She’d been raped.
He just said it. Laughed about it. Turned her pain into a joke.
Time stops meaning anything. The two of them are at the rich man’s car, the bodyguard helping open the door for him when I set out. The big guy is inside, but before his helper can shut the door, I’m on him and slamming his head to the metal door, knocking him to the ground.
There’s no thinking. There’s no moralizing. There’s no worrying. There’s just acting. That’s the way I was trained. That’s who I am.
I yank that piece of shit out of his car and toss him against a concrete pillar at the edge of the lot. I hear him thud and cry out painfully, wind knocked from him. Before he can say a word though, I’m on him, pummeling him down.
I’m making him pay for what he did. I’m teaching him a lesson that he won’t forget.
I was raised to believe that a real man uses his strength to protect those weaker than him. That a real man never takes the cowardly way out and uses his power in this world to prey on those beneath him.
That’s what drove me to service. And that’s what drives me to beat the shit out of this rich prick.
Even in my haze of rage, I know enough not to kill him. I can direct my blows to crack a few ribs, bust his nose and make him ache for a year, but I won’t leave him dead. Just teach him a lesson.
“Don’t you ever fuckin’ touch another woman without her say so, you hear me?!” I bellow at him, yanking him by his collar before planting another punch in his gut.
That’s it, I tell myself. I made the point. But I let myself get carried away; I underestimated the rich prick’s guard. And a gun goes off at the back of my head.
Everything’s dark.
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Description
“You will be my woman for a year, servant to my whims and desires. I will not hurt you, unless you want me to.”
I'm in deep to the Mafia. My father was the one who made the deal, and when I inherited his club, I also inherited his troubles.
Ivan wants to save me, or so he says. More like he wants me to be his slave for a year. After the one-night stand I had with him, though, would that be so bad? With his impossibly hard body, and the way he always makes me scream...
But he's still a monster. He's a criminal, and something so much worse.
And yet I can't stop the tingling in my body every time I think of how he touched me, and those dark but delicious words rolling off his tongue, tinged with his Russian accent.
He knows what I'll say, even before I do. "I'll take your offer."
A full length Standalone Romantic Suspense novel. No Cliffhangers. Safe from cheating. Explicit language & swearing.
Ivan
Just one more hit, and the night is mine.
Of course, that’s easily said. But a hit is not always easy. It takes calm and composure when the world is chaos, when any one little thing can go wrong and send the whole mess spiralling out of control. It takes control over your actions, a steady hand, the death of anxiety, because worry does you in every time.
For those reasons, and more, amateurs tend to do a hit from far away. Or if they don’t have the equipment to snipe someone from a distance, they haul out a gun, fire like crazy, then run in a mad dash to get away.
I’ve never done a sloppy hit like that, not about to start now.
This guy I’m after is too good for that to work anyhow. He’s either always flanked by bodyguards, or in the middle of a crowd. I know this because I’ve been following him for weeks. Planning my move. He’s good, shakes things up, not much of a fixed schedule, but like all men with power, this guy has his vices. Vices he doesn’t even trust his own bodyguards to keep quiet.
For the third time this week, I walk behind him as he makes his way through a busy crowd down the street. This guy -- a trumped up millionaire from Florida who made his fortune selling coke to college kids, who enforced his reign by brutally beating punks who couldn’t pay, and is now here in my city, offing people left and right -- he deserves to die.
He’s balding, even though he’s only in his thirties. A life of constant paranoia will do that to you, stress you out. But at this point I’m just annoyed he’s dragged my ass around New York for weeks, doing my best to look inconspicuous, to blend in and not seem like I was watching. I’m sick of this shit stain, and ready to wipe him clean from the city.
So as he slipped out the back of the Italian mob owned deli and heads through the crowds down a side alley, I’m grateful.
I can finally end this.
But the alleyway is barely five car lengths long, a gun won’t do here. No, I have to go in personal.
My black shoes are shiny, fancy looking. But they’re quiet. And for a moment, we’re just two well-dressed men taking a shortcut to any passerby. But my window of opportunity is narrow.
My heart skips a beat, and it’s like time slows.
I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch.
But I can’t hurry. Smooth steps, my hand reaching into my charcoal grey coat. And out comes the knife. It doesn’t gleam, doesn’t glisten. This one is a dull colour, but sharp. So sharp.
I close in on my prey, but he’s a canny guy, and he detects me, his head twisting about.
But I’m better than him. And it’s too damn late anyhow.
His turn only helps me, and I grab him about the mouth, his cries silenced. Now I gotta end this fast, before some person on either side of the alleyway walks by and notices us.
My knife slices through the air, and while I know it’ll make a mess of my coat, that’s the price to pay. The other options are too risky. I could stab him in the chest, but then he could block me, and though he’s stocky and overweight, he might have hidden strength that could mess up my blade’s arc.
The throat? Fuck, that’s for amateurs. A killer like me knows when you slice a man’s throat open, it’s a noisy affair. Blood gurgling sounds would fill the alleyway, his dying cries drawing all sorts of attention.
So instead, I go for the heart. Right between two of his ribs I plunge that blade, and I sink into his left ventricle. I know it, because I’ve done it before. Because I can feel the way the blade moves through that muscular flesh of a man’s heart.
This thug tries to cry out, tries to struggle away, but my blade slices clear through the center of his heart and into the right atrium.
He’s done.
All that’s left to do is to shift his body beside the dumpster, into the pile of trash bags. I can’t rush, even though at this point every moment puts me at risk of being caught a murderer. I hold his mouth shut until he’s completely limp, then dump him among the garbage.
Just another piece of trash.
The knife’s no use to me now. I can never use it again, because it’d tie me to this killing, so I leave it in him. I look down and see that the blood spurt stained my grey overcoat, and that’s what I’d expected.
Two grand down the drain.
I slip the coat off me, casually, as if it was just getting too warm for it, and I carry on down the alleyway. I wrap the coat up with my gloves and dispose of both a few blocks down the road in a Salvation Army donation bin.
They’ll probably wash the evidence clean and sell it to someone in no time.
But I’m done now. Another cold kill finished.
I need a drink and a woman.
Katy
I can't bring myself to listen to another word the guy sitting next to me is saying, and I have to restrain every muscle to hold back the impulse to throw my drink in his face.
We're sitting in the VIP lounge of my own club, and not even the lavish orange tapestries my father decorated the round room with can distract me from the yuppies seated around me. They're a bunch of businessmen, and they rented the suite for the evening, so it's my duty as the Amber Room's owner to stop in for a chat.
Of course, that was before I realized these sleazebags are trying to buy the place out.
I know I don't look li
ke the most intimidating person in the world.
My one-piece dress hugs my frame, sleek and black in the lounge's pale light, and my rich brown hair spills down over my shoulder in curls. The pearls wrapped around my wrist slide down my arm as I twirl my hair around my fingers.
At this point, that's all I can do to contain my agitation.
My dress feels hot, and the small room feels even smaller than it is with these creeps crowding it.
"So," the guy leaning uncomfortably close to me drones on, "if you consider the property values' change over the past few years, Ms. Foss — can I call you Katy? — there's a clear downward trend for establishments like this one, possibly thanks to mob activity."
"Uh-huh," I mutter dismissively, standing up and attempting to excuse myself silently.
"So there really isn't a better time to sell while you still can, and if you would just take a look at our offer—”
I'm already halfway to the door.
"Of course, gentlemen," I wave my hand, resisting the urge to refer to them as 'stooges,' "leave the paperwork on the table. I'll have a few drinks brought your way, hm? Do enjoy the evening, and don't be a stranger to the dance floor, won't you?"
I hear a couple of them trying to get a word in edgewise, but I'm already out the door and heading down the short hallway to the club floor, to my relief.
The nerve of them.
Ever since I inherited this night club from my father, it's been more and more trouble. I'd had to learn the ropes of managing the place to keep it from going under in the first few months.
Between staffing and accounting, it's a wonder I even have the time to entertain patrons like the suits in the VIP room behind me.
I certainly haven't had the time to redecorate the place.
The Amber Room. Dad had been going for a nod to all the local Russians, I guess. He once showed me a picture of some Tsar’s famous palace in St. Petersburg that had an amber look about it. I push the door to the crowded dance floor open and get a reminder of his artistic vision yet again.
The place looks like a furnace.
Marigold-colored tapestries hang from the walls of the rectangular room, and the floodlights along the walls cast an amber light across the dance floor. Tawny booths line the side walls, and two couches stand on the elevated platform I step out onto.
The bar is at the far end of the room, near the exit. Between me and the stiff drink I desperately need, there's a sea of patrons dancing to the thrumming music the DJ is playing.
I plunge into the crowd without a seconds thought and navigate the floor with ease.
There are eyes on me as I make my way to the bar, I can feel them. They don't last long, though. I have an air of authority to the way I walk. I made sure to learn that walk early on.
It was the only way to not get swept up in the noise of the crowd. I don't get lost in it, I keep above it.
But the baggage of this place gets heavy.
I reach the bar and get the bartender's attention, holding up two fingers. She nods and promptly starts to pour my Jameson. It's a little quieter here, thanks to the room's acoustics.
Natalie, the bartender, knows what the look on my face means: a drink, right now.
"Everything alright, boss?" she chimes, sliding the drink over to me, happy for the break from the regular patrons.
I take a drink in response. "The VIPs are realty sharks. Nothing unusual."
She frowns, glancing towards the lounge door.
"Fuckers. Well hey, take it easy the rest of the night, eh? You've been working your ass off all week, you could use a little unwinding."
That gets a smirk from me. "Yeah? And do what, sit at home worrying about this place?"
Natalie rolls her eyes. "I dunno, but I know who might have a few ideas."
"Oh? Who's that?"
"The stud who walked in while I was pouring your drink and hasn't taken his eyes off you since."
I flutter my eyes as I process what she just said, and before I can say "Wait—!" Natalie moves off to see to another patron, a wicked smirk on her face.
I turn my eyes towards the club entrance to brace myself for whoever she was talking about.
There are at least half a dozen men making their way into the club, but that's normal at this time of night. But amid the douches in popped collars tracking in the smell of too much cologne, there's one figure towering over the rest, and the dark blue eyes that catch my gaze tell me he's the one Natalie meant.
My heart jumped in my chest, but not because I was taken by the looks of the stranger. I turn my head before getting a better look at him beyond his tight-fitting gray suit and a teal tie.
For all I know, he could be a friend of one of the jerks in the lounge showing up late to the party. In fact, I decide that's exactly what he is.
I shoot Natalie a rueful look, to which she rolls her eyes with a playful smirk before I down the rest of my drink and spin around on the barstool to get up and make my way onto the dance floor, the clicking of my heels muffled by the music.
I don't flirt with patrons.
Natalie would tease me about it all the time, egging me on to "Live a little, Katy! You own a nightclub, that's basically a free pass on all the ass in town!"
But that's the point, I remind myself as I start dancing with some of the patrons, putting a fake smile on my face while the drunken crowd is cheering the DJ on.
I'm the club owner.
In case something goes down, I need to be on my toes all the time. What the businessman in the lounge said offhandedly about the local mob put a rancid, all-too-familiar taste in my mouth.
I can't afford to let my guard down in this kind of business. And that means no doing shots with the hot celebs that pass through my little club every blue moon.
The crowd gives me some cover for a while — the rich, young crowd is here in force tonight. Some of the wealthiest young adults in Brighton Beach are grinding against each other, right here on my dance floor.
A few semi-familiar faces try to get my attention as I pass by them, but I can hardly tell what's coming from whom, even as I try to listen for potential trouble.
"Oh my God, Katy, where did you get this eurotrash DJ? Love it!"
"Katy! The guy in the purple shirt is a scout for that modeling agency, help me get his number!"
"You would not believe what went down at the game tonight, did you see it?!"
There it was.
I shout a few distracted replies as I sneak off the dance floor and ease myself down onto one of the couches lining the walls, just as the music starts to die down enough that I can hear myself think.
Where there were big, excited, drunken crowds this time of year, big sports games were usually responsible. I don't keep up with them, but I know games usually mean three things:
One happy crowd, one angry crowd, and a lot of bets on both side. Only one of those is good for my club, and I don't like those odds.
Although, I have to admit, even as I'm texting the bouncers to keep an eye out, I can't help but glance around the room and think I've lucked out and gotten the winning team's afterparty. All I see are giddy faces tonight, for a change.
But then my eyes pan across a familiar face in a gray suit heading my way, and I curse, lowering my eyes to my phone and twirling my hair nervously. Why did I have to leave the crowd?
I can feel him getting closer, and just as I lift my head to tell him I'm very busy and can't talk right now thank-you-very-much, I yelp as I realize he's already towering over me.
"Heart-shaped face and eyes like the sea? I think you outshine your own club."
His voice is deep, and it carries over the now-dull music with natural authority — there's a faint accent in it I can't place, but it only makes the attention he commands all the more soothing.
His jaw is chiseled, outlining a clean-shaven face that's only marred by the crease of his dimples as he gives an easy smile with full lips. His nose is straight but wide, offsetting soft eye
s that are as soothing yet commanding as his voice. His short, light brown hair is clean-cut, making the imposing figure look like a statue come to life.
Up close, I realize that his tight-fitting suit is covering a powerful physique, even as he leans casually against the side of the couch I'm sitting on, arms folded like he's as relaxed as ever. I can just barely make out the edges of what might be a tattoo on his forearm, something without any immediate significance to me.
Color rises to my cheeks as I realize I've been staring at him blankly for a few moments, taken off-guard by his looks.
Not the kind of guy I was expecting. Not by a long shot.
"And who says I own this place?" I say, marshalling my composure again and crossing my legs, letting my hair dangle to the side as I tilt my head in curiosity, my gaze level.
"Your bartender is chatty," he explains, his face splitting into a grin. The lines on his face tell me he smiles a lot. "She said you were hoping I'd say 'hello' before the party gets worked up again."
I sit back, turning my chin up at him and letting a smirk play across my features. "Oh, did she? Maybe I ought to pay her a little more to keep her lips tighter."
I uncross my legs and lean forward, looking at him a little less playfully. "Look, if you're here with the realtors, you can tell your buddies in the VIP lounge to hit the road, if they didn't get the message."
He arches a thick but neat brow. This guy takes good care of himself, I notice.
"Not sure who you're talking about, but if you're hiding from them out here, they don't sound like VIPs, do they?"
I open my mouth, then close it again as I feel a blush in my cheeks again, and I cover my face with my hand, laughing at myself embarrassedly.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" I rub my temple with my fingers, "I...I don't know what to say, it's been a stressful night."
Sights on the SEAL: A Secret Baby Romance Page 36