Free Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance by Riley Rollins Page A

the kitchen and the bathrooms, I vacuum and dust everything, and I scrub moss off the rock wall behind the indoor waterfall.
    Being an indentured servant isn't exactly my idea of a good time. But it is nice to have a big, clean place to live for once. I'm still taking pills; my supply isn't out yet. I hide them in my purse and take them when Havok isn't looking.
    While I'm dusting the dresser in Havok's bedroom, I come across a stack of photographs. They're from a film camera, not digital, and they look like they were developed many years ago. There are pictures of Havok when he was younger, some clearly taken in West Ark, and some that appear to be in Russia. I thumb through them one at a time, until I come to one with a gorgeous red-headed girl leaning her head against Havok's shoulder.
    There's a twinge of jealousy in my stomach, and I wonder if this woman is still in his life. Could that be where he's going at night?
    "What are you doing?"
    Havok's voice comes from behind, startling me. I whirl around, and the slippery, glossy photographs scatter all over the floor.
    "I-I'm sorry." I bend down and hurriedly pick them up. When I've gathered them all, I stand and offer them to Havok. But he's motionless, his arms crossed.
    "Put them back where you found them. Then finish your work." He walks out the open door without another word.
    I finish dusting the room, feeling guilty. I don't like how he spoke to me. It made me feel like I used to feel when Brock scolded me. But that was always over some silly, meaningless mistake like forgetting ketchup packets with his take-out. This time, I rooted through someone's private belongings. A real betrayal of trust.
    After I finish cleaning, I go looking for Havok. I find him in the backyard, shirtless, bent over a big metal box next to the pool gate.
    "What are you doing?" I say.
    He looks over his shoulder, then sticks his head back in the box. "Replacing the pump."
    His back and arms gleam in the afternoon sun. His back muscles are powerful and defined, and he works swiftly and competently. For the first time, I get a better glimpse at his tattoos; all intricate patterns and symbols covering his arm, shoulder, and back.
    I stand there watching while he walks back and forth to a tool shed several times, not speaking to me. Finally, he appears to finish the repair, then clicks on a switch. A fountain next to the pool spouts water.
    He closes the metal box and gathers the tools that are strewn over the patio. Brock probably couldn't have replaced a fuse to save his life, and here Havok is, doing complicated mechanical work.
    "Hey," I say.
    He turns his head and cocks an eyebrow before resuming cleanup of the tools.
    "Sorry about earlier. I just saw the photos and got curious."
    He grunts in response.
    I take a second to work up the courage to speak again. And I'm not sure I should ask this question, but I do.
    "Who's the girl?"
    Havok places the last tool in his toolbox and then stands up stiffly. "Why are you prying?"
    "Sorry," I say, staring at my feet. I can tell he's still looking at me, and it makes me nervous. Finally he says something.
    "That was my fiancée. Was. "
    I look back up at him. "What happened?"
    "Something... bad," he says. "And I couldn't protect her."
    Before I can respond, he picks up the toolbox and walks away.

20

Havok
    T hat evening , I get a call from Luka. Meet at the old Bayside train tracks ASAP, he says. Pakhan Petrov has an urgent matter to discuss.
    "Into the bedroom," I tell Penny, who's wearing my blue apron and washing dishes in the kitchen sink. "I have to go out." I try to flush our earlier conversation from my mind, but it haunts me. The specter of my ex-fiancée, raped and executed in cold blood. I thought she was safe, in my home, like Penny is now.
    But she wasn't. They came for her, and they got her, and her blood stains my hands so deeply.
    Penny turns off the faucet, the sink still full of dirty dishes. She wipes her hands on the apron, which