I Married a Mob Boss

by Shandi Boyes

  Dammit!

  I make my way down the hallway, my feet padding along the chunky woolen rug in silence. Renaissance paintings line the walls, and the aroma of garlic lingers in the air. The beat of my heart merges into dangerous territory when I hit the end of the hall. Two men whose shoulders are the width of my height are standing at the edge of the stairwell, talking to each other in a foreign language.

  “Hello,” I squeak out when the sight of me stifles their conversation.

  Snubbing their imprudent stares, I race down the stairwell. The galloping of my heart matches the stomping of my feet as I charge through the massive unknown residence. My tornado pace comes to a shrieking halt when a handful of women suddenly bombard me. Lace and satin materials are shoved in my face as they fire a range of questions at me. Well, I'm assuming they are questions as I don’t understand a word they are saying.

  Their approach reminds me of my backpacking adventures in Bali, Indonesia. If you haven’t experienced the craziness of a street market in Bali, you haven’t lived. It's the equivalent of shopping at Walmart high on crack. That’s another assumption, as I’ve never touched a drug in my life.

  Not understanding a single word the group of ladies are flinging at me, I spin on my heels and scuffle down a dark and dingy corridor on my right. Their hair-raising battering is left for dust when I encroach deeper into the hall. My heart beats triple time when the scent of fear lingers in the air. From the way the women stop at the end of the hall and eyeball me with a snick of panic in their eyes, anyone would swear I just entered the gates of hell.

  Taking no notice of their odd reaction—and my brain pulverizing my skull—I continue striding down the dark, dingy hall. Just like the hallway my room is in, this corridor is lined with doors. But unlike the hall my room is in, this corridor isn't as elaborately decorated, and these rooms have locks—big clunky deadbolt locks. I stop dead in my tracks and furrow my brows. Why would there be locks on the outside of the doors?

  My retreating steps out of the dingy space stop when I hear the faint murmur of voices tinkling down the bland corridor. Slanting my head to the side, I level my breathing and prick my ears. My regular breathing pattern returns when the distinct noise of men talking sounds into my ears.

  Pretending the twisted feeling in my stomach is from my raging hangover drilling my skull into the next century and not fear, I pace towards the collection of deep, masculine voices. The swirling of my stomach eases when I catch the occasional sentence spoken in English between the heavily accented voices.

  "If you just give me a chance. . ."

  “As I said earlier. . .”

  “It wasn’t as your men are saying. . .”

  Stopping outside the door the voices are coming from, I inhale a deep, calming breath.

  “You can do this, Blaire,” I chant to myself.

  Clutching the handle for dear life, I throw open the heavily weighted door. Just as it gives out a creak, pleading pummels my eardrums.

  “Please. No. I’m begging you. I have children. Small, precious little children.”

  Chapter 2

  With my heart clutched in fear, I lift my eyes from my feet. Men in midnight-colored suits are huddled around something in the middle of a poorly lit room. Just like the men in the hallway, they are tall, wide, and set my pulse racing.

  I take a stumbling step backward when black smoke loiters through my nose, burning my eyes, and suffocating my throat. I try to hold in my cough the thick waft of smoke instigates. I try to smother it until I'm in the safety of the hall. But no matter how much I plead with my brain that now is not the time to kick up a protest about the disgusting habit of smoking, my efforts are fruitless.

  The instant my measly cough splatters through my snapped-shut lips, the large group of men shift their attention to me. I take a retreating step, alarmed by their fuming glares. Fear-induced chemicals pump through my body when my massively dilated eyes zoom in on the men's original devotion.

  A balding man in his mid-fifties is bound to a rickety wooden chair in the middle of the room. His right brow has a nasty gash across it that's trickling blood down his pale cheek; his eyes are wide and terrorized, and he has a wet patch that goes from the crotch of his dark blue trousers all the way down his leg until it joins a puddle sloshed around his shoeless and bloodied feet.

  My pupils widen as my heart drops from my ribcage. I beg for my feet to move, but just like the man bound to the chair, I'm frozen in fear.

  The only remaining functioning part of my body—my eyes— swing to the side when a deep, rumbling voice vibrates through my chest. “Kitten?”

  The beat of my heart enters dangerous territory when my wide gaze is met with a dark, mysterious stranger sitting in the corner of the room. He has thick black hair, bleak sable eyes, and a few days of stubble hiding his well-carved chin.

  If I weren't currently immersed in a scary rendition of The Godfather, I would have said he was handsome—perhaps even deliriously gorgeous—but since I'm on the verge of peeing my pants like the man bound to the chair, I harness my perving gaze for a more suitable occasion.

  My pulse quickens when the dark-haired stranger stands from his chair. His aura demands my attention, and his stature alludes to his power. Even in a room filled with scary men, there's no doubt who the alpha of the room is. It’s him.

  Unlike the other half a dozen men gawking at me in shocked anger, this handsome stranger looks at me with a sense of familiarity, and if I’m not mistaken… ownership?

  Blinking to break the trance he has trapped me in, I squeak out, “Wrong room,” before spinning on my heels and charging for the door.

  Thick, accented voices yell for me to stop, but I barely hear a word over the mad beat of my heart. I race down the corridor remarkably quick for someone on the verge of wetting their pants.

  Unfortunately, my fast-moving legs are not quite quick enough.

  A window-shattering squeal tears from my throat when a broad arm wraps around my torso. His powerful hold has my feet lifting from the ground and my heart smashing against my ribs. I thrash and kick my arms and legs out wildly, fighting with all my might. I claw my nails into the suit-covered arm and bite at the hand moving to cover my shrieking mouth as I struggle to keep haunted memories buried.

  My vicious attack only diminishes when my name comes barreling out of a deep baritone voice, the same voice that called me kitten mere seconds ago.

  "Calm down, Blaire, or you’ll gain unwanted attention.” He drags me into an unlocked room on our right. “You’re safe. No one will ever hurt you.”

  Air hisses through the small cracks of the hand covering my mouth as I gulp in deep breaths, battling to fill my heaving lungs with oxygen. With the fear of hyperventilating, I decrease the volume of my wails and shift my focus on breathing. The last thing I want to do is pass out in a house full of scary looking men and non-English-speaking females.

  Realizing I'm no longer fighting, the stranger removes his hand from my mouth, dropping it to the curve of my neck. Every hair on my body bristles when he rubs his thumb over the dip in my collarbone. Now instead of suffering the crippling fear of panic, I’m overcome by the frantic rush of desire. Insanely, my nipples bud and my lips part, my body choosing its own response to the closeness of the spicy-scented stranger.

  “That’s it, Kitten. Nice big breaths.”

  The carnal rasp of his tone tightens the coil of my womb even more. His voice is sophisticated and smooth, the type that could sell ice to Eskimos. It switches the mad beat of my heart from a frightened gallop to a leisured trot.

  After a few more cavernous breaths, my regular breathing pattern returns. When the unnamed stranger places me onto my feet, I run my sweaty hands down the front of my floral skirt before swiveling around to face him. My heart rate skyrockets again. He's even more alluring up close. Defined nose, dark, edgy eyes, and cheekbones any sculptor would love to carve. He's a true masterpiece.

  “How do you know my name?�
�� I peer into his eyes, unable to look away for the fear of missing something magical.

  Not giving him the chance to reply, I ask, “Have we met before? You seem so familiar.” My words come out hoarse, strangled by both arousal and fear.

  The handsome stranger’s eyes flare with a vast range of emotions before his lips tug high. The quickest flash of a smirk freezes my heart. My god this man is… beautiful. When he runs his hand across the scruff on his tanned face, a shimmer of platinum wrapped around his ring finger captures my attention.

  "You're married?!"

  I cringe when my nasally high voice bounces off the walls and jingles into my ears. Since I'm locked in an enthralling daze of idiocy, I thought there was something greater than fear between us. Obviously, I was wrong.

  Masking my disappointment with a neutral look, I return the married stranger’s rousing stare.

  “Is your wife here? Does she speak English?” I question when my inquisitiveness gets the better of me.

  The dark-haired stranger’s brows knit, but he remains so quiet, only my heart thumping against my ribs can be heard. Astonishment and another unreadable glint brightens his nearly black eyes as he begins to speak. Before a syllable escapes his mouth, the door I was dragged through seconds ago flies open.

  The trance the sable-haired man’s beauty placed on me lifts when a burly-looking man in a full-length trenchcoat steps into the room. His hollow eyes bounce between me and the mystery stranger for several heart-thrashing seconds before he locks them on the gentleman standing beside me.

  Mimicking the direction of his gaze, I turn my eyes as well. My heart sinks into my stomach. The captivatingly handsome specimen I was entranced by seconds ago has vanished, replaced with the man who confronted me in the room earlier. The same room with an injured man bound to a chair. Oh, my God, I’m a terrible person. I’m standing in a room eyeballing a man as if his body parts are on a dessert menu all while another man sits helpless only doors up from me.

  The despair digging a hole in my heart deepens when the man at the door says, “Rico, it's time.” His voice is heavily drawled with an accent I don’t immediately recognize.

  “Do as requested. I do not need to be present,” responds the handsome stranger standing next to me.

  The gentleman at the door bows his head. “Yes, Boss."

  He shuffles backward like a dog afraid of getting a newspaper whacked across his disobedient nose. When he closes the door, I stand quiet for a minute, giving my scattered brain a chance to run the events from the past ten minutes through my blurry mind.

  It's only when I reach the first half of the intruder’s statement does my dazed state end.

  I try to ignore the room is closing in on me. “You’re Rico?”

  Dizziness plagues my senses when Rico nods. I splay my hands across my hips and gulp in large breaths, shocked at discovering the mysterious stranger standing before me is Rico: the owner of the name tattooed on my hip. When the swirling of my stomach becomes too much for me to handle, I slap my quivering hand over my mouth and battle to hold in the contents threatening to break free. The fiery heat scorching my veins unveils another new discovery: a crisp coolness tingling on my parched lips.

  Heavily panting, I pull my hand away from my mouth. A rush of giddiness clusters in my head when my eyes zoom in on a sparkling platinum band wrapped around the third finger of my left hand. The twisting of my stomach extends to my heart when I realize its ruby and diamond design is an exact replica of the ring on Rico’s hand.

  I take a stumbling step backward, my pupils widening, my heart rate faltering.

  Oh. My. Lord.

  I married a mob boss.

  Chapter 3

  White spots dance in front of my eyes as the room spins. This can't be happening. There must be a mistake. I'm a good girl. I wouldn't wake up married to a stranger, let alone a mob boss.

  Stumbling, I make my way to a wooden chair similar to the one the gentleman three rooms over is bound to. Noticing my unsteady movements, Rico places his hand on the crook of my elbow. His touch is electric, sending a surge of awareness over every inch of my body.

  Plopping into the seat, I drop my head to my knees and draw in deep breaths, my chest rattling as I battle through the impulse to faint. The efforts of my heaving lungs double when the warmth of a hand spreads across my back. My brain screams for me to yank away from Rico's touch, but my heart pleads for me to accept his comfort. Unable to concentrate on anything but the panic havocking my body, I take the comfort he's offering with a grain of salt.

  Over time, the heat of Rico's hand soothes my shaking, and the smooth grittiness of his voice swallows the violent ringing in my ears. I give myself a few moments to settle the crazy beat of my heart before lifting my head from between my knees. A rush of giddiness clusters in my brain again. It isn’t from my sudden incline; it's from the deliriously handsome specimen crouched down in front of me.

  “Are you alright?” Rico’s tone is a unique mix of commanding and nurturing.

  Unable to speak through my fire-scorched throat, I simply nod. He takes two retreating steps, then props his backside onto a wooden chest a few feet from me. My shoulders instinctively roll, and I straighten my slouched posture when his dark eyes run over my body. Unlike the chill I got when his eyes raked my body in the other room, this time, his long perusal causes the temperature in the room to become stifling.

  When he returns his eyes to my face, I inhale a shaky breath. His gaze is commanding, primitive, and strong, and it sets my pulse racing.

  Spotting my heated cheeks, a smirk curves on his plump lips. “Did you not see the sign at the start of the hall, Kitten? Women are not allowed in this area. And where are the two men stationed outside your room?”

  My brows stitch, mindful of the authoritativeness in his voice. “Women aren’t allowed in here?”

  His powerful gaze burns into mine, charring my soul from the inside out before he nods.

  “Was the sign in English?” I mumble, my voice incapable of hiding the insanity of the situation.

  Rico smiles a lazy smirk that has my heart rate speeding up. “No. It's in Russian.”

  My shocked eyes meet his. “Russian?” My pupils widen. “As in Russian, Russian?”

  When he nods, the wooziness inflicting my head the past twenty minutes travels to my stomach. I sit still in shock, watching him in silence, hoping he’ll fill in the blank gaps in my mind.

  When he remains quiet, I stutter, “You’re Russian?”

  A mouthwatering smirk carves onto his mouth before he nods. Even entranced by the lazy smile stretched across his handsome face, I drop my head to my knees, fighting to keep the contents of my stomach where they belong. Unfortunately, my attempts are fruitless; nothing can stop their uncontrollable swirls. Even certain my stomach is empty, I clamp my hand over my mouth and straighten my spine.

  “Is there a bathroom closeby?” I ask Rico, mumbling through the cracks of my hand.

  He abruptly stands. A speck of blood on the cuff of his light blue business shirt becomes exposed when he gestures his hand to a door on my right. Seeing evidence of his corrupt life firsthand hinders any chance of containing my flipping stomach.

  Springing to my feet, I bolt to the door as fast as my quaking legs can take me. I only just make it into the poorly designed bathroom when the slosh in the bottom of my stomach makes its way into the world. My throbbing temples scream in pain when my back violently bends.

  Despite the brutal heaves racking my body, I can’t help but notice the way his hand rubbing down my back causes every fine hair on my body to bristle.

  Once all the throat-burning contents of my stomach have been expelled, I lean back on the balls of my feet. Tears of confusion well in my eyes, and my heart is a muddled mess of confusion. I’ve never engaged in a battle as vicious as the one my brain and heart are in right now.

  How could one man incite such a contradictory set of emotions? My brain is begging for me to leave
this room before I walk so far into the darkness I’ll never find my way out. But my heart is pleading with me to ignore the protests of my brain, and for once, let it have a chance to prove its decisions are just as gripping as its astute counterpart.

  The warmth of heated skin engulfs me when a set of broad arms band around my body and hoist me from the ground. The stomach-calming smell of spices filters into my nose when Rico pulls me in close to his chest and strides out of the room. My first reaction is to repel out of his grasp, but with my mind nothing but a hazy blur, I allow my heart to win this battle.

  When I press my cheek against Rico’s well-formed chest, the wild beat of his heart tames the furious thump of my pounding skull. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend I'm not in the midst of one of the scariest dreams I’ve ever had.

  Unfortunately, I lose any shot at normality when he strides past the room I scampered out of minutes ago. The door is only open a mere inch, but it's wide enough for me to see the immoral act playing out before my very eyes. I'm a kindergarten teacher, but I’ve seen enough Hollywood movies to recognize the weapon a man standing in the room is holding.

  Like he can sense my snooping stare, the man clutching a black pistol with a silencer screwed on the end turns his gaze to me. His eyes are a vibrant icy blue color, but they are lifeless and hollow. With a conniving grin etched on his face, he winks at me before swinging the barrel of his gun to the now gagged and bound man I saw earlier.

  My eyes rocket to Rico. "Are they. . . Is he. . . Are they going to. . .”

  My words trail off when the faintest noise of a silencer filters through my ears. It doesn't matter how much the manufacturer claims it's silent, there's no mistaking that sound. It's heart-shattering and devastating.

  Fear strikes my heart as tears swamp my eyes. Rico doesn’t flinch, balk, or even acknowledge he heard a thing. He continues moving through the vast residence without a single reaction crossing his face. Who is this man I married? Only a monster could ignore the quiet screams of death.