Fast forward eleven months to a heinous week spent deep in the family business. The dark week where his cousin’s wife and son had been taken by a rival family. Renee and Evan had been snatched from a local soccer field in broad daylight, and even though the organization had swiftly put together a search and rescue, it had been too late. Mother and son were sent back to Sergei, brutalized, unrecognizable. Alek’s control had fled, his emotions taking over. He’d followed through on an impulsive, fear-driven plan to get Sacha away from even the possibility of something so inhumane and vicious happening to her. His means, though cruel, had been successful; he’d annihilated their relationship with one solid blow. He’d given up his life, to ensure she was able to live hers.
It looked as if that’s exactly what she’d been doing. He could see her date in his periphery, looking over the roof of the car with interest while Alek looked at Sacha with wonder and she looked at Alek with apprehension.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave.” Alek kept the conversation between him and Sacha by sticking to Russian. He wanted to vindicate himself with the truth right then, to convey his mountainous regret without the million words it would take, but he had to content himself with offering his hand, palm up. “I’ve been—”
“Alek.”
Dying without you, he finished silently when his uncle’s voice came from behind him. He briefly considered ignoring it. But couldn’t. His respect for this man was too great. Plus, when that note of warning came from the Pakhan of a powerful Russian crime organization, family or not, you gave it the deference it deserved.
Alek slowly flipped his hand into a stay-put position. He didn’t close the distance so he could latch onto her wrist—or slip his arm around her waist and bury his face in her neck. He simply warned her she wasn’t to move. Then he shifted his attention.
Vasily Tarasov stood beneath the street light, a low-key buzz of power emanating from him. His constant shadow, Dmitri Zolin, hovered a few feet away.
“I will not allow her to get away from me again,” Alek said because it was as simple as that. He didn’t miss the quiet sound that came from Sacha. Caused by his vow or because the other part of the human barrier that had tried to prevent him from coming out here had just sauntered out of the shadows.
Vasily came forward. “Sacha.” His greeting was warm. “How are you? I hope you can forgive our intrusion into your evening.” When he put his hand out, she didn’t hesitate to take it. She went up on her toes and lit small fires of jealousy along Alek’s nerve endings when she kissed his uncle’s cheeks. The tattooed hand that rested briefly on her head was the same gentle touch Vasily used with his daughter. Eva and Sacha were around the same age. Sacha would be twenty-five next month. Alek had met her when she was a young, demure twenty-two.
“It appears it was us who interrupted you,” she murmured. “We will get out of your way.”
Awareness roved Alek’s spine at the sound of her voice. Her Russian accent was still pronounced and damned beautiful. He wanted everyone gone so he could concentrate on it, on her.
“You’re not the one in the way here,” he said, holding the eyes of the man leisurely coming around from the driver’s side of the Mercedes.
As he drew up next to Sacha, all those instincts that had appeared the moment Alek had met this woman roared to the surface again. The primitive urges were stronger than they’d ever been. That irrational, blinding jealousy invaded. Overwhelmed. He clenched his fists…and then felt his lip curve because he could have sworn he already felt the warmth of his new enemy’s blood dripping off his hands.
The dead man wore an expensive coat similar to the one Alek had left behind in the restaurant. His hair was dark, he had a strong jaw, and his discerning stare was even with Alek’s, putting him around six-feet-two.
“Alek Tarasov.” He sounded calm as he introduced himself. He wasn’t. This woman belonged to him, and this piece of shit was trespassing to a degree that could only result in death. This man’s hands had touched her only moments ago. He’d put his lips on her. There would be hell to pay for that.
“No. That is not necessary. We should go…” Sacha had grasped her date’s arm in an effort to stop him from shaking Alek’s hand. The warning was politely ignored.
“Justin Sheppard.”
Good to meet you, Justin Sheppard. Remember my face, because I’m coming for you.
A quiet ticking started up, and Alek’s tension eased slightly because the sound meant Maks was on it. Sacha also heard the inputting of her date’s name into Maks’s phone and a small knot appeared in her jaw as if she was grinding her teeth. Could she remember the way of things? And if so, was she worried Maks would have the boyfriend’s story within moments?