“So I came back and I’ve been trying to run the club alone ever since. I don’t want to let my dad’s dream die, even if he did. The Amber Room is really all I have left of him, and if I can keep his dream alive then it’s almost like I can keep his memory alive, too. And I just keep thinking that if only I’d stayed home like a good daughter, he wouldn’t have died. Maybe I could have done something to prevent it, to save him—”
Ivan puts a finger to my lips and shakes his head. “You were not your father’s keeper, Katy. Remember that. Dark things happen when we are not looking, and you could not have stayed here forever just waiting for it. That is no life.”
I hang my head and blink back the tears in my eyes. I have to stay strong. I’m tougher than this. Get it together, Katy!
“I only wish I had known you then,” Ivan continues thoughtfully. “But I was not even in America at that time. I was in Russia.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise, and he adds, “I was in prison, specifically.”
“Russian prison?” I ask, wiggling closer. “What for?”
“For nearly beating a man to death.”
My mouth drops open. “N-nearly?” I manage to croak.
“Yes. I would have killed him if that had been the mission. But no, I wanted him to live, as an example to his peers of what can happen if a man fucks with a member of the mafia family. He was a very bad man, Katy.”
“What did he do? Who is he?”
Ivan heaves a sigh. “Well, let me start from the beginning. I was here in Brighton Beach when my superior informed me of a mission back in the motherland. My boss’s daughter, Yekaterina, he was worried for her safety. She had fallen out of contact with her father, and he wanted me to find her. So I returned to Russia for the first time since I was sixteen years old.”
“And did you find her?” I ask.
He nods gravely. “Yes, mishka. It took me nearly a week, because she was in a hospital, under a false name — the Russian version of a Jane Doe. She was unconscious for the first few days after I found her, but I waited. I sat by her bedside for three long days until she finally woke up. I comforted her, told her I was sent by her father, who was very worried. She confessed to me that she had been working as a prostitute to make ends meet, and that her last customer had abused her greatly.”
“Poor thing!” I gasp.
“Yes,” Ivan agrees. “She was in very bad shape, mishka. The man really, ah, what is the phrase? He did quite a number on her.”
“What did you do then?”
“Well, at first she did not want to tell me the man’s name. She was very, very afraid, you see. And with good reason. He is an extremely powerful man in Russia, the owner of a large and influential company, and she knew it was dangerous to cross him. But after assuring her that I would keep her safe, she gave me his name. And I found him that very night, while she slept in her hospital bed. I found him, and I hurt him. For every blow he inflicted on Yekaterina, I inflicted ten upon him. I wanted him to suffer as she suffered — only worse. Even the lowest man knows that it is unforgivable to harm a woman or a child, and I had to teach him that lesson myself.”
“How did you get caught?”
“I dared to let him live. I wanted him to walk down the streets covered in bruises and blood and have all of his wealthy, powerful neighbors know exactly what he was being punished for, so that anyone who saw him would also learn his lesson: that to lay a hurtful hand on a woman is the most evil act a man can commit,” Ivan says firmly, determination glowing in his dark blue eyes.
I have never been so enamored of anyone as I am of him in this moment.
After a moment, he continues, “So like a coward, he turned me into the police. Because he has such power, the Russian government gave me a harsh sentence, and so I wasted a long time in prison.”
“And then you came back here?” I ask.
“Da. My associates, they sent me back the very day I was released, angry that once again I had drawn police attention to their business. But upon my return, my boss was very pleased. He promoted me, gave me more freedom than ever before. I had truly proven myself a real asset to the mafia.”
Ivan leans forward and presses a kiss to my lips. “So you see, as long as you are under my protection, no harm will come to you.”
I give him a big smile and I can feel myself blushing despite myself. “Thank you. For everything.”
“And I swear to you, Katy, I will find out who killed your father. I will find the murdering coward and make him pay with his life for what he has done.”
It’s a shocking and — in its own way — sweet proclamation. Still, I tell him softly, “If you find him, please don’t kill him. I don’t want an eye for an eye. Instead, I want him to be held accountable for his actions. I want the world to know what he has done to my family. And besides, I don’t want you to risk your own life trying to do this for me. Promise me that you will simply turn him over to the police, if you find him?”
“When I find him,” Ivan corrects. “And yes. If it is what you desire, then I shall allow the vile slug to live.”
“Thank you,” I reply, and kiss his fingers delicately.
With that, we both rise and get dressed. Night has fallen by now, and it’s time to go home. Ivan hails a car and we ride back to Brighton Beach in the dark, my eyes drooping with exhaustion. As we roll down the neon-lit streets and shadowy back streets of New York City, I feel Ivan reach over and take my hand. I slump against his broad shoulder and drift off to sleep.
When we arrive in front of my apartment building, Ivan tells the driver to wait for him, and he all but carries me upstairs to my home. He lays me in my bed, presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, and the last thing I can remember before I succumb to sleep is his whisper of “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
12
Ivan
I wish I could say there were two me’s. One, the tender man, who looks out for his woman at all costs. Who loves with all his heart and gives with both hands open.
The other, a cold blooded killer.
But that would be a cop out. The kind of flowery garbage some soft-skinned shit behind a desk would say to excuse himself of all the wrong-doing he’s caused. A way to fire thousands of workers just before Christmas, or order the deaths of innocents, then head on home with a clear conscience.
My conscience is never clean.
I’m not two men in one body, I’m just a man. And like the countless men before me who did awful things in the name of a cause, I’ll live with that dirty conscience by pouring my heart into the bosom of some soft woman.
My heart, but not my confessions. She can never know what I’ve done. I couldn’t bear to see the reflection of that monster in her eyes.
It’s those kind of thoughts that risk becoming a liability at moments like these. I push them to the side. Not to let the other-me take over, as some might say, but to be the hard-edged blade the moment calls for.
More men need to die, and I’m the instrument to make it happen.
This time it’s a messy operation. There is no time for slow calculation. No single man to take out that’ll make the whole situation better. No. This time a whole slew of men have to die, and there is no time for precision.
The Irish gangs are mostly out of the picture, their time is past. But these young freaks are hoping to make a go of it again, driven only by a young man’s ego, and a passion for mischief. These six punks have left a swath of chaos, killing some low level enforcers working for the bratva, but also any witnesses or poor young women who happened to be so unlucky as to cross their paths.
“This city’ll be ours before long, lads!” says their round-eyed leader. Some twenty-something young creep, who might not have an ounce of Irish blood in him, but who got these boys to go along with his raping and pillaging, thinking themselves some barbarians of old.
They cheer and yell in their squalid lair, some dingy rat hole in a building that’s all but abandoned. It lays on the edge of some
old dockworks that are the victim of de-industrialization. The ideal spot for some young criminals.
The top floor is where they gather for their party, a bunch of dirty heroin and some scotch -- because they can’t even manage to stay consistent on what they are about. I could’ve called this in to the police, let them wrangle these punks up. But they’d have blown it. They’d have dispersed and gone on to commit more violent acts.
It ends now.
Six men have to die now, I remind myself as I stand outside their door. My street clothes gone, instead it’s dark brown turtleneck and pants, gloves and hat. This is gonna be a fight, and I don’t use messy weapons like assault rifles. It’s a pistol and my knife.
I count the moments, watching through some cracks in the wall as they shoot up. Let them get themselves messed up for me. It’s a gambit, it’ll make them sloppier, but it’ll also make them more unpredictable. My bet is that they’d have been a messy gamble at the best of times, so might as well dull their reaction.
“I gotta take a piss,” shouts one, and my time is here. The door opens.
Springing out of the dark, I grab the blocky kid about the neck, dagger to his throat as I spin him around make him my shield.
“Shit!” one of them screams almost exactly in time with my gun. I was looking to take out the leader first, but instead I get one of his underlings. That head explodes into a mist of blood against the wall and he goes down.
That’s four now, five counting the one in my arms.
“Throw down your weapons!” I shout, but I’m no cop and I pop another punk’s head open, taking no time to watch the gore. There’ll be no prisoners.
“Shit! He killed Jimmy!” cries one of the guys, and then I see him, the boss. That round-eyed lunatic looking wild with rage. I try to shoot him, but then the guy in my arms struggles and fouls up the shot.
They’re starting to get their shit together and I slit the man’s throat in my arm. He’s a liability now, and the bloody, noisy death will hopefully distract them.
But it doesn’t. These freaks have done far worse to many a poor young thing, they’re immune to suffering. Only enraged because I’ve done in some of their backup.
Their leader pulls out a gun and fires, but I’m prepared. I was already ducking and retreating behind some ratty couch and the handgun blast goes wide. And though I want to take that shit-rat out, I have bigger concerns.
There’s two other guys, and one is pulling out guns. He has a shotgun in hand and is pulling out another to toss to his friend.
Shotgun’s are terrible. No dodging a shot from one of them at this range. So I put a bullet through the eye of the first guy, and now it’s just me, the boss, and the ‘lad’ fumbling with a shotgun tossed to him.
“You’ll pay for this you shit!” cries their leader, and he’s pumping lead into the couch with no concern for how likely any of them are to hit me. None do, but it’s a risk with each shot.
Sure, most of those potential hits would not kill me on their own. But even a grazing shot could make me flinch, and then the shotgun does me in.
I dive in close to Mr. Shotgun, jab my knife down into his shoe and he screams. The shotgun goes off.
But it’s wild, thankfully. He wasn’t aiming at anything, the squeeze of the trigger was probably the result of a spasm of pain from my knife slicing open his foot.
I roll and spring up behind the wounded man, but their boss is on point and fires. Luckily I’ve got about two hundred pounds of Irishman-wannabe between him and me, and I survive unscathed. The guy holding the shotgun though? Not so much.
It’s one on one.
I fire a shot and for one of those rare moments I don’t hit my target. Not directly.
I do, however, turn the right side of his neck into a spray of blood that coats the west wall of the room in crimson. The ‘boss’ clutches his neck, big eyes now bug-eyes, as he watches me in horror, desperately trying to aim a shaky hand.
With a sidestep I avoid the shot, but it wasn’t necessary, he wouldn’t have hit me anyhow with that lousy aim. And I come in close, pushing that gun arm of his away from me.
“This is for that girl you did last Sunday, and all the rest before her,” I say, and he watches in horror as I slowly sink my dagger up in beneath his jaw, through his mouth and into his skull.
It’s better than he deserves. But life’s not about what you deserve.
Otherwise Katy wouldn’t be mine.
13
Katy
I wake up on a Wednesday morning to the shouts of people down along the streets. At first, in my barely-conscious haze, I feel panicked. I fall out of bed and rush to the window, afraid that perhaps a riot is taking place just outside my apartment building. But looking down, I see the throngs of people aren’t angry — they’re just a little drunk. Or a lot drunk, judging by the number of them holding huge pints of beer.
Of course. How could I forget? St. Patrick’s Day is tomorrow.
Even here in Brighton Beach, with a great number of Russian people, St. Patrick’s Day is a big deal, and people get really into it. In the years before my dad died, I may have taken advantage of the holiday for a little bar-hopping, myself. But nowadays it means one thing and one thing only: the Amber Room is gonna be packed.
And even though the holiday isn’t technically until tomorrow, and despite the fact that upon looking at the clock I realize it’s only 9 AM, all the local party crowds are already diving straight into the festivities. After all, there is a 24-hour liquor store down the street from my apartment complex. So naturally this early morning parade of drunkenness would occur practically right outside my window. Either way, I’m up now, so I might as well get dressed and prepare for the day.
In the past month, a lot of things have changed. For example, when I walk by my bed on the way to the bathroom, I run my fingertips along the firm, exposed backside of a Russian hit man. Ivan groans and turns over, rubbing his jaw with one strong hand.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I say sweetly, bending down to kiss his forehead.
He smiles up at me, his blue eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. He has good reason to sleep so heavily — last night we must have fucked well into the early hours of the morning. My body is still sore from it, but I’ve never been happier. I’m moving into Ivan’s place, and tonight is the last night I’ll spend in my own apartment. In the meantime, we’ve been going back and forth between his place and mine, falling asleep beside each other every single night.
It’s been absolute bliss.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Ivan asks, scowling toward the window.
“Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Ah.” He slowly gets to his feet and pulls me close to him to press a kiss to the top of my head, his hands rubbing their way down my back. I’m wearing a thin robe, and he is completely naked. I don’t know if it’s the chill in the March air, or morning wood, or what… but I can feel his massive cock hard as a metal rod against my thigh. I can’t help but lean into him a little bit, nudging my leg against his shaft teasingly. I can feel little vibrations down my core when he chuckles, his chin still resting on top of my head.
“I hope you know what you’re starting here,” Ivan warns. I press harder into him, and he responds with a deep groan. “Damn, mishka, you didn’t get enough last night?”
I shake my head and pull back to look at him. I know exactly what I want.
Luckily, Ivan always knows what I want, too.
He hoists me up and I wrap my legs around his waist, kissing him deeply as he carries me to the bathroom. Setting me down so that my toes curl on the freezing tile floor, he turns on the shower, then returns to me and slips the robe off my shoulders. Standing naked in the cold air, my nipples are stiff, goosebumps prickling on my flesh. But the shower quickly heats up and starts filling the little room with steam.
The two of us climb into the shower, standing under the hot stream of water, our bodies flush together. As the moi
sture slides down my skin, Ivan drags his hands down my back to squeeze my ass, pulling me closer so that his now-slick cock prods me in the thigh. Then he spins me around and tugs me into him, his shaft hard on my ass. Ivan reaches around with both hands to massage my breasts, toying with my nipples, sending little shivers of pleasure down my spine and to my pussy.
My shoulders instantly relax as I lean my head back, tilting to the side slightly so that he can kiss me, the hot water hitting our faces. I reach behind myself to take his shaft in my hand, firmly stroking him and running my thumb over the crown. I feel Ivan shudder with satisfaction at my touch and that alone makes me want him. Now.
I turn back around to face Ivan, and I stand on tiptoe to kiss him, his tongue pushing into my mouth, his hand coming around to tangle in my damp hair. Then I let him guide me down onto my knees. I kneel before him, almost as though in supplication
After admiring the beauty of his engorged cock for a moment, I lean in and pull the head into my mouth, flicking my tongue along the underside. I pump his cock with both hands at first, my lips and tongue worshiping the crown of his glorious shaft. Ivan is moaning my name, and it’s the hottest thing I have ever heard in my life. His fingers are wrapped in my hair and I can feel him tugging at my head, trying to push me down on his cock. So I drop my hands and place them on my breasts, massaging my own nipples as I take as much of Ivan’s shaft into my mouth as possible. He is so big it almost hurts, but I crave the sensation of his hard cock pressed against the insides of my cheeks. I bob back and forth on his shaft, my tongue dragging slick lines along the underside.
“Oh, fuck,” Ivan grunts. “That’s so fucking good, kroshka. Your hot, wet mouth…”
Encouraged by his words, I push myself further, taking him into my mouth until the tip of his cock brushes the back of my throat. I can’t help but gag a little, and that only seems to stoke Ivan’s desire, as he lets out a moan and tightens his grip on my hair. I pump up and down his shaft, sucking him hard. He’s bucking his hips and murmuring my name and I know he must be close to coming.
Saved by the Outlaw: A Bad Boy Romance Page 50