The Hitman's Property (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Book 2)

by Tia Lewis

  He tilted his head at me. “Why do you care?”

  “That’s not the right question to ask,” I answered. “The right question is: what can I do for you? Look, I can see that you and Zharkov aren’t the best of friends right now.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Steve laughed.

  “Yeah, exactly. So what about this? What if I promise to put a bullet in the fucker’s head for you? I’ll end him, stone-dead, and you won’t have to do a thing. You won’t even have to pay me. All you have to do is tell me where he is.”

  “Why are you so interested in that rat bastard? You know something that I don’t?” Steve asked.

  I forced a grin to my face because now I needed to put on a show. “Remember, I want a short, blonde English girl who will blow my mind while I blow my load. You don’t know how far I’ll go to get a piece of that.”

  Steve laughed. “I heard that English girls have got the wettest pussies.”

  I laughed with him. I was finally getting somewhere. “I know, right? Hilarious!” I continued to laugh, but I quickly changed my tone. “So, where is Zharkov, Steve?”

  “I can tell you,” he said when the laughter had stopped, and he gained a moment of clarity. “It doesn’t matter, anyhow. He’s in his penthouse… in upper Boston, where the wealthy and well-to-do live and flourish while they look down their noses at the low-life ghetto fucks that they profit off of!” he scoffed.

  He seemed reflective as he considered his next words. “I would have a place there myself if I had any interest in Boston. From what I’ve heard that place is like a fortress. There are cameras and bodyguards. He has everything that he needs in there. He has all the luxuries that a man could ever want and the motherfucker never even has to leave his room! He’s got security up the ying-yang, and enough ammo to blow us all to smithereens! He is fucking untouchable. So, you see? He could hide out there forever. He’s too protected, too safe to fuck with so if you are thinking of going there… don’t.”

  “Address please.” I was serious, and he looked at me like he knew that I was putting on a show, but he respected the fact that I was willing to keep my intentions under wraps.

  Steve recited the address to where Zharkov was located.

  “The Belegamo Hotel. That’s where he lives, my friend. That bastard! Wait? How are you, or anyone, going to enter his penthouse with all of the bodyguards and—Friend! Where are you going?” He was talking, but I was done listening because my woman’s life was on the line.

  “I’ve got a date that I can’t be late for,” I called over my shoulder, already planning my next move on the drive back to Boston. I had to move in on the Russians and I had to do it quickly.

  I swaggered to the door—still keeping my cover and playing it cool as I made my way down the hallway and finally outside the nightclub. I was standing outside when I stopped and turned my head, looking at the naked, bruised women who would be herded into the nightclub like animals. Then I heard the girl who I initially thought was Tess shrieking not just out of fear. I was sure that it was her. She was shrieking like she wanted to die so I knew that she was in pain. I refused to stand for it.

  I swallowed hard, touched my gun through my leather jacket, and contemplated the ramifications of my actions, or lack thereof.

  It would take hours to clear this place, save the women and get out of here alive, and it might end with me getting killed. Or getting caught by the police. And then what? Then Tess gets violated by Zharkov. Fuck, every second that I wasted she might be getting raped, or worse. I felt torn. Go save Tess or rescue these innocent women? What kind of man would I be if I left these women here to get abused and violated? But what kind of man would I be if I didn’t rescue the woman that I loved from getting raped?

  The screams went on, louder, and louder until I couldn’t stand them anymore.

  “I’m so sorry,” I croaked, throwing the door open and leaving the sound of her distress behind in the little corner of Hell that I would never visit again.

  Even when the screams were no longer in hearing distance, I heard them. I heard them in the hallway over the sound of my breathing. Heard them in the nightclub over the pulsating house music. Heard them in the car over the noise of the Mustang’s engine.

  The screams followed me from New York back to Boston, all the way to Zharkov’s penthouse.

  They would haunt me forever, but Tess was more important than my own guilt and shame.

  Tess is more important than everything.

  14

  I knew that if I drove into the upper-class, affluent part of Boston looking the way that I did, I would be arrested in a second. Maybe in my neighborhood, you could get away with walking around in blood-stained clothes, but in select areas, you would be locked up for distracting the well-to-do citizens who were on their way to golf, croquet or whatever these types of wealthy people did to pass the time.

  After leaving Vibe, I returned to the Wanderer’s Pillow and went to the public bathroom that sat as a unit next to the main building. This was an old, unused hut. The hinges of the door were coated with grime and when I pushed it open it squeaked loudly.

  Simon, the old homeless man, was asleep, so I had brought the suitcase with me. I dropped it under the sink and looked at myself in the mirror. The glass was smeared with God knows what but I could see myself partially. I had to admit that, I looked frightening like a madman but not enough for the bouncer and Steve from Vibe to thoroughly question me.

  I twisted the tap and water gushed out. The pipes screamed, the water came out dirty, but after a moment the dirty water swirled down the plughole and was replaced with clean water. It was time to transform myself from a ghoulish hitman into an indiscriminate person that would let me maneuver my way through the streets undetected.

  Thirty minutes later, when I finally emerged from the bathroom, I looked like a man who had worked a hard day digging pits and who was still covered in dirt. I was not entirely clean, but it was now difficult to tell if the dirt that still clung to me was blood or something else. My clothes were wet from where I had scrubbed them but they, too, were dirty rather than bloody. Fuck it, I thought. Time was ticking, and I couldn’t worry about my appearance.

  “Time to get to work,” I said, jogging to the Mustang.

  Sitting behind the wheel, I gave the old homeless man a salute. He was asleep near the trash bins, but for some reason, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him without saying goodbye.

  I turned the key and urged the Mustang to life. Soon, I was in traffic, driving back toward Boston and the scene of my many crimes. It was ironic that I could finally admit that I was also making my way back toward the woman that I would rather die for than turn over to Zharkov.

  I parked five blocks away from the Belegamo Hotel in an alley that was just wide enough to fit the car. When I opened the car door, it scratched against the wall. I squeezed through the gap and emerged from the Mustang. Pressing flat against the wall, I managed to shimmy past the car and make my way to the trunk.

  I didn’t like the idea of leaving my all of my money in the car, but I couldn’t exactly take it with me. I stood at the open trunk for a few minutes, debating with myself. In the end, I just slammed the trunk shut and locked it, the click of the lock the only reassurance that my money was safe. I was about to walk away when I opened the trunk again, unzipped the suitcase and took out a few one hundred dollar bills. Then I zipped up the suitcase, closed the trunk and locked it. The click was no more reassuring the second time around.

  It was completely out of character, but I discovered that I cared more about Tess right now than I did about the money. Tess called to me, a siren’s song from atop Zharkov’s penthouse, while the money just sat there, suddenly useless without Tess to spend it with me. It was crazy to think that I had killed multiple men to get my money back just to leave it unguarded in the trunk of a worthless car. I thought about all the uses that I had imagined for the money once upon a time. I had intended to buy an old mus
cle car and drive across the country, coast to coast, and stop in some small town somewhere along the way where no one knew me as The Animal. Maybe I would become a mechanic. But those ideas suddenly seemed pathetic when I thought about Tess. What use was all this money if I did not have her to enjoy it with me? It was like having fuel but nothing to put it in. Yes, Tess was the vehicle to a new life, a better life, and definitely a less bloody existence that would be infinitely more satisfying. But that was how things could be, not how they were now, and standing around here thinking about them wouldn’t make it happen.

  I walked from the alley and onto the streets. I was amazed by how normal everything seemed. You know that Zharkov is said to be a dangerous man, don’t you? You know that he has nicknames of his own. You know that he has killed as many men as you—maybe more. You know that it’s not going to be easy to get Tess back, I thought.

  “Argh,” I grunted to myself and crossed the road.

  I walked briskly for a mile until I came to the street with the lavish penthouse looming overhead. On the opposite side of the road, there was an alcove in the row of houses with a prominent doorway. My body was on high alert as I stepped backward into the shadows and watched. Whoever lived in this house might step out and confront me, but I couldn’t have cared less about that. What was a bit of loitering when you intended to commit murder and inflict mayhem on your intended victims?

  There were few cars parked on the street, but after a moment I saw the valet stood outside of the penthouse—a Mexican man with a mustache and short brown hair. A silver Mercedes-Benz approached a businessman and the man leaped forward, took his hat off and held it in his hand.

  The businessman who stepped from the car was the epitome of everything that I despised in a man. He was the kind of man who liked to act tough— “Tell Matthews that I’ll have his head if he doesn’t get that report to me by five!”—but when you stood toe-to-toe with him, he starts pissing himself something fierce and begging for mercy. He had a pot belly which bulged from his expensive-looking shirt. His suit pants had a clear, distinct crease down the legs, which made me wonder how long his maid had taken to make them perfect. He was balding on top, hair hugging the sides of his head. He looked about fifty. The woman who stepped from the Mercedes-Benz couldn’t have been older than twenty and looked like a blonde bimbo who had had a lot of plastic surgery.

  I watched as the man made some joke and the blonde bimbo threw her head back and cackled like it was the funniest thing that she’d ever heard. Then valet took the man’s keys, climbed into the Mercedes-Benz, and drove down the road and into the car parking lot.

  Outside of the main entrance stood two bodyguards, one wearing a black baseball cap and the other with his hair slicked back with a bucket of hair gel. Both were brick shithouses, grotesquely muscular. Meatheads. They reminded me of Gunner, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they took steroids.

  The penthouse may have been a fortress if you were an amateur, but I been in this business long enough to know a few tricks when it came to buildings like this one. I had worked on enough marks in hotels to know what I had to do. I knew the invisible ways in. I emerged from my alcove and walked down the street until I was level with the car parked on the opposite side of the road.

  I scanned the area for anybody following me, always being on guard. However, I didn’t see anyone who was trailing me, looking at me through the house windows or glancing at me through car windshields. I didn’t see or hear Russians or their accents, and I didn’t have that instinctive feeling that came over me before I was attacked.

  Down the street, on the outskirts of this rich area, a man stood on an upturned metal crate, and a place card hung around his neck that read, God Will Cut You Down. His hair was long, and he wore sandals that were crumbling to pieces on his feet. “And He said that righteousness and justice will be given to the poor!” he shouted to anyone who would listen.

  I tuned out his religious ramblings—odd to see him in an area like this—and walked across the street. The car parking lot had big double doors, but I had moved fast, and they were half-closed when I reached them. They slid down toward the concrete, chugging as the mechanism worked, and I darted forward, crouched, and jumped through them and into the car parking lot.

  The only weapons that I had on me were my two pistols, tucked inside my jean’s waistband and pressing into my back. But if I had to, I would’ve gone in there with a pencil and killed every damn one of them. Even now, I knew, Tess was being tortured. Phantoms of her begging, pleading face swam into my mind. I couldn’t shake them. One moment I was watching, listening, and observing the area, and the next minute Tess was visible in my mind, begging me to save her.

  The car parking lot was a treasure trove for thieves. I walked past Bugatti’s and Ferrari’s, all gleaming in the white florescent lights like they were on display at a luxury car dealership. I walked past these status symbols until I ran into the valet. The man was rolling a cigarette as he walked, the paper crinkling between his fingertips. He was just licking the sticky part of the paper when he spotted me. Startled, he dropped the paper, the filter spinning to the floor, the tobacco scattering like leaves in the breeze, and the paper fluttering down to the ground like a feather would float down to the earth.

  “Woah! You scared me, man!” the valet shouted, and then said something quickly in Spanish. “Who are you?” he demanded, looking woefully down at his tobacco.

  “A friend,” I said, slowly approaching the man.

  “A friend?” he laughed. “There are no friends here! You have to leave!”

  “Calm down, man,” I continued walking until I was inches from him. The scent of dry tobacco leaves exuded emanated from the cigarette, seeping into the air around him. I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of the hundred dollar bills.

  The valet’s eyes lit up. He looked down at the money like a starving man would look at a fresh, juicy steak. His body had been tensed, as though ready to fight or run, but it relaxed at the sight of the money. I knew the feeling. Once, I had been piss-poor, and my eyes had lit up like Christmas lights when I saw my first one-hundred-dollar bill when I was a teenager, fresh from completing my first assignment. I knew that hunger, and I knew that workers like the valet cared a hell of a lot more for cold hard cash than praise from some stuck-up assholes whose cars that they parked.

  “What do you want me to do for that?” he said, his voice softer, the edges duller.

  “I want to get into the building,” I replied. “I believe you employees have a special entrance, right? One that leads into the building just for you because these rich bastards can’t stand the sight of you.”

  “Employee entrance?” he asked after a moment.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “I show you the employee’s entrance, and in return, you give me one-hundred-dollars?”

  I nodded again. “Yeah, man. It’s as easy as that.”

  “Okay,” he sighed. “Okay, but quick. Quick!”

  The valet turned and paced toward the corner of the parking lot. I followed, and in half a minute we were standing outside of a door which read Belegamo Hotel: Employees Only. Next to the door there was a small card scanner, a red light glowing.

  “This the entrance,” he said. “Money and then you go. Then you leave me. This is not a hotel for people like… you.”

  I smirked and held out the bill. The valet snatched it quickly, folded it, and thrust it into his shirt pocket. He tapped his shirt pocket, nodding at the sound of his shirt against his newly acquired one-hundred-dollar bill.

  Then he reached into his other pocket and took out a small keycard. He held it to the card scanner, it beeped, the light turned green, and the door gave a thunk as it opened.

  “There you go!” he snapped, and then turned and jogged away.

  “Nice doing business with you,” I said, gripping the handle, turning it, and opening the door.

  It opened onto a long hallway with doors on both sides. The floor wa
s hardwood, but it was covered with dirty footprints and apparently had not been cleaned in a long time; I fit right in. The first door that I walked past read Belegamo Hotel: Employee Lounge. I held my ear to it, but no sound came out. The other door was unmarked. When I opened it, I saw that it was a storage room. There was a mop and a bucket on its side, shelves of screws, bolts, nuts, mop heads and dirty rags sitting in the room. I shut it and continued down the hallway.

  After two minutes I reached the end of the hallway. It branched off to the right, which led to the main part of the hotel—I could hear glasses clinking, women giggling and men guffawing—but directly in front of me there was an elevator. This wasn’t the grand elevator that the residents used; it was the kind of elevator that usually sat in rundown apartment buildings. The gap where the electric doors met were filth-encrusted, and the numbers for the buttons were worn. But even so, I read Top Floor—Penthouse.

  Zharkov.

  In my mind, I saw a female server pushing a tray overflowing with champagne, caviar, and lobster into this elevator and then into the penthouse suite where Zharkov was located. Then my mind ran on and on down this dangerous path, and I saw her push the tray into Zharkov’s bedroom, ignoring the naked, crying woman on the bed, and laying out the champagne. Maybe the server would cast a look back, and think about helping the desperate woman, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t her fight, and she couldn’t afford to get involved.

  It was my fight because Tess was my woman and I would be vicious in my pursuit of her. I always came for what was mine. Boss had learned that the hard way and Zharkov would too.

  I adjusted my leather jacket, cracked my neck from side to side, cracked my knuckles and rolled my shoulders, preparing my body for what was about to happen.

  “Two massacres in one day,” I muttered under my breath. “But a man’s got to go to work.”

  I pressed the Top Floor button inside of the elevator and waited.