Chapter 3 #2
I smile to myself over them.
So we’re just ignoring the fact that you woke up looking like a Roman god, huh?
I shake my head bashfully. Well, I wouldn’t go that far.
This is illegal levels of fine. I’m calling the authorities (aka myself).
That coffee is lucky. Wish I was that close to your lips.
Not Ember, so… down girl.
Do you come with a warning label, or do we just combust silently over here?
I scratch my chest with a self-deprecating shrug. Well, thanks.
Still no Ember.
I don’t care about them. It’s cute and even sweet, but I don’t care who these women are. Even if they were half as into me as they play-act behind the safety of a keyboard… they’re not her.
I should be deleting this.
Still… she hasn’t responded in hours.
Wait. Is she alright?
My heart rate spikes.
I quickly tap the messages on the app and open to the last chat we had. Twelve hours ago. There’s nothing to indicate she’s been online since then.
What the fuck?
I go to her page and see she uploaded a video just before messaging me and hasn’t been online since.
Along the bottom of the video, little messages pop up with hearts and arrows and likes while I’m scrolling the latest comments.
Don’t listen to that asshole, Mafia Queen! Delete his ass and block him!
No one should talk to my bestie like that. Let me at him, sister!
Wait, I didn’t—no.
They’re talking about someone else?
I narrow my eyes at the screen. Here I am, wearing a fucking mask in my kitchen while drinking my coffee, and someone’s disrespected my girl?
Who the fuck did that?
I scroll until I see the comment.
Then the second one.
And the third.
My gaze grows instantly hazy, my knuckles turning white when I grip my phone so hard.
Romance novels don’t make up for the fact that you’re basic as hell. Try a real hobby.
I’ll give him a real fucking hobby involving my fist and his fucking face. I click on his profile pic. Balding, middle-aged douchebag with a double chin.
My jaw drops when I see another comment. The fucking nerve?
Why hasn’t she deleted this shit?
All that fantasizing, and you still look like you’d bore a guy to death in five minutes.
Five minutes? I’d end him in one. The fucking son of a goddamn—
Reading about mafia guys won’t make one want you. Stick to the fairytales, sweetheart.
Real mafia guys? I’ll give him real mafia guys.
Davay posmotrim, kak tebe ponravitsya, suka blyad.
Let’s see how the little bitch would like this.
My phone buzzes with text after text I ignore. Before I can stop myself, I type a response to the online douche.
Bratvabloodline
You want to take that up with a real man, princess? Cute. Disrespect her again, and I’ll remind you how much those keyboard warrior hands can hurt when they’re broken.
I stab at the screen.
Within seconds, my comment’s liked, and the comments below it start flooding in.
He’s defending her! Like a real made man! Gahhhh, Be still my beating ovaries!
“Oooooh. Real men do exist, and here’s one right here. On brand, sir. On. Brand.
I can’t do this. I shouldn’t be doing this.
I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose.
It’s just an online comment. Relax.
That son of a bitch wouldn’t have the nerve to say that to my face.
An online comment from a real guy who hurt a real girl who I actually—
No. I don’t even know her.
I stare at my screen, willing her to reply to me, when I see another notification pop up.
It’s her.
Heartbeats thundering, I click on her video.
There she is.
My girl.
Flaming red hair hanging down in waves, those vibrant green eyes boring straight into mine. I don’t even hear what she says, and I don’t read the caption. It’s another book, but this time, I notice something in the background.
It’s a tiny white cup in the corner of the screen with the words Brookie Bites in typewriter font letters.
I screenshot the video and zoom in. It’s blurry, but I know exactly what that logo is because it belongs to the coffee shop right down the street from me.
No. There’s no way.
I click on her profile, but she doesn’t have her location on, just a general Southern California.
Good girl.
My heart races faster.
I knew I saw her before.
Where?
My phone dings and buzzes, and I practically drop it while I ignore my brothers’ messages and quickly google the coffee shop. Surely, there have to be—
No.
There’s ONE, and it’s right here in California.
It can’t be.
She’s right here in my city.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I have to get it together, and now.
NOW.
With effort, I click on the screen and go to the messages from my brothers.
Thankfully, they’re talking amongst themselves and haven’t noticed my absence.
Rafail sent me specs on the third asshole I’m tracking down today.
This one will be harder. The first, a middle-aged accountant with ties to multiple shell companies, folded like a cheap suit after a few broken bones.
The second, a wannabe tough guy hiding behind a fake identity, couldn’t last more than a few minutes under pressure.
But this guy? He’s a slippery son of a bitch.
Arnold Prokhorov, ex-Bratva turned freelance operator, knows how to disappear.
Multiple aliases, offshore accounts, and a knack for slipping through cracks, even the best trackers struggle to follow.
He’s been playing cat and mouse with the family for years, leaving a trail of dirty deals and dead partners.
But hey, I like the challenge.
Slipping a knife onto the counter that I’ll bring with me, I send a quick reply to Rafail: On it.
Gym first.
Prokhorov second.
Still… my mind is on Ember. The asshole who disrespected her, the fire in her eyes.
Is she feeling the pull between us? Is that why she hasn’t responded to me?