Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel (11 page)

“We can work with that.”

When the food arrives, I have no idea what it is or where to begin. He hands me a pair of long, skinny wooden sticks and tells me to use them instead of a fork. I look at him like he’s lost his mind, suspicious that he must be playing a trick on me. After he places his hand over mine and shows me how to place the chopsticks between my fingers and pinch pieces of chicken off the plate, I start to get the hang of it, though I never quite do it gracefully.

The rest of the day goes by smoothly, the two of us lounging around. In the afternoon, I fall asleep on the couch, and Andrei goes out to buy new bedsheets. When I wake up, he’s come back and changed into an exceedingly handsome suit, his hair slicked back. He gently urges me to get up and put on a gorgeous gown we bought yesterday.

“Where are we going?” I ask, rubbing my eyes sleepily.

“Wake up,
sonnyy
, we’re going to the opera.”

My eyes go fully wide at this announcement and I immediately leap off the couch, rushing to get dressed. I have never been to an opera, and I have no idea what to expect. Once or twice, my mother left the radio unattended, and I heard a couple songs being belted out by women with powerful voices. I could never tell what they were saying, but that didn’t subtract from the beauty in the least.

Andrei drives us to the massive, elaborate theater, my face frozen in an expression of overwhelmed awe the entire time. Andrei is gallant and prince-like in his suit, tall and noble in his bearing. I know everyone’s eyes are on us, even in the context of the expensively-dressed, high-society crowd. We settle into our seats and watch the opera, his hand wrapped around mine.

It’s an utterly magical night. I am amazed at the power and strength of the opera singers, the beauty of the sets, even the decorum of the audience. Everything is perfect, except…

During the third act, Andrei quietly disappears from my side, offering no excuse. He remains gone for quite some time. I am mostly too wrapped up in the gorgeousness of the opera to pay too much attention, but my husband’s absence does ring like a strange alarm bell somewhere in the back of my mind. Something is off, but I don’t know what, and I am too afraid to ask.

I
hate
to leave my wife alone, even in the safety of the opera house. But I have ulterior motives for coming here. My hit on the Frenchman was sloppy, the only kill I’ve botched since becoming a professional. So it tears at my mind.

There’s no way I can risk exposing myself, not when Cassie’s well-being is on the line, so I’ve had to look into matters carefully. Which means slowly. If word gets around that one of the
Bratva’s
killers is looking into the hit, it’ll incriminate me. And that’s all it takes in my world to be undone. For good.

Finally a source turned up something, a Frenchman was in town with some pull, a rare thing. And he was at the opera, meeting with a powerful local connection about the death of his brother.

I make a detour along the private box seats until I find exactly the one I am looking for. There, I can see the slickly dressed Frenchman, with his silver-frosted tips sat with a sour expression, talking to someone out of my view.

“Mon frère! My own brother, killed in your city,” he says, anger welling up in the well-dressed European, his French accent thick as he spoke in English. “Killed by one of your own, a Russian,” he says with such distaste.

“Not every Russian in the city is on our payroll,” says the other voice, but I can’t see the face of the man saying it, he’s blocked by a red velvet curtain.

The Frenchman curses in his native tongue.

“That is not good enough, Kasym!” he says, but I don’t recognize the name. “Not after all the shit I covered up for you in Paris, and beyond,” he adds with such distaste. “You owe me. And more than that,” he says, grinding his teeth.

“Don’t say anything you’ll regret, Pierre. I know,” Kasym says, holding out a hand bedecked in more rings than any man ought to wear. “I will protect the flow of the goods. And if that means I have to gun down half my fellow
russkiye
to find the man who did your brother in, then I will. That is a promise.”

Pierre stiffens a little, but then seems to soften, giving a nod to Kasym.

“I have looked over you a long time, on behalf of your father, I consider myself like an uncle. Do not let me down, Kasym. I want this man to suffer. To see everything he ever had taken from him. Anyone he has ever loved to die before his eyes, just as I heard my brother die.”

“Now that, I would relish,” Kasym says with a wicked laugh.

W
hen Andrei returns
, it is as though nothing has happened — except that his eyes have this faraway look, his face hardened against the world once more.

He still takes my arm with a soft touch, guiding me gently through the opera house as we navigate the post-show crowds back to the car. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep on the ride home, though I occasionally sneak a one-eyed glance over at my husband in the passing neon lights intermingled with nighttime darkness.

There is something unnamed consuming him, preoccupying his mind. The thought that he is hiding something from me eats away at my newfound happiness, no matter how desperately I long to ignore it, to put it far from my mind so it can’t plague my joyful heart.

I don’t know what it is, and I dare not ask, afraid to shatter the illusion.

I
know
I’m going to be easily the most down-dressed person at this party, but I don’t like looking like a villain from some crime drama on television.

My car pulls up the long driveway after passing security, and for once, every other car on the lot is on par with mine — a lot of sports cars, a lot of black luxury sedans, and a handful of limousines.

I’m on the job again.

This contract could not have come at a more opportune time. Ever since my display at the auction where I bought Cassie, things have been somewhat tense with Sergei Slokavich, to say the least. He regards me with the air of caution he’d long ago thrown to the wind, confident that I was nothing but his lackey.

But I am not so willing to break ties with the Bratva that I will cut out Sergei just yet. He’s a disgusting man, but he has his uses.

He reached out to me, offering me a job as his bodyguard for the evening at a party at Seneca Lake, about five hours from our home in Brighton Beach. It’s a luxurious countryside estate with a gorgeous view of the water, and the climate is perfect for the state’s wine industry. The owner of this particular manor is one such winemaker — one who happens to have very close ties with the Bratva.

But as legitimate as his business is, a significant amount of smuggling takes place within those wine barrels, so nearly every smuggler and human trafficker worth their salt will be in attendance.

And it’s one of those human traffickers who is my target for the evening.

Boris Mikhailov is his name. He’s responsible for orchestrating the sale of hundreds of women from Serbia, Croatia, and Bosnia to powerful men here in the USA. He started out as the owner of some kind of loan shark operation that taught him the art of trapping trusting victims in need.

The only ones who will mourn his passing are the wastrels getting drunk on bad wine here this evening. And I have the perfect cover.

I arrive about fifteen minutes before Sergei, as arranged. I step out of my car, clad in a designer leather jacket and snug-fitting jeans that are flexible enough for easy movement. The tattoo of my Russian star is just barely visible under the collar of my shirt.

I lean against my car, waiting for Sergei. It would be bad form for me to make an appearance without him, and I suspect he has this in mind — doesn’t want me getting too far away from my place. All the better he’s totally unaware that I’m using him as a cover for the night.

Some time passes as I check in with Cassie by text; she’s been practicing her newfound painting talents while I’m “away on business.” I often wonder how much she’s guessed about the business I conduct. She knows I carry out some security jobs for the Bratva, and I’ve told her as much on this trip, but I’ve spoken not a word to her about the more...direct business I take care of.

Sergei’s approaching sedan snaps me from my thoughts. He and his other muscle step out of the car; he’s wearing a large fur coat and garish sunglasses, his patchy facial hair as unkempt and greasy as ever. He grins at me when he sees me approaching, but I know it’s forced.

“Andrei, Andrei my boy!” He holds out his arms, and I embrace him out of courtesy.

“Safe trip, I hope?” I ask.

“Bah!” He gives a dismissive wave at his other bodyguard, the car’s driver. “This
doorak
drives like a blind old man, but here we are, only an hour late, eh?” He gives a cackling laugh and pats me on the back as the three of us head for the estate.

It’s an opulent villa-style property, complete with fountains along the cobblestone walkway to the grand entrance and elaborate garden space out front — all patrolled by surly gentlemen carrying guns, of course.

The party is as boring as I expected it to be. Once we’re inside, we’re greeted by a manservant who guides us to a large room occupied by an array of middle-aged and older men every bit as sleazy-looking as Sergei. Each one of them has a scantily-clad young woman or two in their arms, and of course, wine is being shared freely among the guests. The women at these kinds of events are paid workers, though, not slaves, even if few of them look happy about tonight’s gig.

It would kill the vibe of the party to show these flesh-peddlers the consequences of their business.

I’m surveying the crowd when I feel a tug at my arm as Sergei leans in to whisper to me. “Keep your manners in check tonight, Andrei, a few of the guests here haven’t forgotten your reputation for, eh, ‘bravado.’ ”

I arch my eyebrow at him, unfazed by the thinly-veiled threat. “You’d like that? I figured my bravado is why you keep hiring me for these things.”

Sergei gives me a look, moving his lips as though swishing spit around in his foul mouth, and he’s about to reply when he’s cut off by another guest.

“Mister Slokavich!” comes a booming voice a small crowd of large men not far from where Sergei and I have entered. Sergei’s face brightens up as he lays eyes on its source: a tall man in a relatively tasteful suit, relative to the rest of the people here, sporting a clean-cut beard and slicked black hair. Boris Mikhailov. My target.

“Boris, look at you, you bastard, it’s been years!”

Sergei swiftly moves to meet him, greedily hugging him as anyone would embrace one of the richest men in the room.

“Aaah, you’ve lost weight, what are you, working out now?” Sergei’s awkward compliments don’t seem to bother Boris, who laughs it off easily. He’s a shrewd talker.

“Well, a thriving business means more free time for that kind of thing, doesn’t it? See, you’re just too busy a man for all that,” he jokes as he gives Sergei’s pot belly a pat. The two of them laugh and greet each other properly, but I notice Boris’s wolfish eyes glancing up at me periodically.

“And this man must have all the free time in the world,” he says suddenly, gesturing toward me and beckoning me forward, “look at those muscles! Sergei, is this your prized
Shadow
?”

“Mine and mine alone,” Sergei laughs, a hint of unease in his voice as I step forward with a smile.

“Is that indeed so?” Boris says, his question at Sergei but his eyes steadily on me. “Well, they do say such wolves tend to stray from their pack, don’t they?”

There’s a pause between us, and I know the phrase was a threat: my reputation for taking contracts outside the Bratva can’t go secret forever, not in an environment like this. Nevertheless I only give a boyish grin. “Can’t bring the pack the best prey without straying far, comrade.”

Boris’s face splits into a grin, and he points at me with a raise of his eyebrows to Sergei. “Look at this one, he’s sharper than the rest of the muscle here, he is! Come, enough catching up, we have some important people to meet, and the wine is already flowing free.”

The next hour or so passes with idle banter and light business talk. More relevant to me, Boris and Sergei seem inseparable. This lets me keep an easy eye on Boris, but I can’t kill a man of his stature in front of Sergei without sealing my death sentence at a place like this.

So I keep the wine flowing, insisting that every passing server let us sample his wares. I’ve become rather good at pretending to drink, so as Boris and Sergei continue to indulge themselves, my head stays clear.

Eventually, we find ourselves wandering onto a balcony overlooking the property, Sergei and Boris laughing at one of the latter’s jokes.

“Sergei, my man, I can’t tell you how disappointed I am we haven’t worked together more,” Boris says, wiping a tear from his eye. “Reminds me of old times when you and my father practically set up that operation in Hungary.

“Better times, my friend, better times,” Sergei agrees, shaking his head.

“Ah,” Boris suddenly says, his eyes falling on one of the serving women tending to another couple of men on the large balcony, “speaking of the Hungarian trade, you have yet to see some of my finest work. Ada! Get your luscious ass over here!”

The young woman who turns at Boris’s command is beautiful, her long blonde hair spilling over one of her shoulders, and there’s an unmistakable fear in her eyes as she makes her way over to Boris. “Yes, sir?”

“Sergei, this is Ada, one of my finest acquisitions, my jewel of the Carpathian basin,” Boris introduces the woman, and I feel disgust boiling in my heart. Perhaps I was wrong about the nature of some of the women in attendance.

“Oh, indeed?” Sergei looks Ada up and down and licks his lips, obvious hunger in his eyes. “I suppose she has a wealthy client already, does she not?”

“She’s been on standby to tend to the guest’s needs tonight,” Boris replies, a devil’s smile on his face. “I could tell you of how well she’s been trained, but maybe it would be better for you to see for yourself, no?”

Sergei looks taken aback, but he chuckles with a disgusting grin to Boris as he takes the terrified Ada’s hand. “You don’t say? Well, I won’t be one to turn down such a generous offer!”

Boris gives Ada a meaningful look, and she nods demurely, swallowing hard. “I believe our gracious host has guest rooms available for just such things,” he remarks gesturing in a general direction, and without another word, Sergei takes Ada away, and I’m left alone with Boris.

After Sergei is out of sight, Boris turns his eyes on me, narrowing them as he takes a sip of his wine.

“You know,
Shadow
,” he remarks, swirling his glass, “I’ve been trying to place why you look familiar.

I arch an eyebrow. Privately, I begin going through the names of men I’ve killed over the past few weeks, wondering if Boris might have known any of them particularly well — or rather, if word of my face might have gotten to him. “Oh?”

“Yes. There’s something unforgettable about your jaw, the way the light catches it when you look over your shoulder.” My muscles are already tensing, preparing to hurl this monster of a man over the balcony and make a run for it if need be; the client gave few specifications as to the manner of the man’s death.

“You like gazing at my face in the moonlight, eh?” I shoot back with a smile, and Boris laughs.

“Not that way, my friend, but tell me…” He sets his glass down and crosses his arms, raising his chin and peering at me judiciously. “Where were you in ‘92?”

I blink and think for a moment before replying. “Hm. That year’s a bit of a blur — I was in the middle of my sentence in prison, back in Siberia.”

A spark of warmth comes back to Boris’s eyes, and I see him roll up his sleeve to the forearm, showing me a black tattoo of a skull in front of part of a Russian star. A prison tattoo, unique to the prison where I served my time. My eyes widen in surprise, and without another word, the two of us embrace and exchange a greeting in Russian.

“Ha! And here I was thinking nobody here had seen as much hardship as me! Good you survived that hellhole, comrade,” Boris says as we break apart, returning my smile.

“Impressive, just another thug from the world’s blind spot running such a prosperous business as yours,” I chuckle, nodding at him.

“Come, we have some
real
reminiscing to do. I know where our host keeps the good wine, out of the prying eyes of the rest of these fattened vultures.”

Boris leads me outside the estate, a short walk to the cellar entrance of the estate, a pair of large, fine oak doors leading to where most of the wine on the property was left to age.

It’s cool and quiet inside as Boris leads me down, but our laughing chatter echoes through the rows and rows of fine barrels containing the best wine New York soil can produce — which isn’t saying much, but coming from Siberia, I don’t have the most refined palate for wine. Such things are for the leisure class.

“...and I remember, I remember seeing the guards drag him kicking from his cell after that little stunt of his, and they made him stand outside in the snow for the whole day! They nearly had to take off his legs from the frostbite!” Boris laughs at the memory, but our laughter is only part of how we cover up our inner scars from the abuses we suffered in prison. To this day, I’ve never known a greater hell.

Eventually we reach a cask obviously set up for sampling, a spigot already set up on a very low stool, the barrel coming up to our waists.

“Here,” Boris beckons me closer, swaying a little as he tries to keep his balance, the wine strong in his blood, “this is where the owner is going to bring me and some of the richer guests later on — he’ll try to impress them and say this is some of their fanciest stock, but it’s only okay — and they won’t miss a couple of glasses between brothers, will they?” He winks and fills our glasses, standing up and toasting with me as we drain them.

“Ah, but really, Andrei,” Boris says. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Working for the likes of Sergei, I mean,” he says, looking meaningfully at me. “You won’t get anywhere — New York is nice, but you’re overqualified to be working for a man whose pride won’t let him promote you any further than you are. He only cares for his own dynasty. You know he brought his bastard boy to the city?”

I arch an eyebrow in genuine surprise. “He has a son?”

Boris nods, a gossiping smile on his face. “His name’s Kasym — Sergei knocked up some Chechnyan daughter of a powerful man, and now Sergei’s got to pay out the ass to pamper the boy. He’s a little monster.”

The memory of the rich young Chechnyan accompanying Sergei at the auction comes back to my mind, of the man that’s currently looking for me — even if he doesn’t yet know it’s me — and my eyes widen. “I think I’ve seen the man. A monster, you say?” I keep a steady expression, but my heart skips a beat with worry.

“Horrible for business,” Boris says in disgust, rolling his eyes. “Killed four of my girls in the few months he’s been here. Can’t control himself, I suppose — boys will be boys, no?” Boris laughs, but this time, my laugh along with him is feigned, anger roiling back up in my heart with renewed vigor. I haven’t forgotten my job.

“Is nobody doing anything about the man?”

“Are you kidding?” Boris scoffs. “The man’s grandfather is rich enough to buy this whole estate fifty times over, and his father is Sergei. Besides,” he adds with an elbow to my arm, “those whores are a dime a dozen, just like the bitch Sergei is trying to shove his stubby little cock into right now. Who’s going to mourn a few dead Hungarian cunts, anyway?”