Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Alexis Abbott

  “I’ve never been to a party at a bar before,” she mutters, fidgeting with the hem of her black dress. I’m pleased that it fits her so well, considering that it’s my dress, and Maggie is at least four or five inches taller than me. It falls to just about mid-thigh for her, and I suspect that this look is the most scandalous one she’s ever attempted.

  I look over at her to see that she’s now looking slightly downcast and she continues sadly, “Actually, I’ve never really been to a party before without… without my parents around. They took me to a lot of charity galas and society balls, but I was pretty much just another accessory for them, I think. My dad with his cuff links, my mom with her pearls, and then me.”

  “You got to travel the world, though,” I remind her, trying to brighten her spirit.

  She shrugs. “I know, and I’m grateful for that. But it would have been nice to have a friend my own age, you know?”

  I nod and bump her shoulder with mine. “Yeah, I know what you mean. So, this is kind of your one chance to break free, huh?”

  Maggie smiles weakly at me. “Mhmm. Sorry for pushing you into this, it’s just that — well, I don’t know if I’ll ever be in this position again. As soon as the gymnastics program ends, I’m sure my mom and dad will ship me off to some other training seminar for whatever new hobby they’ve picked for me. You know, I always wanted to be a veterinarian but my parents wanted me to do something flashier, more fun to tell their friends about at parties.”

  “But it’s your life, not theirs,” I rebut, frowning. Maggie sighs heavily.

  “Try telling them that,” she replies softly. The cab turns a corner and we drive across a long bridge over dark, glimmering water down below. A sign indicates that we’re now on Boulevard Henri IV, approaching the Place de la Bastille, where the famous prison once stood. Traffic here is a little tight, and I can’t stop gritting my teeth together, my hands clutching at the seat to hold myself in place as though we might collide with another car at any moment.

  “Well, if this is the one chance you’ll get, then we better make the most of it,” I tell Maggie, who responds with a wide grin.

  “Thank you for understanding and not judging me,” she says. “Usually as soon as people find out what my life is like, they treat me like the weird homeschooled kid.”

  I instantly feel a twinge of guilt, recalling the fact that I did think that of her upon our first encounter, taking in her conservative clothing and high-strung personality. I inwardly pledge to make up for this harsh first impression by giving her a really good night. Despite her wealth and privilege, I still feel a little bad for her, having to trudge around in her parents’ shadow all the time. Besides, she’s a sweet girl, and it is nice to have a friend who forces me to open up and expand my horizons a little bit.

  “Well, if you don’t judge me for being a sheltered small-town girl, I won’t judge you for being a jet-setting cosmopolitan,” I tell her with a wink, some of France seeping into my words more and more all the time. She giggles.

  “Deal,” she agrees. The cab lurches forward suddenly and we both instinctively reach over to hold onto each other, our faces wearing identical expressions of panic. Once we look at each other we immediately burst into laughter at how jumpy we are.

  “Je suis désolé,” comments the cab driver, glancing at us apologetically in the rear view mirror as the taxi slides into another lane.

  “Pas de quoi,” answers Maggie with a wave of her hand.

  The driver takes us down Boulevard Beaumarchais and then Maggie taps his shoulder to tell him to let us out at the next cross-street, which reads Rue Saint-Sebastien. He obliges, pulling to the sidewalk. I slide out of the backseat onto the pavement and look around, blinking in the fuzzy glow of the street lamps.

  “Merci beaucoup, bonne nuit,” Maggie quips to the driver as she pays him, smiling. He nods and waves at us as he drives away, leaving the two of us standing alone on the street, far across town from our apartment and the relative familiarity of the most touristy area around the Eiffel Tower. I get the sense that we’ve now moved much closer to the heart of where native Parisians hang out, where the French go to evade the gawking stares of loud-mouthed, confused tourists and sightseers.

  It’s dark and the air is getting cooler by the second. I shiver ever so slightly, suddenly feeling very small and out of place in this enormous hodgepodge of an ancient city. Maggie takes my arm and looks around for a long moment, surveying the area. Then she seems to get her bearings and starts leading me down the street.

  “If I remember correctly from the map I looked at this morning, Rue Amelot should be right around this corner,” she says, thinking aloud. “Aha! I was right.”

  We find ourselves across the street from a tiny bar with heavy graffiti coloring the shop front with indiscernible lettering and symbols. The words ZERO ZERO appear in weathered letters above the narrow doorway, and there doesn’t seem to be any light emanating from the place. However, we can certainly hear loud music sending thrills of bass through the ground to tickle our feet as we stand on the street corner. Maggie squeezes my arm.

  “Ready to go in?” she asks cheerily.

  I’m still surprised at how enthusiastic and brave she is for wanting to do this — at first glance she certainly doesn’t seem like the partying type. But I suppose all it takes is a miniature dose of courage and suddenly the reluctant wallflower can bloom into a vibrant rose.

  I still feel more like I’m wilting rather than blooming, though.

  Something instinctual in the back of my mind warns me not to step through the door. There’s a small, gloomy voice telling me that I’ve fallen too far off the beaten path, that I’m only two steps away from stumbling down the rabbit hole. And I don’t know if Wonderland is what awaits me at the bottom, or perhaps something much, much darker.

  But maybe I’m just being overly cautious. After all, it’s just a bar. It’s a public place, and it’s not like I’m totally alone here. I’m with Maggie, who has both money and the ability to speak French. No matter what happens, the two of us will make it out okay. I assure myself that everything is fine and there’s no need to overreact. With a nod to Maggie, we walk up and open the door, stepping over the threshold into a dimly-lit bar scene.

  There are neon signs on the walls, no chairs or tables whatsoever, and there’s graffiti absolutely everywhere. People are hanging over the bar counter, sipping cocktails and beers, while others are swaying and toe-tapping on the dance floor area. The whole bar could easily fit inside our little apartment, it’s so small. But what it lacks in size, it clearly makes up for in character. The crowd here is a little more edgy and hipster than what we’ve seen elsewhere, with jagged haircuts, tattoos, and piercings galore. Still, I don’t get a particularly bad vibe from the place, to my relief. It actually feels somewhat cozy, in a way.

  “This is awesome,” Maggie murmurs under her breath. “Let’s get drinks!”

  “I have no idea what to order,” I say worriedly. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

  “I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” she replies, dragging me up to the counter to order. The bartender is a tall, skinny guy with heavily-lidded eyes and a shock of dark hair. He looks cool and detached despite the noise and chaos happening all around him.

  Maggie leans in and hands him our driver’s licenses, tucking her hair back behind her ear and saying, “Bonjour, que recommandez-vous?”

  Before the bartender can even respond, a guy comes up and all but smashes into us, his hard body pressing up against me at the bar. I turn to look at him with a glare, only to fall back in surprise at the sight of Will’s smiling face. He looks back and forth between Maggie and me with a look of mingled glee and confusion on his handsome features.

  “No wonder you left in such a hurry this morning,” he says to me. “I had no idea you already had a beautiful French date to meet up with.”

  Maggie’s face goes bright pink and she stammers, “Oh n-no, we’re not together
or anything, and I-I’m not French.”

  “Oh, you’re not…?” he presses, a twinkle in his eye suggesting to me that he never suspected that in the first place at all. But Maggie has fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.

  “We’re not — uh, we aren’t…” she trails off, looking very perplexed.

  “This is my roommate Maggie,” I interject, eager to dissipate the awkward tension.

  “Je m’appelle Will, ça va?” he says, holding out a hand for her to shake. She takes it gingerly, looking like she might actually melt into a puddle and drip through the floorboards at any second. She’s definitely not used to any kind of attention from cute boys, I can tell. Not that I’m particularly accustomed to it, either. But I still feel a pinch of wariness in regard to Will, after his forwardness earlier today. I hope he doesn’t hold it against me or try it again anytime soon. Although, I have to admit that he does look absolutely fantastic tonight. His flaxen-blond hair is brushed back, with a few pieces hanging artfully around his temples and forehead. His California-esque tan and bright blue eyes almost glow in the surreal neon lighting, and every time he brushes up against me I can feel his sculpted musculature.

  At his insistence, he buys us both cocktails with a name I cannot pronounce nor remember for the life of me. Whatever it is, it tastes like strawberries and sweet liqueur, with a slight fizz that tickles my nose when I take a sip. It’s delicious, and because I’m so nervous, I drink it much more quickly than I probably should.

  Maggie does the same, downing hers in record time before ordering a second one. Will leads us over to a group of beautiful girls and handsome men all dressed in the same hip, slightly ragged style of the crowd here at Zero Zero. Everyone is very accommodating and kind, enthusiastically inviting us into their circle without question. They mostly speak French to each other, with the occasional phrase of what sounds like possibly Russian being tossed around. At first it seems slightly off to hear Russian, but then I simply chalk it up to the fact that Paris is such a metropolitan, worldly place. There are people here from all over, mingling together. It’s no big deal. So I force myself to relax a little.

  Before long, Maggie is substantially liquored up and bantering loudly with a few guys in lilting French. I don’t know what she’s saying, but the way she’s leaning on them and twirling her hair suggests that they’re flirting. For a while, I manage to sneak her away from them by asking her to dance with me. The heady mix of unfamiliar territory, alcohol, and seductive music creates an intoxicating concoction, urging me a little further down the rabbit hole one drink and one dance at a time. Maggie holds her plastic cup above her head and spins slowly in front of me, her other hand grasping mine as we both giggle and sway to the music. I can feel myself getting slightly carried away, but Maggie is another story. She’s long gone, stumbling and laughing and blowing kisses to every guy who walks by.

  “What the hell did we drink?” she murmurs, giggling as she leans in close to me.

  “I don’t know, I don’t speak French,” I reply, shrugging. Maggie tilts her head back and wraps her arms around me, starting to lose her balance. However, she’s much taller than me and I am nowhere near equipped to hold her up, so we both start to fall backward. Just in time, Will slides in behind me and braces us both, pinning me between them in the process. In front of me is my new friend, her dark hair falling around her rosy cheeks and her eyes cloudy with intoxication. Behind me is the handsome, charming man who tried to kiss me today, his strong arms holding me in place. His hands slip down to grasp at my hips and roll me back against him.

  I realize, through the fog of alcohol muddying my thoughts, that I can feel his dick hard against my lower back, just above my ass. Will smoothly swipes my hair back over one shoulder, then bends down to gently brush his lips against my exposed neck. I shiver and close my eyes, not sure if I want to recoil or just embrace the moment.

  “We’re heading to the flat now,” says a male voice somewhere to our left. I open my eyes to see one of Will’s friends taking Maggie by the hand and letting her slump against him. She’s still conscious and grinning, but her expression is dazed. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I see a warning sign flashing dimly in the darkness.

  “D’accord,” Will replies. “We’re coming, too. Aren’t we, Olivia?”

  I manage to fight my way through the numbing sensation to push off of him slightly and reply, “Oh, I think we’d better get back to our apartment, actually. I have training early in the morning, and it looks like Maggie’s about done for the night, anyway.”

  “Nonsense,” my sloshed roommate slurs, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m good!”

  “Oui, you are, baby,” murmurs the guy holding her up. He leans down to kiss her and to my shock she simply accepts it, kissing him back.

  “Yeah, we’d better get going,” I interrupt, reaching for Maggie’s arm. But the guy pulls her away, the two of them all but limping out the door and onto the street. I try to follow after, but I keep stumbling, suddenly realizing just how deeply fucked-up I am.

  “Whoa, there. Wait for me,” Will remarks with a chuckle as he comes up behind me and pins me to his side with a strong arm around my shoulders. We walk out of the bar and I see a black car pulled up to the pavement. Will’s friend is pouring Maggie into the backseat and climbing in after her, beckoning for us to follow.

  My head is swimming, alarm bells ringing. “No, no. I’m not going. I’ve gotta get back home. Right now,” I balk, planting my feet firmly on the sidewalk even as I sway slightly. Will nudges my back, pushing me toward the open door of the black vehicle.

  “Without your friend?” Will reasons. “How’re you gonna leave without her?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmur, fumbling in my pockets, unable to find my phone. I have no idea where it’s gone, so I can’t call anyone to come get me. I haven’t exchanged any of my money for euro yet, so I can’t buy a taxi ride back to the apartment. And I’m realizing just how far away I am — I’ll never be able to walk all the way back home. I’m stuck.

  “Don’t worry,” Will says, his breath hot at my ear as he steers me toward the car. “If you don’t wanna go to the party, it’s fine. We’ll just drop you off at your apartment on the way, alright? I won’t let you go home all by yourself in the middle of the night. It’s not safe out there.”

  Without any other alternative, and with the pounding clouds of oblivion gathering in my drunken brain, I allow him to push me toward the open door, feeling like I’m stepping through a dark portal to a world from which I may never return again.

  6

  Max

  I step out of the black sedan and into the morning sunlight that’s lighting up the whole city as it wakes. The university will soon be bustling with activity as always, the streets around and within the campus teeming with fresh-faced or dreary-eyed students, as well as faculty, like myself.

  But I arrive on campus a few hours before most of the activity really gets started. I always do. Before the rest of the faculty arrives, and long before the students begin to show up, I make my rounds about the facilities I’ve been put in charge of.

  I stride into the gymnasium proper, breathing in the air of the training facility and enjoying the moment of peace before the hustle of the day that will be starting before much longer. There’s something about the inside of a gym even more peaceful than the world outside, something unique to this place in particular.

  I know what it is, though I dare not dwell on it long. This place has become something of a refuge for me. A shrine where I can distance myself from the past and maybe earn some absolution for the things I still remember, the things that still keep me up some nights.

  “Bonjour, Max,” greets Marcel, one of the custodians who is finishing cleaning the floors for the morning. “Still don’t trust old Marcel to make sure everything is up to snuff, eh?”

  He laughs, and I shake my head with a half-smile. “Your work is impeccable, my friend. I’m just here to keep you on your to
es. Can’t have the best custodian at the university resting on his laurels.”

  “No, I don’t blame you,” he says as he starts to put up his cleaning equipment. “I’ve seen this round of girls checking out the gym this past weekend, and I swear, some of them could trip on a flat surface, they’re so starry-eyed. You’ve got your hands full with this lot, Max.”

  “Don’t discount them so early,” I say with a wag of my finger, bending down to stretch my legs out idly while I wait for the first arrivals. “All these girls worked hard to get here. Can’t be more than three or four of them just here on their parents’ dime — most of them are first-rate athletes, where they come from.”

  “There you go with that ‘hard work’ speech again,” Marcel says, shaking his head. “I tell you, I’ll be impressed if half of them last past their starry-eyed welcome to this city. Happens to all the Americans.”

  “We’ll see,” I say firmly, “but there’s real potential in this bunch, and maybe you’d see that if you’d take a day off once in a while.”

  Marcel laughs as he heads out the door, but only waves to me as he goes. “You should take your own advice. Good training, my friend!”

  I give him a nod as he goes, then get back to warming up for the day. Marcel is a jaded old man, but he was one of my first friends coming to the university. My Russian accent still shows, whether I’m speaking French or English, but the custodians here are one of the few groups of people who don’t hold that against me.

  Before long, the athletes start filing in, and I must once again stop being Max and become the distant instructor, Monsieur Pavlenko. The role suits me more, I believe. Or at least hope.