Page 167 of Hate to Love You

I swallow hard, cradling the device in my hands.

“Um…okay. I’ll need the—”

“It’s 9817,” he says with a nod down to the phone’s password prompt.

Quickly I type in the code, watching as the screen unlocks to show his very organized display.

I do, however, find it kind of endearing that this scary gun-carrying CEO’s wallpaper is his dog, Caesar…and he’s wearing a bowtie.

“Awwww,” I coo, holding the phone up toward him with a wave. “He’s so cute.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that, or he’ll go soft.” Roman chuckles, the sound being the most normal thing I’ve ever heard him do all day.

I feel my cheeks heat as I stare at him.

As I continue to stare at him, I notice when he smiles, he gets a little crease in the corner of his mouth, his demons retreating ever so slightly.

I’m certain he’s never laughed like that before, and it makes me wish he did it more.

His smile fades slowly, his brow furrowed as he nods to me, “Are you going to reschedule my meeting, Foxy?”

“Right, yeah, sure,” I say, shaking my head as my fingers fumble over the keys. “I’ll do it now,”

But just as I’m about to press the call button, a text message pops up.

Lev 11:46 a.m.:

Pasha’s going rogue Ro, he’s insisting he try out the guns before we make the final sale with Wesley.

All the blood in my veins freezes instantly, and my heart stops beating in my chest. I glance over at Roman, finding that he is staring at me. Intently.

The phone vibrates again.

Lev 11.46 a.m.:

Seriously Ro, you better fucking deal with him. He’s now drinking vodka. Around heavy artillery.

My brain attempts to process the words in the sentence I’ve just read.

Guns. Sale. Heavy artillery.

But before it can, another message comes through.

Pasha: 11.46 a.m.:

Hey big, Ro! I know you’re the head of the family and all that mafia jazz, but guns are MY passion. Just let me deal with it. Tell Lev to fuck off.

Mafia?

My vision of the car around me suddenly turns hazy, and my mouth dries as I breathe in through my nose. I bite my lip, slowly moving my jaw back and forth as I lock the phone.

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

Mafia?

Everything starts clicking into place. I’ve had the pieces of the puzzle for months, each one practically hand fed to me as I worked and listened to the chatter in the office.

How was I so blind?