Midnight Purgatory (Bugrov Bratva #1)(11)

This is why you don’t go outside your comfort zone, Alyssa. You could end up touching body parts. And not in the good way. Well, not only in the good way…

“Think,” I snap at myself, staring at the box on the counter. “Just—”

Knock-knock-knock.

I let out a mousy squeal. It looks like Lady Consequence has arrived to take her pound of flesh. There’s no way that’s not Uri. And there’s no way he’s showing up at my doorstep, minutes after we’ve said goodbye, simply because he can’t get enough of my company.

This is something else.

This is about the finger in my freezer.

I drop the tongs in the trash with my heartbeat thudding in my throat and then make a slow, slow, agonizingly slow turn towards the front door. Should I go answer it or should I just ignore it?

Knock-knock-knock. Whoever it is that’s here does not have patience as one of their virtues.

“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath.

I take another deep breath and head towards my front door, all the while hoping that, no matter what happens, I get to keep all my fingers where they are.





7


URI


She practically ran out of my house.

The plan was not to stand there and watch her go. But it was harder than I expected not to watch for peeks of Alyssa’s skin amidst the torn flaps of her leggings.

I didn’t know women like her still existed. That innocent? That feisty? A dying breed, for sure.

But she’s just a few hundred yards away.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen her, of course. It’s just that she barely registered until tonight. Up until a few hours ago, Alyssa Walsh was nothing but a faceless neighbor with a boring life.

I wonder if she’d be better off if I still thought of her that way. The cat is out of the bag now—the orange cat, specifically—but there’s almost no denying that her life, now that she’s caught my eye, is about to get a hell of a lot more complicated.

When my phone rings, I pick it up without checking to see who’s calling. I’ve still got the sounds of Alyssa’s moans echoing through my head. “Yes?”

“Boss, you got a minute?”

I purse my lips. As my head of security, Ratimir may be stationed only a few meters away in the guard shack, but he isn’t in the habit of making house calls. Which means something’s up. I tell him to come over and a few seconds later, he passes by the bow windows on his way to the front door.

“What’s going on?” I ask when I meet him outside.

He clears his throat. “Sir, I was running routine checks on the day’s security footage when I noticed something in the feed.”

“Go on.”

“A white van appeared around 6:16 P.M. No plates. A package was thrown from the passenger side window right onto the property.”

I narrow my eyes. “It has to be Sobakin.”

“Gotta be, right?” he agrees. “The thing is, I had the boys comb through the gardens in search of this package and they came up empty. I looked myself and—nothing.”

I frown. “That makes no sense. It has to be on the grounds somewhere.”

“I’m not sure how, but this package seems to have disappeared into thin—”

“Wait,” I snap as my voice cuts through the air like a freshly sharpened blade. “Where was the package thrown?”

“Right by the southwestern wall, pakhan.”

I grit my teeth. I fucking knew it.

Alyssa was lying to me about the sex toys. The thought that she could be on Boris Sobakin’s payroll crosses my mind again. But with her wide-eyed innocence… I just can’t see it. No one’s that good an actress.

“I’ve arranged for another search—”

“Don’t bother. I know where it is.” I move past him and make a beeline for the shack cowering in the shadows of my mansion. My face sours as I charge toward it.

When I reach the stoop, I pound on Alyssa’s door and wait for her to answer. The lights are on inside, so she must be home. A package. The fuck is Sobakin throwing a package at my house for? And what role does Alyssa have to play in all this? Why would she steal it? Who is she working for?

I’ve heard the little kiska scream once.

Let’s see how she screams under different circumstances.

Still no answer. I knock again. This time, a little louder, a little more insistent. I wonder if she’s screening me out. This fly might be better caught with honey than with vinegar.

I send a quick text to Detective Vincent Imbroglio, one of my plants in the LAPD. Need a favor at the little shack next to my place. Keep your uniform on.

The message goes through right before Alyssa opens the door. She’s changed into a tight pair of jeans and a white tank top. Her blonde hair flows down her shoulders, almost reaching her breasts, and those cerulean eyes of hers are wide and rippling with emotion.

Curiosity? Unease? Fear?

Only time will tell.

She doesn’t exactly look happy to see me. “Hey,” she replies uncertainly. “Is, uh, something wrong?”

I look past her into her cramped, messy living room. I’m not about to fuck up this extraction by going in guns blazing. Honey, not vinegar.

“First off, I want to apologize.”