Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2)

C
opyright
© 2016 by Natasha Tanner and Ali Piedmont

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the authors’ imagination.

Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

C
over by
Mayhem Cover Creations
.

I
t's amazing
what a little champagne can do.

It's also amazing what a six-foot-four Russian mob boss will do—when he's in
loooove
.

I tilt the tall, cool glass of bubbly to my lips and watch my best friend Kat try on yet another dress. I'm lounging on a sofa—a settee, a divan?—a
something expensive and lush and fancy
in a Fifth Avenue dressing room that is bigger than my Brooklyn apartment.

Kat looks at herself, grimaces, then meets my eyes in the mirror. We both feel out of place here, and if we didn’t have Gray Petrokov's—aka Kat's new husband's and aforementioned Russian mobster's—black AmEx, we couldn't afford to wipe our butts in the bathroom (which is
also
bigger than my apartment).

She's a petite, curvy Irish girl with dark hair, freckles sprinkled like cinnamon all over her lovely face, and green eyes that sparkle when she's happy. Kat is embarrassed because every dress the snooty salesgirl brings her shows off all her curves. She's used to hiding under giant T-shirts and loose jeans. She doesn't know she's beautiful, because no one ever told her she was.

Kind of the exact opposite of me—ever since I developed double-Ds in grade school, I've been told I'm beautiful countless times over. I mean, by
grown adult men
when I was still eating Lunchables. And it has never stopped. I'm twenty-four now, and believe me, being valued for my long blonde hair, my breasts, my ass, my naturally tan skin—it gets old. And rings false.

It never made my mother happy, after all.

"I think it's too expensive," Kat whispers to me. "And too tight!"

I shake my head, too tipsy to move from the lush couch. I run my fingers over the smooth, velvet surface. "Gray will love it, Kat. You look gorgeous."

Kat blushes, and I hide my smile behind the glass, pressing the smooth rim to my lips. One of my students' questions from earlier in the day floats across my drunken mind: precious little Olivia asked where glass comes from. Since I teach kindergarten, I wasn't exactly prepared with a MENSA-type answer. A quick Google search on my phone and I was able to tell my precocious kiddos that glass is, in fact, made from
liquid sand
.

You heat the sand at a ridiculously high temperature, and its very structure changes. It will never be sand again. It cools into a beautiful new element. The transformation reminds me of Kat what Kat's going through right now. Two weeks ago, Kat's abusive father, for all intents and purposes, sold her to Brooklyn's most powerful Russian mafia Syndicate. In order to save his life, he gave away his daughter's.

She would have been sent away to the Brighton Beach brothels, and I'm sure a virgin like Kat would have fetched a high price. Well, a former virgin. Because at the last minute, Gray Petrokov showed up and married her.

I'd met Kat in high school, so I'd heard about Gray for hers. He was her childhood friend, confidant, and secret first love. Then he began working for the mob, like his father. He promised he would come back and rescue her.

Instead, he disappeared.

But now Gray's back, bossy as hell, sinfully sexy, and obviously crazy about Kat. But she doesn't realize how he'd do anything in the world for her. Of course, she's head-over-heels for the big guy and has been since they were kids, and he can't seem to see that, either.

But I have this feeling that all this insanity with the mob and Brighton Beach brothels and Kat's shotgun wedding will transform them. Kat's very core is being put through the fire, but I sense that what emerges—for both Kat and Gray—will be beautiful.

Of course, glass is also highly breakable.

I just hope that nothing shatters them or their newfound love.

Gray's in charge of his crew. But there's a crazy Russian mob boss named Solonik—who ranks higher than Gray, I guess—and he wants Gray and Kat dead. So now I Kat says Gray is aiming to overthrow an entire mafia family…

Just to save her.

So much drama. And beyond the mob stuff, this is why I don't date. At least, not seriously. Who has time for all the angst, when there's champagne to be sipped, various men to be flirted with, and countless bar tops on which to dance after a long day herding attention-deficit children?

Not me.

Then again, as I watch Kat's glowing face, I get the feeling that true love is different.

But true love is hard to find. Even in a city as enormous as New York.

Kat tries on another dress, this one black and plunging and divine. I sit up and catch a glance of what I'm wearing. Good grief.

I'd gone shopping in my teaching outfit, and since I teach kindergartners, this consisted of a big, blue shirt that doesn't show my cleavage, and that I won't mind throwing out if paint, snot, or yogurt explodes all over it. Oh, and my kitten tights. I love my kitten tights: they are comfortable, black and covered entirely in pictures of floating cats' faces.

All over
.

I get looks on the subway when I wear 'em, but my students think they're hilarious. And when you're dealing with twenty-three kids whose collective average attention span is twenty-three seconds, you'll do—and wear—anything to keep them looking at you.

Somehow I'm still wearing my kitten tights, but instead of my oversized shirt, I've tried on a diamond-studded bustier that Madonna circa 1985 would've stolen in a heartbeat. It shows off my assets to a ridiculous degree.

I look down to see if the bustier is covering even half my girls, and that's when the tiara I forgot I was wearing slips off and falls onto my lap.

Good God. I squint. I think they're real diamonds. I reach up and put it back on my head—because why the hell not? it's not like I'll actually take it home—when suddenly a loud
bang!
explodes from the front of the store.

I jump up, as does Kat and Mandy, the salesgirl.

It happens again. It sounds like a bear is rattling the locked, glass front doors.

And like he might barrel through at any moment.

Kat, Mandy and I run from the dressing room in the back through the small boutique toward the front door. And that's when I stop hard, on a dime.

It's not a bear. It's a man, but he's as big as a wild creature. The stranger trying to tear the door off the hinges is tall, dark, handsome—and looks enraged. He's got one massive hand on the glass door's handle, shaking it, and the other hand is banging on the glass so hard I'm worried it will shatter.

He's standing on the immaculate Upper East Side sidewalk, the midnight-blue sky behind him. Then he looks up, sees me through the glass, and his vivid blue eyes lock onto mine. He's wild but beautiful, like a wolf. The blue-black sky behind him is the perfect backdrop for his dark, feral stare.

He's a study in shadows. Black jeans, black T-shirt, black ink tattoos swirling over his sculpted arms. His hair is probably dark brown, but in the dark street it looks black and blends into the night. He has a short, lush beard. A five o'clock shadow gone wild.

That beard. It's like all my secret lumberjack fantasies come to life.

I'd never believed that bullshit about love at first sight. I mean, men have been using that line on me for over a decade. But despite all their pretty declarations of love, their feelings never lasted.

And I'd certainly never been in love with any of them.

But as soon as I stare into those cobalt eyes, I can't look away. And he's staring straight at me. He looks even more out of place than me or Kat. We're in this fancy-ass boutique, but we're really Brooklyn girls. I don't even know where this man looks like he came from. My dreams, I guess.

He's
huge
. I'm five-five, and if we stood next to each other—if I unlocked the glass door to this fancy boutique and let him in—he would tower over me.

It hits me that I'm actually
considering
unlocking the door.

We're still just staring at each other, taking each other in, when he raises his hand, points at me, and shouts my best friend's name.

I
should not fucking be here
.

That was the refrain in my head, slamming over and over like the heavy metal music I was blaring from the car. I should not be here. I should not be in New York. I definitely should not be on the Upper East Side, with the society ladies and Wall Street billionaires.

I shouldn't even be in the fucking U.S. of A.

And not only because I probably have at least four outstanding warrants with my mug shot on them.

But Gray, my friend—or as close to a friend as I could possibly have—had asked me to come back and help him with a little project. Which turned out to be overthrowing an entire fucking Russian mafia family. Sure, why not. What else was I going to do this summer?

Little project
. Bit of a stretch, but I'd always hated Viktor Solonik and his crew. Viktor was power-hungry and fucking crazed. He'd threatened to kill Gray's father, Gray himself, half Gray's crew—hell, half of New York. And he'd sure as hell threatened to kill me.

I'd been eighteen and an idiot when I first met Gray. I'd been drafted into Solonik's crew before I really understood what was happening. I'd been poor, alone, starving,
desperate
.

The memory of a warehouse alley, a knife blade reflecting moonlight—the blood splatters on the brick wall—suddenly fills my mind. When I inhale, I can still smell the sharp, surprisingly coppery scent of freshly spilled blood.

I close my eyes and focus. That was a long time ago—twelve years ago, in fact. Now I'm thirty. And I'm not the naïve, hapless, guilt-ridden accidental killer I was as a kid.

No, now I know how to kill. Swiftly, efficiently, ruthlessly.

And for a paycheck.

I wasn't born into this life. I still have some morals: no women, no good guys. I laugh to myself as I double-park the SUV, the locks clicking into place, quiet noises on the quiet street. I guess everyone thinks they're the good guy—even an assassin.

But I really do only kill assholes now.

Not like my first kill.

I haven't thought of that alley, that first fight—that first kill—for a long time. It's being back in fucking New York that's making me
think
too damn much. I'd turned down a lucrative job offer in Paris to come here, though there were other motives besides helping out an old friend. The target had been a banker, and sure, bankers can be fucking thieves. But the men I kill are usually involved in the mob, or doing shady shit and hurting innocent people. Something about the Paris job had felt off, and if there's one thing I've learned since that alleyway so many years ago, it's to always pay attention to my instincts.

I had ignored my gut that first night. Never again.

Besides, Gray needed me.

And I owe him. If it wasn’t for the big Russian's assistance, instead of pissing Solonik off but escaping with my life, I might've ended up just another dead fuck in Brooklyn.

Instead, I travel the world. On my terms, on my timeline. I have more money than I need, and most importantly, I have freedom. I don't have to depend on anyone else.

But I'm more than happy to help Gray Petrokov rescue the love of his life and overthrow a fucking Russian syndicate.

Sure. No problem.

But no. Instead of doing something
real
,
proactive
, or at least fucking
interesting
…

I'm babysitting.

And out of everything in the entire universe I should not be doing, it is fucking
babysitting
Gray's new wife and her best friend.

The Upper East fucking Side.

I cross the street and find the boutique. Madam Giselle's. Jesus Christ.

Gray's wife is supposed to be here? The lights are off, and it looks fucking closed to me. But the secret tracking app Gray put on her phone says she's here. At least, her phone is.

And I need to find her, because Gray is losing his shit. Understandably, since he just married the love of his life, and Solonik, the head of Gray's Russian syndicate, doesn't like her. Or Gray. And neither of us would put it past the crazy bastard if he kidnapped her, killed her…or worse.

I rattle the locked door handle, knocking and trying to peer in past the glare of the streetlights on the dark glass doors. I lean forward, cover my eyes with one cupped hand, and squint into the shadows.

That's when I see her. The most beautiful woman in the world.

Jesus Christ. She's blonde. Long, blonde, wavy hair that looks like she spent all day at the beach. Sun-kissed skin. Blue eyes. Don't even get me started on what she's wearing—something sparkly and low-cut and… holy shit, those tits.

But it's her eyes, and the expression in them, that gets me.

She's staring at me the same way I'm staring at her, like we both can't breathe. Like we both can't move. Like we both know…something's about to happen.

Then I see a movement behind her, and a shorter girl with long, dark hair comes into view. Fuck. Gray's girl.

Which means the blonde must be her best friend. Which means she's off-limits.

Whatever I'm thinking—and I'm honestly not sure if it's my little head or my big head that's leading the charge here—but whatever one or both are dreaming up, it's all
a bad fucking idea
.

I point at Gray's wife. "Kat," I say, motioning to the door.

She'd better unlock it before Gray arrives. He's probably only moments behind me, and he'll fucking rip it off its hinges, he's been so worried that Kat was hurt or taken by Solonik and his fucking Russians.

The shop girl finally steps up to unlock the door, her eyes widening as she takes me in. I can see the invitation in her eager smile, but I've only got eyes for the blonde inside.

She looks like a naughty princess, with that fucking crown.

I get a sudden image of this princess, astride me, head back in ecstasy, long blonde hair falling so far down her back it brushes my thighs…

Shit, I'm getting hard and I've never spoken to the girl.

Then Gray comes barreling up behind me, clasping my shoulder as his way of greeting. He's tall, maybe the only man I know taller than me. He's scarred, tough, honest—and totally focused on getting to the woman inside the store.

I know the feeling.

"Is she in there?" he growls, asking about his wife. His Kat.

I, however, keep my eyes on the blonde.

"Yeah, she's in there," I say.