Hitman - the Series: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Collection (Alexis Abbott's Hitmen #0)

by Alexis Abbott

  Doyle chews on his cheek, giving me a thoughtful look. “When someone announces themselves, Mr. Volkov, I’d guess it’s usually to send a message. I think that much is clear, don’t you?”

  “Crystal,” I say, unfazed. “But after all these years, Chungles, I guess I’m just bitter I still don’t know why, when you’ve got your nice and fancy office in Washington and tons of bigger fish than us to fry, you’re still so goddamn insistent on trying to strangle our little slice of New Jersey ‘till you feel its last breath of life fogging up those new glasses of yours?”

  The agent’s eyes are unreadable for a moment. “I’m not here to ruin your little vanity project of a town, Mr. Volkov,” he says in a low tone. “If you weren’t busy riding bikes around all day, you might notice that it’s already ruined.” He leans in with an expression as placid as the docks at night.

  “I’m just here to put a bullet in its head so the rest of us can move on with our business.”

  13

  Cherry

  I have spent more time in this police station over the past couple of days than I ever expected to, collectively, for one whole lifetime. After the big scene at the grave site, I tailed the black sedans to the precinct and watched helplessly from the parking lot as the FBI suits dragged Leon and the rest of the Club into the building. I decided then and there to wait this out. I was determined to stick around until they were inevitably released again.

  Of course, that was over twenty-four hours ago now.

  I’m still sitting in the waiting room of the police building, waiting for Leon to come out of the interrogation room where they’ve been holding him for so long. I’m pretty sure, from the true crime shows I’ve watched, that they can’t keep him more than twenty-four hours just for questioning. If they want to hold him for longer, they’ve got to find some kind of evidence to pin on him, something substantial to make him a real suspect.

  I have no doubt that these sleazy, shady FBI guys are more than willing to drum up some false information, any kind of fabricated evidence, just to make sure Leon doesn’t wiggle out of their grasp. But I’ve been camped out here waiting all this time anyway. I’m too anxious to go home — and besides, where is home now, anyway? The hotel room I’ve only visited once to shower, rest, and change into the outfit I’m still wearing now? I might as well cancel that room and pick up all my belongings and live out of my rental car if I’m going to keep up like this.

  As for my dad’s old house? Well, it’s not exactly a home if nobody’s living there anymore, is it? His memory, his presence, still lingers like a shroud over the house. But that’s not enough to make it a home again. So where would I go? If I’m being honest, I never even really felt at home back in the big city either. My little studio apartment was nice, filled with personal touches that made it feel a little less like renting a cardboard box. But it was lacking in memories. It was mostly just a crash pad and a writing space. Nothing particularly “homey” about that.

  In fact, the closest thing to a home I’ve known in a long, long time is the comfort I found that night wrapped in Leon’s arms. I felt protected there, pressed against his warm, hard body. I know it’s gotta be one of the craziest things I’ve ever done, but something tells me I can’t just walk away from this now, just because the water’s gotten a little rough.

  Leon saved me from drowning once, and I owe him. Besides, if he’s the one who makes me feel like I’m finally home, then what kind of person would I be to walk away from that? If he’s going to be stuck here in this musty old police station, then by God, I am gonna just camp out here, too.

  And so I have.

  The secretary gives me dirty, confused looks every now and again. I know she thinks I’m straight-up insane for sticking around this long with no word from the cops about when Leon might be released. They won’t give me any information at all. For all I know, they’ve already pinned all seventeen murders on him and they’re taking their sweet time building an airtight — albeit false — case against him, and I’m waiting here for no reason.

  But I can’t take the chance that he’ll be released and I won’t be here.

  I feel responsible, like I’m the one who dragged him into this. After all, it was my father’s journal which led us to that field in the first place. I could have just left Leon out of it, investigated the case on my own. Or at least, I could have tried. But I know, deep down, he would have found his way into it, anyway. There’s no chance he would have been able to keep out of it. He knew my father. He knows more about this whole mysterious, shady situation than I could ever know. I need his help. I need him.

  So I wait, dutifully. Luckily I’m dressed in pretty comfortable clothes: a flowy gray blouse, dark jeans, and my most comfortable shoes, which are still kitten heels. That’s definitely going to have to change pretty soon. I need to update my wardrobe to reflect the lifestyle I’ve fallen into back here in Bayonne. I’m not strutting Park Avenue anymore. I’m sneaking around warehouses, tromping through a field of unmarked graves, and riding on the back of a dangerous man’s motorcycle.

  It’s probably high time for me to invest in a good pair of sneakers.

  Good thing I’m always over-prepared. It’s a trait of mine that my New York friends used to tease me for — the fact that my purse was always packed with anything I could possibly need in a pinch. Band-aids, breath mints, small pair of scissors, tape, mini sewing kit, always an extra toothbrush and travel-size toothpaste, face wipes, over-the-counter pain medication, an extra phone charger, and more. It’s something I picked up during my long commutes back when I lived on Staten Island when I first moved out and couldn’t afford to live in the city yet. When it takes you literally hours to get back home during an emergency, you start to realize how important it is to be mobile, to be prepared no matter how far you are from home.

  So as I’m sitting in the police station, I’ve got my phone hooked up and charging so I can entertain myself and do some lowkey research. It’s been an oddly productive activity, and I can’t wait to share what I’ve learned with Leon. An hour ago I made a trek to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face before returning to my little stakeout in the lobby. I’m prepared to live in this police station until they finally release Leon and the others. Secretarial shifts have changed multiple times, and each one of them has given me the same incredulous, somewhat-annoyed look. But now the girl who was working the desk when I first got here has returned again and she outright laughs when she walks in and sees me still here.

  “We’re gonna have to start charging you rent,” she jokes as she swishes by to take her spot at the front desk. She’s young and pretty, a brunette with round granny glasses and a pencil skirt. She looks more like a librarian than a cop jockey.

  “Got more amenities than most of the apartments I could afford back in New York,” I reply, shrugging. The secretary smiles.

  “Are you hungry?” she asks. “Have you eaten anything since you first showed up?”

  “Well, it depends on whether you consider vending machine snacks ‘food’ or not,” I answer with a laugh, sitting up straight and setting my phone down to stretch my legs out.

  She grimaces, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, ew. No, that won’t do. I’ll order us some sandwiches or something. At this point, you’ve been here more than I have in the past day or so, and at least I’m getting paid for it.”

  It’s nice to see that my quiet persistence has won her over. Because even though I’ve been here forever, I haven’t made a scene or caused any trouble — which is more than can be said for most of the people who probably come in here. So the secretary, who introduces herself as Janet, orders us both turkey subs from across the street. I scarf mine down in record time, realizing just how starved I am. We sit and joke back and forth with each other, passing the time until finally, at long last, an officer emerges with Leon in tow.

  My heart leaps for joy in my chest and I can feel my whole body light up at the sight of him. When he sees me, his eyebrows sh
oot up in surprise and that adorable half-smile appears on his face. He looks so exhausted and burned out from hours and hours of interrogation, but I figure if they’re bringing him out now, they must not have gotten what they were looking for. They are letting him go! He’s free! For now, at least.

  But something in his eyes tells me this isn’t over yet, not by a long shot. Leon looks like he’s seen and heard some terrible things in the past twenty-four hours or so. I want nothing more than to rush over to him and throw my arms around him. I want to kiss the sadness out of his face and take him back out into the sunshine. Except, I realize with a glance at the clock on the wall, the sun is already going down by now. Both of us have spent all our daylight hours cooped up in this station, though I expect his stay was considerably less comfy than mine.

  “Leon!” I exclaim, despite the glumness of the moment. I need to make myself calm down — it’s not like we’re together or anything. It’s not like that. But I can’t seem to rid the thought from my head.

  “Mr. Volkov is being released,” the officer says gruffly. “Are you picking him up?”

  “Oh — uh, yes!” I answer awkwardly, nodding. Leon gives me a grateful wink.

  “At last the wait is over,” Janet says, smiling at me. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “Thanks for putting up with me. And for the sandwich,” I add.

  “Now fill this out and go home and sleep, both of you,” Janet replies, handing me a clipboard through the cut-out in the glass. I sign my name to check Leon out and then the officer takes off his cuffs and trudges away without a word. Leon turns to me and before he can say anything I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight.

  His hand hesitantly comes down to pat my back and he rests his chin on my head for a long, still moment. “Don’t tell me you waited this whole time,” he murmurs.

  I nod against his warm chest. “Yeah. It wasn’t so bad. And I — I didn’t want to leave you.”

  “I should have known they’d hold me as long as they legally could,” he replies, shaking his head with restrained fury. “As if I would actually tell them anything.”

  “Come on,” I say, taking him by the hand. I scoop all my stuff back into my bag and lead Leon out into the fresh air. We both take deep breaths, looking up at the late sunset.

  “How was it?” I ask, a little reluctantly. I’ve never been interrogated, so I don’t have any idea how they work. But if it’s anything like it is on crime TV shows, it’s definitely not a good time for anyone. Leon sighs heavily and puts an arm around me.

  “Tiring. Boring, mostly. They asked me the same questions over and over with slightly different phrasing, as if that was going to trip me up. I knew exactly what they were doing the whole time. I’ve interrogated people before, myself. I know how it works. And they’re just so… pompous. All of them. They don’t even realize or care that I’m not the real bad guy here. They just want someone easy to pin shit on, and the Club is full of bright red targets,” he says quietly, anger hardening his tone.

  “This is bigger than any of the local police, isn’t it?”

  Leon nods and looks down at me. “Oh yeah. The FBI spooks just threw the local cops in there with me to keep all of us out of the way. They don’t care about me or anyone from the Bayonne precinct at all. They just need to keep us occupied while they run their illicit operations all over town, so we can’t do anything to stop them.”

  “But… I found out something,” I say, biting my lip. “I looked into Agent Doyle’s background. I mean, yeah, fashion blogging paid my bills but I’ve always been one hell of an investigator. Or just exceptionally, professionally nosy.”

  Leon laughs, the sound so welcoming and light. “And what did your research turn up?”

  “He’s way out of his league. Or at least his jurisdiction. He’s not a homicide guy — he looks into stuff like tax evasion, corporate corruption, and other boring pencil-pusher things like that. There’s no good reason for him to be here, taking over the investigation. He’s not cut out for this stuff. He said this is FBI jurisdiction now — but if it’s a mass homicide, why the hell would the feds send someone like him to clean it up?” I ramble all at once, tired of having to hold in this information for so long. I expect Leon to hug me, swing me around, and light up at this discovery. After all, what if this is the kick we need to take the case back from the feds and keep it a local issue?

  But instead, Leon just squeezes my shoulder half-heartedly. “That’s good work, Cherry. But unfortunately, these guys don’t fold just because they’ve been caught counting cards. There’s not a soul here we could report that to who would actually do anything about it. Even that Detective Hanson is useless against these guys. They’re used to dealing dirty, and they aren’t guided by a normal moral compass like we are. Hell, they don’t even follow the law unless it serves their purposes. They’re discriminatory enforcers, working in the shadows where nobody can follow, and for small-timers like us — they’re damn near untouchable.”

  I feel my heart sinking and my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Here I thought I’d found something really good, something that would finally help us out, and it turns out I didn’t find anything useful at all. What a letdown. I look down at the ground sadly.

  “Oh. Damn.”

  “Yeah, it’s hard. I know. But you can’t give up just because the enemy is too big, alright? The Club has tangled with the feds before, and we came out of it relatively unscathed. Except for… you know, Henry. But that’s the reason we can’t give up. We fight for the ones who can’t anymore, to remind those guys that we still remember what they did, and we refuse to let them off the hook for it. Any time we let them cow us with their scare tactics and threats, they get a little stronger. Even if they take us down, even when they win, we can’t afford to retreat,” Leon explains softly, kissing the top of my head.

  “Why are they getting involved, anyway? The feds have never given a crap about Bayonne before,” I mumble bitterly.

  “Those incompetent local cops let something slip during the interrogation,” Leon begins. “Turns out the reason the feds are here is because they’re chummy with the crotchety old slimeball who owns the docks, Marty Chandler.”

  “So what the hell are we gonna do next?” I ask, feeling discouraged.

  Leon shoots me a twinkling glance. “Well, first of all, we’re gonna collect my bike from the impound lot. Then we’re going somewhere.”

  “Where?” He takes my hand and starts pulling me along behind him.

  “Somewhere. I have an idea.”

  14

  Leon

  “Leon, we’re headed away from the docks, where are we going?”

  “Not to the docks, obviously!”

  Cherry gives me a punch on the arm, and I can hear her laughing over the roar of my engine as I speed us around a twisting road that leads through some woods and rocky ground. I’ve driven us south of the docks to a wooded area, guided by the moonlight alone.

  After a few minutes more, Cherry settles down as she realizes we’re moving upward and back around toward the water. Before long, I start slowing my bike down as we get close to the destination I have in mind.

  There’s a hilltop that overlooks the water, and with a tree clearing for tourists during the daytime, it offers a crystal-clear vantage point to the docks on the north side of the bay. We come to a stop, and I get out a pair of binoculars from the bike’s seat compartment before leading Cherry towards the ledge.

  “I remember this place,” Cherry whispers, her eyes drinking in the scenery around her as walk. “I used to come here when I’d slip out at night as a teenager.”

  “You too?” I laugh. “I admit, I saw this place a lot more during the daytime. They uh, had a hard time keeping me in school when I was younger. This was a good place to come hang out on weekdays.”

  “Now look at you, you hoodlum,” Cherry teases, nudging me with her elbow as we laugh quietly, careful not to risk drawing attention. “Anyway, this place i
s good, but there’s somewhere a little higher up where we can see things even better.”

  Before I know it, she grabs me by the wrist and guides me off the trail a little ways. I follow, a smile on my face as we duck through some brush to climb up to a smaller hill that offers slightly better cover. I don’t suspect anyone’s going to give us trouble up here anyway, but this place feels more secluded.

  I catch myself almost forgetting what we’re here to do; I’m not a teenager out on a date, we’re here to do some investigation. Running around with Cherry, though, it’s easy to lose myself in the rush of things. She has a way of making me forget all the troubles that have been keeping us from really living for so long.

  “Here,” she says once we’re in position, “this is the spot.” We find a fallen log that I suspect people have been using here for a long time, and we take a seat to get comfortable.

  For a while, the two of us just sit there, looking out over the still, cold waters and watching the moonlight cast a white path over its surface for miles and miles. I don’t look over to see if her eyes are as transfixed on the sight as mine are. I can feel a peace between us that I can’t really explain.

  “Damn,” I hear myself saying. “Everything is so still up here.”

  “Right?” Cherry says softly, leaning back and propping herself up by her hands. “The city almost looks kind of peaceful from here.” That brings a smile to my lips.

  It’s funny, Cherry’s reappearance in town should be just another hurdle to work through the storm of the past few days, but the more I think about it, the more I feel like she’s at once an anchor and a motivation to keep going.

  I finally glance over at her, and her eyes are on me. They look away quickly, but I keep mine on her. In the moonlight, her flowing gray blouse and tight dark jeans would almost make her meld into the wooded shadows if not for that flaming red hair of hers.