“You wanna go to daddy?” I coo, hugging Max close.
“Da-da,” he mumbles, his dark eyes crinkling up with delight at the mention of his father. The two of them are like two peas in a pod, totally fascinated by each other. Andrei takes Max from my arms and lifts him up, swinging him around in a circle while the baby laughs hysterically. My husband looks at Max with such tenderness and enchantment, like he’s the most wonderful creature on the planet. And Max often stares wide-eyed at his daddy, scarcely blinking, totally entranced by his every move. I can already tell that Andrei is his hero.
But he loves me, too. I’m his comfort. I’m the one he wants when he cries, when he’s hungry, when he’s scared. Andrei is the fun one, and I’m the safety blanket. We suit our roles very well, I’ve discovered. When I first met Andrei, I never would have imagined this side of him: so gentle and sweet.
Sometimes I feel like my life is too good to be true. But it’s totally real, and it’s mine.
“So what time are we leaving in the morning?” I ask, leaning forward to take a strawberry out of the picnic basket and pop it into my mouth.
“I’m thinking around eight. So we have enough time to arrive in your hometown before Isaiah’s piano lesson,” Andrei replies, retrieving a strawberry and offering it to Max. The baby takes it excitedly and starts pulling the little green leaves off the top with inexplicable glee.
“I can’t believe how fast he’s growing up,” I say, shaking my head. “Seems like just yesterday Isaiah was a baby, himself.”
“And now he’s an uncle,” Andrei says, smiling.
I grin at the idea of my eight-year-old brother being an uncle. “Crazy.”
After extensive research and intel, Andrei managed to track down my parents and Isaiah. They moved a county over from where I grew up, picking a new place to start over. Sure enough, Andrei found out through some particularly crafty sleuthing that my parents have been telling everyone that I moved to South America to be a missionary. They have no intentions of reaching out to me — I am essentially dead to them.
Honestly, even though it still hurts a little sometimes, I’ve gotten over that betrayal. My happiness with my current situation far outweighs my angst over what happened in the past. I no longer miss my mother and father. But I did miss my brother. Andrei couldn’t stand to see me suffering, and he knew how badly I wanted Isaiah to meet his new nephew.
Last month was the first time I got to see my little brother since the day of our wedding. It took a lot of secretive planning, as well as a hefty pinch of kismet, to pull it off. It just so happens that my best friend and ballet instructor Sonya has a friend named Peter who teaches piano lessons in upstate New York. Since my old teacher retired years ago and my family was new to their area, I knew my parents would be on the hunt for a piano teacher for Isaiah.
So Andrei talked to Sonya who talked to Peter, who surreptitiously put himself forward as a private piano tutor, advertising himself as a man who specializes in hymns. It didn’t take long for Jan and Arnold to sign up for Peter’s services. And it wasn’t long after that when Peter told Andrei he would be more than happy to facilitate a secret visit.
Overjoyed at the thought of being reunited, however temporarily, with Isaiah, I said yes and jumped at the opportunity. So last month we took a drive up north to see Isaiah during his piano lesson. I made him swear not to tell our parents, and he’s old enough to know how serious the situation is, at least on some level. I think he understands that if he tells anyone about the meetings, our parents will only try that much harder to keep us apart.
Tomorrow, we are going back up there to visit him for a second time. And after that, we are catching a plane to Madrid! It will be my first time out of the country. Actually, it will be my first time ever even leaving the state of New York! We’re going on a month-long tour of Europe, hitting Spain, France, Italy, and Switzerland before jetting up to Siberia for a short visit to Andrei’s hometown of Yakutsk. It will be blisteringly cold there, of course, but he assures me that we will be perfectly fine. After all, there are lots and lots of people who live there year-round! I’m excited to see where my husband grew up. I know he will have to confront a lot of difficult memories, but with me beside him, I think it will be a cathartic experience.
Besides, Sonya will be meeting up with us there to see her mother for the first time in many, many years, and I cannot wait to see that reunion!
“Do you think we have enough winter clothes for Max?” I ask, biting my lip.
Andrei shrugs and lifts an eyebrow, a mischievous look crossing his face.
“We could always take him shopping in Europe.”
I beam at him. “Europe,” I breathe dreamily. “I never thought I would leave my hometown, much less travel the world!”
“And I never thought I would have a wife or a baby,” Andrei says. “I never thought I could possibly have this kind of life.”
“Then that makes two of us,” I add, reaching over to take his hand.
He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it, causing Max to make a delighted gurgling noise.
All three of us laugh, snuggled together under the sunny skies, a colorful life full of love and adventure ahead. I can’t wait.
Thank you so much for reading and, hopefully, enjoying this book :) If you’d like more, please make sure you’re subscribed to my newsletter. If you could leave a review or tell your friends, I’d really appreciate it!
As well, you can check out my other books on the next few pages. I’ve included Saved by the Outlaw as a special thank you for your purchase, as well as a teaser of my soon to be released novel, Captive to the Hitman.
Saved by the Hitman
Description
She was the girl that got away. Now she thinks I murdered her dad.
Cherry LaBeau. More like Cherry Bomb, the way she walked back into my life, accusing me of killing her father.
She's a fiery mystery from my past, and this time, I'm not going to let her get away.
But first, I have to prove to her that we're lookin' for the same person. That whoever killed her dad has been screwing with my club and the people I care about most. So I'm going to find the scumbag who hurt my Cherry, and my club, and I'm going to make them pay.
Even if I have to turn back to my former hitman ways...
A full length Romantic Suspense novel. No Cliffhangers/Standalone. Safe.
1
Cherry
I should have worn better shoes.
Garden State, my ass, I think bitterly to myself as I awkwardly stumble through the warehouse in the dark. This morning when I woke up in my hotel room in Newark, I sleepily opened my shiny New Yorker suitcase to peruse my wardrobe options, all of which are also distinctly New Yorker in style. That is to say, they are much better suited to a strut down Fifth Avenue than a tromp through the muddy backroads of New Jersey.
Shoes, especially.
I am accustomed to sharp stilettos, suede ankle boots, and fire-engine-red pumps. None of which are particularly appropriate for a day of exploring the site of my father’s death. This warehouse is dark, dank, and definitely a stark departure from my usual haunts. I mean, I am a journalist, so you might expect me to be used to running around in unusual places, sniffing out the next big story. But because my deadbeat mom was so generous and considerate as to land me with a name like Cherry LaBeau, I’ve never exactly been on the shortlist for the Pulitzer Prize.
In fact, I’ve been lucky to score the cushy, inconsequential, lighthearted pieces they’ve handed off to me in the past. I’ve been a fashion blogger, a who’s-who editorialist, and a celebrity gossip generator for several years, and it’s paid fairly well — which is to say not much by most standards. Well enough to keep me housed, fed, and decked out in (admittedly out-of-season) designer clothes in the very expensive city of the Big Apple all this time.
It would almost be a dream job.
Except that it’s the opposite of anything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Des
pite the girly, tongue-in-cheek name on my birth certificate, I’d like to think there’s nothing very frivolous about me. Sure, I write the puff pieces they assign me and I wear the knock-off Carrie Bradshaw outfits they expect me to. I sign my ridiculous name with a flourish, and I dot my “i’s” with a heart. But beneath all that superficiality is a real, hard-hitting journalist, just itching to break free and finally write something of substance.
And it’s what my father would have wanted for me.
“People are going to judge you for your name, sweetheart,” he told me when I was eighteen and heading off to university to get my journalism degree. “But that just means you gotta work that much harder. Make them take you seriously. Be so good at what you do that they’re forced to say your name with respect.”
Standing in my inappropriate high-heeled boots in this dripping, musty warehouse, I have to bite my lip to keep back the tears threatening to sting in my eyes. I can’t be weak. I can’t let my emotions cripple me. I’ve got to be strong like Dad was. Especially if I’m going to find out what happened to him… and who killed him.
It’s safer to think about my shoes, something silly and non-consequential. It helps keep my mind off how much I miss my dad. The only family I have — had — left. Now it’s just me, and I swore at his funeral that I’d make him proud in the afterlife.
It’s autumn here in Bayonne, New Jersey, and even deep inside this warehouse I can feel the occasional cool draft rippling through. I shiver and wrap my black trench coat more tightly around myself. This place is near enough to the coast that I could probably just run to the beach from here if I wanted to. But not yet. As tempting as it would be to just plop down on the Jersey Shore and let the salty fresh air mix with my tears, I didn’t come here for that purpose. I have something more important to do. I’m on a mission.
So I take a deep breath and try my best to walk lightly through the warehouse. This is easier said than done because my damn high-fashion boots are about as quiet as a foghorn, and the vast emptiness of this building causes my footfalls to echo slightly. Still, I doubt anyone else would come here — not since it was designated a crime scene.
Right?
After all, as far as I know nobody even owns it anymore. It’s sat out here on a muddy dirt road, abandoned, for so long that the original owners have probably died. I don’t know what this place was even used for. Except for murdering people in secret.
There’s that God-awful sting of tears again and I angrily swallow back the lump in my throat. I’ve come too far and risked too much to let myself be done in by my own stupid emotions. I can mourn later. Now, it’s time to buckle down and get the scoop.
I take a few more cautious steps before I’m distracted by what sounds like voices.
My blood runs cold, but I assure myself it’s got to be the draft rolling down the empty aisles, playing tricks on my spooked mind. There’s nobody here, I’m sure of it. Nobody but me.
But when I take another step I hear a distinctive shout.
I freeze up immediately, my eyes going wide. Oh no, I think fearfully, maybe it’s the cops coming by to check and make sure nobody’s disturbing the crime scene. But then again, they told me the forensics team already got all the information they needed, that the clean-up crew came through and cleared it all up long before I arrived. If there’s nothing else left to investigate, why would the cops be here?
My heart sinks into my gut.
Unless they’re not cops.
Feeling nauseous but strangely exhilarated, I lean into a massive metal shelf and strain my ears, trying to be utterly still and silent. I hold my breath and close my eyes, shutting out all extraneous sensory information so I can focus in on the voices. Sure enough, I’m able to make out the distant muttering of what seems to be a group of men.
A group? My heart starts to race as a sense of genuine danger starts to dawn on me. What am I doing here? I’m not a cop! I’m not a private investigator! I don’t have a gun or any kind of weapon at all, and even if I did, I would have no clue how to use it. I’m just a desperately curious, frightened fashion writer who has dropped herself smack-dab in the middle of what could potentially be some kind of criminal lair.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! I scold myself inwardly. What kind of idiot goes sleuthing around a murder scene unarmed and alone?
Holding my breath so tightly that my chest starts to ache, I can finally pick out a few choice words drifting over from across the massive warehouse: Cops. Information. Suspects.
Finally I’m forced to exhale and inhale sharply, letting the damp air fill my lungs. What on earth have I stumbled into here? What if these men are dangerous? I’m not prepared for a fight — hell, in these shoes I’m not even prepared for a quick escape. But something tells me I can’t turn back now. I’ve only been in this warehouse for five or six minutes, after an hour and a half of driving to get here. And who knows — the men talking might just reveal pertinent information about my father’s death. I can’t risk giving into my fear and bolting out of here now — not when things are just starting.
Besides, if I really want to make my late father proud, I’ve got to stop hiding behind frilly, innocuous fluff articles and blog posts, and start really getting into the nitty-gritty world of journalism. And that means embracing danger, walking bravely into the line of fire just for a shot at capturing that most elusive and beautiful prize: the truth.
Still, I can’t help but gasp in shock at the loud yell I hear next: “What do they know? What have they done?”
I cover my mouth to stifle my heavy panting. I’m so frightened by now that I’ve got goosebumps prickling up along my arms and legs, even under warm layers of clothing. It’s a man’s harsh voice I hear, almost a growl. His tone is accusatory and laced with venom. He sounds mean. Scary. Cruel.
I wait for the reply, which comes after a few tense moments.
“I don’t know! I swear! Don’t you think I’d tell you if — ”
There’s a loud cracking sound and then a man’s pained yelp. I crouch down in fear, suddenly wanting to make myself smaller, less detectable. This certainly doesn’t sound like a civil conversation. It sounds like something dark is going down.
“Get up,” orders a third man. His voice is very deep, his tone controlled. He sounds calmer, and yet more commanding. Even though he isn’t as loud as the other two, his voice carries the long distance, with an impressive resonance that sends a shiver down my spine, even with just those two words. I feel the insatiable need to see what he looks like, to put a face to the compelling voice.
Against my better judgment and every straining fiber of self-preservation in my body, I begin to creep along toward the voices. But my shoes — damn, useless pieces of crap — are too loud. I just can’t bear it. They might overhear me if I keep on this way. So, even though it pains me, I carefully slip them off my feet to carry them instead. As my toes, clad only in thin hosiery, touch the frigid, filthy floor, I grimace with disgust. Would it really have killed me to invest in a pair of sneakers before driving all the way out here? I have a lot to learn. This isn’t a Scooby Doo episode — I can’t run around in Daphne-esque heels and perfectly-styled hair if I’m going to make this work. Especially because the monsters I’m dealing with aren’t fake.
They’re murderers.
I can feel it in my soul. These guys in the warehouse have got to be related to my father’s death in some way or another. It can’t possibly be a coincidence that they’re here right now yelling about cops and stuff, when just a week ago my father’s life was snuffed out in the exact same location. I grit my teeth and force myself to ignore how gross the ground is beneath my feet as I move slowly, cautiously along toward the men.
“My associate gave you an order! Get on your feet, ya bastard!” commands the first voice I heard earlier. There’s the rustle of something like metal dragging on the concrete floor and I furrow my brows trying to figure out what the hell it might be. Then it hits me with a jolt to my heart: ch
ains. It’s the sound of metal chains clinking and rolling across the floor.
What the hell? I crouch down even further as I continue to make my way closer. Even though everything just got a million levels more bizarre and horrifying, I feel totally drawn to the sounds of their voices. I have got to figure out what’s going on, even if doing so thrusts me directly into the lap of danger.
Besides, with my father gone, I don’t exactly have anything else to lose.
“I don’t know anythin’ about it, man! Nichego!” exclaims the second voice. He’s the one being interrogated, the one whose voice is wavering with fear. As I come closer, I peer around the ceiling-high metal storage shelves to see the three men only about fifty yards away from me. My jaw drops at the sight.
There’s a man with both arms chained to the floor, metal links around his wrists keeping him bound to about a ten foot reach. He’s drenched in sweat and his eyes are nearly bugging out of his head, he’s so scared. He looks like a skeevy rat of a man, with receding, blondish hair, scrawny limbs, and a long, hooked nose. He’s wearing a polo shirt and cargo pants which are much too large for him, and he’s kneeling on one knee, looking up at the two other guys with desperate, imploring eyes.
“Bullshit!” snarls the first voice, which I see now belongs to a tall, wiry, brown-haired guy in a light blue shirt and khakis. If not for the rolled-up sleeves and combative stance, he would look for all the world like a harmless Sunday school teacher or something. That image is shattered completely when he reels back and lands a solid kick to the chained guy’s calves.
The rat-like man falls on his hands and knees, buckling over in pain as he yells out, “Klyanus! I have nothing to say! It’s not one of ours!”
“I can’t abide a liar,” says the third man. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize he’s the one with the resonant voice. He’s even taller than the blue-shirt guy, with broad shoulders, and very dark hair. Even from here I can see the muscles tight underneath his dark jeans and black, short-sleeved shirt. There’s a thick black leather jacket crumpled behind him on the floor, as though he recently took it off. Then I notice that there’s a similar-looking jacket lying vaguely behind the blue-shirt guy, too. Weird.
Hitman - the Series: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Collection (Alexis Abbott's Hitmen #0) Page 20
