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

I hold my breath, waiting for him to decide whether he wants to untie me or not. We both know that if I attack him, he’ll easily handle me. As it stands, I’m no threat to him physically. I could yell, but I look up at him, trying to mentally communicate that I won’t scream if he lets me go. I could’ve done that the moment he took the gag from my mouth. But I didn’t.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he says, flipping his blade out and reaching behind the sink to cut the ropes. When he’s finished, I pull my hands close to my chest, rubbing my wrists.

“Thank you,” I say softly, inspecting my hands. There are marks where the ropes once were, and I know there’ll probably be burns there in the morning. All that tugging and pulling I did is coming back to bite me in the ass.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say, and he nods. He collects the food and walks out, leaving me alone. When he’s gone, I close and lock the door, looking at myself in the mirror. I look like I’ve been dragged through hell twice. My skin is blotchy and my eyes are red from crying. It’s not a pretty sight, and I struggle not to physically turn away from my reflection. Instead, I take a moment to clean myself up. I wash my face with the soap on the counter. My skin isn’t going to like it, but it makes me feel less dirty, like I wasn’t lying unconscious, soaking wet in an alley just a few hours ago.

I use the restroom, and after I wash my hands, I start for the bathtub. The razor is no longer sitting there on the side of the tub like it was before. For a moment, I want to curse, but I have to give it to him. He’s smarter than I thought. I’d planned on using that razor to make my escape, but he’s one step ahead of me.

Trying not to look too disappointed, I leave the bathroom, stepping out into the main part of the motel room. Roman stands in the center of the room, his eyes glued to the television. The news is on, and the local anchorwoman is talking about some of the crimes that have happened in the past few days.

“You looking to see if I’m the only witness?” I ask. His silence is all the answer I need. It makes sense why he’d be hovering over the television like this. I assume that because this is his profession, he doesn’t usually make such a big mess. He doesn’t strike me as a sloppy man. He seems much more methodical; more controlled and constrained.

When the program ends, he clicks off the television and turns around to face me. Up close, he’s even taller than I thought. He has a good foot and half on me.

Without a word, Roman grabs the hem of his bloodstained T-shirt and pulls it over his head. I almost gasp. He’s absolutely shredded, thick with muscle that ripples along his arms and back. A vein wanders along his bicep and disappears into his chest, which is covered with a light sheen of dark hair. He looks like an athlete, a Greek statue. Stop it, I warn myself. He’s a killer, not an Abercrombie model. Quit fawning and focus on getting the hell out of here.

I start to avert my eyes when I notice a gash along his side. The words catch in my throat and I stare at him. It looks pretty bad.

“How deep is that?” I ask.

Roman glances at the wound and shrugs. “Half an inch, maybe. It’s not that bad.”

I don’t know what comes over me, but I instinctively reach out a hand and brush my fingers over the skin just above the cut. His body is warm, tight, and lean, and I feel his muscles tense up. His eyes meet mine again. “I can fix that,” I whisper. “I take care of my grandmother.”

Roman doesn’t automatically pull away or scold me for touching him, which is a good sign. Any other man as dangerous as him might’ve done something to hurt me. I pull my hand back and start to say something, like apologizing for crossing the line, when his phone rings. He glances at the table, and almost reluctantly, he pulls away, grabbing the phone and heading out into the hall.

I watch him leave, chewing on my bottom lip. Now I have the chance. I hurry over to the table and pick up the knife he used to cut my ropes with. It’s a simple switchblade, and I flick it open, creeping towards the door. Through the peephole, I see his back to me and his phone to his ear. There aren’t many words that I’m able to pick up, but it sounds as if he’s repeating information back to whoever is on the other end of the phone.

Instantly, I start coming up with scenarios. This whole thing has been a lie, a way for him to get my defenses down and trust him; that way when he comes back in here to kill me, I won’t see it coming. No witnesses. That’s what he wants. I’m the only person that saw, and when he comes back in the room, he’ll make sure I’m the last. The secret will die with me.

I grip the handle of the knife even harder, my breathing growing shallower. I don’t care how big he is. I don’t care if he towers over me or if he could crush me with one hit. I’m not going to let him take me down without a fight. But my resolve crumbles the moment I hear him say one man’s name.

“Abram Konstantin.”

My jaw drops. For a moment, I’m sure I’ve misheard him. This can’t be happening. This is not real life. I’m gonna wake up any