Page 8 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
It’s a cute place, I guess, located in a quiet residential neighborhood in a subdivision of Phoenix, Arizona.
It took so long for me to track her down that I expected more than this. A mansion with state-of-the-art security. A high-riseapartment building with a doorman. A bunker with steel doors keeping out trouble.
Maybe my imagination ran away with me a bit. Or maybe she’s just that good at flying under the radar.
I had no information about Paige, and the only hotel room in all of Vegas booked in that name was a dead end. That Paige was a sixty-year-old woman with a husband and a gambling problem.
The footage of her leaving my hotel room was useless, except that it confirmed she took my damn cup. I watched it over and over again, grinding my teeth together so hard my jaw ached as I tracked her movements down the hall, in the elevator, and out through the lobby.
I even watched the footage of the night before, frustrated with myself when my cock grew hard as steel at the sight of her wrapped around me in the elevator, her mouth locked to mine as we made our way to my room. It was hot as hell, and my memories of plunging into her wet heat have been haunting me since that night, but I didn’t get any useful information about her.
My father was pissed when he heard what happened to the information we need, his disappointment like a knife between my ribs. But he’s giving me time to recover the thumb drive.
It shows the kind of trust he has in me, but after six long weeks, his faith is fading. I can see it in his eyes. Each day that passes without results is another day I’ve failed him.
I have duties within the organization that I’ve had to continue to handle while searching for Paige and my flash drive. That slowed me down, but I finally thought to check the debit card that was used to buy her drinks at the nightclub where we met.
I had hoped that there would be a receipt with her name on it, but instead, her drinks were paid for by a woman named Rosa Acosta.
I remember Paige being with another woman that night, one that she checked in with before we left together. Figuring that she must be Rosa Acosta, I checked hotel room reservations from that night again.
Security footage from the hotel where she stayed confirmed that Paige was with her. I finally found the bitch. Paige Dawes.
It was easy to track her down after that. Rosa’s social media accounts had pictures of her with Paige, which led me to Paige’s social media accounts. Learning her last name and the city where she lived meant that our tech guy, Shaw, had her address within minutes.
But he couldn’t find out much else about her. She’s a medical transcriptionist with no criminal record and no known ties to the Bratva, or any other criminal organization, for that matter.
Despite that, I refuse to believe that she’s not working for Anton Kozlov, the Pakhan of the Bratva. She was too difficult to find, and her personal information is a little too clean. My gut tells me there’s something hidden there, and I learned a long time ago to trust my instincts.
If I discover that I’m right, Paige Dawes won’t live through the night.
Reaching the front door, I pull out my lock-picking kit. A lot of men in my world wouldn’t bother to learn this skill, too used to kicking down doors with guns blazing, but I’ve always understood the necessity for stealth when the occasion calls for it.
Like now.
I don’t need the neighbors calling the cops about a man busting down the door before I get a chance to search for my property.
It only takes seconds to pick the lock, and I flick on the light switch by the door. I’m standing in a living room with worn but comfortable-looking furniture.
There are knickknacks and candles on the end tables, and I notice two abstract paintings on the walls, but there are no photographs of friends or family, nothing that makes this place personal. If I didn’t trust Shaw’s intel so much, I would wonder if I had the right place.
It feels too...ordinary for a woman who stole from me.
I’ll tear this whole house apart if I have to, but I figure the best place to start is the kitchen. If there’s any chance she didn’t know what was in the bottom of that cup, it might be in there. Ripping open the cabinets, I brush plates and glasses off the shelves as my eyes search for the cup.
There’s something satisfying about the sound of glass smashing at my feet, the violent destruction feeding that part of me that wants to burn everything to the ground. But it’s not enough to curb my irritation when I don’t find what I’m looking for.
I even check the dishwasher, but it’s empty. I throw the bottom rack against the wall, barely noticing when it leaves a dent in the plaster.
“God damn it,” I mutter, kicking over the trash can.
The contents spill out, and I step over the mess to head back to the living room. I glance down and freeze in place as I see the white stick.
Is my little thief pregnant?
5
PAIGE
