I walk over to the man’s body, and the roaring laughter and music coming from inside the door tells me that not a soul heard my approach. I bend down to check the bullet hole in the guard’s head before pressing an ear to the door.
The voices within are mostly older men, some slurred, some merry, but all speaking in Russian, my mother tongue. But I hear some of them speaking to women.
“Boris, tell that bitch of yours to bring another beer and take a seat on me.”
“She doesn’t speak Russian yet —the only language these French girls understand is cock, don’t you know?”
“Well shit, she’d better start giving me some poetry then, unless she wants to be given to the help outside!”
There’s a sound of a terrified, quiet voice in French I can’t quite make out, but it’s followed by laughter from the men. “Hey, maybe she should meet her date for tonight, go get the guard and have him come strip her for us, I’m bored with poker for tonight.”
As they’ve been speaking, I’ve been sliding the master key into the lock and turning it quietly, slowly. My muscles tense as I hear heavy footsteps approaching the door, and I see that my chance is coming faster than I expected.
Just before the footsteps reach the door, I throw it open, cracking the corner against the face of whomever was being sent to fetch the dead guard, and he crumples to the ground as I move in and bring my heel down on his throat and hold up my pistol.
The room is a haze of cigar smoke in the palpably tense instants I enter the penthouse. It’s a luxurious suite, with marble floors and mahogany furniture giving the place the look of an upscale antique store. There’s some art hanging on the walls, all rather high-quality forgeries. At least ten men turn their eyes to me, many of them in recognition. Some are old, some are young. Three are sitting around a table, playing poker. Another few men are sitting around on couches and armchairs, apparently having been talking before I came in. There are two women in the room, one of them on a man’s lap in an armchair, the other holding a tray of cocktails.
“You bastard,” one of the men playing poker has time to growl at me before three rounds of my weapon strike true on all three men at the poker table, my aim moving with deadly precision before one of the women screams, and I duck behind the half-wall that leads into the room as chaos breaks loose.
The remaining men stand up, some of them reaching for their guns as they dive for cover, and shouts in Russian fill the room. I hear footsteps and movement the moment I’m out of sight, and I make a note to watch for those who’ve left the room. Bullets hit the wall behind me as I duck, but I can tell from the number of shots fired that not all the men have weapons at the ready. Meaning I have only a matter of moments to end this before this becomes a full firefight.
I hear a cry from one of the men and the sound of glass breaking on the ground, and I seize my opportunity, popping out of hiding.
One of the enslaved women had struck one of the armed men with her tray, and before he can get his bearings and retaliate, I put a bullet between his eyes and charge into the room.
Having been distracted by the scene, one of the armed men starts to turn to me, but I reach him first, grabbing his wrist and shoving his arm up as he fires, blasting a hole in the ceiling above before he cries out as I break his wrist and bring my pistol to his heart and pull the trigger.
Five rounds.
The gunfire had ceased, and I turn in time to feel a sting on my right arm as one of the older men brings a kitchen knife across it, and there’s blood on his blade as he finishes. I recognize the man, the one they’d called Boris, and his steely eyes lock with mine.
“You think this game of yours will go unnoticed?” he snarls. “You think the Bratva will just roll over and play along with your wishes, you fucking upstart?”
I have no words to waste my breath on, and even as he brings his knife in for another strike, my fist is faster, and I catch him in the stomach, doubling him over. I wrench the knife from his hand and ram it into his belly faster than he can react, and as blood runs down the man’s front while he gasps, collapsing into the hot fireplace, I turn my attention to two younger men who are barreling for me.
Grimacing, I hurl the knife at the wall, not far from the first woman, who jumps back, her eyes wide as she looks at it while I brace myself to deal with the two men.
One dives for me, and I easily use his weight against him, hurling him to the ground as I swing to catch the second man with a blow to the chin, sending him staggering. He comes back around to tackle me to the ground, but a swift kick to the knee cripples him with a pained shout, and he falls to the ground with his partner.
While they gather their bearings, I reach down to one of the bodies of the armed men, picking up a pistol and putting a bullet into each of the men who dove for me. Their bodies thud to the ground unceremoniously.
With the room cleared, I move to the wall near the entrance to the hallway. My heart jumps to my throat as a man I’d missed stands up from behind the couch, pistol in hand, but before I can turn my weapon to him, I hear him grunt as the first woman sinks the kitchen knife into his back from behind, and she stands back as he falls to the ground, her hands shaking as the weapon falls from her grip.
My eyes watch her for a moment as she looks up at me, fearful. “Flee. You saw nothing tonight,” I inform her in French, and she simply nods before dashing for the door, her footsteps echoing down the stairs.
Returning my attention to the hallway, I brace myself before blind-firing two rounds with the pistol I’d picked up, and I hear two men shout and shuffle for cover as I turn around the corner. One of my shots catches the hip of a man diving into the bathroom, and swiftly, I follow him in before he can regain his bearings.
I point my pistol to his head as I press myself against the wall, and he holds his hands up in surrender, terrified. I nod to the hallway and mouth ‘how many?’ He glances to the doorway and holds up one finger. I nod and fire my pistol, catching him between the eyes before whipping around into the hallway and aiming for the far bedroom doorway.
A bullet from the man standing there catches me in the shoulder before my shot hits him in the throat, and he slumps to the floor as I clutch my wound, moving forward with no time to waste. One bullet remaining in the gun I came into the room with, I kick the door open and instinctively aim it at the bed.
My target is there, sitting on the lavish silken sheets and holding a pistol to the head of the second woman I’d seen him sitting with when I first burst into the room. His eyes are the coldest of any of the other men I saw on my way in. His room is lavish, gold vases and a few pieces of real art hanging on the walls, a large amount of cocaine on a table near the bed and a closet hanging open, full of expensive, tailored suits. He’s every bit the man of hedonistic pleasures I always knew him to be.
“Move, and she dies,” he says, calm and collected. The woman in his grip looks at me with wide, petrified eyes, and I know the one question on her mind is whether or not I value her life enough, even as I have my barrel trained on her captor. He isn’t the oldest man in the room, but of all the mobsters I’ve killed tonight, he’s the highest ranking by far. “A lot of the men in this room might have called you a friend before tonight, you know,” he says coldly. “Maybe even more. Others might have had you killed before you got ambitious. I must admit, my one regret is speaking on your behalf all those times.”
We stare each other in the eyes for several seconds. There’s so much I want to snap back at him, so much I want to tell him of how much hatred I have for him and all that he represents.
But I will not play his games.
The woman shrieks as I fire my pistol, blood spattering on the rich pillows behind the mob boss as he drops his gun and falls back on his bed, lifeless. The woman recoils from the sight, some of the blood in her hair as she screams.
I lower my pistol, my eyes moving to her momentarily before I walk over to look at the man’s lifeless eyes before turning to her. She q
uiets, looking up at me in terror, the unspoken question of what is to become of her written all over her expression.
“Go,” I say simply, and it’s a moment before she nods hastily and darts out of the room. I give her a few minutes head start to move around the house and ensure that everyone was dead. This job could afford nothing less than perfection.
Bodies are strewn across the entire apartment. Smoke still hangs overhead as the dull Russian music drones from a stereo by the television. Blood is spattered across the unfinished game of poker, and there are bullet holes in forged paintings that must be worth hundreds of thousands.
I survey my work with neither a smile nor frown, but I feel a certain sense of peace as I stride out the door, dropping the superintendent's keys by the guard’s body. I have no intention of cleaning the place or even doing so much as closing the door.
Tonight, I mean to send a message.
1
Liv
“Smile, honey!” my mom calls out, grinning widely from behind a big black camera. I struggle to balance both my clunky valedictorian plaque and the enormous bouquet of roses my father presented to me. My face just barely peeks out from behind the flowers and my dad pulls me close in a tight hug just as my mom snaps the photo. I blink rapidly, the flash burning behind my eyes. It’s probably the hundredth picture taken of me today at my high school graduation ceremony. The sun is beginning to make its slow descent down the horizon, casting a dreamy pinkish glow across the football field.
“Oh, that’s a great one!” exclaims my mother, who rushes over to show Dad the photo, kissing the top of my head along the way. Both of my parents are taller than me and very athletic; my mom is an avid runner and my dad used to compete in bodybuilding competitions. As a result of their shared passion, I have been raised with the expectations of attaining and maintaining physical perfection. But while I lack my parents’ height and overt athletic appearance, I am certainly a contender in my own right.
Ever since the day I was born a couple months premature, I have been tiny. I’ve always been a little smaller than all my friends and fellow students. So it was a struggle for my sports-obsessed parents, trying to situate me in an athletic track that I could feasibly do. I mean, it’s not like a five-foot-one girl is going to make it big as a basketball star or anything. And since I was also lucky enough to be born with asthma, I have never been the runner my mom hoped I would be (not for lacking of trying, I might add). But after years of bouncing back and forth between different sports programs, we finally settled on the one sport that’s become my ticket to success, my passion, the thing that drives my every thought and heartbeat.
Gymnastics.
I may not be able to sprint a mile in record time without hyperventilating, and I may not be able to even reach most of the exercise bars at the gym. But I can bend and twist and flip my body in ways nobody ever expected from me. I’m a pretty damn good gymnast, if I do say so myself, and getting to this point has meant years and years of hardcore dedication and training. There’s something so freeing and fulfilling about teaching my body to fly through the air, every muscle straining to the brink. Every time I run and leap, spin and stretch, I feel my heart soaring in my chest. And there is nothing in this world so satisfying as landing a difficult move, my feet grounding me gracefully to the earth once more. It makes me feel like a superhero. It makes me feel like I can fly.
And nothing — nothing at all — can get in my way.
Even the fact that I happen to live in a tiny, rural town in upper North Carolina. Nobody here does much of anything beyond the humble grind of hard work and gentle play. People here are quiet and modest, content to live simple lives away from the bustle of cities like Raleigh and Charlotte.
I have to admit that I, too, love living here. I mean, sure, sometimes it does get pretty boring. But the lack of things to do has proved to be beneficial to my gymnastics training. There are so few distractions that I’ve been easily able to throw myself wholeheartedly into the sport. I do have friends, but most of them are planning on going off to college and then returning to live here for the rest of their lives. There’s nothing wrong with that at all, but it’s not the plan I foresee for myself.
Don’t get me wrong, it is nice to live somewhere so safe and comfortable. People here don’t even really lock their doors or anything — everyone knows everybody else and we all collectively look after each other. So I can totally understand why bigger-city people like my parents, who hail from Chapel Hill, decide to settle down here. It’s also why people who are born here in Toast, North Carolina, are likely to stick around here. This place is picturesque and quiet, the people kind and humble.
And yes, the town really is called Toast.
“Oh, sweetheart. I can’t get over how beautiful your speech was,” Mom coos, stroking my cinnamon-brown hair back out of my face and beaming at me. “Even nearly made your Daddy cry!”
“Hogwash,” Dad retorts good-naturedly. “I’ve never cried once in my whole life!”
All three of us laugh at the inside joke: my dad is actually a notorious crier. He’s the sentimentalist of the family, always poring over old photographs and tearing up over cute videos of baby animals. It’s especially funny, too, considering the fact that he’s a huge, muscular guy. A bodybuilder who happy-cries at the drop of a hat — that’s my dad. He’s the gentle giant and my mom is the energetic go-getter. Both of them have big personalities, and I am often just the quiet, soft-spoken daughter trailing after them.
Not that they see it that way at all. My parents are almost embarrassingly proud of me and my accomplishments, probably prouder than I am.
“Are you ready for dinner with the team tonight after your last performance?” Dad asks, nudging my shoulder excitedly. We’ve been looking forward to the annual celebratory get-together with all the girls from my gymnastics studio and our coaches for months. It’s one of the biggest events of our year, which isn’t saying much, really.
But tonight will be different. The stakes are much higher. It’s not just a low-key dinner with friends and colleagues tonight — it’s the first time I’ll be in the same room as athletic recruiters from all over, including Europe! As far as I know, nobody this fancy has ever even looked at Toast on a map, much less come into town, but we earned a lot of attention when some videos got a lot of hits online recently.
“More nervous than excited,” I answer, biting my lip. My parents, my ever-present cheerleaders, rush to reassure me.
“No, no! Don’t be nervous! You’ve got everything going for you, Livvy,” Mom says, leading me away from the crowds of hugging graduates and families.
“They’re gonna love you. I bet they’ll even have offers for you,” Dad comments, waggling his eyebrows. I giggle at how silly he looks.
“And if they don’t, well, there’s always next year!” my mom concedes.
The performance went off without a hitch, and while the last competition of the year is generally a light-hearted affair that none of us take too seriously, this one is different. We know we have special eyes upon us, and each of us wants to put on our best performance. Or at least, that’s how I feel.
When we finish our routine to thunderous applause, I run to my parents with a smile and they usher me on out. We have to go back home and get changed quick before the celebratory get-together.
When we get home to our little red brick house, I run to my room and head to my closet to pick out something nice to wear.
Living in such a small, empty town has always meant that fashion is at least a few years behind the rest of the world. In fact, when I was much younger, I was content to just wear whatever my mom could sew and knit for me. But of course, as I got older, I outgrew that. So now most of my clothes have been collected from various weekend trips to Greensboro for shopping.
Poring through my clothes, most of which are more suitable for a day at the gymnastics studio than a nice dinner, I finally decide on a knee-length emerald green dress, brown wedge heels,
and a white knit cardigan. I look at myself in the mirror, sizing up my petite frame and fresh-faced look. I’m eighteen years old, but I often get confused for a younger girl because of my size and innocent appearance. People tend to treat me like I’m fragile, like I could shatter into teeny tiny pieces at any moment. I do look pretty delicate. But looks can be deceiving, and in my case that’s certainly true.
I sit down at my little wooden vanity (handmade by my dad) to put on a quick coat of mascara and a dab of red lip gloss. I smile into the mirror, hoping I look mature and talented enough to catch the eye of some elite recruiter tonight. As much as I love my little hometown and all its pastoral comforts, part of me has always wanted to venture out into the big, blue world and discover new places and experiences.
“Honey, are you ready to go?” my dad calls from across the house. I can hear his heavy footsteps creaking over the old wooden floors. This house has been standing here for decades and decades, and it shows. I love living in a home steeped in history like this. But I wonder what kind of history and art and culture I could discover living abroad!
“Yeah! Coming!” I shout out, slinging my purse over my shoulder and hurrying downstairs to meet my parents.
“You look beautiful,” Mom remarks. My dad sniffles a little at the sight of me and I grin. He’s such a sap.
We all pile into the car and drive to one of the few non-fast food restaurants in the area to meet up with about ten other girls from the gymnastics studio and the team of coaches, parents, and trustees involved with the program. As soon as the station wagon parks behind the restaurant, a couple of my friends catch sight of me and come running.
Holly Hixon and Ashley Wilson, my best friends, hug me tightly when I get out of the car, their faces flushed with excitement. “You’ll never believe who all is here!” Ashley gushes.
“There are people from New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago!” Holly gasps, taking my hand and pulling me toward the entrance to the restaurant. We’ve rented out the back dining room for the occasion and when we walk in, we go straight back, my parents following behind hand-in-hand.
Hitman - the Series: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Collection (Alexis Abbott's Hitmen #0) Page 53
