Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (open ebook .TXT) 📗

I’m going to die without ever making up with my mom, if I’ll ever have the chance to tell Kostya … all the things I need to tell him.

I don’t want to cry, but oh God. I let the tears fall for a solid fifty-count then shake my head. I need clear thoughts. A way to distract myself from the reality of my situation.

But first, I need to figure out why I’m in this situation to begin with. “Hey, Lucky Charms.” If I’m going down, I’m going down like an angry American. “Who are you working for?”

He comes around the front fender wiping his hands on a blue rag, looking nonchalant as hell. Smug bastard. “Is Lucky Charms supposed to be a reference to my height or my heritage?”

Since he brought it up, I’m probably a couple inches taller. “I’ll let you decide how to take it.”

His grin doesn’t do much for his face or the ugly, knotted scar that slices his cheek from temple to jawline. “I’ll go heritage.”

“Good for you. Stay away from the obvious.”

His lip curls into a snarl, and my heart is about to come chugging out of my throat, but I can’t back down. I can’t show fear because I’m the only who can get myself out of this. Nothing in my life has ever been so clear.

“You’re a little bitch,” he remarks. “No wonder they want you dead.” He moves in close and I get a whiff of what Irish whiskey and a lack of toothbrush can do to a man’s breath. Spoiler: it isn’t pretty.

But he’s so matter-of-fact that I have to chuckle a little. “They don’t want me dead because of me. They want me dead because of …” I tilt my head. How many times have I heard Kostya bitching about that damned Irishman Whelan? It would have to be the world’s biggest coincidence for this to have to do with anyone but Kostya’s enemy. “Because of Kostya.”

“You can blame Mr. Zinon for your current situation, love. Your boyfriend punched out a reporter who called you ugly. Tipped us right off, didn’t it?” He looks me up and down. “I think you’re a rare beauty. Classic even. No wonder he’s fighting for ya. Not a lot of mileage on that pretty little snatch, I’d bet.”

“Gross” is an understatement, though now is not the time to be offended at his crudeness. I don’t care what he thinks, but I tuck the info away in case I can find a use for it later. “Look, I really have to go to the bathroom.” Maybe there’s a window in the john I can climb out after I pee. Because for as brave as I sound, my situation with the bladder is pee-dance desperate.

He sighs and his shoulders slump like he’s disappointed in me. There’s nothing wide about this scrawny little man, and I could probably take him, but I don’t want to risk the baby’s safety unless I have no other choice. And right now, I’m pinning all my hopes on a bathroom window.

“Come on.” He unhooks one of the cuffs then as soon as I’m free of the car, he slaps it back on me and uses the short length of chain between the bracelets to pull me forward. They’ve taken my shoes, a fact I notice in particular because the concrete floor is cold and gritty, slick with oil and dirty, as he tugs me along behind him to the opposite side of the garage. “Hurry up now. They’re probably gon’ wanna talk to ya soon.”

He shoves me inside a tiny little room with a single toilet that hasn’t seen the business end of a cleaning brush in possibly its entire existence and a sink that probably was once white but is now a brownish, grayish, dingy mucky color. Unfortunately for me, I don’t have the luxury of discriminating or holding out for better accommodations.

And just my damn luck. There’s a window, but it’s about the size of a tissue box and it’s high on the wall with a tilt-in glass. Hopefully, with my bladder empty, I can formulate a better plan than the bathroom window anyway.

After a minute, Lucky Charms knocks on the door. “Come on now, darlin’. There’s some people wanting to chat with ya.”

When I open the door, he isn’t alone. The suits are standing behind him.

“Miss Lowe. Pleasure seein’ ya.” The older man nods at me politely. “Jack Whelan.”

I widen my eyes, and I would cross my arms haughtily, but … handcuffs. If he thinks he’s getting some polite reply or some courtesy greeting, he’s dead-freaking wrong. I’m tired. I’m sore. And I’m starving. But I’m not quite desperate enough to be conciliatory yet. And now I have the added hope that Kostya or his men will come for me, if only by accident on their way to rip out Whelan’s throat. It might be unrealistic, but it’s all I have right now, so I’m hanging onto it.

“Cat got your tongue?” Everything one of these yahoos says sounds like a song. If I hadn’t been kept tied up for the last however long it’s been, and I didn’t know they were probably plotting my death as I peed, I would like hearing them speak. Unfortunately, I have too much knowledge and too much tension in my gut for that.

“That’s okay, Miss Lowe. We have a script for you to follow.”

If I could, I’d be all wrinkled brow and twitchy lips, but I don’t want to show anything because I’m afraid I’ll end up showing everything. And while I don’t have much to fear in that regard, I’m going to show Kostya that anything I know, I’ll never tell.

Lucky Charms leads me to another room then walks out, whistling, and Jack Whelan pushes me into a chair. The room is stark but for an overhead light, metal walls, and concrete floor. There’s one chair with a video camera on a tripod standing opposite my cold plastic seat. I’m busy