by Danika Fox
But comfort wasn’t easy to come in this situation, and it took what felt like an eternity to get myself back under control once again. My head finally stopped spinning and my pulse managed to slow down somewhere below 100 BPM, but now that whatever adrenaline rush I’d been experiencing was over, my body was drained of energy, sapped of all the power it’d used to get so goddamn worked up over what might have just been my imagination.
How would they even know I was in the hotel? They hadn’t seen me at the club, and as far as I knew, no one else besides Crush and my father’s men even knew I was alive. I had to have been hallucinating—there was no other way to explain how that man could have found me so quickly, so precisely.
“You’re just going to work yourself up even more, Chrissy,” I told myself aloud, covering my face with my hands. “You’re safe up here. This penthouse is a fortress and only Crush and your dad have the key. You’re not going to be killed.”
I sat myself up on the side of my bed, wiping away the remnants of my tears before heaving a sigh. I would be fine as long as I stayed up here—no more excursions down into the lobby. Despite how much I hated my dad’s need to control where I went, staying here was the best thing for me—at least for now.
“Look on the bright side,” I said, desperate to fill the silence in the room with something—anything. “If you’re going to be cooped up anywhere, at least it’s somewhere with a view, HBO, and room service.”
And a damn good bodyguard…
Crush really did have a lot going for him—tall, dark, and dangerous, the man was every young woman’s wet dream and then some. The primal portion of my brain would have loved to take comfort in those strong arms, or to learn what it was like to have my lips crushed by his. But siding with Daddy made him a traitor, even if somewhere deep down I knew my father had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
No, literally—could not refuse. Nobody told Daddy “no.” Nobody.
I spent a lot of time lately wishing things were different. A lot of things. But they weren’t, and it seemed I was going to have to live with that. I was lucky I was living at all.
“I need a shower,” I muttered. Between absolutely absurd thoughts about going all The Bodyguard with my… well, bodyguard, and the gallons worth of water I’d sweated out during my panic response, a little cleansing was definitely in order.
And it did help, a little. Being surrounded by the sound of rushing water was peaceful, especially the way it blocked out all other noises, including my own thoughts. By the time I was done, I was feeling much better. Clear-headed from the steam, and lighter from the hot water washing away the fear still clinging to every inch of me.
I dried myself off and got dressed, wrapping my hair up in another towel before I glanced through my closet options. If we weren’t going to leave the room again, I might as well just throw on some yoga pants and a t-shirt, but—Crush seemed to like the dress…
Why was I considering his feelings and preferences, when it seemed he had no desire to consider mine? Scowling, I put on the yoga pants and blouse. Maybe if I kept acting contrary to these insane ideas, they’d go away and let me languish in a glorified prison in peace.
Just as I opened the bedroom door, the volume of Crush’s voice spiked from the other side and my stomach dropped to my feet. His tone was tight. Clipped. And after what I’d seen—or what I thought I saw—down in the lobby, I could only imagine one possibility.
Something had gone wrong. Something had gone very, very wrong.
11
Crush
“All right—what was your name again?”
“Thomas, sir,” the reedy voice of the lobby concierge said. “But I have to say that I’m not entirely comfortable with...”
“Can I call you Tom?” I asked, but refused to wait for an answer. “Here’s the thing, Tom: this is really important—kind of a life or death situation, do you understand?”
“Mr. Monroe, I don’t think that what you’re asking me to do is life or death,” he tried to argue. “And Mr. Falcone said that—”
“Mr. Falcone put me in charge of his sweet, innocent baby girl, and he made it clear that you bring me whatever I need up here. She just witnessed a goddamned massacre and I’m looking for something to comfort her.”
I glanced over my shoulder as I heard Chrissy’s door opening behind me. I was hoping to have this finished with before she came back out, but I guess beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Please, Mr. Monroe, there’s no need to bring this up with Mr. Falcone,” Thomas assured me.
“I want you to listen very carefully,” I said, giving Chrissy a placating wave over my shoulder as I leaned in close and put my mouth right against the receiver. “I’m going to need you to send up two supreme pizzas from Sirrico’s, Tom, stay focused. They sell over at the New York New York hotel. You’re going to pick them up, and bring them here. I’ll be waiting.”
“Is everything all right?” Chrissy asked from right behind me. I jumped and hung up the phone, leaving poor Thomas stammering on the other end of the line. “I didn’t realize you were ordering room service. You sounded like you were mad at somebody.”
I turned around and gave her a smile, doing my best to seem as casual as possible as I leaned myself back against the wall. Even dressed in a baggy t-shirt and a pair of yoga pants, the girl was out of this fucking world, finding a way to make even that messy, casual look seem flattering on her.
“Oh, that?” I said, trying to wave it off rather poorly as she stared at me, eyebrows raised, “I was just getting a little frustrated with the guy downstairs. Dude couldn’t get my order right—we’re having pizza, by the way.”
“There’s a three-star restaurant downstairs, and you go ahead and order a pizza from another hotel?” she asked, shaking her head at me.
“What can I say? I like their pizza.”
“I mentioned it was an Italian restaurant downstairs, right? I mean, you know who my dad is, don’t you? You don’t think they have good pizza?”
“I didn’t want to chance it,” I said with a shrug. “Only the best for a mafia princess…”
She didn’t laugh at that one. Instead, she settled into the big couch and fiddled around with the remote for half an hour, finding nothing worth watching up until the elevator lit up.
The pizzas had arrived a bit earlier than I had thought they would—I could only hope Tommy boy had at least left them a damn fine tip.
“I hope you like pizza,” I said, walking over to the stack of pizzas. I opened up the top box and picked up a slice, taking a quick bite.
“Are you serious? You do know who my daddy is, right?” she hissed, staring at me incredulously. “Hand me a piece. This had better be good.”
“Well,” I said slowly, pulling another slice from the box, leaving it open behind me to give her a whiff of the goods. “I was thinking that your dad is a professional criminal who owns strip clubs and runs any number of illegal businesses, but for all I know, his taste in pizza might be shit.”
Chrissy stood there for a moment, her eyes narrowed as she looked between me and the slice in my hand. I saw honest-to-God conflict on her face.
“You do like pizza, right?” I asked her. “It’s cool if you don’t, I just want to know before…”
“Just give me the damn pizza!” she snapped, glaring up at me, her arms crossed. She was getting defensive. “We ate this stuff every goddamned day when I was little.”
“Great, so you know how it works,” I replied, smiling.
Chrissy rolled her eyes. I forgot she wasn’t good with taking orders. “I’m sure I can figure it out, smartass.”
I smirked at her, holding out the oversized slice. “I’m sure you can. But I could teach you a thing or two about how to eat it without making a mess,” I replied, folding the slice lengthwise. “Unless that’s what you’re into…”
I lifted my brows a few times at her, and she cracked a smile before grabbing the folded slice away from me
and walking out onto the balcony.
It’s amazing just how wound up you realize people are after you’ve broken bread with them, I thought as I followed her out there, enjoying the last rays of the sun as it set beyond the Vegas skyline. It had only taken a few minutes before Chrissy was relaxing in her lounge chair, slumped down and looking off at the horizon.
“You know, you still haven’t told me what you think of Sirroco’s,” I said, turning my head to look over at her.
“You know what’s fucked up?” she asked, her voice a bit quiet. When I didn’t respond, she continued. “I could have really enjoyed this… all of this… if it wasn’t for daddy’s strip club.”
“Why were you even there? I know your daddy isn’t making you work the pole.”
“No,” she sighed, shaking her head a little too vigorously, then she laughed and rested her forehead against her hand. “I mean, if I listened to him, I wouldn’t be working at all. Ever since mom died, he wants me at home, where he can keep his thumb on me all day long. He’s just trying to keep me safe… but I don’t want to hide forever. He doesn’t even want me to be a dancer…”
“A dancer?’” I asked, the performances that had been the main attraction of Earthly Delights springing into my mind immediately. “Didn’t think that was the kind of job you go to college for—”
“I’m not a stripper,” she said, “I do ballet… and I’m good at it. I auditioned for Juilliard a couple of weeks before I’d left my daddy’s place. I got into one of the most prestigious performing arts colleges in the country, but the moment I told him, he blew his lid.”
“Jesus,” I said, leaning on the arm of the chair as I listened to her go on. “Why was he so mad about you leaving home?”
“He was always possessive,” she sighed, lolling her head in my direction, “especially after my mom died in a car accident. He always wants to be in control, but you can’t control everything. After that, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight…”
“I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be,” she said with a wry laugh. “I had everything I ever wanted growing up. I never had any responsibilities. Maybe I was a little spoiled. I just wanted more, you know? I wanted to make it on my own terms. Juilliard was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
“Shit,” I breathed, leaning forward in my chair. “You ran away to get some responsibility. I’ve been drowning in responsibility my whole damn life.”
“I didn’t think a biker had too many responsibilities to begin with,” she said, looking at me, refusing to even lift her head. “I mean, you guys wander the open road and stuff, right?”
“A regular biker could do shit like that,” I said, “but the vice president of the club? I have shit to take care of… like a mafia princess.”
“You keep calling me that, and I’m going to throw you off this balcony,” she muttered, closing her eyes for a moment. “And besides, you can quit any time you like.”
“That’s not really how things work. Quitting burns bridges, and I’m not the kind of guy who just walks out on his family like that.”
And I never would be. Not after the way things had been with my dad.
“You should try it sometime,” she said, a stupid grin spreading across her face. “Look what it got me! A penthouse suite and a big sexy biker as my only companion. It could be worse.”
“Very funny,” I muttered, ignoring her sexy comment as I hoisted myself up and out of the chair. “You should probably get to bed.”
“What’re you, my daddy?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at me. “I’m a grown-ass woman. I don’t have a bed time.”
“Don’t make me carry you again,” I smirked.
She just laughed, but that laughter was cut short. The soft chime of the elevator made both of us freeze in place. Chrissy immediately stumbled up and out of her lounge chair, the two of us heading back inside.
“I don’t want to talk to Daddy…”
“Come on,” I said, a little more urgently, “You get to bed and I’ll tell them you’re sleeping.”
The elevator doors slid open before she could make it into the room, and my heart came to a dead stop. Standing framed in the doorway was a mountain of a man, his face covered in a thick, full beard with eyes that reminded me of cement or glass.
“Hello, little Falcone,” he purred in a thick, clipped accent.
Shit. Maybe Chrissy hadn’t been seeing things. The Russians were here.
12
Crush
The drywall behind Chrissy exploded just as I pulled her crashing down behind the bar. The sounds of guns clattering and more Eastern European accents drifted from the elevator. Chrissy screamed, clamping her hands over her ears as another spray of bullets cut through the air in our direction.
I grit my teeth and wondered, How the fuck did these assholes get up here?
The how didn’t matter so much as what the hell was I going to do about it. I needed a plan, a way to get both of us out of the penthouse alive.
I pulled my handgun from the inside of my jacket and cocked it, motioning for Chrissy to stay low. I could hear the gunmen’s boots on the carpet—I needed some distance.
I leaned out from behind the bar, my gun raised as I fired off a few rounds at the three shooters. They weren’t bothering to hide their faces, which told me they weren’t concerned about being identified. They didn’t intend on letting us get out of here alive.
“You bring girl out,” one of them called as I dove back into cover. His words were slipping like thick syrup off his tongue, “Maybe you get to live.”
The more he spoke, the easier it was to piece together his accent—he was Slavic. Probably mafia. My stomach clenched. Russian mobsters were dangerous, and coupled with what Chrissy had said about the Earthly Delights shooters having Russian accents…
I pulled the trigger a few more times, driving them back a few feet more as I tried to get my bearings.
“Crush,” Chrissy whispered, her hand gripping my arm like a vise, “what’re we going to do?”
“Just give me a minute,” I said, turning to face her—and that was where I saw it. Just beyond Chrissy was a door leading out to an emergency stairwell at the far end of the bar.
“Do you trust me?” I asked her, my gaze fixed on hers once again.
“What?” she asked, wide-eyed and pale.
“Do you trust me, Chrissy?” I asked again, taking hold of her hand.
She swallowed, her lip trembling. I couldn’t blame her for being scared—what kind of person is ready for this?
“I trust you,” she whispered at last.
“You see that door behind you?” I asked, pointing over her shoulder. She turned and nodded. “When I start shooting, you run like hell. I’m going to be right behind you—but you don’t stop until I tell you to. Do you understand?”
Again, Chrissy nodded, her eyes darting between me and the emergency exit. I could feel my heart hammering in my throat, my brain screaming that this shit was insane.
“Now!” I hissed, pushing her away as I fired four more shots over the top of the bar toward the elevator. In my mind, I was already counting down the bullets until the clip would be empty. I wouldn’t get a chance to re-load, so we had one shot at this. I could hear Chrissy scampering across the tile floor, and judging by the scream of pain from beyond the bar, I must have at least tagged one of those bastards.
I didn’t have any more time to waste. I scrambled to my feet, aiming in the general direction of our attackers and firing until I felt the cold metal of the emergency door against my shoulder.
I heard frantic shouting in Russian from behind me as I slung the door open and followed behind Chrissy down toward the bottom floor, taking the steps two and three at a time. It was hell on my knees, but a bullet to the back would be worse.
It wasn’t long before I heard our attackers coming after us. We were ten flights down before I grabbed Chrissy by the arm and pulled her into another of the emergency doors, hurt
ling down a hallway with hotel suite doors flanking us on either side.
“What’re you doing?” she hissed as I rushed her to the elevators and smashed my thumb against the “down” button.
“We need to get to the garage.”
“What the hell is in the garage?” she asked.
“My bike,” I replied as the elevator doors opened.
The elevator moved excruciatingly slow—or maybe it was just the adrenaline rushing through my system. My heart was racing, and even though I’d told Chrissy we were safe, I was expecting to see a Russian hit squad to be waiting for us whenever it stopped.
“How did they get a key card?” Chrissy whispered to herself, holding on to one of the elevator railings as we made our way down. “Only my father and Lonnie—”
“We can’t worry about that right now,” I interrupted, my fingers itching to have my gun back within their grasp. “We need to get somewhere safe.”
At long last the elevator opened on the ground floor, leading us out into the garage. The bastard back at Mr. Falcone’s place said they’d brought my bike here, but I sure as shit didn’t see it. We ran together through the garage, searching among the cars. Thankfully, it came into view, tucked into a corner on the bottom fucking floor.
The two of us climbed onto my bike as I pulled the spare key from my jacket. Before I could turn the bike over, we began to hear voices from somewhere behind us.
“They’re here,” Chrissy whispered, clutching my sides as I fired the rumbling engine. I gripped the accelerator, staring down the long line of cars, waiting for any sign of where they might be coming from.