Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel (12 page)

“More than will mourn you.”

Boris’s glass is halfway to his lips when my fist catches him in the stomach like a piston. He nearly doubles over, the glass falling to the ground as he lets out a short, sharp groan, and before he can react, I grab hold of the back of his head and bring it crashing down into the top of the barrel, smashing his face through the wood and plunging it into the cheap wine within.

The human scum flails his arms, his mind probably still reeling to come to its bearings, totally caught off-guard. But my mind is as sharp and resolved as my muscles as my trunk-like arm holds his head under the liquid, solid and unmoving as a steel girder. My other arm wraps around him as I hold his arms to his sides. He’s a strong man, thrashing as best as he can and giving me far more of a fight as the wine sloshes around him and some spills out onto the dirt, but he’s no match for my sober strength.

After more time than a weaker man would have lasted, I finally feel Boris’s body go limp, his lungs filled with the wine he was sampling just a few minutes ago.

The most inconvenient part of the job is the wine that now stains my jeans.

Wasting no time, I hoist up Boris’s body, checking his now-still pulse before lifting his body over the top of the barrel and prying more of the wood off the top to make room before submerging his bulk into the barrel.

Much more of the wine spills onto the ground as I push him under the red liquid’s surface. Carefully, I drag the barrel to a corner of stacked barrels, moving them around until I can place his new coffin towards the back, stacking a few barrels on atop the open upper side of Boris’s barrel, effectively entombing him in wine casks.

I stand back to observe my work before looking down at my wine-soaked legs and sighing.

Suppose it’s an excuse to take Cassie on another shopping trip
.

I make my way back up to the manor — I still have a job to be at, after all. Sergei is probably finished with his deed by now.

Indeed, it doesn’t take me long to find him making his way down one of the lavish hallways, past a few other drunken guests, Ada still under his arm, looking disgusted and downcast.

“Andrei, there you are!” His cheeks are rosy, obviously drunk beyond the point of wondering where I was. Exactly as I planned. “Andrei, you- you’re the besht bodyguard in ALL THIS F-FUCKING PIGSTY,” he howls, slinging half his drink onto the wall as he gestures wildly.

“Good to see you too, boss,” I say, trying not to sound stiff.

“You know what, boy?” he laughs. “You, you take the rest of the night off, I’m going to find that other idiot to do this shit work. Thanksh to you, I’m gonna, I’m gonna be BEST pals with Boris, and his businessh is gonna have me ROLLING in cash! Here,” he pushes Ada towards me, and I catch her gently, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Take this bitch, she wouldn’t let me fucking touch her. Kick her ass for me, will you? Then you take the night off, go home to your, your little wife,” he chuckles, and as he mutters something to himself, he staggers off, leaving me alone.

Ada looks up to me in fear, but I only put a finger to my lips. “Follow me,” I say in a low voice.

Without saying a word, I guide the woman down to my car. Most of the party is too drunk to notice as we slip out, and once we’re out in the night’s air, Ada begins apologizing profusely to me.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to panic, but he was coming on like a mad dog, and after all the stories I’ve heard about his son, I —”

“You’re going to be safe,” I say firmly, and she’s dumbfounded into silence for a moment.

“Wh-”

I help her into my car and get in on the driver’s side, shutting the door and turning on the ignition. “Boris is dead. You’ll never have to do that kind of work against your will again. Nor will you have to deal with Sergei again. I’m going to arrange a flight out of here for you — you can decide where you go, but New York won’t be safe for you. Nor will the American west coast, for that matter.”

She tries to form words, but her eyes are wide as her mouth just gapes, stunned at what she’s hearing. I pull out of the driveway and start heading back towards the interstate.

“In the meantime,” I say, pulling her seatbelt over her as we pull out onto the open road as I give her an even look, “I want you to tell me everything you know about Sergei’s son, Kasym Slakovich.”

I
t’s been
a month since the wedding, and I’ve never been so happy in my life.

Andrei and I have spent most of our days jetting around the city, visiting museums, parks, theaters, restaurants, and even a couple live music venues. I am soaking up as much modern culture as possible, and my eyes have been wide and amazed nearly every waking minute. I had no idea how beautiful and diverse the world truly is, and I never thought I could feel this way… so immersed, so overwhelmed, yet completely exhilarated. There is still that voice in the back of my mind telling me that I will burn in hell for exposing myself to such temptation, for partaking in filth such as popular music and movies. But it’s a softer voice now, more like a whisper, reminding me to remember where I came from and who I really am.

But the truth is, I’m not sure who I am anymore.

The things I have seen, the things I want now, are worlds apart from the sort of life I foresaw for myself even as recently as a month ago. The quiet, mundane, domestic lifestyle I aspired to my whole life now feels more like a death sentence in contrast to the exciting way I have been living lately. I am still constantly haunted by the spectre of my parents’ expectations for me — screaming at me to be subservient and soft, to defer to my husband. And for the most part, I do. But it isn’t out of fear or even a sense of godly duty. I want to follow his lead, because he has never led me into anything but joy and adventure. Andrei is my tour guide, my initiator. The man who keeps me on my toes and yet always makes me feel safe.

Despite my growing suspicions about what he does for a living.

He doesn’t talk about it, and I don’t ask, because I am terrified of bringing up something which might widen the slight rift between us. For as much as he appears to care for me, and as much as I definitely care for him, I do worry sometimes about the coldness he displays. Sometimes he is so incredibly soft, so gentle and warm, that it helps me forget the colder times. Many days we have spent together in the sunshine of mutual affection, Andrei showing me a whole new world, holding my hand all along the way. But then, there are so many nights when he slips away under the assumed cover of shadow, leaving me to awaken in the wee hours of an eerie dawn and find myself alone in the massive bed.

Early this morning, that’s exactly what happened.

I woke up suddenly from a nightmare, instinctively turned on my side to snuggle into Andrei’s warmth… only to realize that there was only a cold, empty place beside me. I was alone again, curled up tight in the dead silence of the apartment. Surely, it is a different kind of silence than what I was used to back home in upstate New York. Up there, the silence was complete — a total absence of sound. But here in the city, there was no such thing as complete quiet. There was always the muffled hum of neon signs, the bustle of traffic, wailing sirens and impatient car horns, even in the dead of night.

So this morning I lay there for hours, listening to the drone of city life down on the street, wondering which minutely small sound might just indicate the location of my husband. Where was he? What was he doing?

These questions plague me, keeping me from sleep. I watch the soft moon sinking down the sky on the other side of the curtains and worry incessantly about Andrei. I wanted some sign, some divine clue to tell me that at least he was okay. I need to know that he is safe, that he
will
come home again and rescue me from my anxiety.

When he finally returns, the sun is just beginning to poke its luminous head from behind the horizon. I’m still lying in bed, and when I hear the quiet but distinct sound of the front door handle turning, I shut my eyes tightly and pull the blankets up to my face, pretending to be asleep. As desperately as I want to know what is going on, I am not quite ready to bring up that subject yet. It’s just easier to pretend it isn’t happening.

For now, at least.

When the bedroom door creaks open, I hear my husband step inside, his footsteps surprisingly soft considering his immense size and strength. He whispers, “Wake up,
printsessa
, I’ve brought you breakfast and tea.”

I let out a little moan and yawn, slowly opening my eyes and sitting up in bed. I blink at him a couple times, pretending to struggle to wake up. I am a little ashamed of how good an actress I am, as Andrei adds, “Sleep well?”

Smiling, I give him a nod. He steps forward and sets a tray on my lap in bed, then puts a couple pastries and a paper to-go cup of hot tea on the tray.

“Good. Eat up. I’m going to shower.”

He was always this curt and short with his words, but there was always a strange brusqueness to his tone when he returned from these random disappearances. He was distracted, his mind clearly in a different place. I wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s seen in the time he’s been away from me.

“Th-thank you,” I murmur, biting into a cherry pastry.

He hesitates for a moment on his way out, hanging on my words. He glances back over at me and even in the low light I can see a look of something like regret crossing his hard features. Like maybe he knows I know.

A little awkwardly, he gestures toward the tea and says, “Jasmine green tea with rosehips. Hope you like it.”

Raising it to my lips and taking a scalding hot sip, I reply, “It’s wonderful.”

Andrei almost smiles for a moment, then simply nods and heads out of the room, leaving me alone yet again. I sit chewing my lip thoughtfully for a couple minutes, just staring down at the tray on my lap and wondering what I should do. I know it isn’t my place to question my husband. I am his wife, and I must accept whatever he does or does not do with quiet humility and understanding. After all, I belong to him. I am just one small aspect of his life, one tool to make his life easier — not to interrogate him about what he does when he’s not with me.

A horrible thought appears in the forefront of my mind: what if it’s another woman?

But something tells me that can’t be true; Andrei seems completely absorbed in our life together whenever he
is
with me. Surely if there was someone else, I would be able to tell. He would be distant, uncommunicative. At least, I assume I would know.

I want so badly to feel better about everything, to banish these dark suspicions and simply enjoy being with my husband again. After all, the vast majority of our time together is utterly blissful, even if I am still nervous and a little insecure around him. But he makes me feel cared for, taken care of, in a way I never dreamed possible. I sigh and set the tray aside carefully. Pulling my legs up to my chest, I let my chin rest on my knees as I sip my green tea and stare out the window. The sun is rising slowly, gradually bathing the Big Apple with morning light. I smile involuntarily, a sensation of fondness coming over me. I’ve really begun to love this city, despite its hidden dangers and pitfalls. Just like my husband.

I hear the squeak of the shower knobs being turned from across the apartment and then the comforting sound of the water pelting the walls and floors. I look down at myself. I’m wearing a lacy, powder-blue chiffon nightie and knee-high cream-colored socks, my hair plaited into braids over both shoulders. I have really learned to take some pride in expressing my spirit through my appearance. I suppose that makes me vain, and vanity is a mortal sin. But I can’t help it — having someone like Andrei to remind me that I’m beautiful every day makes it difficult not to start liking myself a bit more. Back home, I never felt beautiful. I felt proper, decent, wholesome, well-presented, sometimes even pleasant-looking. But it was all about how thoroughly I could blend in with the rest of the women in the community. I had to wear the blandest clothes, the dullest colors, to numb my sex appeal and make me ‘respectable.’

Over the past month, I have totally revamped my look to include bright colors, textures, prints, and styles I would have never even looked at back upstate. I know my wardrobe now would have me labeled a dirty Jezebel. A whore. A temptress.

But Andrei likes what I wear. And more importantly, as he’d encourage me to think: I like it.

I get out of bed and look at myself in the mirror across the bedroom, flicking on the light as I walk over. I look myself up and down, allowing my eyes to linger on the curve of my hip, the swell of my breasts. I never used to look at my naked body this way, seeing every inch of my flesh as dirty and unwholesome, an ugly thing to be covered with conservative clothing and hid away from the world. It is surprising to see that I like what’s reflected in front of me.

Andrei has done so much for me, changing my entire perspective. I feel a sudden rush of appreciation and affection for him, and I immediately wish he was beside me so I could run to his arms and hold him close. Then it hits me: the overwhelming desire.

Something tingles all the way up from my toes to the top of my head. I have an idea.

I strip out of my nightie and socks, padding out of the room totally naked. To my surprise, the curtains across the massive living room window have been drawn, leaving me literally exposed before the whole city of New York. But instead of cowing me, of forcing me to hide, I feel strangely invigorated. I walk proudly into the bathroom, blinking in the steamy, aromatic fog. I am immediately enveloped by the warm, damp air.

“Andrei,” I call out, fiddling with one of my braids a little nervously.

He looks over and does a double take, a flicker of desire passing through his dark eyes. His body is glistening under the hot stream of water, all sinewy muscle and taut flesh. I lick my lips without even thinking about it. I know exactly what I want — although I don’t quite know how to do it. I want to make him feel as blissful as he makes me feel. In the past month we have had sex a few times, always gentle and slow, with Andrei treating me like a delicate object, something fragile which might shatter at any moment. He’s made me come so many times with his skillful tongue and talented fingers, never demanding anything I didn’t offer willingly.

I want to make him feel that way.

“Cassie,” says my husband, leaning out of the stream of water to look at me more clearly.

“I have a question…” I begin, looking down at the stony floor, blushing.

“Yes?”

I look back up at him through a thick veil of eyelashes, biting my lip demurely.

“Can I join you?”

Andrei’s eyebrows lift and he considers me for a moment, trying to determine whether I am being serious or not. But I am, one-hundred percent.

“Of course,” he replies, moving over to make room for me. “Let me know if the water is too hot for you.”

“Hot is good,” I hear myself say. My heart pounding, I walk over and step into the shower stall, which is massive enough to hold far more than just two people. I slide in next to Andrei, who lets me stand under the water. I close my eyes and ease into the heat, sighing contentedly as the water warms my skin.

“What would you like to do today?” Andrei asks, and his tone betrays the fact that he is struggling to keep his voice even as it is thick with need.

I turn to him and hesitantly place my hands on his hard, muscular chest, looking up into his dark eyes. He blinks down at me in uncertainty, suddenly going almost rigid, as though paralyzed by my touch.

“You,” I answer, shocked at my own audacity. It was such a filthy thing to say!

“Cassie…” he begins, his voice trailing off.

I press against him, the whole length of my body aligned with his. I can feel his manhood against my hip and thigh, starting to harden with just the slightest touch of my skin. The sensation gives me a heady confidence, as his shaft responds so positively to my movements. I lean in and press a soft, tender kiss into the center of his chest before letting my hand fall to the stiffening member between his strong thighs.

As my fingertips lightly graze its flushed crown, Andrei sucks in a sharp breath, obviously struggling to contain himself. I have never acted so boldly with him before, never taken the reins or the initiative in such a way. I know he is totally blindsided — and I like it.

“Do you want me to touch you there?” I purr, batting my eyelashes as I gaze longingly up into his eyes.

His lips part to allow a strangled, whispered, “Yes.”

I gently wrap my fingers around his manhood and start to stroke it up and down, feeling the hot, silky skin smooth under my fingertips and palm. His size is still incredible to me, and I love the feeling of his massive length straining in my hand. He is so hard now, and I feel gratified in the knowledge that I made it this way.

As I stroke him a little tighter and faster, Andrei closes his eyes and leans slightly into my touch, licking his lips and moaning softly, his voice deep and gravelly. The low hum of his groans makes me wet in a place not even the shower water can reach. I want to make him feel so good — I have to show him how intensely I appreciate and crave him.

“Does that feel good?” I ask quietly, my own nipples stiffening as my breasts brush against my husband’s strong chest.

“
Da
,
kotyonok
,” he murmurs, nodding with his eyes closed in pleasure.

“I want to give you what you’ve given me,” I tell him, standing on my tiptoes and kissing a slow, tantalizing trail along his collarbone.

Unable to resist any longer, I bend down to rest on my knees, looking up at Andrei to make sure he is okay with what I am planning to do. He’s staring down at me with his dark eyes imploring, questioning now. But he doesn’t tell me to stop. In fact, one of his hands comes down to stroke my head as I look up at him lovingly. Then he grabs one of my now-soaked braids and gently tugs on it, bringing my face closer to his crotch.

He wants it, too.

Uncertain but totally determined, I lean forward, close my eyes, and take his member in both my hands as I softly lick his crown. When I look up, Andrei is still watching me with his lips parted, breathing shallowly as though almost holding his breath, waiting for me to go on.

So I do.

Opening my mouth as wide as I can, I take as much of his massive shaft between my lips as possible, stretching my cheeks and letting my tongue flick along the underside of his member. I begin to suck him, bobbing slowly up and down on his shaft, groaning into the sensation of having yet another one of my orifices filled with my husband’s glorious manhood. I am so wet now, my body clearly hungry to taste Andrei’s seed, to swallow him down and feel him shudder with pleasure.