Never Have an Outlaw's Baby: Deadly Pistols MC Romance (Outlaw Love)

by Snow, Nicole

  When he was just a couple inches away, I threw my hand out and raked his face. He fell back, stunned. He exhaled painfully through clenched teeth, and I saw the neat red rows I'd left on one cheek, quickly covered by his searching fingers.

  “Bitch! I should throw you down and fuck your little ass for that.” I didn't move. My knees were like steel, running on fear and hate.

  “Go ahead and try,” I spat.

  He stood up, circling me at a distance, the same mischievous sparkle in his baby blues that I recognized in Anton. “You're a fighter. I like that. I respect it. You would've gotten off easy with me. I'm the more tender one, or so the ladies say. My brother's going to fuck you sooner or later, you know.”

  “Yeah? Not you?” It felt good to taunt him, dangerous as it was.

  He growled, shook his head, and widened the distance between us. It looked like he couldn't decide whether to make good on his crude threat or get the hell away from me. I swallowed hard, praying he'd finally leave me alone.

  “I like rough and hard to get like any red blooded man. But I'm not about to ruin Anton's little prize before he gets a crack at it. We're brothers, after all. What's his is his. I was just having my fun.”

  I stuck my tongue out. So risky to keep pressing him, but he was backing off. I couldn't resist. I'd officially had it up to here with these intrusions, all the sadistic extras that came with being Anton Ivankov's hostage.

  “Stay here like a naughty devotchka then. Anton always liked them beautiful and completely at his mercy.” I watched him fish a silky red handkerchief out of his pocket and press it to the scratch I'd left on his cheek, soaking up the blood. “You're very lucky he's got big plans for you, babe. If it was up to me and Daniel, you'd be dead. We can't see the sense in sparing any Ligiotti.”

  He pointed at the box and turned. Then he threw the door open and slammed it behind him, leaving me to collapse, grabbing my knees, listening to the lock click shut behind him.

  When I'd caught my breath, I crawled to the black box. It opened easily enough. There was something rectangular and electronic inside, a brand new tablet. Except it wasn't packaged like anything I'd ever seen before.

  I dragged it out of its container and found a little note taped to the back. The big, sharp script could only belong to Anton, a penmanship as imposing as the rest of him.

  You've got a lot of questions, and I'll be back to answer them soon. Until then, do your own research. Find out everything you can. Don't take my word for it. And don't you fucking think about calling for help – it's read only. Nothing gets past this house's encryption. – A. Ivankov

  I shrugged and complied. It wasn't like I had anything better to do, and how the hell could I help it when he'd dropped such a juicy invitation in front of me?

  I sat on the bed with the little device, wondering if the encryption was really as tight as he'd claimed.

  Yup. Email, apps, and all the chat sites I knew were off limits. The browser wouldn't let me move through the web fluidly. There seemed to be a list of bookmarks, and nothing else.

  The first page I pulled up was an old profile on a fetish site. The face belonged to Michael Wilkins, the investment banker killed in the attack. I recognized his smug face from the obituaries I'd read for my piece.

  I only browsed a few lines of his interests. It was enough.

  Not a fucking game...real pain...I like to leave permanent marks.

  Another page opened up a large PDF. It was an account statement from a dead city councilman with monstrous amounts marked gratuity for the Club Duce. The last transaction was just an hour or two before the bombing, about what you'd expect a multi-millionaire to tip for exceptional service.

  On and on the evidence ran.

  Sick profiles. Financials he'd gotten by some black magic. A carefully suppressed draft of a story that was never published in a major paper about one of the dead businessmen breaking his wife's jaw when she confronted him about his depraved affairs. The reporter's boss was on the dead man's payroll.

  Over and over, I saw GIOULIO LIGIOTTI in big letters whenever the owning party was named for Club Duce. Anton left it there, as if to shove it in my face, constant reminders saying, you see this shit, babe? You see who's responsible? Fucking look!

  Oh, I did. I saw it all.

  I took the longest, harshest look I could until my eyes wouldn't work anymore and my fingers went numb on the little device. Then I picked it up, stood on the bed, and hurled it through the opening in the curtain.

  The thing went flying towards the vanity and smashed with a clatter like fireworks. I collapsed, clawing at my face, sick to death and shaking.

  I was beyond fucked. Only, I didn't know who to blame. I didn't know whether I should hate my own dirty blood or the bastard who'd made me think my Uncle was the filthiest man on earth. Maybe both.

  The truth wasn't necessarily any clearer. There were a million ways he could've doctored everything on the screen.

  The man seized me, and he was holding me prisoner right now, after all. How far would he really go to get his way, to get me to help him destroy the only man who'd ever offered me his protective hand?

  I was still wondering when I crashed, exhausted, stuffing my face in the pillow to dry my hot tears.

  At some point, I must've fallen asleep. Next thing I heard was the door swinging open. I sat up in the darkness. Didn't need to make out the dark silhouette near the entrance to know who it was.

  A piece of busted plastic from the tablet crunched under one of his shoes. He stopped, ground his foot into the tile, and whistled.

  I glared as he looked at me through the dimness, folding his arms. “Fucking shit, babe. I knew you'd get upset when I confronted you with what was on that thing...never knew you were the smashing type.”

  “I wish I'd saved it for later. I'd have held it and waited until you came in.”

  God, it would've felt so fucking good to belt him in his stupid handsome face with that thing.

  A smile pulled at his lips. An instant later, he was on me like a wolf, pinning me to the bed with ease.

  “I'm gonna let you up, and you're gonna get dressed. We got shit to talk about. But not here. I'm not comfortable keeping you cooped up in this room forever.”

  Something about the icy, commanding tone in his voice tasted extra bitter. I narrowed my eyes, pouring heat through his dark blue gaze.

  “No.”

  One of his eyebrows twitched. “Don't fucking make me stuff you into a dress. I'll do it with my own bare hands if I have to. It's been a rough few days. That's why I'm gonna go easy on your sweet ass. Work with me. Don't make the rest of your week hell, babe.”

  “I don't care anymore. It's not like I have a choice. I never did.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” He growled.

  “I don't believe a word of what I saw on that tablet. Did you really think I'd buy it when I couldn't connect to the web on my own? How was I supposed to fact check anything?”

  “I was doing you a goddamned favor.” More thunder in his voice. “I laid it all out. You wouldn't have found shit anywhere that wasn't already in those documents.”

  His muscles tightened around me. His hands had slid behind my back. It took all my energy not to flinch, not to let the heat smoldering beneath my skin reach an inferno.

  Bastard! Even when I wanted to hate him, bite him, kick and scratch, being this close activated more primal instincts that weren't ruled by sane emotions.

  “I don't need anything from you. I'm done with this. Let me go or kill me.”

  He took a good, long look at me. His eyes were glowing like the devilishly powerful, sexy predator he was. He scared me, but the current running through my nerves was far more fearsome.

  If this was my fate, a prisoner to this insane attraction, I hoped he'd put me out of my misery.

  “Get. Dressed.” This time, his growl was barely human.

  It almost made me move. Almost. But I held my ground, plant
ed my hands on his chest, and pushed against him.

  Resistance. It taunted him, and he responded.

  In a flash, he flipped me over and ripped at my gown. I yelped when I heard the thin fabric tearing in his hands. Then he was pulling at me as one shredded strap fell across my shoulder, lifting me up into his arms.

  I thrashed and yelled, trying to fight him, but he held on. He pulled me over to the huge closet and pushed me inside. I caught myself against one of the large mirrors just as he kicked the door shut.

  He turned his back to me, rifling through the outfits overhead. I watched him stop on a sleek red cocktail dress. He spun, threw it at me, and I somehow caught it in my flailing arms.

  “Put that fucking thing on and come out when you're done.” The second my mouth popped open, he closed the two steps between us and pushed his hand over my lips. “Think real, real carefully, babe. If the next answer outta your sweet mouth isn't 'okay' or 'yes, sir,' then I'm gonna dress you up myself. Don't fucking make me, Sabrina. I'm gonna get a good, long view of you naked real soon, but I don't want it like this. I don't wanna ruin my surprise.”

  His hand tightened over my mouth, and then it was gone. I fell backwards, holding the dress out in front of me, shielding the bare shoulder he'd revealed by tearing at my gown. Any inch of me exposed to this bastard was too much, too vulnerable.

  “Go,” I said softly. “I'll do it.”

  He nodded, satisfied, and stepped out, closing the door behind him more gently than I expected.

  What else was there to do but listen? If he was really taking me outside this room, maybe there'd be another chance to calculate my flimsy odds of escape. Assuming he wasn't dragging me out into the thick woods I'd seen through the window to shoot me, of course.

  I didn't think so. He wouldn't be dressing me for that. By some sick miracle, he still needed me. Probably the only reason he put up with my crap.

  Not that I cared. I wasn't going to stop flinging it his way. If I couldn't get away from him, then I'd make his life as miserable as I could.

  The dress was weirdly calming against my skin. It was quality fabric, something familiar, the sort of thing I was used to wearing out on my girls' nights back in college.

  The lights were on in the bedroom when I stepped out. Anton was waiting.

  “Fucking shit,” he said, moving his eyes up my body, admiring me from head to toe. “Follow me.”

  We took a different direction in the hall, heading for what seemed like the house's west wing. He took a fork to a staircase leading up, banishing my hopes of an easy escape path on the ground. I kept my legs moving, up the long stairway with three different landings.

  A narrower floor waited up top. He opened the first door and pulled me in after him when I took the last step.

  It was another bedroom – but not quite like anything I'd seen before.

  All the luxurious trappings were there: a bed, fine stained dressers, a dark blue rug. The window and the walls were completely encased in glass like it was some kinda sun room or observatory.

  He motioned to a small silver telescope in the corner. “I like to come here to think and gaze at the stars. Not that we'll be doing much of that tonight. I picked this room because being under the night sky has a way of settling my brain the fuck down.”

  I looked up. He wasn't kidding.

  My jaw dropped. I'd spent so much time in Chicago with its light pollution that I wasn't used to a country sky. Stars, galaxies, and a fat harvest moon hung above us like bright ornaments, so breathtaking I forgot I was here as a prisoner, not a guest. The heady illusion lasted about five seconds.

  “Take a good long look,” he said. “It's fucking beautiful up here at night.”

  When my captivity came back, it was twice as bitter. I pursed my lips and looked at him. “You can't control how I think or feel. I'm smarter than you give me credit for.”

  “You really think I believe you're a fucking bimbo, babe?” Anton snorted. “I know a thing or two about the blood that's in your veins. Even if I believed you were a spoiled little bitch, totally ignorant about everything your family's done, no fucking way would I call you stupid or gullible. Your clan's always been cunning. Smart. Sophisticated in a way us Russian bastards aren't.”

  I rolled my eyes. Was this really supposed to be flattering?

  Big mistake. The instant the eye roll was over, Anton was on me, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me into him. I squirmed for a few molten seconds in his arms, and then settled, surrendering to the huge, hot, heavily tattooed chest hiding beneath his button shirt.

  “I showed you the shit on that tablet because I want to earn your trust the honest way. I can't force you to do shit if every part of you wants to sabotage me. I want you to want the same shit I do, babe. I want it pumping in your own heart because it's meant to, not because some other bastard's bullying you. I want you on my side. Right down to the second we shovel your asshole uncle into his grave.”

  That did it. The dreamy heat swirling through me broke apart in his icy eyes. I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, holding me so I couldn't.

  “I don't trust you, Anton. I don't trust anything here, anything you've said. I don't think I ever will.”

  “Sit down with me.” Without giving me a choice, he pulled me towards a little table with two chairs next to the starry sky.

  I sat and instantly gave him another glare. I hated what he was doing to me with every touch. I felt so empty without his fingers on my skin, and I didn't understand why, couldn't understand anything except that it was so wrong.

  “Tell me about the night your old man died.”

  I blinked in surprise. Another manipulation. Has to be. He wants me to talk about something upsetting so he can come swooping in like the big, bad hero.

  I promised myself I wouldn't crack. I wouldn't flinch about it either. I stiffened my heels on the floor and leaned forward.

  “What? You haven't read up on it yourself?”

  “Of course I have,” he snapped. “You see the kinda shit we Ivankovs dig into to confirm our own intel. It was all there on the fucking tablet. Documents and second hand stories never compare to the shit you see first hand. It can't capture what raw emotion can. It can't tell me what you saw with your own two eyes. Tell me what you remember.”

  Five years melted before my eyes. I took a deep breath, remembering that night, when I walked in on my dead father at our condo. It was worse than when mama died because at least I'd never seen her broken, crumpled up body on the street.

  No matter how many years passed, every time the memory came flooding back, it hurt.

  “He was slumped on the sofa. I'd been out late with a couple friends when I came home,” I said quietly. “Papa was a mess since my mother died, but it was getting really bad that winter. Uncle Gioulio came by the week before it happened. They were arguing so loud I heard it from my room upstairs. I think he slapped my father around, trying to knock some sense into him – anything he could do short of forcing him into rehab...”

  Anton's face tightened when I mentioned my uncle. “Go on.”

  “He was already cold when I rushed over and touched him. I knew he was dead the second my fingertips brushed his cold brow. Didn't want to believe it, of course. I was only seventeen. I don't care if I was basically a grown woman by that point. It's never easy becoming an orphan at any age.”

  Slow, thick heartbeats pulsed blood through my ears. Anton's eyes were darker, calmer, almost understanding. Both his parents were dead too.

  Great. I caught myself. The last thing I wanted was any understanding, any common link with this man, but there it was.

  He reached across the table and grasped my hand. Of course, my skin melted all over again, and I leaned back in the chair and sighed, letting him draw the sadness away with his touch.

  “You've gotta give me more. Was there anything coming out of his mouth? Did he vomit?”

  What the fuck? I jerked my hand away, wrinkling my
nose.

  “Why do you care? He ODed just like I told you. I'm not an expert on what happens to junkies when they...yeah, I think there was some foam. Lots of blood dried around his nostrils, his lips...a few splashes hit his white shirt and stained it red. It was awful. I got the hell away from him as soon as I could and called Uncle Gioulio. He was there right away. He helped me through the whole thing.”

  Ouch. No matter how hard I tried to keep a lid on the pain, it started overflowing. I broke the death gaze with Anton and looked out the window, staring over the high trees into the stars.

  “Blood?” He paused, waiting for me. “You'd better look at me right now, babe, because you just confirmed it's as fucked up as I thought.”

  I did, right as he reached for my hand. This time, there was no pulling away. His grip was so tight. Anton stood and circled his way over, scooping me up into his arms as I fought tears.

  “What're you talking about? How could you know anything about papa's death?”

  “I know junkie's don't die spewing blood like that. They don't bruise black around the eyes neither.”

  “His eyes? They were open when I found him. There weren't any circles, nothing noticeably broken or bruised...”

  Anton walked me over to the little nightstand. I watched him pull open the drawer and fish out a manila folder. He held me, eased me onto the bed to sit, while I opened it.

  “Autopsy report. Only fucking copy of that record without a buncha shit blacked out and redacted in the official record. Your Uncle did a helluva job pulling his strings and hiding the proof in the official shit. Guess he didn't know everything about your family runs through mine first.”

  I opened it and rifled through the pages. They were old, crisp, like they'd sat in a musty vault for a long time.

  If this was another elaborate fabrication, he'd done an incredible job.

  Anton pushed his hands over mine, planted his fingers on the pages, and opened to the one he wanted. His finger stabbed down on a long line – some medical term. “Says right here they found poison in his system. There's another tucked back here that says the syringe at the crime scene was half full. Your old man didn't even shoot himself up with a full dose of that fucking trash he was hooked to. He didn't kill himself on bad coke – somebody else gave him this shit I can't pronounce.”