Stolen by the Mob Boss : A Russian Mafia Romance (Bratva Hitman) Page 2

  While I get my laptop set up and go searching for the location that I saved my manuscript, I can’t help but feel like such a stereotype. Nana getting sick was the biggest reason I decided to come back to New York, but another reason is the fact that here, my opportunities of having my work discovered are so much higher.

  New York is full of possibilities for unpublished authors, and I know that deep in my heart, this is what I’m supposed to be doing. Storytelling was always my passion growing up, and when I got to college, I took my first creative writing class. There, I had the idea that I’m currently working on.

  It’s about a woman losing her child to a notorious murderer in town, and after years of looking, she finds the first clue that could lead her to find out what truly happened that night at the deadly lake behind her home. It’s marketable, that much I know, but the hard part for me is finding the time to finish it.

  Between working at Rudy’s and taking care of Nana, I rarely have time to sit down and just be with my characters. At work, my mind wanders back to thoughts of scenes in my book, and with Nana, I think about what my protagonist would be doing if someone was depending on her the way Nana depends on me.

  Sitting there with my computer open and my notes spread out on the table, though, I find inspiration and let it take me in whatever direction it needs me to go in. As much as I love organization, I don’t plan my books. I see the story in my head and the way I get there, but the fun part is figuring out the smaller scenes and all the ways to make those interesting so that no scene feels like it could be removed from the rest of the story.

  Before I know it, I’ve typed almost three thousand words—major progress from where I started. My heroine, Malorie, has just been run off the road by the killer’s equally unstable cousin, and her head is bleeding. As much as I want to sit and finish the scene, I decide to leave it on a cliffhanger. There will be plenty of time for me to revisit this world later on.

  On the way out, I order a couple cookies and begin my trek home, my thoughts floating like zero gravity. How do I get my protagonist out of this situation? Is she too far gone now? And if she is, how can I give her the strength to fight her way out?

  I’d like to be like her. Determined. Persistent. An all-around bad ass. But nothing like that ever happens in my life. Nothing this exciting, or dangerous, or reckless. Maybe that’s why I’m writing. Nana and Madeline would say that I could have all that with a man. I shake my head and smile to myself.

  Maybe they’re right. Maybe I just need to find the right man.

  Chapter Two

  Roman

  Each of us is born with a gift. A special talent. Some people act, some people dance, some people sing a fucking jingle.

  Me, on the other hand ... I kill.

  And tonight is another chance to show the world my gift.

  Waiting is the worst part of this job. Memories are the only thing that help pass the time. Leaning against the exterior wall of this nightclub, the memory of my first kill comes back to me. Like most of my memories, it ends with blood.

  It was late August, when the weather was finally starting to get colder and the city folk began trading T-shirts for flannels and jackets. My father took my brothers and me hunting for the first time. We’d spent a good few months learning how to shoot both guns and arrows, and he wanted to see how well we’d do after our lessons.

  The crunch of leaves under my boots was so vivid that I can feel the texture of them to this day. The wind whipped our faces as we hiked from our truck through the hills until finally, we stumbled into a bit of clearing. At first, there wasn’t much to see. A squirrel clung to a large oak tree. A collection of rocks growing moss on the sides. My father asked us if we saw anything. We said no.

  “Then look harder.”

  That’s when I saw the tiny brown rabbit pressed against the trunk of a tree, quietly nibbling food. My father gave me a look. As the oldest, I knew what it meant. I’d seen it plenty of times before. Narrowed eyes, lips pulled into a thin, straight line. I had to set the example.

  Quietly, I pulled an arrow from my quiver and nocked it, pulling back the bowstring. I steadied myself and set my jaw, holding the position until I could feel the right moment to strike. The air in my chest stopped and I felt the world begin to disappear, every external distraction ceasing to exist. Then I let go.

  The arrow sliced through the air in silence. Before my brothers Gedeon and Ivan could blink, the rabbit was dead, pinned to the tree.

  I let out a breath and glanced at my father. The only indication that I’d done a good job was the short nod of his head, the most subtle of compliments. It was enough to satisfy me—for a moment. One rabbit alone wasn’t enough, however. I wanted more. I wanted bigger, more dangerous.

  We worked our way up from there. My brothers didn’t have a knack for killing, nor did they like it the way I did. Raccoons. Deer. Elk. Even a bear once, with a perfect shot through its eye. My father seemed pleased with my skill. For years, we honed it, improving how quietly I moved, how long I waited before pulling the trigger, savoring the exhilarating feeling of a perfect strike.

  Like all good things in my life, however, it didn’t last. My father didn’t last, either. It took the murder of my family to push me onto the pursuit of the most dangerous game of all: men.

  My father had two brothers, Aleksandr and Andrei. Even as a child, I felt the tension. They never stopped by the house unless there was trouble and they needed their big brother to come and fix their messes. Everything with them seemed to be business exchanges, no warmth or familiarity. They always bothered me. I was right to be suspicious of them.

  The night they proved that, I was in the hospital with stomach pains. Food poisoning of some kind, nothing too serious. When the nurse stepped in with an officer, I thought I’d done something wrong. But they weren’t there to chastise me. They were there to tell me that my parents and younger brothers had been murdered.

  They didn’t say by whom, or why, or answer any of the other million questions I had. They just told me that I couldn’t go home. Police were there investigating. My uncles were on their way to pick me up.

  None of it made sense. I was a kid, and in my mind, this was all some weird medically-induced dream. Or rather, a nightmare. But that solemn look on the nurse’s face is seared into my memory like a cattle brand. She looked down at me with pity. And I knew she was telling the truth.

  For a long time, I never knew exactly what happened. My uncles comforted me and helped when they could, but at seventeen years old, I was nearly an adult. I could live on my own. For a while, I managed. I rebuilt. I took my shit-covered situation and made it work. That’s how I always was. I got by.

  But then I learned the truth. It wasn’t a random act of violence that stole my family from me. It wasn’t some fucked-up junkie looking for a score, or a home invader with the wrong address.

  The innocent blood was on my uncles’ hands.

  The same uncles who’d picked me up from the hospital on the worst night of my life, who’d been taking care of me in the months and years since ... they were the ones responsible. They were the motherfuckers who ruined everything for me.

  So I made a decision, then and there: I would make them regret not killing me too.

  A scream across the street from the nightclub yanks me out of my memories.

  I see a skimpily dressed brunette giggling and running away from a man. He has his phone out recording her, cheering her on and encouraging her to say something for her social media account. For a moment, they’re the most entertaining thing around outside of this scummy club.

  “Knock it off!” she chirps.

  “Make me,” he growls playfully.

  They end up making out against the brick wall.

  It’s sad. It’s pathetic. And yet in some ways, I’m almost jealous.

  They’re so naïve, it’s incredible. In the timeless wonderland of their social media newsfeed, every moment is captured forever like a bug t
rapped in amber. They’ll never grow old. They’ll never die. They’ll be young until the end of time. Untouchable.

  They haven’t seen the shit I’ve seen. They know nothing of the underworld vibrating beneath their feet and before their eyes. Oblivious and carefree, this night will be one they remember fondly, or forget entirely. But there’s one man who will never forget tonight—Mr. Joshua Hollis.

  The man I’ve been sent to collect.

  The back door to the club opens and a drunk man comes stumbling out, patting himself down until he locates his pack of cigarettes. He takes one out and lights it. I watch as the cloud of smoke begins to fade into the night.

  Bingo.

  I don’t know what my client wants with this man, and that’s none of my fucking business, either. I learned a long time ago that not knowing is better. These are targets. They’re not people. Get too attached to them and it just makes delivering the body that much more difficult. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the couple still making out, giggling and moaning softly. I want to yell at them to fuck off, to go find some cheap hotel to fool around in, but I can’t blow my cover. Besides, it’s go time.

  I approach Hollis and in a low voice, ask, “Mind if I bum a smoke?”

  He blinks, cloudy from all the booze in his system, but nods and quickly lights another for me. I stopped smoking ten years ago, but I breathe it in and blow it out like I’ve been doing this for years.

  “What’re you doing out here?” he asks, glancing at me.

  A wry smirk crosses my face. “Undercover.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Why, you doing something illegal?”

  Joshua snorts and shakes his head. “Not unless you consider stepping out on your wife illegal.”

  I raise a brow and look at him once more. I hadn’t pegged him as the cheating type. But then again, I’m a hired killer. Not exactly in a position to pass moral judgment on my fellow man.

  Instead, I say, “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, eh?”

  “I’d do the right thing and leave her, but it’s just the fact that my kid needs me, man. He needs someone in his life and I can’t do the same thing my dad did. I wish there was a way this could all just work itself out. But I’m sick to death of her ...”

  He continues on about his family, how he accidentally knocked his wife up, and to avoid upsetting her religious parents, he married her as soon as they found out about the baby. I let him talk and pretend to listen, all the while keeping the two horny twenty-somethings in my line of sight. I can’t make a move until they’re gone, but they continue to linger. The guy is trying to charm his way into a back-alley fuck, but she’s not having it. She just giggles, shaking her head at him before kissing him once more.

  I’m growing antsy, and I rock from foot to foot. Joshua glances at me and lights a second cigarette. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I stomp out the butt of my smoke and lean against the wall, willing myself to be patient. This is just like the rabbit in the woods. It has to be smooth. Breathe. Focus.

  Finally, the two strangers across the alley make their way to the street. I can finally breathe again. Now, Joshua and I are alone. No more witnesses. He gestures at me, offering another cigarette, but I wave it off.

  “One is good,” I say.

  “Suit yourself. You know, my wife says these things are gonna get me killed one day,” he chuckles.

  If only he knew.

  He turns away to light up another and that’s my opening. I place the rag in my pocket over his mouth and nose. His sudden gulp of air is stifled by the damp cloth covering his face. He tries to jerk away. I grab him and pull him closer, holding him still as I watch his hands flutter. The man has more fight in him than I predicted. Won’t matter, though. The drugs on the cloth take everyone, sooner or later. In a few moments, his body slides limply to the ground.

  Transporting bodies is always easier in the movies. In real life, it’s a pain in the fucking ass. I crack my neck, then bend down and hoist Joshua up over my shoulder. With a quick glance behind me to make sure no one can see us, I stagger back to my car parked at the end of the alley. He lands in my trunk with a loud thud. Inside, I fasten his arms behind his back and his legs together, then slap a piece of duct tape over his mouth.

  My car starts up silently. I pull out of the alley. I know these streets like the back of my hand, so maneuvering through all the back roads and shortcuts comes as naturally as hunting for me. I consider twisting the knob of the radio but decide against it. It might wake Joshua up, and the only thing more annoying than those two strangers making out would be listening to the man in my trunk squirm and try to escape.

  I steer away from downtown, towards the warehouse district. My mind starts to drift back in time again.

  The anger born that night in the hospital never left me. In the years since, I’ve drunk gallons of booze and spilled ten times that amount in blood. But it’s like a stain on my soul. Hasn’t made a goddamn bit of difference.

  I thought killing the men responsible would start the healing process. I was so, so wrong.

  Because the things I learned while I planned changed my life forever. The anger inside me grew like an ulcer, like a cancer. Until it took me over.

  Aleksandr and Andrei were part of some low-level bratva, a brotherhood of Russian criminals for hire. Petty bullies, drug dealers, the kind of parasites who prey on good people. Just like they did to me.

  Money was the reason. Fifty thousand dollars was all my mother, father, and brothers were worth to them. Even now, the thought makes my blood boil. It takes everything I have not to lose my temper all over again.

  They could’ve chosen poison. A shot to the head. Something quick and painless. But that’s not what they did. They were methodical, starting with my father. A shot to both knees left him defenseless. They dragged my mother to the bedroom and made her watch as they killed her boys. Aleksandr was the one who killed them. He laughed as my mother cried.

  They showed my family no mercy.

  So I gave them none in return.

  My plan was simple. I posed as a potential client looking to hire them for a hit, but because of my high profile, I said I couldn’t let them see my face. Rather than communicating through the internet, I donned a ski mask for all of our meetings. I wanted to look them in the eyes as I led them into my trap. It was the ultimate test of control, sitting in front of them and not losing my shit. Every bone in my body, every fiber of my being, was alive with rage. Images of them bloodied and torn to shreds raced through my mind, and more than once, I almost lost it. When I spotted my father’s ring on Andrei’s finger, I nearly cut it off from the first knuckle. Instead, I clenched my jaw and gave them the details.

  They were to break into the home of a specific address. It would be an easy job. In and out. They seemed gleeful, eager to do whatever it was I needed. I gave them the money up-front, a measly $10,000, and watched as they celebrated.

  After that, it was easy. All I had to do was show up at the house before they arrived and rig everything up. The moment they stepped into the bedroom, it began to fill with gas, and unable to breathe, the two of them collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  Aleksandr was the first to break. After the fifth tooth I tore from his gums, he finally confessed what they had done. Andrei, to his credit, wasn’t as big of a coward as his twin. He took every ounce of pain with something I might consider dignity. He cried and howled, but he didn’t cave.

  Not until I made him watch as I used my knife to draw a line across Aleksandr’s throat. That’s what broke him—seeing his other half, the brother he’d spent every moment since the womb with, die before him. Had I had any mercy, I would’ve given him a bit of relief, perhaps waited a few hours to let Aleksandr’s death settle before continuing, but mercy was in short supply and my patience was running thin. They’d both suffered adequately, and it was time to put this all to rest.

  Somehow, Andrei was able to grease up his handcuffs
enough to pull his bloodied wrists free, and as I approached him to finish the job, he took off for the door, hobbling for his escape. It was pathetic watching such a broken creature give his last swan song. He fell to his knees, his hands too slick with blood to get the door open.

  I approached him and pressed the gun to the back of his head.

  “Nephew, please,” he murmured, gurgling on his words. “Spare me.”

  “You didn’t spare my family.”

  Those were the last words I spoke to my uncle before I painted the front door with his blood. His body twitched just twice before he stilled and the light faded from his eyes.

  It was done.

  None of it made things right again. I didn’t feel whole. It didn’t bring my family back from the dead. But I don’t suppose that’s what I was looking for. I knew deep down that their deaths wouldn’t be the path to enlightenment. No, they were something else. The start of a new career.

  I was good at killing. I’d been good at it my entire life. And with nothing and no one holding me back, I could throw myself into this career. So, that’s what I did.

  It started small. A couple thousand dollars to rough up a cheating husband. Some money to bash in a car or scare some people who needed to straighten up. Simple things that paid the bills. Enough to prove myself to those who hired people like me. Soon enough, I was assigned my first paid hit. In and out, no blood, no witnesses.

  Then another. And another. So many I lost count.

  Things haven’t changed. I still do what needs to be done for the highest bidder. Right now, the man with the money is Mr. X. I don’t know who he is and I don’t give a fuck. I just take care of whatever he needs me to take care of.

  Right now, that’s the man in my trunk.

  We make it to an abandoned warehouse near the docks a few miles away from the nightclub. The drive took a bit of time, but it was nice to soak in the silence. There won’t be much of that once Hollis wakes up again.

  There’s a vehicle waiting for us. I park my car a few feet away from the unmarked black BMW. I can see the outline of two men inside. One in the front, one in the back. I step out, move to my trunk, and pop it open. Joshua seems to be waking up from his fog. His bleary eyes part as he looks up at me, wide with fear. The tape muffles his screams.