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

head snap towards me, and I see that little girl inside of her. The one I met in the alley yesterday afternoon. She’s scared, in shock, and trying to process what she did. I can’t imagine how hard this is for her. But we don’t have time for this right now.

“You need to pull yourself together,” I tell her. “I can’t have you freaking out right now.”

It seems to go in one ear and out the other. For a moment, she says nothing. She only stares at me blankly. Then her face slowly contorts into a pained expression. Her eyes water and she folds in on herself. She wraps her arms around herself, rocking back and forth.

“I killed him,” she whispers, over and over again. “I killed him. I killed him.”

I reach a hand out, trying to comfort her, but it doesn’t seem to help. I don’t have time to pull over, so I squeeze her shoulder. It’s supposed to be reassuring, but all Lucy does is repeat the same sentence over and over again.

“He was going to kill you, Lucy. You did what you had to do.”

Suddenly, she pops up, eyes wild. “I’m not you, Roman,” she exclaims, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t just kill people and pretend like it’s nothing! That man was a person! He had a family and friends, and I killed him!”

Before I can get in another word, she doubles over and begins sobbing again.

I knew she wasn’t ready for this. I thought, stupidly, that she could handle this life. That look in her eyes when she told me about Abram Konstantin made it seem like she could handle anything. She was unassuming, and that was what made her passion better. Nobody would expect that rage from such a little woman.

But now that she’s like this, I can tell she was never ready. She had the drive, but not the iron stomach. Not the steel nerve it takes to actually take someone’s life. She hasn’t built up a resistance to it yet. She’s not disconnected like me.

I should’ve stopped him.

Had I been a few seconds faster, I would’ve been the one to shoot him and Lucy would only be dealing with the fact that another man died before her eyes. I could’ve spared her from this. I could’ve stopped this panic attack from hitting her so hard. And if she’d gotten hurt? If she hadn’t been able to pull the trigger; if that man had gotten his hands on her? I don’t know what I would’ve done, but it wouldn’t have been pretty.

“The blood,” she whispers, shaking her head. “The blood. He bled out. It’s my fault. It’s my fault he’s dead.” Her ramblings devolve into simple phrases. She says them over and over, like a broken record. I’ve never seen someone lose it this badly. I know I shouldn’t care—she’s my prisoner, after all—but it’s like a knife in my gut seeing her get this bad.

“Lucy, look at me.” My voice, surprising even me, softens. “Please.”

She sits up and wipes her nose. “What?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“That motherfucker isn’t worth all this. He isn’t. He was some low-level thug. Some rich asshole’s little bitch. Someone that was going to hurt more people if you hadn’t stopped him.”

She looks at me with confusion. “How are you any different, Roman?”

Her response stuns me.

I know she’s going through this trauma, but that question is a slap in my face. It takes me a minute to find my voice. “Because I don’t murder just anybody. I would never come after you, or any woman. I would never involve so many people. I’d never use an old lady as a fucking human shield!”

My knuckles tighten around the wheel at the memory. That bastard could’ve gotten that elderly woman killed, if I’d had no morals about shooting hostages. If I were someone else, she might be dead right along with him right now. An innocent old lady, bleeding out in a diner, alone and scared.

“He did that?” she asks.

“He pulled her off the ground and used her to take the bullets for him. He was just like the one that attacked you. A spineless fuck that had no issues killing anyone he had to. I’m nothing like that.” I say the last sentence through gritted teeth, my jaw clenched hard enough to make it hurt.

Her eyebrows soften and she nods. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s fine. I just need you to calm down. Don’t lose your mind over some piece of shit. You stopped him before he could hurt other people. It doesn’t feel like it, but you did a good thing.”

She scoffs and wipes her face. “A good thing. There’s nothing good about murder.”

She’s headstrong, and I know she probably won’t question herself or her own beliefs without being prompted. So, I say, “You sure? Even if it’s to stop someone from doing something horrible to others?”

Her eyes cut towards me and she’s glaring. I know my question got to her and she doesn’t want to answer it. Instead, she presses her lips together and shudders. I can see another wave of panic coming, so I quickly say, “I thought the same thing as you. I thought all killing was bad. Black and white, no room for gray.”

She sucks in a deep breath and looks at me. “What changed?”

“I ...” There aren’t many times when I find myself at a loss for words, but right now is one of them. I swallow hard. “My family was killed.”

Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Roman.”

“They were killed in brutal ways, too. Terrorized before they died. And when I found out that it wasn’t a random break-in, that my uncles did it, I ... I lost my mind. I didn’t know what to do. I had so many emotions. I was angry. More than anything, that’s what I felt. Anger. When the shock wore off, I