Stolen by the Mob Boss : A Russian Mafia Romance (Bratva Hitman) by Nicole Fox (classic fiction TXT) 📗

warm finger brush against the corner of my lips. I swallow hard and look at him with wide eyes, unsure whether it was intentional or not. And even worse, I can’t help but enjoy his touch.

It’s so fucking stupid. The idea that I find a murderer attractive makes me want to recoil, but I can’t deny that when I look at him, there’s something that lights a fire between my legs. Maybe it’s the pensive look he wears, his eyebrows knit together deep in thought, or the way his lips remained pressed in a hard line and his jaw clenches. The clouds swirling in those deep brown eyes.

Whatever it is, the entire experience is unreal. I know, logically, that he could easily switch his whole motive and take me out here and now. I’m supposed to be afraid of him, to cower in the corner and pray that the police find me somehow. And yet ... I’m not.

“Are you going to kill me?” I ask, my throat dry. Before answering, he uncaps a bottle of water and lets me take a drink from it. His answer doesn’t come for a long time, long enough that I grow uncomfortable.

“No.”

It’s short and sweet, and it should make me feel relieved, but it doesn’t. If he’s not going to kill me, then what? “Are ... are you going to rape me?”

There’s a flash of emotion in his eyes, like he can’t believe that I would even consider that possibility. “No,” he says, firmer. “I don’t hurt women.”

That calms me down a bit more—as calm as one can be tied to a bathroom sink. “Then what?” I insist. His dark eyes almost look black under the light of the bathroom. “If you’re not going to hurt me, then why am I here? Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I didn’t see anything. I just fell and hit my head, and some nice man brought me back to his motel so that I wasn’t lying in the rain.”

I try my hardest to make this easy for him. If he unties me, I’ll keep my mouth shut about everything and pretend like none of this happened. He said he doesn’t hurt women, and so far, he hasn’t.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says, biting into his sandwich. He slumps down against the back of the toilet and looks at the wall across from him, sighing. His chewing is methodical, slow and repetitive, and it’s irrationally frustrating to me.

“Why can’t I leave?”

“Where are you from?” he asks, changing the subject.

I debate whether I should tell him about my life. What if he’s lying about not hurting women? What if, when I tell him about my friends at Rudy’s and Nana, he makes them the next targets? I can’t do that to them. I can’t let him know that much.

So I lie. “I’m from here. My parents died a few years ago, so I’m on my own. I have a son. His name is Joey, and he’ll be six next month. Right now, he’s with his babysitter, who I’m sure is worried sick.”

The man’s hard gaze falls on me again, only this time, he’s not lost in thought. “Bullshit,” he says, shaking his head.

“I’m not bullshitting you,” I protest.

“I know a liar when I see one. I’ve met plenty of them. Worked for plenty of them. And you’re full of shit.”

I don’t know how he can tell, but being called out only makes me more irritated with him. So what if I’m lying? He’s the one kidnapping a woman and holding her hostage in a motel room. He has no room to judge me. Especially if he’s working with people that are liars.

“What are you, then? A paralegal?”

Surprisingly, the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. Was that almost a smile? He looks at me again. God, those eyes are gorgeous.

“No, not a paralegal.”

“Then what? You killed that man in the alley. Do you kill people for a living?”

The look the man gives me sends a shiver through my spine. He doesn’t have to utter a single word for me to know that I’ve hit the nail on the head. He’s a hired killer, someone that takes people out for others with a lot of money. My head spins.

This kind of thing only happens in books like the one I’m writing. I didn’t think it was real, this kind of dark, seedy world. But everything about his expression tells me that he’s not lying like I am. He’s a hit man, plain and simple.

“So that man in the alley ... Was he a target?”

He hesitates, then nods.

“How much?”

He looks at me carefully. “I don’t talk about that.”

I swallow hard. It must’ve been a lot of money then. I can’t imagine anyone putting hits out on people and not paying top dollar. “Okay,” I say, nodding slowly. “How did you get started?”

“I don’t talk about that, either.”

I feel myself growing annoyed at how tight-lipped he’s being, but it makes sense. I’m some random woman that witnessed him killing a man. He probably doesn’t want to tell me every detail about his life and his finances. “Can you at least tell me your name?”

This question isn’t immediately shot down. Like before, he takes a bite of his sandwich and chews thoroughly, his eyes on the wall ahead. “Roman.”

“Roman,” I repeat, leaning against the sink. “I’m Lucy.”

“Lucy.”

I know it shouldn’t affect me, but the way he says it makes me feel warm inside, like he’s stoked a fire that’s just beginning to ignite. None of this makes sense to me, rationally. He’s a killer, cold enough to shoot a man right between the eyes, yet he makes me feel hot. It shouldn’t be happening, yet I can’t deny that magnetic feeling between us.

“Are you going to make a scene if I untie you, Lucy?” he asks.

Hell fucking yes, I think. The first chance I get, I’m getting the hell out of Dodge and never looking back.