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

How can I say that?

How can I say that watching someone die would be good? Have I really become so cold in only a few days? Have I become the monster that I imagined Roman to be when I first encountered him in the alley?

Back and forth and back and forth my thoughts go. I can’t settle on one or the other, and I can’t stop the chaos of endless thinking. I see Konstantin and Nana and Roman and my parents, all pointing in different directions and shouting at me with voices that don’t make any sense. It feels like my head is going to split open.

My breathing grows shallow and I bring my knees to my chest, another panic attack on the horizon. I can feel it creeping, sneaking up on me like a creature from my nightmares. I squeeze my eyes and try to breathe slowly, concentrating on something else—anything else.

The time Dad took me swimming. I’d been terrified of the water ever since I stayed up too late and watched Jaws, and after that film, I never wanted to swim again. Dad loved the pool, and after a lot of convincing, I finally gave in and went with him. He didn’t throw me in the water. We eased into it, first with our toes, then our feet, and then eventually our entire bodies.

I can still hear him telling me to keep breathing. To focus on steady breaths and not the anxiety threatening to drown me. Picture all the good times I’d had in the water. Birthday parties, late- night swims, all of it. It took a long time for me to finally swim again, but when it happened, it was beautiful.

I wasn’t afraid anymore. I wasn’t afraid of swimming, or sharks, or anything. Ever since then, I’ve used that technique. Taking whatever scary situation I’m in and remembering the good things. It takes a minute before I’m able to stop panicking, but soon the thoughts come back.

Listening to Roman telling me about his family was nice.

Feeling him on top of me in the motel room and inside of me in the bathroom.

Watching him throw himself into the face of danger to protect the people in the diner.

These are what bring me back, and soon, I feel the anxiety ease away, slipping back under the bed like the boogeyman. Calmer now, I take a deep breath and open my eyes. The house we’re in is silent, save for a bit of noise coming from downstairs. After I pop into the bathroom to look over my face and fix my hair, I tiptoe down the staircase and peek around the corner, following the soft noise.

To my surprise, I find Roman in the kitchen, shirtless, singing to himself as he cooks. I bite back a laugh so he doesn’t notice me and lean against the wall, watching him as he works. I can’t tell what he’s making, but whatever it is, it smells delicious. Roman’s voice isn’t the best, but the fact that he’s off-key makes him almost ... endearing. It’s a strange feeling, saying that about someone who’s killed three people since we started talking.

What finally makes me break and laugh out loud is Roman doing a little dance to go along with his singing. The second I giggle, he stops singing and spins around. I’ve never seen a grown man blush before, but whatever Roman is doing now comes pretty damn close to that.

“What are you doing?” he demands, his eyes hard.

“Just watching you perform. Don’t stop on my behalf,” I say, waving a hand. “Keep going!”

“No,” he mutters. He turns his back and goes back to cooking, this time not singing anything at all.

I let out a sigh and cross the room until I’m right behind him. “I liked your singing.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I did!”

He glances at me, trying to discern whether I’m being honest or pulling his leg. “I’m not any good at it. I just like doing it whenever I cook.”

I know what he means. I’m a terrible singer as well, but whenever I’m in the shower, you can’t tell me that I’m not Mariah Carey or Celine Dion. I’ll belt it out to my heart’s content, ignoring the fact that I sound like a dying cat with a cattle prod up its ass. It’s embarrassing, but I think that’s what makes it fun. The fact that I don’t care that I don’t sound good is empowering in a way.

“Do you cook often?” I ask. I take a seat on the counter beside him, watching as he stirs peppers and onions together in a small skillet. The smell is to die for. On the burner in the back, bacon fries loudly.

“I usually don’t have time to cook anything. Breakfast is my favorite, but I sleep through it most days,” he says.

“The good thing about breakfast is that when you have it for dinner, it tastes even better. Pancakes are so much better after dark.”

“You’re right,” he says, looking up at me and smiling.

I’m not prepared for it, because the way my heart squeezes makes me feel like I’m in a silly rom-com. I shouldn’t be feeling this way about someone like Roman. I may have done a few bad things, but this is his life. His life, his main source of income, revolves around killing people, and not just people that have done bad things, like hurt others or endangered people. He kills anyone that his shadowy boss tells him to.

This is like some book that I’d write. There’d be a heroine that knows herself and what her morals are, only to question them when she falls for a dangerous criminal. The only difference is that in those stories, there are happy endings. Something tells me that the way our story ends isn’t as happy and carefree as one I’d write.

We can’t possibly make this work.

Not that I have any feelings for him or anything.

Thoughts of yesterday