Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Kit
By Stella Marie Alden
Copyright (C) 2017 Stella Marie Alden
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 1
Kasim (Kit) Tufek
Sunday Aug 1
My doorbell buzzes, I place my ham sandwich on the granite countertop, and grumble. It’s probably some nosy neighbor. Other than a select few, no one knows where I live, and I damn well like it that way.
Out in the hall, a dark-haired stranger in a cheap business suit flashes a badge at the peephole. “FBI. Can we talk?”
“Can I say no?” I promised a few kids a game of street hockey and they’re waiting for me.
“Sure. I’ll get a warrant. Sit tight. Be right back.” When he takes a few steps down the hall, I unbolt my door, and the arrogant bastard shoves past my stainless-steel appliances, and sizes me up and down.
I haven’t done anything illegal. Certainly not since arriving in the states. If he wants a fight, I’ll take him down. I got at least forty pounds on him and six inches.
“What da hell do you want?” I get my face up in his and he’s smart enough to take a step back.
“I understand you’re undergoing physical therapy?”
“Yeah. Some law against dat? Eh?”
“Sit down, Mr. Tufek.” The man turns, saunters into my goddamned living room, and sinks into my new leather couch.
Chewing slowly, I grab the rest of my sandwich and lean against the wall next to my hockey stick. “You said something about a warrant?”
“We think you might have witnessed a crime.” Beady dark eyes above a misshapen nose hone in on me.
I wouldn’t tell this guy squat, even if my life depended on it. “Haven’t seen a thing.”
The Fed’s eyes narrow as he unbuttons his jacket, slowly exposing a holstered revolver. Then he flashes a snake-like smile, his hand inside his jacket.
“How much do you like living in the US of A?” Fifteen years ago, there was a similar lowlife, a Croatian border guard, holding a gun to my father’s temple.
That’s why I grab my stick and picture the American bloodied, laid out on my floor.
“Are you fuckin’ d’reatening me?” I could break his fingers and he wouldn’t know what hit him.
Paling, he moves his hand away from his weapon. “Maybe you should calm down.”
“What, exactly, are you doing here?” I stand an inch in front of him and if he makes a move, he’s going down.
“It’s quite simple. I understand that you’re friends with Melanie Quinn?”
“None of your business.” No doubt, the moment I ram this stick up his ass, I’ll lose my visa but you don’t mess with people I care about.
My fists clamp around the familiar wood as the bâtard spreads his arms over the back of my couch. “If you play your cards right, Ms. Quinn won’t be involved. The FBI is simply asking for your cooperation.”
“Go on.”
“A Russian figure skater will hand you something, you’ll put it in your pocket, and I’ll come get it.” He reaches into his pocket, taps his cell phone a few times, and hands it to me.
Oh, fuck. My balls tighten at the sight of Sonia Dmitriyev. In four years, she’s grown even more beautiful. Suddenly, his request has my complete cooperation.
I still got this reoccurring nightmare where I’m back in Sochi and agree to fuck her. That little piece of jail-bait almost cost me my job. Thank God that my mates warned me or my life would’ve ended after those Olympics.
“Let’s say I agree to do this one thing for you. After dat, we’re done?”
Nodding, his hand reaches out to shake on the deal. Instead, I squeeze so hard he falls onto his knees with eyes watering. After, with my left hand I unsnap his holster, take out his gun, and click off the safety.
With the muzzle to his head, I say, “You don’t want to fuck wid me. Understand?”
He glares and refuses to yield.
“Say it.” I push the metal into his thick skull and cock the trigger.
“Shit. Yes. I understand.”
Smiling, I help him to his feet and shove him out the door like trash. Then, after letting the gun clip bounce on the hallway carpet, I hand him his weapon.
“Fuck off.”
Somehow, Sonia has gotten herself into a pile of shit and I got a real ache in my gut about it. After putting a pod of Earl Gray into the coffee machine, I pull out my laptop, and find her on YouTube. Graceful as an angel, she glides across the ice in a costume showing a hell of lot more curves than I recall. Her sleek black hair is in a tight bun, her skin flawless but it’s those eyes that get to me. Those goddamned, almond-shaped fuck-me-now, doe-eyes. Even now, they make my blood run south creating a large, uncomfortable erection.
Obviously, it’s now time to do what she wanted when she was seventeen and purge her from my system. If I help her out of this jam, I’m betting she’ll be more than willing.
Chapter 2
Kit
Four years ago in Sochi
Even though every muscle in my body aches, it’s nothing now that I stand on the podium while O Canada plays. Then, after doing countless interviews and hundreds of photo shoots, me and a few of mes amies find a local dive to blow off steam.
“To winning the gold!” I shoot down another whiskey, trying to recall how many I’ve had.
Sticks, who scored the winning goal, grabs my arm and leads me out of the bar, “C’mon, it’s time we all got some food.”
After, we all stagger to the hotel bar and kid around with some of the ladies on our figure skating team. The singles are hooking up fast and if I want a woman tonight, I need to make my move.
Suddenly, deep brown eyes and bright red lips make my heart pound. Sitting all alone, this exotic creature tucks a lock of silky black hair behind a delicate ear and shoots me a shy smile across the bar. When her long lashes float down and touch the top of her blushing red cheeks, I think I found heaven.
I sidle up to her, expecting to score, especially when the dark centers of her eyes widen fully. “Can I buy you a drink, princess?”
“English not so good.” She could be Chinese, which is okay. Who needs to converse?
I call out to the bartender, and point. “Can you get her another?”
His eyebrows raise, he pours plain cola on ice, and places it down on the bar in front of us. When I push the tumbler her way, our
knuckles meet and…holy hosts. My whole body lights on fire and my cock crams against my jeans. I’ve heard guys talk about sparks but this, this is pure fucking lightning.
Her mouth drops open, her gaze shoots to her hand, and her tongue slips over her lower lip. And, when her eyes lift back to mine, I drag my chair a little closer until our knees touch and she puts her other hand on my thigh. Damn, time to skip dinner, bring her to my room, and sink into her folds.
“I wish I could tell you… I think I already love you.” She whispers, sighs, and suddenly, I’m on fire.
I haven’t spoken Russian for years. “I thought you were Chinese.”
“Mongolian.” Her laugh is sweet, young, and innocent.
That should’ve been my first clue. The second was when my friends, still sitting around the bar, snickered.
I just figured they were jealous so my arm goes to the back of her chair, announcing to all she is claimed.
“Would you come up to my room, after dinner?” She places a kiss on my lips, so filled with passion, it takes supreme effort not to spill my load. That hasn’t happened since puberty.
“Sonia?” At the angry male voice, she jumps a mile, her eyes go wide, and she reaches into her bag.
Still shaking, she presses a hotel card into my hand. “Number one zero four.”
The man shoots me a murderous look, clamps onto her upper arm, then drags her away.
What the fuck was that?
Dumbfounded, I just sit there until an American sits down in her seat and pushes an index finger into my forehead. “Dude! Jailbait. Ding. Ding. Ding.”
“Her? Seriously?” The couple has already disappeared into the restaurant.
“Didn’t you watch the figure skating finals?” He laughs, shaking his head back and forth.
“No. I was training, eh? You might win more often if you’d do the same.”
Everyone in the bar starts laughing as the guy says, “Dude, she’s seventeen!”
“Why didn’t one of you idiots say something?” I shoot my supposed friends a look meant to kill, stand, and order myself a drink.
“Way too much fun to see you squirm, especially when her old man gave you the evil eye.” Sticks, my former friend from Montreal, pays for my drink and slaps me on the back.
“That was her father?” I pointedly fold her key card back and forth until it breaks.
The woman with her arm around my friend’s waist snickers. “Rumors are he’s connected with Russian Mafia.”
“You all think dis is funny? Some crazy hitman gunning me down?” My palm shoots to my forehead. “Merde. I had no idea she was so young under all that professional war paint.” I feel like a complete pervert but what can I do, eh?
I buy a round, glad I dodged a bullet, and laugh with them.
“Good one, eh?”
Chapter 3
Sonia Dmitriyev
Present Day
“Father?” I tap on my father’s door, take a deep breath, and enter Sergei Dmitriyev’s sacred domain.
Relieved the room is empty, I tiptoe across his priceless oriental rug and a sigh escapes me as I stare down onto Fifth Avenue. Just once, I’d love to walk to Rockefeller Center, shop, or go to the top of the Empire State Building.
Suddenly, I hear my father’s shouting in the hall. When the door handle turns, I jump into his private bathroom, shaking. His Russian gets louder, he threatens to kill someone, then he stomps across the room. When the office door bangs, all goes quiet except for my heart’s rapid beat.
Feeling lucky to have barely escaped the wrath of the almighty Dmitriyev, I head for the couch. In my experience, that’s the only place to endure his endless lectures. On the way, I pass the off-limits space behind his desk. Even though I know better, I sneak a glance at his monitor.
I stop dead when I see my name, click open the email, and gasp.
No way! I’m nothing but a stupid goat!
In exactly two months from today, the email says I’m to be married in Moscow to the man I despise most on this planet, my coach, Leonid Blokov. My skin crawls at the thought of bedding him. He’s at least twice my age and cruel to the point of abusive. I’d think it all an awful joke but for the blood test and my fake signature.
This time, my father has gone too far. I won’t allow it.
Glancing up at the commotion in the hall, I freeze. What if he finds me here?
After a few seconds, when no one enters, I open email after email. Surely, something can be found to use as leverage. Despite what he may think, I’m not completely stupid. I know my father’s business isn’t above board.
Oh shit.
I should be thrilled. Instead, I swallow back the acid forming at the back of my throat when I find a reference to Petya, the virus that recently hit the Ukraine. The email mentions payment and the elimination of some hacker in Moscow.
Elimination? As in death?
Hands shaking, I open his desk drawer to search for a USB drive, and find none. Then, with a flash of inspiration, I pull out my cell phone and snap pictures of his monitor. Once I have as much data as I dare, I carefully put everything back in order and run out of the room. Perhaps I’ll call an Uber, get back to the rink, and figure out my next move.
Down the hall, I stop as if dead when my father shouts behind me. “Sonia? Is that you?”
“Hello, Papa. I was just coming to find you.” My heart pounds as I turn, making my face like stone.
“Were you in my office?” Like always, his face is hard, his mouth grim.
Never lie to a man like Sergei Dmitriyev. “To use the bathroom.”
“Come.” He motions me into his domain with a wave of his hand and when I sit on his couch, I sink, knees almost to chin.
Of course, he leans against his desk, towering above.
To those that don’t know any better, my father might appear handsome. His tailored Italian suit cuts a trim build and his hair is mostly jet black, graying at the temples. However, when he smiles like that, it’s pure evil and I shudder. Piercing dark eyes glare, with a slight tic on the right.
“I want to talk to you about your future.”
When the snake is about to strike it’s best to lower one’s eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t win in Lake Placid. It was very close.”
“Close. Bah. That’s just it. You need more supervision and a firmer hand.”
“Are you going to get me a new coach?” My face, I make like a stacking wooden doll, showing him nothing.
He strolls across the rug, sits down next to me, and puts a hand on my knee. “No, dushka.”
I cringe at his paternal attempt and hold steady. There’s nothing to be done now but to escape his venomous intents.
Then, he sighs, a well-rehearsed affectation that would do any Hollywood actor proud. “I’m not going to live forever.”
Thank God, I don’t say out loud. Instead, I focus on a small spot on the rug, looking like the most dutiful of daughters. When he thinks he’s waited long enough for this wonderful news to sink in, he continues his speech.
“You need someone to manage your career and your finances, someone to take care of you. You need to get married.” His flat smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
I pretend not to notice, jump up excitedly, and kiss him on the cheek as if I never read his horrid email. “Da. Da. Let me go out and meet some nice young man. Someone who you will approve of. Thank you, Papa.”
My father stands and sniffs out his nose. “Like I’d leave something so important to you? Never mind. You’ll be married next month in Moscow.”
“Wait? To who?” My fake smile is almost impossible to keep in place.
“I’d think it’d be obvious. Leonid. He adores you.” With brows creased, his mouth tightens, a much more familiar expression.
I stamp my heel into his stupid rug, fists clenched. “I don’t even like him. He’s old, like you!”
I leave out the part how he’s also just as rotten. No doubt my father would see that as a complimen
t.
Regardless, he waves me away with a flick of his hand. “What you want is of no consequence. Go, now. Continue your practice. I’ve told you what you need to know.”
As is our custom, he says no goodbye and neither do I. Instead, slowly I turn and exit his office, a different woman from the one who entered.
Engaged? To Leonid? He isn’t even a man, he’s a monster. Since I was ten, he has kept me on the ice until my body is bruised and my soul even more so.
I am stupid. I am fat. I am clumsy.
What kind of coach berates an athlete like that?
It’s only because he makes me so angry that I win. That, and the fear of my father’s punishments.
Still, to defy them both? I should be fearful. Instead, I’m giddy as I head crosstown, back to Chelsea Piers. With my phone safely tucked in my purse, I thumb through the internet. CIA, FBI, or police? Who should I call first?
The NYPD puts me on hold and takes my number. That’s hardly the response I need but I suppose, because no one is bleeding or dying, it makes sense. After, I call all those initials along with the Russian Embassy where I also get no one to talk to me. By the time I get to the rink, I’m praying someone will call me back before I’m forced to leave the county.
“Where were you?” Leonid’s waiting outside the changing room, arms crossed over his chest.
“Talking to father.” I know he knows this so why does he ask?
His graying eyebrows are furrowed, wrinkles between them. Unlike my father, time has not been kind.
Along with being overbearing, he’s overweight. “You left his office over thirty minutes ago. The trip should take fifteen.”
“Did you check Google maps? There’s much traffic in the New York City today. Apparently, their president is here and it messes with everything.” I try to keep the anger out of my voice but apparently didn’t succeed because Leonid’s neck tics as his back teeth grind.
“I will not tolerate that tone. Come here.” He pinches my chin so hard it will bruise and drags me to his face, lips crushing mine.
Kit: A Hockey Novella (Players Book 4) Page 1
