Accidentally Yours (Merffy Kizzmet) novel Chapter 138

Gunfire rattled down the industrial side street, sharp cracks splitting the night. Rafael’s men were already in it–trading fire with the Russians outside their own back door. He’d sent them ahead to soften the ground, and now he was closing in to collect what mattered: the package.

The car jolted over a pothole, shocks groaning, his driver weaving between parked semis and darkened warehouses. The bursts of muzzle fire lit the skyline two blocks ahead, bright and fleeting as fireworks. Rafael sat in the back, posture loose but every nerve wound tight. Smoke was already seeping this far, acrid and electric, tangling with the iron–salt stink of the desert night.

He’d done this dance too many times: send the soldiers first, sweep the street, keep his hands clean until the final moment. But his gut was restless tonight, pacing the length of his ribcage.

His phone buzzed. Sherry.

The message was short, panicked:

She just stumbled into the club. I don’t know where security went. What the fuck should I do?

A photo followed.

Rafael’s stomach turned to stone.

The jawline. The mouth. The eyes he remembered–too sharp, too knowing–as she’d bent over his arm weeks ago in Los Angeles, needle buzzing, ink etching permanence into his skin. He’d booked the session to needle Enzo, to rattle the man’s cage with the woman he thought was just another tattooist. Instead, he’d found himself watching her hands move with precision, her voice sharp but light, throwing out random facts about squid cartilage and the architecture of calluses while she marked his skin like she’d been born to it. Not personal. Not vulnerable. But alive. Intriguing.

And now–those same eyes, blurred with pain, staring back from a photo smeared with blood and ash. The tattoos sealed it.

Lola.

Marchesi’s woman.

His boot pressed hard against the floorboard. “Three minutes,” he muttered. The driver floored it, engine roaring.

By the time they slid into the alley, his men had forced the Russians into cover, muzzle flashes sparking like lightning in the dark. Cordite stung his nose, smoke curling over the rooftops. Someone shouted in Russian, cut off by the staccato burst of an automatic. One of Rafael’s men dragged a body into shadow, knife flashing once, clean and efficient.

And then–Sherry.

She burs from the back door, curls damp with sweat, half–dragging a frame too small to carry that much weight.

“She’s bad,” Sherry gasped, arms locked under the woman’s shoulders. “Her name’s Cinnamon, far as I know–started a couple weeks ago. But last time I saw her, she had red hair. No tattoos. I don’t… I don’t get it.”

1/3

11:00 Wed, Oct 8 M

Chapter 138

420

Rafael dropped low, meeting them halfway, his hands finding the worst of the bleeding like instinct, Silver–white hair streaked red. Tattoos stark against smoke–stained skin. Not fragile there was definition under his grip, bloodied muscle, the kind of strength you. didn’t find behind a bar or a desk. A fighter’s frame.

His pulse slammed.

What the fuck did you get yourself into, ragazza [girl]?

He snapped his gaze back to Sherry, voice honed to a blade. “You didn’t see her tonight. Understand? Go back inside. Keep your head

down.”

Her lips pressed thin, but she nodded and vanished into neon.

The car tore down the backstreets, tires shrieking against blacktop. Rafael had her sprawled across his lap, one arm braced under her shoulders, the other clamped hard against her ribs. Blood seeped hot and relentless through his grip, soaking his clothes, sticky against his skin. He didn’t care. He leaned into the pressure, jaw clenched, every second counting down like a trigger pull.

Her lashes fluttered. Ash clung to them. For a heartbeat her eyes cracked open–green, blurred, but still sharp enough to cut. Recognition flickered, faint and fleeting, but her mouth twitched anyway.

Her cracked lips curved faintly, almost smug. “You’re-” Her voice rasped, shredded raw. Then softer: “Knew you were trouble.”

Rafael’s mouth tugged, sharp and humorless. Christ. Half–dead and still biting.

That same dry wit from the expo–when she’d leaned back in her chair, challenging him with a quip about permanence while his blood welled beneath her needle.

3

The car swerved, hospital lights breaking into view. His men were already waiting at the back entrance, coats drawn, envelopes fat with cash in hand. No names. No records. She’d go in as nobody.

11:00 Wed, Oct 8 M…

The gurney rattled up, his men lifting her from his arms, passing her into the nurses already bought and paid for. Machines swallowed her as the double doors slammed shut.

Verify captcha to read the contentVerify