Chapter Twenty-Eight
Reaper
Sitting in our stolen ride, my head is spinning harder than if I’d just injected something potent into my veins.
My body feels lighter than any high I’ve ever had, too.
Moaning, I look over at Adriana as she sits in the driver’s seat.
She smiles at me, then licks her lips. I moan again, reach down between my legs, feel I’m growing hard once more.
How, I have no fucking clue — she already drained me after breakfast so thoroughly I feel dryer than the Sahara, but somehow, just that look she gives me has me ready to go again.
“Contain yourself,” she says, grinning.
Grinning. A genuine fucking smile that lights her face up like a star in the sky. Something that’s joyful, playful, sensual — not predatory, not like some fucking vengeful agent of justice about to take my head off.
It’s a smile that takes me back to better days.
It’s a smile that makes me think better days could be ahead of me, too.
I clear my throat, trying to focus on something other than the heat radiating from her skin. "So where exactly are we going for this dim sum adventure?"
Her eyes light up even brighter, and she shifts in the driver's seat, suddenly animated in a way I've never seen before.
"There's this place in Chinatown - Golden Dragon.
It's always packed with locals, especially the older generation.
" She pauses, biting her lower lip as if she's trying to contain her excitement.
"The thing is, I want to listen in on conversations.
See if we can pick up any intel about Triad connections, maybe find a way we can use them to get close to Ruslan.
You know, the enemy of my enemy sort of thing. "
I raise an eyebrow. "We’re going to listen for gossip? You think they’ll just talk about that with us around?"
She ducks her head, almost shy, and there's this bashful smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"That's the thing - nobody ever expects a white girl like me to understand what they're saying. I can sit there, eat my dumplings, and catch all the gossip floating around the room. You would be amazed at the stuff people will talk about when they think you can’t understand them. I cracked a few cases in Chicago, just taking in fucking brunch, because the assholes didn’t know I spoke Mandarin and they just straight up fucking bragged about the kidnapping ring they ran, or the big fucking shipment of heroin they were taking in.
It was… it was fucking fun to hear them confess, then just straight up fucking bust them in their own language. "
Something warm spreads through my chest watching her get excited about this plan. This isn't the cold, calculating cop or the grieving sister I've been seeing. This is Adriana genuinely enthusiastic about something, almost giddy with the cleverness of her own strategy.
"Look at you, getting all sneaky," I tease. “I didn’t know you had it in you to be so devious."
She shoots me a mock glare. "Says the guy who probably has 'devious' tattooed somewhere on his body."
"Actually, that one's on my — "
"Don't." She holds up a hand, laughing. "I'm trying to focus on driving here."
We pull into the parking lot of a narrow building wedged between a pharmacy and a phone repair shop. Red lanterns hang from the entrance, and through the windows I can see it's packed with families sharing steaming plates.
Before I can reach for the door handle, Adriana leans across the center console. Her hair falls forward, brushing against my arm, and she presses a quick, soft kiss to my cheek. It's sweet, almost innocent, but it sends electricity shooting straight through me.
"For luck," she says quietly, her cheeks flushed pink.
I touch the spot where her lips were, grinning like an idiot. "If that's what good luck feels like, I might need to start gambling again."
She laughs, and the sound does something to my chest that I'm not ready to think about too hard. We climb out of the car and head toward the entrance, the smell of garlic and ginger hitting us before we even reach the door.
"Alright," she says, stopping just outside. "When we get in there, just play dumb. Act natural." She pauses, with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Actually, for you, those might be the same thing."
"Hey — "
But she cuts me off by grabbing the front of my jacket and pulling me down for another kiss, this one longer, her lips soft and warm against mine. When she pulls back, I'm pretty sure I've forgotten how to breathe.
"Now I'm ready," she says, straightening her hair.
The hostess, a tired-looking woman in her fifties, barely glances up from her seating chart before leading us through the crowded dining room.
The place is loud, filled with the clatter of dishes and rapid-fire conversations in what I assume is Mandarin.
She seats us at a small table near the back, and I immediately notice we're sandwiched between two very different groups.
To our left sits a table of four men in expensive suits, their conversation low and serious.
One of them has gold teeth that catch the light when he talks, and there's something about the way they sit — backs straight, eyes constantly scanning the room — that screams power.
The guys who kill with a gesture or a nod.
To our right, a group of elderly Chinese women are sharing what looks like enough food to feed a small army. They're chattering away, gesturing with their chopsticks, occasionally bursting into laughter.
Adriana picks up her menu, but I can see her head cocked slightly, her attention focused somewhere beyond the list of dumplings. After a moment, she leans across the table, close enough that her breath tickles my ear.
"The old ladies think you have a nice ass," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "They're debating whether you work out or if it's just good genetics."
Heat floods my face, and I feel my cheeks burn.
"They're not wrong," she adds, her lips brushing against my earlobe. "I think so too."
That's it. She's trying to make me lose my shit in public, and if I let her keep whispering translations of geriatric commentary about my body parts, I'm going to either die of embarrassment or start laughing loud enough to blow our cover.
Or take her down a back hallway and stop her commentary by shoving my face between her legs and giving her something to scream about.
But since we’re on the job, and this is important not just to me and her, but to keeping Ruslan Volkov from coming after Susan and the ladies at Never Again, I’ll have to think of something else to keep her focused.
I slide my hand behind her neck and pull her toward me, crushing my mouth against hers.
This isn't the sweet, luck-wishing kiss from the car or the playful one outside.
This is deep and desperate, the kind of kiss that makes everything else disappear.
I pour everything into it—my frustration, my desire, my need to shut her up before she makes me completely lose control.
When I finally pull back, she's staring at me with wide eyes, her lips slightly parted, color flooding her cheeks in a way that makes me want to kiss her all over again.
I can't help but grin and give her a wink. "There. Now you're focused."
She takes a shaky breath, touching her lips with her fingertips.
Then she leans forward again, her voice barely a whisper.
"Holy shit, Reaper. Everyone saw that." Her eyes dart around the room.
"The old ladies are practically fanning themselves, and those Triad guys?
They're… oh, fuck… they’re jealous, but not of you. Of me."
I raise an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
Her mouth twitches like she's trying not to smile. "I mean, they're jealous of me. Two of them just said they wish they were in my seat right now. One of them said he’d rather be eating your… um… yeah, he’d rather be enjoying you than dim sum right now."
"Very funny," I start to protest, but something makes me glance over my shoulder toward the table of suits.
One guy — younger than the others, with slicked-back hair — catches my eye and blows me a fucking kiss.
I give him a nod, then whip my head back around to stare at Adriana, my eyes probably the size of dinner plates.
And she giggles.
Actually giggles, like some schoolgirl with a crush, her hand covering her mouth as her shoulders shake with silent laughter.
"Did he just — " I whisper.
"Oh yeah," she breathes back, still fighting the giggles. "And the old lady at the corner table wants to know if you have a brother."
"Oh, fuck me."
"The grandmother next to her says you probably taste as good as you look."
I bury my face in my hands. "This is not how undercover work is supposed to go."
"Are you kidding?" she whispers, leaning closer. "This is the best cover ever. Nobody's going to suspect why we’re here when half the restaurant wants to adopt us and the other half wants to — "
"Excuse me?" A young server appears beside our table, notepad in hand, looking slightly harried. "Ready to order?"
Adriana immediately straightens up, and I watch her face transform. Gone is the playful woman who was just whispering dirty translations in my ear. Instead, she puts on a wide-eyed, slightly confused tourist expression that's so convincing I almost buy it myself.
"Oh, hi!" she says, her voice pitched higher, more nasal.
"This is our first time here, and we're so excited!
My friend recommended the dumplings, but there are so many kinds!
" She holds up the menu, pointing randomly.
"What's the difference between these ones and these ones?
And are they steamed or fried? Actually, what does steamed mean exactly? "
The server blinks, clearly trying to summon patience. "Steamed means cooked with steam. No oil."
"Ooh, that sounds healthy! But what about flavor? Do they taste good?”
“Why would we serve food that tastes bad?”