Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2) Read online

  Atta boy.

  The movement must've caught the leader of the group's eye because a couple of seconds later, I heard a surprised, gravelly voice. "Hey, Billy, where ya going?"

  The only answer he got was the door slamming shut behind his cowardly friend. That was when he turned his attention to me, flinching in confusion as he was forced to readjust, and to look up at me. I got the sense that this was a man who didn't often come across men that were bigger than him "Who the fuck are you?"

  My neck and back tensed up as he swore at me, and I made a conscious effort to relax, repeating my silent mantra in my head. Anger is the enemy…

  "Gentlemen, I don't want any trouble." I said with a broad, forced smile stretched across my gums. And it was true; trouble was the exact last thing I wanted. They should have had a sign at Hitman School, not that such a place existed, that read: 'don't make a scene', because really that's the only skill you need in this line of work. "So how about you let this pretty lady free, and we can all go about our days. No trouble," I emphasized.

  The leader's face stretched out into an unpleasant grin. "Nobody tells Mikey what to do," he scoffed, talking about himself in the third person. Who does this guy think he is, I wondered.

  "So if you don't want no trouble, then how about you get your interfering ass out of here."

  My shoulders sagged, and I let out a long-suffering sigh. Not because I had any plans of giving up, but because I should have known it wouldn't be that easy. "Come on, Mikey," I improvised. "What is it you want out of all this, a woman?"

  I pulled a roll of banknotes out of my back pocket, a couple of thousand bucks worth of crisp, clean hundred dollar bills and peeled off five or six of them. "If that's what you want, be my guest." I didn't approve of the flesh trade, not really, but if that's what it took to distract him from the blonde who'd inexplicably caught my eye, then it was an evil I was willing to go along with.

  Mikey's eyes lit up at the sight of the money, and he took a greedy step forward.

  "How 'bout I take that money of yours, rich boy, and the girl too. Any fancy last words on that?"

  My jaw clenched with anger, and a slight hiss of air escaped through my front teeth. Is he an idiot? Could he not see that I was standing with all my weight balanced on the balls of my feet, knees half-bent, shoulders packed? In short, couldn't he see that I was prepared to fight? A predator, as comfortable as a lion prowling the African savanna.

  The simple answer was no. Of course he couldn't. He was a road worker, an idiot, but most importantly – a bully, not a fighter, and I'd make short work of him.

  "Hey, Mikey," a nervous voice said to my left. "Maybe we just leave this girl alone, you know. This guy's pretty big. I didn't sign up for no fight."

  A snarling, animalistic grin formed on my lips before I knew it, and my teeth were bared in a primal snarl. At least one of them had more than one brain cell to rub together, I thought. "Hey Mikey," I mocked, copying the speaker and too far provoked by his leader's cocky arrogance to hold back. "How about you listen to your boy before I beat all three of you to a pulp." The initial speaker backed away the moment he heard that, his hands raised up, open-palmed, to the height of his shoulders in the universal sign for: 'this isn't my fight'.

  Another one bites the dust, I thought with satisfaction. Two left. Unfortunately, I hadn't managed to scare away either the Alexandria Eagles guy, or his leader, Mikey. Perhaps that was asking too much. More importantly, from this distance I could see the whites of Eagles' eyes as he stared greedily at the girl. And even more importantly, from this distance, I could tell that he was on something.

  I locked eyes with the pretty blonde girl at the epicenter of this testosterone-fueled clash for the first time. A puff of air blew out of my mouth and I felt like I'd been punched by a bolt of lightning. She was way more beautiful than I'd allowed myself to imagine, and I'd allowed myself to imagine a lot. But she wasn't just looking at me, no, there was a message in those eyes. It was a universal one, an SOS, a cry for help. But it wasn't a request I'd ever fulfilled before, not that anyone had asked.

  I was more used to getting kill orders sent directly to my phone than being asked to save someone. I shivered. It felt kind of nice, like it was warming me inside, instead of the cold knot of anger that usually carried me through a mission. I shot her a glance to say, hey, don't worry, it'll all be okay.

  "Hey, Eagles," I called, and the guy turned slowly, stupidly to face me. His eyelids were drawn back, and the eyes themselves flickered wildly from side to side, as though afraid to catch my gaze. I knew it wasn't personal. He was high on meth, or something like PCP. At least, that would be my guess. It meant two things, he'd come at me wildly, without inhibition, and throw everything he could at me, which was bad; but it took his intelligence out of the equation, which was good. Even the stupidest man on earth is, at heart, the finest killing machine that nature has ever developed.

  "Catch."

  I wasn't going to wait another second. I'd seen the way he was looking at her, and there was no way I was going to risk it. I flung a half empty beer bottle directly at his forehead, and his hands floundered slowly in the middle of the air as he attempted to catch it. I didn't stand around watching. Every ounce of adrenaline left in me was being pumped into my bloodstream as fast as my body could handle.

  Even my sense of smell kicked into overdrive, bringing to my attention things I would never have noticed in the normal world. Mikey's dead, fearful scent, led with the reek of body odor was most obvious, powerful, kicking itself head and shoulders above every other background scent. Eagles' drug-fueled chemical aroma was next on the agenda as my brain ran through every sense, detecting every threat; but there was something else too, a perfume that I felt like I could touch, taste and hold rather than just smell. I filed it away to deal with later, but it was her, I knew it. I hungered for it.

  Time had slowed, and as I heard the beer bottle crashing against the floor, exploding into a thousand tiny shards of shattered glass, I drove my elbow into Mikey's gut. As I listened to the air hissing out of his lungs, a sense of satisfaction shimmered at the edge of my consciousness, but I didn't dwell on it. That was for amateurs. I span around him, using his body for leverage and brought my hand down against the back of his neck, out cold. He toppled to the floor, and I was about to finish him with a kick to the throat when a scream ripped the air apart.

  My stomach clenched and I felt like throwing up. How could I have been so stupid, I thought. I turned as quickly as I could, and saw Mikey's compatriot approaching the blonde, a trickle of blood dribbling down his forehead from where the bottle had collided with it, and a wild-eyed manic look stretched across his thin, ugly face. Every muscle in my body tensed, and my brain sent a single message down every nerve way open to it. The message was simple, save her.

  I cursed myself for not bringing a gun, or even a knife. It wasn't like me, but I just wanted to escape the life, just one night.

  "Eagles," I shouted desperately. "Freeze!" I just needed a second, and I got it. He hesitated briefly, half turning his head to check whether I was carrying a weapon. The second he saw that I wasn't, he charged forward at the blonde, but I'd bought myself a time I needed. I threw myself forward toward him, lancing my body like an NFL linebacker. I hit him just above the hip, and sped through him, knocking him to the floor with an almighty hit. It didn't take a doctor to realize he wouldn't be getting up from that one for a while.

  I picked myself up off the floor, feeling my thigh twinge with discomfort as it finally registered the pain of the fight. I cracked my neck, just to relieve the nerves. "So," I asked, as casually as I could with my blood thundering through my veins at lightspeed.

  "What's your name?"

  5

  Ellie

  I jerked back as if I'd been stung.

  In a sense I had. This man, my unexpected savior, radiated a sense of danger like nothing I'd ever experienced before. My heart rate skyrocketed. It was hard to believe t
hat the over worked muscle could find ever higher heights to climb after what I'd just seen and experienced, but it surprised me. I stuck out my hand, because it seemed that was what my mysterious rescuer wanted, but I was lost for words. Luckily, he stepped in so I didn't have to.

  "Roman," he smiled, sticking out his arm and enveloping my trembling fingers in a hand that seemed to have been chiseled out of smooth marble, a hand which was strong and unyielding without feeling in the slightest bit hard or calloused. "Pleased to meet you."

  I choked, and my hand would have trembled if it wasn't for the stranger – Roman's – unhesitating support. A chill sped around my body as the adrenaline began to drain from my system.

  For all the good it did me…

  I didn't recognize the girl I'd become over the past couple of years, after all my carefully molded self-confidence and assurance had been chipped away by Rick's unending, humiliating assaults. Don't think about him, I chided myself. I forced myself to pull my chest up, and meet my rescuer's gaze firmly by reminding myself that the woman who had exposed the deputy mayor's corrupt office for what it was just a year before was still in there somewhere.

  "Ellie," I said softly. The man's eyes still had the fevered, fierce glint of Viking bloodlust in them. While I didn't for a moment expect that he would do anything to hurt me – I didn't know how I knew it, but somehow I did – it was still unsettling. He held my hand firmly, and the warmth seemed to hug me tight, battling against the adrenaline-induced chill that was threatening to have me start shivering. From behind Roman's massive, and unnaturally toned bulk, I heard a desperate moaning sound. "Uh, shouldn't…"

  Roman anticipated my question precisely. "Shouldn't we do something?" He asked, with a smile that at once seemed entirely at home, but also completely alien on his scarred face. "Those two gentlemen," he said politely, but raising his voice so that the entire bar could hear him. "Were just leaving."

  I looked around him, staring at the two wounded men on the floor, and then my eyes flickered to the bartender. This time I really did start shivering. My knees felt as though they were about to give way. I wasn't the kind of girl who got in fights. I was a reporter, for God's sake! What I was even doing in Jefferson, one of Alexandria's darkest, grittiest suburbs in the first place was a good question. Roman must have seen something on my face, a tell, a giveaway, because no matter how well I thought I was hiding my distress, he picked up on it in an instant. "Are you doing okay?" He asked with concern. "Here," he said, whistling to get the bartender's attention. He needn't have. Like everyone else, the man was staring at the pair of us in stunned amazement. In the background, a scraping, moaning sound briefly disrupted the bar as my two injured would be assailants dragged their broken, damaged bodies out of the bar, barely functional limbs dragging across the wooden floor.

  "Hey, man. I don't want no trouble," the barkeep said. "Like I said, ain't no fighting in this bar. I'm running a respectable establishment, you dig? I'm gonna need you to –."

  "The only thing I dig," Roman said threateningly, cutting the man's delayed bravado off with a single, irresistible growl. "Is that if you don't get this lady," he placed his hand on my lower back apologetically, and I shivered with… something. "I mean, Ellie a drink, then you're going to have bigger problems to deal with than scraping a little bit of blood off the floor." The bartender's face went white, completely devoid of color, or blood, as he took in Roman's words. He physically shrank back, clearing his throat apologetically before he finally mustered the courage to say something.

  "You got it, boss."

  Roman turned to me with a smile. I marveled at the way he could change his spots like a chameleon, appearing for all the world as if he was happy to bring the power of God down on those who threatened him one second, and treating me like I was a fragile eggshell the next.

  "What will you have?" He said courteously, and I appreciated the way he asked me what I wanted first. Not a lot of men in my life ever did, but I loved it. Too many men seem to think chivalry is bossing their women around, ordering for them at restaurants and bars. It’s not. It’s understanding what your woman wants, and providing it.

  You really do know how to pick them, I giggled to myself, letting a smile break upon my face like the morning sun appearing on the horizon. Either it's a man who can't keep himself from laying his hands on you for all the wrong reasons, or a guy like this.

  Roman replied with a shy little smile as he saw mine, and I turned away from him instinctively, my cheeks going red with embarrassment. I was just glad that he couldn't hear what I was thinking. "A bourbon," I said, before changing my mind. "A strong one," I clarified.

  "Make that two," Roman growled to the bartender. "On the house."

  The man never once looked like complaining, and I found my mysterious savior's unhesitating use of his undoubted power over other men strangely exciting. I'd spent my whole working life as a reporter campaigning against powerful men, corruption and Alexandria's criminal elements, and the man now carrying our drinks to his dark corner table fit at least two of those three criteria. Yet I followed him without so much as a word of complaint, drawn in by a sense of calm confidence that seemed to radiate outward from the man wherever he went. The ice tinkled against the walls of the two dark amber glasses of bourbon as he set them down on a chipped and stained bar table. I followed his lead and sat down, my heart beating at a thousand beats a minute, as if I'd just finished up competing in the Olympics.

  The first words that escaped his mouth were, "I'm sorry."

  I cocked my head with surprise, and had to concentrate to make sure I heard him right. What's he got to apologize for? I wondered. After all, he'd just saved my life. Or at least, I was sure, my dignity and probably much, much more. My tongue felt dry with nervous tension, and I took a long, deep gulp of the cold yet burning hot whiskey in order to wet it, and to center myself.

  "What," I finally choked out, "for?"

  As he began his stilting, hesitant reply, I began to study the man more carefully. I wouldn't put money on it, but he sounded as though he had the slightest, faintest hint of a long-forgotten Russian accent. That, and his name, made me think bratva, but that didn't make sense. Why the hell would be Russian mob be interested in saving me? From what little I knew about them, at least in the last few years since the terrifying Antonov family had come to power and the truce with the police had broken down, they were the kind of guys who were far more likely to murder first and ask questions later.

  I began to catalog what I knew about him. He stood easily over six foot with room to spare, and had hands that radiated a composed yet boundless strength. He wasn't GQ magazine pretty, but instead looked rugged and tough. His face was lightly scarred, and his eyes, a wolfish gray, flickered about the bar, endlessly searching for threats. But when they fixated on me, I felt like there was no one else in the room.

  "I should have stepped in sooner," he said, his face wreathed in what seemed to be an entirely heartfelt guilt. "I watched it all happen, but –."

  I'd already reached over the table for his hand before my brain registered what I was doing, feeling a boldness coursing through me that I hadn't felt in years. Rick had always hated public displays of affection… I checked myself before I let that negative train of thought developed any further.

  Don't think about him.

  Roman's hand was warm, and the second I touched it a shiver of excitement traveled the length of my spine. I knew that I wanted to reassure him. It was the least that I could do after all he'd done for me. But for a long couple of seconds my throat was choked up. It had been a long time since anyone had cared about me like this. I also found his quiet reticence strangely endearing – he seemed to stumble over words now, whereas before, in the heat of the moment, he had acted in an imperial, commanding manner. I began to suspect that perhaps he often didn’t do much talking, like he was more comfortable in the physical world, of bravery and actions and deeds, and didn't find himself at home elsewhere. "You don'
t need to apologize for anything," I said, and I meant it.

  I drank him in, the sight of him, and perhaps more importantly, the smell. You hear a lot about love at first sight, and there was some of that, but with Roman, he just smelt right. He smelled as though he was already a part of me, as though I was a jigsaw puzzle and he was the last, elusive piece. I drained my glass, feeling the heat of the whiskey burning through my body. I fought back the urge to scrunch up my face at the burn, feeling a desperate urge to impress him. Hell, who was I kidding, I wanted to do a whole lot more than just impress him.

  His upper lip trembled, as though he was searching for the right word to say, and then stopped. It happened again, and I was about to say something when he squeezed my hand. It felt as though an unspoken message had been communicated between us,

  "You want to get out of here?" I asked. I scrunched my eyes, surprised at how much I wanted him to say yes. I'd only known the man for what, a matter of minutes, and yet he already felt like the most important man I'd ever met. Perhaps it was just a rebound thing, something to do with my emotional vulnerability after Rick's latest act of violence, just something I needed to get out of my system, but it didn't feel like that. It felt real.

  He blinked with surprise, and tensed up, as if he was scared that I was asking him a trick question. "You mean?" He said hesitantly, his icy gray eyes large with hope.

  It wasn't a question, and judging by the look of him, it wasn't that Roman thought I was inviting him to bed, either. Though I was, even if I didn't know it yet. I stood up, my decision made for me, perhaps sped along by the alcohol that was rushing around my system.

  Every single person that was left in the bar suddenly looked down into their drinks. I blinked automatically, then flushed with an emotion that wasn't quite embarrassment, and wasn't quite pride, but somewhere in the middle. "Yeah," I said. "Look at this place; it was a wreck before you started chucking bodies around. It's not exactly the kind of place a girl imagines her first date with a handsome hero, you know?