Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Alexis Abbott

  In an instant, I move my knife around and draw it across his hand, making him recoil and drop the firearm. When it hits the ground, to my horror, a round discharges, sending a bullet ricocheting around the room, and I catch a glimpse of Liv ducking for cover out of the corner of my eye.

  Wrenching my knee free, I kick the pistol across the room and push Boris off me, using the moment of distraction to charge at the mobster in the doorway. He starts to point his gun at me as I close the distance, but I’m too fast for him. My free hand closes around his wrist with a sickening crunch, and he screams as he drops the gun to the ground, but there’s no discharge this time.

  Wasting no time, my knife hand plunges the blade into his throat in two quick stabs, one after the other. My hands are crimson with the blood flowing from his throat as he croaks his last, and I shove him back to choke on his own lifeblood in the stairway.

  “Enough games, Max,” I hear a chilling growl in accented English come from behind me, and I turn to see Boris’s burned face pressed up against Liv’s, his own long, wicked knife pressed against her throat as he holds her still, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Boris,” I say slowly, holding my knife at the ready, “what kind of new low is this? Settle your score with me and me alone.”

  The scarred man tut-tuts mockingly, malevolent delight in his eyes as he toys with the blade at Liv’s neck, and I see her take in a sharp breath as he puts a hand around her arm, securing her. “Those are the words of a dead man, Maxie. You’ve gone soft, izmennik.” He practically spits the last word. “You’ve caused a bit of trouble here, but I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with. We’re going to rebuild an empire in this city out of the ashes you left behind, and I think you’ll make a fitting addition to the fertilizer. Unless you want a little American blood mingled with everything else on your hands,” he says, pressing his face even closer against Liv’s and letting his breath wash over her neck. “You’re going to turn slowly with me, and I’m going to take her somewhere she’ll be useful. You must have tracked her this far, so don’t pretend you don’t care about her.”

  My jaw clenches briefly. Boris is indeed sharper than most of the men here. “Your boss will gut you like a fish if you lay a finger on her. And even if she were worthless, I won’t let you hurt my student.”

  “Student!” Boris laughs. “My my, a teacher? You’ve taken quite a career shift, my old friend. But I can’t blame you,” he adds, his tone getting low and raspy, “if your students are as lovely as this one.”

  My gaze is steely on him as Liv’s body almost visibly tenses, Boris’s grip tightening just a bit on her arm and sliding up and down it. He presses his hips forward, and Liv’s eyes widen at what she must be feeling from behind. My blood is boiling hot in my veins, and my muscles poise, ready to move at the slightest indication of weakness.

  “This student must mean quite a lot to you for you to go through all this trouble,” he says. “I wonder what the two of you get up to after class?”

  My nostrils flare, but I won’t dignify him with a response. At my silence, Boris tilts his head to Liv, directing his wretched, sensual mockery to her.

  “Does he hold you like this at night, dorogoy? Maybe you even like the knife play, you little American slut. Does your teacher toy with you before he fucks you raw? Maybe if he makes it out of here alive, he’ll buy you for himself, and then you’ll be at his mercy all the time. You’ve seen what he can do to fully grown men. Just imagine what he would do to a tight little American cunt like yours…but I’m afraid I’ll have to break you in before that,” he says, and I see his hand start to slide around her arm down to her stomach, and I hear a sharp whimper from Liv as his fingers move down to reach into the front of her skirt.

  There’s a shriek from her a moment later as I fling my knife forward, sending it flying directly at the pair with deadly precision, and I watch Boris’s attention snap back up to me for half an instant before my knife strikes true, sinking deep into his eye socket. Right to the hilt.

  His muscles tighten for just a moment, Liv paralyzed with fear as she looks at me, and finally, Boris slumps to the ground on his back, a trail of blood and fluid streaming from where the blade had sank into his head.

  The next instant, I run forward to catch Liv as she nearly crumples to the ground, sobbing, her whole body shaking in fear as I bring her into a tight hug.

  “It’s over,” I whisper as calmly as I can bring my husky voice to pronounce clearly, “Olivia, he’s dead. You’re with me now.”

  “Oh my god,” she breathes, “oh my god, they…” her eyes are fixed on the dead bodies in the room, and I realize grimly that she’s never before been exposed to such violence.

  “Liv, look at me,” I say urgently, bringing her attention back to my eyes, trying to keep her from going into shock from everything she’s seen. “Liv, are you hurt?”

  “N-no,” she manages, swallowing hard. “No, I’m okay. What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  The question is strange to me at first, but I remember that while she and Maggie have consumed my thoughts for the past few hours, I’ve surely been the farthest thing from her mind for all this time. “I’ll explain later. We need to get out of here, now. Where is Maggie, is she still in the building?”

  Liv thinks for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts amidst the storm of emotions she must be feeling, and she finally shakes her head. “I don’t think so, no. Will, the man who led me here, he...he took her away.” She clenches her eyes for just a moment, and I can tell how painful it must be to talk about this. “He said something about her already having a ‘buyer.’ M-Monsieur Pavlenko, is this…?”

  I give her a look that gravely confirms her fears, but before I can speak to her again, the sounds of footsteps above us tells me we need to move quickly. “More coming,” I say, taking out one of the spare pistols at my side and holding it up. I gently touch Liv’s face, covering her eyes for a second as I aim the pistol at Boris’ corpse. This time, I’m not taking a chance with him, and I put a bullet into his brain, the carnage gruesome at the close range.

  “Let’s move, now,” I say, and without another moment’s hesitation, I take Liv by the hand and head up the stairs, pistol at the ready. Once we’re up in the main room, I rush her to one of the windows, sliding it up, my instincts kicking in to get us out of here as quickly as possible.

  I can hear the Chechen backup approaching the doorway, and I glance at it briefly, considering how easy it would be to end all of their lives...but I cannot risk Liv’s life again, not when we’re so close to escape.

  Before I can move to help her out, Liv vaults out the window into the alley behind the building. I smile, remembering that she is indeed a gymnast, after all. Just as I hear shouts from behind me, I vault out myself, and the two of us sprint down the alleyway as I stow my weapon.

  “How far will they chase us?” Liv gasps as she keeps up with me while we turn another corner and I guide her through a narrow space between buildings, a few rats scurrying out of our path as we take routes I haven’t had to use in years.

  “Just stay close to me,” I say sharply to her as I start to take her around the twisting alleyways near the building I’m all too familiar with, “and whatever you do, don’t look back.”

  13

  Liv

  We’ve been walking for a while now, traipsing down the alleyways and narrow cobblestone streets of Le Marais. Historic buildings and elaborate architecture loom overhead, like aristocratic faces casting condescending glares down upon me. This place, this city, is too beautiful to house such evil. Pavlenko’s large palm is pressed supportively against my back, gently steering me along and keeping me upright. I don’t know how long we’ve been traveling, scurrying away in the soft, waning light of late afternoon. Something tells me that we’re not making a straight beeline for our destination — that he’s guiding us on a serpentine path intentionally to throw off any potential spies or followers. I try to put th
is thought far from my mind. I simply can’t compute that right now, not when I’m already so overwhelmed. I’m still trying to come to terms with what happened last night and today. Trying not to think about Maggie and what horrible fate has caught up with her.

  To Paris’s credit, nobody even seems to notice or care how out of place we look. Granted, Pavlenko does look more the part than I do, navigating the streets with familiarity, dressed more appropriately. But I’m surprised that no one has stared at me yet — I know I must look dreadful after my night in hell. Especially since I’m wearing white, and it must show every bit of dirt on me.

  Happy tourists shove past us, their children carrying fuzzy backpacks shaped like animals. Local Parisians are less enthusiastic about the surrounding scenery, as it forms the familiar backdrop to their everyday lives, and the tourists only clog up the sidewalks for the natives trying to get things done.

  But we are neither tourists nor natives. For although we are headed toward what I assume is Pavlenko’s apartment, I get the distinct sense that this city is not his true home. He does not belong here anymore than I do, even if his French is nearly perfect and he’s found a career here. I can tell that these picturesque streets filled with laughter and light are contrary to his own nature.

  There’s something darker about him, something dangerous. The guns certainly lend credence to this impression. And the fact that Boris knew him. It sent a shiver down my spine. Should I even be trusting my rescuer at all?

  My feet are aching by the time we reach a tall, white architectural masterpiece that looks like it could effortlessly house a king or queen. I guess it’s his apartment building. Pavlenko nods to the doorman, who wordlessly lets us in. The man gratefully doesn’t allow his eyes to linger on my disheveled appearance. I wonder if he knows more than he lets on, and if his training includes being discreet in the face of strange encounters. He’s probably opened these doors for hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. Some of them had to have looked at least as odd as me.

  We head directly to the elevator — a welcome sight, especially compared to my sixth floor walk-up. Once the sleek metal doors are shut, Pavlenko presses the button to take us to the very top floor of the building. He looks down at me with a grim, worried expression, as though he’s just waiting for me to wither away right before his eyes. I hate when people think I’m fragile, but in this case… it’s not an inaccurate assumption.

  There’s a ding and the doors slide silently open again.

  “Come,” he says, softly taking me by the arm to lead me down the hallway, which has glossy wood flooring and stark white walls. There are framed still life paintings and artfully sculpted sconces illuminating the hall with a friendly glow. We stop in front of an elaborately carved white door. Pavlenko unlocks it and leads me into his flat.

  I am surprised to see that it doesn’t vary all that sharply from my own little apartment, except that this one looks slightly more lived-in. The furnishings are simple, but upon a second glance, I can tell that the quality is much, much higher than what I have. I’m still too tired to really focus hard on my surroundings, but the black, velvety sofa Pavlenko situates me down on is soft and luxurious underneath my legs.

  “You’re injured,” he comments, looking at my bloodied knees. I frown for a moment, not even sure how I got this way. Then I remember being flung across the room, my knees scraping on the dirty concrete floor. I’m used to slight injuries; they’re a part of my life as a gymnast. Nothing to worry about. But I have to admit that my knees do look pretty grisly. Definitely worse than your garden-variety skinned knee. Still, I don’t want Pavlenko to hover over me and treat me like some broken-down doll.

  “It’s nothing. I’m fine,” I tell him, but he doesn’t buy it.

  “I’ll get you cleaned up,” he says. “Stay put.”

  I’m in no position to balk at any order he gives me. After all, he did just save my life. And as soon as he walks away toward the kitchen, my stomach lurches. I realize with a jolt that I don’t want to be alone. No — more than that — I cannot bear to be left alone right now.

  “Please don’t leave me,” I whimper quietly, ashamed of my own weakness.

  He instantly turns around, a soft and pitying look in his gray-green eyes. His jaw twitches, ever so slightly. I can tell he’s struggling to contain some overbearing emotion, something pressing to overflow and take control. He comes back and kneels in front of me.

  “I’ll be just around the corner. You need to sit here and rest. I promise I will only take a moment,” he assures me. There’s not even the slightest hint of a sharp edge to his tone. Gone is the severe, uptight man who introduced himself to me at that gymnastics banquet back in North Carolina. And no longer is he the hardened killer that rescued me from a horrific fate I could scarcely imagine.

  He doesn’t belittle me for my weakness, nor infantilize my fear.

  I nod reluctantly and swallow hard. Just the idea of sitting here alone for only a few minutes makes me feel nauseous, after those lonely hours in that dark cell. I never want to be alone again. But I can do it. He’s not going anywhere, I remind myself.

  “Good girl,” he says, going to the kitchen. I sit nervously, my eyes darting around the room, fearful that at any moment Will is going to slink out from behind a piece of furniture and capture me again. But Pavlenko comes back after only a minute or so, carrying a damp rag and a bottle of what looks like rubbing alcohol.

  “This might sting a little,” he says apologetically, crouching down. He dampens the rag with alcohol and gently dabs at my knees. I inhale sharply at the sudden pinch of pain. There’s a lot more blood to clean off than I expected, and I start to feel slightly woozy. I’ve never been very good at dealing with blood. I’ve got a weak stomach, which I consider a huge embarrassment. It’s such a cliché — the fragile young woman who faints at the sight of blood.

  When he’s finished, he stands up and surveys me with his hands on his hips.

  “How do you feel?” he asks gravely.

  I pause for a moment, biting my lip. There are so many things I want to say. I feel abused. I feel betrayed. I feel broken inside. Instead, I just say, “I feel like I need a bath.”

  “That place they kept you was filthy,” he agrees. “I will run you a bath here, if you don’t mind. I promise I’ll give you as much privacy as you need.”

  He turns to leave and I instinctively reach out to grab his wrist. He looks down at my hand first, his eyes slowly raising to meet my gaze. I struggle to find the words I need.

  “No… stay with me,” I plead. “I want to take a bath but… I don’t want to be alone.”

  Pavlenko looks like his mind is in turmoil over this. Finally, he concedes. “Okay. I will stay in the bathroom with you, but I won’t look, klyanus.”

  He gently helps me to my feet and leads me down a little hallway to his bedroom. He seats me on his smooth, simple gray bedspread while he goes into the adjoining bathroom to start a bath, leaving the door open so I can see that he’s still there. I am astounded by his tenderness, his patience with me. I had him all wrong when I first met him, when I felt like I was so small and insignificant versus his tall, broody gorgeousness.

  Now I feel like I’ve seen more of his true sides, the part that really is a hero. Boris had said that to Maksim, that they were rebuilding an empire that he’d eliminated... And that thing about the French woman... My heart breaks, thinking about Maksim saving a woman from those brutes, only for Boris to track her down. I wonder if it’s weighing on Maksim’s conscious as well...

  I look around at his simplistic bedroom. Everything is neat and orderly, almost to a military standard. He has everything he needs, and not much more than that, but instead of looking shabby or empty, the room just looks neat. It reflects the fact that he works hard and doesn’t expect much from his life outside of work. In a way, it makes me a little sad for him — while this place is comfortable enough, there isn’t much personal touch.

  He walks over,
his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and helps me into the bathroom. He shifts his weight awkwardly when I stand looking at the claw foot tub filled with lightly scented water. Steam rises from its slightly pinkish surface. I wonder what kind of soap or oil he’s put in the water. It almost makes me smile, the thought of this muscular, imposing man keeping frilly bath accoutrements on hand.

  “I’ll stand over here and face away,” he says, a twinge of nerves in his voice.

  “Okay. Thank you,” I answer softly. He steps away and faces the doorway while I gingerly strip out of my white dress, panties, and bra. I glance back over my shoulder anxiously to make sure he’s still not looking. He isn’t. Of course.

  I carefully climb into the hot bath, wincing when the scented water reaches my wounded knees. I see Pavlenko almost turn around at the sound of my pained gasp, but he catches himself in time. Sinking down into the warm water, I close my eyes and sigh. I lower myself completely until my hair is totally submerged, my face barely poking out of the water. I stare at the smooth white ceiling, the miniature chandelier dangling far above me. I’m so exhausted, so overwhelmed. All I want is to soak in this fragrant bath and let the water wash away all traces of my horrible experience. But I know better than to expect that. It will take more than a hot bath to scour those dark memories from my mind. My body, however, is relieved to finally get some physical comfort. Still, my stomach growls, and I realize that I haven’t eaten since those crepes last night at the Champ de Mars.

  With Maggie. My heart plummets and I feel tears burning in my eyes. Guilt floods my thoughts. I hate myself for being safe and sound here while my friend is out there enduring unspeakable horrors.

  “Olivia,” says Pavlenko, and I jump a little at his voice.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to order us some food. What would you like?”