PRAISE FOR VENGEANCE ROAD
“Hard-driving, gritty, and raw, Feehan’s latest foray into her motorcycle-club world . . . is a hands-down winner.”
—Library Journal
“Feehan has written a very erotic tale but one that is a cut above the usual bad-boy motorcycle-club romance.”
—Booklist
“Vengeance Road is a suspenseful, sexy, passionate and gripping story of lost love that can have a second chance.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Vengeance Road [is] a great read, exciting, sexy, with a fabulous group of secondary characters.”
—The Reading Cafe
PRAISE FOR CHRISTINE FEEHAN’S SEA HAVEN NOVELS
“The queen of paranormal romance. . . . I love everything she does.”
—J. R. Ward
“A new cast of characters as heartwarmingly interesting as those in her Drake Sisters novels and as steamy as those in her Dark [Carpathian] novels.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Ms. Feehan is at the top of her game with this magical romance.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
Titles by Christine Feehan
The GhostWalker Novels
TOXIC GAME
COVERT GAME
POWER GAME
SPIDER GAME
VIPER GAME
SAMURAI GAME
RUTHLESS GAME
STREET GAME
MURDER GAME
PREDATORY GAME
DEADLY GAME
CONSPIRACY GAME
NIGHT GAME
MIND GAME
SHADOW GAME
The Drake Sisters Novels
HIDDEN CURRENTS
TURBULENT SEA
SAFE HARBOR
DANGEROUS TIDES
OCEANS OF FIRE
The Leopard Novels
LEOPARD’S WRATH
LEOPARD’S RUN
LEOPARD’S BLOOD
LEOPARD’S FURY
WILD CAT
CAT’S LAIR
LEOPARD’S PREY
SAVAGE NATURE
WILD FIRE
BURNING WILD
WILD RAIN
The Sea Haven/Sisters of the Heart Novels
BOUND TOGETHER
FIRE BOUND
EARTH BOUND
AIR BOUND
WATER BOUND
The Shadow Riders Novels
SHADOW WARRIOR
SHADOW KEEPER
SHADOW REAPER
SHADOW RIDER
The Torpedo Ink Novels
VENDETTA ROAD
VENGEANCE ROAD
JUDGMENT ROAD
The Carpathian Novels
DARK ILLUSION
DARK SENTINEL
DARK LEGACY
DARK CAROUSEL
DARK PROMISES
DARK GHOST
DARK BLOOD
DARK WOLF
DARK LYCAN
DARK STORM
DARK PREDATOR
DARK PERIL
DARK SLAYER
DARK CURSE
DARK HUNGER
DARK POSSESSION
DARK CELEBRATION
DARK DEMON
DARK SECRET
DARK DESTINY
DARK MELODY
DARK SYMPHONY
DARK GUARDIAN
DARK LEGEND
DARK FIRE
DARK CHALLENGE
DARK MAGIC
DARK GOLD
DARK DESIRE
DARK PRINCE
Anthologies
EDGE OF DARKNESS
(with Maggie Shayne and Lori Herter)
DARKEST AT DAWN
(includes Dark Hunger and Dark Secret)
SEA STORM
(includes Magic in the Wind and Oceans of Fire)
FEVER
(includes The Awakening and Wild Rain)
FANTASY
(with Emma Holly, Sabrina Jeffries, and Elda Minger)
LOVER BEWARE
(with Fiona Brand, Katherine Sutcliffe, and Eileen Wilks)
HOT BLOODED
(with Maggie Shayne, Emma Holly, and Angela Knight)
Specials
DARK CRIME
THE AWAKENING
DARK HUNGER
MAGIC IN THE WIND
JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2020 by Christine Feehan
Excerpt from Lethal Game copyright © 2020 by Christine Feehan
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9781984803573
First Edition: January 2020
Cover art by Neils Antone
Cover design by Judith Lagerman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Anne Elizabeth, my very loved friend. Thank you for a friendship that goes beyond the norm. You’ve always made me stronger.
FOR MY READERS
Be sure to go to christinefeehan.com/members/ to sign up for my private book announcement list and download the free ebook of Dark Desserts. Join my community and get firsthand news, enter the book discussions, ask your questions and chat with me. Please feel free to email me at Christine@christinefeehan.com. I would love to hear from you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As with any book, there are so many people to thank: Ed, my go-to man, who answers my questions when needed. Brian, for competing with me during power hours for top word count. Domini, for always editing, no matter how many times I ask her to go over the same book before we send it for additional editing.
CONTENTS
Praise for Christine Feehan
Titles by Christine Feehan
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
For My Readers
Acknowledgments
Torpedo Ink Members
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifte
en
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Terms Associated with Biker Clubs
Excerpt from Lethal Game
About the Author
TORPEDO INK MEMBERS
Viktor Prakenskii aka Czar—President
Lyov Russak aka Steele—Vice President
Savva Pajari aka Reaper—Sergeant at Arms
Savin Pajari aka Savage—Sergeant at Arms
Isaak Koval aka Ice—Secretary
Dmitry Koval aka Storm
Alena Koval aka Torch
Luca Litvin aka Code—Treasurer
Maksimos Korsak aka Ink
Kasimir Popov aka Preacher
Lana Popov aka Widow
Nikolaos Bolotan aka Mechanic
Pytor Bolotan aka Transporter
Andrii Federoff aka Maestro
Gedeon Lazaroff aka Player
Kir Vasiliev aka Master
Lazar Alexeev aka Keys
Aleksei Solokov aka Absinthe
NEWER PATCHED MEMBERS
Gavriil Prakenskii
Casimir Prakenskii
PROSPECTS
Fatei
Glitch
Hyde
ONE
Isaak Koval, known to his brothers in Torpedo Ink as Ice, moved with the crowd of tourists down the Las Vegas strip. He could fit in anywhere. It was a gift, and one he worked on as often as possible. He’d learned early in life that if he chose, he could be invisible, or nearly so, fading like a chameleon into whatever background surrounded him. That gift had saved his life on more than one occasion.
He was very careful to keep several people between himself and the two men he followed. He wove his way through the tourists but was always careful his reflection wasn’t caught in the glass as he passed windows and doors. That was simply a matter of matching steps for a moment. He kept his head down but his eyes up, scanning the crowd, the buildings and even the rooftops.
Heat waves bounced on the sidewalk, hitting him squarely in the chest. At times it felt as if he couldn’t breathe, but then he’d been feeling that way for some time, even at home on the coast.
His quarry stopped for a moment just inside one of the doors leading to a casino, forcing him to stop as well. He couldn’t get in front of them or take a chance they’d pick him out of a crowd if they spotted him more than once. There was a brick pillar just on the other side of the doors of the casino, and he paused there to pull out his cell and look at text messages, just the way dozens of others were doing. He glanced across the street to where his twin brother, Storm, mirrored his actions. Ice was able to keep the two men in sight while studying his phone, and then moving at a snail’s pace with a group of tourists from India.
The two men they followed argued for a moment over something they read on their phones and began walking the strip again. They appeared to be looking for a good time, stopping briefly at the strip joints, as if debating whether they’d go in or not. They never did, and Ice didn’t expect them to. His club knew just about everything there was to know about the men they were tracking down the strip. They knew for certain that neither man was looking for a night of fun with strippers, prostitutes or women they picked up.
They were coming up to a red light. That was always a danger zone. The two men, Russ Jarvis and Billy Kent, were in the habit of taking the opportunity to look around them when they got to a crosswalk. The crowd pushed together at the stoplights, and both men would casually turn and survey those beside and behind them. They often looked across the street to study everyone waiting to cross to their side.
Still, Ice could come up right on them, do them both just as the light changed and walk across the street with the crowd before the bodies fell. He wiped the sweat from his face and kept sauntering. His club needed the two alive long enough to lead them to the asshole they were hunting. He forced himself to put one boot in front of the other.
He was dressed in blue jeans and motorcycle boots. It wasn’t like he had a lot of clothes to choose from. The tight tee stretched across his chest, damp now with sweat from the unrelenting heat. He fucking hated this place almost as much as he detested the two men he followed. Worse, he couldn’t wear his distinctive colors. That felt like walking down the street naked, which would have actually been better than being without his colors.
Sometimes, like now, he thought he might go insane from the chaos in his head. He listened sometimes when Czar, the president of Torpedo Ink, their motorcycle club, and his wife, Blythe, said some things needed talking about no matter how difficult. That was such bullshit. Who did someone like him spill his guts to? And what fucking therapist would understand what he’d been through? What any of his brothers and sisters had been through?
He could just hear that conversation. How many men did you say you killed? How did you say you killed them? How do you feel about that? How did they fucking think he felt about that? It would be prison or a padded cell, and he’d been locked up most of his life and wasn’t ever going there again. Not ever.
Ice swept off the silly ball cap he was wearing, the one covering his distinctive hair. He wasn’t just blond; his hair blazed in the sun—platinum, gold, silver, it was all there. He wore it longish, but not as long as some of the brothers. He wiped at the sweat again and replaced the ball cap. As he came up to the light, he dipped into the brightly colored open tote a woman dangled so invitingly on her arm, lifted a small package and dropped it on the sidewalk just in front of him.
“Ma’am.” He bent down. “You dropped something.”
The older woman turned and her eyes went wide. “Oh no. Thank you. I bought that for my granddaughter.”
He took his time rising with it, angling away from the light and keeping most of the crowd between him and his prey. He flashed a charming smile at her. “How old is your granddaughter, if you don’t mind me asking? Because you sure as hell don’t look old enough to be a grandmother.” He meant it too, he didn’t have to pour bullshit sincerity into his tone.
She beamed at him. “That’s such a sweet thing to say. I’m definitely old enough. She’s eight.” She took the little package and dropped it into her tote, pulling her bag more securely to her. “I really like your tattoo. It’s unusual.”
He had a wealth of tattoos on his arms, chest and back, but she was referring to the three teardrops dripping down his face from the corner of his left eye. Those tears reminded him, every time he looked into a mirror, that he wasn’t human anymore. Everything had been taken from him, leaving a shell. An empty shell. The tightness in his chest made it difficult to breathe again. He touched one of the tears as if just remembering he had them.
“Had them for years. You know the kind of thing you do when you’re a kid.”
She smiled at him again. “You still look like a kid to me.”
Now he’d run out of things to say. She was nice. He didn’t live in a nice world. He didn’t know how to make conversation with nice people. He could beat the holy hell out of someone for her. He could kill someone for her if she asked him to. Shit, he might do both, but polite conversation was beyond him.
Of course there was always the alternative. He could pull out his gun and shoot the bastards right there in front of everyone. The cops would come and there would be a hell of a shoot-out, but in the end, he might have some peace. Might. There was probably a special place in hell for a man like him.
He didn’t have the luxury of offing himself via cop because if he killed the two he’d been following for four fucking days in the hottest place in the world, then he would be condemning some little boy to a lifetime of hell. He knew what that was like. Shit.
The woman was t
alking to him, but he couldn’t hear a thing she said. The crowd moved and he risked a glance over his shoulder. The two assholes were already in the street. He turned back to the street and moved with the woman, angling his head down and toward her as if fully engaged in everything she had to say.
He had a lot he could tell her. Specifically, that he was so fucked up that if he was in a roomful of hot babes stripping for him, he couldn’t get it up unless he commanded it. That was getting damned tiresome. What was the use in having chicks blow him when he had to force his body to cooperate? Yeah, that would make a great conversation. He could ask her advice.
Maybe he should ask Blythe and shock the holy hell out of her, not that much shocked her. She’d taken Czar back and taken the entire club in as if she were a mother hen. He had to admit he actually felt affection and admiration for her when he thought he was long past real emotion. Blythe and her troubled children. He could relate to them—unfortunately for them.
He walked with the older woman for another block, listening to her chatter on about her adorable granddaughter. When she paused and he had no choice but to fill the silence with words, he talked about his darling “nieces” and “nephews.” He supposed it wasn’t a lie. They didn’t have to be related by birth. All members of Torpedo Ink were his brethren. That meant their children were part of his life, right? That was how it worked in his world whether it did or not in the “normal” world.
Movement caught his eye as he turned the corner with a little wave at the woman, who went straight. A white dress with flowers all over it. Not just any dress. A fuckin’ sundress like women wore in old movies. She was across the street, standing in the sunlight, and she might as well have been wearing a halo. She looked so beautiful she took his breath away. He actually stopped walking right there on the sidewalk to stare at her—which was fucking nuts because he was on a job.
The top of the dress was fitted, and its wearer had amazing tits. They filled out the material of the sundress to perfection, pushing against the bodice as if seeking freedom. The front of the dress was tight but gathered around the cleavage line. His palms itched to tug down that fitted camisole and free those mouthwatering tits. His mouth actually salivated. He would stand behind her and slowly pull the material free until the bodice was under those soft curves and her tits spilled into his hands.