I didn’t know it was possible to love anyone as much as I love my husband and son. And I never knew just how much happiness I could squish into my life.
“Was he looking at the camera this time?” I ask, coming around to lean on Andrei’s shoulder and look at the iPhone screen.
“Nyet, looking at his mama, as usual.” Andrei turns to kiss me on the cheek before doing the same to Max, who giggles again and reaches for his daddy’s face.
“You wanna go to daddy?” I coo, hugging Max close.
“Da-da,” he mumbles, his dark eyes crinkling up with delight at the mention of his father. The two of them are like two peas in a pod, totally fascinated by each other. Andrei takes Max from my arms and lifts him up, swinging him around in a circle while the baby laughs hysterically. My husband looks at Max with such tenderness and enchantment, like he’s the most wonderful creature on the planet. And Max often stares wide-eyed at his daddy, scarcely blinking, totally entranced by his every move. I can already tell that Andrei is his hero.
But he loves me, too. I’m his comfort. I’m the one he wants when he cries, when he’s hungry, when he’s scared. Andrei is the fun one, and I’m the safety blanket. We suit our roles very well, I’ve discovered. When I first met Andrei, I never would have imagined this side of him: so gentle and sweet.
Sometimes I feel like my life is too good to be true. But it’s totally real, and it’s mine.
“So what time are we leaving in the morning?” I ask, leaning forward to take a strawberry out of the picnic basket and pop it into my mouth.
“I’m thinking around eight. So we have enough time to arrive in your hometown before Isaiah’s piano lesson,” Andrei replies, retrieving a strawberry and offering it to Max. The baby takes it excitedly and starts pulling the little green leaves off the top with inexplicable glee.
“I can’t believe how fast he’s growing up,” I say, shaking my head. “Seems like just yesterday Isaiah was a baby, himself.”
“And now he’s an uncle,” Andrei says, smiling.
I grin at the idea of my eight-year-old brother being an uncle. “Crazy.”
After extensive research and intel, Andrei managed to track down my parents and Isaiah. They moved a county over from where I grew up, picking a new place to start over. Sure enough, Andrei found out through some particularly crafty sleuthing that my parents have been telling everyone that I moved to South America to be a missionary. They have no intentions of reaching out to me — I am essentially dead to them.
Honestly, even though it still hurts a little sometimes, I’ve gotten over that betrayal. My happiness with my current situation far outweighs my angst over what happened in the past. I no longer miss my mother and father. But I did miss my brother. Andrei couldn’t stand to see me suffering, and he knew how badly I wanted Isaiah to meet his new nephew.
Last month was the first time I got to see my little brother since the day of our wedding. It took a lot of secretive planning, as well as a hefty pinch of kismet, to pull it off. It just so happens that my best friend and ballet instructor Sonya has a friend named Peter who teaches piano lessons in upstate New York. Since my old teacher retired years ago and my family was new to their area, I knew my parents would be on the hunt for a piano teacher for Isaiah.
So Andrei talked to Sonya who talked to Peter, who surreptitiously put himself forward as a private piano tutor, advertising himself as a man who specializes in hymns. It didn’t take long for Jan and Arnold to sign up for Peter’s services. And it wasn’t long after that when Peter told Andrei he would be more than happy to facilitate a secret visit.
Overjoyed at the thought of being reunited, however temporarily, with Isaiah, I said yes and jumped at the opportunity. So last month we took a drive up north to see Isaiah during his piano lesson. I made him swear not to tell our parents, and he’s old enough to know how serious the situation is, at least on some level. I think he understands that if he tells anyone about the meetings, our parents will only try that much harder to keep us apart.
Tomorrow, we are going back up there to visit him for a second time. And after that, we are catching a plane to Madrid! It will be my first time out of the country. Actually, it will be my first time ever even leaving the state of New York! We’re going on a month-long tour of Europe, hitting Spain, France, Italy, and Switzerland before jetting up to Siberia for a short visit to Andrei’s hometown of Yakutsk. It will be blisteringly cold there, of course, but he assures me that we will be perfectly fine. After all, there are lots and lots of people who live there year-round! I’m excited to see where my husband grew up. I know he will have to confront a lot of difficult memories, but with me beside him, I think it will be a cathartic experience.
Besides, Sonya will be meeting up with us there to see her mother for the first time in many, many years, and I cannot wait to see that reunion!
“Do you think we have enough winter clothes for Max?” I ask, biting my lip.
Andrei shrugs and lifts an eyebrow, a mischievous look crossing his face.
“We could always take him shopping in Europe.”
I beam at him. “Europe,” I breathe dreamily. “I never thought I would leave my hometown, much less travel the world!”
“And I never thought I would have a wife or a baby,” Andrei says. “I never thought I could possibly have this kind of life.”
“Then that makes two of us,” I add, reaching over to take his hand.
He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it, causing Max to make a delighted gurgling noise.
All three of us laugh, snuggled together under the sunny skies, a colorful life full of love and adventure ahead. I can’t wait.
* * *
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Owned by the Hitman
Prologue – Ivan
Just one more hit, and the night is mine.
Of course, that’s easily said. But a hit is not always easy. It takes calm and composure when the world is chaos, when any one little thing can go wrong and send the whole mess spiralling out of control. It takes control over your actions, a steady hand, the death of anxiety, because worry does you in every time.
For those reasons, and more, amateurs tend to do a hit from far away. Or if they don’t have the equipment to snipe someone from a distance, they haul out a gun, fire like crazy, then run in a mad dash to get away.
I’ve never done a sloppy hit like that, not about to start now.
This guy I’m after is too good for that to work anyhow. He’s either always flanked by bodyguards, or in the middle of a crowd. I know this because I’ve been following him for weeks. Planning my move. He’s good, shakes things up, not much of a fixed schedule, but like all men with power, this guy has his vices. Vices he doesn’t even trust his own bodyguards to keep quiet.
For the third time this week, I walk behind him as he makes his way through a busy crowd down the street. This guy -- a trumped up millionaire from Florida who made his fortune selling coke to college kids, who enforced his reign by brutally beating punks who couldn’t pay, and is now here in my city, offing people left and right -- he deserves to die.
He’s balding, even though he’s only in his thirties. A life of constant paranoia will do that to you, stress you out. But at this point I’m just annoyed he’s dragged my ass around New York for weeks, doing my best to look inconspicuous, to blend in and not seem like I was watching. I’m sick of this shit stain, and ready to wipe him clean from the city.
So as he slipped out the back of the Italian mob owned deli and heads through the crowds down a side alley, I’m grateful.
I can finally end this.
But the alleyway is barely five car lengths long, a gun won’t do here. No, I have to go in personal.
My black shoes are shiny, fancy looking. But they’re quiet. And for a moment, we’re just t
wo well-dressed men taking a shortcut to any passerby. But my window of opportunity is narrow.
My heart skips a beat, and it’s like time slows.
I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch.
But I can’t hurry. Smooth steps, my hand reaching into my charcoal grey coat. And out comes the knife. It doesn’t gleam, doesn’t glisten. This one is a dull colour, but sharp. So sharp.
I close in on my prey, but he’s a canny guy, and he detects me, his head twisting about.
But I’m better than him. And it’s too damn late anyhow.
His turn only helps me, and I grab him about the mouth, his cries silenced. Now I gotta end this fast, before some person on either side of the alleyway walks by and notices us.
My knife slices through the air, and while I know it’ll make a mess of my coat, that’s the price to pay. The other options are too risky. I could stab him in the chest, but then he could block me, and though he’s stocky and overweight, he might have hidden strength that could mess up my blade’s arc.
The throat? Fuck, that’s for amateurs. A killer like me knows when you slice a man’s throat open, it’s a noisy affair. Blood gurgling sounds would fill the alleyway, his dying cries drawing all sorts of attention.
So instead, I go for the heart. Right between two of his ribs I plunge that blade, and I sink into his left ventricle. I know it, because I’ve done it before. Because I can feel the way the blade moves through that muscular flesh of a man’s heart.
This thug tries to cry out, tries to struggle away, but my blade slices clear through the center of his heart and into the right atrium.
He’s done.
All that’s left to do is to shift his body beside the dumpster, into the pile of trash bags. I can’t rush, even though at this point every moment puts me at risk of being caught a murderer. I hold his mouth shut until he’s completely limp, then dump him among the garbage.
Just another piece of trash.
The knife’s no use to me now. I can never use it again, because it’d tie me to this killing, so I leave it in him. I look down and see that the blood spurt stained my grey overcoat, and that’s what I’d expected.
Two grand down the drain.
I slip the coat off me, casually, as if it was just getting too warm for it, and I carry on down the alleyway. I wrap the coat up with my gloves and dispose of both a few blocks down the road in a Salvation Army donation bin.
They’ll probably wash the evidence clean and sell it to someone in no time.
But I’m done now. Another cold kill finished.
I need a drink and a woman.
1
Katy
I can't bring myself to listen to another word the guy sitting next to me is saying, and I have to restrain every muscle to hold back the impulse to throw my drink in his face.
We're sitting in the VIP lounge of my own club, and not even the lavish orange tapestries my father decorated the round room with can distract me from the yuppies seated around me. They're a bunch of businessmen, and they rented the suite for the evening, so it's my duty as the Amber Room's owner to stop in for a chat.
Of course, that was before I realized these sleazebags are trying to buy the place out.
I know I don't look like the most intimidating person in the world.
My one-piece dress hugs my frame, sleek and black in the lounge's pale light, and my rich brown hair spills down over my shoulder in curls. The pearls wrapped around my wrist slide down my arm as I twirl my hair around my fingers.
At this point, that's all I can do to contain my agitation.
My dress feels hot, and the small room feels even smaller than it is with these creeps crowding it.
"So," the guy leaning uncomfortably close to me drones on, "if you consider the property values' change over the past few years, Ms. Foss — can I call you Katy? — there's a clear downward trend for establishments like this one, possibly thanks to mob activity."
"Uh-huh," I mutter dismissively, standing up and attempting to excuse myself silently.
"So there really isn't a better time to sell while you still can, and if you would just take a look at our offer—”
I'm already halfway to the door.
"Of course, gentlemen," I wave my hand, resisting the urge to refer to them as 'stooges,' "leave the paperwork on the table. I'll have a few drinks brought your way, hm? Do enjoy the evening, and don't be a stranger to the dance floor, won't you?"
I hear a couple of them trying to get a word in edgewise, but I'm already out the door and heading down the short hallway to the club floor, to my relief.
The nerve of them.
Ever since I inherited this night club from my father, it's been more and more trouble. I'd had to learn the ropes of managing the place to keep it from going under in the first few months.
Between staffing and accounting, it's a wonder I even have the time to entertain patrons like the suits in the VIP room behind me.
I certainly haven't had the time to redecorate the place.
The Amber Room. Dad had been going for a nod to all the local Russians, I guess. He once showed me a picture of some Tsar’s famous palace in St. Petersburg that had an amber look about it. I push the door to the crowded dance floor open and get a reminder of his artistic vision yet again.
The place looks like a furnace.
Marigold-colored tapestries hang from the walls of the rectangular room, and the floodlights along the walls cast an amber light across the dance floor. Tawny booths line the side walls, and two couches stand on the elevated platform I step out onto.
The bar is at the far end of the room, near the exit. Between me and the stiff drink I desperately need, there's a sea of patrons dancing to the thrumming music the DJ is playing.
I plunge into the crowd without a seconds thought and navigate the floor with ease.
There are eyes on me as I make my way to the bar, I can feel them. They don't last long, though. I have an air of authority to the way I walk. I made sure to learn that walk early on.
It was the only way to not get swept up in the noise of the crowd. I don't get lost in it, I keep above it.
But the baggage of this place gets heavy.
I reach the bar and get the bartender's attention, holding up two fingers. She nods and promptly starts to pour my Jameson. It's a little quieter here, thanks to the room's acoustics.
Natalie, the bartender, knows what the look on my face means: a drink, right now.
"Everything alright, boss?" she chimes, sliding the drink over to me, happy for the break from the regular patrons.
I take a drink in response. "The VIPs are realty sharks. Nothing unusual."
She frowns, glancing towards the lounge door.
"Fuckers. Well hey, take it easy the rest of the night, eh? You've been working your ass off all week, you could use a little unwinding."
That gets a smirk from me. "Yeah? And do what, sit at home worrying about this place?"
Natalie rolls her eyes. "I dunno, but I know who might have a few ideas."
"Oh? Who's that?"
"The stud who walked in while I was pouring your drink and hasn't taken his eyes off you since."
I flutter my eyes as I process what she just said, and before I can say "Wait—!" Natalie moves off to see to another patron, a wicked smirk on her face.
I turn my eyes towards the club entrance to brace myself for whoever she was talking about.
There are at least half a dozen men making their way into the club, but that's normal at this time of night. But amid the douches in popped collars tracking in the smell of too much cologne, there's one figure towering over the rest, and the dark blue eyes that catch my gaze tell me he's the one Natalie meant.
My heart jumped in my chest, but not because I was taken by the looks of the stranger. I turn my head before getting a better look at him beyond his tight-fitting gray suit and a teal tie.
For all I know, he could be a friend of one of the jerks in the lounge
showing up late to the party. In fact, I decide that's exactly what he is.
I shoot Natalie a rueful look, to which she rolls her eyes with a playful smirk before I down the rest of my drink and spin around on the barstool to get up and make my way onto the dance floor, the clicking of my heels muffled by the music.
I don't flirt with patrons.
Natalie would tease me about it all the time, egging me on to "Live a little, Katy! You own a nightclub, that's basically a free pass on all the ass in town!"
But that's the point, I remind myself as I start dancing with some of the patrons, putting a fake smile on my face while the drunken crowd is cheering the DJ on.
I'm the club owner.
In case something goes down, I need to be on my toes all the time. What the businessman in the lounge said offhandedly about the local mob put a rancid, all-too-familiar taste in my mouth.
I can't afford to let my guard down in this kind of business. And that means no doing shots with the hot celebs that pass through my little club every blue moon.
The crowd gives me some cover for a while — the rich, young crowd is here in force tonight. Some of the wealthiest young adults in Brighton Beach are grinding against each other, right here on my dance floor.
A few semi-familiar faces try to get my attention as I pass by them, but I can hardly tell what's coming from whom, even as I try to listen for potential trouble.
"Oh my God, Katy, where did you get this eurotrash DJ? Love it!"
"Katy! The guy in the purple shirt is a scout for that modeling agency, help me get his number!"
"You would not believe what went down at the game tonight, did you see it?!"
There it was.
Sold to the Hitman Page 18