Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel (17 page)

Andrei takes my hands in his and kisses them. “Anything.”

“Don’t send me away,” I say, my voice cracking as tears spring to my eyes.

My husband stands up and takes me in his arms, cradling me to his chest.

“Of course,
moya lyubova
,” he assures me, kissing the top of my head. “Never again.”

“
S
o
, Kasym, h-he’s really dead, then?”

“Yes,” I answer, taking a sip of coffee as I stare intensely at the man whose life I’d spared just a few nights before meeting Cassie, “and now it’s time for me to call in the favor, Mr. Jackson. A life for a life.”

Jackson runs his hand through his hair, striding around the room of the safe house he’s been living in since I put him there all those months ago. And soon, he won’t have to live here ever again.

“And you’re sure Kasym is the one who...who…” Jackson swallows, wringing his hands. Even in hiding, he’s only become a more nervous man than he was before.

“Who ordered the hit on you, yes,” I answer calmly, “he acted through an agent to hire me. I only found out more when I was digging up dirt on the man himself before carrying out the act. All I found out about you was that you were an innocent cab driver. Now, I need you to think very carefully. Why did Kasym want you dead, Jackson?”

I’ve been bringing food and water to Mr. Jackson at this unassuming safe house far upstate, far from anywhere the Bratva would care to stick their noses, ever since I faked his assassination. He was an innocent man, certainly not deserving of the death my client at the time had asked for him. Most of my targets had been dregs who deserved such punishment, in one way or another, but Jackson...he was totally benign. Just a bystander someone wanted slain.

And now I see why. Kasym’s arbitrary cruelty knew no bounds.

Jackson wrings his hands and sits on the couch, biting his lip as he speaks. “I...I think...the only thing I can think of seems too absurd-”

“Nothing is out of reason for someone like Kasym.” I’m trying to prove a specific piece of information with Jackson’s account. I’m almost sure of the answer, but I need to hear this from a witness before I act on something this big.

“Well,” he hesitates, “the only time I met him was when I drove him from the airport to the apartment complex he was going to. He was completely trashed when he got off that plane, I mean absolutely blitzed. His bodyguard had to practically carry him.”

I nod, taking a few paces around the room as I drink my coffee and he speaks.

“H-he kept rambling drunkenly on the way, like he was bragging. His English was broken, but he kept talking about how he was going to ‘rule this town’ because of his dad.”

Now I
know
I’m onto something, and I watch Jackson intently.

“He went on and on about how rich they were, and he said his dad was bringing him home so he could take over as the next ‘king of the whores’ and that he was going to spend all his time here enjoying his ‘dad’s empire.’ ”

My face goes pale as I hear the piece of information I need to hear. It all makes sense now.

“So,” I say slowly, “Sergei Slokavich isn’t as much of a buffoon as he lets on — he’s the kingpin of the local sex trafficking ring.”

“Oh my god,” Jackson says, his head sinking into his hands, “I drove around the son of a crime lord?!”

“And he wanted you dead after he realized how much he’d said when he sobered up,” I explain before finishing my coffee and setting the cup down. “You’re very lucky to be alive, Mr. Jackson.”

“But for how long?!” he splutters, and I hold up a hand to silence him.

“Patience, Mr. Jackson. You’ve been a very great help to me here. I know what needs to be done now. I will contact you as soon as it’s done, but know that you’re going to help a great many people by your actions.”

Jackson looks at me for a long time, then nods slowly, sitting back on the couch and resting his head on the back of it. “That’s all I know. I swear.”

“Rest easy, Mr. Jackson,” I say, heading towards the door and starting on the dozen or so deadbolts, “your would-be killer is on your side, and the man who gave the order is dead — and what’s more, I’m about to pay the true mastermind a long overdue visit.”

But first,
I think privately,
there’s someone far more precious I must see to before putting myself in an incredibly dangerous position.

I
n the three
days I’ve spent in the safehouse, I have been surprisingly okay. Despite the looming fear of being found and the constant surroundings of an abandoned warehouse, Andrei has managed to keep me from going totally mad. He’s only left my side once, and not for very long. I did not ask him what he did when he left. It’s easier this way.

It turns out that he has always had some form of a back-up plan like this stored away for quick use, and therefore we are shockingly prepared for this kind of situation. From his Corvette, which he keeps under a black tarp outside, he retrieves a laptop with a built-in Internet access device, bedrolls, blankets, bottled water, non-perishable snacks, and a rudimentary hygiene kit. To his surprise and my infinite relief, we discover that the safehouse has a utilitarian shower stall in the bathroom. Thanks to the fact that Pavel’s sister stubbornly refused to let this building fall completely into disrepair and uselessness, the water still runs. It’s icy cold water, but it’s certainly preferable to going indefinitely without washing.

We have wiled away the time by watching soap operas (which I have grown very attached to) on his laptop, cuddling, and experimenting with trying to make palatable meals out of the basic foods Andrei’s kept stashed in his emergency rations. I have been increasingly hungry as time goes on, with the little life inside me getting bigger and bigger by the day. Sometimes my body hurts so badly that I want to cry, but Andrei comforts me, tending to my every ache and complaint like a trained nurse.

In the long, dull hours since we first showed up here, we have talked more and had deeper conversations than we have in the time we’ve been married collectively. He tells me about his difficult childhood growing up in the world’s coldest city, and I tell him about my own repressed youth.

Lying on our bedrolls, which we have lined up beside each other to make a sort of makeshift double bed, Andrei asks, “You never went to school like other children?”

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “My parents… they insisted that public schools were dens of temptation and sinful thought. My father used to say that the Board of Education was staffed entirely by soldiers of Satan.”

Andrei laughs, a sound which I’ve heard more of in the past three days than I ever have before, despite the grimness of our situation. “I don’t know how public schooling is here in America, but back home it was one of the few places where I could feel safe. And warm.”

“I don’t know how you survived it,” I murmur, in awe of his tenacity.

“The streets of Yakutsk are not a suitable home for a young boy, it is true. But at least I did find a few people who were helpful. Sonya’s mother, the owner of the fish market, made sure that I ate on the coldest winter nights when I could not afford food. I feel guilty for stealing from her market, but she always knew that I did it. She watched me from a distance, and did not stop me when I stole fish or rabbits from her stands.”

“I hope that someday she will get to see Sonya again,” I muse aloud. “I know she must miss her daughter terribly. And Sonya is so wonderful.”

“
Da
,” Andrei agrees. “She takes after her mother in that way.”

After a pause, I say slowly, “I wonder if I will ever see my family again. Well, mostly I just miss Isaiah.”

“Your
dorogoy bratik
,” he says, nodding. “Well, perhaps someday.”

“But I wouldn’t even know how to keep
us
safe, much less protect him from whoever is after us,” I lament, fidgeting with the blankets. Andrei suddenly sits up.

“That reminds me,” he begins, getting to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“The car. I will be back. Stay there.”

I lay back on the bedroll, rubbing my stomach, feeling around for the familiar kick of my unborn son. “How are you doing, little one?” I coo. “Everything is going to be alright, I promise. I love you more than you will ever understand.”

Just then, there’s the surreal, beautiful sensation I’ve been waiting for. A kick.

When Andrei comes back from the car, I call out to him excitedly, “Come feel the baby! He’s kicking, Andrei! He heard me talking to him!”

He rushes into the office and kneels down beside me, setting one hand down on my stomach, looking at me with expectant, joyous eyes. There it is. Another tiny, barely perceptible kick from the tiny child I’m carrying.

Andrei’s face lights up and he kisses my protruding belly sweetly. It’s then that I notice the gun in his hand. I gasp and point to it fearfully.

“What is that? Get it away from us!” I exclaim, trying and failing to wriggle away.

He hurriedly shakes his head and takes my hand. “No,
malyshka
, it’s okay. I promise. The safety is on. You’re not in any danger.”

“I don’t like guns,” I tell him firmly, eyeing the black device.

“I know. I don’t expect you to. But there may come a time when you will have to use one,” Andrei explains carefully. “I will do everything in my power to protect you, and that also means that I must give you a way to protect yourself.”

After a long minute of silent tension, I relent.

“Only for the sake of the baby,” I tell him.

“
Khoroshaya
devochka
,” Andrei says, gently placing the gun in my hand. “I will teach you how to use it. I pray that you will never have to, but I need you to be prepared.”

“I understand,” I answer dutifully.

T
he small wooden
confinements around me creak ominously, and I find myself doing something I’d never think I’d be doing so intensely before — relying on the skills of others.

I’m being carried in a sealed wooden container by several of Sergei Slokavich’s henchmen. They’re the only ones who could get me onto the grounds of his estate without my being riddled with bullets within a matter of seconds. There is no client for this job. In the aftermath of slaying his beloved son, I need to deal with Sergei as a personal matter.

Indeed, my move against Sergei by killing his son caused some waves. It gave the lower ranks of the Bratva the inspiration they needed to take action against the old and increasingly corrupt regime. There have already been rumors of smuggling rings going rogue, distributing their profit amongst one another instead of their bosses. And some of the enforcers even drove out the dogfighting rings Kasym had brought in.

But I suppose I have Kasym and Kasym alone to thank for my ability to be smuggled into the manor tonight, so I should be more grateful.

I’m hiding inside his coffin.

It’s being transported to the manor prior to the body’s move from the morgue. Sergei wants to make sure everything is perfect for the small, quiet ceremony he and his circle of confidantes will hold. Mobsters like Sergei and his kind rarely hold funerals as public affairs. It’s too dangerous, they’ve decided, after having several such funerals shot up by rivals.

It’s a long ride inside my confinements, and I’m totally blind — betrayal at this stage would be the easiest thing in the world, and Sergei would no doubt reward my pallbearers generously for handing me over to him.

It’s a tense wait. While I’m used to taking calculated risks like this, now I have a woman and a child to care for. To protect. And if this ends with me being pumped full of bullets from an automatic already in the coffin, they will suffer. That weighs on me like nothing ever has before in a mission.

But after what seems like an eternity, I feel myself being lowered down, and footsteps shuffle away quickly. I wait another five minutes before pushing the top off quietly, having made sure the hinges were well-oiled before undertaking this ludicrous mission. When I stand up, I find myself in a cool and dry basement, surrounded by nothing but a few other crates and miscellany.

The common muscle truly does want the regime deposed badly enough to work and sacrifice together.

I slip up the stairs quietly, checking each step before putting my full weight on it. A few of the recently hired men who got me in might be on my side, but the staff within these manor walls are unlikely to be so accommodating. At least, not on short notice.

Starting to stick my head out the door to the hallway, I pull back inside as an armed patrol passes by. He’s clad in a gray jacket that his hand is hidden inside, and I don’t have to guess what he’s packing in there.

This isn’t the kind of security one expects on an average day, even for a crime lord. Sergei is expecting me.

I reach into my jacket and pull out the hard little black object I brought along for the job tonight. I check the opposite direction down the hallway before slipping up after the guard silently and bringing the blackjack down over his head. In an instant, he’s out cold.

I catch him as he falls and lift him up over my shoulder, making sure to remove the pistol falling from his hand and stow it in my belt. I know I can’t be far from a storage room at this level of the estate.

It isn’t difficult to find one, and I quickly carry my man inside and close the door behind me. The room seems to be used for food storage, as there are crates of dry goods and fresh produce laid out on tables, presumably for the reception of Kasym’s funeral.

I set the guard onto the ground and strip him in a matter of seconds. In less than a minute, I’ve donned his coat and trousers, and I’m able to pull the collar of the jacket up to obscure my face. To the staff, I won’t be distinguishable from any of the other guards newly brought inside for this job.

After binding and gagging the guard with a spare tablecloth, I store him inside a pantry and head back out.

As soon as I’m in the hallway again, my heart skips a beat as I see a maid a few yards ahead of me. She turns to glance at me as I come out...and to my relief, she turns back and carries on her way.

I make haste in the opposite direction.

I make my way swiftly up several flights of stairs, moving as quietly as possible. I’ve had the good fortune of having been to this manor before.

And a hitman never forgets the layout of a building.

The smell of fine wood and rich, expensive carpeting accompanies me as I move up the stairs. It’s a strange contrast for the Sergei I know, the sleazy, skeevy Bratva boss on his way to some other hedonistic diversion. But the relatively pristine state of the house is telling that he spends very little time here; the place hardly seems lived-in.

But I know my information is good. He’s here, and he’s scared.

He has a study-office on the top floor. I make my way to the floor just below that, then take a left into the long hallway. The security on the top floor will be even tighter right now, if I know Sergei.

So I make my way down the hall towards a bedroom I stayed in the one time I visited this place. I was here on business, one of the first times I met Sergei. A mutual friend was introducing us, and I remember loathing the man from the very start.

But even with that gut instinct, I never thought I’d be where I am today.

I push open the door to the old guest room, and the door bumps into the butler who was half a pace to the door handle.

He looks apologetic for a moment, until he gets a good look at my face.

“Wait, you’re not —”

I’m on him in an instant, one of my hands wrapping around his head, covering his mouth, the other hand pointing the gun at his head.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I whisper as the man trembles in my grasp, his eyes focusing on the gun barrel. “I’m going to end this. But I need information.”

I feel his head give an almost imperceptible nod, the man clearly too afraid to make any sudden movements.

“That window there,” I nod my head towards the open curtains at the far end of the room, near the bed, “will the guards be looking up at them? Monitoring the windows, the roof?”

There’s a pause as the butler thinks, then he gives his head a quick shake, looking up at me in no small measure of terror — but honesty.

“Good. I’m about to release you. Go into that closet by the door and hide. You’ll know when it’s time to leave.”

I let the man go, and he takes a breath, grasping his throat for a moment before scurrying off to obey my orders without a moment wasted. I make my way towards the window.

Sliding it open, the night air greets me, but I only savor it for a breath before climbing up on the railing and crawling up the side of the brick wall.

I glance at the grounds below as I go. The gardens are crawling with guards — it would have been impossible to get here without my allies on the inside.

Gliding along the wall like a shadow, keeping far out of the lights from below, I move past the top floor and leap onto the slanted rooftop, crouching low as I make my way to the opposite side of the house.

The butler was wrong, I realize as a noise pricks my ears. There was at least one guard up here. I press myself up against a chimney in the darkness and wait for him to walk by before slipping up behind the man and dispatching him with the blackjack as I had the first.

Without any more time to waste, I move to the opposite edge of the rooftop.

A small trail of smoke is spiralling up from the balcony below. I know who it belongs to.

As I crane my neck over the side, I see Sergei Slokavich, leaning on the balcony railing and surveying the grounds below with a cigar in his hand. He’s wearing only a silk bathrobe. When I speak, I address him in Russian.

“Even if you scream, the guards won’t be here in time.”

As Sergei whirls around with the pistol he was hiding in his robe, I’m already halfway down upon him, snatching the weapon as if it were a toy and turning it on him an instant after landing.

He holds his hands up, his face pale as he sees me standing over him, his own revolver pointed at his skull. Nevertheless, there’s something troublingly calm in his eyes as he watches me, and after a moment, he even begins to smile.

“So,” he answers in our mother language, “the attack dog turns on its master.”

“You still think I ever cared to be a slave to the likes of you?”

“I know you do. It’s in your blood. I’m your family, Andrei,” he hisses, “the Bratva brought you in, raised you, made you what you are! You owe us everything, and this is how you repay us?”

My mind flashes to the faces of Cassie’s parents, coldly giving her away to be sold off like a piece of meat at the market. “Sometimes, family ties have their limits. You’ve gone too far, Sergei. The common soldiers of the Bratva know that.”

“Bullshit,” he snarls back, sneering. “You are just like the rest of them. You know what all of you are? A bunch of minnows swimming in a sea of big fish.” He pounds his chest, narrowing his eyes at me. “Sharks like me? Sometimes we let you little fish swim alongside us. We give you food from the kills we make, we give you protection from the other sharks that would have you for lunch if you were left alone, and we even go out of our way to give you a little fun on the side. You, Andrei? You’re just my shadow. The shadow of a shark that some of the other little fish want to flock to.”

Now it’s my turn to smile.

“Had time to think that one out, did you? Is that what you tell yourself when you’re selling off women’s lives as if they were cattle? Letting people get slaughtered for your pet project your son was? Something you should have remembered, Sergei,” I say as I cock my gun, “if you treat people like animals, don’t be surprised when they hunt you down like one.”

He lets out a cruel laugh into the night. “Heroic, but too late, my shadow.” I arch a brow, and he nods to the cell phone sitting on the balcony railing. “You don’t think I knew you were coming for me? Didn’t think I’d find your little safehouse?”

My heart stands still a moment as Sergei’s eyes narrow at me, his grin showing off his rotting, stained teeth. “I gave the order before you even jumped down here. Your little bride is already dead.”

With a roar, I lurch forward and seize Sergei Slokavich by the neck, hurling him over the side of the railing and off the balcony, watching his face contort into a scream as he falls down four stories, and there’s a sickening sound as he lands on the tip of the fountain below, the stone point sticking out of his impaled body. His lifeless eyes stare up at me as a handful of alarmed guards gather around him, looking up at the balcony and pointing.

But I’m already gone, flying through the house like a spectre.

A shadow cannot exist without its light.