Sold to the Hitman

by Alexis Abbott

  I notice the carriage driver steal a look over his shoulder back at us, and he gives me a quick, unobtrusive wink before facing away again. Ivan kisses me slow and deep, his lips warm and expressive against my own. He cups my face gently with one large hand, and I can feel the callouses there from years of working, of fighting. Distantly, some part of me rails against the fact that these hands have been stained with so much blood, have wrung the life from many a body. But in this moment, in Central Park under the early evening glow, with the whole city in celebration… it’s easier to ignore.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, my cheeks burning.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

  I nod and smile at him broadly. “Where are we going?”

  Ivan puts a finger to my lips, reaches into his coat pocket, and pulls out the black blindfold again. I start to laugh and protest, but he shakes his head, a bemused look on his face.

  “Another surprise?” I giggle.

  “I am full of them,” Ivan replies lightheartedly.

  “That you are,” I answer softly as he ties the blindfold around my eyes again. I feel him get up and move forward, and I can barely hear him giving some kind of command to the carriage driver, but I can’t make out the words. The driver makes an affirmative grunt and the pace quickens. I can hear the horse chuffing and its hoof beats speeding up.

  Several minutes later, the carriage pulls to a stop and Ivan gets up again to pay the driver. Then he takes me by both hands and guides me to my feet. I take a couple wobbly steps forward before Ivan scoops me up in his arms and lowers me out of the carriage with effortless grace.

  He leads me for what feels like several blocks, and I just know people have got to be staring at us. A huge, hulking Russian guy leading a petite girl in a blindfold down the street has to be a bizarre sight to behold. But the embarrassment pales in comparison to my excitement. Honestly, I don’t much care as to where we end up, as long as I’m with him.

  A few minutes later, he murmurs into my ear, “Okay. We’re here.” He unties the blindfold and I stand blinking under the streetlamps, looking around in amazement and confusion. I know we’re not far from Central Park, but beyond that I have no idea where we are. This isn’t a part of town I can normally afford to visit.

  “The bars and clubs will be full of St. Patrick’s Day people tonight,” Ivan explains, “but I doubt any of them will go here.”

  He leads me into an opulent restaurant, far too fancy for the way I’m dressed. The sapphire pendant is the only part of me acceptable in a place like this. I look around in stunned silence at the magnificent interior design, the high ceilings and low lighting. The burgundy and mahogany walls are lit by candles and intricate glass fixtures. There are motifs of bears and heavy industrial art decorating the place, and huge, multi-level chandeliers hanging from the arched ceilings. After a few minutes, I finally realize that this is a Russian restaurant, and I feel a rush of warmth toward Ivan. It makes me happy to know that he is so eager to share his identity, his heritage with me.

  The maître d’ does give me a look of slight disgust upon seeing my casual, low-quality clothes, but that disappears quickly after a withering glare from Ivan. After that, it’s as though everyone in the restaurant catches on and realizes that if you mess with me, you’ve got to be prepared to tangle with Ivan, too. And nobody really wants to do that.

  So they seat us at a corner table with a candle flickering in the middle of it. Ivan guides me through the menu, pointing out items that he used to eat as a young boy back in Russia. We both order vodka to start, and although I am normally not a fan of most liquor on its own, this is so high quality that even I love it. Mine is a vanilla vodka, and his is made with artesian water from Siberian springs. To be honest, I don’t really know what any of that means, but Ivan appears to appreciate it, so I don’t question it. He then orders us borscht, foie gras, braised duck, and several kinds of caviar I’ve never heard of before. I cannot even imagine how expensive this must be, but Ivan looks entirely at ease and I decide it’s probably better not to ask.

  Everything we eat is absolutely beautiful in its presentation and even more so in its flavor. I find myself utterly blown away by every bite I lift to my mouth, and warmed by Ivan’s enthusiasm for it. Every different item that I try is met with an excited question from Ivan, wanting to know if I like it and what I think about it. And watching him eat is almost wonderful enough just on its own. I can tell that this food is more than just a meal to him — it’s a taste of home, of a life he can never truly have again. He is transported back to his childhood for the duration of the meal, and it’s a lovely thing to watch. I am seeing a different side of him, full of wonder and lightness. It’s a sharp comparison to the usual cold, no-nonsense hit man the rest of the world sees in him.

  I feel honored. It feels truly special to witness such a tender aspect of his character.

  For dessert, Ivan tells the waiter to bring us cheese-and-berry blintzes, as well as a bottle of muscat wine from Napa Valley. By this point I am already so full that the idea of trying to ingest anything else is a little intimidating, but the pure joy with which Ivan greets the arrival of our blintzes renders me unable to say no.

  “These were my favorite as a boy,” Ivan says. “My father, he worked long hours, so when I was young he often had me stay with an old woman in our building. Her name was Galina, but I called her babushka. Grandmother.”

  “She was your babysitter?” I prod, hoping for more. It doesn’t happen often, but I adore hearing stories from his past.

  Ivan gives me a noncommittal head-shake. “More or less. But she was not paid by the hour like most nannies are here in America. Instead, my father paid her rent and many of her other expenses. She was, you see, closer to my father and I than a mere babysitter. She was the closest to a mother I can clearly recall. She was a very old woman, quiet and reclusive, and fragile. My father knew she was struggling to get by, and she had always been fond of me anyway, so it was an arrangement which benefited us all.”

  “That’s so sweet.”

  Ivan smiles faintly. “I suppose so. And babushka made the best blintzes. I used to beg her for them. So when I made good marks in school, when I behaved myself, she rewarded me with them.”

  “What a good woman,” I say. Ivan takes my hand and kisses it.

  “One of the best I have ever known. She is the one who taught me to respect and protect women. You see, my father taught me to be a hard man, but Galina showed me how to be soft.”

  “Then I have a lot to thank her for,” I reply. Ivan nods.

  “She died when I was twelve. But she lived a very long, interesting life. She was ninety-one when she passed, you know,” he adds proudly.

  We spend the next hour or so talking and cuddling, slowly draining a bottle of wine between the two of us. By the time the bottle is empty, we are both heavy-eyed and happy. The sharp, intimidating hit man is still present in his rigid, upright posture, and in his occasional dodging glance. He is authoritative when he speaks to the restaurant staff, and his firm hand on my thigh under the table is a reminder of his strength and control over me.

  But I see now, more than ever, the genuine human being beneath it all. And I adore it.

  After Ivan pays the bill with a thick wad of cash that makes me a little dizzy to look at, he leads me out of the restaurant and down onto the street. He hails a cab and drives me home, stroking my hair and holding me close the whole way back to Brighton Beach. Somewhere along the way, I fall asleep, and when we arrive at my apartment building he lifts me out and brings me upstairs to bed. I try to wake myself up, certain that he will want to fuck me. After all, it’s his prerogative to use my body however he wants.

  But to my surprise, he merely kisses my forehead and tucks me into bed, leaving silently. For a few hours I sleep heavily and contentedly. Then there’s a knock at my door around midnight, so I blearily drag my ass out of bed and trudge out to answer it.

  When I open
the door, I see a rough-looking guy holding out a single rose with a sheet of paper wrapped around it. In my sleepy mind I can’t figure out why a flower delivery guy would be dressed like a homeless man, nor why he would make a delivery in the middle of the night. But nonetheless, I take his delivery and go back inside to examine my flower on my bed.

  Sitting cross-legged in the blankets, I set the rose on my pillow and unfurl the letter, a smile on my face. I’m certain it has to be from Ivan.

  But as I begin to read the words on the page, I can feel the blood drain from my cheeks and the smile quickly turns to gape-mouthed horror. I throw down the letter and rush to my bathroom to vomit.

  15

  Katy

  I am absolutely sick with disgust and despair.

  My bathroom has been my bedroom all night, as I lay curled up in the fetal position on the cold tile floor. I stare up at the shower, thinking bitterly about our morning tryst under the hot water yesterday, thinking about how much things have changed over the past few hours, since midnight. Since I woke up to that knock on my door.

  And that letter in my hand.

  It’s now crumpled across the floor, damp with my tears and balled up and unfurled multiple times in alternate fits of rage and denial. It can’t be true. It just cannot be.

  I’ve thrown up a few times tonight, this last night in my own apartment. I shudder as I realize that I’m supposed to move out today. I’m supposed to take all of my stuff and put it in a moving truck to drive it all over to Ivan’s place. That big transition, that culmination of months of learning to trust him a little bit, of learning bit by bit the reality of his past… it’s supposed to happen today. And this time yesterday I was over the moon about it.

  Now, I just feel nauseous.

  In fact, when my cell phone alarm goes off reminding me that the movers will be here in an hour or so, I am so overwhelmed that I get up and crawl back to the toilet to vomit again. I regret drinking so much wine and vodka with Ivan last night. But I know deep down it isn’t the alcohol making me sick.

  It’s Ivan.

  It’s what he’s done to me.

  Standing up and flushing the toilet, I trudge to the sink to splash cold water on my face, hoping it will wake me up and give me some idea of what to do now. I gasp at the freezing water and dry my face on a decorative towel, glancing over at my hollow-looking face in the mirror. There are purplish half-moons under my eyes and my cheeks are still patchy and pink from the tears I’ve shed throughout the night. I can’t seem to pull myself together.

  But I’ve got to. The hours are winding down and I’m running out of time. Because I have a strong feeling that the movers won’t be the only ones showing up at my house in a couple hours. Ivan will probably tag along to help load stuff into the trucks. To make sure I comply with the rest of his plan to control me and keep me close.

  To keep me under his thumb and blissfully oblivious to the truth.

  Anger boils up in my gut and I finally kick my ass into motion, tying my hair back in a no-nonsense knot on top of my head. I get dressed in jeans and a comfortable sweatshirt, throw a scarf around my neck, and fill a duffel bag with necessities. I slip on my sportiest sneakers, grab my cell phone, stuff the letter into my pocket, and prepare to head out.

  But before I go, I pick up the single rose which accompanied the letter and toss it in the garbage. I take one last look around my apartment, then hoist my duffel bag over my shoulder and head down the hallway, locking the door behind me.

  I know exactly where I’m going, and I don’t think anyone will be able to find me there. Not until I want them to. I load up into my car and drive a couple hours outside of town, to a small, barely notable suburb. It’s a quiet, peaceful area, far outside the 24-7 hubbub of New York City. It’s where my father used to steal away when life got too intense. He was a very hard worker, but he still needed a place to clear his head. And even when things got rough financially, he never could let go of this place.

  I finally pull up to a little cottage far back from the road, following a long, curving dirt driveway to the front of the house. It’s a very small, quaint structure with one bedroom and a little old fashioned bathroom, complete with an antique clawfoot tub and a standing mirror. This is where my father retreated anytime he needed to leave his life behind for a while. He quietly bought it soon after my mom and brother died, and nobody knew about it but him and me. Sometimes I went with him, and we would rent movies and talk about politics, history, and everything else.

  It’s a place that I strongly associate with both a crippling amount of loss, of stress, and of making peace with the horrors of the world. It’s where I need to be right now.

  I get out of the car and carry my stuff to the front door, fiddling in my purse for the key to open it. Then I fit it in the keyhole and the door creaks open with a low whine. It’s freezing cold in here, after months of being sealed up without the heat on. My teeth chattering, I hurry to the little stove that heats the house and turn it on. Almost immediately the cottage begins to warm up and feel like home again. I roll up my sleeves and walk into the bedroom, left pretty much untouched since my father’s death. Even when I did come here after he died, I made sure to sleep on the little pull-out futon instead of in this bedroom. It always felt too weird, too disrespectful to intrude upon my father’s space, even if he wasn’t around anymore. After all, this was always his hideaway — not mine.

  Until now.

  “Daddy, I’m sorry, but I really just need to lay down,” I mumble aloud, as though he can answer me and give me permission. But there’s no reply. And I just crumple onto the bed, peeling back the slightly-musty quilts and snuggling down into the pillows with my cell phone on the bed beside me. I reach under the sheets to pull the crumpled letter out of my pocket and look over it again, now that I’m in a safer place. It’s quiet enough here that maybe I can gain a little perspective and figure out my next move.

  It reads:

  ‘Dear Katherine Foss,

  I have information pertinent to your business. It has come to my attention that you are fraternizing with a very dangerous man. You know this. You may have even accepted the nature of his profession. You have learned to care for him, maybe even love him. But you have been deceived. You don’t know what he has done. And if you have any respect for the man you once called father, then you will cease all contact with him immediately. Ivan Dragomirov is the man who killed him. He was not ordered to do so. It was not a sanctioned hit from the Bratva. Dragomirov killed your father for personal pleasure. If you want justice for your father’s death, then you will turn his killer over to the NYPD. Consider this a warning from a friend. Act quickly, before he suspects something and kills you, too.’

  I feel tears stinging in my eyes and I hastily wipe them away, once again crumpling up the letter and dropping it over the side of the bed. The letter isn’t signed, so I have no idea who sent it to me. I assume it must be someone else from the mafia, since the writer seems to know a lot about the inner workings of it. Someone who knows Ivan and probably knew my father, too. Anyone who speaks of justice for my father must be an ally, I think.

  Then again, Ivan himself swore to me to find my father’s killer.

  I sit up angrily in bed and cradle my face in my hands. To think that I allowed myself to believe him! To trust him! I let him lure me into a false sense of security, let him woo me!

  And he really did woo me, I realize now. Despite everything I knew about his line of work, I truly cared for him. And where has it gotten me? All this time I have been sleeping with the killer of my father! I feel so dirty and disgusting. I have betrayed my own father for the sake of money and lust. How could I have been so foolish? All along I knew it had to be too good to be true, but I ignored my instincts. Well, now I am in a far worse position than I was before.

  For who knows how long, I lay in the bed, my knees curled to my chest, alternating between bitter tears of heartbreak and anger so intense it makes me feel physically h
ot. I lay paralyzed with indecision, with fear, as it dawns on me that the warning in the anonymous letter might be true. If Ivan goes to my apartment to help with the movers and finds me missing, he’ll immediately look for me elsewhere. He’ll go to the Amber Room, I’m sure. He’ll call Natalie, Ashton, Charles — anyone who might know my whereabouts.

  With a cold, shaking hand I reach for my phone. He’s going to call me soon, I’m sure.

  And what will I do?

  Before I can overthink it, I go ahead and shut off my phone. That way, he’ll just get my voicemail over and over again, and there’s no way he can track my phone while it’s off. Of course, I have no way of knowing for certain that he would even attempt that, anyway. But at this point, I have to rethink everything I thought I knew about him. It shouldn’t surprise me at all if he has been tracking my location using my cell phone signal. After all, he has always been able to find me easily, seeming to show up unannounced wherever I was. And I never really questioned it, as his presence was always welcome.

  But I have to remember that now he is a hostile presence. And he has all the resources of the mafia to keep tabs on me and follow my every move. I take the battery out of my phone and throw it across the room. Now I’m starting to get a little paranoid.

  What if he finds me here?

  I mean, as far as I know he has no clue that this cottage even exists, much less where it’s located and that it belongs to me. I have tried to keep it a secret from everyone — even Natalie. So even if he interrogates her… she won’t be able to tell him where I am. Oh God. I hope he doesn’t interrogate my friends.

  The writer of the letter is right. Once I disappear from Ivan’s sight he will start to suspect me. He will become angry. I’ve caught glimpses of that anger, and I absolutely do not want to be on the receiving end. I never thought I would be. He always reserved some modicum of generosity and tenderness for me. But only when I followed orders like a good girl.