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

by Alexis Abbott

  Of course, the fact that Konstantin has given me space, freedom, and limitless resources to make myself more comfortable in my new environment certainly helps. Even though we have already had sex, he still treats me more or less like a new acquaintance, letting me sleep alone in the huge master bedroom while he sleeps in a room down the hall. Not once has he touched me intentionally, keeping a safe distance between us.

  I feel like he might actually respect me, in a way I am not accustomed to.

  When we finally go to bed around four in the morning, he stops me just as I am about to walk into my bedroom. There is an almost nervous tinge to his voice when he asks cautiously, “Would you be up for going out tomorrow? To celebrate the success of our mission today, of course.”

  I blink in confusion for a moment, trying to figure out what exactly he means. It sounds fairly tame, but I still can’t help but wonder if there is some ulterior motive. Perhaps he just has another step in the plan, to enact tomorrow. But then the glint in his eyes clues me in — he’s asking me… on a date.

  “You mean like a date?” I say quietly, hating myself for blushing.

  “If you prefer to call it that, yes,” the Bull replies coolly. “We met under — less than savory — circumstances, and I would like an opportunity to make it up to you, if you’ll have me.”

  I pause for a moment, waiting for the alarm bell to kick in and start screaming at me to say no, to shut this down before it even has a chance to start. But it never comes. I am left staring up at him with utter silence in my head, for once, as though my instincts have already gone to sleep without me.

  Like I’ve let my guard down for the first time in years.

  “Yes, I think I would like that,” I hear myself saying, my lips forming the words before my brain can catch up.

  “Good,” Konstantin agrees, his usually-serious face brightening up as his lips pull back in a wide, genuine smile. I am almost rendered breathless at his incredible handsomeness, the beast having instantaneously transformed into a prince again.

  “Wh-where will we go? What are we g-gonna do?” I stammer as he starts to turn away. I’m interested in the answer, of course, but somewhere in my mind it distantly occurs to me that I’m really only asking to keep him here with me a moment longer. I find myself craving another word, another glance from his beautiful gray eyes.

  I don’t know if I’m just starved for recognition and human contact in general, or if I am genuinely this wrapped up in Konstantin himself.

  He looks back at me and shrugs. “I have something in mind, but… it’s a secret.”

  “Oh,” I murmur, slightly crestfallen. I do not like surprises. In my experience, they are rarely the good kind. I prefer to know exactly what is coming at any given time, as much as possible. Living with my father is like waking up every morning not knowing whether you’re sharing a house with a mildly unpleasant human or a rabid grizzly bear.

  “It will be a good surprise, obeshchayu,” he assures me, the final word leaving his lips in a husky, foreign growl. “I know you will like it.”

  Konstantin gives me a strangely uncharacteristic wink and heads into his room, leaving me alone and confused in the hallway. I push my door open, still reeling from the sight of a big, scary man like the Bull tossing a roguish wink my way.

  I almost want to giggle at his sudden confidence regarding what a girl like me is into, especially because I hardly know what I’m into. I haven’t exactly gotten many opportunities to explore my more whimsical, fun side. I have only ever been involved with two guys, and I don’t think the term “date” could appropriately be applied to the kinds of encounters I had with them.

  The first one, a scrawny convenience store cashier three years my senior named Trevor Walsh, used to sneak me free milk and toilet paper in exchange for hurried make-out sessions in the tiny little break room. I was fifteen and he was eighteen, and even at my young age I knew enough about the world to understand how a relatively attractive girl like me could use his crush on me as an advantage. The truth was, I had no money and I needed to find a way to get certain necessities for my household. Making out with Trevor was a marginally less unpleasant plan than simply shoplifting. When he tried to pressure me into having sex right after my sixteenth birthday, I dumped him and got a job at a rival convenience store.

  And the second guy was the bassist in a garage band two blocks over. He had a car — an old, beat-up Volkswagen. The guy was considerably more attractive than Trevor, despite the fact that he was also older than me and called himself “The Justinator.” His name was Justin Fletcher, and I pretty much only dated him for his car. I was seventeen, it was the fall semester of my senior year of high school, and I needed a way to get around town without having to shell out bus or cab fare. It sounds callous of me, and there were times when I did feel a little guilty about using him, but in my defense, the guy only used me as a pretty prop to make his band mates jealous. Apparently, years ago, Justin’s drummer friend stole his girlfriend, and ever since then he’d been trying desperately to regain his stolen sense of manhood. I guess I was a suitable candidate for getting his groove back — until he also started pressuring me to have sex. By then, the school year was ending and summer was on the horizon, reminding me that a work opportunity could present an easier way to afford transportation fare. So, of course, I dumped him immediately.

  As I lie in the humongous king-size bed staring up at the ceiling, my mind is racing. I have no idea what to expect from Konstantin. Part of me is still worried that our “date” will just be a rehash of the first night we met — some rushed, humiliating sexual encounter. Or maybe he will actually attempt something vaguely romantic, and it will be awkward, owing to the fact that we are by no means a regular couple. Underneath his compassion toward me is the ugly, underlying truth: he bought me. I am not here of my own free will.

  And it’s with that dark thought that I fall asleep.

  The next morning, I am awakened by the sound of Konstantin knocking lightly at my door. I groan, rub my eyes, and pull the sheets up to my face before muttering, “Come in.”

  The door creaks open and I peek out from under the blanket to find the Bull dressed in a surprisingly casual ensemble of grey trousers and a black button-down shirt. There’s no somber business jacket in sight, and he looks more like a regular — albeit hugely muscled and devastatingly attractive — guy.

  I slither out from beneath the covers to walk over to him, dressed only in the oversized T-shirt I’ve been using as a nightgown for the past few days. I look him up and down a little sheepishly, astonished to find myself so magnetically drawn to him.

  “You look… good,” I murmur bluntly, my brain not quite awake yet.

  He smiles down at me and runs a huge hand back through his dark hair. “Thank you.”

  “What should I wear?” I ask, tilting my head to one side. I don’t know what to expect for today, so I wouldn’t know where to even begin, wardrobe-wise.

  “Whatever makes you happy. You look beautiful regardless of your attire,” Konstantin says simply. “I will leave you to it. Take as long as you need; there’s no rush. I will wait for you downstairs.”

  Once I’m alone, I rush to the en suite master bathroom and hastily jump into the shower, then hurriedly towel-drying my hair and sifting through my drawers to figure out what to wear. I have never once felt nervous about going out with a guy. Granted, the young men I dealt with in the past were scarcely worth getting nervous over, anyway. But Konstantin is a real man — tall and strong, gentlemanly and handsome, regardless of what he does for a living. He did tell me to wear whatever makes me happy. So I take a deep breath, urge myself to relax, and settle on a pair of dark jeans, my black boots, black felt hat, and a white Led Zeppelin shirt made of a soft, fitted material. I look at myself in the elegant floor-length mirror and I’m surprised to find that I look more like myself than I ever have. Like my outside is finally beginning to match my inside, despite the fact that I have been unceremonious
ly dumped into a totally new environment.

  Finally, I head downstairs to meet Konstantin, who rises to smile at me when I walk into the room, gesturing for me to follow him. “You look gorgeous,” he says happily, and I can tell he means it. We get into his big black car and he turns on the radio, immediately tuning it to a classic rock station. This kind of music is one of the few things that reminds me of better times, back when my dad used to drive me around town with him when he would run errands, the two of us singing along to Credence Clearwater Revival and Jimi Hendrix.

  “Did the shirt clue you in?” I ask, motioning to my Zeppelin shirt.

  Konstantin chuckles, a warm, honeyed sound. “Yes, but in my defense, I also have a soft spot for this kind of music. When I was living on the streets of Moscow, my brothers and I would take shelter in a record store. We warmed our frozen bones and listened to the songs. Of course, it was new music to us at the time,” he laughs. “Russia has always been a decade or two behind America when it comes to music.”

  I am taken aback by this sudden glimpse into the Bull’s past. “That’s kind of sweet,” I admit, a smile twitching to my lips. “So, where are we headed?”

  “Are you prone to motion sickness?” he asks suddenly, dodging my question. I furrow my brow and give him a dubious look.

  “I… I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Are you afraid of heights?” he continues.

  “Maybe a little, I don’t know,” I reply, squinting at him.

  “You’ll be okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

  “Now I’m worried,” I admit, biting my lip. Is this some kind of reconnaissance mission? Is he going to tie a rope around my waist and dangle me down through a hole in the ceiling of some high-security vault or something?

  “Nothing to worry about, obeshchayu,” Konstantin says earnestly, glancing over at me.

  There’s that word again. “What does that mean?” I question.

  “It means I promise.”

  “Oh,” I say awkwardly. After a moment of tense silence, I burst out, “Please just tell me where we’re going, surprises make me nervous. You’re not taking me somewhere to kill me, are you?”

  Konstantin looks over at me, an expression of pure pity and regret on his face. “Do you really think that’s what I want?” he asks quietly.

  “No,” I answer in a muted voice. I immediately feel terrible for even suggesting it.

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you from the start… We’re going to Luna Park,” he reveals, shrugging. I stare at him with my mouth hanging open for a minute.

  “Luna Park? As in, Ferris wheels and funnel cakes?” I clarify dubiously.

  I can almost detect the slightest hint of a flush coming over the Bull’s sharp, handsome features as he nods. “Yes. I hope that is an acceptable venue for our first date,” he says, clearly a little embarrassed. My heart surges with unexpected warmth for him.

  “I-I’ve never been there,” I confess. “But I kind of always wanted to.”

  The smile returns to his face. “Me, too.”

  13

  Konstantin

  The first rays of sunlight of the new day haven’t even begin to peak over the water as the battered truck carries me towards the docks. I sit in the passenger’s seat, wearing no seatbelt, the old vehicle having lost it for one reason or another long ago, along with one of its side mirrors and the back windshield. The man driving me to our destination has dry, salty skin, and the denim jacket on his shoulders has seen far better days. He has dark skin, and one of his eyes is starting to go cloudy with cataracts, but that doesn’t stop him from working every day like any other man who sees himself working the same job for the rest of his life.

  He’s driving me to a contract I acquired. An assassination that’s going to get some attention.

  As for me, I’m wearing a dark gray leather jacket over my white tank top, my jeans the same worn pair that I brought with me from Russia. My jacket conceals the star tattooed on my chest, but the man driving me to the docks knows who I am.

  He’s silent for the drive, but I sense a quiet appreciation for my work. He knows what he’s taking me to do.

  We finally pull up to the docks, and he leads me through the mess of boats after we clamber out of the old, sputtering truck. He leads me down towards the end of the wooden walkways towards an upscale fishing boat. The name Fisher King is written on the side, but it looks like it’s used more for revelry than for actual fishing.

  The old man moves over to an electrical box on one of the wooden pylons, taking out a key and opening it. He calmly flips one of the switches, and I see the lights — and cameras — around this part of the dock shut off. We have privacy. Nodding to me, the man leads me onto the boat and towards the aft section, where he shows me to the door to the main cabin. He steps aside and turns his gaze to the docks while I step forward and pick the lock, letting it spring open easily.

  We step inside so calmly that I think the old man has carried out acts like this before.

  Once inside, he takes me to what looks like a wall with a few coats hanging from it. He pushes them aside, flipping a switch the coats concealed and letting the false paneling slide aside smoothly, revealing a small chamber inside, big enough for a couple of people to stand comfortably.

  “This is where he keeps them,” the old man says, his Russian accent still as thick as the day he stepped onto American shores. “His men have a girl or two hide inside, then he takes the boat out onto the water to fish. The girls come out once they’re out on the water, and they have their way with them.”

  His voice is tinged with the kind of hopelessness experienced only by those who have faced hardship unending their entire lives. I look on the man with a stony expression, but I feel sympathy in my heart. It isn’t my place to converse with him, I know. His role in all this is finished. But something in me instills me with a sense of responsibility for this man’s well-being. I cannot abide to let him keep suffering.

  After all, I lead the immigrants now when everybody else abuses them. I am their leader. I am their guardian. I am their pakhan.

  “The way you speak of this,” I say in Russia, putting a hand on his shoulder as he looks up at me with hardened eyes, “I hear loss in your voice, not fear. You are not a man accustomed to dealing in blood, yet you are confident in this. There is something personal at stake, isn’t there?”

  The man looks at me a long time before responding slowly. “You hired me to bring you here, pakhan. Nothing more. I will say nothing of this to any soul, but I wish you well in whatever you mean to do.”

  “You know well what I mean to do here,” I say, my voice firm. “Tell me, what is this man to you?”

  The man’s stare is hard, but after a few moments, he turns to the hidden compartment and strokes the wooden walls thoughtfully. “For years,” he starts, “I worked these docks. I saw fishermen come and go from all walks of life, from poor men like myself who did this for a living to the rich and wealthy who used these docks to get away from it all. This politician who owns this boat,” he says with venom in his voice, referring to the very same man I met on the yacht my first night in Brighton Beach, “Peter Pavlychko, a man nominated for a seat in congress as we speak, he knew me. While I tended his dock from day to day, he watched me raise my family, watched my wife’s illness progress and take her from me, watched me raise my only daughter. Watched my daughter grow into a woman.”

  Tears are in his eyes, and his hands grip the corner of the wall, his knuckles white. “When I had nothing left in life but my daughter, and she had all the world to look forward to, she vanished in the night. An unsolvable case, the police told me, but I know what happened. I know what happens when rich politicians see something they want — the police look the other way, files get lost, evidence gets discredited!”

  The old man strides across the room, and I look at his back as he stares out at the sunrise creeping over the edge of the water out the window. “I know he had h
er taken,” he says, his voice choked. “I know he had her taken onto this boat, just like the other girls he brought out here. I was as powerless to save her as I was powerless to save all the other women he had his way with out on the water. I know I’ll never see her again.” He turns to me, his eyes shining with tears that are too scarce to spill down that dry, cracked face. “I do not know you, pakhan, and you do not know me, but you have my cooperation today in exchange for only the knowledge that you will do the justice I could not provide. Avenge my daughter. Please.”

  I step forward, reaching into my wallet and pulling out several thousand dollars in cash, putting it into the old dock worker’s crusted hand. “When I’m done with Brighton,” I say, “nobody will face such a fate again. Take this and pay a private investigator to search for your daughter.” I watch him close his hand tight around the money and nod silently. “If she’s alive, I’ll make sure those who would conceal her from sight are dead. Slavers will not be tolerated in Brighton as long as I draw breath.”

  He looks up at me one last time. “Thank you, pakhan,” he says in a low tone, and for the first time, I’m glad to have come into leadership in Brighton Beach. The old man leaves, heading back out onto the docks and flipping the power back on before he heads off, back towards his truck.

  Without wasting a moment, I step into the compartment and close the door, leaving me in total darkness. In a few hours, I’ll be killing a man I shook hands with a few days ago.

  The small-time politician who is my target today has more dirt on him than some of the mobsters do. His family came over rich, putting down luxurious roots in New York from the first day. This man is the second in his family to carry on a career in local politics. And that was just what I found out from cursory research.

  Deeper digging found even darker secrets. Pavlychko seems to have offered protection to a number of those involved in the international slave trade that Andrei had a hand in shutting down. He escaped Andrei’s wave of assassinations by grace of not directly profiting from the trade, but now that there’s a power vacuum, he’s started to be a consumer again. Ordinarily, he’s far too much of a high-priority target for any assassin to take on.