"Gloria!" I know I'm blushing wildly. She just cackles. "How's it going here?"
"Well, I gotta say, honey. They tip for shit, but your new man is whipping my old ass—and everyone else's—into shape."
"Is he here?" I look around the room, but can't see him. I see enough scary-looking thugs, however, to make me actually happy I don't have to work here anymore. "And—are you okay? Are they treating you well?"
Gloria grins and takes a swig from her open can of beer. "Doll, I've seen 'em come and I've seen 'em go. These boys don't bother me. And Gray's payin' better than your Dad, so that's a plus."
I raise my eyebrows. "Wow, well. That's good. Have you heard from my dad? The bastard?"
"Honey, he ain't been seen. Disappeared. Off the map. And that's maybe the only smart thing that damn fool's ever done."
I nod, but am distracted by a few of the men who are starting to stare at me. It's hard to tell them all apart. None of them are as good-looking as Gray, but they are all pretty big, wearing predominantly black, and full of attitude. One man in particular, with pinched black eyes, seems to be studying me. I don't know why, but it makes me feel nervous, like the back of my neck is exposed and an ax could swing down at any time.
"I'm gonna say hi to the guys in the kitchen," I tell Gloria. The man with the dark eyes is sitting at a table near the back, but he hasn't stopped watching me.
"Bring me back a coffee!" Gloria calls out, before taking another sip of beer.
I follow the dark, winding hallway back to the kitchens. When my grandfather ran the place, I remember loving the quaint, old photos he had framed and hung all over the place: Irish immigrants, parades, cute kids with potatoes. Now the wallpaper is peeling and all the photos are gone.
It just makes me even more depressed.
The kitchen smells like bleach and fried food, and I say hi to Derek and Smalls, the two fry cooks. They're sitting on folding chairs, drinking beer.
"Katie, what's up, girl?" Derek says. He's my age and has worked here a couple years, though he's saving up to go to culinary school in the city.
"Yeah, girl, what the fuck is going on out there?" Smalls chimes in. He's closer to sixty, a Cuban immigrant with a belly and a laugh like Santa's. "It's like a fucking Communist Party meeting or something."
I grin and start rifling through the shelves, looking for my cookbooks. It would be good to have them at Gray's. "I think it's maybe exactly the opposite of the Communist Party, because I'm pretty sure every one of those guys is getting paid."
"But Katie, what the fuck—did you marry that guy? The big one?" Derek says.
"Which big one?" Smalls guffaws and slaps his knee.
"The real big one!"
I start loading dirty glasses into the huge, industrial dishwasher that fills the corner of the kitchen. "I guess," I say.
"You guess?" Smalls says. "Sounds like there's a story there, girl. And after seeing all those guys in the front of the bar, I do not want to hear any part of it."
I have to laugh along with the guys.
"Yeah, me either, really," I say.
"Let's see the ring!" Derek raises his beer to me, from the other side of the kitchen.
I'm glad my hands are busy so he can't see my lack of a ring, and I'm glad I'm on the other side of a long, steel counter with some hanging shelving in between us. Because I'm sure I'm bushing.
Their questions shouldn't bother me—it's just business—but I'm embarrassed.
"Da, let's see your wedding ring, Katya."
I freeze at the voice behind me.
It's a deep voice, with a thick Russian accent. And he's calling me "Katya," but it's sure as hell not Gray.
I have a sinking feeling in my stomach, even before I turn around.
It's the man who'd been watching me upstairs. He's tall. Not as tall as Gray, but much bigger than me. Thick, stocky, with close-cut dark brown hair, and bloodshot brown eyes. He's wearing multiple gold rings, and I can see tattoos on his neck, rising up from beneath the collar of his starched, white shirt.
He's wearing an ill-fitting suit, and an aura of menace.
"Ah, shit," I hear Smalls mutter quietly behind me.
"You have a problem?" The man jerks his head and hones in on the guys behind me. "Get the fuck out of here. I want to give my congratulations to the blushing bride."
"Ah, leave her alone, man," Derek says from the other side of the work station.
I feel this mystery snap to attention, glaring over my head at Derek and Smalls. Then he slowly opens his suit jacket, revealing a gun in a holster.
"Do we have a problem here?" His accent is thick, his tone cruel. I'd heard the description "dead-eyed" before, but until I met this man, I didn't really understand.
"Nah, man, nah."
"Get the fuck out. Now. If you don't listen to me, don't come back to work."
I gasp. Smalls' paycheck helps take care of his wife and his two little granddaughters who live with them. And Derek is helping out his mom with medical bills while also trying to save for school.
I hear the shuffling of chairs and the men rushing out the door, though I'm afraid to turn around and watch them go. I feel like a deer, and this man is a wolf.
It hits me: when Gray stalks me, I want to be caught.
Right now, I'm frozen because I half-think this man really might hurt me.
But he wouldn't, would he? Not in my—I mean, Gray's bar? Not with so many people upstairs?
But shit. Gray's not here.
"Are you a friend of my husband's?" I say, my voice shaking.
He grins, but it's the scariest smile I've ever seen.
"Oh, I wouldn't call Petrokov a friend." I can smell the whiskey on his breath. "We are associates, you could say."
He stares at my T-shirt, like he's trying to imagine the color of my bra.
"What's your name?" I can barely get the words out. I eye the door, wondering if I can make it past him and run up the stairs.
He moves closer. Then closer. He blocks my exit.
"Grigor Markov." He reaches down and takes my hand, bringing it up to his lips. I watch in horror as he kisses the top of my hand. It's the act of a gentleman, but the intent is his eyes is pure subversion.
"Pleased to meet you," I say, attempting to pull my hand from his. He presses tightly for just a moment, refusing to release me, then laughs at what must be panic on my face. I'm pulling away from him so strongly that when he finally, suddenly, lets go, my hand flies down and hits the countertop behind me.
That's when I realize I've slowly been moving backwards, and he's been following me, and now I'm trapped between the countertop and the man Gray warned me about.
"Do you know, sweet girl, that I was your intended? Before Petrokov stepped in?"
My lips are suddenly dry, but I won't lick them. Not in front of him. I try to slow my breathing. "Gray might have mentioned something about that."
"It's too bad, really, that he so desperately wanted this bar. But now that I see you up close, I have to wonder: was it really the bar Petrokov wanted?"
Markov leans down, putting his face inches from mine. "Or was it you?"
I don't answer. He stares at me a moment, then smiles a sudden, frighteningly insincere smile.
"What is it about this little cat that makes Petrokov so crazy? It must be one good pussy."
I shiver and turn my head toward the door. So close, but so far.
"I'd better go check on him," I whisper. "I came to meet him for lunch."
"Ah, the pussy is a liar," Markov sneers. "Petrokov is not here. And he won't be here anytime soon."
Then he takes a step closer and runs one finger down my cheek.
"Step back," I growl.
"If you were mine, you would know a real man doesn't let a little су́ka—that means bitch, darling—tell him what to do. If you were my little wife, you'd know your place."
I meet his eyes for the first time. They are cold and cruel and dead and I can tell he m
ay not hate me, but he hates Gray. And he'll hurt me just to hurt Gray.
Shit. Gray was right.
I should have listened to him.
"But I wouldn't have been your wife, would I?" I spit out. "That's not why you wanted me."
Markov's face changes before my eyes, becoming something ugly and vicious. He's not even trying to keep a mask of decency on now.
"You're right, little pussy. I don't need to put a ring on your finger to fuck you."
He grabs my upper arm in one large hand. I gasp and try to shake him off, but he just smiles as he squeezes tighter and tighter. I realize he wants to bruise me.
"Let me go!" I'm shocked that he's touching me, shocked at the enraged—and excited?—look on his face.
"Your stupid fucking husband doesn't get to tell me what to do." Markov leans in close and whispers into my ear. I try to pull away, but he grabs my other shoulder with his free hand and pulls me even closer to him. "And neither do you."
My breath is coming quick and fast, and I can't quite wrap my mind around what's happening. If I scream, would anyone hear me? We're in the back of the basement, down steep, dark, ancient stairs.
Even if anyone in the loud, upstairs bar heard—would they come and help me?
"What are you doing?" I try to raise my hands and push him away. Instead he steps in, and I'm trapped between his body and the counter. That's when I realize he's hard.
Oh my God.
"Don't play hard-to-get, little kitten," Markov sneers, rubbing up on me. "It's time you experience a real man."
"You're insane!" I cry. "If you do anything, Gray will—he'll—"
"He'll what?" He's so close I can feel his breath as he speaks.
"He'll kill you!" I shout. I have no idea if it's true, but I'm definitely feeling murderous at the moment.
To my surprise, Markov throws back his head and laughs. His molars are full of steel fillings. Then he whips his head back down, his crazy eyes looking positively happy.
"You make me laugh, little pussycat. I'm sure after I fuck you, Petrokov will want to kill me. But he won't. He can't. I'm a made man. Petrokov can't kill me—no one in our family can—unless our pakhan authorizes it. And Solonik will never let Petrokov hurt me."
He leans in, his body fully pressed against mine, and then kisses my cheek, letting his tongue slide wetly against me.
"And if Petrokov tries to kill me—then I can freely kill him." He pulls back, smiling at me. It's the first time he's looked truly happy. "I've got to tell you, darling, sounds like a perfect afternoon to me. I fuck your sweet pussy, and then I get to kill your bastard husband."
I open my mouth and take a breath to scream louder than I ever have in my life—and Markov's open palm slaps me upside the face.
It's nothing like Gray's love-slaps.
My face jerks to the side, my eyes fill with tears, and I taste the iron tang of blood in my mouth.
I take another breath to scream, and he hits me. Harder. With his fist.
I stumble, and fall to the floor, holding my head in my hands. I literally can't see; my vision has turned black with bursts of white, falling stars everywhere.
Suddenly, I feel rough hands on my neck, on my shirt. There's a ripping sound and my t-shirt is torn from my body.
"No!" I scream, shaking my head to clear my vision. And then he's on me, pressing my head back against the hard floor. Markov embraced me while restraining me, which makes me struggling against him strangely, horribly intimate. He smells like beer and cigarette smoke and a light mix of body odor and some sweet, cloying aftershave. I want to gag, from his touch, from this violence, from his smell.
Markov lets his full weight fall on me, making it hard to breath, hard to move. He whispers in my ear, his breath hot and excited against my neck, "You want to play rough? Good."
He sits up suddenly, straddling me, and I can barely breath. He smiles as he pulls his hand back to hit me again—
And then Markov flies through the air to my left.
"What?" I gasp, suddenly free. I turn my head to the left, watching Markov's body soar through the air. He lands with a thud against the kitchen wall, sliding down the white tile like a cartoon character. When he hits the floor, he just sits there, stunned, his head gently bobbing to and fro. I'm surprised I don't see stars and little tweeting, animated birds flying around his head.
I turn to the right and holy shit, it's like I'm looking at an enraged mountain. Of course, it's not a massive, moving, fighting, mad-as-hell pile of rocks.
It's my husband.
And it looks like he's moving in for the kill.
22
Gray
I'm about to fucking murder someone, which isn't exactly unusual.
I just didn't think it would be Markov. At least, not today.
"Where did he touch you?" I shout as I walk across the kitchen. Markov's shaking his head, trying to clear it. But he's got that fucking Russian-bull look. He'll charge at me, any moment now.
"What?" Kat gasps. She's got her hands wrapped around herself. Her t-shirt is ripped. She's crying. A flash of fury, red-hot and volcanic, fills me up inside.
I'm gonna fucking explode.
"Tell me everywhere he touched you, Kat. So I can make him bleed in each of those spots."
Suddenly she's scrambling to her feet. "No! Gray, no!"
I grab Markov by the throat. "You're right. Too much work for such a fat fucking pig. I should just slaughter him now."
Markov grabs my wrist, trying to pull me off his neck. I just squeeze tighter.
"Gray! Don't hurt him!" I hear Kat's voice like it's a thousand miles away. Like I'm deep beneath the sea, and she's somewhere up above the waves.
Up where the sun shines.
Up where it's warm.
Not down here, where it's so, so cold.
The coward's face is turning red. He tries to speak and I squeeze tighter. He's a panicked shade of purple now.
Then the maniac smiles at me.
"Gray. Gray!"
I feel Kat's hand on my shoulder. Shaking me. Hard.
I release Markov's neck, and though he's trying to play the badass, as soon as he can breathe again, he grabs his own throat and falls backward, chest heaving.
She kneels down next to me, wrapping her arms around me. I shouldn't be so enraged; when I track a target, I'm ice-cold, emotionless. I never lose my cool. I never lose my temper. That's how mistakes are made.
Maybe getting close to her was a mistake.
Her arms feel so good, though.
"He wants you to try and kill him," she whispers in my ear. "Because he wants to kill you."
I turn to her, suddenly able to breathe again, myself. I'd stopped back in at the bar, my errand with Solonik ending sooner than expected—and the cooks had fucking run at me in a panic.
"When I heard he'd cornered you down here, alone—" I break off, cupping her cheek delicately. Then I see the bruise forming, blooming under her pale skin. "One second, babes."
I turn around, face Markov, then beat the shit out of his face. One, two, three, four, five—
"Gray!"
It's not enough. This piece of shit shouldn't be allowed to keep breathing. And the worst thing is, he looks like he's loving each and every punch he takes. Because he thinks I can't really hurt him. Because he thinks he's invincible, just because he's Solonik's golden boy.
I was just out on a job, so I'm armed. I grab my gun from the holster hidden at my side. I jam the barrel so hard under his chin that I know it'll leave a perfect, red circle. For the first time, his eyes widen—yeah, this shit just got real, didn't it—
"Gray! Gray, no. He's not worth it. He's a made man, Gray. Don't kill him!"
I turn. Kat's cheeks are tear-stained. Her green eyes are luminous. I freeze, breathe. Take her in.
"Alright, babes. Just one more. I promise."
Then I pull his head up off the wall, and slam it back down again. Kat shrieks.
He slides
down to the floor, passed-out.
I stand up, pulling Kat under my arm.
"I should still kill him," I mutter. In fact, I know in my bones, it's only a matter of time.
"Gray," Kat whispers. That's when she breaks down, suddenly sobbing. She reaches for me, and I let her wrap her arms around me, bury her face in my neck. Fuck it. I pick her up, like the bride she is, and she doesn't even protest. Just puts her sweet, tear-stained face against me and wraps her arm around my neck.
I carry her out of the kitchen just as Chase comes rushing down the stairs, Declan and Dacko on his heels.
"You're late," I say, their shocked faces making me feel only slightly better. "Markov attacked her."
"Fuck," Chase says. "What the fuck."
Declan just nods, his eyes narrowing as he studies the man passed-out on the floor.
"Throw his ass out," I say. "Throw his ass out on the fucking street. I'll deal with Solonik later."
Kat must be in shock, because she doesn't say a word. Doesn't even look up. I take her to her father's office, a musty basement room around the corner.
"Where are we going?" Kat mumbles against my neck.
"Shh," I say. "Just rest in your dad's—in the office."
Once we're inside, I lay her down on the worn leather sofa. It's the only piece of furniture in the room, besides the desk and folding chair behind it.
Kat grimaces as she puts her head on a pillow.
"What?" I say.
Her eyes fill with tears again. Goddamn it.
"He hit me," she whispered. "I mean, after growing up like you and I did—I should be used to it. But. He hit really hard."
I'm going to kill that bastard. Sooner rather than later.
I press a kiss against her forehead, and she doesn't stop me.
"Just rest here, babes. I'll send one of my guys down with some ice."
She nods mutely, staring up at me. I allow myself to look at her, really look at her. Drink her in. It's just the two of us. Muted music and footsteps filter down from upstairs, but the far-off sounds just help weave a web around us.
"Gray," Kat says. She reaches her hand up and I take it, kneeling down next to her.
"Kat," I say. We study each other, like we've never met, like we've known each other a thousand years.
Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 13
