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

by Alexis Abbott

  I wonder how much she knows. Whether she has any idea who I am, where we’re going, or what’s to become of her. I wonder how much Anton put into her head in the short time she’s been in captivity. I still don’t know how long ago she was taken, but the numbness she still feels tells me she must be painfully fresh to this life.

  But I will not give her what her deepest nightmares are expecting. That is why I have no intention of going to my suite tonight.

  To make Rosie’s silence a little more peaceful, I turn the radio on and let soft music play for the rest of the way to the manor, and I do my best not to look over at her. After what seems like an eternity, I finally see what must be the manor coming up ahead.

  It’s a lavish estate, and I can tell it’s one Sergei Slokavich was ill-suited to, to say the least. The gardens around the outside are starting to become dilapidated and wilted, and I wonder whether he even bothered to hire a gardener or two or if he planned to let the whole outdoors turn to waste under his rule.

  I can tell we aren’t expected, as there are hardly any guards out and about. In Russia, such compounds as this have men patrolling the perimeter, the balconies, and even the rooftops, but here, I see only a couple of men at the doors, and their surprise at my headlights as I pull up the driveway tells me all I need to know.

  “Stay here,” I tell Rosie quietly before stepping out of the car and hailing the men as they approach.

  “You’ve taken a wrong turn,” one of the men shouts in heavily accented English as he steps forward.

  “Do you know who I am?” I reply in Russian, startling them. The man who spoke squints at me, and his eyes widen in recognition.

  “Mr. Alkaev?” They exchange glances and stand up a little straighter. “We weren’t told to expect you yet.”

  “I know,” I say, “there’s been a change of plans. You are dismissed for the night. Say nothing of this to your superiors until the morning, I do not wish to be disturbed tonight. And remember who your new superior is. Understood?”

  They hesitate a moment, then give curt nods, one of them handing me his key before trudging off towards their cars as I watch them depart. I then make my way to the car and open the door for Rosie, who seems understandably confused by everything she just watched in silence.

  “I thought you’d prefer less large men with guns tonight,” I say, trying to reassuring her lightly. “I think you’ve had your fill for a lifetime.”

  We make our way into the manor, and I stride in as though I’ve owned the place since its construction. Anton wasn’t lying about one thing — the place is certainly still in disarray. I see boxes lining some of the walls at the entryway, and there are places where marks on the walls and floors are being repaired. But I know a large part of the renovation is a cover for cleaning out any secrets Sergei might have had.

  I will busy myself with that investigation later. For now, I have a more pressing matter at hand, and she’s looking around the manor in awe. It’s clear she’s never been in a place so lavish as this.

  “There are a few things I’d like to see changed, too,” I admit as if in response to her gaze, and she blinks at me as if seeing me for the first time. I look at her sympathetically, then nod to the staircase at the far end of the entry hall. “Come, let’s find your bed for the night.”

  I lead her up the stairs, hoping that I have the right idea of where the master bedroom is. After what feels like half a week of climbing, we reach the ornate wooden doors that tell me my suspicions were correct. Pushing them open, I can’t help but grimace at what I see.

  To most people, I’m sure this room looks like the lap of luxury. To me, it’s an extravagant eyesore. The massive bed sports red sheets and silken pillows, and there are spare sheets sticking out from under the bed. There is a large, golden rug beneath it that I want to hurl out the window, and the embroidered curtains cover a few large windows. On the far left, there are two large glass doors that lead to a spacious balcony. There are the usual amenities one would expect from a bedroom, but each one looks like it’s worth about what I would spend on an entire room. Stifling my embarrassment, I step into the room and gesture to the bed.

  “You may stay here tonight,” I say. “Forgive the disarray, but you should find everything you need in this house, and of course, you’re free to explore as much of it as you want.” I’ll have to do some exploring myself, in the morning, I think, but I don’t want to burden her with the details of how precarious my position is right now.

  She makes her way past me to the bed, eyeing it for a moment before taking an experimental seat on it. She then nods as if in approval, slipping my jacket off and setting it aside as she slips her shoes off and pulls her legs up under her.

  “Thanks,” she says, and she hasn’t spoken in so long that her voice sounds almost unfamiliar, tinted with caution. Her hooded eyes look up to me again, and she starts to speak, but stops herself. After a moment, I give a nod in reply.

  “Rosie,” I say, and the name is a little strange on my tongue, but I like the way it comes out. “Know that I meant what I said. I cannot take back what has happened to you. Nor what those men did to you and told you to expect. But I will not do so much as sleep in the same bed as you unless you wish it.” She keeps her gaze on me, and I wonder whether she believes me. “I have to make some calls,” I say, starting to move towards the exit. “You are welcome to do as you please. When I walk out those doors, my back will be to you. Should you choose to leave this place, I won’t pursue you, and I will make up some story for the men you saw on the yacht.”

  I pause, looking her in those wide, surprised eyes. “So if this is the last time we see each other...farewell.”

  I turn to head out the wooden door to the bedroom, but her voice stops me.

  “Konstantin,” she says, and my name comes much more easily to her. “I wanted to ask...what is it you do, exactly?”

  The one question I don’t want to answer.

  I look back at her, my gaze stony, and she seems to regret asking, so I soften my face as much as I can, to little avail. “Take a look at me, Rosie, and decide that for yourself.”

  Several minutes later, I’m out of the building and heading toward my car, not once looking back at the manor, as promised.

  I must force the thoughts of Rosie out of my head as I pull out my cell phone. I know there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to go. I can’t tell what exactly it is, but I feel such a strong sense of empathy with that woman in there that I want to make sure she is well cared for, no matter what. But I know the best thing I can do for her now is let her make her own choice. Besides, after what I’ve seen tonight, I suspect she’s representative of a much larger problem that I plan to face head-on.

  Looking at the text I received from the guard, I hit the ‘call’ button and listen to the phone ringing.

  “...Mr. Alkaev? Hello?”

  “Yes. Tell me, what is your name?”

  “Dmitri, sir.”

  “Dmitri. How long have you served the Bratva?”

  “...longer than I can remember, sir.”

  “So you’ve been a loyal boekiv through this recent power struggle. Good.”

  “Sir?”

  “There are some rumors I need to follow up on if I am to assume this new role effectively. From now on, Dmitri, you do not answer to Anton. You answer to me. We need to meet, tonight — pick a bar. Once we’re there, you will start by telling me everything you know about a peculiar man I’ve heard of associated with Brighton, a Siberian by the name of Andrei.”

  8

  Rosie

  I lie here alone on the massive, California-king-size bed in the middle of this opulent room, my head still spinning with the overwhelming rush of events that I’ve recently lived through. I feel like Dorothy, like my whole life has been whirled away in a violent twister, leaving me stranded in this bizarre, Technicolor fantasy land. I’m definitely not in New Jersey anymore. This is Brighton Beach, and I no longer belong to myself.
>
  I belong to him.

  The tall, broad-shouldered, gorgeous, husky-voiced man who fucked me at gunpoint and then promptly whisked me away to this strange mansion. I didn’t even know it was possible to own such a large, maze of a manor in this part of the state. Even when I lived in the depths of the antebellum South, I never saw such a magnificent, over-the-top house. For a moment, I flash back to my warm, jasmine-scented memories of riding my little pink bicycle down the streets of a high-dollar neighborhood, staring in awe at the tall, beautifully-constructed pastel houses. They looked like real-life dollhouses, and I remember wondering if the people inside looked like the dolls I saw in the shop windows, but could never afford. It was a totally different world, a cold contrast to the tiny trailer I lived in back then.

  Of course, once we moved up to New Jersey, I spent every night lying in bed wishing on every star in the sky that we could go back to Mississippi. Back to that little trailer decorated with dusty old finger-paintings and my mom’s dying herbs and flowers, all curled stems and wilting petals. Because even though the light she once provided was totally snuffed out, at least in that trailer I still felt faint echoes of her presence. It was easier to feel close to her when we still lived in the same place she once lived.

  Leaving Mississippi filled me with guilt. I remember watching the trailer park shrink away over the hill as we drove off toward the highway, thinking that we were leaving Mama behind, her ghost left alone and trapped down that dirt road.

  Guilt fills my chest again now, as I bite my lip to keep from crying at the thought of Daisy and Sunny. I promised to protect them and keep them safe, swore that I would never leave them alone with our father. He’s never hit them exactly, but he neglects them entirely, preferring to pretend they don’t exist because their existence reminds him that his wife is gone.

  It isn’t their fault. I have screamed at him a hundred times to take pity on them, to love them as they dutifully, inexplicably love him. The girls are so sweet and innocent that they continue to strive for his affection, despite years and years of the most stubborn cold shoulder anyone has ever experienced. I sit up in bed and draw my legs up close to my chest, resting my chin on my knees and biting my lip hard, forcing myself to stay strong. Sitting here crying will definitely not help them, or me, for that matter.

  I still can’t figure out whether I’m in danger or not. I mean, judging by the events of yesterday, I have to assume I’m now neck-deep in trouble, thanks to the ever-constant fuck-ups of my father. At first, I was too blindsided by the whole situation to really consider why this was happening. But over time it has dawned on me that my dad’s gambling addiction has finally taken complete and utter control over his life. Well, the gambling shares a throne with the drinking, of course. They’re co-rulers of Frank Barnes’s life. And I have become the most recent pay-off method. When credit cards reach their limits and the meager life savings have dried up, I suppose it makes sense that my dad would turn to the only other assets he’s got left: his children.

  I wince at the thought of my sisters finding the same fate, eventually.

  Steeling myself, I resolve to never let that happen. I hope desperately that my father will have at least enough decency not to try and sell them off until they’re of age. I know there are horrible, evil predators out there who would pay top-dollar for underaged little girls, and it fills my gut with roiling fury to think about.

  But this man who has bought me…

  The Bull. Konstantin Alkaev.

  Neither of these names mean much to me, other than the fact that they’re pretty intimidatingly foreign. His names certainly offer a fitting preview of what he’s like. Huge, powerful, and a force of nature. But from my interactions with him, especially one on one, he is less like an angry bull in an arena and more like… well, an overly-cautious bull in a proverbial china shop. Like he is fully aware of how terrifying he is, and he wants to make certain I don’t feel any fear toward him. It reminds me of the Disney movie I watched over and over again as a little girl, The Beauty and the Beast. To rescue my bumbling father, I have been swept away to this castle and held captive here by a beast of a man.

  Only, I’m not exactly captive, am I?

  I scan the room carefully, looking for hidden cameras or something. It seems only natural that a man like Konstantin would have to trick out his mansion with state-of-the-art security. Then again, I get the profound sense that even he is out of context here. Like this isn’t the way he wants to live and this whole mansion shebang has him totally out of his element. It’s so lavishly decorated, the place looks more appropriate for a modern-day sheik than a strong, quiet man like the Bull. Even as he showed me around earlier, he seemed unhappy with his surroundings.

  Maybe it’s a rental, I reason, slightly amused at the thought of someone like Konstantin going through a realty company. It would be like watching a bear try to file taxes.

  But I shake myself of these oddly warm thoughts. It’s not like I know anything about him, really. All I really know are the facts:

  He’s a dangerous man, probably part of the mafia.

  He bought me like I’m just some flashy new appliance.

  And he stole my virginity at gunpoint.

  Granted, it wasn’t his gun aimed at us the entire time, but that little technicality does little to change the violent, horror-film nature of my first time. Still, though, I cannot fool myself into forgetting how bizarrely good it felt. How his hands on my body, his lips on mine, his massive cock inside me felt right. No one has ever gotten close enough to make me feel anything like that. I have never allowed myself to be distracted away from my responsibilities with something as inconsequential and unnecessary as sex. But I find myself shivering a little at the memory of Konstantin’s fingers deftly working my clit, toying my nipples, pulling at my hair and bringing me to an overwhelming, unexpected orgasm. I close my eyes and imagine his hard cock rubbing teasingly along the slick opening of my cunt, toying with me, making me want him more until I beg for him to release me from this awful frustration. I think about the way he felt inside me, filling my pussy so completely, stabbing into that deep, magical spot over and over until the pleasure is almost painful, it’s so intense.

  I lie back on the bed instinctively, my fingers trailing down between my thighs to lightly trace along the dampening spot in my panties, arching up into my own delicate touch until I’m moaning, Konstantin’s gorgeous gray eyes piercing through my memory. I bite my lip and start to slip my fingers underneath the elastic band of my panties, when I suddenly jerk myself back to reality with a frustrated groan.

  How can I be so silly? So selfish?

  Touching myself to the memory of that horrible fuck-or-be-murdered scenario? What is wrong with me?! And more importantly, how can I possibly be useful to Daisy and Sunny while I’m still lounging around in this luxurious honeymoon suite?

  I kick my legs over to the edge of the bed and slide down, looking around for something to wear. I’m still wearing just my leggings and bra, and I definitely cannot go out like this. It’s strange, this place definitely doesn’t seem to suit Konstantin at all. But why would he take me here if it isn’t his home? Is this some kind of communal penthouse, shared by various members of the mafia? Just a lavish crash pad for a mobster and his most recent conquest, to bed down and shack up?

  “Well,” I murmur aloud as I start searching through a massive, vintage-looking armoire across the room, “I am nobody’s conquest. And I am definitely not shacking up with you, Mister Alkaev. I got shit to do.”

  All of the clothes I find in the drawers are too small and sleazy-looking to belong to Konstantin. Like the man who lived here before was some kind of high-stakes Russian businessman or something. I see more gold velour, polyester, and silk than I would expect in a stripper’s work locker. (Except, I imagine those fabrics work a whole lot better on a beautiful girl than on a probably paunchy, chain-smoking Moscow mobster.)

  I pull out several lacy panties and skimpy tho
ngs from the drawers, some of them obviously worn and then… not washed. I grimace and toss them aside, disgusted at the thought of some gross man hoarding women’s used underwear. Now I hope more than ever that this place doesn’t belong to Konstantin. So far, he’s been bizarrely chivalrous in his behavior toward me, despite the horrific circumstances of our meeting. It would be totally incongruous with what I know of him to find out this mansion is really his. I can’t imagine the Bull collecting used thongs and squeezing his obscene muscles into a stretchy, silvery pantsuit.

  No. This has to be a shared facility.

  A fortress or headquarters for the sleazy elite.

  Either way, I have to get the hell out of here. After all, Konstantin made it very clear to me that he would understand if I left. Maybe he wants me to leave. He did say that his mission is to rescue and set free the girls captured and enslaved by the mafia. So perhaps this is just another step in the plan to get me out of trouble.

  Then again, how can I even trust him? I don’t know much about him other than my own instincts and the fact that he’s involved with the mafia. For all I know, he could be totally on their side and simply playing me, testing me to see how loyal I am and how quickly I run off, only to re-capture me and bring me back here for punishment.

  I gulp nervously at the prospect of what the mafia might consider an appropriate punishment for running away. If he is just another enforcer of the code, then perhaps there’s a reason he’s been so strangely gentle with me so far; he’s just luring me into a false sense of security so that he can tear the rug out from underneath me later.

  A terrifying thought.

  Still, he was just so tender with me last night on the boat… so genuine in his concern for my comfort and wellbeing. He could have simply ravaged and abused my body, given the Mafioso onlookers a real show of violent masculinity by hurting me and disregarding my feelings, simply using me for his own pleasure. But instead, he seemed to really care, trying to make the whole ordeal as quick and painless as possible for me. How can he be that convincing of an actor?