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

by Alexis Abbott

  I don’t dignify Anton with a response, my hard gaze even on him.

  “As I have said, things are changing rapidly in Brighton Beach,” he says, “and certain parties want to be sure that you are indeed the right man to lead us there. Assurances have to be made. Proven,” he adds, his thumb brushing over the chamber of the gun as he brushes the barrel through the woman’s hair. Her eyes widen as she realizes what Anton is holding, and they flit up to me, wanting to look to me for help yet remembering all too soon that I’m as much her predator as Anton is.

  “So, my friend,” Anton says, his voice chillingly casual as he takes a seat on the couch to the right, gun raised, “come and show this lovely young lady what a real Russian man can do.” My gaze shifts from Anton to the woman whose name I don’t even know, her form laid out on the couch like a reluctant offering. She’s beautiful beyond words, and I cannot deny my desire for her, but she is not here willingly. She is not giving herself to me, she is being given. She is a slave to the mob.

  And I have to fuck her, or we’ll both die tonight.

  6

  Rosie

  “Do it now, or you’ll be fucking a corpse,” orders one of the mafia men quietly, the barrel of his gun pointed directly at the side of my head. The man in front of me clenches his jaw in anger, clearly struggling with this moral dilemma. It’s little comfort to know that at least he doesn’t want to give into this absurd, horrifying deal. Some small, insecure voice in the back of my head whispers that maybe he just doesn’t want to fuck me, in particular. Maybe he doesn’t find me attractive.

  It’s ridiculous that even in a life or death situation, my mind has room for insecurities.

  Even with a gun aimed at my brain, it continues to generate self-conscious thoughts.

  I snap myself out of that and remind myself that this guy probably isn’t even thinking about whether I’m sexually desirable or not. He’s got more than enough to worry about, with the number of weapons poised to destroy us both. I decide to make things a little easier on him.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper faintly, and the man turns to look at me with such luminescent sorrow shining in his stormy gray eyes. They remind me of gathering rain clouds, of deep and churning waters in old-timey paintings of shipwrecks. His eyes are the color of trouble, of bad omens and dark shadows. But I need him to trust me, at least until we get out of this mess.

  I can tell he wants me to trust him, too, but this current predicament is testing us both.

  If we don’t do this, it’s certain death. But if we do… what will become of us then? Or me at least?

  After all, I’m a virgin; I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with my body under normal circumstances, much less at gunpoint.

  “I am sorry for this,” he murmurs in response, his voice low and thrumming. It sends a tremble through my core, every nerve in my body on alert. It’s like he’s spoken some kind of magical incantation, muting and blurring the world surrounding us in an instant, leaving just the two of us standing before each other in a shared, soft vibration.

  He steps forward, raising one hesitant hand to brush the heavy, dark hair back from my face, those gray eyes searching me with desperation, a hint of pleading.

  And then he kisses me. I sigh into his mouth, my body stiffening at first, and then melting into his waiting arms. Somewhere, distantly, I am still cognizant of the guns pointed at us and the men watching us without even the slightest thread of decency or guile. But in this moment, those are all mere background observations to be shelved and explored at a later time. All I can do right now is lean into this kiss, my first real kiss, and try to remember to breathe.

  Every cell in my body has come alive.

  I feel myself rising, warmth tingling into my limbs and setting my heart rate a tick faster. The man — the Bull — wraps me in his arms and strokes my hair, his lips surprisingly soft and gentle against mine compared to his hard body. His hands slip down to grasp my hips, maneuvering me even closer so that we’re pressed fully against each other. I can feel his hardening length pushing into my thigh and a little thrill of mingled interest and fear passes through me.

  “I can make this quick for you,” he says softly, his breath tickling the exposed skin of my neck. “And as painless as I can manage.”

  Somehow, all of my words have gotten lost somewhere between my brain and my lips, and so I simply nod my assent instead. In one swift, fluid movement, he cradles me back into his forearms and gently lays me down on the floor, crouching over me in a stance that would have been predatory if not for the twinge of apology in his eyes.

  He bends down to kiss me again, his lips soft at first, then more insistent. My own lips part to allow his tongue access, our mouths moving together in probing curiosity. There is a static current running between us as his hands rove up and down my body, gently caressing my bare stomach and partially exposed breasts. I feel a certain respect and reverence in his every motion, as though I’m the one in control despite lying here submissive to him. Like he’s almost afraid of breaking me. He touches me like I’m a pristine forest and his fingertips ignite fires.

  But the men watching us are totally numb to our tender exploration of each other’s bodies. The leader groans impatiently and hisses, “Move it along. We don’t have all night.”

  The Bull’s hand tightens into a fist at the side of my hair, twisting a lock of my hair over his thick knuckles. I can tell from this one small movement that he is a reservoir of incredible fury and strength, which he must actively work to keep levied back. Behind the veil of calm lurks an awe-inspiring power, betrayed only in part by the dark clouds in his eyes.

  He breaks away from our kiss momentarily, those eyes grazing over my face in hungry paths. He then slides a hand underneath my back to deftly unclasp my bra, slipping it back over my head. I feel my entire body flush with humiliation as the three other men stand by watching. Their cruel, greedy lust is palpable. I feel like a slab of bloody steak laid before three ravenous coyotes.

  But to my relief and gratitude, the Bull strips off his own black jacket and perfectly-pressed white shirt to lean over me, blocking my bare chest from their lewd gaze. His own broad, sculpted chest rippling with muscles, inked with ominous tattoos that excite as much as they make me fear him.

  I hold my breath in fear and wonder of what might happen next. I have seen movies, of course, and I know the general mechanics of making love. But this, being in the position myself, feels totally foreign. I am a pretty capable woman, and I always assumed I would know exactly what to do when the time came. But I’m realizing that I need the Bull’s guidance. More than that… I crave it.

  His hands gently grip my breasts, dragging in slow circles over my sensitive nipples. I let out an unbidden moan and a flash of animalistic desire flickers for a brief second in his gray eyes. I stare up at him in unabashed curiosity, watching him watch me.

  “Hurry up,” barks the leader of the mafia guys. I glance over to see that he’s got the gun pointed at us again, and it’s obvious that the Bull has taken notice of this, too, as he quickly pulls down my leggings and unzips his black trousers. His cock springs free and my eyes go wide at the unexpected size of it. I always thought they would be smaller. But this is monstrous. I can feel my flower clenching up in fear at the prospect of something so huge trying to ram its way in.

  But mingled with that fear is a strange desire.

  I want him to fuck me. For all the years I lived for nothing more than taking care of my sisters, did nothing for myself, I wanted to feel alive.

  It goes beyond a simple, understandable sense of self-preservation. It’s more than that. But I don’t get much of an opportunity to think about it before the Bull tugs down my panties and pushes my thighs apart to let the head of his enormous shaft rub against my dampening slit. I involuntarily buck up into the point of contact, feeling a sudden, overwhelming need to be closer.

  “I wish things could be different,” he murmurs to me, barely audible. And
with that, he reaches down to position himself at my opening, and pushes inside with one deep thrust.

  An electric current of pain jolts through my body and I cry out, clutching in vain at the smooth floor on either side of me. Tears sting in my eyes and I hear the three onlookers chuckle in satisfaction. They are enjoying this, watching my pain and humiliation.

  But the Bull is shockingly responsive to my agony, leaning down to kiss my lips, my cheeks, my forehead, his hands smoothing back my hair and cupping my cheeks in a comforting fashion. He slowly pulls back out and then spears me again, the pain only marginally decreased this time. Hot tears spill down my cheeks and into the floorboards, wetting my hair. The Bull reaches down to softly massage the tight bundle of nerves at the top of my slit, sending a shock of intense pleasure through me. As he continues the small, consistent circle, he pumps into me slowly at first, then picks up the pace. Agony subsides slightly, being overridden by a mounting ecstasy as he works my clit and pushes against a deep, dark spot within my cunt. Finally, with a strangled cry, a wave of bliss overcomes me and I twitch violently, fumbling to grasp at his arms and shoulders.

  And then he loses control, pumping into me as though my own climax has freed the rabid beast inside of him. He pounds into my pussy with abandon, groaning and murmuring in slurred Russian. Finally, while my cunt still shudders with orgasm, he releases a hot stream of seed into me, groaning wantonly. He bends down to kiss me, our bodies heaving together under the unwavering gaze of our three hideous bystanders.

  “Well done,” appraises the leader, clapping his hands slowly. “Now get up and get yourselves cleaned up. It’s time to go.”

  “We will return in a moment,” adds one of his henchmen as all three of them turn and walk out of the cabin, leaving me alone and naked with the Bull.

  After a moment, he helps me to my feet and hands me my clothing, then quickly puts his own clothes back on. “I wish it did not have to be this way,” he says earnestly, sadness coloring his tone.

  I still cannot muster a single word, like my voice has suddenly disappeared.

  Slipping his jacket over his thick, muscular arms, he continues: “I am not one of them, I promise you. Perhaps at one time I thought I was allied with them, but those days are now past. I have tried to make amends for what I’ve done. You must understand, I am not one of them. Not anymore. I have made it my mission to rescue the girls these pigs wish to imprison and treat like mere property. I never would have done this if I thought there was any other way.”

  I can only nod, unable to make eye contact with him. I feel so broken, so exposed, now that the adrenaline rush is subsiding. The Bull steps closer and I fall back. He looks genuinely hurt.

  In a softer voice, he says, “I will do whatever is in my power to protect you. I refuse to let them hurt you any further. I don’t know how you got here or why, but I swear to you, I will save you from this however I can.” He holds out his hand for me to shake, and I hesitantly take it.

  “My name is Konstantin.”

  Finally, I lift my gaze to meet his eyes. “I’m Rosie.”

  7

  Konstantin

  That’s a lovely name, I want to tell her, but it feels like such a trite thing to tell her here and now. The word lingers on my tongue when the door opens again, and once her clothes are back on, I realize she’s still lacking a top. “Do you have a shirt?”

  “They took it,” she says after a moment of processing my question. I nod, and without another word, I slip my fitted jacket off my shoulders. She winces for a moment, afraid, but she stands still as I drape it over her shoulders, and she instinctively pulls it around her to cover herself.

  “It may be a little large on you,” I say, and it’s a gross understatement. She looks like a bat blinking up at me, the bottom of the jacket dangling halfway down her thighs, and the sleeves could totally cover her hands if they weren’t bunched back. “But it will have to do for now.”

  She hesitates, then gives a quick nod, leaving silence between us again for a tense moment. Then Anton strides in, this time accompanied by one of the older men I met during the party.

  “Ah,” he says, beaming as if nothing of this sort had just happened, and I’m canny enough to play along for the time being, turning and regarding him casually. “I’m glad to see the two of you getting along. There are a few more friends of ours I wanted to introduce you to now that we’ve gotten a few formalities out of the way. So please, why don’t you come back on the deck with us? The yacht is heading back to port, but we have a few minutes still.”

  I nod calmly, and before Anton can utter another word, I turn to Rosie and nod cordially for her to follow me. She looks bewildered, but I give her a meaningful look. I then turn my eyes back to Anton, who casts me a glare, but his mind for decorum doesn’t allow him to argue with me just now.

  “And of course,” he says, broadening his fake smile, “your new friend is more than welcome to accompany you, even if she is a little ‘comfortably’ dressed,” he adds, as if it’s her fault she doesn’t have a gaudy track suit to blend in with the rest of the ‘high society’ present.

  Rosie gives me a reluctant look, but I do my best to appear as comforting to her as I can as I motion for her to follow me out the door and into the crowd of people, many of whom would be just as apt to do what I was just forced to do at gunpoint.

  This is all a power play on the Bratva factions scrambling to keep things together in Sergei’s wake, I understand immediately. I feel a heavy weight in my heart as I realize the full gravity of the situation. Anton has dispelled any notion of my heroics by forcing me to do what I did, perhaps even trying to worm his way into my head. And he’s just the tip of the iceberg, as far as I know. As I guide Rosie through the crowd, I cast glances around me, meeting roving eyes that regard me briefly as we emerge from the lounge. I wonder how many of those eyes know what’s just taken place and plan to use it against me.

  But I am not a man to be blackmailed. If they think they can use this kind of vulgar stunt against me, they have something else coming — something they won’t be prepared to handle.

  Even I cannot stave off the guilt of what I’ve done, though. As Anton guides us to whoever the hell he means to introduce me to next, I reach out to take Rosie’s hand, and she lets it happen, numbly, her fingers cold as ice and her arm listless.

  She was enslaved. She was defenseless. She was scared. And I violated her.

  I glance behind me and see a blank look on her face. She follows me as if through a dream as we navigate the crowd, and I know there’s nowhere else in the world she’d find less pleasant than here at my side, but somehow, her legs carry her on, maybe driven by the thought that I’m better than being at the mercy of whatever strangers who handled her on her way up here. I might be her captor now, but if it means keeping her safe, I won’t let her out of my sight.

  My thoughts are entirely on how she must be feeling right now, and I know I can never begin to understand the whirlwind of emotion — or lack thereof — and the effect it’s having on her at this very moment. I’m only half-present as Anton starts to introduce me to yet another group of old men, and the small talk resumes as if nothing so vile had ever taken place just a few minutes ago. The best I can do is to try and protect her...but how can I do that when she’s my victim?

  Hours later, the yacht party is finally behind us, and I’m heading out onto the dock parking lot with Rosie, accompanied by the guard who’d been standing outside the lounge when I was brought inside.

  “As he may have mentioned,” says the man as the Brighton breeze cools us off, our voices echoing in the spacious parking lot, “Anton has a car arranged for you. I hope it’s to your liking, and I can assure you, it’s top of the line by local standards.”

  I raise my eyebrows as we approach a sleek black luxury sedan, its windows tinted and its shine so pristine that the moonlight seems brighter for it. “It will do,” I say with a nod as the man hands me the keys. I unlock it and lead
Rosie to the passenger’s side, where I help her in and close the door. She seems to just be staring ahead as I round the car and approach the guard again.

  “I’m texting you the address of your apartment,” he says, taking out his phone. “You should find everything to your liking there. But please, let me know if there’s anything else we can provide.”

  There’s a certain hesitation to his voice that I don’t fail to notice. He’s trying to keep his eyes from drifting to the young woman in the car, but it isn’t a simple lust in his eyes. He almost looks conflicted, and I wonder how many of the people on the lower rungs of the hierarchy in Brighton would prefer to see such unsavory business be done away with.

  “Thank you,” I tell him with a curt nod. “I’ll keep you in mind.” My wording is deliberate. “But I understand that there is somewhere more suitable being prepared for me, yes?”

  “Mr. Slokavich’s old manor, yes sir,” he says with a nod. “When it is ready, I hope you’ll find it just as impressive as he did. Though his tastes were rather…”

  I stop him, giving a simple understanding look, and he smiles back at me knowingly. “I would like to drive by it and see my future quarters. Text me its address as well.”

  “Of course, sir,” he says, and with that, I dismiss him and step into the car.

  We pull out into the night as I begin heading for the manor, and I glance over to Rosie before we head out into the open road. It’s late, nearing midnight, but the streets of Brighton Beach are still rather busy.

  “This city has a thriving night life,” I comment after ten minutes of tense silence. I don’t blame her for saying nothing, her gaze fixed on the window.

  “Are you a native?” I ask, trying to check my thick accent, but I know it will be hard to keep from slipping out around her. I notice the faintest shake of her head that I’ve ever seen, but she says nothing. I frown a little, not because of her reluctance, but because that means she has no friends in the city who could help her.