Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Riley Rollins

  I feel cool air against my midsection, and I realize that my pajamas are almost pulled up to my breasts. Havok's gaze runs down my chest, fixing on my exposed tummy. It's nothing he hasn't seen hundreds of times before. And I don't really mind him looking. It kind of excites me, even though nothing has happened between us and I'm starting to doubt that it will. Still, my instinct is to cover myself up.

  I hook my free fingers under my shirt and pull it down. Goosebumps ripple over my arms and legs, and I wonder if Havok notices. If he does, he gives no indication. He's all business, like he's been since I arrived here.

  "I need you to clean this morning."

  Havok stands over me, working the handcuffs. A moment later, there's a click, and my wrist is free.

  This is how it works now. He keeps me handcuffed in the guest room at night, and during the day I earn my keep by doing housework and occasional cooking.

  The truth is, he's good to me. It's a fair trade-off. But he still refuses to tell me anything more about why I'm here or why I'm in danger. It's getting harder for me to understand what this is all about, why he can't be honest with me, and why he disappears for hours several nights a week. Working at Fascinations. I guess.

  Nevertheless, I get up and do the chores I've been asked to do. I scrub the kitchen and the bathrooms, I vacuum and dust everything, and I scrub moss off the rock wall behind the indoor waterfall.

  Being an indentured servant isn't exactly my idea of a good time. But it is nice to have a big, clean place to live for once. I'm still taking pills; my supply isn't out yet. I hide them in my purse and take them when Havok isn't looking.

  While I'm dusting the dresser in Havok's bedroom, I come across a stack of photographs. They're from a film camera, not digital, and they look like they were developed many years ago. There are pictures of Havok when he was younger, some clearly taken in West Ark, and some that appear to be in Russia. I thumb through them one at a time, until I come to one with a gorgeous red-headed girl leaning her head against Havok's shoulder.

  There's a twinge of jealousy in my stomach, and I wonder if this woman is still in his life. Could that be where he's going at night?

  "What are you doing?"

  Havok's voice comes from behind, startling me. I whirl around, and the slippery, glossy photographs scatter all over the floor.

  "I-I'm sorry." I bend down and hurriedly pick them up. When I've gathered them all, I stand and offer them to Havok. But he's motionless, his arms crossed.

  "Put them back where you found them. Then finish your work." He walks out the open door without another word.

  I finish dusting the room, feeling guilty. I don't like how he spoke to me. It made me feel like I used to feel when Brock scolded me. But that was always over some silly, meaningless mistake like forgetting ketchup packets with his take-out. This time, I rooted through someone's private belongings. A real betrayal of trust.

  After I finish cleaning, I go looking for Havok. I find him in the backyard, shirtless, bent over a big metal box next to the pool gate.

  "What are you doing?" I say.

  He looks over his shoulder, then sticks his head back in the box. "Replacing the pump."

  His back and arms gleam in the afternoon sun. His back muscles are powerful and defined, and he works swiftly and competently. For the first time, I get a better glimpse at his tattoos; all intricate patterns and symbols covering his arm, shoulder, and back.

  I stand there watching while he walks back and forth to a tool shed several times, not speaking to me. Finally, he appears to finish the repair, then clicks on a switch. A fountain next to the pool spouts water.

  He closes the metal box and gathers the tools that are strewn over the patio. Brock probably couldn't have replaced a fuse to save his life, and here Havok is, doing complicated mechanical work.

  "Hey," I say.

  He turns his head and cocks an eyebrow before resuming cleanup of the tools.

  "Sorry about earlier. I just saw the photos and got curious."

  He grunts in response.

  I take a second to work up the courage to speak again. And I'm not sure I should ask this question, but I do.

  "Who's the girl?"

  Havok places the last tool in his toolbox and then stands up stiffly. "Why are you prying?"

  "Sorry," I say, staring at my feet. I can tell he's still looking at me, and it makes me nervous. Finally he says something.

  "That was my fiancée. Was."

  I look back up at him. "What happened?"

  "Something... bad," he says. "And I couldn't protect her."

  Before I can respond, he picks up the toolbox and walks away.

  20

  Havok

  That evening, I get a call from Luka. Meet at the old Bayside train tracks ASAP, he says. Pakhan Petrov has an urgent matter to discuss.

  "Into the bedroom," I tell Penny, who's wearing my blue apron and washing dishes in the kitchen sink. "I have to go out." I try to flush our earlier conversation from my mind, but it haunts me. The specter of my ex-fiancée, raped and executed in cold blood. I thought she was safe, in my home, like Penny is now.

  But she wasn't. They came for her, and they got her, and her blood stains my hands so deeply.

  Penny turns off the faucet, the sink still full of dirty dishes. She wipes her hands on the apron, which perfectly hugs her sexy fucking curves. It's all I can do not to tear it to shreds, to press my lips against her soft skin, to taste her sweetness and lose myself in her fuckable body.

  I think I'm losing the battle. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to resist her.

  "Not the bed again," she pleads. "I'm so tired of being cooped up in there."

  Annoyance claws its way through my insides. If only she knew the risks I'm taking for her, she'd never complain. A few weeks until I figure this all out, or a lifetime as a sex slave to a crusty old white man in Russia. She thinks I'm keeping her selfishly so she doesn't run to the cops. She has no idea of the truth. But I can't fucking tell her. Can't let her know what I really am.

  "Come," I say.

  I follow her upstairs and into the bedroom.

  "Here," I say, dragging a love seat next to the bed. "Sit, if you don't want to lie."

  She plops down into the leather seat, a sullen look on her face. It's the best alternative I can offer her, but it's a far cry from the freedom she wants.

  "Arm."

  She extends her arm toward the bed, avoiding eye contact with me. I bend over and handcuff her wrist to the bedframe as I always do. Every touch of her pale skin against my rough, guilty hands makes my heart beat faster. And I swear that her chest rises and falls faster than normal.

  I leave my hand on hers, as if to comfort her. But she'll be just fine while I'm with the boys. The truth is, I just want to touch her a little longer.

  "I want my purse," she says. "And water."

  I withdraw my hand from the top of hers, and suddenly the electric current is gone. "Very well."

  I grab her purse from downstairs, and refill the CamelBak that I've been letting her use. Just as I'm climbing back up, her purse rattles softly. It sounds strange, catches my ear. I don't want to violate her privacy by searching her bag, but I can't afford any slip ups.

  So I peer into it and dig around inside. A couple Willow Winters paperback novels. Makeup containers. Tampons. Ugh.

  No sign of anything suspicious. I must have misheard.

  I take the stuff back upstairs and leave it with her. "I'll be back tonight," I tell her. "I'll get food."

  She just glares at me. I have a feeling she's not going to accept this situation much longer.

  Rain drizzles by the train tracks, and the overcast afternoon air smells of wet wood. No train has run on these tracks for at least a decade, maybe two. There's nothing around here but thick woods. It's a place where even miscreants and homeless don't dare to venture. It's a place for men who need to talk without being overheard.

  Men like us.


  Petrov, Valentin, and Luka are waiting when I pull up in my car. No sign of Igor, though, and I don't fucking like that. That means he could be anywhere, doing God-knows-what.

  Luka and Valentin are smoking cigarettes, and Valentin offers me one as I walk up.

  I shake my head, but Petrov speaks up. "I take it," he says, pinching the cigarette out of Valentin's fingers. He tears the filter off and throws it into the gravel under the tracks. His hands shake as Valentin lights the cigarette for him. He's uncharacteristically nervous.

  I shoot a glance at Luka. He's a burly son of a bitch who doesn't easily get nervous. But he's sweating right now, too.

  Valentin draws long on his cigarette, and blows the smoke out his nose. "Alright boss," he says, pushing his blonde hair back behind his ears. "Tell us what's going on."

  Petrov takes a drag of his cigarette and glances nervously from side to side. "Word coming down from Grigory. Not happy with cash flow. Not enough girl shipments."

  It sickens me that we've reduced women to a tradable commodity. Shipments, my ass. In the past couple weeks, Igor's "shipped" only one girl, Violet from the club. I knew it was coming, and it fucking tore me up inside, but I couldn't stop it. Not while I have Penny to protect.

  I share a glance with Luka and Valentin, and I know they're thinking the same thing. Back when we got into this game, there was still a sense of ethics in the organization. Some things were just not done.

  But none of us are going to bitch in front of our pakhan. Especially not me, not after I already opened my mouth once, not while it could draw any further scrutiny toward me. Not while I'm protecting Penny.

  "He got another job for us," says Petrov, looking at me. "A hit."

  I nod.

  "You're best man. Make this go smooth. Or all our necks on the line." Petrov has always been Grigory's right-hand man. If even he's nervous now, Grigory must be fucking pissed.

  "Alright." I can handle the pressure. I got no issues following through on a hit. That's my bread and butter. It's just this damn trafficking that fucks with my conscience.

  "Just tell me who," I say.

  "Sanchez. Guatemalan that has that gun-running ring in Brighton Beach."

  "That's our territory," says Valentin.

  "Yeah," says Petrov.

  "He's in Guatemala Grill restaurant on Friday and Saturday nights. It's front but he takes seriously as cash source."

  "I hear you can make a killing in the restaurant business," says Luka.

  "Right. Havok, take him out while he's on clock."

  "Roger that," I say. "I got it covered."

  After the meeting, I run a couple errands. I stop by the hardware store to pick up equipment for the hit. Steel wire for a garrote. Some steel wool to stuff in that fat fuck's mouth after I do the job.

  That's just a stylistic touch.

  Finally, I stop by a Mexican take-out place to get food for me and Penny. She's been home alone for nearly five hours now. She should be safe, squirreled away in my house, but I wouldn't put it past Grigory to have Igor "check up" on my place, what with all the shit going down right now.

  "Penny!" I shout as I step into the front door. The scent of enchilada sauce and fresh corn chips wafts into my nostrils. I didn't realize how hungry I was.

  Penny doesn't respond to my call. It shouldn't faze me, but as I jog up the steps to check on her, I can't help worrying.

  But when I get to the bedroom, there she is, fast asleep on the love seat, one arm draped over the bed and handcuffed to the frame. Her long, auburn hair spills over the side of the seat, contrasting perfectly with the white leather. God, she's beautiful. My cock stirs against my leg, and my gaze lingers on her lips. Fuck, to feel those lips wrapped around my cock just once.

  But soon enough, I'll get her out of here, and put an end to this dangerous flirtation. Get my head screwed on straight, and get my focus back.

  I place the take-out bag on the nightstand and put a hand on her shoulder. My cock stiffens at that simple touch, like I'm a naive schoolboy. I prepare to shake her awake, but I hesitate. Instead, I turn my hand over and brush it over her soft, bare arm. Blood surges into my cock. I imagine her waking up to me, looking up into my eyes, and unbuckling my pants. She'd wrap those delicate fingers around my rock-hard cock, work it up and down, and taste the glistening pre-cum I can feel on the tip of my cock.

  "Havok?" she mumbles, stirring. I instinctively withdraw my hand. She opens her brown eyes and looks up at me.

  "Dinner," I say. I almost add "honey," something I used to call Irina. The fuck is wrong with me, anyway?

  I think I detect a faint smile, but it fades before I'm certain. Penny rattles the handcuffs. "Let me go," she says.

  I pull the keys out of my pocket and toss them in her lap. "Do it yourself."

  She cocks an eyebrow. "Trusting me with the keys now?"

  "Only in my presence."

  "What're you so afraid of?" she asks. She fumbles with the keys, trying to figure out how to insert them in the lock.

  I'm afraid of you leaving, I think.

  "You turning me over to the cops," I say.

  She finally succeeds in freeing herself. "I wouldn't do that."

  "I have to be sure," I say. "Come on. Let's eat."

  Downstairs, we sit opposite each other at my dinner table. The base is Incan carved wood, the surface pure crystal from the caves of Morocco. One of my more prized pieces. I watch Penny as she wolfs down a double order of cheese enchiladas. Sauce spills over the edge of the white Styrofoam container, dotting the crystal surface.

  I take small, controlled bites of my tostada, using the side of the fork to cut my food.

  "We need to talk," she says, pausing her consumption to dab a napkin at the corner of her mouth.

  "Is that right?" I say.

  "You can't keep handcuffing me."

  "Wrong," I say. "I can do whatever I like."

  She frowns. "It's not fair." Her lips are puffy and pouty, and I ignore an urge to run my fingers over them.

  I glare at her. "What's not fair is the complaining you do in spite of my generosity. I am keeping you here at great risk. I could've simply killed you."

  She throws down the corn chip in her hand, and rises from her chair. "I never asked to be brought here. I don't even know who you really are. Or what you do when you leave at night."

  "Sit down."

  She shakes her head no and crosses her arms. Sighing, I stand. My height dwarfs hers. I'm probably a good foot taller than she is. "I said, sit."

  "You can't order me around. I'm not your slave."

  You would have been someone else's, though.

  She makes a disgusted sound and points at me with her index finger, poking me in the chest hard. Right in the solar plexus.

  "I want to know something else," she says.

  "Oh?"

  "You know anything about missing girls at Fascinations?"

  Fuck. Does she see right through me?

  I try to look shocked. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Kenzie said lots of girls are disappearing. Are you the one making them disappear? Like you did to me?"

  "That's insanity. I don't know anything about it," I say.

  She pauses for a moment, and finally replies, "Fine. But don't tie me up anymore."

  "I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head. "I just can't agree to that."

  "What if," she says, hesitating, "You don't cuff me the nights you're home. Under one condition."

  "Go on," I say, waiting to hear her suggestion.

  "I'll sleep in your bed. So you know I'm not going anywhere."

  Her words hit me like a fucking Mack truck. Holy shit. She wants me, I know it. And I want her. I want to say yes, with every fiber of my body.

  But I can't. I won't. This is a dangerous game I'm playing, and it's fucking with me. If I don't get my head sorted soon, get this distraction out of my head, I'm going to slip up and get myself killed.

  I shake my
head, trying to remain poised. "No. Finish your food and then I'm putting you to bed."

  21

  Penny

  After Havok puts me to bed, I curl up into a ball. I'm wearing a big, fluffy oversized sweater that I pull over my knees to keep myself warm, like I used to do when I was a little girl.

  I see the way he looks at me, and I thought for sure he'd let me into his bed when I asked plain as day.

  But he didn't. And it confuses the hell out of me.

  Maybe he's confused about what he wants. I know I am. Half the time, I want him. To fill me, up, to fuck me hard. The other half of the time, I want to escape from here.

  But I figure, getting out of these handcuffs and into his bed, that's a first step toward either goal.

  Well, I tried.

  I'm getting to know the sounds of the house better. I recognize when the garage door opens, when the front door opens, and when he walks down the hall toward my room.

  Right now, I hear nothing, but I still watch the clock and wait a full twenty minutes after he leaves, to make sure he's not coming back.

  Finally, when I'm convinced he's gone to bed, I reach out with my free hand and snag my purse. I pull it onto the bed, and its contents spill onto my lap. But I'm not looking for a hair tie or a tampon. I'm looking for something else. An even more precious resource that's rapidly running out.

  My pills.

  I fish around in my purse until I feel the hidden zipper. I tug at it, trying to unzip it one-handed. Finally it opens far enough to stick my finger in, and I fish out a single, small round blue pill. I threw out the pill bottle long ago, because I'm too low to need it. I have four, maybe five pills left.

  I hold the capsule on the tip of my finger like a precious gem, looking at it in the dark. Or maybe I'm holding it like a poisonous morsel. In this case, there's no difference.

  I want to stop taking these, but I'm hooked. But it'll work itself out soon. Because I'm going to run out, and I won't have the option to get more. It's going to be a forced detox. Honestly, I'm terrified. It's going to be bad. Really bad.