“From my initial dive into Anton’s phone, it looked like he had a couple of things going on. I determined he was working on two separate projects. He had a list of names and photos of underage girls that included in-depth information on them, such as school attended, churches, hobbies, and things of that nature.”
“Was that a personal project, or was he scouting?” I asked.
“Personal, I believe. I haven’t been able to trace any outgoing shares of the information or photos.”
“Fucking asshole. I wish I could kill him all over again,” Ivan sneered.
“The other was a list of names—” Nik began.
“Andhername was one of them?” I interrupted, holding up the picture of the girl.
He nodded. “Along with two others. I’ve pulled the other two girls’ background checks as well. I say we divvy up the work. Each of us takes a girl, see what we can uncover,” Nik suggested, typing on his phone. “I know it’s not our standard case, but if the Russians were scouting girls for sex trafficking, we need to know. And if they’re specifically looking for Mikhail’s granddaughter, we owe it to her to warn her in case she doesn’t want to be found.”
My phone vibrated, and I heard Ivan’s notification as well, indicating Nik sent us the information.
“Alek, how about you swing by her work tomorrow and ask her a few questions? Especially since you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from her picture.” He smirked.
“Yeah, I’ll drop in. Where does she work?” I stroked my beard, thinking about her.
“Tomorrow morning…she’s at the Woodinville Café.”
“Hey, do we know anything about the mother?” I asked curiously, trying to fit the pieces together and explain this girl’s background check. I should have known better. Nik was always meticulous, and his ability to find information was uncanny.
“Let me guess, the mother has absolutely no connection to the Russian Mob?” Ivan asked before I could.
“Bingo, Brother. The family members I found have zero current connections to anyone overseas. Which makes me wonder if she might be in hiding. Maybe WITSEC?”
“We tread carefully, then. Last I heard, the elder Romanov was still in prison. Has that changed, Nik?” Ivan asked.
“Nope. Tucked away with no hope of ever seeing the outside again, thanks to that informant,” Nik said, opening the office door and letting us know he was done. “You coming?” he asked, and I reluctantly tore my gaze away from the girl’s captivating photo.
“Yeah, in a minute,” I mumbled. Who was this girl? What secrets was she hiding? I couldn’t help but feel a magnetic pull.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got hot blond twins awaiting me,” Ivan boasted.
Nik shook his head. “I’ll send Alisha back for you, Reaper,” he said from the door. The vibrant pulsing of the club’s music dulled as it clicked closed behind them.
Several minutes flew by, and I was startled when a soft caress brushed against my arm. Alisha plucked the photo from my hand, turned it face down, and climbed onto my lap.
Chapter 11
Kinsley
Straggler's Big Breakfast
“What can I get for you?” I asked for the hundredth time this morning. The customer, a regular, was holding a sweet, chubby baby on her hip. She ordered her food to go, and I rang her up. She thanked me and moved to the side to wait.
It had been a busy morning, but I loved working here. It was the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the tingle of spices that always soothed my soul. Even the noise—the employees calling out orders, the murmur of voices, people laughing, the thick whir of the frothing machines—had a comforting effect on me.
I turned to greet the next customer, and my breath caught in my throat. Good god, he was heart-stopping. He had trimmed blond hair, the sides shaved short, and long lashes framed his crystal-blue eyes. His beard was full and neat and outlined his beautiful lips.
The black T-shirt he was wearing fit him snugly, showing off his tall, muscular body. He wore black jeans, and I noticed the tattoo on his right forearm almost immediately. It reminded me of one of those grim reapers holding an hourglass. The top part of the hourglass had cupped hands holding sand, with grains running through the pinkies. The bottom part held a skull.
My father had had a tattoo. I tried to bring it to mind, but like most of those early memories, it was hazy. This man’s tattoo mesmerized me, though. The details were exquisite. Flushing as I realized I was staring and being rude, I quickly asked him, “What can I get for you?” My heart was beating faster than ever.
“What do you recommend?” His accent was British, maybe from London or Yorkshire. It was rich and smooth like chocolate, unexpected. My stomach flip-flopped as I continued to stare like an idiot. He chuckled as if he got this reaction often, making me more self-conscious.
“That would depend on how hungry you are,” I remarked, remembering how to do my job.
