Stolen by the Mob Boss : A Russian Mafia Romance (Bratva Hitman)

by Nicole Fox

  He tries thrashing around when I attempt to pull him from the car. My fist connects with the side of his head and the fight is gone, flicked off like a light switch. Now that he’s not struggling anymore, I drag him out of the trunk and close it with my elbow. His feet scrape against the cement as we make our way towards the black car.

  I give two taps on the rear window and watch as it slides down just a crack. Mr. X takes no chances with being recognized.

  “This is your guy.”

  Mr. X nods. “Collect him,” the man calls up to his driver. His hulking chauffeur steps out from the driver’s seat and stalks towards me, scooping up our hostage like a baby. Joshua looks light as a feather in his arms.

  Mr. X slides an envelope through the gap in the window. I take it and peer inside, thumbing through the money.

  “It’s all there,” Mr. X assures me. “You may count it if you wish.”

  I know that tone. It’s just on the verge of being insulted at my distrust. “I believe you.”

  “Good. Now, for your next assignment.” Mr. X slides a piece of paper through the crack in the window. On it is a name and an address. “I need you to take care of him tomorrow. Can you manage?”

  I fold the sheet of paper up and slip it into my pocket. “That won’t be a problem.” Without another word, the window rolls up. Conversation over.

  I return to my vehicle and roll the windows down. It’s not too chilly out tonight, and I need a bit of fresh air after the long drive. As I press on the accelerator and pull away from the parking lot, I hear two sounds in quick succession:

  A loud pop, and a man’s agonizing scream.

  Mr. X and his driver didn’t wait too long to begin the torture, it seems. I don’t care to stick around to listen. To this day, I hate the sound of gunshots. In my mind’s eye, I can still imagine my mother’s screams. I squeeze my hands around the steering wheel even tighter.

  It’s been a long night. I need to get away from these thoughts for a while. I need to fucking sleep.

  Tomorrow, another hit awaits.

  Chapter Three

  Lucy

  I don’t like to be dramatic, but there’s no hope in being a writer and I should honestly give up the dream right here and now. I could probably be getting so much more work done if I wasn’t pretending to be a hot-shot author. I could be making money to help Nana, or covering for a friend at Rudy’s who couldn’t make it to work today. Anything would be more productive than sitting in this café with a blank screen staring me directly in the face.

  I want to scream. It’s like someone’s stolen the words from me and locked them up, leaving me with only a bunch of shapes and squiggles on my keyboard. Everything seems foreign. I want to disappear.

  Instead, I put my forehead on my folded arms and suppress a long, draining groan. It’s dramatic—such a first-world problem—but I need to just take a break from this. Spend some time doing something else. I don’t know where these blocks come from, but I still haven’t mastered the art of breaking through them. I don’t have a fancy ritual for unsticking myself from this wordless trap. I don’t have any regular solutions to inspire myself.

  All I know is that when I was younger, this didn’t happen. I could spend hours in the living room, typing away all kinds of stories. None of them made sense, but dammit, I was writing something. At the very least, I had words on a page and not just the vast emptiness of white that I can practically feel staring back at me through the screen.

  Rather than forcing myself to sit here and figure out a way to write myself out of a narrative hole, I close my laptop and put it back into my bag. There’s no point in wasting time trying to force the words if they’re not going to come.

  I slip my phone from my pocket and dial Madeline’s number, drumming my fingers on the wooden table as I wait for her to pick up.

  “Hey,” she says, chipper as always. I’m jealous of how much energy has, even after she’s worked all day and dealt with less than favorable employees.

  “Hey! I was wondering if there’s any room for me there?”

  “I thought you were taking the day off and getting some writing done!”

  “Yeah, so did I,” I laugh bitterly, rolling my eyes at myself. “I’ve got major writer’s block and I’m tired of sitting here and staring at all my work. I’m afraid if I do that any longer, I’ll realize how much I hate it and erase all of it.”

  “Oh please,” she says. “I’ve read some of your work. You’re a great writer. In fact, you made me like true crime books when that stuff used to scare the shit out of me.”

  There aren’t many people that I’ve let read my unfinished work, but one day while I was at Rudy’s, typing away, Madeline stood over my shoulder, her eyes skimming over my screen. At first, she thought that I was doing an essay about murder, but as she read more, she eventually realized that it was fiction. Ever since then, she’s demanded that I keep her up-to-date and send her chapters of this new manuscript.

  I want to be annoyed because I know that it’s the writerly thing to do, hiding your work until it’s finished, but I need that encouragement. Madeline supports me when all I want to do is delete every word I’ve ever written and punt my laptop into outer space.

  “I’m glad you liked it,” I say, biting back a bashful smile.

  “Don’t delete anything, okay? Just keep it and come back to it whenever you’re feeling less stressed. I’m sure you’re probably already stressed taking care of your grandma too, huh?”

  I hadn’t even thought about that. Whenever I find that I can’t seem to put anything down on the page, it’s usually when things in real life are harder. After Mom and Dad died, I didn’t write for years. When I went through finals during my senior year of college, the last thing my mind could do was conjure up a good chapter or two. And now, with Nana’s health becoming more of an issue, I’ve lost my way again.

  “You might be onto something, actually,” I murmur.

  “I told you, I’m a lot smarter than I look.” We both laugh at her bragging. “Anywho, Tina just left for the day, so if you want to come by and fill in for her, I think Rudy would be cool with that. I’ll double-check after this call, though.”

  “That sounds perfect. Thanks, Maddie.”

  “No problem!”

  I’m feeling just a little less dejected. There’s an actual reason that I can’t write. Too much is going on for me to focus on my protagonist and her dangerous situation. I swing my bag over my shoulder and head up to the front to order a coffee to go. I figure I’ll walk to work since it’s not too far, and on the way there, I can drink my favorite mocha to keep me warm.

  “That’ll be $5.48,” the new barista says. He’s cute, but I still prefer the one I normally see instead. Sometimes he gives me a discount, which I definitely appreciate.

  “Sure,” I reply. I pat my pockets for my wallet, and my stomach sinks when I feel nothing but my phone. When I check the other pocket, I find that one completely empty. The woman behind me lets out a noise of impatience, and when I give a panicked look to the barista, he keeps his expression blank, like he’s unamused with me.

  “Sorry, I just ...”

  Anxiety starts to roll over me, and I search through my bag, placing down a few coins that I know won’t add up to the price of my drink. I want to shrink into the bag and hide forever, but I’m frozen in place, frantically praying that somehow, I can come up with enough to buy this drink and escape this uncomfortable situation.

  “Ma’am,” the barista says, “You can step to the side if you need to look for more money.”

  The tone of his voice tells me that isn’t just a suggestion. He needs me to move because I’m holding up the line. My face burns hot with humiliation. I nod, biting down on my bottom lip to keep from bursting into tears. The lady beside me impatiently steps forward, side-eying me on her way up.

  I keep fumbling, coming up with hairpins and chapstick tubes, but no more money. When the lady in line gets her order, she brush
es past me, knocking my bag from the table. It falls to the floor facedown, spilling all of the contents inside. Stuff ricochets in every direction. She looks down at my items and turns her nose up, walking away without even offering to help.

  I can feel the eyes of everyone in the café on me. Not now, not today; this is all just too much. I need to get out—right this second.

  I stuff everything back into my bag and pull it over my shoulder, not even checking to see if my laptop is okay after the fall. I just have to get away from here. The barista looks at me expectantly, and I’m all too aware of the burning stares from the other people in the café. Without a word, I turn and head for the door, pushing through and rounding the corner of the building.

  Once I’m alone, I take a slow breath and hold back tears. I don’t consider myself shy, but the way everyone in there looked at me, like I was too poor to afford a coffee ... I haven’t wanted to disappear like that in a long time.

  I don’t like to think about money any more than I have to, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. With all of Nana’s medical expenses piling up one after the next, I’ve had to make my checks spread even more than I used to. She gets disability, and that really does come in handy, but the bills keep growing more and more expensive every day.

  I wish I could just take a vacation from life. Unplug, shut down, and just sleep forever. I don’t want to work anymore. I don’t want to write anymore. I don’t want to go through the same nightmare about my parents over and over again. I just want to sleep.

  But I know Mom and Dad wouldn’t want that.

  They’d tell me to keep my head up. Change is always coming, and things are always darkest before dawn. The sun is going to come up and I’ll be able to see my way again.

  Maybe.

  After a few slow breaths, I feel my heartbeat return to normal, no longer on the verge of having a full-on panic attack. There are no prying eyes, no audience waiting to see my next blunder, wondering if, for my next trick, I’ll drop my coffee or spill it on someone else. Today isn’t my day, but I’m not going to let a few embarrassing moments ruin the rest of it for me.

  My phone vibrates, and I see a text from Madeline. Rudy says it’s cool if I come in and fill Tina’s shift. There we go, I tell myself. Something to look forward to. Covering for Tina will give me a little more spending money, and the next time I see that barista, I can buy a lot of drinks and rub it in his face. I can afford a latte and a cappuccino, thank you very much.

  But then there’s a thunderous boom above my head, and I know immediately that today is proving not to be my day. The sky is cloudy and gray, and when I tilt my head up to look, something wet splashes down on my nose. Almost immediately, rain begins to pour down, and I shake my head.

  “What did I do to offend you?” I growl at the universe. I grab my bag and put it over my head, hurrying through the alleys and trying to hug the wall. I knew I shouldn’t have walked to the café. Now I need to head home and change. On the plus side, I can grab my car. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to get to work in this kind of weather.

  Maneuvering the alleyways is like a sixth sense to me. I’ve learned all the quickest shortcuts and ways around the city, mostly to save on gas and not spend so much time waiting. New York traffic is something terrifying, and that’s coming from someone that writes about homicidal maniacs running around rural towns.

  As I step around a sleeping man covering his face with a newspaper, I hear people arguing around the corner. I know that I should mind my business, but they’re getting louder and my curiosity cat needs to know what’s going on. As I approach, I walk with lighter steps, trying not to draw any unwanted attention my way.

  My heart begins to race, and I clench the bag over my head tighter, my throat squeezing. Just as I reach the curve of the alley, there’s a hand on my shoulder. I spin around to find a homeless man standing there, smiling a grin filled with blackened, rotting teeth. I swallow back a scream and clamp a hand over my mouth.

  “Spare change?” he asks. The way his voice sounds, I don’t think he’s asking. He’s demanding.

  Rather than arguing, I hand him the change I’d planned on using for my coffee. “That’s all I have.”

  “This is perfect. Thank you, miss.” He buries his hand in his pocket and hurries off towards the opposite end of the alleyway.

  When my nerves are steeled and I’m not feeling so uneasy, I head back to the corner. I don’t have much time for this, so whatever their problem is, I need them to make room so I can walk through.

  “Stop!” the smaller man cries, struggling in the grip of the other, taller man.

  I poke my head around the corner and watch as the taller man tosses the other across the alley, slamming him into the brick wall. My heart falls to my stomach. I may love exploring true crime cases, but in real life, I’ve never been able to handle violence. Even pushing and shoving sets my teeth on edge.

  Part of me considers intervening, but I stay planted where I am. If this man can throw a relatively big guy around like that, I’d be toast to him. The bigger man lifts his head, and I can see his face much better.

  He has dark brown hair that falls in front of his eyes, sopping wet from the rain. His jawline is strong and masculine, and his nose is perfectly straight. If I were an artist, he’s the kind of good-looking that I would want in my sketchbook. Though he’s handsome, something about the way he holds himself seems rugged. Dangerous. His allure is almost palpable, and though he’s beating a stranger up, I feel myself gravitating towards him.

  “Please,” the smaller man begs, his hands in the air.

  Everything happens so quickly. Without even flinching, the man standing reaches into his jacket and pulls out something shiny and sleek. The other’s eyes get so wide that I can see the whites. He parts his lips one last time, there’s a sharp pop, and then he’s slumped over.

  It takes a moment for me to register the spray of blood on the wall behind him. When I do, a scream bubbles out of my throat with a mind of its own. My ears echo, ringing louder than they ever have, and for a moment, none of it makes sense. I don’t understand. I can’t be seeing this right now. It takes everything in me not to double over and vomit.

  He’s dead.

  I just watched someone be murdered. That statement echoes in my head like voices down an empty hallway, over and over. I saw someone die right in front of me. Then the other fact settles down on my mind: his killer is standing right there. Slowly, he turns his head to look in my direction.

  Everything in me goes cold. For the third time today, I want to disappear. Only this time, the stakes are much, much higher.

  The handsome shooter’s eyes meet mine, and I expect to see tangible anger. I just witnessed him shoot a man at point blank range. Instead, something completely unexpected radiates between us. I don’t know what it is, and for the first time in my life, I don’t know how to put it into words. I feel an unnerving sense of calm, like a deer frozen in the headlights. He’s a speeding car, and yet I don’t jump.

  I look back at him, my mouth hanging open, shivering in the downpour.

  And then just as quickly, that space between us shatters and everything inside me screams run.

  I don’t second-guess myself. I turn on my heels the moment I see him take a step in my direction. I make a beeline for the other end of the alley, the one I entered from, my heart racing a million miles a minute. As I sprint, I toss one look over my shoulders to see if he’s still there.

  He chases after me, shouting something incomprehensible in the ruckus of the rain, but I don’t stop. If I do, I know without a doubt that I’ll end up like the other man. I run hard enough to make my muscles scream. The street is right there. Almost there.

  Then I trip.

  A loose brick sends me tumbling forward. I slam my head against a dumpster, letting out a sharp cry of pain. My balance takes a hit and I stumble to the right, off-kilter. I try to stay upright, but my vision starts to darken at
the edges and I collapse.

  I hit the cement with a thud, soaking every inch of my clothes in the puddle I’ve landed in. A frigid chill shoots through me, but the world is wobbling. Darkness grows larger, now covering the edges of my vision.

  Walking slowly, the stranger approaches. His gaze no longer looks dark. He seems almost ... concerned. He squats before me. “You almost made it,” he says matter-of-factly.

  I try to form words but they all come out wrong.

  Don’t ... please ... no ...

  My brain won’t connect to my mouth. Everything is shutting down. Just before I black out, I feel him slide two arms beneath my body and hoist me up. I try to fight, try to escape, but my body goes slack, and despite the screaming in my head, I fade into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Four

  Roman

  The scream that rips through the alleyway makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I spin around and make eye contact with a girl that can’t be much older than twenty-five, though, drenched in the rain and her eyes wide with fear, she looks much younger.

  I don’t know how I managed to fuck this job up so badly. It’s not like me. I don’t make mistakes. Everything that I do is planned perfectly, with little margin for error. That’s why I’ve been hired by so many people and why I make the kind of money I do.

  What I didn’t prepare for was my hit being tipped off that I was coming.

  The job was supposed to be simple. Mr. X made it clear that he wanted this done fast, not his usual M.O. On any other given assignment, he’d take his time. He’d want me to make these men suffer, bleed them out if necessary, so long as I got the information that he required. But this was supposed to be clean, quick, and easy.