Page 194 of Hate to Love You

“There was no note,” Cal says quietly, “No fingerprints either.”

“Another professional?”

“Seems like it.”

But the moment I pull the photos out and look at them, my blood runs cold. Because there in my hands are three photos…of Pasha.

One of him on his date with the social media chick.

Another of him getting out of the car.

And the last of him at The Studio VIP section…with me.

Cal motions for me to flip the photo over, and there on the back are five words, scribbled in red ink.

“Are you your brother’s keeper?”

“Now this feels more like the Irish,” Cal whispers. “They always go straight for the jugular.”

My chest tightens around me, strangling the air from my lungs.

The Irish have just marked their next target: my brother.

No. Not Pasha. I cannot allow this.

Immediately my brain kicks into action, and I start formulating a plan.

“Where is he now?” I ask, my words strangled in my throat.

“Still at his apartment,” Cal replies with a nod.

“Keep him there. Get Giorgi on the line, and tell him that he’s to go to Pasha’s, and I don’t care if he has to tie the fucker to the bed and feed him by hand. He is not to leave that apartment under any circumstances, understood?” I growl, pointing at him.

“Yes, Boss,” Cal agrees, pulling out his phone.

“Which reminds me,” I sigh, taking mine out of my pocket as well. “I need to make a call.”

“Have you…told him yet?” Cal asks quietly, looking up from the text he’s furiously typing.

I shake my head, hearing the receptionist on the other end pick up.

“Yeah, it’s Roman,” I say quickly to the polite woman on the phone. “I’ve got a code 5-0-5, and I need to speak to him.”

“Copy that,” she acknowledges, immediately patching me through to another number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, It’s Roman,” I say to the man on the other end of the phone. “I need to speak with him. It’s urgent. Yeah, that’s fine, I’ll hold, Ethan.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ABBY

My eyes drill holes into the ceiling as I resist the urge to look at the gun that is laying on my dresser.

The gun that I fired. The gun that took a man’s life.

I wanted it so that I could have my souvenir. Roman would bury what happened that night, there would be no public record of the death. Which meant there would be no obituary. No news reports.