Owned by the Mob Boss

by Ashley Hall

  Relax. I had to relax. Stress wasn’t good for the baby.

  Neither was the mom being kidnapped.

  My hand went to my belly. I wasn’t far along at all. I hadn’t even had time to make an appointment with an OB yet. I didn’t know when my due date was. Would I be able to hold this baby? The only hope I had—that the baby and I had—was for Ivan to come for me. With his insistence about the bodyguards, he feared something like this would happen. He was paranoid, and that would hopefully make him puzzle everything out. But that still didn’t mean that he knew where they would take me.

  I never should have run away. Ivan had told me once that he could only vouch for my safety at his place. I had thought that leaving might give the baby a better chance at life, but honestly, that might not have been the case. I would’ve had to look over my shoulder, wondering if Ivan would ever come to collect the child. Plus, I would have had to find a job and medical insurance and I would have needed money for daycare. Yes, I could’ve tapped into the money Ivan paid for the child, but I hadn’t wanted my mom to worry or need money herself.

  Leaving hadn’t been in the best interests of the child, and maybe I hadn’t only left for the baby. Maybe I had been terrified to realize that I had fallen for a man who was a mob boss, who was a killer. And yet, here I was, imagining Ivan bursting in, firing shots, and killing my captors. He’d sweep me into his arms and carry me out of here. A chauffeur would drive us home and would ignore our wandering hands in the backseat and then Ivan would carry me inside his house and bathe me and then take me to bed.

  But what if Ivan is angry with me for running away? I wouldn’t be able to blame him for that. He paid me to do a job for him, and I ran away without fulfilling my end of the deal. It would probably be easier for him to forget all about me, to leave me for dead, to find another woman willing to spread her legs and give him a baby.

  My head lowered and bobbed, and although I fight sleep—too afraid of what the driver would do to me if he stopped standing there, staring at me—I eventually succumbed. My dreams were terrible and vivid, but when I gasped awake, my heart pounding, my forehead covered in sweat, I couldn’t remember what the nightmare had been about.

  “You’re awake.” Handsy was back. Driver was gone.

  I held up my hands as if to ward him off, even though he was standing several feet away from me.

  He grunted.

  Footsteps sounded, and I gripped the chair to keep myself from getting up and running away. The rope remained in the corner, and I did not want them to decide I was a flight risk and tie me. I would cooperate. Maybe they would grow lax. Leave me alone. Give me an opening. I wouldn’t be able to fight my way out, but maybe I could sneak away.

  The driver entered. He carried a plate and a cup and held it out to me.

  I took it. Burnt toast, some soup, and water. I drank some, but just looking at the food made my stomach churn. I was way too nauseated to even try to eat anything. Keeping my eyes on the guys, I slowly bent down and placed the plate on the ground.

  I just wanted to get out of here.

  I just wanted to go home.

  I just wanted to be safe.

  Would I ever feel safe again?

  ***

  I dozed off again, too restless to sleep deeply. At one point, Handsy grabbed me. I struggled from him, but when the driver came over with his hand near his belt, I resisted. Handsy shoved the toast into my mouth, forcing too much in. I had no choice but to chew, and he crammed more in. The burned toast didn’t taste good going down, and it tasted even worse coming back up again. Only because of instinct did I turn away from both of them to puke. Wished I vomited all over them instead.

  The driver cursed me, and Handsy gave me a towel. Before I could start to wipe my mouth, he was already yanking on my arm, pulling me along. Soon we were back outside. There weren’t any stars visible in the sky, and even the moon seemed to be hiding. No one and nothing were parties to the spectacle of the guys forcing me back into the car, touching me as little as possible, acting like I had cooties.

  Never see a pregnant woman before? I wanted to shout at them. I don’t have a disease. I’m not sick. You all are. For kidnapping me. For listening to your boss, whoever he is. Wonder how much their boss is paying them.

  Just before the driver could shut my door, I shoved my leg out to block it. “Look, I don’t know who your boss is,” I said in a rush, “but whatever he’s paying you, Ivan can—”

  “Ivan Kovalsky can pay our boss, who will then pay us.” The driver slammed the door so hard that the car rattled.

  I wiped myself off. Driver got behind the wheel and took off, driving fast but safely. Even though he wasn’t turning corners tight, my stomach didn’t appreciate any movement, and I wound up sick again. Neither of them made any comments, and I just did my best to grin and bear it.

  Watching the dark scenery go by made my stomach even more nauseous. Closing my eyes worsened it. Nothing helped.

  After what felt like an hour, or maybe even longer, the car finally slowed. The driver opened the door for me, and I practically fell out of the car. Handsy walked around to hold my one arm.

  The house they led me through the back door of was massive. Almost as nice as Ivan’s. In the darkness, I didn’t see many details, but it still made an impressive sight.

  This time, I wasn’t shoved into the basement. I was taken into a room devoid of furniture. Two windows with dark curtains. And another stupid chair. More rope in the corner.

  The guys left me, and I heard the lock of the door. Not wanting to lie down on the floor, I opted for the seat. Resting in a chair, a metal fold-up chair, was so uncomfortable, but I didn’t wake up because I had fallen off.

  No. I woke up because my stomach was cramping again. Terrible, sharp bolts of pain.

  Even worse was the blood I saw darkening my pants.

  Oh no. Oh God. Was I…I couldn’t be…

  The room was empty. No one was guarding me. I would love to try and sneak away, but I wasn’t sure I could get far, and if I left the room and found someone, I would be in an even worse way. Besides, the door was most likely still locked anyhow.

  Well, there was one way to see if anyone was around.

  I screamed like mad, blood curdling and terrified, almost a wail.

  Immediately, someone approached, his or her footsteps pounding down the hallway outside. Good thing I didn’t try to leave. Another cramp seized me, and I gasped for breath. I wouldn’t have been able to get far anyhow.

  The door opened to reveal Brute. He stared at me. “What’s…oh.”

  I could only nod as I started to cry.

  Without a word, he left and came back with a dark blanket that he laid on the ground. “Lie down,” he said a little kinder than I would have expected.

  Still crying, I lay down, curled up in a ball.

  “Ah…what…um… I’ll go ask my boss what we should do.” And Brute practically ran out of there.

  I was losing the baby. I was sure of it. No. No! This wasn’t supposed to happen! The baby was supposed to come in eight months. The baby was supposed to be born naturally. The baby was supposed to be breastfed. The baby was supposed to grow up to be an amazing person who would change the world.

  His or her life was supposed to be amazing. And long. He or she wasn’t supposed to die before he or she was even born!

  All I could do was cry and pray and cry some more.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ivan

  Time was not on my side, but I had to do something. No. I had to do everything in my power to get Rachel back, and that meant playing dirty by involving the police.

  No, I didn’t call them and explain the situation. I wasn’t stupid like that. And in case I was being tailed by one of Golovkin’s goons, I had to be very discrete. I walked into the mall and walked around until I found one of the men who participated in a few of the fights. I tailed him into a crowded store and made my move. I slid him a hundred-dollar bill and told
him to deliver this anonymous file to the local sheriff station and that there would be five hundred more for him at the bar if he finished the job in five minutes.

  Four minutes later, Dominic, the guy I had watching the sheriff station, told me the guy had made the delivery.

  Good. Very good.

  If Vanya Golovkin knew that I had evidence of him embezzling money via Garcia Trucking, he would’ve mentioned it on the phone. I had done more digging online, and had been able to collect enough facts and details, combined with the paid transaction I nabbed from his office, that this should help the police out. As it turned out, the police in the city where Golovkin had been before moving back here had been mounting a case around him, slowly but surely. Hadn’t been able to make a move on him yet, and from a snitch in the police station who liked to gamble with my men—I had only two friends involved with the men in blue—I learned that the cops in my city were sniffing around him ever since he stepped foot here and were in cahoots with the cops from his previous location. The intel I sent their way should be what they need to be able to finally arrest him.

  Going about this elaborate plan, convoluted as it was, to ensure the police received the info without there being a connection to me was necessary. No way did I want the fact that I was helping the police to get out. Didn’t want Golovkin to know. Fuck, I didn’t want anyone to know. Wouldn’t be good for business.

  Should I have used my time differently? Should I have tried to gather up the ransom money instead? I knew from Alec through Golovkin’s daughter that Golovkin was stockpiling weapons. He owed someone a lot of money, and he was using me to get the money he owed instead of earning it. The fucking shithead. No wonder he hadn’t made a move on me, hadn’t tried to kill me. He didn’t come back to kill me. He came back to steal my money. Then he probably planned on finishing me off.

  Wasn’t going to happen. I would make sure of that.

  I gathered all of my men together, every last one. If Golovkin wanted to wage war against me, he would get war in retaliation.

  “You know what Vanya Golovkin did to me, did to us, to the Kovalsky mob. How he killed my parents, my family, your brothers and fathers. How he tried to wipe us off the map. Now he’s back, and he’s continuing to take. That’s all he’s ever done. Take. He’s a thief, a murderer, and a coward. He doesn’t deserve to live.”

  There were a lot of cheers and grumblings about what they would like to do to Golovkin if given the chance.

  I grinned. These were my men. Loyal to a fault. They felt my pain as much as I did.

  “Golovkin has crossed the line by returning here. He’s stockpiling weapons, and it’s not because he’s going after the police. No. He’s going after us. Are we going to let him kill our children, steal and rape our wives and girlfriends and daughters?”

  “No!” they all shouted as one.

  “Are we going to go down without a fight?”

  “No!” they repeated.

  “Alec was a good man. Golovkin had him killed. Rachel was…is…” I shook my head. I didn’t know how to describe her or our relationship. “Golovkin won’t stop with Alec and Rachel. He’ll keep on taking. Keep on coming. I say we give it to him. Give him slugs to the gut. Take his scalp. Reclaim what is ours. This city!”

  The men cheered.

  “Let’s move out and infiltrate his house!”

  Their roar of approval and applause was deafening. Win or lose, we weren’t going down without a fight.

  Only we couldn’t lose. I couldn’t handle that. Not again.

  Never again.

  We all piled into cars and formed a long caravan. Ever since Alec started sniffing Golovkin’s daughter’s skirts and he located Golovkin’s house, I had two men casing the joint. Luckily for me, I had the foresight to do that. Unluckily for Golovkin, he moved Rachel there. Why, I wasn’t sure, especially since I hadn’t found out where he had originally stashed her. If she had stayed there…it wasn’t something I wanted to think about. Bottom line, I knew where she was being held.

  What if you’re too late? What if she’s already dead? a voice in the back of my head asked.

  Then I would make Golovkin suffer as slow and as painful of a death as possible.

  But if I knew Golovkin, and I was pretty sure I understood how his twisted mind worked, he would have Rachel alive. He had more need for her to be alive…for now.

  But that didn’t mean she hadn’t been seriously injured.

  We couldn’t reach his house fast enough.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Rachel

  I couldn’t stop crying. The cramping never went away. I was in a haze where only pain existed—physical pain, mental anguish, turmoil, regrets, fear. The minutes, the hours, maybe even the day melted together. I didn’t eat. Hardly drank. My body refused to accept whatever I did put into it.

  A few people came and left, looking me over, but I didn’t know what they wanted, didn’t care.

  In my bubble, I was safe from them to an extent. To cope, I imagined that I was holding my baby instead of my stomach, that he was perfect, that he was so tiny and helpless and needed me to be happy.

  It got to the point that I didn’t know what was going on anymore. What was real? What was just my imagination? What were dreams versus daydreams?

  A few times, I dreamed about Ivan. We were house hunting, which was ridiculous because he didn’t need a new house. His house was perfect as it was. Well, it would be perfect if he would get rid of that horde of weapons. I hated guns, hated the need for them, but I was naïve to think he would get rid of them when he clearly did have a need for them.

  For some reason, I wasn’t pregnant in the dream, and we were holding hands. Light glittered and reflected from my hand, and I realized I was wearing a huge rock of an engagement ring. Wow. While I loved being engaged to him, I didn’t need a diamond this big. It was as big as my knuckle!

  A real estate agent was going over all of the features of the house—the proximity to schools and parks, how close it was to the highway, easy access to stores and shopping and gas.

  Then she showed us the master bedroom, and she disappeared, and Ivan turned to me, with that certain look in his eyes, and suddenly we were naked.

  It was almost perfect.

  A strange sound cut through my dream, and I returned to my bubble. As if through a tunnel, from faraway, I could hear a sound that repeated endlessly. Cutting through the bubble to reenter reality wasn’t pleasant, but that was the only way I could recognize the sound.

  It was gunshots.

  And as much as I didn’t like guns, I loved hearing the sound of it right now because it meant one thing: Ivan had come for me. My heart pounded, and I forced myself to uncurl from the fetal position. My arms were weak, but I managed to push myself up into a sitting position. Ivan is here. He’ll save me.

  The door was locked, and I sat there, staring at it, willing it to open, for Ivan to be there, for him to bring me home and wash me and love me.

  But what if he didn’t win? What if Ivan got hurt or killed? What if the rescue was a failure?

  Don’t think like that. Don’t think at all.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ivan

  As soon as my car, the first in our caravan, arrived on the scene, I opened the door and tumbled out. “Let’s move,” I said.

  We parked out on the street around the back of the asshole’s place. We could drive up to the front gate, ram it through with a car, and storm the place easily enough, but no way did we want Golovkin to lock his gate and trap us in here. Golovkin had to be paranoid or else he wouldn’t have loaded up on firearms, and he had to have at least considered that my men and I might show up uninvited. If he knew me at all, he should be waiting for us all to arrive. There was no way in Hell I would bring him the ransom money.

  I looked around for surveillance. The back of the house looked inconspicuous enough, and it didn’t look like he had any guards out so we hopefully had the element of surprise on our
hands—although there very well could be some guys hiding away, which was why I waved my hands down, telling my men without words to sneak on in.

  Climbing over a metal fence while carrying guns wasn’t easy, and it sure wasn’t a quiet undertaking, but we all made our way up and over. I was up and over first, and I loved the weight of the gun in my hand. I had been shooting guns since I was eight. Some might consider that irresponsible, saying that kids shouldn’t shoot weapons, but when your parents were murdered, you had to try to do whatever you could to reclaim a little bit of power and control back in your life, and for me, that meant going to the shooting range and learning how to master guns of various sizes.