Page 64 of Never Distract a Biker

The door to my office creaks open, and one of my men, Yuri, steps inside, his usually stoic expression tinged with urgency. In his hand is a thick envelope, its contents radiating an aura of importance. Without a word, he strides over and sets it on my desk, a subtle nod indicating its weight.

I waste no time. My fingers rip through the seal, the edges of the paper jagged under my rough grip. The pages within are a compilation of surveillance, interviews, and data painstakingly collected by my men. This is the investigation report about DanceCheck club—the epicenter of this tangled mess surrounding my father's murder.

My eyes narrow as they scan each line, the ink searing its way into my brain. Names, times, photographs—each detail is a pieceof a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve for weeks. And then, her name jumps out at me: Marina Antonov. My breath hitches.

Marina Baker—real name Marianna Kostova. She had changed her last name when she turned eighteen. She is undoubtedly Russian, but what are her ties to Scarlett and my father? My grip on the papers tightens as I read about her. She is a stripper turned escort and has just returned from one of her many trips after being away for months.

Hmm, what escort goes away with a client for months?

Could Scarlett have known of Marina’s Russian heritage and possibly her being a member of a Bratva? My gut twists. My mind races, sifting through every interaction I’ve had with Scarlett, searching for signs of deceit. The two women are close. Too close. Was Scarlett planted in my life as part of some elaborate revenge scheme? Or is she an unwitting pawn in a game far more dangerous than she realizes?

My chest feels tight as I slam the report down. The room seems smaller, my breathing more labored. The thought of betrayal burns hotter than any wound I’ve ever suffered. But there’s no proof yet, just possibilities. For now.

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under the tension in my body. The idea of Scarlett being involved in my father’s death twists like a knife in my gut. My hand instinctively brushes against my chest where the scars lie, each one a reminder of betrayal and survival.

But Scarlett … she doesn’t fit the mold of a schemer. Her genuine moments of vulnerability, the way her eyes light up when she talks about our unborn children—it feels real. Yet, isn’t that what makes a good liar? Conviction? My fists clench as I fight the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

I can’t afford to let my heart cloud my judgment. Not when my father’s killer is still out there. Not when my family’s legacy is at stake. And certainly not when the safety of my future children hangs in the balance.

My phone vibrates, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. It’s a message from Zasha. I unlock it with a swipe, the screen lighting up with an update: Scarlett is with a lady at a café. Attached is a photo—a candid shot of the two women seated at a table, their heads bent close in conversation.

What the fuck is going on.

I stare at Scarlet and Marina. I study her face in the photo, searching for ulterior motives hidden beneath her casual smile. My suspicion hardens into resolve. This isn’t a coincidence.

I toss the phone onto the desk, the sharp clatter echoing in the room. My thoughts churn, the threads of this mystery tangling and untangling in my mind.

In the video, Marina’s hand gestures animatedly as she talks. Scarlett laughs, her head tilted back slightly, the carefree expression on her face a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me. I lean closer, my eyes narrowing. Marina is toopolished and too calculated. Her presence here, with Scarlett, can’t be random.

The possibility that Scarlett might unknowingly be in the crosshairs—or worse, a collaborator—settles like lead in my chest. I need to act, but how? Confronting Scarlett directly risks alienating her or, worse, tipping my hand too early.

I pace my bedroom like a caged animal, the room's shadows stretching long in the dim light. Scarlett is still out, unaware of the turmoil raging inside me. Every instinct screams at me to protect her, yet doubt gnaws at the edges of that conviction.

Her innocence feels genuine, but I’ve seen how easily appearances can deceive. I’ve been played before, and I promised myself never again. My thoughts swing between fury at the possibility of betrayal and the undeniable pull I feel toward Scarlett.

The door creaks open, and Scarlett steps in, her cheerful demeanor cutting through the tension. Her smile is warm, her eyes sparkling with a light that should be infectious.

“Hey,” she says, tossing her purse onto the chair. “Miss me?”

Her genuine joy is like a balm, but it does little to quiet the storm inside me.

“Someone is in a good mood,” I say, my voice carefully neutral as I sit on the edge of the bed.

She grins, shrugging. “It’s been a good day.”

I study her face, searching for cracks in her sincerity. “Anything interesting happen?”

She tilts her head, confused. “Not really. Just catching up with my friend Marina. She’s … lively as always.”

Her mention of Marina sends a jolt through me. I nod slowly, my expression unreadable. “This Marina seems … close to you.”

Scarlett laughs lightly, oblivious to my probing tone. “She’s my best friend. My only friend. We were roommates back in uni. Why do you ask?”

Her vulnerability is palpable, her guard down. She doesn’t suspect a thing, and her openness only deepens my conflict. If she’s lying, she’s masterful at it. If she’s not …

“I just want to understand who you trust,” I say carefully, my gaze steady on her.

Her honesty, laughter, and warmth feel too real to be an act. But the stakes are too high to trust blindly. I pull her into my arms,my grip firm but gentle. I need to pass on this message just in case her allegiance is misplaced.

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