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

he was going to do something like this, and yet I think this time, it’s the worst of all three betrayals. Before, I wasn’t head over heels for the man.

I should’ve listened to that little voice in my head that told me Roman wouldn’t be a good idea. For the past three weeks, I let myself be convinced that this would all work out. After waiting my entire life for a moment to stop Konstantin, I thought that maybe this would be the break I needed.

The worst part is, in the most intimate moments with Roman, I forgot why we were working together in the first place. My goal was always to stop Konstantin. And now I won’t be there to see it finally happen.

Bitter tears sting my eyes, and I press my face against my shoulder, trying to wipe them. Tied up in this position, it makes my arms ache, but right now, that pain is more manageable than the one in my heart. It feels like that part of me is broken completely.

I trusted Roman with my life, and he did this to me. I should be seeing red. Only, the last thing I’m feeling is rage. Sorrow weighs the heaviest on me, like I’ve just climbed out of the pool with all my clothes on.

Ten minutes pass, and I feel my muscles groan as I continue to struggle. The rope around my wrists burns just like it did in the bathroom at the motel, and just like then, I know that I probably won’t be able to get out. Roman’s good at tying knots.

The more I tug at my bindings, the more frantic I grow. I can’t stay here. I don’t have a story for why I’m here. People will wonder what happened to me, and I won’t have any answers. I already told the police at the motel that I knew Roman. They’ll wonder why I lied back then if he was actually a threat to me. And if they’re still looking into the incident at the diner, they’ll eventually figure out that I was the woman on camera that shot a man dead.

No, I can’t stay here.

My eyes follow the bed post higher and higher, and that’s when I notice that the wood gets thinner at the top. I lift my hand as high as possible, ignoring the screaming strain in my shoulders. When it’s at the highest I can get it, I tug towards me. The thin post buckles, but it doesn’t break. I take in a slow, controlled breath, and angle myself in a way that lets me put my weight into the next tug. To my relief, the cheap wood snaps off and I can slide the rope free.

“Yes,” I whisper, nearly crying again.

I roll my shoulder in circles, wincing at the soreness. The police will be here any minute, and I have to get out of here before that happens. I repeat the same method on my other hand, jerking backwards with more strength than before. It snaps off just the same. Once again there are mild burns on my wrists, but I don’t have time to worry about those.

Getting my feet untied is the hard part. I can’t lift them high enough to break the posts, so I have to lean forward and undo the knots, my fingers shaking as I work. Finally, I’m free, and I roll off the bed onto my knees. When I stand, my knees are wobbly. I take a second to gain my composure and hurry to the closet.

It’s been too long for me to catch up with Roman, but I can at least get the fuck out of this house before anyone shows up. I grab a large empty duffle bag and begin shoving clothes into it, fitting as many as I can inside. When I’m satisfied with how much I’ve packed, I hurry downstairs in search of my shoes.

I stop in the living room and grab my notepads, stuffing them in the bag as well. Roman can steal Konstantin from me, but I’ll be damned if I leave this place without all the words I’ve written since he brought me here.

Just as I zip up the bag, there’s a loud bang behind me. I spin around to find the front door knocked wide open. It bounces off the wall, and a police officer enters the living room, gun drawn. My stomach sinks, and my heart skips a beat.

“Put your hands in the air,” he demands.

I drop my bag and raise my hands. “What’s going on?”

“We got a call saying there was a woman tied to a bed at this address,” he explains. “On your knees, now.”

Part of me wants to argue, but his gun remains trained on me. As I get down on the floor, I say, “I was the woman on the bed.”

“What?”

“I was tied to the bed earlier. My husband and I have this little game where he’ll leave me tied to the bed and run a few errands. It’s like ... It’s kind of like BDSM?” It’s the same excuse I used in the motel, but I’m crossing my fingers he buys it, too. “You can go upstairs and look. I got a call from a friend and had to break out of the ties.”

“You stay here,” he says, and he climbs the stairs, disappearing for a moment. Something inside of me says to make a break for it. I can get away and hop the fence out back before he comes downstairs again.

What if he has backup, though? What if there’s someone waiting outside, prepared to shoot the very second they see a runner? Swallowing my flight response, I stay put on the ground, hands in the air. A moment later, the officer comes downstairs again.

“I’m confused about the call,” he says.

“It was probably a neighbor. We live around a bunch of nosy older folks. You know how they can get,” I say, forcing a laugh. “They’ve been weirded