Finally, I'm able to make out the sounds from outside.
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
Ivan had made us come into the New Year.
As the cheering and music outside resumes, I hear Ivan's footsteps moving around the room, and I nearly have a heart attack when a loud POP makes me withdraw my limbs again, even as my fluids mar my table. I feel a hand taking off the blindfold and turn my helpless body over on the table.
My eyes adjust to see Ivan, smiling and shirtless, looking down at me affectionately with a bottle of champagne in one hand and two crystal glasses in the other.
He sets the glasses down and pours the liquid, then pulls the couch up closer to the table where I'm sprawled. Still regaining my senses, I feel his strong arms lift me up as though I were made of paper, carrying me over to the couch as he sits down with me in his lap.
I blink blearily, a smile crossing my face as I wrap my arms around his neck and let myself hang there, utterly fucked silly. His warm arms are wrapped around me, comforting my naked body as it tries to come down from the high of the orgasm.
I smell champagne as he brings a glass close to me, stroking my back with the other, and his mouth comes close to my ear.
"Happy New Year, Katy."
10
Katy
It’s surprisingly chilly when I wake up on Valentine’s Day. There’s frost on the windows lining the wall of my apartment, and my toes are almost numb. Shivering, I draw up my legs and slide out of bed, finding a pair of slippers and a fuzzy robe to wrap myself in. I look at the clock to see that it’s just after ten o'clock in the morning. I’ll have to start getting ready for work soon.
But first, I need my coffee.
I shuffle into the kitchen, yawning as I start the coffee maker and slump back against the counter. I squint across the room out the window and stare long enough to notice tiny, delicate snowflakes drifting downward. It’s been unseasonably warm and rainy this winter until now. I ponder what the snowy weather will do for my business. It could keep everyone bundled up inside. Or they might possibly head out to the clubs and bars in droves, looking to warm up with a drink and a hot stranger. I hope it’s the latter — business has been pretty good, but I’m not out of the woods yet. There are still debts my father left me, even if the protection fee from the mafia isn’t an issue anymore.
Right on cue, my phone lights up with a text. “Natalie, that better not be you calling out of work to take some starry-eyed girl on a Valentine’s date,” I mumble to myself. Blinking in the low light, I read the name on the screen. It’s Ivan.
As always, at any sight or mention of him, my heart skips a beat. I don’t know what it is, whether it’s nerves or fear or excitement… or something else.
I slide my phone open to read the text.
“Good morning. You’re taking the day off.”
I furrow my brows in confusion. Taking the day off of what? Work? Being a sex slave?
After a moment of thought, I reply with just a simple question mark. Almost instantly I get a response from him, and I can’t help but crack a smile.
“It’s Valentine’s Day.”
Who would have expected that a gun-toting, heavily-muscled mafia hit man was a sucker for made-up romantic holidays? Stranger things have happened, I remind myself. And besides, he has been surprisingly tender and sweet to me these past few months. The sex is often hard and fast and rough — not that I’m complaining in the least — but in our regular interactions, Ivan is a lot gentler and more sensitive than any guy I dated in the past.
Not that I’m sure you can call what Ivan and I do dating.
Just at that moment, my phone goes off again with another text from Ivan, who has written, “You have a date.”
“Do I?” is my coquettish response. I can’t help but bite my lip and grin down at my phone like an infatuated teenage girl. This is ridiculous.
“Da, printsessa. I will pick you up at noon.”
I don’t know Russian, but I’m fairly certain Ivan has just called me princess. Part of me wants to be indignant, tell him off and inform him that I’m nobody’s little princess. But the bigger, more dominant part of me is just flattered. After another minute of staring at my phone with my thumb hovering over the keyboard, I finally sigh and set the phone down on the counter.
After all, I have a hot date to prepare for.
Totally neglecting my freshly-made coffee, I all but skip to my bathroom to take a shower. As I shampoo my hair, I imagine the inevitable conversation I will have to have with Natalie and the crew about why I’m not at work today. I can already tell she’s going to give me hell for it. And I can’t really blame her. I was all prepared to bite her head off if she dared ask me for the day off! But, I reason with myself, if she really is dating Ashton, then at least being at work will also allow her to hang out with her girlfriend.
So, really, I have nothing to feel bad about!
I blow-dry and curl my hair to create subtle waves, and then I stand looking at my naked body in the mirror, the fog slowly clearing away from the mirror’s surface. I turn and look at myself from every angle, wondering what exactly Ivan sees in me. Sure, I’m decent-looking enough, I suppose. But I’m boring. Or, at least I must be in comparison to the kind of lifestyle Ivan leads. With his sharp good looks, money, and dangerous charm, I’m sure he can get any woman he wants.
Why me?
I put on some soft pink lipstick and smoky eye makeup before standing in front of my closet staring pensively at the clothes hanging there. I’m realizing that I have no clue what kind of date Ivan is taking me on.
“What the hell should I wear?” I wonder aloud. Finally, I decide on a knee-length, flouncy lavender dress, thick leggings, a khaki pea coat, and a purple woolen scarf. I check the time and realize it’s now almost noon! So I tug on a pair of brown boots, grab my purse, and head downstairs to the lobby to wait for my rugged, Russian mobster date.
I stand near the entrance, looking out the window at the snowy scene outside. There isn’t a whole lot of snow on the ground yet, but the people walking by are bundled up in light sweaters and scarves. I can see puffs of air when they breathe. Finally, a chilly New York winter day, after months of dreary rain! My phone vibrates in my hand and I look down at the text.
“Come outside.”
I walk through the doors to stand on the sidewalk looking around for Ivan.
My phone buzzes again. “Look left.”
I glance to my left to see a big white taxi cab pulling up to the pavement. I start walking over to it when the back passenger door opens and Ivan steps out, dressed the most casually I’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing dark, neatly-pressed jeans, a grey sweater, a perfectly-tailored black jacket, a steel-blue scarf, and black oxfords. He looks absolutely delicious. Ivan reaches out a hand to me and I take it, meeting his dark-blue gaze a little nervously.
“You look radiant,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly. I give him a smile.
“Thank you.”
Something from my childhood, my mother warning me not to get into strange cars with bad boys, flutters in the back of my mind. I brush it aside and let Ivan help me into the taxi. I’ve already done a thousand things my parents told me not to do — might as well add another one.
“So, where are we going?” I ask brightly.
Ivan reaches over and places a hand on my thigh. “A beautiful place.”
“That’s not very helpful,” I reply teasingly.
“Just wait and see.”
We ride along for about an hour, and I’m wondering how expensive this taxi ride is going to end up. With my financial struggles, I try to avoid cabs unless absolutely necessary, resigning myself to the buses and subways. But glancing at the fancy clothes Ivan is wearing, I am reminded that he can absolutely afford it.
We drive up through Brooklyn and Manhattan, occasionally getting stuck in traffic for a few minutes here and there. It’s a mostly silent drive, except for the small talk Ivan makes with me, askin
g about the club, about the burgeoning romance between Ashton and Natalie.
“I love that you’ve noticed that, too,” I laugh.
“It’s incredibly obvious. They aren’t exactly trying to hide it, are they? If so, they aren’t doing a very good job of it,” Ivan replies, a smile warming his face. It’s remarkable how drastically a simple smile can change his countenance. When his lips are in that hard, resolved line, he certainly looks the part of a hit man. But as soon as he smiles, he looks like Prince Charming. It’s a bizarre and intoxicating dichotomy, and I can’t help but want more.
“I hope they aren’t mad at me for not coming in today,” I admit, the guilt weighing on me. After all, I am the owner. If I can’t show up to work, how can I expect anyone else to?
“I spoke to Natalie about it last week,” Ivan says breezily.
“You what?” I retort. Ivan gives me a raised eyebrow.
“I knew it would burden you, but you need this day off. So I told Natalie you would be out today. She took it very well. In fact, I think she enjoys getting to be the boss when you’re not around. Might want to watch out for that one,” he jokes with a wink.
I sit stewing for a couple moments. I’m pretty independent and private, and the last thing I need is some guy to swoop in and make my decisions for me. I like my freedom. And like he said, I am the boss. I shouldn’t need a man to come in and talk to my employees for me!
Still, I can’t pretend it isn’t kind of nice that I don’t have to worry about it. I do so much, and I am in control of so many things. Sometimes it really does feel good to have someone else take the reins…
“You’re angry,” Ivan remarks astutely.
“Not angry, exactly.”
“Offended?” he pushes. I wish he would just drop it.
“It’s just that I like being in control,” I admit quietly. Ivan squeezes my thigh.
“And I certainly do not want to take that control from you against your will, Katy,” he explains in an undertone. “But I think you like it more than you say.”
Again, there’s that mingled sensation of irritation and arousal. What does it say about me, a strong woman with a hold of her own destiny, that I enjoy being bossed around and dominated by a bigger, stronger man?
“You may be right,” I reply softly. The car finally slows as the driver parallel parks on the street. I look out the window to see that we are at the American Museum of Natural History.
“Well, here is our destination,” Ivan says, smiling again as he pays the driver and takes my hand to assist me out of the cab. “We’re going to see the butterflies.”
All my previous annoyance dissipates instantly. I can’t help but laugh out loud. This has got to be a joke — going to the Butterfly Conservatory with my Russian mafia hit man master.
“Don’t you like it?” Ivan asks, and the twinge of slight insecurity in his tone almost makes me melt right there on the icy sidewalk. He actually cares if I like his date idea or not.
“I love it,” I reply genuinely.
We spend the next hour or so wandering through the bright flowers and butterflies, shedding our cold weather layers in the near-80 degree temperature of the conservatory. It feels like a tropical paradise, a slice of warm, colorful heaven smack dab in the middle of snowy New York City. I feel like an ethereal being, floating around surrounded by such beauty. It’s truly a magical place, and I find myself feeling a little dreamy as Ivan guides me by the hand, excitedly pointing out different moths and butterflies.
But my stomach is rumbling by now, and Ivan suggests that we go to a sweet little café down the street for lunch. It feels exhilarating to walk down the street hand-in-hand with such a powerful man. Despite the precarious, transactional nature of our relationship, and despite knowing exactly what Ivan has done with these hands, I still feel safer than I’ve ever felt.
And yet that underlying current of danger remains, and I like that, too.
When we get to the restaurant, he firmly informs the hostess that we want to sit in the front corner. She takes one look at him and immediately acquiesces. It doesn’t take much for Ivan to get whatever he wants. All he has to do is fix you with that cold, forceful gaze.
He orders a sandwich and a vodka tonic, while I eat a bowl of pasta and sip my peach martini. I keep wondering when the cutesy-date portion of our day will end and my Prince Charming transforms back into my domineering sex master.
As lovely as the past few hours have been, I have to admit that I am starting to really anticipate the inevitable second part. He’s staring out the window wistfully at the snow, looking as though his mind is a thousand miles away. I wonder if it really is.
“You like the snow?” I ask conversationally. There’s a moment’s delay before he replies.
“Da. It reminds me of home.”
I feel a little blindsided by this sudden glimpse of Ivan’s inner thoughts. He’s usually so closed-off and cold, it’s hard to imagine what goes on inside his head. I wonder if he will mind if I push him for more information…
“Russia?”
He nods. “Balakovo.”
“I imagine it’s a lot colder there, though,” I add.
“Yes. Much colder. And quieter. Much smaller than New York. It is where I grew up, and sometimes I still miss it.”
“How did you end up here in the Big Apple?” I prod. Ivan stops and looks at me sideways, causing me to freeze up instinctively. I hope I haven’t asked too much.
“It is a very long story, and not a happy one. I am sure you don’t want to hear it.”
I nod, looking at him expectantly. I am sure that he is about to tell me no, that it’s time to leave. But instead, after a few moments he waves over the waitress and orders another martini for me and a vodka on the rocks for himself. Once the new drinks appear, he takes a long sip and then leans in closer.
“I was just a small boy when my mother and my older sister Anya were killed,” he begins, swirling the vodka gently in its glass. I prop my chin on my hand to show that I’m listening.
“I don’t remember it at all because I was only three, but the witnesses say that four men on motorbikes forced my mother’s van off the road and into a ditch. My mama, she was killed instantly, and poor Anya bled out before the policemen and the doctors came. She was eleven. We were driving to visit my father at work.”
“I am so sorry,” I murmur to him, a little breathless. His story sounds so similar to mine — the way that my mother and brother died. He continues.
“My father came to take me home from the scene. You see, he was a member of the Spetznaz — the special forces in Russia. He was a very tough man, a well-trained soldier who could kill a man as easily as look at him. But he was also fair and gentle, and he lived his whole life in the light. He was a good man, Katy, working within the law.”
“Who were the motorcyclists? Did they do it on purpose?” I ask.
Ivan nods gravely, a dark look crossing his face. “They were very bad men. My mother and Anya did nothing to provoke them. Their deaths came as revenge for something my father did. He was part of a unit trying to take down the mafia.”
The confusion must be obvious on my face, because he immediately adds, “Yes. My father opposed the mafia. He was instrumental in capturing and dismantling the mafia’s hold on a small town on the Siberian border, for which they never forgave him. It was just a minor village, and my father was just doing his job, but they could not accept the loss.”
“So then, what did your father do?”
“He did not retaliate. You see, he could not. He was now a single father with a very young son — if anything were to happen to him, I would have been an orphan. And Russian orphanages are not good places,” Ivan explains. “But he did one thing that the mafia did not expect. He raised me to fight.”
Ivan pauses to take another draught of his vodka. “My poor father, he realized that it was not enough for him to be a fighter. He had lived his whole life thinking he could protect his family,
that he was enough to keep them safe. But the day of the accident, he learned otherwise. No matter how hard we try, evil can always strike behind a turned back. He learned that he would not always be around to shield me from harm, so he had to teach me to protect myself. And he did. Do not get me wrong, my father was always a kind man, but he was also very disciplined. He did not allow me to cry as a child. He taught me to hide my weaknesses and to grow my strengths. I could hold a gun and shoot a target from a distance by the age of seven. I could get my father in a headlock and bring him to the ground by my fourteenth birthday. My father was a good soldier, but he trained me to be even better.”
I am utterly enthralled with Ivan’s words, sitting rapt and quiet, as he sips his drink and shakes his head sadly. “I was going to join the Spetznaz, myself, when I came of age. But when I was sixteen, something terrible happened.”
“What?” I prompt, on the edge of my seat.
“My father died.”
“Was it the mafia?” I ask in a near-whisper.
He gives me a mournful look. “No, moya zvezda, it was a natural death. Old bones, long winters, and a broken heart are the cruelest killers.”
“Is that when you decided to come to America?”
“Ah, the story is not that simple. You see, when my father died, I nearly lost my head. Finally, thirteen years of pent-up rage boiled over and now there was no one left to keep me in check. So, I prepared myself for a mission: to find the men who killed my mother and sestra. I did not sleep for many nights, spending every minute in pursuit of their names and addresses. Turns out they were all old men by then, but they kept themselves very well-guarded. One day, I tracked them all to a lounge in Novosibirsk. I managed to subdue the guards and get inside.
“I told them who I was. I made them confess to their crimes. And then I executed them, one by one.” Ivan takes another drink and sets down the empty glass. “But I was still a lawful man, Katy. In the middle of that bloody scene, I started to call the police to turn myself in. I knew I was guilty, and I had no reason to hide anymore.”
Sold to the Hitman Page 26