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

by Alexis Abbott

  I must be at it for a while, because I eventually get so exhausted I slump to my knees in that pink set of around-the-house wear. What is it he’s gotten me, anyhow? Yoga pants, socks and a shirt. It’s deranged, I feel like a girl in my father’s home again, and the helplessness makes me want to sob.

  “The window is sealed shut,” comes his dark voice, standing behind the sofa, and I cry out, startled. I didn’t hear him come in at all! And it’s not like my trying to pry open the window was a noisy affair!

  I scramble backwards, away from his towering form. The daze must have parted, though, because earlier I thought he was cute, but now...

  I’m being held captive by an Adonis. He’s all muscle and smoldering glare.

  Just what I need.

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on a girl! What if I’d been changing?”

  “You would change in the living room when I gave you a bedroom all your own?” he asks in that thickly accented voice, which I’m starting to realize sounds vaguely eastern European. But he’s got his brow raised to me in challenge as he stands there, looming, larger than life, waiting for my response as he holds a small cloth bag.

  “Well, maybe,” I say defiantly, though even I can tell I sound more like a petulant child than a grown woman. I glance down at the bag, my arms folded beneath my chest. “What’s that?”

  He gives the bag a toss onto the sofa.

  “It’s medicine for nausea. It will help you keep your food down,” he explains to me, the towering brute looking exactly as I’d seen him last, except he must have shaved away the stubble in the interim. But it’s quickly regrowing. “Plus some magazines for entertainment,” he adds, as if this is the 1990s and people still read magazines.

  “And my cellphone?”

  “I had to destroy it,” he says casually.

  “What?” That was pretty much the last thing I expected him to say, and I take a step towards him angrily. “But it has all my contacts!”

  “It could also be used to track you down. Is a phone worth your life?” he asks me pointedly, and I’m starting to hate his chiseled face and eerie calm. He radiates confidence and power, like some smug son of a bitch who’s never been knocked down a peg in his life.

  I’m aghast. I can’t believe it. My phone. The newest model that I had to shell out a ridiculous sum for after waiting in line…destroyed. By this thug.

  “How could you?!” I demand, rising up onto my knees and glaring at him. “Do you have any idea what that thing meant to me?”

  He takes his time, undaunted, those dusky eyes looking me over as if I’m a strange, even repulsive creature. “More than your life, it seems,” he says simply before turning to leave.

  But I can’t let him leave, and I lunge over the back of the sofa to grab his arm at the wrist.

  “No, wait!” I insist, but even I realize that it’s only by choice that he stops. That thick arm beneath my hands is a thickly corded knot of muscle, and he could yank me over the back of that sofa with ease.

  “What?” he asks dryly, looking back and down at me. And though he acts so calm, I get the impression I am pushing his patience to the limit.

  Even though I’m pissed, I don’t want to be alone again. I’m terrified, and having him near me is safer, somehow, even if he is my captor. I hate the waiting, because when he’s gone, my head goes back to what might have happened last night.

  What really happened.

  And I know now that he’s definitely got me locked up in here good, and by the looks of things, he’s keeping me a while.

  I let go of his thick wrist and take in a deep breath.

  “How long are you going to keep me locked up?”

  That question seems to take him by surprise, because he doesn’t answer me right away. He takes a moment. And that more than anything else about my capture worries me.

  “I don’t know yet,” he says in that gruff voice of his. “I have to see how long the search for you persists. If I let you go too soon, then it’s just as well I didn’t haul you out at all. I should just as well have put a bullet in your head then and there that night.”

  His ominous words make me tremble, all the more because I see the handle of his gun sticking out from behind his back as he faces me, side-on.

  There’s some part of me, some part I’m not ready to reconcile with, that knows that what happened that night wasn’t just a nightmare. Waking up and wondering if I was dead was natural, because I remember a pistol pointed at my head.

  I almost died.

  This man almost killed me.

  It makes me almost throw up, my stomach churning in disgust and terror, but I swallow it all down. I can’t blow this. I can’t give him a reason to kill me. I ignore the burning behind my eyeballs, the frightened tears that want to spill but I won’t allow.

  Swallowing back the bile and the lump in my throat, I return my eyes to his.

  “Mikhail,” I say, trying to build a bit of a repertoire with him. That’s what they always say on TV, right? Make your kidnapper get to know you. But he already knows me, at least in part... It’s still worth a shot. “I’m scared.”

  His eyes narrow as he stares at me, into me. And he’s studying me. I worry that my attempt to sway him failed, but then it happens: he softens. Those broad shoulders lower a little, his sweater hugging those thick muscles showing the tension melt a little throughout him. He might be a scary boogeyman of death, but he’s still susceptible to a girl’s charms.

  “You have no need to be scared while you are here, Allie. It is what’s on the other side of that window,” he says, jabbing a finger at it pointedly, “that you must fear. And if you keep that in mind, you will be fine.”

  He says it all so seriously I could almost be convinced, if it weren’t for the fact I am fairly certain this man is a murderer.

  But I give him a small nod, like I’m on his side. As if we both want the same thing. And, if he does want me to be safe, then we definitely want the same thing.

  “I get that, but Mikhail, people are going to be looking for me. And my mom, she’s... I mean, a few years ago, she had a fall, and it affected her mind. Dad passed years ago, and she really needs me to help take care of her.”

  His brow furrows just a bit, and he’s silent again. I know I have him considering my words. He takes his time and wets his lips, and I feel like I have him.

  “If you die, your mother would be very put out then, nyet?” he says, that strange words on the end completely foreign to my ears.

  “She needs me, so I can’t die,” I say, trying to choose my words carefully, even though I’m panicking that he’s going to leave and I’m going to be stuck. He can’t leave! “But she has pills. Medication she has to take, and I have to make sure she takes it and gets to all of her appointments. I don’t even know what day it is...”

  He pauses a moment, but then reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small pad of paper and a pencil the length of my thumb. He puts it down right in front of me.

  “Write out the details of your mother’s care,” he instructs me very pointedly, his gaze narrowing. I feel like I’m under a heat lamp as a detective scrutinizes me.

  My shoulders slump, and I sit down on the couch, pencil in hand as I try to remember everything that was in my phone. It’s pretty sad that I can barely remember, considering how routine it is.

  I scribble down as I remember.

  Every third Tuesday, appointment with Dr. Nevaro.

  Twice daily reminders to take her pills. Blue in the morning, yellow and white at night before bed.

  Once a month, hospital for treatment for osteoporosis.

  I hand it back to him.

  “I don’t know how to spell all the drug names, but she has real problems with me not being around. I really need to check on her, Mikhail. You have a mom, right? And she means a lot to you?”

  He takes the paper from me and sizes it up before folding it and slipping it into his pocket.

  “My mother is long d
ead,” he says grimly as he turns and walks away. My heart sinks.

  But as he reaches the door he pulls it open and stops, looking back me.

  “I will see yours doesn’t yet meet the same end,” he states simply, then swiftly vanishes out the door, leaving me to the simple furnishings, all by myself.

  “Fuck!” I cry out into my humble cage. I can’t stay here. I don’t care how safe he thinks it is, I can take care of myself, and being held captive by a man I don’t know—a man who openly carries a gun on his hip—is not going to work for me.

  He said the window was sealed shut, but there’s gotta be a way out.

  Then I remember my stilettos. Maybe I could use those to bust open the glass! Or hammer the door.

  No matter what, I’m getting out of this safehouse-turned-prison.

  3

  Mikhail

  Every meeting with that girl is a struggle.

  If she’s not taunting me with her natural good looks, she’s tugging at heartstrings I didn’t even know I had. It’s a fucking nuisance.

  I pull on my leather jacket, make the phone call I have to, then head right out. But now I’m here, back at this dark, dingy bar. Where low life mobsters come to get work. I hate this place and almost never come. The work finds me at this point in my career, after all.

  Smoking laws forbid it, but the law has no consequence in this place, so smoke lingers in the air as a bunch of guys, young and old, try and put on airs of being tough. But every single one of them is shaken by my entry.

  Every one of them knows who I am, by reputation or rumor.

  I could rule them. I could be boss of this whole stretch of the city if I wanted to.

  But I turned that down long ago. I’m happiest doing what I do.

  “Mikhail,” says Nikita behind the bar, the surprise on her face mixed with pleasure. She’s a good girl, the only good part about this dive. “Didn’t expect you here!” she says as she pulls out a glass and starts to make me a drink without even asking. She knows what I like, even now.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders, leaning in over the bar and shooting the young punk nearest me a look.

  He scurries off, taking his drink further down the bar and giving me the space I want.

  “Well, I’m just happy to see you,” Nikita says, pouring me up a vodka and cranberry, even adding a little slice of lime. That’s new. “Not many pleasant faces around here,” she adds, and I know it. These men have no concern for women like her—they’re just cargo or commerce, to be used up until worthless.

  I try the drink, and to my surprise I like it, that lime adding a touch of something I didn’t know I was missing.

  “Truth be told, Nikki,” I say, leaning in, speaking to her in confidence, “I am curious as to the word on my latest job.”

  She arches a brow at me, looking truly surprised.

  “That’s not like you, Mikhail,” she says, putting the vodka bottle back. And I note it’s even the kind I like. Russian Standard, straight from home. Nothing’s quite as smooth as it. She’s so damned considerate of me, like a little sister I never had.

  “This is a… special case,” I say simply. “A very big job. Wondering what the word on it around town is.”

  “You always get the big ones,” she says, leaning in closer herself, talking quietly. “Not much is being said. More hush-hush than usual. So it must’ve been very important,” she says, searching my eyes for an answer, but I give none. No flicker in my face to betray an ounce of info.

  “So nothing, then?” I ask to confirm, but she licks her lips and peers down, thoughtfully.

  “I overheard some of the guys talking earlier,” she says softly to me. “Word from a crooked cop was that security cameras showed a witness to a big hit was unaccounted for. They are looking for her.”

  Fuck.

  “How recent was this?” I ask, trying not to betray my urgency. But she can pick up on it, I think.

  “Just about forty minutes ago,” she says, and she reaches beneath the bar, taking out the vodka again and pouring me a straight shot. “Very fresh news, they’re putting out the word now.”

  “There a description of the girl?” I ask, then down the vodka she poured me in one smooth motion.

  “Vasili,” she says, pointing her chin towards the weasley man. “He has some info on her, I believe. They’re looking into things now.”

  “Thanks, Nikki,” I say, sliding a hundred dollar bill across the bar to her. Her eyes widen and she looks to me.

  “If I hear anything more, I’ll let you know,” she says, and I nod.

  “I know you will. Stay safe, little one,” and she rolls her eyes at me, being far from little. She is 5’8” and a grown woman, after all. But I still saw her as the famished, undernourished girl they hauled out of the dockyards.

  I turn to leave, but then in through the front doors comes the boss. The Avtoritet.

  He’s escorted on both sides by two young brutes he trusts, and while the sneer he holds makes it look like he’s ready to make every occupant of the bar feel like shit, his gaze settles on me. And I steal some of the thunder from his entry.

  “Volkov,” he says, using my last name, and I know he’s struggling on how to handle my presence. I never come around, which makes things easier for him. Seeing as I was the guy who passed up his position. The guy who had every right to be over him, but was only technically under his authority.

  It’s an awkward situation for him, I admit.

  “Gregorovich,” I say with a simple nod in return, which is more than the vile shit deserves from me. I loathe this man, not just for what he’s done, but for how he gives me so few things to insult him about. He’s not fat, he’s not ugly; he’s just a manipulative bastard who plays things cautiously all the time. Too cautious. Cautious to the point of paranoia.

  Which would all be excusable, except he’s also greedy.

  And a greedy, paranoid mafia boss is a dangerous thing for everyone.

  “How nice of you to pay us a visit,” he says, tugging open his thick overcoat as Nikita rushes around to help him out of it. “I trust everything is alright?” And with that brow arched at me, I know I have already engaged more of his suspicion than I wish to.

  “Just visiting an old friend,” I say, giving a light smile to Nikita, which she bashfully returns. I don’t generally let slip any emotion around these men, but it’s important they know who I favor, so they know better than to mess with her.

  “I see,” Gregorovich says, looking me over once more than Nikita as well. “Well it’s fortunate timing, there’s a matter we can discuss. In back,” he says, leading the way. It’s the most presumptuous thing he’s yet dared do with me in front of others.

  Surprisingly, however, along the way he gestures for Vasili to follow. He’s a two-bit crook, and why he’s being trusted with anything baffles me.

  But I have a sinking suspicion this is about the matter I came here for, so I follow after, into the back room, with its reinforced walls. It’s empty but for a simple metal table with some chairs, and he helps himself to a spot there while one of his men pats down the underside of the table, checking for any listening devices.

  I stand back, fold my arms as another of the guards pats down Vasili as well, checking him over. Gregorovich trusts no one.

  When they come to me I don’t budge, and they back off, knowing better.

  “What is the issue at hand?” I ask brusquely.

  “You fucked up,” Vasili says with malicious glee, but I don’t so much as grace him with a glance.

  Gregorovich clears his throat, cutting off Vasili, preening at his expensive suit. I leave him the dubious honor of being the only one sitting.

  “There are some loose ends from your job,” Gregorovich says.

  “I do not leave loose ends,” I say firmly, an edge to my voice to let them know I’m serious. But I want more info, so I’m careful not to be too rough with them.

  “Well,
this time, the police think you have,” Gregorovich responds carefully. “And they’re looking for a potential witness seen entering the hotel with the party.”

  “That no-women no-kids rule of yours has finally fucked you up, Volkov,” Vasili says with sneering relish, fidgeting a lot. Probably because he’s constantly wired on a cocktail of different drugs.

  “Was there a woman there when you did the job?” Gregorovich asks calmly, and I know it won’t be easy to lie to him. He’s perceptive, for a greedy little shit.

  “I agreed to take on this job, knowing it might lead to a bad place,” I say firmly. “But I did the job, and no one survived.”

  “Then how do you explain this?” Vasili says, pulling out the picture of Allie with the men I’d slain. It’s not great quality, clearly taken from a security camera. But it’s her. I take a moment to soak it in before Vasili gets into my face, that greasy weasel so full of himself.

  I take a moment to slam my fist into his throat and send him choking and sputtering back against the wall.

  “Why is this little rat fuck in here with us?” I ask Gregorovich pointedly.

  “I’ve tasked him with finding this woman. And making sure she can’t talk,” he replies, ignoring the coughing and cursing of Vasili as we engage.

  “She has nothing to tell anyone,” I insist calmly, not overplaying the point. I can’t give him reason to suspect me. “I did a clear sweep. Every single person in there when I did my hit died by my hand. And when I was done, I double-checked. Triple-checked. And calmly walked out.”

  Vasili is gasping for air, making a noisy distraction.

  “Then there is nothing to worry about, and this is just an added precaution,” Gregorovich assures me with a placid, fake smile.

  “Too many added precautions can land one in trouble with the feds,” I say, knowing to add anymore would let him find me out. “But do as you need. My work is done.” I turn to leave, but one of the guards is in my way, and I have to stare him down.