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

by Alexis Abbott

  He curses and kicks at my bad leg, sending me to one knee, and we grapple. I feel his hands around my neck, but I drive my knife into his side, and his grip slackens just enough for me to push him off me. I get to my feet and make for the stairs, but he tackles me, and I hit the stairs, turning over and trying to get his head between my thighs to choke him, but he’s too quick, and I stand quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid a hard punch to the face that nearly dazes me. My hand goes out and grips his face, driving it hard into the wall behind him, then again, and again, and blood shows where I’ve struck him.

  Finally, his grip slackens, and I let him crumple to the ground.

  And I hear a blast from below deck.

  My body turns as if forcing itself through a dream, and I see the opening of the deck above me, the dark night’s sky just within my reach, and I just barely taste the salty air when fire consumes my world, and everything goes dark.

  20

  Rosie

  He looks so peaceful, lying on the hospital cot. His chest calmly rises and falls with strained breaths, his hard, handsome features softer than usual. He could almost be comfortably asleep, if not for the IV drip connected to his arm, and the bandages around his head, chest, and leg. I think back to the last time I heard his voice, confidently murmuring I love you, Rosie. Tears spring to my eyes as I wonder darkly whether he will ever wake up to say it again. There’s so much I want to say to him, so many things I want us to do. But now I can only hope that his stormy gray eyes will open one more time. The doctors have been very attentive, and at my insistence, they have been keeping me in the loop more than I think they normally would.

  It’s been thirty-six hours since my phone rang and I received the terrible news: Konstantin was involved in an accident, and he’s in critical condition. I had been sitting at home reading parenting books and trying not to think about the fact that the man I love was walking directly into danger. As the emergency room technician explained to me, Konstantin was fished out of the water after a massive explosion, the very yacht upon which we first met having sunken into the deep. The Bull has multiple injuries — two bullet wounds in his upper chest and left leg, second-degree burns down the right side of his torso, and a massive concussion which has left him more or less comatose.

  As soon as the technician finished talking, my whole world started to spin. I dropped the phone and dashed for the bathroom to vomit, trying desperately not to pass out. I had to hold it together, for Konstantin’s sake. And for our baby.

  So I hurriedly jumped into the car and headed over to the hospital where Konstantin was being treated, tears blurring my vision as I drove. For the first several hours they would not let me see him, as he had been wheeled off to the emergency surgical unit to have the bullets removed from his flesh. And after that, they moved him to the burn unit, where he was under close surveillance for a few hours, as the doctors feared that his vulnerable, burned skin might have been exposed to some unpleasant microbes in the less-than-pristine water of the harbor. Luckily, he was not in the water for very long before he was discovered and rescued by an observant early morning fisherman, only moments before the cops and EMTs arrived.

  His burns were not terribly severe, only affecting a strip of his torso down his right side, and because he was so quickly brought to the hospital, the doctors were able to clean and bandage his burns without any issues. A nurse in the burn unit reassured me that his skin would likely heal fairly quickly, with only a slight chance of scarring. Of course, I couldn’t care less about the scarring — I just want him to wake up and be himself again.

  But unfortunately, the force of the explosion hurled him about fifteen feet, causing him to hit his head on the hull of the yacht — hard. That is the blow that knocked him out and has kept him barely responsive ever since. Over this time, I have not left the hospital once, even to go home and shower. I’ve simply pulled my hair back into a messy bun and spent every minute by Konstantin’s side, alternating between crying, talking softly to him, and dozing off only to wake up suddenly, in a frenzy. Even my subconscious mind won’t let me rest, caught up in worrying about the man of my dreams and this living nightmare.

  One of the nurses, a kind-eyed older woman called Hattie, has checked in on me periodically over the course of her thirty-six hour shift. She is always so gentle and upbeat when adjusting Konstantin’s bandages and IV, making small talk with me about the baby and what our plans are for the future. As if nothing is wrong. Like Konstantin is just taking a long nap. At first, I was almost annoyed by Hattie’s optimism, misinterpreting her aura as just not taking the situation seriously, thinking she was just trying to make light of Konstantin’s injuries. But I understand now that she’s doing this for my sake, to try and keep my spirits up. I know she’s just trying to make me feel better and remind me that there is still hope, at least for us.

  The Italian mobster who was on the boat with Konstantin has been in a similar state, a floor down from us in the same hospital. I will confess that when one of the younger, less experienced nurses accidentally let slip that the bastard was here, too, I was sorely tempted to go down there and smother him with a pillow or something. It’s his fault Konstantin is lying in a hospital bed. It’s his fault our life together, once so bright and full of promise, is collapsing around me now.

  I clench my jaw bitterly, shaking my head as though to banish these grim thoughts. I know Konstantin wouldn’t want me feeling this way toward anyone. He loves me for my gentleness, my compassion. But it’s difficult to feel anything but sour hatred for that man a floor below us. I do take a miniscule amount of satisfaction in knowing that his own condition is worsening. He’s in a far darker predicament than Konstantin, his prognosis severely stunted by his terrible injuries. From what I can tell, it is unlikely that he’ll survive the night.

  I’m not too broken up about that, to be honest.

  But it does terrify me to know that the man dying downstairs went through essentially the same horrific experience that Konstantin did. They have similar injuries, even if the Italian man has it a little worse. I keep imagining that the same fate will befall the Bull — that he will die in a hospital bed, too. I will have to kiss my beautiful dream goodbye before it’s even gotten a chance to really begin. I lean forward and rest my chin on Konstantin’s right arm gently, careful not to put too much weight on it. In addition to the burns, gunshots, and concussion, his gorgeous body is marred with horrible bruises and lacerations caused by shrapnel from the explosion.

  I look up at his serene expression, willing him desperately to wake up. To look at me and smile the way he used to. It still feels totally surreal, to see this man who is so powerful and strong, so full of life… reduced to a still, marble statue. But I refuse to think of him as empty just yet. The man I love is still in there, and even if the rest of the world eventually gives up on him, I will never stop waiting for his spark to ignite once more.

  “Come back to me, baby,” I murmur tearfully, lightly stroking his limp hand. “I miss you too much.” There’s nothing, not the slightest hint of response from his face or body. It breaks my heart to see him this way, but I have to be strong.

  Finally, the urge to go to the bathroom overwhelms my desire to stay by his side, and I reluctantly tear myself away to go to the restroom down the hall from his hospital room. On my way back, I stretch my legs by walking over to the nurses’ station to talk with Hattie. She looks up from her chart and gives me a cheerful, encouraging smile.

  “Good to see you up and about, Miss Rosie,” she chirps.

  I nod. “Yeah. Apparently staring at him isn’t going to wake him up any faster.”

  She clucks her tongue sympathetically. “It may not seem like it, but I know deep inside that pretty head of his, he knows you’re there. He appreciates it, even if he can’t show you that right now.”

  “I hope so,” I reply, smiling half-heartedly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tall, olive-skinned man in a lab coat stroll into Konstantin�
��s room. He looks a little taller than the doctor who’s been checking in on us most frequently, but I chalk it up to my not thinking clearly at the moment.

  I gesture down the hall toward him and say, “Oh, Dr. Duvall just went in there. I thought he wasn’t coming back for another couple of hours. I hope nothing is wrong.”

  Hattie furrows her brows at me in confusion. “Dr. Duvall is down in the surgical unit for the next few hours, assisting with an appendectomy.”

  “Then who just walked into…?” I trail off, my blood running cold.

  Without wasting another second, I bolt down the hall to Konstantin’s hospital room and fumble to throw the door open. It’s locked.

  “Hattie! Help! Somebody locked himself in there with my boyfriend! Help!” I scream, and she rushes over with a set of keys. “Come on, come on,” I mumble, my heart pounding fiercely in my chest as she fiddles with the lock. Finally, the door pops open and I leap in front of the sweet old nurse so that she doesn’t go in before me, unarmed and unsuspecting.

  There’s a man hovering over Konstantin’s still body, a long, ominous syringe in his hand, aimed directly at a vein in the Bull’s neck. The man looks up at me and I recognize him instantly. It’s the man from the yacht. The one who sold me, who made us fuck at gunpoint.

  Anton.

  And now he’s here trying to kill the man I love.

  “Don’t you dare touch him!” I scream, and to my horror he simply smiles. Hattie has come stumbling into the room behind me and Anton whips out a gun from a pocket in his white lab coat, aiming it over my shoulder at the nurse, who shrieks in fear.

  “Get the hell out or I will shoot the old bitch,” Anton snarls, cocking his gun.

  “Oh my god,” Hattie breathes, frozen in panic.

  Anton uses the gun to gesture toward the door. “Or better yet, shut and lock that door. If anyone else comes in here, I will start shooting. But if you both behave, I’ll give you front row seats to the execution of the Bull. What fun.”

  Hattie hesitates, and Anton shouts, “Do it now! Lock the damn door!”

  She obeys and quickly returns to huddle behind me, trembling. Anton grins.

  He turns back to Konstantin, preparing to prick him with the needle.

  “Please, don’t! I will give you anything you want. Whatever you want. Please, just don’t hurt him!” I wail, stepping forward.

  “Spoken like a true whore,” Anton laughs. “But you know what I think? The only thing better than a live slut is a dead one.” He holds up the gun, aiming it at my forehead.

  Just as he is about to pull the trigger, there is a sudden rush of movement from behind him as Konstantin reaches out and grabs the villain’s outstretched arm, causing the gun to go off, the bullet lodging itself in the wall. Anton cries out in anger and surprise, and before I can even think about Konstantin’s miraculous awakening, I dive for the syringe, which has fallen to the floor in the struggle. Anton wraps his hands around Konstantin’s throat and starts to squeeze. Konstantin is weakened from his injuries, and a feat he would normally be able to pull off with ease is too difficult for him now.

  With Hattie screaming and cowering in the corner, Konstantin and Anton entangled in a battle of strength and will, I instinctively pick up the syringe and jab it into the side of Anton’s neck. He shouts in agony and horror, immediately relinquishing his grasp and stumbling backward into the wall, yanking the needle out and tossing it aside, his eyes bugging out.

  I rush to Konstantin’s side, embracing him with hysterical sobs. Anton sinks slowly to the linoleum floor, his body giving out under the powerful toxin I injected into his bloodstream. Hattie flings the door open and bolts away just as a crowd of technicians and police come thundering into the room to secure the scene.

  But everything happening around us is just background noise — the events unfolding in another world entirely, as nothing else matters but the two of us. Konstantin kisses me desperately, stroking my hair, my face, murmuring “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  21

  Konstantin

  To my advisors’ chagrin, they’ve been unable to get me to dress like a pakhan. I can stomach the long meetings and constant calls, but I draw the line at thick, heavy suits with too much padding.

  So it’s in my usual gunmetal-gray suit that I fold my hands over one another as I sit at the end of a long, broad, mahogany table, the smell of smoke filling the air as the other leaders of the New York Bratva sit around, their eyes on me. When I speak, they listen. This is the respect I’ve seized in my time in America, and I will not let it go to waste.

  Some of the men in attendance are emboldened by my presence, eager to comply with the changes me and so many like-minded men in our organization have striven for lately. Others look less at ease. I will deal with them in time.

  “As for the stragglers, I can personally confirm,” continues one of the leaders from the Brooklyn area, “that the last of the men who architected your arrival in Brighton as a bid for power have been dealt with, sir.”

  I nod to him, and he sits back down. “Let that be a message to our enemies. We, the Bratva, are united in our purpose, and the protection we extend will not be impeded by the ambitions of vermin.” I have made it known that the names of the traitors are not to be spoken at these meetings, their names stricken from the annals of our society. It’s a silly custom, but one that my new advisors suggested strongly, if only for a show of tradition.

  “There are rumors,” one of the leaders from Midtown speaks up, “that some of the accomplices who have helped our vision become a reality have fallen off the radar. I’d like to see these men duly rewarded for their service.”

  He speaks of Andrei, I know, as well as other skilled men who have been a part of this rather violent change in the status quo. “The men you speak of are under little obligation to reveal themselves,” I respond, waving my hand to silence him. “But they will be honored nonetheless.” I do not know whether the man who speaks does so out of genuine loyalty or a desire to root out men like Andrei, and the subtle glance I shoot one of my spies in the room tells him that finding this out is his next task.

  “And what of the Italians?” says another higher-up, an older man who I know has deep ties outside the Bratva. “What do we make of them in light of their recent transgressions?”

  “We must expect retaliation for the unfortunate death of Don Emilio,” I say, standing up and striding around the room. “I do not know how deeply their entrenchment in the slave trade runs, but we must be cautious. If this is a matter we need to see to further, a light touch is preferable to open warfare with the mafia. I expect eyes and ears to be dispatched to Little Italy to answer that question.”

  “Pah!” comes a voice from the back of the room, “Now you preach caution? Where was that when you blew up a motorcade on the interstate to prove your point?”

  A glare I cast across the room silences the man, and I let the pause linger in the room for a moment before I proceed. “There are times for peace and times for war,” I say slowly, folding my hands behind my back. “There will be war if it is necessary, but there has been enough Russian blood spilled in the past months to merit caution.”

  The man gives a single, rueful nod of consent.

  “But the reach of those who would carry on trafficking extends beyond New York,” I continue, unfazed. “For this, an opportunity has presented itself. I’ve received word of motorcycle riders roving up and down the seaboard, a group of men and women based out of New Jersey, the sons and daughters of immigrants from the motherland. Reach out to these people, propose a friendship,” I say with a gesture to those leaders of the southernmost reaches of the state, and they nod. “We will have more to discuss once these bridges have been built. I bid you all good day.”

  There’s an exchange of farewells, and within a few minutes, the remaining men in the room are shuffling out of the room or talking amongst one another.

  Before I leave, I take a moment to open a
card that had arrived addressed to me. It was from a private investigator I hadn’t deal with before, and had piqued my curiosity, but business had to be handled first.

  What was inside surprised me, though.

  His daughter has been found.

  Simple. Straight forward. But there was only one person it must’ve been about, and I feel a sense of satisfaction that the man who helped me take out that slimy politician has found his lost daughter. It eases my mood, but as I head towards the exit, I’m followed by one of my spies. He catches up to me as I step into the evening air outside.

  “My pakhan,” he addresses me in a whisper, “I’ve confirmed your suspicions of the smuggling ring upstate.”

  I nod, silencing him. He speaks of a concern I had regarding one of my alleged new allies who has been flirting with the Irish mob to resume activity under my nose in the city. Unfortunately for him, I pay my spies far better.

  “Then you know what I would have you do, my friend,” I say, clasping his shoulder momentarily without looking at him, and he nods. A moment later, he’s walking away as if we’ve never spoken, as if I hadn’t just ordered the deaths of several influential men.

  But even as the weight of responsibility feels heavy on me, I feel it melting away as I see my Rosie waiting for me by the car down below, holding what looks like a couple of hot dogs for us to share.

  “Looks like you had a fun meeting,” she teases as a smile spreads across her lips, and I lean in to kiss her before accepting the food and raising an eyebrow at it.

  “If we develop a taste for these things, we’ll be dead before we can even start planning the wedding,” I remark with a coy smile, and she giggles as I rub her swollen belly with my free hand.