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

body. My nipples tighten at the thought, and I’m suddenly acutely aware that I’m not wearing any pants right now, either. I walk over to where I ditched them and shimmy my legs back into the fabric.

“You don’t trust me, Roman. I get that. I don’t entirely trust you either. You probably think I’ll turn you in at any moment, but you wanna know the best way to stop me from doing that? Let me become your accomplice.”

He laughs bitterly, like I’m some kind of child.

“You may not have anything to lose, but I do,” I insist. I don’t know the first thing about his family or his friends, but the way Roman talks makes me think that he doesn’t have many. Or any. He’s a lone wolf, looking out for number one above all else. “I have a grandmother that needs me. I have friends. I have things I want to do in life. And they’re never going to get done until I do this. I need this, and that also means that I need you.”

My stomach twists at the last three words, and echoes of my dream drift back into my mind. The way he touched me. The way his lips felt against my tender neck. I needed him then, too.

“This is a bad fucking plan,” he grunts, shaking his head.

“Why? Because you work alone?”

“Exactly,” he says, taking a seat on the bed.

“You don’t have to work alone anymore.”

He looks at me with contempt. “It’s on purpose. I work alone because I like being alone.”

His comment stings, but I try not to let it get to me too badly. He’s not outright shooting down my plan, so I still have a chance. “Do you know what it feels like to have your family stolen from you?” I ask. Despite the anger vibrating in every vein running through my body, I feel the ache of loneliness coming on. “Do you know what it feels like to bury your own parents, Roman? I was just a little girl when Konstantin took them from me. He ruined my fucking life. Can you possibly imagine how that feels like?”

He doesn’t look at me, and it makes me want to shake him. He’s still stuck in his ways, and by showing him how upset I am, I’ve ruined things for myself. Men like him, ones that take lives and play God, don’t comprehend empathy.

“Fine.”

It’s one word, but it knocks the wind out of me. “What?”

“We’ll do it.” I start to thank him, when he cuts me off. “No more talking about it now. Go shower and get dressed. We’ll talk about it while we eat.”

A bit dizzy, I give him a silent nod and hurry to the bathroom to wash up. While the water heats up, I stare at my reflection. There are still tears in my eyes, but for the first time in months, they’re not bitter.

I’m almost there.

***

Roman looks out of his element at the diner a few blocks away from the motel. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably, glancing around whenever there’s a clang of pans or scooting noise of chairs. But more than that, he looks uncomfortable simply being around me.

I try not to let it offend me. After all, he just agreed to let me help with his hit on Konstantin. It’d be ungrateful to throw a fit. Still, after the dream I had last night, it’s a bit of slap in the face to see him so uneasy in my presence.

To distract myself, I cut into a pancake and swirl it around in syrup. That sandwich last night barely put a dent in my hunger, and I ended up tied to the bed before I could even finish. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly I eat. Almost.

“You were kind of vague about what this assignment is,” I note.

“There’s not much to discuss. I’m supposed to kill Abram Konstantin. He’s got ties to the mob. He works in real estate. He also has a history of shady dealings and lawsuits that keep getting shoved under the rug.”

That’s an understatement. Konstantin’s gotten away with murder, and not just with my family. In high school, he became an obsession of mine. I kept alerts on my cell phone, always waiting to find out something new about him. After getting away scot-free with murdering my parents, Konstantin had plenty of other run-ins with the law. Faulty concrete foundations that sent children falling to their death in the basement. Poor wiring that electrocuted many pets. He even managed to avoid a sexual assault scandal with one of the women living in his apartment buildings. And that’s just the stuff that made the news. City message boards sometimes hinted at much darker stuff. Guns, drugs, weapons, women being bought and sold. Nothing that could ever be proven, but the whispers I found were too persistent to be completely fabricated.

His reign of terror is well-documented.

“I’m glad he’s on your list,” I mutter.

Roman looks up from his plate of bacon at me. “Do you really mean that?”

“Seriously?” I ask. “That bastard is the reason I grew up without parents. Nobody in this town held him accountable, and look what happened afterwards. So many others were hurt. And him? He got off without more than a slap on the wrist. Knowing that someone is finally taking care of him is the best news I’ve heard all year.”

“Okay,” he says, conceding. “So what can you do? On the way here, you were talking about guns, right? You ever shoot one?”

I blush and occupy myself with eating. During the ride to the diner, I did end up getting a bit overzealous, going into detail about everything I knew about a line of business similar to Roman’s. The information came out of me without a filter. I told him I knew plenty of ways to kill people and make it look like an accident. How to work a gun. How long it takes to strangle someone, contrary to what television