Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(90)

“Sorry? Whatever. I agree it's good to start over,” I said coldly, flashing her a thin smile. “I'm ready to be a good boy this afternoon. Are you ready to listen?”

She nodded, a fresh new notepad in her hands. “Let's take a different approach. I know, we've already figured out you don't do remorse, regret. So, do you actually feel proud of the things you've done? The bombing?”

Good question. I leaned in, tightening my fists, pausing just long enough to see the nervous uncertainty light up her eyes.

“I'm proud of serving my family. My people. This f*cked up world doesn't have many places for men anymore. I can't run off to the battlefields like gramps did for the motherland. I'm American through and through. Haven't been to Moscow since I was a baby. Still, the values are the same, especially here in the land of opportunity. Best thing I can do is make my family proud, doing what we do best.”

“Yeah?” Her eyebrows lifted. “And what's that?”

“Making bank. Spilling blood, sweat, and tears, getting our piece away from the rest of the mad dogs chomping at the bit in this town. You ever heard of the Red Eagle?”

She shook her head.

“It was a little vodka bar my Uncle Volodya started right off Fulton, back in the late nineties, about the time I figured out I could do a whole lot more with a woman besides stare at her pretty dress.”

I dropped my eyes, a blatant attempt to catch some tits hidden behind that fabric. It was too high to see any skin, but f*ck if it wasn't tight enough to see her curves, make out the plush outline of those tits my hands burned to ravage.

Shit. It was way too early in the interview to let my dick get this hard, snapping at my orange pants, too stupid to know throwing her to the wall and f*cking her wasn't an option right now. Not just yet.

Good thing reporter girl was just as flustered. Her cheeks got a little brighter, and she lost my gaze, darting to her notepad and then back up, trying to clear the steam throttling her brain – or maybe oiling up her *.

“Uncle Volodya tried to go legit. He was a good guy. Funny, generous, dedicated to his work. He got rave reviews and tons of tourists. He was making money hand over fist, and for awhile my old man was looking at getting into the biz himself. Then one day a pack of Yakuza put three neat holes in his chest and popped about as many heads as they blew vodka bottles. You wanna talk about massacring innocents? This family lived it. We let our guard down. After Uncle Volodya, we learned there was no going back.”

I paused. She scribbled furiously – probably trying to keep her pure eyes off me. I sure as shit didn't keep mine off her. No, it was the perfect opportunity to watch her tits bobbing underneath that shirt, watch her plucking at her glossy bottom lip with those little teeth.

I'd suck that sweet flap between my lips ten times harder. Fuck, I'd bite it, sink my teeth in, taste her and memorize it before we f*cked ourselves crazy.

“Tell me about your brothers. Family's obviously important to you.” She looked up, tucking a loose strand of that silky black hair over her ear.

“Lev and Daniel are my blood. They've got my back and they always will. I watched them come up behind me as a kid. They cried just as hard as I did when our parents died. They celebrated like f*cking maniacs right along with me every time we won something new for the family. They're my brothers, in blood and spirit. The shit we've done...it brings you close, Sabrina. Closer than anybody living a nice, quiet life on the outside will ever understand.”

There was that nervous flash again in her hazel eyes. I smiled. She didn't know that I knew exactly who her family was. Just like she didn't realize I was staring at my ticket to a family reunion really soon.

“I want you to give me a moment,” she said, twirling the marker against her lips thoughtfully. “Sometime when you knew this was the life for you, and there was no turning back. Was there one?”

I nodded. She did a damned good job of changing the subject, deflecting the shit I said about criminal lives. This little reporter knew a helluva lot more about it than anybody else who'd be sitting in that chair for a sensationalized bullshit rag.

“3:30 PM. A cold Wednesday, about four years ago. That was the day I held my old man as he coughed up blood and shuddered one last time, on his way to meet the reaper. It was a hit and run. They did it quick while he was walking on a busy street, slammed him to the wall and sliced his throat with a piano wire. Sloppy as shit. He played dead. Took him about a half hour to bleed out and go cold. Long enough for me to come running when I got his garbled call. Not long enough for the medics to do shit. It feels like it was yesterday, and it's still gonna feel that way next week too.”

Sabrina stiffened. She sat straight up, a dark sympathy swirling in her eyes. Good thing they were so bright just then, because with her sitting up like that, my eyes wanted to fall instantly to her tits. My hands hurt, begging to flatten themselves against the glass, wishing to high hell they could find their way through and squeeze her nips.

“And how did that make you feel?”

Fuck, was this chick even wearing a bra? I looked down, giving her my best sad puppy dog face, hoping it wasn't too f*cking unbelievable. No, she had a bra after all, but it didn't do anything to hide her curves and edges. Thorns scraped my veins, a horny numbness, aching to get outta this cage, lay her down, and f*ck the living shit outta her.