Owned by the Hitman: A Mafia Romance

by Abbott, Alexis

  The guy I slept with a few months ago.

  “You may not recall me,” he says, sidestepping Ashton and extending a hand to me.

  I instinctively stand up straighter and move ever so slightly in front of Ashton as though to shield her somewhat. With some trepidation, I take his hand and give it a quick shake.

  “I do,” I reply swiftly. My heart races as I take in his suit, his accent that I couldn’t properly identify before, his timing — he was a mafia guy. I should have known it all along. This is Brighton Beach, after all.

  “Go to the storage room,” I murmur to Ashton, without breaking eye contact with the Russian guy. As she moves to leave, he gives us both a vaguely sympathetic expression.

  “I told you that won’t be necessary. I am here of my own accord, and I tend to handle matters more, ah, delicately than some of my associates. There is no reason to hide,” he explains. The look in his eyes seems genuine, and I give Ashton’s hand a squeeze and nod for her to go.

  She mumbles a fearful “okay” and slips out the door, shutting it behind her.

  Closing me in with him.

  He stands watching me for what feels like a very long minute, his hands pushed into his pockets and his expression unreadable. Despite his disclaimer, I am still completely on edge. I refuse to believe that it’s possible for mafia guys to be “delicate.” From all that I’ve seen, they don’t have much of a particular proclivity for handling issues using anything but muscles and intimidation. And to be sure, this guy has no shortage of both. Standing in front of me, I note both his muscles, taut beneath his finely-tailored suit, and his piercing, dark blue gaze.

  “Have a seat, if you like,” he finally says, breaking the tension only slightly.

  “Since this is my establishment and you are a guest, sir, I feel it’s only appropriate if I offer a chair to you first,” I reply sharply, before I can stop myself and edit my words. There goes my attitude. It’s a reflex, and one that has gotten me in trouble many times before.

  He shuffles his feet and fixes me with a hawk-like stare and I fold my arms over my chest in silent response. It’s some kind of bravado stand-off. A few tense seconds pass and then, to my surprise, he steps past me to sit down on the couch. He crosses a leg wide over his lap and stretches both arms over the back of the couch, taking up as much room as possible. It’s a compromise — he sits down first, but he takes the best seat.

  Still, I feel a little smug as I sit in one of the silky gold-embroidered chairs, crossing my legs and setting my hands in my lap before fixing him with an expectant look.

  “Today you owe a debt,” he begins.

  “And you’ve come to collect it,” I respond quietly.

  “Not quite,” he answers, swiping a hand quickly over his mouth. “I know there is nothing for me to collect.”

  Heat rises in my cheeks. I’m caught. “Not at the present moment, no. But hopefully soon I can get the money—”

  “There is another option,” he interrupts. I furrow my brows at him and cross my arms over my chest as though it could slow my heart rate.

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  I can tell he wants to smile, and I’m not sure whether to be relieved or frightened by it. Then he leans toward me and opens those full lips to say, “Be mine.”

  I sit for a moment in dumbfounded silence. Then I stammer, “Wh-what?”

  “For a year, I will own you.”

  Chapter 6 – Katy

  Fury gathers like storm clouds in my head. I want to stand up and scream at him in indignation, tell him to go to hell. But this time, something stops me from speaking my mind. It’s a sensation of resolve. It’s the feeling of being backed against a wall. What can I do but listen to the parameters of his offer? It’s not like I have any better alternatives off the top of my head.

  “What do you mean?” I ask gravely.

  He steeples his fingers and I am momentarily distracted by his big, strong hands. I wonder what kinds of things those hands have done, and in the back of my mind I can’t help but remember what they felt like on my skin…

  “You will be my woman for a year, servant to my whims and desires. I will not hurt you, unless you want me to,” he adds. There’s that smile again, not on his lips, but lurking in his deep blue eyes.

  “In what capacity will I ‘serve’ you?” I ask, trying to temper my sardonic tone.

  “Sexually,” he replies simply, totally unabashed. I wonder if he’s made this kind of offer before. How often does this happen? Or am I the only girl currently being offered the ultimatum of “pay up now or become an indentured sex servant?” Perhaps he’s only mocking me.

  “Are you serious?” I prompt.

  “Absolutely.”

  “How can I know that those thugs aren’t just going to show up later tonight and beat the hell out of me? How can I know for sure that you’re not just conning me?” I ramble all at once.

  He holds up a hand to silence me. “I am a man of my word.”

  “And you have the power to call them off?”

  At that, the smile finally appears, lending some surprising warmth to his face.

  “I have that power, yes.”

  “And when I met you before — was that just part of the job? Staking me out, doing some reconnaissance before moving in for the kill?” I continue. His smile disappears as swiftly as it came, leaving him stony-faced.

  “I do not kill,” he replies, his voice deep and serious, but there's something restrained in it.

  Something shifts in the air and suddenly I feel goosebumps on my arms. I had only meant it as a turn of phrase, not literally. I open my mouth to say something — I don’t know what — but he quickly stands up to leave.

  “I will give you some time to consider my offer,” he says with an air of finality.

  As he opens the door, I jump up and ask him, “Wait, I don’t even know your name.”

  He turns and looks at me hard. “Ivan.”

  “I-I’m Katy,” I respond, as if he doesn’t know.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he says, and with that he disappears through the VIP door.

  I slump down onto the couch and sit there in stunned silence for several minutes, my brain running in a thousand directions at once. Then, finally, I walk out of the lounge and up to the bar, where Natalie is standing looking rather pale.

  “What the hell was that about?” she asks in a fervent whisper. “You okay, short-stop?”

  I tap the bar with my nails and she quickly pours me a shot of bourbon, which I toss back immediately. Licking my lips, I reply quietly, “I don’t fucking know. I’ll get back to you on that. Uh, could you do me a massive favor, Nat?”

  “Er, yeah. What?”

  I slide my purse strap over my shoulder and turn to leave. “Watch the club tonight, huh? I-I think I need a night off. Sorry.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. You got it, boss.”

  Charles and Ashton both give me slightly panicked looks as I pass by, and I can’t offer more than a simple, sheepish half-smile in response. But they’ll be alright. My crew is shockingly self-sufficient, and they can handle themselves for a night.

  Me, on the other hand…

  Neglecting my umbrella, I walk to my car in the rain, hardly even cognizant of the water soaking my clothes and hair. I drive home in silence, even more confused now than I was when I left this morning.

  *****

  I feel like I’m pushing my way through a dream as I make my way up the stairs to my apartment, turn the key to my door, and enter the place I’ve called home for the past few months.

  My eyes pan the living room as I walk through it, but it’s like my eyes are seeing everything through a fine mist, like the world is just a little bit out of focus.

  Once again, that same question is haunting my every thought: why is this happening to me?

  I slip my shoes off on the way in, and I set my purse down somewhere, but none of it really registers in my mind.

  Why can’t I just hav
e a normal life? Why couldn’t my dad’s failing club have passed to me with no strings attached? I could have sold it to the business douches at the club for a tidy profit and move upstate, maybe finish college and settle down for a quiet life at a desk job somewhere.

  That wasn’t going to be my life, though.

  Maybe I ripped a bunch of people off in a past life, I decide with a laugh as I make my way around the living room, staring at all the crap Natalie and I had dragged out last night.

  What even is some of this junk? Looking around at all the possessions I had to sell, a pointedly empty feeling hits me from the pit of my stomach.

  I hate having to deal with the Amber Room, but at the end of the day, it’s the only asset I’ve got.

  There are some old designer clothes strewn about in boxes, some paintings that served no better purpose than maybe a conversation starter for guests, and some old jewelry I only ever wear for work in the first place.

  My job is my life.

  The anger that’s been burning low in the back of my mind flares up again, and I give one of the boxes of crap a sharp kick.

  I don’t even know what to be angry at, really. Should I hate myself for letting myself get into this position? At my dad for dumping this on me? At Ivan for suggesting that I...that he…

  I can’t ball my fists any tighter as I stomp into my room and slip out of my work clothes, just wanting nothing more than to be comfortable right now.

  My bedroom is one of the few safe places I have left.

  I flop back onto the soft mattress, spreading my tired bare limbs out on the comfortable sheets I worked so hard to keep clean.

  “You will be my woman for a year, a servant to my whims and desires,” I repeat Ivan’s words at the ceiling, mockingly exaggerating his accent and making a face.

  Who the hell does he think he is?

  The voice in the back of my mind reminds me that he might be the only thing standing between me and getting pimped out by Oskar and his gang of goblins.

  The back of my mind is an asshole.

  I turn over and bury my face in my pillows, wishing I could make all this tension just...go away, if only for a little while.

  But as I’m lying there on my stomach with the thought of Ivan hovering in my mind, my imagination can’t help but drift back to that first night we spent together over three months ago.

  After seeing what kind of body the guy has, not even that suit he was wearing today could keep me from remembering what’s under it. Those rippling muscles, the look of absolute assuredness in his eyes that he would have total control of the bedroom for the next hour. I remember running my hands over those tattoos of his before he pressed that rock-hard body against me.

  Snapping to my senses, I stop that train of thought in its tracks when I feel a familiar, warm tingling in my body, and I catch myself even as I’m starting to grind my hips into the bed. Shame rises to my cheeks.

  This is the guy who just asked to own me for a year. To deprive me of my freedom to act outside his will, outside his grasp for twelve whole months.

  ...but how bad would that have sounded during the night we spent together?

  After all, wasn’t that half the fun of it, at the time? I’d shirked all responsibility, left all the stress and all the worry over the club behind me as I set foot into his bedroom. Now that I remember glimpses of it, it was a nice place, too. A lot nicer than what I have, that’s for sure.

  That’s what you get from mob money, I guess.

  That thought makes me angry. This guy is the mafia. He’s a monster. A criminal.

  But he isn’t as bad as the rest of them, now, is he?

  I turn over on the bed and stare angrily at the ceiling again, furious at the sensations plaguing my body. There’s no way I’m going to let myself be the possession of some mobster who has access to anything he wants.

  So why am I so wet?

  My hand wanders its way down between my legs, and as my fingers brush my swollen lips through the fabric of the thin cloth covering them, I feel a comforting warmth through my body.

  I also hear a hard NO come from my better judgment. This is the man who could determine whether a bunch of thugs have their way with me.

  Absolutely not. No. Under no circumstances.

  All those thoughts do is make my heart race faster as I’m slipping my underwear off.

  A little whimper escapes me as I part my lips and gently start to massage my clit. There’s more tension bound up in me than I realize, just like the last time I was with him. With Ivan. How did I not even get his name during the whole time we spent together?

  My clit is reluctant to warm up to my touch, it’s been so long, but compulsion makes me keep massaging the sensitive skin as my legs move slowly up and down the sheets, relishing in the feel of the fabric against my inner thighs.

  My fingers are moving a little faster as I get wetter, and then the night I’d buried under all the stress of work starts to come back to me. How strong Ivan was, how I had wanted to wrap myself around him and never let go.

  He was just some gorgeous stranger, and I let him fuck me. I might not be able to imitate how his massive crown felt diving inside me, but my hips rocked up into my touch as I remember the way he felt grinding against me, holding me so lovingly even though it was a one-night stand.

  He used me, I think to myself as I feel my fingers wetten as they touch my desperate, needy cunt. My whole body has been wishing for that release again, I realize.

  The thought makes my heart flutter. The body I’ve been wanting to press up against me, to hold me tight and hold me up with an inescapable grip while he fucks me has been that of a mobster this whole time. A hardened criminal.

  I let out a soft moan, not sure where the transition from idly touching myself to torturing my clit happened, but now I’m squirming on the bed sheets, my fingers covered in my own wetness, and my heart is racing.

  He wants me. After all those months, he thought of me and wants me in his bed, in his hands, and around his cock again.

  Would it really feel so bad, a year under his ownership?

  Chapter 7 – Katy

  My muscles tense and my toes clench as my mouth is forced open by the overwhelming cresting of the orgasm that follows that scandalous thought, and in a liberating moment of ecstasy, I let out a long, breathy cry of release as I feel my whole body electrified by the thought of Ivan looming over me again.

  I keep moving my fingers and come again and again as my body writhes in a mixture of pleasure and shame at the thought of him, of his impossibly strong body and those dark blue eyes holding my gaze as long as he wanted.

  Finally, my clit is almost too sensitive to touch, and I withdraw my hand, clenching my legs together as my body shakes and I turn onto my side to curl up as the sensations subside.

  It’s a few moments before I can let my hand return to my pussy, slowly and gently nursing it through the orgasm’s subsiding.

  My eyes crack open, and I look down at the mess I’ve made of myself.

  Then my mouth starts to curl into a smile, and I bite my lip and turn my head into the pillows in disbelief at the silliness of the thoughts I just used to get myself off.

  “You’re a mess, Katy,” I half-giggle at myself, wallowing in the enormous feeling of relaxation that pins me to the bed, “a perverted mess.”

  A few minutes later, I’m in the shower, steam pouring over the top of the clear sliding doors as I lean against the cool walls, letting my hair get soaked. I might have gotten myself off, but I’m still slick between my lips. I can’t stop thinking about how great it would have felt to have joined Ivan in the shower that night.

  As I start to wash the worries and pleasure of the day off my body, I can’t help but wonder what actually might have been different now if I’d stayed the night with him. Would I have found out who he is? What he does? Would any of this debt issue have come up again?

  Would I have liked him?

  Hot water runs down my
body, and that thought lingers in my mind for a while. He seemed alright that night we spent together. I never would have known a thing was amiss if he hadn’t strolled into my club and announced that he’s a mobster, here to do mobster things at my mobster-owned club.

  I put my forehead against the wall, hugging myself while breathing the hot air around me. Maybe my body’s impulses aren’t entirely wrong about Ivan’s offer.

  I know I want this. I know myself well enough not to fool myself in that regard. But is this really the best thing for the club?

  It would totally free me of my debt. I’d never have to worry about the mob breathing down my neck ever again. I’d be able to use that spare $4,000 a month for anything. Savings, maybe a new expansion, raises for all the staff of course, a decent place to live. Just the thought of all that makes me almost giddy, almost ready to forget what I’d have to do for that kind of freedom.

  Almost.

  What if he doesn’t hold up his end of the bargain? What if he decides I’m not good enough after a few months and sticks me back to square one? What if he’s not even being honest in the first place and this is just some ploy to humiliate me?

  No. I can’t do this.

  I nod to myself, the useless gesture a silent resolution to myself. I don’t want anyone else dangling charity over my head. If I’m going to weather this storm, I’ll do it on my own or not at all.

  It isn’t worth the risk to put my life in the hands of some mobster who just wants a piece of meat to fuck for a year and toss aside. That’s how criminals work, after all. None of them can be trusted. They put Dad and me in this situation in the first place, and they’ll just put me right back in it when they’ve had their fun.

  I finish washing up and turn the water off, stepping out onto the tile of the bathroom and wrapping a towel around my body. I wipe some of the condensation off the mirror and stare at my reflection.

  I’m going to face whatever comes at me tomorrow, one way or the other.

  *****

  The sky is overcast yet again as I drive to work today. I’m wracking my brain for the proper words to say, unsure how exactly to explain to Ivan that I have to decline his offer. Not that it isn’t a tempting option, at least on some level I’m refusing to entertain at the moment, but my father’s influence is powerful over me. I know he would want me to say no. Of course. And any woman in her right mind would object to her being treated like a sex slave for a year, wouldn’t she? Seems pretty common-sense.