But having one of those who can also give you shit and make you laugh?
Priceless.
"I'd rather be on the ground tonight," Chase says.
"I could send one of the younger guys, but it just doesn't feel right." I hate to admit I'm paranoid about Kat, but ever since Markov fucking lost it and attacked her, I'm paranoid. Even after Solonik reprimanded him and punished him—Markov had to give me a week of the brothels' earnings—I'm still not convinced that the fucker won't try something.
"Besides, you've already helped me by scoping out the docks. And Solonik—" we both involuntarily make a face when I say his name, "—only wants me and some of his immediate crew there."
"And that doesn't make you suspicious?" Chase says. "He knows you want out, right? Maybe he'd rather take you out than worry about you. How many more years did you promise him in exchange for Kat?"
"Ten." I take a deep breath. "And it's for the bar, not the girl," I say, making the storyline clear. I'd even let Viktor think my arm had been injured during a recent turf skirmish. While I'd been shot, I was fully healed. Total flesh wound. But Viktor didn't need to know that.
I'd let it be known—just to Viktor, of course—that I wasn't as confident with a gun. That I should probably work a steadier gig, for the family, of course.
If I was a bad actor, Viktor was fucking pathetic. He'd looked absolutely gleeful at the idea of my weakness. I'd said I needed a position with less conflict, more stability. A nice management position, like the bar.
And I'd convinced him that instead of selling a woman into slavery, me marrying her would make the whole money-laundering operation look much more legit if we were ever audited.
"After all, Viktor, how'd they take down Capone?" I'd said.
He'd nodded like he was a fucking sage. "Taxes. Paperwork. It's always the little shit."
"Noting certain but death and taxes," I'd agreed, seriously hoping for his death.
As well as the plan was working, Markov was pissed to hell he hadn’t been given the bar—or the girl. And I was fucking losing my mind with boredom at this shithole.
I glance over the ledger on my desk. I'd been running numbers all day, and it was a fucking drag.
"Of course it worries me. I don't trust him further than I can throw him. Actually," I grin and bend my arm, pretending to show off my bicep, "about half as far as I can throw him."
"They told me Gray Petrokov was dangerous. They told me you killed in cold blood and never missed a target. They told me you were smart as a fucking whip. They didn't tell me you were a corny-ass motherfucker."
I laugh and lean back in my chair. We share a companionable moment of silence, though both our smiles fade.
"What's in the shipment that's so damn important, that he wants you covering him?" Chase says.
I shake my head. "I'm assuming drugs, but you know how it is—when you're somebody's goon, you don't get to ask questions." Solonik wants my sharp-shooter skills. I'll be perched off the water, about five hundred yards from where Viktor and his crew are meeting with their overseas contacts.
"I don't like it," Chase says.
"I don't like any of this shit," I agree.
For maybe the first time ever, Chase suddenly looks nervous. Like he shouldn't say what he's about to say. "You could leave at any time, Gray. So could I. I know you came back for the girl, but is she worth sticking around for? To be told what to do? To have to do this shit for the next ten years?"
He gestures at the desk, the paperwork, the entire damn bar.
He might be the closest thing I have to a friend in this world, but my blood boils.
"Is she worth it? The answer is fuck you," I growl. Chase holds his hands up in surrender. "And who ever said anything about ten years here?"
Chase looks up. If he were a dog, his ears would be perked and his tail wagging right about now.
"I'm settling accounts. Making sure her failure of a father is out of the way. Then my girl and I are getting the fuck out of here."
Chase looks at me warily. "Gray, man, what are you saying? You're just gonna cut and run? They'll chase you. Solonik can't let you dishonor him like that. He'd send Markov after you. Fuck, Markov would volunteer. You really want to take your girl on the run?"
I stand, packing up my guns. "No," I say. "But I don't feel like starting a war."
Chase laughs. "Well, that'd be a first."
I smirk. We'd both been ordered to start inter-family wars before. "Well, the difference here is who would be left to clean up? Do you really want to be in charge of a fucking mafia family? I sure as fuck do not."
Chase stands. "You know me, boss. I don't want to be in charge of shit except whatever girl I'm fucking that night, and whatever fat deposit I'm making to my bank account." He grins suddenly. "Hey! I like that! Fat ass, fat wallet."
"Yeah, you could write a country song. Now get the hell out of here and go get my girl."
He nods and heads out.
I clean my gun and hope to fuck I haven't made a mistake, going alone.
The pier is quiet tonight. The only sounds are traffic from the highway far above us, and the muted voices of Solonik's men. They've driven here in three luxury SUVs, and two bakery trucks.
That's fucking odd.
Solonik had told me to position myself at the top of some parked cargo holds, and I'd agreed. I had felt him and his fucking goons watch me as I'd stalked into the shadows, my rifle case hitting my back with each carefully measured step.
As soon as I was under cover of darkness, however, I'd circled back and taken a position about 60 degrees south. There was a parked semi-truck Chase had mentioned, one I could easily scale, its bed away from any light sources. I unpack my rifle, the movements cool, precise, practiced. I could do this blindfolded.
I settle into position, the steel of the truck cold against my chest and stomach. I flip open my scope and survey the scene.
Solonik was nowhere to be seen; apparently he didn't want to have to shoot the shit with his subordinates while they waited for the shipment. I swing my scope from face to face; fifteen men gathered in a loose gaggle of shit-talking and incompetence. If it were me, I'd have had seven men on the ground, and another fifteen in the shadows, like me.
A vision of my father suddenly dances through my head. Solonik's a fucking fool, boy, was what he'd always said. They'd grown up together, come up in the ranks together.
Fought together, fucked together, stolen together.
But only my father had died.
Chase's words come back to me: why don't I just fucking leave?
I could take Kat, we could run—but what did running ever solve?
But if I took my revenge for my father being killed, for me being ensnared in this life, for Kat being caught in his web—if I took revenge and finally killed Viktor, was I no better than a hired gun entering enemy territory, taking out the current leaders, then leaving a vacuum for even worse criminals to fill?
I had enough money. Kat and I could retire to an island somewhere in the South Pacific. Fuck, I could buy our own private island.
A horn sounded out on the water. And then, coming up from the south, a truck drove slowly toward the small gathering of SUVs. It was unmarked, no plates. A door opened from one of the Escalades and Solonik stepped out. I focused my sight on him, on his ripe fucking head.
It would be so easy. What's stopping me?
I could take them all out.
It's what my father would have done.
That thought makes me take my finger off the trigger, though I press it back down, lightly, waiting, as the mystery truck's driver appears and walks over to Viktor. He's a middle-aged white guy in a baseball cap, completely nondescript. They greet each other with a handshake. Two young men follow the driver, and at the stranger's word, they unlock and pull open the truck's back doors.
"Holy fucking shit," I whisper. It's not drugs. It's not stolen computers.
A young woman's face appears in the
moonlight, blinking. Like even the watery light of the shipyard at night is too intense, too bright, for her eyes to comprehend.
They slowly lower the woman to the ground, running her from one truck over to the bakery truck.
And that's when I realize the woman isn't helping with the cargo.
She is the cargo.
As are the dozens of other young ladies who are now standing, confused and terrified, in a large huddle.
It takes everything I have not to fucking make soup out of the back of Viktor's head. Human trafficking. Human fucking trafficking.
I make a decision right then and there. I'm killing Viktor Solonik.
Then I realize that Markov, Viktor's favored brigadier, isn't here.
I have the sudden, cold fear: am I only here so I'm out of the way?
Is Markov going after my wife?
27
Kat
"No, no, a thousand times no!"
Elle giggles and twirls to the dressing room, wearing what basically looks like a four-thousand-dollar princess-fairy costume.
The saleswoman is not amused, though I certainly am.
I'm also pretty sure I'm drunk. It's totally unlike me—but then again, so is being married to a Russian mobster.
"What?" says Elle. "I think I look gorgeous. Plus, I can fly!" She spreads her arms wide, her long blonde hair trailing down her back and the translucent purple gown trailing behind her as she runs from the back of the store towards the front.
She's definitely drunker than I am.
It's these upscale boutiques. They give you champagne when you walk in the door!
After a week, I was finally healed. Well, my face was healed from Markov's attack.
Gray and I had been having so much sex, I kind of felt like I needed an ice pack down there.
But what a delicious way to ache.
Elle and I had spent Saturday at the spa, compliments of my husband. We'd had our hair cut and our nails done, along with massages and facials.
The one thing we hadn't done enough of, I decided as I hiccupped, was eat.
"I'm so tipsy," I call out to Elle.
After our spa treatments, we'd gone uptown to the fancy shops along Fifth Avenue. We'd both stood out like sore, poor thumbs, and I think the only thing keeping us from getting the Pretty Woman treatment—as in, kicked out by snobby saleswomen—was the fact that we didn't actually look like prostitutes.
I mean, Elle was wearing her cat leggings again.
Okay, maybe we looked like prostitutes from a Japanese cat bar?
At any rate, none of the women or men who'd been working the stores seemed to like us.
Especially Mandy, the perfect size-zero who was helping us now, but who kept clutching her cell phone like she'd have to call 911 on us.
I stare at myself in the dressing-room mirror, ignoring Mandy who's peeking around a glitter-covered mannequin to stare at me.
"I could never wear this in public. Or, in private. Or, anywhere," I say.
Mandy had brought me a skin-tight, silver cocktail dress. Strapless, sleeveless…hell, there was barely any fabric covering my legs or butt. It was almost assless.
"You look gorgeous," Mandy raves. She ventures closer and pretends to tweak the fabric—like there was anything extra, once it was wrapped around my ample derriere.
"I look like a glittery, stuffed sausage," I say.
Elle floats back into view, trailing about three-thousand dollars worth of taffeta behind her.
"You look hot!" Elle says.
"How much is it?" I ask.
Mandy smiles, clearly uncomfortable with discussing prices. "Four," she says, as demurely as possible.
"Four…hundred?" I say.
"Four thousand."
"Aaaaand, that's a no." I begin stripping. Elle and I have had enough sleepovers over the years that she's seen me in various stages of undress. And I figure if Mandy has a problem with some cleavage, she should probably get a new line of work.
"Ew," Elle says, watching me. "Honey, I hate to say this, but you're a married woman now. And your husband is fine. And you should get some new panties."
I glance down at my underwear. "What?" I say. They're nice. Basic. Kind of new.
"Where did you get those?" Mandy whispers. She's given up being haughty; my ugly-ass underwear has shocked her manners away.
I sigh. "Walgreens."
Elle and Mandy burst into laughter.
"Oh my God, you're buying new underwear!" Elle shrieks.
"This place is too expensive," I mouth at her, as Mandy rushes off—I presume—to find me underwear that is not sold in a drugstore.
"Sweetie, Gray gave you a credit card and told you to use it. Speaking of the man, the myth, the legend: what time is it? Are we supposed to get you home at a decent hour?"
I check my phone. "Wow, it's almost ten. And that's weird."
"What?"
"I've got five missed calls."
"All from Gray?" Elle sits down on one of the velvet-covered poufs in the fancy dressing room.
"No," I mutter. "Three from Gray, two from an unknown number." Then I see three voicemails, all from Gray. Shit. I put the speaker on and listen to the first one.
"Katya, call me. As soon as you get this."
I frown, and Elle raises her eyebrows.
"He sounds pissed," she says.
"He always sounds like that," I say. "He's so bossy." Especially in bed. I blush, remembering what he had me do last night…
What I don't say is that his voice sounds strained. Bossy, arrogant, demanding—but off, somehow.
The second message is worse, with him sounding downright livid.
In the third message he actually says where the fuck are you.
I stop the playback feature and throw the phone back in my bag.
"Screw him," I say. "Can I spend the night at your place?"
Elle stands up, pulling up her cat stockings and adjusting her black bra, which clearly can be seen underneath the translucent purple material of the whimsical dress.
"Kat," Elle says gently. "Maybe you should at least call him back? I'm not saying you have to go back to his place, but, you know, at least talk to him? He sounds worried." She grins wickedly. "And kind of hot."
Mandy suddenly appears, carrying a rainbow assortment of lace and silk on a tray.
"Maybe you're right," I say. "Let me just pick out some underwear, and we'll call him on our way home."
Mandy grins and holds up a scrap of pink fabric.
"Is that a child's handkerchief?" I say.
"No, it's a bra!" Mandy chirps.
"Oh, hell no!" I say, at the exact same time as Elle screams, "Hell yes!"
28
Gray
Where.
The fuck.
Is she.
"I'm sorry, Gray. Your girl isn't here." Chase's voice is breathless, and I can tell he's jogging to his car. I'd sent him to my apartment, just in case she'd fallen asleep or something. "Want me to check anywhere else?"
"I'll get the address to you in five," I say, hanging up on Chase in mid-sentence. He doesn't deserve that, but he'll get over it.
I'm not sure I can get over what I'm feeling right now.
After seeing what Viktor's special "cargo" actually was, I was livid. I had to rendezvous at Café Russo with him and the crew. Viktor was ecstatic at how many women had been delivered; Markov had been given the task of setting them up in housing, where—apparently—they would be cleaned, looked over by doctors, and then trained for the whorehouses Viktor ran.
That, or sold.
I'd kept my mask on, but Markov could tell I wasn't pleased. And he loved it.
"How's your lovely bride treating you?" The bastard had grinned as he sidled over to me, sipping a victory vodka. "She's a sweet little suka."
He had watched my face as he called Kat a bitch, hoping for a reaction.
When I didn't give him one, he shrugged and kept running his mouth. "You know, Vikto
r wants me to apologize for kissing her."
I refused to speak with the shithead.
Markov had leaned closer, the idiot. "You know how it is, if a woman throws herself at you…" He trails off, watching my face, baiting me.
I was smart enough not to take his bait. I wouldn't beat him down for words.
At least, not in front of all of Viktor's men.
Markov had kept running his mouth. "You know, Viktor had promised he'd give her to me for training."
My hand had clenched and unclenched. I couldn't quite control it.
"I was really looking forward to seeing those big tits she hides behind her ugly T-shirts. But, you know what I'm talking about!" Markov had leaned close, pretending to whisper. "Let me know if you need any tips on how to train a woman. I would have kept her naked and on her knees for a few days. Make sure she knows how a good bitch treats a bone, you know?" He'd clapped me on the back. "But I'm sure you've done that already, eh, Petrokov? Yeah, I was upset, but now who the fuck cares? I've got eighty little bitches I can train now."
He'd glanced up at me, raised his glass, and downed it. "Bet you're wishing you hadn't taken the bar from me, now, eh, you fat fuck?"
I shouldn't have reacted. But in one second, I'd grabbed his shot glass with my left hand and his throat with my right hand. Then I'd slammed the thick glass onto the top of his fucking shaved head.
Then everyone had drawn guns. Of course, when I pointed out that the man had insulted my wife, everyone understood. I had reacted mildly—but I'd reacted as if I actually cared for my wife.
Viktor had made Markov apologize. But I'd seen both of them, their eyes calculating, measuring me.
I'd fucked up. They knew I care for her. They knew—or at least suspected—that I might do anything for her.
Fuck, Kat made me crazy.
Worrying about her made me crazy.
Now she wasn't answering her phone or my texts.
Had Markov fucking grabbed her? I wouldn't put it past him. He'd had it out for me ever since I outpaced him. I was a better shot, a better planner, smarter, faster, stronger…
The only thing he was better at than me was being a completely soulless fucking bastard.
Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 16
