Page 147 of My Pucking Crush

“I’ve been spying on Ivan’s brotherhood since I knew we were taking in a defector. They’re not happy with him. He won’t be missed.”

This lines up with Ivan’s confession at the black site that night. How trying to kill me turned his people sour and suspicious.

“Now I havehisdeath on my conscience,” Max says with regret. “But he started this, not me.”

“No one’s talking on the channels I used in the past.” I squeeze Max’s hand, already preparing to give him extra care later. “How did Belova die?”

Giancarlo laughs darkly. “It was so easy. Too easy.”

Max stiffens at how someone can take a life so easily. And laugh about it.

Welcome to my world.

“I hired a new specialist who wanted Belova deadas much as you,” Gian says. “Got into his Chicago mansion and slit his throat.”

“Ivan had a wife and kids,” I say.

“His wife hates him,” Gian scoffs. “She’s been in secret meetings with Italian mafia lawyers figuring out a way to divorce him. Claims spousal abuse. Is that a man you want raising daughters?”

“No.” I shake my head. “How the hell did someone outside his organization get into his mansion?”

“Not sure.” Giancarlo shrugs. “But my specialist didn’t even charge me for the job. Only wanted one thing.”

“What was that? If I may ask, Mr. Byrne,” Max asks, showing respect to one of my bosses.

“I was hoping you would.” Gian turns his chair toward me, his hands tented between his legs. “She wanted a plane ticket.”

“A ticket where?” I ask.

“To visit her sister Fina.” Gian smiles at me. “In Miami.”

All the stress leaves my body. Samara is not only safe, but she killed the Chicago Pakhan.

“Does anyone suspect your specialist?” I ask with a tight throat, ready to lose it.

“Nope,” Gian says and smiles at our joined hands. “Maybe you should take a trip down there, too.”

“Miami, huh?” Max strokes my chest.

I pull him in for a kiss. “Sounds like a cool place to have a honeymoon.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Max kisses my hand. “Give me three weeks.”

EIGHTY-ONE

Max

Ihoist the Dresden Trophy over my head after seven brutal games against Portland. The benefit of being team captain: I get to touch it first.

And it’s my last time.

I skate around with it, fisted in two hands and high in the air, like it could hit the rafters. Visions of every hockey god before me doing the same thing flashes through me.

But now, I’m the GOAT.

The crowd roars, and I soak it up even though it was hardteamwork to maintain a win record that allowed us to share this with our fans. Here in Stamford. I worried my last shot at this glory would be in front of an angry crowd who watched their team lose.

When a reporter sticks a mic in my face, I thank GM Reid who signed me fifteen years ago out of college. I thank Coach Beck for being the kind of man a player needs. I thank the players. Even the ones who are angrily trashing our visiting locker room.

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