Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel (24 page)

“You’ve got none of that left,” he replies.

As his fingers curl around my throat, Oskar interrupts.

“Well, if our client doesn’t want to play nice then we will simply have to skip to the next portion of our transaction. Nic, do your work.”

I struggle as hard as I can trying to break free, my body tensing up in anticipation of the pain I’m about to endure. Nic squares up and winds his arm back to pummel me in the stomach. As he lands the first blow, I cry out in agony and buckle inward, my chest heaving as I try to suck air into my shocked lungs.

He pulls back to hit me again, with Konrad twisting my arms more tightly behind my back, bruising my flesh and laughing low and evil in my ear. I fold in on myself, wondering if I might actually die here, right now, in the middle of my father’s club.

“Don’t you
dare
.”

The words come from a deep voice across the room, a new voice. We all look over in surprise to see Ivan standing there, a big black gun raised and pointed in our direction. My stomach drops, as I have no idea whether he’s there to save me or to finish me off.

He is wearing all black, his pressed button-up shirt half-tucked, his jacket and shoes obviously more expensive than my rent. There’s dark stubble shadowing his jaw and his thick brows are furrowed in anger. His full lips are set in a hard line and I can see his finger positioned on the trigger of his gun.

“Make one more move and all three of you will be dead before you can even harm a hair on her head.”

With one desperate, pleading look toward Oskar, Konrad releases me, shoving me away. Nic raises his massive arms over his head in surrender and backs off a few feet. I stumble and fall to my knees, pain radiating up and down my legs.

There’s a shriek of panic from behind the bar — presumably Ashton has just seen the gun.

In the next second, there is a scramble of rapid movements, as Konrad lunges for the bar. I look over my shoulder to see Natalie and Ashton hop up from their hiding place, looking totally pale and terrified.

“Run!” I scream at them as Konrad rushes around toward the other side of the counter. Both girls let out strangled cries of fear and start to bolt, Nic and Konrad both turn to run at them, and out of the corner of my eye I see Oskar reach for something at his hip.

But amidst the chaos we all hear the dreadful click of Ivan cocking his weapon.

“Everybody stay still and shut up!” Ivan commands. And to my surprise, everyone obliges completely. With his gun fixed on Oskar, he takes several steps forward, never taking his eyes off of me.

“Set that gun on the floor,” Ivan adds.

There’s a pause. And then with a scathing look, Oskar draws the gun, raising his arms out as he slowly bends to the ground. I hold my breath, watching him dutifully lay the weapon down and stand back up.

“Now, all three of you pieces of shit need to leave quietly.”

Once again, there is a moment of hesitation. And then the three thugs resign themselves and make their slow, hateful procession across the room toward the exit. Ivan follows them with his steely gaze until they pass him, and then he looks down at me with an expression of mingled apology and horror.

He opens his mouth to say something, but before he gets the chance, Nic charges at him from behind, tackling him to the ground, with Konrad following quickly after. In that instant, I see Oskar bolting back toward me — and realize that he is running to collect his gun. Without even thinking, I jump to my feet, ignoring the pangs of agony coming from my legs and stomach. I take a few quick, long strides and kick the gun across the floor so that it slides underneath one of the couches lining the wall. Then I spin around and spread out my aching arms in an instinctual position of protection, knowing that Natalie and Ashton are somewhere behind me.

I look up to see Ivan wrest one arm free and strike Nic hard across the back of the head with the gun. The big guy yelps in pain and falls to the floor, clutching his head. Konrad is attempting to muscle the gun out of Ivan’s hand, but Ivan is too quick for him and deftly slips his other arm around Konrad’s neck. With the asshole locked in a chokehold, he presses the gun to Konrad’s temple, causing the thug to stop squirming and gulp hard.

Oskar is running toward the couch, desperate to get his gun. But Ivan clears his throat loudly and calls out, “Leave it, swine!”

Oskar spins around and glares at him — and then notices that his two henchmen are out of commission, leaving him alone to defend himself.

“One wrong step and your friend is dead.”

“Kill him, I don’t care,” replies Oskar, but his face betrays his true feelings.

“And you’ll have to explain to your boss why your team is one man short. I know you don’t want to deal with that, now, do you?” Ivan counters confidently. “Besides, with just two of you left, what do you really think your chances are of getting out of this room alive?”

“We’re just doing our jobs,” Oskar replies plaintively.

“I called you off. This is my job now. Leave and do not come back here. If I see your ugly face in this club again I will beat you until even your own mother will not recognize you. Tell your
matushka
I said hello, by the way,” Ivan adds with a cruel grin. Oskar goes pale.

“You’ll regret this,” Oskar snarls as he finally leaves, snapping his fingers so that Nic gingerly gets to his feet to follow. With a final tap of the gun barrel to Konrad’s forehead, Ivan releases him, this time focusing the gun on the three thugs until they skulk out of sight. He doesn’t move until we all hear the door open and slam shut again.

Then Ivan returns his gun to its holster and crosses the room to give me his hand. In a daze, I take it, staring wide-eyed and shocked at Ivan.

“Come. I will take you home,” he says quietly but firmly. I know there is no chance of declining this particular offer.

As he leads me away, I manage to call back to Natalie, “Close up. Go home. Club is closed tonight. I will call you later.”

Natalie and Ashton both whimper faint sounds of assent as Ivan half-carries me out the door and into the rain.

M
y head is resting
against the cool glass window of Ivan’s car. It’s a brand-new black Mercedes with a spacious interior, but I can hardly pay attention to the luxurious ride I’m being taken on with everything that’s racing through my head.

I stare numbly out the window as Ivan drives. Raindrops are pattering against it, marring the view of the rainy Brighton Beach that passes by outside. We drive by the red brick shops and apartments along Neptune Avenue, and my eyes try to catch a few of the pedestrians ambling by.

It hits me as odd that the things that are happening to me are happening right under their noses. I wonder how many of them worry about or even notice the crime that riddles their own city, but more than that, I find myself kind of wishing I were in their shoes instead of mine.

Ivan must not want to try to talk to me right now, because he doesn’t say anything as long as I keep my eyes steadily focused outside. A few times, my mind wanders to him, wondering what could be going on in that mind of his.

An actual fight, in my club. People got hurt, and someone very well could have died if anything had gone awry during Ivan’s stunt. Not once did I ever think I’d have to deal with a gun being pulled in the Amber Room, yet here we are now.

What did I do wrong?

What would Dad think?

I tear my eyes away from the window and rub my temples. I can’t let myself brood on that anymore. I’m over that threshold. Dad is the one who’s responsible for my being here in the first place, isn’t he? Maybe what he would think in a time like this isn’t the best thing to go by.

I gave Ivan my address when we first got into the car, and now we’re pulling up into the parking lot. Before I know it, he’s silently gotten out, come around to the passenger’s door, and started to help me out delicately.

“Careful there,” he warns as I shakily stand to my feet. I didn’t realize how wobbly my knees would be in the aftermath of the adrenaline rush, but I would have collapsed if he weren’t helping me up. I feel a weight on my shoulders and turn my eyes to see a heavy, oversized jacket being draped over me.

Even as it warms me, I wince at the pain in my torso. I know the brutes were trying not to leave a mark on me so people wouldn’t ask questions, but I know I’ll have one on my stomach by morning. I feel my wrists, and they’re raw too. I shudder at the thought of what might have happened if they’d been left to get carried away on their own.

I ignore the puzzled look we get from one of my neighbors passing by as Ivan helps me up the stairs and I try to unlock the door with a shaking hand. My face burns bright red when a metallic click tells me I missed the keyhole. My hands are shaking too badly.

"Damnit," I swear under my breath while vainly scratching at the keyhole before a warmth envelops my hand — Ivan has reached his out to steady mine. "Thanks," I murmur a moment before the lock clicks open and we step inside.

My apartment isn't much of a comfort right now. As soon as we walk in, I'm greeted by the sights of all the half-packaged goods I'd been trying to sell, and I'm hit by the memory of that frantic night and the morning after. My grimace deepens when I realize all of that was just in the past twenty-four hours. It feels like it's been a full week.

Ivan quietly helps me inside, his powerful muscles steering me to the empty couch easily. He's careful to ease me down slowly, and I can feel the muscles in my abdomen protest at the change, already starting to feel sore.

I resist gently as I feel him try to put me on my back, but he gives me a concerned look. "Don't try to sit up," he says in a soft voice, "I know you'll want to keep awake, but you need rest after an episode like that."

"I'm fine," I protest, pushing his hand away as I suddenly feel indignant at being treated like a patient in my own house. My face does a sorry job of hiding the pain, though.

"You've never taken a blow in your life," he answers, but there's no mockery in his tone. His eyes give me a steady, firm gaze, though. Reluctantly, I concede and lay back on the soft couch.

He takes my forearm in his hands, narrowing his eyes at the marks that are starting to show themselves. "Hm."

"What?" I ask, lifting my head a little as he gets up and heads further into the apartment. A moment later, he spots the bathroom and disappears inside.

I let my head plop back down onto the cushion, wondering at the different ways things could go from here.
So he saves me from his own goons...for what? Does he want me as his little hostage, here in my own home? I'm not that badly injured, if he thinks I'm about to roll over and let him march in on my business. Or maybe he really did just think they'd go too far, push a 'client' beyond her limits.

None of the options put a good taste in my mouth, but I'm surprised to see him emerge from the bathroom a few moments later with some bandages, cotton, peroxide, and ointment from my medicine cabinet.

"What are you—?"

"Just relax," he insists, sitting down next to me and taking my wrist in his lap. He turns it over for a moment with a frown, looking at the bruising and scratches before dabbing a cotton ball with peroxide and dabbing the cuts gently.

I wince at the pain, but my eyes are watching his face incredulously.
Is this guy for real?

"I won't try to apologize for scum like those three," he says. "They are the types that take pleasure in tormenting anyone they can get their greasy hands around. Not the kind of men I consider part of my business."

"You all seemed to be on the same page before today," I point out, but he doesn't give a response. He's applying ointment to my wrists now and wrapping bandage around them.

He reaches over and touches my sore spot, but even his painstakingly gentle touch makes me wince. He frowns, a low rumble coming from his chest. "The beasts meant to do a real number on you," he remarks ruefully. "I don't like to think of what might have happened if I hadn't made it any sooner. I didn't see any aspirin in the bathroom," he adds, looking back up to me.

"Kitchen," I say with a gesture in that direction, and he nods.

As he moves that way, his gaze drifts across the boxes scattered about the room, and my heart sinks as I anticipate the inevitable question.

"What's with the packing? Were you planning to move before today?"

"No, nothing like that," I stammer out, but in hindsight, I think that might have been a decent idea. "I was just...selling a few of my things, getting them ready to ship quickly."

Silence in response.

"Look," I start again, finding it easier to speak while he's out of the room just now, "Ivan, I...I don't know what they would have done if you hadn't shown up, you're right. Thank you. You might have saved my life today. Or saved me from something else, I don't want to think about..." I trail off, letting silence hang awkwardly between us again.

I don't have to see his face to know he's already put two and two together to figure out I can't make the $4,000 anymore. I just know he's going to bring his offer up again, so I scramble to say something to divert his attention when something that had been nagging at the back of my mind hits me.

"Ivan, you said you don't kill."

The bustling in the kitchen stops. "Yes."

I bite my lip and look at my carefully arranged bandages before continuing. "The way you moved in there, I've never seen anything like it. You moved like you weren't afraid to face anything they were going to throw at you," I breathe, surprised at my own outpour, but the more I think about it, the more astonishing Ivan's actions were, I realize. "You fought them like you were ready to kill. You knew what you were doing."

Ivan strides back into the room with a stony expression, and I immediately regret broaching the subject. He sets a glass of water and three white aspirin tablets on the table next to me, with a nod for me to take them.

As I do, I notice he's avoiding my gaze, but his expression is no softer.

"I said I do not kill, Katy," he says quietly, and then his eyes look up to meet mine with a chilling coldness. "What I do is business. Only business. What those three devils would have done to you, that would have been 'killing.' You had this whole ordeal dumped into your lap against your will, and you know nothing of it beyond what you are told. You're outside our business, in the grand scheme of things."

My eyes are wide as I watch him rise and move to the window, peering out at the darkening street below.

"I am not a brute, killing whatever comes into my path. But you're right. I'm not called on to handle trivial business. We Russians, we take breaches of professionalism very seriously. Those who act against us from within are no better than rats."

He turns to face me, but I can already read the words in his face. "They call on me to deal with the rats. The kind of scum who were trying to force you into something against your will."

A hit man.

My throat goes cold. I'm standing before a man who's taken the lives of others. A paid assassin.

"The men today, one of them has a powerful relative, so I had to hold back." He looks up at me now, meeting my eyes with a surprisingly gentle gaze. "I'm truly sorry to have to put you through the fear of knowing they still live."

I shake my head as though I'm saying 'no thank-you' to another helping of food — I've never exactly had someone apologize to me for not killing someone.

"Ivan," I start, but I trail off, unable to process this news. Then an even harder realization nearly makes me dizzy: I had a one-night stand with a hit man.

"You don't have to say anything," Ivan says, holding a hand up and stepping closer to me. I recoil, and he pauses, a sad look in his eyes. "I understand this is a lot to take in. Too much for even a woman as brave as yourself." He offers a smile, almost laughing. "Judging by the fact that you were ready to walk into the club and say 'no' to those three with nothing but your bartender backing you up, you've got more courage than the three of them put together."

Without another word, he reaches over me and pulls down the huge blanket I have folded on the back of the couch. He drapes it over me, and I feel his hands poking at my sides.

He's tucking me in!

"You need rest," he says with finality, those stormy blue eyes looking at me with a calming authority I can't explain. "We can talk more once you've let some of this excitement settle. In the meantime—” he stops himself, glancing around the apartment. "Never mind. For now, you've earned some rest, Katy."

He runs his fingers through my hair, and I find myself smiling despite myself. I force the smile away when I catch it, but I think he notices. He stands up with a wink and heads to the kitchen again, and I let out a deep sigh of relief, letting myself stare at the ceiling and trying to relax as many of my muscles as I can.

A hit man just saved my life. The man who was asking me to be his just yesterday. He nearly killed Oskar and the gang. Hell, he practically had to hold himself back from doing just that. And now he's...he's acting like a nurse?

I turn my eyes down to the bandages around my wrists. They're perfect. Not too tight, just snug and neat, and the ointment under them makes my skin feel cool and soothed, even though I know it'll sting when I wake up.

Wake up. It suddenly hits me how tired I am. This isn't just an exhaustion, though, I feel somehow safe around Ivan.

Why do I feel okay dozing off under this hit man's care?

Because he's still the same gorgeous guy you went home with three months ago, and on top of that, he may say he's a killer, but he's practically a teddy bear around me, I remind myself.

I can't quite tell what Ivan is doing in the kitchen, but I can hear bustling. It's reassuring. Even if Oskar and his goons were to try to come back, Ivan is there.

And after all, he didn't have to come for me today. I don't know how much of what the Russians shouted at each other was true, but somehow, I doubt the mob would have suffered too much if I'd been left to fend for myself at the three's mercy.

Sleep is overwhelming me, fast, and I want nothing more than to just let it. But one thought lingers in my mind while I'm dozing off:

Maybe...maybe it wouldn't be so bad, being Ivan's for a while.

A
gentle prodding
at my side and the warming aroma of chicken wakes me up. I clench my eyes as the soreness of my chest hits me next, but they flutter open at the sound of a deep voice whispering over me.

"Katy? No no, careful, don't try to turn yourself yet."

Ivan's warm, smiling face comes into focus, adjusting a pillow that's been mysteriously slipped under my head.

"Ivan?" I've had one of those naps that leaves you more disoriented than anything else, and for a moment, fear swarms me as I remember the events of the day. The next instant, remembering that Ivan has been here the whole time dulls the edge somehow, and despite his protest, I try to pull myself somewhat upright. "What are you...?"

Getting a better look at him, I almost can't believe my eyes.

Ivan has shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing thick, muscled forearms, and more importantly, the powerful hands at the ends of them are holding a large bowl of steaming, delicious-smelling soup. The only thing missing for a perfect hallmark moment would be if he was wearing my apron. Still, I have to put a hand to my mouth to keep my jaw from dropping at the sight.

"I hope you don't mind," he says with a sheepish smile, setting the soup and a napkin down on the coffee table. "I was looking for something to warm you up when you woke, but I came across some ingredients for something a little close to home. It's just chicken soup, but the way my mother used to make it." His smile splits into a genuine grin. "You keep a good stock of spices, so I couldn't help myself. It's been awhile since I've had a chance to make it. Kind of a comfort food."

I'm just stupefied for a few moments, and I pull the blanket a little higher up to my neck. A smile is tugging at my lips. I haven't smelled the aroma of home-cooked food in a long time. Running a club has meant a lot of microwave meals.