Chapter 3 Lorenzo
LORENZO
I replayed the viral social media video. Natasha with Lachlan MacKenzie. The reason for my current predicament. She clutched the bag he’d retrieved from a thief—shielding her chest. Her heart. But her eyes? They burned for him. The Scot.
“She told me things once. Too many things …” I tipped my Dos Equis, took one last pull, then slid it onto the counter, and signaled for another. Didn’t need another. Couldn’t afford another one, not in LA. Back in Carolina, a cold one didn’t gut your wallet. Here, the price was daylight robbery.
I’d just wrapped a private security gig—a breach of my military contract. Active service meant no side work. But I needed to stick around LA. Stay close.
For what? This girl isn’t even here!
Two years ago, I’d released the fantasy that vengeance could just be between me and the man who made me an orphan.
Vassili Resnov. The Tsar.
He moved with more strategy than his UFC submissions in his prime. Vassili’s enforcers didn’t tail him like an entourage. No cheesy mob-boss movie. No flashy suit, no meathead goons to target. They watched from a distance. Circled around. A wall of eyes nobody saw until it was too late.
Charging him head-on? Suicide. And I wasn’t ready to hand him the satisfaction.
I built another plan a while back. One that didn’t end up with my corpse in an alley. One that put me in the path of the only person who could draw me closer to him.
His daughter. Natasha Resnova.
And when I saw her gorgeous smile, it hit me in places I couldn’t armor.
Still, Vassili had taken my family, so I’d separate Vassili from his blood. His weakness. My weapon.
However, getting to her was more complicated than I expected.
I could wait. I was patient. A soldier-sharp mind didn’t bend to obsession. It observes. Calculates. And I wasn’t just any Marine. I was a cut above. A Marine Raider. Special recon, black ops, and tons more training prepared me for this.
I drained the next beer, slapped enough cash onto the counter, and muttered a sarcastic, “Merry Christmas,” on my way out. No tip. No cheer. Just the pressure of unfinished business clawing at me.
Two weeks later, I got my chance.
I’d followed Natasha to the hospital and noticed another car following her.
Underneath a hoodie and sunglasses, I drifted through the underground parking structure for the UCLA Comprehensive Cancer Center.
Her AMG coupe sat empty. She’d gone inside.
Less than a minute later, I watched the other vehicle’s door open.
An ex-Jarhead exited. A Russian followed her toward the elevators, keeping his distance, but his body language gave him away.
Security detail.
How long would she be gone?
Ten minutes if she delivered something for the Whispers of Hope research team. Long enough if she didn’t double back to her car.
I was willing to risk it.
I dialed a friend. “Rain, I need to get into a vehicle.”
“Use a wire hanger.” Her snort grated
“Rainita Howard.” I clenched my jaw.
“What? I’ve seen your ride. I’m not helping you commit grand theft auto.”
“It’s an AMG. My friend’s car.”
“Right.” Another snort. “Marines like us? Is this friend a construct of your imagination? What year?”
I scanned the plates—4TASHA5. Probably a gift. Maybe her fourth car if her parents gave her a new car for every birthday. She’d had cancer, so I assumed from age eighteen instead of sixteen, like many other spoiled kids. “Maybe last year. I guess.”
“Fine. If the alarm goes off, that’s on you,” Rain teased.
Within sixty seconds, Rain guided me in system tampering.
“Don’t call me until you need real help. Or you’re in town.”
“Of course, you’ll be the first person I call when I’m in North Carolina,” I lied, scrubbing my jaw. Come to think of it? Her skills seemed useful. She could break through anything with a keyboard. Later. For now, I hung up and sat in Natasha’s car.
Yep. I sat in the Bratva princess’s car. Looked through the glove compartment. Took a small vial of her perfume—a keepsake. Could drink in the scent of her every time she ghosted me. And then I waited.
And waited.
I parked my vehicle closer to the elevators, placing myself in Natasha’s path. Within minutes, a family stepped out—a little girl in a wheelchair, half asleep. She dropped a unicorn, and her parents were too busy to notice. So, I borrowed the thing. Figured I could use it somehow.
An hour dragged by. The elevator dinged, and I rushed to the doors, grasping the sparkly pink unicorn, tag still on its ear. If this were Natasha, Unicorn would make me look more approachable. Softer. Safe.
The doors opened, and I exhaled, glimpsing Natasha. She was unaware, scrolling on her phone. Perfect. I stepped forward. A harmless toy in my grip. A smile trained to pass for warmth.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I said, bumping into Natasha, pretending to be unable to see past the stuffed animal.
“Enzo?” Soft, succulent.
As I lowered the unicorn, I widened my eyes, and the predator stirred under my skin, though I kept it buried deep.
I forced a slow smile, feigned embarrassment, and tucked the toy behind my back like I was carrying contraband plushies. But nah. The pink furry unicorn I was choking just screamed, Look, this dude has a … softer side.
“Natasha?” I let the Italian accent roll from my tongue—the heritage stolen from me the day Vassili took Papa. And later, Mama.