening long enough to place a kiss on my shoulder as euphoria takes hold of us.
Knock knock...
I lock eyes with him just long enough to say a silent “oh fuck.”
We peel away and fling ourselves at our scattering of clothes. Vin rights his pants just as a big guy walks in, staring holes through Vin.
He orders something in Russian and Vin laughs, saying something back to him while motioning at me. The big guy eyes me for a moment and then huffs something else under his breath before a team of men dressed in suits swiftly pull him away.
The room clears and Vin blows out a long breath looking like he’s just witnessed a ghost. And not the super friendly Casper kind.
“What was that?” I ask.
Vin hurries to me, helping me redress. “Go back down to the main floor of the club, stay in view of people all night. Do not come back up to this room.”
“Vin, my assignment was this room.”
“It’s not anymore.”
“What exactly did you do?”
“I saved you from getting in the middle of a fucking territory war between the Russians and the cartel.” He cups my face in his hands, helping me right the straps of my dress first. “Addison, please, stay safe for me,” he begs.
“Says you, the man who puts himself in danger for no reason except to prove how manly he is.”
“Not for no reason. For every
reason. For you.”
He kisses me and I want to not melt into him, but that is exactly what I do.
Three
AGENT: VIN MILLS
ASSIGNMENT: Don’t Die
LOCATION: Some Dark Fucking Warehouse Buckley Would Kill Me For Being At.
My line of work has no Human Resources department to file a complaint. Not while you’re undercover anyhow. Not on this kind of assignment. You fuck up, you get fucked up. Period. So while a construction site in the middle of the night might seem like an odd meeting place to most people, I want you to keep in mind that I’m not employed to do what most would do, I am put on assignments like this because I’m willing to do the kind of the work that your average man would run away from.
These meetings typically don’t end in handshakes and exchanging contact information. You’re lucky if you leave walking on two perfectly good-working legs and not in a body bag.
And yet, here I fucking am.
I’m driven to a dark and desolate place in the middle of a new housing development that is less than thirty percent complete. Why? Oh, because the love of my life has to toe the line of what she can and can’t do. And no, I’m not on that shit like she’s a woman so she can’t be put in danger. But shit, working in the lion’s den? When the fuck did we escalate from stray cats and nosey neighbors to the motherfucking mafia? My life has gone from Desperate Housewives meets Ozark straight to the fucking Godfather.
There is no room for fucking up on this case.
There are no second chances.
This is the big leagues and if I don’t keep my shit together I’m going to fuck it up for both of us.
As soon as my Suburban pulls up to the curb, I jump out and head straight for the guy who typically does the dirty work after hours around here.
“Status?” I ask immediately.
“We’re making good headway.” I can already tell from the nervous look on Pyotr’s face things are not going well. I stare at him for a moment, but he surprisingly doesn’t retract his words.
I slip my left glove on. “That’s like a pissed off woman saying she’s fine. A silly lie, Pytor.”
He cracks his neck, exhaling deeply. “We know this guy is part of the crew that killed our men when we tried to infiltrate the new district. We’ve expended hours on this and he’s still not giving up names. What do you suggest next, Boss?”
I slide my second glove on. “Bring me to him.”
I’m gonna be honest with you, I really fucking hate this part of undercover work. Criminal or not, it sucks balls.
Inside, one of the Mexican cartel’s members is chained to a cement beam. His eyes are purple and swollen, busted lower lip drools blood from the edge of his mouth. He’s been well worked over by my men. He’s a younger member, but his body language reveals he’s more mature than his age. Respectable, but it’s ruining my fucking plans.
“It seems we have a failure to communicate,” I say, slapping him awake. “Ever hear the story about the cat and the bird?”
The man remains silent and still as a statue. I step closer to him. Next to the cement column is a table of tools Pytor has used. I examine the choices carefully— a blow torch, hammer, and wrench.
I admire the torch, picking it up in my hands. “It goes, there was a boy who found an injured bird. His cat had caught it for him as a gift. The boy felt bad for the bird, so he nursed it back to health and set it free. But the next day, the bird was back, and this time the cat was eating it.”
I turn on the torch, igniting it’s powerful blue flame. The Mexican’s chest breathes deeper. A tell. I move closer to him. He turns his face away from me but I grab his jaw in my hand and hold him steady.
“I was the boy in the story. Very young and naive. But, I assure you, that is not the man standing before you now. You see, in life, you’re either the cat or the cat’s food. You either want to live, or you don’t. That day was the last time I ever tried to save something that didn’t want to be saved. So . . . ”
I move the flame just under his ear where he has a harsh black tattoo of his clique engraved in his neck. I let the end of the flame lick his skin just enough to make his breathing hitch, and then I calmly settle it back on the table.
“I’m a fair man, but I am not a patient one. While I respect your loyalty to your crew, you also have to understand that is the same crew responsible for killing my men. There are two things I won’t abide—crossing my Bratva and taking my money. Your crew is currently doing both with the war you’ve waged on my territory.”
“Our territory,” he growls.
“Let’s not fail at our communication, now. We were making so much progress. It’s simple, really. You give the names of the men responsible for killing my men, and I’ll let you go home to your wife and daughter.”
Come on guy . . . just fucking talk . . .
Pytor offers him blows to his head, punching with all his might to break him. The Mexican vomits a pool of blood, splattering against the cement floor like a slaughtered cow bleeding out.
And then he goes limp.
I smack his cheek. “I see you need a minute to gather your thoughts.” I shove the bloodied gag around his neck back into his mouth and head outside, Pytor following me out.
The finesse in my line of work is being able to keep your shit together long enough to properly see it through to the end. Going too far with a guy like this would cause him to expire before I get the info I want, or he could become delirious from the pain, in which case, the information would not be reliable. There’s a fine line between being sadistic and a professional. I don’t do this for pleasure. It’s all business. And I want my fucking answers more than I want a dead body on my hands.
Pytor lights the end of my cigarette before he lights his own. I take a deep pull into my lungs and let the anger and frustration sail away with the smoke as I exhale. I have to admit, I hate fucking smoking. But, I have a part to play and I’ll sacrifice my lungs to get the job done.
“The Bratva is losing its nerve,” Pytor sighs. “We had such momentum when we first started taking over the new district, but these cartel fucks are more brutal than anything we have seen before.”
“They are mortal men, not gods. They can be stopped. They can be killed.”
Pytor points his cigarette at me, stepping closer. “They starve trained dogs and feed them any man they find crossing their territory, Dima. While they’re still alive.”
“Watch yourself, Pytor. You’re overstepping a line you can’t afford to cross.”
He shows his hands, taking a deep breath. “I’m trying to warn you if we don’t send a clear message to the Mexicans, tonight could end very badly for us.”
“Now you’re fucking scared, too?” I laugh at him.
“Boss, that is not just some member of your run-of-the-mill drug cartel. You saw his markings. He is owned by the cartel. We send him back tonight looking like a chewed up dog toy, tomorrow there will be bloodshed like nothing we’ve felt before. How many men are you willing to lose for this new territory?”
I snuff out my cigarette. “You fail to hear your own words, Pytor. How do you think I got my hands on that man in the first place? If he’s so important and well protected by the cartel, why is he chained inside of my building?” I slide the butt of the cigarette into the breast pocket of my jacket and then head back inside.
“You better not be fucking dead,” I call out, watching him hang limp as a wilted flower on the column. “Wakey-wakey. Come on.” I slap at his face but he doesn’t respond. “You fuck.” I pull the gag away from his mouth so I can listen for breath.
The bastard catches me off guard and slams his head into mine. “Sonofabitch.” I crush his throat in my fist expending all of my anger into shutting down his ability to breathe. Looking like a punk in front of Kesar’s men is not acceptable. It’s a damn death warrant.
“Give me a name. Give me a fucking name or this game is over.” I let him begin to turn blue before I let him up
. He needs to get it through his skull there is no escaping this. I own him, now.
He coughs and chokes, sputtering as I ease my hold. “Pa-” he chokes, “Pablo.”
“Great start. Keep singing, birdy.” I apply more pressure as I weaponize my words, spearing him where it counts the most— his Family. “You think they give a fuck if you die? If the cartel gave a shit, you wouldn’t of been arrested in the first place. What kind of mob doesn’t own a branch of the law? I found you because of your Family. They let you get arrested for the dogs. They let you take the fall, kid.”
I ease my hold again. “Speak. Now.”
He raises his bloodshot eyes to me, all life fading quickly away. “Alejandro,” he barely mutters. He opens his mouth to give me another name but suddenly everything is lit in blue flashing lights and I’m slammed to the ground in an instant as the FEDS (ha) swarm like pissed off bees.
“Dima Black, you have the right to remain silent—” The world goes blurry.
It topples on its side.
There’s no fucking way.
Why would Addison come here? Arrest me? Blow her cover?
Fuck. I put my face to the cement and close my eyes becuase there is no fucking way I’m looking at her right now and fucking up even more than I already have.
Four
Back at HQ
Shit. She’s taking this just a bit too far.
“Um, Buckley? Baby?” I laugh a little to myself.
I understand completely that what I did wasn’t exactly the smartest thing I’ve done in my life—especially since meeting her—but shit . . . handcuffed to my own desk chair? What kind of Netflix and chilling has this girl been doing in my absence? She’s going old school on me. Bad Boys old school. The first one. The one that was actually funny.
Yeah, I went there.
Back to my dilemma. I’m cuffed to my desk chair with Buckley working across from me with her hot ass typing at warp speed as if she’s trying to take out all her frustrations on her poor keyboard. Thank god it has wheels. The chair, not Buckley, obviously.