Hitman - the Series: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Collection (Alexis Abbott's Hitmen #0)

by Alexis Abbott

  To my surprise, another climax crashes through me and this time I can’t stop myself from squealing and collapsing into Andrei’s waiting arms, utterly exhausted. He carries me easily, as though I’m nothing but a bouquet of flowers in his arms. Through my spinning, hazy vision I can see us walking through a door into the bedroom. Andrei cradles me gently onto the bed, my tired limbs sinking thankfully into the plush sheets.

  The last thing I remember is the feeling of his lips gently kissing my forehead and his soft, low growl: “Welcome home.”

  7

  Andrei

  I smooth her hair as I watch her start to drift off to sleep, and I lie there beside her for a while, watching her practically glow. I watch her chest rise and fall, and within a few minutes, the rhythm becomes slow, steady, and peaceful, the bliss of her first time written on her smiling face as she snuggles into the blankets.

  Quietly, I roll out of bed and make my way out of the bedroom, careful not to wake Cassie as I creep to the walk-in closet adjacent to the master bedroom. As satisfying as this night has been, it is not yet over with.

  I have a job tonight, and specifically, a ballet to attend.

  I have my suit for tonight pressed and hanging in plain sight in the closet, along with a pair of shoes and white gloves. All nice, but not too nice — certainly nothing I’d wear out to a public appearance, but tonight is a special circumstance. I slip the whole outfit on in a matter of seconds, quiet as a shadow. I’ve become skilled at changing my clothes quickly and quietly. Jeans and a leather jacket might be my usual duds, but they won’t get me into a high-class performance in Manhattan.

  Before I leave, I stick my head into the room to look at Cassie one more time. She’s laying on her side now, curling up around one of the pillows on the bed, a smile still written across her face. I see my shadow cast over her from the faint light behind me, and before long, I close the door and step away.

  On my way out, I grab a small briefcase containing my only two tools for the evening: a thin metal wire and a valuable bottle of Pétrus wine, straight from Bordeaux.

  A few moments later, I’m out the back door and pulling out of the driveway, silent as night. My car makes its way through the inky-black streets of NYC towards Manhattan.

  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have agreed to take any work on my wedding night, impromptu as this one was, but the hit that I’m to execute tonight is something of a personal matter.

  Back when I was growing up, the city streets in Yakutsk offered very little comfort to homeless teenagers in the dead of winter. Not long before I found myself in the care of the Bratva, I found myself facing certain death under just those circumstances. More than a few boys had frozen to death out there, and that night, I was sure I was going to be one of them.

  A kindly woman took pity on me. Her name was Mariya, and she had a child daughter named Sonya. Mariya gave me food and shelter for the night, and the next day, she sent me to find a man who she said would take care of me, give me a future — that man turned out to be a friend of the Bratva, and my career began there.

  But I did not forget Mariya and her little Sonya. I stayed in touch, and she would write me endless letters about her beloved daughter. Sonya was a talented dancer; even though Mariya was a food peddler with little money when I met her, she prospered and saved enough to move to Moscow, eventually putting her daughter into ballet.

  Sonya must have been rather talented indeed, because I learned that before long, she was discovered by one Jean Bouchard, a world-famous ballet coach on tour there. He offered to take little Sonya, then nine years old, under his wing, dancing across Europe and America to live out her dreams.

  This offer was a dream come true for the both of them, and they readily accepted. For a long time, until very recently, all I knew of Sonya was that she was sending money back home, and that she seemed very happy.

  Then I received a more urgent, discrete message from Mariya.

  It had been two years since she had heard from her daughter. Two years of silence after regular contact. The money was still coming, but never a word. She started asking questions, probing friends of friends for information about her daughter, now seventeen years old.

  It reached her through the grapevine that Sonya’s dream had become a nightmare.

  Ever since taking her from home, Jean had been monstrous to her. The training regimen for a ballerina already pushes the boundaries of what is healthy for the human body, but Jean pushed Sonya many times harder. Jean controlled everything Sonya did; what she ate, when and how she slept, how she breathed, carried herself in public, spoke. She had no friends — she knew only her training.

  As Sonya got older, it only got worse. Jean had hospital bills quietly covered up, hiding traces of his prized dancer’s malnutrition. When she was fifteen, he’s started her on drugs to keep her lively and active for her non-stop training and increasingly prestigious performances.

  I did some research of my own on Jean, and this all seemed to be in the routine for him. More than one of his previous protégés had ended their careers broken, sick, or worse, and there were rumors that Jean could get too personal for comfort with his trainees.

  Mariya was heartbroken to learn all this, but her sorrow was only matched by her fury. When she reached out to me, she sent me every last kopeck of the money Sonya had been sending her. It was all of her savings. She wanted Jean to pay for this.

  In truth, the money was but a fraction of what such a high-profile target was worth, but to this woman, I owed my life.

  And I would pay her with someone else’s.

  I pull up at the Metropolitan Opera House as droves of people in expensive attire were filing in, laughing and chattering to each other. I make my way around all of them, heading for one of the employee entrances. I won’t be questioned thoroughly until I hit a checkpoint — I’m dressed in the exact outfit as the serving staff.

  Before getting out of my car, I tuck the wire into my coat pocket and take out the bottle of wine. I had to have it in place just before the start of the performance.

  As I approach the entrance, a guard nods to me as I flash my fake ID badge. Workers come in and out constantly, so it’s rare that a security guard at a place like this can spot a new face with any certainty. If anything, I’m just another late server.

  I keep the bottle of wine low at my side, not conspicuously being hidden, but not in plain sight either.

  The crowd is bustling by the time I make it to the hallways. I know the staff routes well enough by now — I’ve had plenty of time to research this place. Ordinarily, I would be loath to perform a hit at such a public venue as this, but Mariya was very clear in her instructions; Jean has been pushing Sonya to the brink of death for tonight’s performance, and she wants to return the favor. She wants him to know why this is happening.

  Yet even as I try to stay focused on my objective, as I see the droves of beautiful, wealthy people milling about busily, many of them glowing with laughter and anticipation for the show, I can’t help but think back to the way Cassie looked on my bed, pristine in the dim light.

  As I gently push past a number of other servers on my way to the private boxes, the strangest thoughts plague my mind. I feel like I’d enjoy taking Cassie to a place like this — not a hit, but to a classy show, a taste of the New York culture she’s been deprived of all her life.

  I have to push the thoughts away as I approach my target’s location.

  Jean Bouchard enjoys watching the fruits of his work as much as he enjoys tormenting his dancers. Rather than spending the performance behind the stage, he prefers to watch from one of the most expensive boxes in the theater. As I approached the box, I flashed my ID card once again for the guard posted at the door, who nods at me after seeing me hold up my bottle of wine significantly.

  “Best hurry, you won’t be able to get in after curtain,” the guard warns, and I bob my head in acknowledgement, preferring not to speak if I can avoid it.

  I step in and
see Jean chatting with a couple of wealthy-looking women seated on either side of him. Jean is a thin man of towering height, with a shaven face and bald head that accentuates his already intense black eyebrows. An alien-looking figure, to be sure, but there’s an eerie cruelty to his smile as he fakes a laugh at someone’s joke that reminds me what kind of man I’m dealing with.

  “Monsieur Bouchard,” I politely interrupt them, and the world-famous coach arches an eyebrow and gives me a vaguely annoyed look. I hold up the wine and address him in his native French, with an accent I’ve rehearsed a thousand times. “Complements of the theater, a bottle of Pétrus, for your enjoyment. We’re honored to have you this evening.”

  At the sound of his language, his expression eases a bit, and he manages something like a sincere smile as he replies in kind. “I see. Return my compliments. You are dismissed.” He waves me off without a tip, and I bow my head politely, retreating out the door.

  All I need do now is wait.

  I step out the doors and make my way to the vicinity of the closest bathroom. The Bordeaux wine is authentic, and it’s a favorite of Jean’s, but I treated it with a potent, tasteless diuretic before resealing and delivering it. In a place like this, at a performance, I have very slim chances of getting Jean alone. During a performance like this, however, it’s more unlikely that the guests will be taking frequent bathroom breaks, so the restrooms should be relatively empty.

  And as much as Jean will want to watch his star pupil on stage, he won’t have much choice but to answer the call of nature.

  Within a few minutes, the music starts, and as I stand by one of the doorways to the regular rows, I can see the performers begin the show.

  It’s Swan Lake. I chuckle to myself. A fine Russian ballet was appropriate for a job like this. As the ballet gets underway, my eyes are torn between watching for my target and watching the stage.

  Before long, I see Sonya, bounding across the stage with the grace of a deer. It’s remarkable to see how she’s grown — she was a tiny child when I saw her last. Then again, I was but a teenager at the time.

  Her movements are effortless, as if the music is at her command rather than the other way around. Through it all, I can see something missing from her expression. There’s a tinge of emotionlessness in her eyes, a lack of the fire I saw in her when she was younger.

  As I watch her carry out a flawless performance in sadness, my mind wanders again back to Cassie, thinking about her background. Cassie has all the grace in the world, all the beauty of an angel, and all the innocence of a lamb, but how many times did I see her looking to be on the verge of tears at her own wedding? How much did her parents put her through before she ended up on that auction stage?

  Cassie tasted so sweet, and I know the lust within me craves, demands to have my face between her thighs again and again. I wanted to ruin that perfect angel, but I can’t shake the thought of how much of her personhood was taken from her to make her what she is, just like Sonya.

  Footsteps down the hall snap me out of my trance, and I realize, embarrassed, that I’d let nearly an hour pass watching the show. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jean’s form disappearing into the bathroom.

  Without missing another beat, I start off after him.

  The bathroom is long and luxurious, with mirrors all along the wall with the sinks. The lone sound of urination tells me that I’m fortunate enough to be alone with Jean. Quietly, I slip out my wire and keep it tight in one hand, moving to one of the sink mirrors to pretend to be adjusting my collar.

  Jean finishes relieving himself and goes to wash his hands, the water creating some white noise in the long bathroom. As he does, I see him glance over at me.

  “Fine wine,” he remarks curtly, “a rare thing in this country.”

  “Very,” I reply, chuckling lightly and stepping in his direction as if headed to the urinal myself, “rare as a talented young dancer from Yakutsk.”

  In the mirror, I see Jean’s brow furrow as he digests what I’ve said, and in half a breath, I bring the garroting wire around his neck and yank back tight.

  “I have a message from a loving mother,” I growl into his ear in my lightly accented English as the wire digs into the skin of his neck, and I see him try to shout something as he watches his face turning purple in the mirror, arms flailing uselessly.

  I pull the wire tighter around his neck much harder than usual as the thought of Cassie in Sonya’s place flashes into my mind. Jean’s body is lithe, but he’s out of practice. I was expecting more of a fight from him, and after only a short time, I feel his body go limp, eyes rolling up into the back of his head as I let him gently to the ground on the bathroom floor.

  With white-gloved hands, I drag the strangled man to the handicap bathroom stall and set him up on the toilet. That should buy me all the time I need to slip out of the building. I lock the door on the inside and crawl out under the door.

  I adjust my tie, checking myself over for blood in the mirror. I’m clean. There’s always a certain weight off my shoulders just after the job is complete. After that point, all I need to worry about is the getaway. After checking over the sinks for stray hairs I might have dropped, I start to head for the bathroom door.

  Then I hear a sound that makes my blood curdle.

  A choked voice croaks something out in French from the bathroom door. “Brother...murder... the Russians…”

  As soon as I hear the voice, I sprint back to the stall, sliding under the door with practiced dexterity, my heart pounding a thousand beats a minute.

  To my horror, Jean is holding a cell phone to his ear, his face still swollen and blood trickling out his mouth as he gets a message out, bloodshot eyes staring straight into me.

  Springing to my feet, I deliver a swift strike to his neck that ends the last sliver of life in his cold heart, and the phone clatters to the ground.

  I hear a voice crying something from the other line in alarm. “Jean?! Jean! What’s happening?” Before another word comes out, I crush the phone under my heel.

  Shit.

  I crouch down and put my fingers to Jean’s neck, checking his pulse. Nothing. Crawling out from under the stall again, I make my way out the door and take a walk that feels far longer than it is down the stairs and out the doors of the Metropolitan Opera House, knowing that every second I lingered now put me closer to being caught.

  Some time later, I’m back at my apartment, slipping in as quietly as I exited.

  My heart calmed itself long ago; I’d had to learn to become adept at maintaining composure even in the midst of disasters like that. But while I manage to keep panic away, the fury I feel at myself for making such a slip-up is unmitigated.

  One more second, and I’d have been out of that room. Jean would have survived, and I would be exposed.

  I recognized the name on the phone Jean had uttered his last words into. It was his brother, a lesser known but well-off gentleman back in France. I’d have to do some careful research on him, but the name alone doesn’t send off any alarms. But no matter what, when the investigation starts, the police will have a lead.

  I’m going to have to grease some palms in the NYPD to take the heat off me.

  As I slip out of the ridiculous outfit I had to don for the evening, I stare out the windows in the living room, watching the city skyline in the distance.

  Does being so cold really define my skill?

  I was distracted by the thoughts of the bed I shared with Cassie earlier today, that much was without question. But putting that man down after he had been allowed to victimize a woman not at all unlike my new wife, knowing that I was saving Sonya’s life by my actions...I felt a unique purpose in executing Jean Bouchard that was new to me entirely.

  I’ve defined my career by my coldness. Just a killer from Siberia, I’ve been a lone attack dog for so long. But how long can I be so detached? How long before I’m called upon to take another life like the one I spared in the beach house?

  Th
e last of my clothes stripped from my body, I quietly get into bed alongside Cassie. Unconsciously, she presses herself into me as I take up space on the bed, her body warming my side as I get comfortable.

  I pause for a moment, then slip my arm around her, and she murmurs quietly in her sleep.

  No. I can’t be cold forever.

  I cannot continue as a mere killing machine when there are men alive in the world of the kind that would sell women like cattle. Who would push them to the limits of their lives for prestige.

  Who would buy a young woman like Cassie.

  My hand clenches around the sheets briefly as I remind myself of my own complicity, and I glance at the outline of Cassie in the dark.

  I can tell myself I’m better than some other dreg all I want, but I still bought this woman. So if I am to be her husband, I’m going to bring her every pleasure I can afford her. If her sweetness was what affected my work so dramatically, I will make it grow and thrive.

  And if I’m truly sick of working for the lowest of the low in this city, maybe this fire will let me bring some justice to those who have it coming.

  8

  Cassie

  A sliver of fading moonlight through the lightly billowing curtains falls across my face, waking me up sometime before dawn. Once again, my half-asleep brain expects me to be in my twin bed back in upstate New York, waiting for my mother to knock on my door and get me up to make breakfast. But I don’t hear anything but the constant hum of life from the city streets several stories down. Even in the near-total darkness, my eyes begin to adjust to the lack of light. I glance sidelong at the curtained window and see the faintest glow of moonlight mingled with neon lights and sleepless billboards, night-shift workers working by lamplight through wide, executive windows. Then my eyes turn to the space beside me in the massive bed,