Sold to the Hitman

by Alexis Abbott

  “Well, a thriving business means more free time for that kind of thing, doesn’t it? See, you’re just too busy a man for all that,” he jokes as he gives Sergei’s pot belly a pat. The two of them laugh and greet each other properly, but I notice Boris’s wolfish eyes glancing up at me periodically.

  “And this man must have all the free time in the world,” he says suddenly, gesturing toward me and beckoning me forward, “look at those muscles! Sergei, is this your prized Shadow?”

  “Mine and mine alone,” Sergei laughs, a hint of unease in his voice as I step forward with a smile.

  “Is that indeed so?” Boris says, his question at Sergei but his eyes steadily on me. “Well, they do say such wolves tend to stray from their pack, don’t they?”

  There’s a pause between us, and I know the phrase was a threat: my reputation for taking contracts outside the Bratva can’t go secret forever, not in an environment like this. Nevertheless I only give a boyish grin. “Can’t bring the pack the best prey without straying far, comrade.”

  Boris’s face splits into a grin, and he points at me with a raise of his eyebrows to Sergei. “Look at this one, he’s sharper than the rest of the muscle here, he is! Come, enough catching up, we have some important people to meet, and the wine is already flowing free.”

  The next hour or so passes with idle banter and light business talk. More relevant to me, Boris and Sergei seem inseparable. This lets me keep an easy eye on Boris, but I can’t kill a man of his stature in front of Sergei without sealing my death sentence at a place like this.

  So I keep the wine flowing, insisting that every passing server let us sample his wares. I’ve become rather good at pretending to drink, so as Boris and Sergei continue to indulge themselves, my head stays clear.

  Eventually, we find ourselves wandering onto a balcony overlooking the property, Sergei and Boris laughing at one of the latter’s jokes.

  “Sergei, my man, I can’t tell you how disappointed I am we haven’t worked together more,” Boris says, wiping a tear from his eye. “Reminds me of old times when you and my father practically set up that operation in Hungary.

  “Better times, my friend, better times,” Sergei agrees, shaking his head.

  “Ah,” Boris suddenly says, his eyes falling on one of the serving women tending to another couple of men on the large balcony, “speaking of the Hungarian trade, you have yet to see some of my finest work. Ada! Get your luscious ass over here!”

  The young woman who turns at Boris’s command is beautiful, her long blonde hair spilling over one of her shoulders, and there’s an unmistakable fear in her eyes as she makes her way over to Boris. “Yes, sir?”

  “Sergei, this is Ada, one of my finest acquisitions, my jewel of the Carpathian basin,” Boris introduces the woman, and I feel disgust boiling in my heart. Perhaps I was wrong about the nature of some of the women in attendance.

  “Oh, indeed?” Sergei looks Ada up and down and licks his lips, obvious hunger in his eyes. “I suppose she has a wealthy client already, does she not?”

  “She’s been on standby to tend to the guest’s needs tonight,” Boris replies, a devil’s smile on his face. “I could tell you of how well she’s been trained, but maybe it would be better for you to see for yourself, no?”

  Sergei looks taken aback, but he chuckles with a disgusting grin to Boris as he takes the terrified Ada’s hand. “You don’t say? Well, I won’t be one to turn down such a generous offer!”

  Boris gives Ada a meaningful look, and she nods demurely, swallowing hard. “I believe our gracious host has guest rooms available for just such things,” he remarks gesturing in a general direction, and without another word, Sergei takes Ada away, and I’m left alone with Boris.

  After Sergei is out of sight, Boris turns his eyes on me, narrowing them as he takes a sip of his wine.

  “You know, Shadow,” he remarks, swirling his glass, “I’ve been trying to place why you look familiar.

  I arch an eyebrow. Privately, I begin going through the names of men I’ve killed over the past few weeks, wondering if Boris might have known any of them particularly well — or rather, if word of my face might have gotten to him. “Oh?”

  “Yes. There’s something unforgettable about your jaw, the way the light catches it when you look over your shoulder.” My muscles are already tensing, preparing to hurl this monster of a man over the balcony and make a run for it if need be; the client gave few specifications as to the manner of the man’s death.

  “You like gazing at my face in the moonlight, eh?” I shoot back with a smile, and Boris laughs.

  “Not that way, my friend, but tell me…” He sets his glass down and crosses his arms, raising his chin and peering at me judiciously. “Where were you in ‘92?”

  I blink and think for a moment before replying. “Hm. That year’s a bit of a blur — I was in the middle of my sentence in prison, back in Siberia.”

  A spark of warmth comes back to Boris’s eyes, and I see him roll up his sleeve to the forearm, showing me a black tattoo of a skull in front of part of a Russian star. A prison tattoo, unique to the prison where I served my time. My eyes widen in surprise, and without another word, the two of us embrace and exchange a greeting in Russian.

  “Ha! And here I was thinking nobody here had seen as much hardship as me! Good you survived that hellhole, comrade,” Boris says as we break apart, returning my smile.

  “Impressive, just another thug from the world’s blind spot running such a prosperous business as yours,” I chuckle, nodding at him.

  “Come, we have some real reminiscing to do. I know where our host keeps the good wine, out of the prying eyes of the rest of these fattened vultures.”

  Boris leads me outside the estate, a short walk to the cellar entrance of the estate, a pair of large, fine oak doors leading to where most of the wine on the property was left to age.

  It’s cool and quiet inside as Boris leads me down, but our laughing chatter echoes through the rows and rows of fine barrels containing the best wine New York soil can produce — which isn’t saying much, but coming from Siberia, I don’t have the most refined palate for wine. Such things are for the leisure class.

  “...and I remember, I remember seeing the guards drag him kicking from his cell after that little stunt of his, and they made him stand outside in the snow for the whole day! They nearly had to take off his legs from the frostbite!” Boris laughs at the memory, but our laughter is only part of how we cover up our inner scars from the abuses we suffered in prison. To this day, I’ve never known a greater hell.

  Eventually we reach a cask obviously set up for sampling, a spigot already set up on a very low stool, the barrel coming up to our waists.

  “Here,” Boris beckons me closer, swaying a little as he tries to keep his balance, the wine strong in his blood, “this is where the owner is going to bring me and some of the richer guests later on — he’ll try to impress them and say this is some of their fanciest stock, but it’s only okay — and they won’t miss a couple of glasses between brothers, will they?” He winks and fills our glasses, standing up and toasting with me as we drain them.

  “Ah, but really, Andrei,” Boris says. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Working for the likes of Sergei, I mean,” he says, looking meaningfully at me. “You won’t get anywhere — New York is nice, but you’re overqualified to be working for a man whose pride won’t let him promote you any further than you are. He only cares for his own dynasty. You know he brought his bastard boy to the city?”

  I arch an eyebrow in genuine surprise. “He has a son?”

  Boris nods, a gossiping smile on his face. “His name’s Kasym — Sergei knocked up some Chechnyan daughter of a powerful man, and now Sergei’s got to pay out the ass to pamper the boy. He’s a little monster.”

  The memory of the rich young Chechnyan accompanying Sergei at the auction comes back to my mind, of the ma
n that’s currently looking for me — even if he doesn’t yet know it’s me — and my eyes widen. “I think I’ve seen the man. A monster, you say?” I keep a steady expression, but my heart skips a beat with worry.

  “Horrible for business,” Boris says in disgust, rolling his eyes. “Killed four of my girls in the few months he’s been here. Can’t control himself, I suppose — boys will be boys, no?” Boris laughs, but this time, my laugh along with him is feigned, anger roiling back up in my heart with renewed vigor. I haven’t forgotten my job.

  “Is nobody doing anything about the man?”

  “Are you kidding?” Boris scoffs. “The man’s grandfather is rich enough to buy this whole estate fifty times over, and his father is Sergei. Besides,” he adds with an elbow to my arm, “those whores are a dime a dozen, just like the bitch Sergei is trying to shove his stubby little cock into right now. Who’s going to mourn a few dead Hungarian cunts, anyway?”

  “More than will mourn you.”

  Boris’s glass is halfway to his lips when my fist catches him in the stomach like a piston. He nearly doubles over, the glass falling to the ground as he lets out a short, sharp groan, and before he can react, I grab hold of the back of his head and bring it crashing down into the top of the barrel, smashing his face through the wood and plunging it into the cheap wine within.

  The human scum flails his arms, his mind probably still reeling to come to its bearings, totally caught off-guard. But my mind is as sharp and resolved as my muscles as my trunk-like arm holds his head under the liquid, solid and unmoving as a steel girder. My other arm wraps around him as I hold his arms to his sides. He’s a strong man, thrashing as best as he can and giving me far more of a fight as the wine sloshes around him and some spills out onto the dirt, but he’s no match for my sober strength.

  After more time than a weaker man would have lasted, I finally feel Boris’s body go limp, his lungs filled with the wine he was sampling just a few minutes ago.

  The most inconvenient part of the job is the wine that now stains my jeans.

  Wasting no time, I hoist up Boris’s body, checking his now-still pulse before lifting his body over the top of the barrel and prying more of the wood off the top to make room before submerging his bulk into the barrel.

  Much more of the wine spills onto the ground as I push him under the red liquid’s surface. Carefully, I drag the barrel to a corner of stacked barrels, moving them around until I can place his new coffin towards the back, stacking a few barrels on atop the open upper side of Boris’s barrel, effectively entombing him in wine casks.

  I stand back to observe my work before looking down at my wine-soaked legs and sighing.

  Suppose it’s an excuse to take Cassie on another shopping trip.

  I make my way back up to the manor — I still have a job to be at, after all. Sergei is probably finished with his deed by now.

  Indeed, it doesn’t take me long to find him making his way down one of the lavish hallways, past a few other drunken guests, Ada still under his arm, looking disgusted and downcast.

  “Andrei, there you are!” His cheeks are rosy, obviously drunk beyond the point of wondering where I was. Exactly as I planned. “Andrei, you- you’re the besht bodyguard in ALL THIS F-FUCKING PIGSTY,” he howls, slinging half his drink onto the wall as he gestures wildly.

  “Good to see you too, boss,” I say, trying not to sound stiff.

  “You know what, boy?” he laughs. “You, you take the rest of the night off, I’m going to find that other idiot to do this shit work. Thanksh to you, I’m gonna, I’m gonna be BEST pals with Boris, and his businessh is gonna have me ROLLING in cash! Here,” he pushes Ada towards me, and I catch her gently, raising an eyebrow at him.

  “Take this bitch, she wouldn’t let me fucking touch her. Kick her ass for me, will you? Then you take the night off, go home to your, your little wife,” he chuckles, and as he mutters something to himself, he staggers off, leaving me alone.

  Ada looks up to me in fear, but I only put a finger to my lips. “Follow me,” I say in a low voice.

  Without saying a word, I guide the woman down to my car. Most of the party is too drunk to notice as we slip out, and once we’re out in the night’s air, Ada begins apologizing profusely to me.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to panic, but he was coming on like a mad dog, and after all the stories I’ve heard about his son, I —”

  “You’re going to be safe,” I say firmly, and she’s dumbfounded into silence for a moment.

  “Wh-”

  I help her into my car and get in on the driver’s side, shutting the door and turning on the ignition. “Boris is dead. You’ll never have to do that kind of work against your will again. Nor will you have to deal with Sergei again. I’m going to arrange a flight out of here for you — you can decide where you go, but New York won’t be safe for you. Nor will the American west coast, for that matter.”

  She tries to form words, but her eyes are wide as her mouth just gapes, stunned at what she’s hearing. I pull out of the driveway and start heading back towards the interstate.

  “In the meantime,” I say, pulling her seatbelt over her as we pull out onto the open road as I give her an even look, “I want you to tell me everything you know about Sergei’s son, Kasym Slakovich.”

  16

  Cassie

  It’s been a month since the wedding, and I’ve never been so happy in my life.

  Andrei and I have spent most of our days jetting around the city, visiting museums, parks, theaters, restaurants, and even a couple live music venues. I am soaking up as much modern culture as possible, and my eyes have been wide and amazed nearly every waking minute. I had no idea how beautiful and diverse the world truly is, and I never thought I could feel this way… so immersed, so overwhelmed, yet completely exhilarated. There is still that voice in the back of my mind telling me that I will burn in hell for exposing myself to such temptation, for partaking in filth such as popular music and movies. But it’s a softer voice now, more like a whisper, reminding me to remember where I came from and who I really am.

  But the truth is, I’m not sure who I am anymore.

  The things I have seen, the things I want now, are worlds apart from the sort of life I foresaw for myself even as recently as a month ago. The quiet, mundane, domestic lifestyle I aspired to my whole life now feels more like a death sentence in contrast to the exciting way I have been living lately. I am still constantly haunted by the spectre of my parents’ expectations for me — screaming at me to be subservient and soft, to defer to my husband. And for the most part, I do. But it isn’t out of fear or even a sense of godly duty. I want to follow his lead, because he has never led me into anything but joy and adventure. Andrei is my tour guide, my initiator. The man who keeps me on my toes and yet always makes me feel safe.

  Despite my growing suspicions about what he does for a living.

  He doesn’t talk about it, and I don’t ask, because I am terrified of bringing up something which might widen the slight rift between us. For as much as he appears to care for me, and as much as I definitely care for him, I do worry sometimes about the coldness he displays. Sometimes he is so incredibly soft, so gentle and warm, that it helps me forget the colder times. Many days we have spent together in the sunshine of mutual affection, Andrei showing me a whole new world, holding my hand all along the way. But then, there are so many nights when he slips away under the assumed cover of shadow, leaving me to awaken in the wee hours of an eerie dawn and find myself alone in the massive bed.

  Early this morning, that’s exactly what happened.

  I woke up suddenly from a nightmare, instinctively turned on my side to snuggle into Andrei’s warmth… only to realize that there was only a cold, empty place beside me. I was alone again, curled up tight in the dead silence of the apartment. Surely, it is a different kind of silence than what I was used to back home in upstate New York. Up there, the silence was complete — a total absence of sound. Bu
t here in the city, there was no such thing as complete quiet. There was always the muffled hum of neon signs, the bustle of traffic, wailing sirens and impatient car horns, even in the dead of night.

  So this morning I lay there for hours, listening to the drone of city life down on the street, wondering which minutely small sound might just indicate the location of my husband. Where was he? What was he doing?

  These questions plague me, keeping me from sleep. I watch the soft moon sinking down the sky on the other side of the curtains and worry incessantly about Andrei. I wanted some sign, some divine clue to tell me that at least he was okay. I need to know that he is safe, that he will come home again and rescue me from my anxiety.

  When he finally returns, the sun is just beginning to poke its luminous head from behind the horizon. I’m still lying in bed, and when I hear the quiet but distinct sound of the front door handle turning, I shut my eyes tightly and pull the blankets up to my face, pretending to be asleep. As desperately as I want to know what is going on, I am not quite ready to bring up that subject yet. It’s just easier to pretend it isn’t happening.

  For now, at least.

  When the bedroom door creaks open, I hear my husband step inside, his footsteps surprisingly soft considering his immense size and strength. He whispers, “Wake up, printsessa, I’ve brought you breakfast and tea.”

  I let out a little moan and yawn, slowly opening my eyes and sitting up in bed. I blink at him a couple times, pretending to struggle to wake up. I am a little ashamed of how good an actress I am, as Andrei adds, “Sleep well?”

  Smiling, I give him a nod. He steps forward and sets a tray on my lap in bed, then puts a couple pastries and a paper to-go cup of hot tea on the tray.

  “Good. Eat up. I’m going to shower.”

  He was always this curt and short with his words, but there was always a strange brusqueness to his tone when he returned from these random disappearances. He was distracted, his mind clearly in a different place. I wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s seen in the time he’s been away from me.