Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Natasha Tanner

  Besides, I'd never met a woman who made me want to stay around.

  But I liked the idea of having her home, waiting for me. Even if she might attack me…

  The image of her on me—in bed—springs to mind.

  Especially if she might attack.

  I put her out of my mind as I walk in the door, though. If I'm going to keep her safe and see her through whatever shit Solonik might throw at us over the next few months, I'll need a laser-focus at work. I'll need to be calm, cool, collected.

  Then I walk into the bar and see Grigor-fucking-Markov drinking my vodka.

  My crew is already there. Good. That's what I pay them for. Chase, Declan and five other guys are sitting at a table near the back. They're all spread out so that each of them can keep their back to a wall, but with their workhorse bodies and widely spread legs, they end up basically sitting in a giant fucking line behind two tables. They look ridiculous but that's how I sit, too; I always keep my back against the wall and my eyes trained toward the door. Toward potential threats.

  And it looks like there are three of those, drinking at the bar.

  "Petrokov, you finally made it." Grigor Markov stands up, still holding a glass of my vodka in his meaty fist. "Guess you enjoyed your bitch after all, eh?"

  His two goons laugh and nod.

  "Speaking of bitches, give my best to your mother," I mutter in Russian. It's childish, but at least I didn't cold-cock the asshole, which is what I feel like doing whenever I see him.

  Chase, my right-hand man and one of only two people I trust completely in the crew, ambles over. The motherfucker's from the south, and he always seems more relaxed than the rest of us. If you just met him, you'd think he would amble through a gunfight. But I'd seen him, in Brooklyn parking garages and back alleys overseas. When the heat is on, there's no one I'd rather have beside me.

  "Did you really just make a yo-momma joke?" Chase grins.

  I shrug. "It was that or shoot him."

  Chase nods. "Wise choice. And how's your lovely bride?"

  "Locked in my apartment."

  "Not so wise. You better sleep with one eye open tonight, man." Chase hands me a shot glass. He knows I don't drink, but I like to keep up pretenses around Solonik and his vodka-chugging crew. It always helps if your enemies think they know your weaknesses. I grab the shot glass and sip the water inside, then motion toward Markov.

  "How long have those assholes been here?"

  "About an hour," Declan says, joining our small circle. Declan's the other man I have complete faith in. He's Irish and—as fucked-up as it is—that's about all I know about him. Besides the fact that I saved his life and he's been loyal ever since. He's a sharp shooter, he liked steel-toed boots, and I've seen him beat five men down with his bare hands.

  That, and he's got an Irish accent that basically removes women's panties all on its own.

  But other than that, he doesn't talk about his past. Which is fine with me. We're all running from something here. Or, as I like to think about it, running toward a better fucking future.

  "They say they want to plan out some shipments with you," Chase says. "In private. You want me to join the party?"

  I've known Declan for about five years, but Chase even longer. We'd come up the ranks together, back when everyone in the neighborhood—including my father—worked for Old Man Dimitri. I never thought I'd actually say this about that psychopath, but I miss the old bastard.

  At least he was reliable. He lived by the old rules. Unfortunately, Solonik doesn't. He came in and killed Dimitri and half of his crew. Dimitri was a psychopath but you know what to expect with him.

  Solonik is terrifying because he changes his mind at a moment's notice. The only thing more dangerous than his incredible thirst for money, power, and blood is his manic personality. I hadn't been there, but I'd heard how he'd beaten an eighteen-year-old recruit almost to death, and then literally forgotten why he was mad at the kid in the first place. He'd held the boy's bleeding head on his lap and sung old Russian folk tunes to him until the crew's doctor had arrived.

  And that's about the nicest thing I can think to say about him.

  He's fucking choknutyi. Crazy.

  His insanity helped him overthrow an older, weaker pakhan. But it was also Solonik's greatest weakness. And someday I'd exploit the hell out of it.

  "It's okay." I place a hand on Chase's shoulder. "I'll take 'em down to the basement office. You really think they'd try anything with all of you up here?"

  Declan eyes Markov and his men, who are rapidly getting drunk on my liquor. Markov's an unimaginative soldier, mostly content to do what Solonik says—however bloody it is—as long as he gets to relax at night with a drink, some Coke, and a whore.

  And the word on the street is, he leaves the women bloody, too.

  But ever since I "stole" Kat from him, he's been out to get me.

  And while I'm more wary of crazy than stupid…sometimes stupid acts crazy.

  "They're idiots. Who knows what they'll do," I say, throwing back the rest of the water. "But I can take them."

  Chase flashes me a grin. "You could kick all their asses without breaking a sweat. But if they're stupid enough to have a gun—"

  I shake my head. I'm a made man. If Markov or one of his cronies tried to kill me, they would be signing their own death warrant.

  "Hopefully they're not that stupid," I say.

  Chase sighs. "I was hoping, for once, we could just get fucking drunk. But no, it's work, work, work. All the fucking time. C'mon. I'll play consigliere and drag their drunk asses downstairs for you, godfather."

  I give him the finger and make my way down to Kat's father's former office. It's in the bar's basement, down a dank stairway, past the outdated kitchens, and it's dark, dusty, and a fucking disaster. Still, I sit behind his desk and put my feet up on his piles of paperwork like I'm proud as shit to be here. I can hear Chase leading Markov downstairs.

  After Solonik took over, Chase had gone his own way and become an independent, hired gun. He'd never been a "made" man and wasn't cut out for a lifelong commitment, as he liked to say—not to women, or work.

  I still worked for Solonik, as far as the psycho knew—I'd been recruited into the gang while my father was alive. When Solonik came on the scene, he was ready to kill dear ol' dad, and I was ready to cut and run.

  But Solonik had made me an offer: stay five years, and I'll let your Dad live. I'd agreed, and my motherfucking father had the gall to die one year into my indentured servitude. I'd started taking on side jobs. Quick hits, secret assassinations. What Solonik didn't know wouldn't hurt him (though I wish to fuck it would), and each time I worked freelance, I made a fat addition to my off-shore bank accounts.

  I would have left New York for good, but…I needed to keep an eye on my Kat. I didn't contact her. I let her be, though I had guys watching over her. My mistake was not watching over her fucking father.

  But, she never needed to know any of that.

  A small twinge hits me my chest. Is it guilt? Worry? I try to imagine her face if she ever found out that I'd never left. That I'd been only a few miles away from her, all this time.

  A few miles on the map, but our lifestyles had been a million miles away from each other.

  Until they crashed together.

  I'm smart enough and get shit done efficiently and quietly. Good enough that Solonik keeps me around and doesn't want to piss me off. But I don't kiss ass enough to make him trust me.

  And, he shouldn't.

  Especially now. I'm still amazed he was open to me maneuvering him from giving Markov Kat as a fuck-toy. But that's what greed will do to you—I'd convinced I wanted more stability. I was getting older, my eyesight was going (yeah right). And that if we wanted to use O'Malley's to launder money, it would look a lot more legit if I married the owner and took over, versus a bunch of Russian names suddenly appearing come tax time.

  After all, I'd reminded Viktor, how had the U.S. governmen
t finally taken down Al Capone?

  Not for murder. Not gambling, exhortation, or any other shady shit.

  For taxes.

  Nothing certain except death and taxes in this world.

  My mind flashes to Kat. She was a bright spot in an otherwise flat, gray world.

  There's a knock on the door, and Chase opens it, rolling his eyes.

  "Hey boss, Markov and his boys are here."

  I don't stand.

  "What's up, Markov."

  Markov struts in, chest puffed out and his beady brown eyes drunk and itching for a fight. "Shitty place you got here, Petrokov." He goes over to the only seating in the room besides the desk, an old leather couch that has seen better days. One of his henchman goes to sit next to him, but Markov gives him a look and the two bodyguards stand awkwardly next to the sofa.

  "Not as pretty as your brothels," I nod. Nor as soul-killing. If I were in charge, this family would not be selling women. It fucking disgusts me.

  But you're not in charge, I remind myself. And you don't want to be. You want to get the hell out of here one day. Soon. Now that you have Kat, there's nothing else holding you here.

  Markov grins and preens. "Fuck yeah. You should see some of the new girls we just got in. Real…young." He leers at me. He knows I hate his side of the business.

  "How young?" I say. If the fuckers are actually selling girls…

  "Don't worry, don't worry, man." Markov leans back, legs spread, arms spread across the back of the couch. "They're all eighteen, at least." He gives a look to his men, who follow his lead and laugh like a bunch of Hollywood-movie cartoon villains.

  "I'd invite you down to see them," Markov continues. "But maybe you'll be too busy with your new little bride. What a sweet little piece." He grins again, like he knows he's getting under my skin.

  "I like my bride," I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk and staring Markov down, "because she got me this bar. And now we're going to make some fucking money."

  "She gonna keep working here?"

  A tendril of unease whips down my spine. That's a strange, calculating question from this asshole.

  "She ain't gonna sit on my couch all day eating bonbons. Now what did you come here to talk about?"

  Markov smiles that crazy, shit-eating grin one more time. Then he reaches in his pocket—my body freezes for a second, ready for the gun, ready to fight—but all he does is pull out a piece of paper.

  "Viktor's got a big shipment coming in next week." He gets up, tosses the notes on the desk. "He doesn't trust the seller. Wants you and your rifle up high, keeping a watch while everything goes down."

  I frown. "I married the devochka so I get this bar. So I get out of the field," I lie. I'd even let Viktor suspect that I was drinking too much, that my hands were getting shaky, my aim sloppy.

  Markov grins. "Yeah, he mentioned you weren't what you once were, old man."

  I scoff. I'm twenty-nine. Then again, with the life expectancy in this business, that made me at least middle-aged.

  "But he said you need to be there. Date and time on the paper."

  I feign subservience. "Sure, I'll be there. Whatever Viktor wants. I'll bring some of my men." The words are like rough stones in my mouth.

  I hate the drugs, not only for the fucking hassle on getting them from out-of-state or out of the country, but because it's a short-end game. We should be diversifying into construction and waste management—I don't know why I even care. I just have to play along with Viktor's games until I can stash Kat's father safely somewhere, far the fuck away.

  Then Kat and I can get the hell out of this town.

  And finally start our happily ever after.

  Markov grins and stands up. I can tell he feels like the big shot now. He can feel however he wants to feel, as long as he gets the fuck out my face.

  Acting subservient to him takes more acting skills than I have.

  "Solonik said don't bring your boys," Markov says. "Just the great, fearless Gray Petrokov should be enough—no?"

  I watch him walk out. Another five or so hours, a few deliveries of cash to sneak on to the books, and I can go home to my Kat.

  I shouldn't be thinking of her now. But I can't stop.

  13

  Kat

  I wake up the next morning and the ceiling is too white. Where are the muddy watermarks? Where are the hairline cracks that radiate out like spider webs from the corners?

  "What the—" I gasp, sitting straight up in bed.

  Wait. The bed is too soft.

  And too big.

  And then it all comes rushing back: oh sweet Lord. I'm married to Grayson.

  And he's kind of an asshole.

  And kind of wonderful.

  And totally too hot for his own good. Or for my own good, at least.

  And we kissed. In my apartment. And now I'm guessing I'm in his apartment.

  Wait, mother-fucker locked me in last night!

  And…where the hell is he?

  I'm in a large, sun-drenched room high above the city. Across from me, huge windows cover more than half the wall. They look out over a sea of high rises, the sky a watercolor blue above it all.

  "I don't think we're in Brooklyn anymore, Toto," I whisper to myself.

  The bed is huge; it feels even larger than a king-sized bed. Then again, Gray is larger than any other man I've ever met. It wouldn't surprise me if he had a bed custom-built for his size.

  But, why am I in his bed? I specifically remember—after beating on his front door, cursing his name, and finding a bottle of vodka in the freezer—passing out in the guest room.

  Passing out after many, many shots of vodka.

  It seemed the appropriate reaction to a shotgun Russian-mob wedding.

  "Gray?" I call out. My voice sounds small in the large room, and I glance out the open doorway to my left. "Gray?" I try again, a little louder.

  Nothing but silence.

  I flop back onto my back. The bed is so comfortable. And my life is such a disaster. And I'm so hungover.

  Despite my aching head, I have the clear memory of someone picking me up last night, cradling me, telling me to go back to sleep; the soft, safe memory comes back like a hug. Like Gray's arms around me. Shit, did he carry me into his bed last night?

  And why am I wearing my old, white t-shirt and panties…and only my old, white t-shirt and panties. What the hell? And there's no sign of my bra, jeans, or shoes. I spot my purse on the side table, but other than that…

  I'm not so concerned about where my crappy clothes are, but...did Gray undress me? Or did I drunkenly fling off all my clothes?

  And which option did I wish had happened?

  I fall back on the bed, letting my fingers run over the sheets. How high a thread count must these be, to feel so soft and smooth and cool against my skin? Back when we were teens, Gray and I had literally scrounged around in dumpsters behind supermarkets, looking for food when our fathers forgot to buy any.

  And look at him now. I guess working for the Russians has been incredibly profitable.

  I can't remember the last time I was able to just lay in bed. It seems that I've been working at the bar nonstop since I was a child. I should get up. I should make a plan. I should go to the bank, empty my savings, stock up on…I don't know…running shoes.

  I close my eyes, just for a minute. I can't help it and I can't deny it: I feel so safe here.

  But I'm not. I have to remind myself. I'm married to a mobster. Probably a killer. And he works for murderers, thieves, who knows who else.

  What do they say about you choose your bed, then you have to lay in it?

  I should get the fuck up, right now. But it's such a comfortable bed…

  Suddenly, the sounds of Whitney Houston fill the room. I have to laugh, even though it hurts my aching head. My best friend Elle steals my phone every time I see her and programs a new song as her ringtone.

  Or in this case, an old song. I grab my purse and root throug
h it to find my cell. Whitney almost makes it to the chorus of I'm Every Woman before I finally find the damn thing.

  "Elle?" I say.

  "Where the hell are you?!" Elle shrieks on the other end of the line. "I went to your apartment this morning."

  "Oh, hello. Good morning, it's nice to hear from you, too." I scoot off the bed and wander over to the bay of windows across from the bed.

  "Don't play innocent with me," Elle whispers. I hear kids shouting in the background. "Kat, did you get married yesterday?!"

  "Elle, are you in class?"

  "Duh. It's 10 a.m. on a Friday. Where else would I be?"

  "Right, but…aren't you the teacher?"

  Elle cackles on the other end of the line. "Girl, the kids can wait. There's only one week of school left before summer break; none of them are paying any attention to me. So let's get back to did you get flippin' married yesterday!?"

  "What did you hear?"

  "Um, I'm telling you: I heard you got married. Last night. Oh crap—Lorelei, get off the desk. No. No. No standing on the desk, kids."

  "Who told you that?"

  "What?" Elle says. "Orion, do not put crayons in your nose. Seriously. Don't. No, don't even smell them." Her voice drops as she puts her attention back on me. "Kat, are you going to answer the question or not?! And, why wasn't I your maid of honor?"

  "Oh Elle," I whisper, suddenly conscious that even though Gray isn't in the room, I have no idea if he's home or who the hell is around me. "I think this conversation is going to take more than five minutes. And believe me, you would not have wanted to be my maid of honor. No one would've wanted to be at this wedding, least of all me."

  "Shit, it's true, then."

  "How did you find out?" I can't believe anyone would know anything, yet. It doesn't even feel real to me. "I mean, this all literally happened when my father tricked me into going down to the Russian church on Park, and then locked me in the basement."

  "Shut the front door," Elle says on an exhale. "Derek from your bar called me. He said your father was AWOL, you were married to some huge Russian with tattoos and fists the size of concrete blocks."