Maybe it's just the hormones. Maybe it's exhaustion.
Maybe it's because I love him more than anything.
But I start crying. And then I say, "Gray, I love you, too."
31
Gray
I don't hear Kat leave for school the next day, but when I wake up, I see traces of her all around my apartment. Our apartment.
God, she's an adorable, messy little thing.
Most of her new clothes are hanging up in the closet, but anything she's worn recently is typically kicked into a corner on the floor. The kitchen is still a mess from whatever she was working on yesterday, and I don't even want to think about the bathroom. For a low-maintenance girl, she has a lot of fucking beauty supplies.
I make coffee and wander around the house, straightening up. It's probably because of how I was raised, that I can't stand a messy house. My father's house was always a disaster: physically, emotionally, financially.
I don't live like that.
But I'm also surprised I don't mind cleaning up after Kat. She's more than worth the small effort. In fact, I can't believe how happy I've been for the past couple of months. I never thought I would deserve a life like this. It's like I have to remind myself not to walk around with a fucking idiotic grin on my face.
Now if I only I could ship Markov to Mars or Mother Russia—both possibilities equally unlikely—and Solonik would decide to retire someplace he deserves. Like Hell. Well then, my life would be complete.
I told my most trusted men about the human trafficking. Everyone's fucking pissed. Half of them want war. Half of them want to fucking cut and run.
But no one wants to leave the women, the victims, under Markov's care.
I haven't told Kat because I don't want to worry her, but we're making a move. I'm going to send her and Elle somewhere safe—Chase insists Elle goes, which is a whole other surprise right there.
We'll send the ladies and some bodyguards far, far away.
And then we're going to fucking take out Markov and Solonik. We're going to move the business away from this base bullshit, and into something where we can make money, real money. I've been trying to get Solonik to move our family into the future for years. He resists, and pulls shit like human trafficking.
As I told Kat, it's not like waste removal or construction companies are totally clean. Hell, look at the Italians. But on paper they're legit. And honestly, they're no more crooked—and get no more favors—than any of the construction companies owned by New York politicians and business leaders.
We're gearing up to bust out the women tonight. I don't like working with the Feds—if my father were alive, he'd have my head—but anyone who's been around the block knows the world isn't black and white. There are some good men in the federal government who will help rescue the trafficking victims … and look the other way when I take down Solonik and Markov.
I hate that in my world, I'm going to have to kill in order to move ahead. But if I have to be the bad guy sometimes, at least I'm taking out pure evil.
I think of Kat, kissing my cobra tattoo. Shedding old skin. I like the idea.
I realize I want to change.
I didn't think it was possible for me to change. For me to have a life. For me to make anyone else's life better.
Kat changed my entire world.
I smile as I pick up her fucking expensive purse. It slips sideways and I go to push her shit back in when I see—
"What the fuck." A passport.
I flip it open. Katherine Maria O'Malley…
A new passport. I glance inside the purse, and holy shit—the lining's been ripped open. I reach inside, pull out a couple thousand in cash.
And stare at it.
A passport.
A hidden stash of cash.
She just told me she loved me last night.
I feel my heart, suddenly heavy in my chest, like a stone. Like an anchor. I feel like I'm underwater, like I can't breathe, like the rest of the world is somewhere miles above me.
There has to be an explanation.
Yeah, a voice like my father's echoes through my mind, You forced her to marry you. And she's gonna suck your cock, steal your money, and steal your soul. Before running off, just like your slut mother.
I growl, slamming a fist against the wall.
I hated when my father talked about my mother like that.
And yet, I feel consumed by a red-hot, burning anger.
Kat wouldn't do that. Kat wouldn't do that.
But she was doing it, wasn't she?
I didn't want to believe it. But maybe she deserved a test, a test before judgment.
I'd let her go free. See if she tries to fly away.
See if she says she loves me again, and then fucking leaves.
I wasn't saying I'd let her leave me. The animal inside me growls at the absurdity of the idea.
But I'd see what she does when no one is watching.
32
Kat
I come home from school, exhausted and sick. Whoever named it "morning sickness" was a fool, because it's 24-hour, seven-days-a-week insanity. Thank God it's Friday; all I want to do is sleep. And eat crackers. And sleep. All weekend long.
I throw myself on the couch, too tired to even get up and get crackers and a glass of water.
"Hello, Kat."
Gray appears, so silently and unexpectedly that I have to stifle a scream.
"Oh my God, you scared me." I smile at him, at least, as much as I can smile in the state I'm in. I know I need to tell him what's going on, but I just haven't figured out how, yet.
He doesn't smile back. He looks serious, angry, sad. He doesn't know, does he? He couldn't possibly know. Elle had taken all the used pregnancy tests home with her, going above and beyond in the best-friend department.
"Are you heading out?"
"Da. I'll be gone all night."
I nod. He looks so distant, reserved. "Is everything okay? Is Solonik…doing anything?" I know he doesn't like to give me details about what he does all day or all night. But he's also hinted that something big is going down. That he's working to make our lives better.
If the best I can get out of him. He says he's doing it to protect me.
But he says that about everything.
For a moment he looks utterly pained, but then he shields it. His mask slides into place so quickly, so firmly, that I almost doubt myself.
But I saw him. I saw inside him for one moment. And he looked like he was in brutal pain.
I get up, go to him. "Gray—"
He steps toward the door. "Shit's going down, Katya. I'll need all my men with me. I'll be gone a day, maybe two. Stay here. Don't leave the house." He fixes me with a steely stare. "If you trust me—if you love me—do as I say."
"Okay, Gray," I whisper. "I do trust you. I do love you."
He nods, grabs his gun and a bag, and leaves.
He doesn't say "I love you" back.
Gray's gone for one day.
Then two.
He won't answer my calls. He won't respond to my texts.
I call Elle, but all I get back is a text from Chase: I took Elle upstate for the weekend. I have her phone.
"What the fuck," I mutter, sounding more and more like my husband every day. When I text Elle/Chase back and demand to know where Gray is—if he's okay?!—I get no reply.
When Monday dawns and he still hasn't returned, I can't shake the feeling that something awful's happened. Or the idea that I need to do something. But what? I don't know any of his friends—or if his "associates" are actually his friends, or just thugs who work for him. Dacko won't answer my calls, Gray is gone, Chase is off the grid.
I could go to O'Malley's, I think. And so I do. But when the taxi drops me off at the bar at 6 a.m., it's closed. Dark. Locked. I bang on the door, and have to laugh; I'm acting like Gray when he charged into Giselle's Boutique.
The thought of us, on the couch, what it led to…
I clut
ch my stomach. Hold on, little guy, I think. Or girl. We're going to find you daddy, and he's going to be okay.
He's got to be.
The only other place I can think to go is the one place I never wanted to visit: Café Russo, Solonik's hideout, or headquarters, or what-have-you.
I walk the half-mile to the infamous site. It looks as closed and quiet as O'Malley's was, but I'm becoming frantic.
What if something's happened to Gray?
What if he's dea—don't think it. I can't think it.
The café is a small, brick, freestanding building underneath a highway overpass. Not at all welcoming, not at all what the word "café' conjures in your mind. I walk up to the front doors—they're frosted glass. I squint inside. Is that a light in the back?
But no one answers when I knock, when I shout. And the doors are bolted shut.
Then I turn around and scream, my voice piercing the early morning air, because Viktor Solonik is standing behind me, grinning. And bleeding.
"Look what I've caught," he hisses. "A pretty, little kitty." And then he stumbles to the side.
"Oh my God, have you been shot?" I cry, my hands reaching for him instinctively.
He falls forward, onto me. When he grins madly, I see there's blood on his teeth.
"By your husband," he whispers. His hands are desperate, clawing at me, though I can't tell if he's trying to grab me or simply keep himself upright.
"Where is he?" I cry.
Viktor's eyes are wild. "Who the fuck knows where that traitor is. But I can tell you where he has been. Where he's been for the past seven years."
He releases me suddenly, lurching toward the café's doors. He can't open them either, but instead of reaching for a key, he turns around, leaning his back against the door. He smiles a crazed, bloody smile as he slowly sinks to the ground.
He leaves a trail of the blood on the glass.
I feel my stomach heave. Don't throw up, don't throw up here, I pray to the pregnancy gods.
"Where was he?" I whisper.
Solonik holds my eyes, even as he struggles to take a breath. His right hand is pressed against his side, and when he moves it, a thick stream of blood pours from him.
"Oh God, we have to get you to a hospital!" I start digging through my backpack, looking for my purse.
"No hospital, no politsiya," Solonik says, his voice light and breathless. "I am dying. And this is my final gift to you—to your husband, really. You think he left you long ago, little Kat? You think I sent him away for seven long years to do my bidding?"
I stand, staring, frozen at the man.
I don't answer, but he doesn't care.
"He never left," Solonik cackles. "He was here in New York, all along. Working for me. Killing for me. Whoring. You should have seen the women throw themselves at him. Do you really think he thought of you, and your pale Irish ass, when he was licking another woman's cunt?"
I lean over and throw up. Right on the sidewalk.
"That's not true." As soon as I can stand again, I rifle through my overpacked backpack. I don't care what this psycho says; he needs an ambulance. And to shut the hell up.
"It's true." He's wheezing with every breath now, his eyes closed, his head resting on the glass door behind him. "Whatever he told you—lies. He left you because he wanted to make money, fuck the law, fuck the women." He laughs, coughing blood onto his shaking fist. "Fuck everyone but you, eh little girl? Last night, he even fucked me over." He opens his eyes, struggling to find me, as if he can't quite see the world before him.
"Make sure you tell him what I said, Katya. It's my—my final gift to that piece of shit."
I finally find my phone, pull it out, take one step backward, then another.
"I'm calling 911 for you," I say. "I'm calling 911 and then I'm getting the hell out of here."
I turn around and run straight into Grigor Markov's open arms.
"Yes, you are," Markov says, grabbing my phone and throwing it on the ground. "You're coming with me. Straight to Hell."
33
Gray
I shake Agent Daniels' hand and take one last look at the Brighton Beach brothels before heading back to my car. I've done something my own father would have killed me for: I worked with the enemy, with law enforcement, and I took down my own pakhan. Our family's Godfather.
Our fearless leader.
I hadn't wanted to make my move yet. Not this soon.
But Declan, Chase and I had come to the brothels Friday night, only to discover Markov beating a young girl almost to death. And Solonik was there, watching the entire time. Drinking. Encouraging him.
So I challenged my pakhan, and anyone knows a challenge means one of us would die. He chose fists, but of course he cheated.
"Does it hurt?" Declan asks, his Irish accent thicker than normal. We're all exhausted, and haven't slept in two days. Chase joins us, rubbing his hands over his eyes.
"I've had worse." I brush at the bandage the EMTs had put over my arm, over the tattoo. "Hell, if my father were alive, he'd have taken an ax and tried to cut the tattoo off my body, anyway. He would say I didn't deserve the family's mark any longer."
Chase shakes his head. "Your father was an asshole, pakhan. You did what you needed to do, even if the Feds fucked it up. Now everyone knows you're in charge, and we're changing things around in this family."
I squint in the early morning light, the few remaining police cruisers pulling away from Markov's former fucked-up kingdom.
"Everyone but Solonik and Markov," I say. "Find those fuckers. Every single man has one mission: hunt them down, and bring them to me."
I move to open my car door, wincing at the pain. Chase takes the driver's seat, and Declan gets in the back.
Despite claiming he wanted to fight in hand-to-hand combat, Solonik had had a knife and had cut me deep. Before I turned it on him. I hadn't meant to kill him—at least, not at that moment.
I could still see the moment his own knife had slipped deep into his side. The exhalation of air. He'd looked up, into my eyes, me holding him like I was a father and he was a child. Ushering him into the next life.
Then everything had gone to hell.
The Feds—dammit, the Feds—raided the building. Agent Daniels had said they'd hold off for a week, but apparently even the government has its own special brand of assholes who want to jockey for power. It was blind, dumb, fucking bad luck that Chase, Declan, my men and I were in there.
And that I was holding a bloody murder weapon.
At least, I think it was a murder weapon.
Because at that moment, the F.B.I. came busting in, ordering everyone to freeze. Of course, eighty Russian goons opened fire. A hundred F.B.I. agents fired back. Smoke bombs and bullets and chaos galore.
And Solonik and Markov's bodies were never found.
"Fuck!" I punch the ceiling of my car, denting it.
"Let us drop you off at your place," Declan says. "Kat will fix you up. We're on this."
I think of Kat: she's likely still at home, wondering where the hell I am. And judging by the flurry of text messages and voicemails she's left me, I'm hoping that's the case. My heart warms at the thought, a slow thaw for the ice I've carried in my veins the last few days.
Or she took her fucking passport and fled the country.
Of course, I wasn't a complete fool—and I wasn't ready to let her go. I'd placed a tracker inside her fancy purse. I'd be able to find her anywhere, the world over.
If she tried to leave me.
I'm not ready to face her yet. I laugh to myself. The great, brave Gray Petrokov—afraid of having his fucking heart broken.
"Nah, let's go back to the bar. I want to talk to all the other captains of the New York families. I want everyone to know: Solonik and Markov are dead men walking. And I'm the new boss in this fucking town."
34
Kat
It's dark. I think it's daylight, but with the blindfold over my eyes, I get only the occasional
flash of light. Like we're driving through trees.
We've been driving for hours.
I moan, trying to move my bound wrists and get some circulation back into my arms, but I suppress the sound immediately. When I wouldn't stop screaming, even after Markov had slapped me repeatedly, he'd stuffed an old rag in my mouth.
He was about to duct tape it into me when I began puking from the gasoline smell on it, from my fear…from morning sickness.
Tears fill my eyes, but I try not to make a sound. I listen to my breathing. Breathe in for four, out for five, in for four, stay alive.
He'd pulled the rag out while I was puking, then hit me upside the head for getting it on his shoes.
But I'd stopped crying. I'd stopped making any noise. I would do anything to stay alive, to get back to Gray alive.
To keep my baby alive.
That thought brings tears to my eyes again, but thankfully they're hidden by the rough cloth bound around my eyes. I'm laying on my side, across the back seat. It feels like an older car, because the seats are covering with slippery faux-leather. My ankles are bound; my wrists are tied tightly behind my back. Every time Markov hits a bump, it takes all of my effort to stay on the seat and not slide right to the floor.
Markov starts whistling again. He's been doing that for what feels like hours, a perverted mash of childhood lullabies. No words, just the same haunting refrain, over and over and over again.
He also groans in pain from time to time. I hope he's bleeding to death, the bastard.
But even worse is the talking.
"You fucking bitch," Markov slurs. From the sound of a liquid sloshing, I think he takes another drink. I can only hope it's not liquor. But from the sudden jerks of the wheel, I'm afraid he's getting drunk.
Maybe he'll crash. Maybe he'll hit his head. Maybe I can escape.
Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 19
