Phantom's Baby: A Mafia Secret Baby Romance (Mob City Book 3)

by Holly Hart

  She buried her fingers in my hair, made a fist, and pulled. "No," she said, as she forced my face up and my eyes met hers. "Come here."

  She pulled me up, and I clambered up her body even as the roots of my hair protested. I didn't care. She could have done anything to me. I kicked off my jeans, until only one stubborn ankle remained, and then I forgot that, too.

  My cock hung free, pressed up against her skin, her heat combining with mine until it felt like a volcano.

  She took it in her hand, squeezed, and pressed it between her thighs.

  It was enough of a signal for me.

  I pushed her legs apart, placed two fingers against her overheated, soaking pussy and rubbed. Her back arched, and I took my cock in my hand and entered her. One inch at a time at first, and then she relaxed, her eyes closed, biting her bottom lip. And then it was easy, I slid into her until I was buried to the hilt. She cried out, I paused, but she grabbed my ass and pulled me in.

  I fucked with long, hard strokes, held her arms down until she was at my mercy. It was unlike any sex that I had ever had. It wasn't about the pleasure, or satisfying some deep human urge, or fucking away the pain that had followed me every day of my life. It was about coming together.

  It was about surviving.

  It was about living again.

  I felt my climax rising already, felt all the tiny muscles around my cock beginning to stiffen, to clench together. "Ellie…" I murmured. "I'm close." She opened her eyes, and met mine with a look that was dulled by pleasure, need and desire.

  It sent me over the edge, and I crashed into her one last time, every nerve on my body overloading. She gasped out as a hotness filled her, dug the fingers and her nails into my ass, locked her legs around my body, and every muscle in hers stiffened as she climaxed with me.

  I collapsed on top of her, every inch of hot, sweaty skin on hers. We were each other's, tonight.

  We would face tomorrow together.

  30

  Ellie

  What nobody ever tells you about wearing a police uniform is how goddamn heavy it is!

  Although, in the interests of honesty – I've never actually had a conversation with anyone about wearing a police uniform. Still, by the time I'd shucked on those big, black, ugly boots, which have gotta weigh a pound each on their own; put that belt on, and filled up the assortment of pockets and straps that never seemed to end, I must have had about 20 pounds worth of kit strapped to my body. Oh, and that's not even mentioning the gun on my waist, or the billy club, truncheon thingy.

  I used to think carrying my bag around town in the summer heat was bad enough! But at least I could wear a skirt…

  I caught my reflection in a shop window as I passed and barely recognized myself. My hair was pulled into a tight bun, like a schoolteacher's, or a headmistress, my uniform was intentionally ill-fitting, and I had a tattered navy blue rucksack slung over my shoulder. I wasn't wearing no makeup, but makeup designed to make me look like I was wearing no makeup. Convoluted, right? Still, I had to admit, the whole effect worked. I doubted that anyone would recognize me, and that was the most important thing.

  Roman had watched with dismay as the Russian makeup girl Maya sent round painted my face. She didn't say a word, other than the occasional da, or to grunt, but she transformed my face until I was as plain as the day is long. I looked away from the window. I didn't want to see myself like this. And besides, the more I saw my reflection, and the uniform I was wearing, the more I realized how crazy this plan was.

  I wish you were here, Roman.

  But he wasn't. He was the distraction. Maya's plan was complicated, and had more moving parts than the US Army's Cold War plans to invade Russia. Which, in a sense, was what we were doing. I grinned. An Irish-American-Russian coalition against, well, the Russians… Who'da thunk it?

  Get it together, Ellie.

  The plan was simple. Conor and Roman distracted Victor. Maya got the kid, and I – well, I knocked over the domino to bring Victor's whole empire crashing down. And, perhaps, get Alexandria back on a path to civilization. It was a pretty big task. Especially since I didn't have the faintest clue as to how the police worked. It hadn't even sounded easy in the back of the limo. "Oh, just saunter into Alexandria's police logistics center, somehow break into a heavily guarded evidence locker, find my old rucksack and get the story out…"

  Yeah, right.

  I gulped, straightened the name badge on my uniform, which read Ellie Wilkins, and stepped through a set of sliding glass doors into another world. Logistic center was in a business park on the outskirts of town. It was barely more than a warehouse with an office attached. I was banking on the fact that Alexandria's finest, the cream of the crop, probably weren't posted out here. It would be the bottom percentile from the police academy, the washouts, support staff, and the other flotsam and jetsam that made up a modern police force. Still, it was a gamble.

  I handed my badge to a bored looking officer. It was the part that I had been dreading. To my eyes, the ID card looked fine. Laminated, a picture that looked suspiciously like the one I'd sent off to the DMV, the works. I had no idea what hat Maya had pulled that particular rabbit out from. As with the uniform, I didn't want to ask… Luckily, the officer's eyes were dead. He barely scanned it before waving me through.

  I was in.

  My fist clenched in satisfaction the second I rounded the nearest corner. I found myself in a concrete, breeze block corridor. It was hardly the stuff of Ocean's Eleven… I didn't imagine that anyone would be writing screenplays about this heist. I hoped not, anyway.

  "Come on, Ellie," I mumbled to myself, searching a patchwork of signage for anything that resembled the words evidence room.

  "Hey, lucky lady," a man's voice wheezed from above my right shoulder. "I haven't seen you around these parts before."

  I froze.

  No! You made it this far!

  I chose my words carefully. "Oh, you know, bureaucracy," I chuckled, setting my hands on my hips as though it was the most normal thing in the world. "Paper pushers up top, that kind of thing. Right hand doesn't know what the left's doing."

  My heart thundered like a pack of wild horses as I waited for the man, whoever he was, to tap on my shoulder, tell me to face the wall and stick my hands behind my back. The game was up, I knew it.

  Except, thankfully, it wasn't.

  "Oh, don't I know it! The man chuckled. "Say, you don't look like you've been here before. Can I help?"

  My eyes were fixed to the wall, doing a merry dance as I panicked. In the end, it was what saved me. The sign for the evidence room was worn away, painted over and then scratched out, and then stuck on with a paper label. Best and brightest, my ass.

  "No," I said lightly, spinning on my heel. "I'm all good. Thanks for your help." I smiled at the man as I forced each of my legs to move in turn. He was a beast of a man, perhaps verging on three hundred pounds, and just a shade over 6 foot tall. Unlike Roman, though – it was all fat. He even had crumbs of icing sugar on his dark blue shirt collar that screamed the fact that he'd been eating doughnuts to high heaven.

  Come on, buddy, I chided to myself. That's what they're expecting. You gotta be better than that.

  "Colin," he offered to my disappearing back. "Don't worry about it."

  "Thanks Colin!" I called back, careful not to look back at him over my shoulder. I was pretty sure he hadn't got a good look at my face. Still, a guy like that didn't strike me as a shining example of police skill. I was in. In, and on my way. Part one, check.

  I walked past the evidence locker twice, grabbing a folder off an empty desk the second time. I buried my head in it as I walked, doing a full recce out of the corner of my eye. It was pretty much as we expected – manned by one aging Sergeant, bald-headed, and a beer belly to boot. He sat behind a plexiglass screen, and commanded a full view of the evidence locker's small waiting room.

  "Shit." I cursed, under my breath, ducking into an empty conference room. There was
no going around him, no avoiding him. It was as we had suspected, but no less galling for the forewarning. I needed a way past, and fast.

  I checked my watch, a cheap, ugly black Timex, noticing that my foot was jittering uncontrollably against the floor. Any time now, Roman and Conor would be going head-to-head with Victor and his men. I didn't have a second spare, not a moment to lose. I wanted to sink into a black hole, anything to get me out of this situation. There was so much riding on me, so much pressure, that I felt I might crack underneath it.

  Except that wasn't an option. I couldn't let Roman put himself in danger for our baby, especially not after last night, and do nothing to help. I was better than that, stronger. There had to be a way out a solution. I just wasn't seeing it.

  I rifled through the big square leg pockets on my uniform and pulled out the lock picking device. It taunted me. I was so close, yet so far. It was nothing, really, just a piece of plastic that looked like a credit card, attached to a wire, and then on to a small black box.

  It was a very little thing to put a whole lot of faith in. If it didn't work as advertised, I suspected that I was going to jail for a very, very long time.

  My fingers brushed against a small cardboard box. It felt unfamiliar, and I closed my fingers around it out of idle curiosity. But it was just a pack of cigarettes – nothing useful. I spied a gray metal trashcan in the corner and tossed it in. It landed, danced on the rim, and then plunged inside, nestling on a cushion of shredded paper.

  Nothing useful.

  Nothing useful?

  I stared at the trashcan, wild eyed, as the beginnings of an idea began to crystallize in my mind. It couldn't work. Surely it couldn't work.

  But it might, and it wasn't exactly like I was brimming with other ideas. I rushed to the trashcan, never more excited to see something so mundane in my entire life. I fished out the pack, opened it up and pulled out a cigarette. I stared at it like a Native American might eyed have a Pilgrim – I'd never so much as held one in my entire life, despite the fact I'd spent my life in newsrooms, around people who smoked more often than they breathed clean air.

  "Only you could be this uncool, Ellie," I murmured to myself as I searched for a lighter. "You're fucking a goddamn hitman, and you're still the most naïve, uncool girl at school."

  I placed the trashcan as close to the nearest smoke detector as I could without raising suspicion. After all, I figured, if I left it in the middle of the room and set it on fire, someone was bound to get suspicious. I pulled most of the bundle of shredded paper out and shoved it into a supply closet. I was trying to cause a distraction, not burn the whole goddamn warehouse down…

  "Here goes nothing," I said, holding the lighter under the end of the cigarette and flicking the flint.

  It sparked, but didn't catch.

  "Dammit, Ellie," I swore. "You can't even get the catchphrase right."

  I sparked it again, and the cigarette burst into flame, the same dull oranges the setting sun. I laid it gently in the trashcan. I didn't trust myself to actually flick it in. This wasn't the movies. I watched, mesmerized, as the rest of the shredded paper curled into flame.

  I darted behind the door, flicked the magnetic catch keeping it open, and hid behind it. The last thing I wanted was anyone actually smelling smoke… That would scupper my plan before it even got going. The smoke floated upwards, a tornado in reverse, and tickled my nose.

  But the alarm didn't go off. Of course it didn't go off, because why would anything go right for me this week? I stared at the smoke detector, willing its stupid, tiny little electronic brain to do the one goddamn thing it was designed to do – detect.

  At long last, a wail echoed throughout the building. A piercing, cinematic screech that punctured my eardrums and had me clutching my hands to my ears. But now, the smoke smelled like success. I peeked through the tiniest of cracks in the doorway, staring down the corridor to where the evidence locker lay, waiting for someone to stumble out and head for the parking lot. Finally, he came, and my stomach did a backflip for joy. The balding Sergeant practically waddled down the corridor, and I could hear his grumbles over the screech of the fire alarm.

  It sounded like success. The second he disappeared out of sight, I stomped the fire in the trashcan out, shoved the rest of the shredded paper back in on an impulse, to hide what I'd done, and darted down the corridor, lock picker in hand.

  I swiped the small piece of black plastic. The lock beeped once, but flashed red.

  "Shit."

  I tried again, but got the same result. This time, the red LED flashed twice, as if in warning. I suspected that if I got it wrong a third time, either I would be locked out, or an alarm would sound. And if it did, my day would go from bad to very, very bad. I stared at the lock picker, boiling over with impotent rage. "What's your problem, you useless piece of –. Oh." My mouth went very small. I felt smaller, and couldn't resist a glance around to make sure no one had seen my mistake – even though if had someone seen it, I'd be in a hell of a lot more trouble that I was already.

  I thumbed a small switch on the side of the box, and felt a satisfying mechanical click reverberate through the device. It beeped twice, and a string of numbers danced across the screen, like a motel alarm clock restarting. And then, five letters. READY.

  Heart in mouth, I brought the card attachment back up to the locking unit. My hand trembled. This was it. If this didn't work, then for all I knew I might be signing Roman's death certificate – and mine. I swiped.

  The lock beeped once.

  It flashed – green.

  I was in. Really in.

  But my task was only just beginning.

  31

  Roman and Conor

  "Looks like I've brought a knife to a gunfight," Conor commented wryly.

  I looked up at him, then back down at my nicked , chipped, but impeccably maintained black AR-15, and then repeated the routine just for luck. I shrugged. "I like to be prepared," I said.

  "I can see that, mate. You really need all that? How many boys you think Victor's bringing down, an army?"

  I repeated myself. "I like to be prepared."

  The wind whipped along and down the river delta, until it reached the reclaimed floodplain that we now stood on, huddled behind an old, rust-colored steel pillar for shelter. There were dozens of the pillars, all different heights and sizes, some of which rose no higher than my shoulder, and others that towered over me. One hundred and fifty-seven, according to a green-stained copper plaque, one for every man from Alexandria who had given his life in the Vietnam War.

  "Listen, fella," Conor smiled, flipping the K-bar knife, the only weapon he brought with him, in his hand like a circus trickster. "I wouldn't feel right, you know, shooting up a war memorial. Leaves a bad taste in the mouth, and all that," he said, adapting his thick Irish broke to mimic an old English Lord. "It's just not the done thing, you do understand?"

  I cocked my head to one side, considering what he was suggesting. "If I've got a shot," I grunted. "I'm going to take it."

  "Well, it's hard to argue with tha'!" Conor grinned. "And don't get me wrong, my friend, I like your style. But we've got to get serious. Victor's going to bring half a dozen men, maybe ten. You can't take them all out, not even with that," he said, pointing my chest.

  I patted the rifle clipped to the front of my body armor. "I'm a good shot."

  Conor sighed. "My man, I've been where you are, all torn up inside because someone's tried to keep me from my child."

  I looked up and stared at the Irishman with a beady eyed, suddenly intrigued. A little voice at the back of my head told me that he was pushing my buttons, telling me what I wanted to hear. But another voice, a much stronger one, said he was telling the truth. Either that or he was an astonishing liar, damn near sociopathic, and my gut told me that that wasn't the case. I'd swum in waters teeming with sociopaths and psychopaths and serial killers and murderers for years, and Conor didn't have that vibe – where a man's smile di
dn't meet his eyes, where his laughter rang false, where it was more like he was a poltergeist inhabiting a meat suit than a person.

  Conor was none of those things.

  "Oh yes," he chuckled, a humorless laugh that seemed designed to cover over a deeper hurt. "The Antonovs are a pretty sick kettle of fish, when you get to know them. Except Maya, of course," he amended. "But she's a Regan now, anyway."

  "What happened," I said, stating instead of asking, my manners disappearing in the face of an overwhelming urge to know the truth, to find someone who could share my pain. "Tell me."

  "No," Conor said simply. "I'm not going to. It was a shitty time in my life, and it’s not one I'm like to revisit anytime soon. Not if I want to sleep tonight. I'll tell you something, though. Four years. Four years her da' hid her away from me, four years I didn't know my son existed. Look into my eyes, I dare you, and tell me I don't know what you're going through…" He said, facing up to me, feet, hips and jaw all set firm.

  It was the only answer I needed. "We've got movement," I grunted, sidestepping the awkwardness in the time-honored fashion of men all over the world – ignoring it. "Two – no, make that three black SUVs, rolling in fast."

  They really were, speeding off-road across the floodplain, kicking up dry dust behind them as they crashed through small sandbanks of deposited mud and silt. I almost nodded with approval. Avoiding the road – and a potential ambush – was good tactics, whatever I thought of the man himself.

  "He's done this before," Conor murmured, his earlier bravado disappearing as the enemy sped into view. He was a brave man, I thought, without doubt. But he was a fighter, not a killer. Killers can fight, and fighters can kill – but there's a difference the size of the Grand Canyon between the two.

  I clapped him on the shoulder. "You're right," I said, placing my rifle on the ground and pulling an Israeli combat knife from my ankle holster. "We need to get in close, pick off the men on his perimeter one by one. Can you shoot?"