Page 33 of Impenitent Claim

I pursed my lips. “I’ll take as damn long as I please,” I said in my best peeved suburban wife voice. The archetypal Karen would be so proud.

The goon had the grace to blush.

“It’s just….” The man shifted in place, gaze darting back and forth.

As if he could feel the bad energy from the devil recently haunting this space.

“This is the Sokolov territory,” the first guard whispered, and his fingers twitched.

The other lifted his hand and….

Did he just cross himself? I worked my jaw back and forth. I knew that surname; every child of the underworld heard it used in place of the boogeyman. It was the family name of one of the most ruthless crime organizations in the country.

I hadn’t realized we were on their turf.

Sliding a quick glance to the back door, I couldn’t help but wonder why my Chicago monster chosethisflower shop instead of any other in the sprawling urban landscape that scarred the East Coast.

It doesn’t matter!The Rinaldi Famiglia had ruled just over the river with a feared ruthlessness for decades. And now look at the indomitable front our guards presented! Weakness and fear, a detrimental combination.

“The Sokolovs are at peace with our famiglia,” I snapped, walking past the bodyguard and into the flower shop.

“How did you find the displays?” the woman asked.

That accent…. It was Eastern European. While he sounded American with no discernable accent, it couldn’t be a coincidence that my stalker chose this place, in this territory. I knew he wasn’t connected to any Italian mobs in Chicago, but what if he had other underworld connections? I swallowed hard. It would explain a lot.

“I enjoyed them immensely.” That much was true. “Thank you for showing me your beautiful displays.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” Her withered cheeks brightened with a rosy shade as she smiled. It was warm and genuine. “Here’s the number you asked for. A direct line of communication, should you need any help with your botanical needs.”

Between her soft, knotted fingers was a sleek business card. There was a sunflower on it. Since I already had the floral shop’s card—a glance to the side confirmed the ones in the display casewere the same—I could only think that this was different. This washiscard.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in my throat, I snatched the card as if it would burn me.

“We’ll be in touch,” I told the woman.

Tension visibly eased from her shoulder. The woman bobbed her head. “Call anytime.”

I followed the guards outside and climbed into the waiting vehicle. The short drive back across the river and into familiar territory was occupied by a swirling vortex of thoughts. He found me. He was haunting me. He was going to ruin everything. I stared out the window, not seeing the streets or buildings, the people or cars. The world as I knew it was upside down, and I couldn’t for the life of me think how to right it. I had to do something. There had to be a way to chase the monster from the dark.

But despite every logical reason and good sense, part of me didn’t want him to leave, because then I would be all alone, swallowed by the terrible nightmares of reality. That was the real reason I didn’t tell the don the moment we arrived back at the mansion, continuing to believe the lie that I could handle the nightmare on my own.

Chapter 16 – Ilya

Walking into the ring, the familiar rush of adrenaline surged through my veins. Violence, my oldest friend, lurked at the edge, waiting for permission to be unleashed as I fed off the energy of the crowd. The atmosphere was electric, the spectators starving for more.

More brutality.

More blood.

Hell, even death wouldn’t sate them, but they would go wild.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, the cloying bite of sanitizer, and the faint, metallic tang of blood that couldn’t be erased, no matter how strong the cleaner. My mouth watered in anticipation of the impending savage collision. The crowd’s murmur buzzed around me, a blend of excitement and anticipation that heightened my focus. The mat under my bare feet felt firm yet slightly springy. The muscles in my body were engaged and loose, grounding me in the moment.

The man slotted to fight me galloped through the roped area and dove through the door into the domed metal cage where thematch was to take place. He was called the Joker, a nod to the villain in some cartoon who was supposed to be psychotic.

What a fucking idiot.

Who moved like that? Heavy and solid on his feet, he had an impressive bulk that would slow even the most skilled combinations. A scar, pink and puckered, ran up his left calf. The wound was still healing. A grin tugged at my lips. Weakness number one. He lifted his hands, pumping them up into the air as the crowd roared in approval.

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