Saved by the Outlaw: Motorcycle Club / Hitman Romance (21 page)

“She needs me, so I can’t die,” I say, trying to choose my words carefully even though I’m panicking that he’s going to leave and I’m going to be stuck. He can’t leave! “But she has pills. Medication she has to take, and I have to make sure she takes it and gets to all of her appointments. I don’t even know what day it is...”

He pauses a moment, but then reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small pad of paper and a pencil the length of my thumb. He puts it down right in front of me.

“Write out the details of your mother’s care,” he instructs me very pointedly, his gaze narrowing. I feel like I’m under a heat lamp as a detective scrutinizes me.

My shoulders slump and I sit down on the couch, pencil in hand as I try to remember everything that was in my phone. It’s pretty sad that I can barely remember, considering how routine it is.

I scribble down as I remember.

Every third Tuesday, appointment with Dr. Nevaro.

Twice daily reminders to take her pills. Blue in the morning, yellow and white at night before bed.

Once a month, hospital for treatment for osteoporosis.

I hand it back to him.

“I don’t know how to spell all the drug names, but she has real problems with me not being around. I really need to check on her, Mikhail. You have a mom, right? And she means a lot to you?”

He takes the paper from me and sizes it up before folding it and slipping it into his pocket.

“My mother is long dead,” he says grimly as he turns and walks away. My heart sinks.

But as he reaches the door he pulls it open and stops, looking back me.

“I will see yours doesn’t yet meet the same end,” he states simply and then swiftly vanishes out the door, leaving me to the simple furnishings, all by myself.

“Fuck!” I cry out into my humble cage. I can’t stay here. I don’t care how safe he thinks it is, I can take care of myself, and being held captive by a man I don’t know — a man who openly carries a gun on his hip — is not going to work for me.

He said the window was sealed shut, but there’s gotta be a way out.

Then I remember my stilettos. Maybe I could use those to bust open the glass! Or hammer the door.

No matter what, I’m getting out of this safe house turned prison.

E
very meeting
with that girl is a struggle.

If she’s not taunting me with her natural good looks, she’s tugging at heartstrings I didn’t even know I had. It’s a fucking nuisance.

I pulled on my leather jacket, made the phone call I had to, then headed right out. But now I’m here, back at this dark, dingy bar. Where low life mobsters come to get work. I hate this place, and almost never come. The work finds me at this point in my career, after all.

Smoking laws forbid it, but the law has no consequence in this place, so smoke lingers in the air as a bunch of guys, young and old, try and put on airs of being tough. But every single one of them is shook by my entry.

Every one of them knows who I am, by reputation or rumor.

I could own them. I could be boss of this whole stretch of the city if I wanted to.

But I turned that down long ago. I’m happiest doing what I do.

“Mikhail,” says Nikita behind the bar, the surprise on her face mixed with pleasure. She’s a good girl, and the only good part about this dive. “Didn’t expect you here!” she says as she pulls out a glass and starts to make me a drink without even asking. She knows what I like even now.

“I was in the neighborhood,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders, leaning in over the bar and shooting the young punk nearest me a look.

He scurries off, taking his drink further down the bar and giving me the space I want.

“Well I’m just happy to see you,” Nikita says, pouring me up a vodka and cranberry, even adding a little slice of lime. That’s new. “Not many pleasant faces around here,” she adds, and I know it. These men have no concern for women like her, they’re just cargo or commerce, to be used up until worthless.

I try the drink and to my surprise I like it, that lime adding a touch of something I didn’t know I was missing.

“Truth be told, Nikki,” I say, leaning in, speaking to her in confidence, “I am curious as to the word on my latest job.”

She arches a brow at me, looking truly surprised.

“That’s not like you, Mikhail,” she says, putting the vodka bottle back. And I note it’s even the kind I like. Russian Standard, straight from home. Nothing’s quite so smooth as it. She’s so damned considerate of me, like a little sister I never had.

“This is a… special case,” I say simply. “A very big job. Wondering what’s the word on it around town.”

“You always get the big ones,” she says, leaning in closer herself, talking quietly. “Not much is being said. More hush hush than usual. So it must’ve been very important,” she says, searching my eyes for an answer, but I give none. No flicker in my face to betray an ounce of info.

“So nothing then?” I ask to confirm, but she licks her lips and peers down, thoughtfully.

“I overheard some of the guys talking earlier,” she says softly to me. “Word from a crooked cop was that security cameras showed a witness to a big hit was unaccounted for. They are looking for her.”

Fuck.

“How recent was this?” I ask, trying not to betray my urgency. But she can pick up on it, I think.

“Just about forty minutes ago,” she says, and she reaches beneath the bar, taking out the vodka again and pouring me a straight shot. “Very fresh news, they are putting out the word now.”

“There a description of the girl?” I ask, then down the vodka she poured me in one smooth motion.

“Vasili,” she says, pointing her chin towards the weasley man. “He has some info on her, I believe. They’re looking into things now.”

“Thanks, Nikki,” I say, sliding a hundred dollar bill across the bar to her. Her eyes widen and she looks to me.

“If I hear anything more I’ll let you know,” she says and I nod.

“I know you will. Stay safe, little one,” and she rolls her eyes at me, being far from little. She is 5’8 and a grown woman, after all. But I still saw her as the famished, undernourished girl they hauled out of the dockyards.

I turn to leave, but then in through the front doors comes the boss. The
Avtoritet.

He’s escorted on both sides by two young brutes he trusts, and while the sneer he holds makes it look like he’s ready to make every occupant of the bar feel like shit, his gaze settles on me. And I steal some of the thunder from his entry.

“Volkov,” he says, using my last name, and I know he’s struggling on how to handle my presence. I never come around, which makes things easier for him. Seeing as I was the guy who passed up his position. Who had every right to be over him, but was only technically under his authority.

It’s an awkward situation for him, I admit.

“Gregorovich,” I say with a simple nod in return, which is more than the vile shit deserves from me. I loathe this man, not just for what he’s done, but for how he gives me so few things to insult him about. He’s not fat, he’s not ugly; he’s a manipulative bastard, who plays things cautiously all the time. Too cautious. Cautious to the point of paranoia.

Which would all be excusable, except he’s also greedy.

And a greedy, paranoid mafia boss is a dangerous thing for everyone.

“How nice of you to pay us a visit,” he says, tugging open his thick overcoat as Nikita rushes around to help him out of it. “I trust everything is alright?” and with that brow arched at me, I know I have already engaged more of his suspicion than I wish to.

“Just visiting an old friend,” I say, giving a light smile to Nikita, which she bashfully returns. I don’t generally let slip any emotion around these men, but it’s important they know who I favor. So they know better than to mess with her.

“I see,” Gregorovich says, looking me over once more than Nikita as well. “Well it’s fortunate timing, there’s a matter we can discuss. In back,” he says leading the way. It’s the most presumptuous thing he’s yet dared do with me in front of others.

Surprisingly, however, along the way he gestures for Vasili to follow. He’s a two-bit crook, and why he’s being trusted with anything astonishes me.

But I have a sinking suspicion this is about the matter I came here for, so I follow after, into the back room, with its reinforced walls. It’s empty but for a simple metal table with some chairs, and he helps himself to a spot there while one of his men pats down the underside of the table, checking for any listening devices.

I stand back, fold my arms as another of the guards pats down Vasili as well, checking him over. Gregorovich trusts no one.

When they come to me I don’t budge, and they back off, knowing better.

“What is the issue at hand?” I ask brusquely.

“You fucked up,” Vasili says with malicious glee, but I don’t so much as grace him with a glance.

Gregorovich clears his throat, cutting off Vasili, preening at his expensive suit. I leave him the dubious honor of being the only one sitting.

“There are some loose ends from your job,” Gregorovich says.

“I do not leave loose ends,” I say firmly, an edge to my voice to let them know I’m serious. But I want more info so I’m careful not to be too rough with them.

“Well, this time the police think you have,” Gregorovich responds carefully. “And they are looking for a potential witness, seen entering the hotel with the party.”

“That no-women no-kids rule of yours has finally fucked you up, Volkov,” Vasili says with sneering relish, fidgeting a lot. Probably because he’s constantly on a cocktail of different drugs.

“Was there a woman there when you did the job?” Gregorovich asks calmly, and I know it won’t be easy to lie to him. He’s perceptive, for a greedy little shit.

“I agreed to take on this job, knowing it might go to a bad place,” I say firmly. “But I did the job, and no one survived.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Vasili says, pulling out the picture of Ali with the men I’d slain. It’s not great quality, clearly taken from a security camera. But it’s her. I take a moment to soak it in before Vasili gets into my face, that greasy weasel so full of himself.

I take a moment to slam my fist into his throat and send him choking and sputtering back against the wall.

“Why is this little rat fuck in here with us?” I ask Gregorovich pointedly.

“I’ve appointed him with finding this woman. And making sure she can’t talk,” he replies, ignoring the coughing and cursing of Vasili as we engage.

“She has nothing to tell anyone,” I insist calmly, not overplaying the point. I can’t give him reason to suspect me. “I did a clear sweep. Every single person in there when I did my hit, died by my hand. And when I was done I double-checked. Triple-checked. And calmly walked out.”

Vasili is gasping for air, making a noisy distraction.

“Then there is nothing to worry about, and this is just an added precaution,” Gregorovich assures me with a placid, fake smile.

“Too many added precautions can land one in trouble with the feds,” I say, knowing to add anymore would have him find me out. “But do as you need. My work is done.” I turn to leave, but one of the guard’s is in my way and I have to stare him down.

Which gives Vasili enough time to choke out a few words.

“When I find that girl, I’m gonna cut her into ribbons. She’ll be more useless to the cops than a shredded document,” Vasili says and my fists clench, my jaw tightens.

I turn my head slowly, stare down that weasel shit.

“Everyone knows what it is you like to do with women,
govnjúk
. But if I catch you laying a hand on one,” and I walk over to him, making him back against the wall as I stare down at him, “the only ribbon you’ll be worried about cutting is the one between your legs.”

I don’t give him time to snark back, I just plant my knee into his groin and make it so that he won’t think about women for a few days without a lot of pain.

“You should not trust this little
govnjúk
, he’ll land you in trouble someday,” I caution Gregorovich before I just walk out. Knowing I was in a precarious position and might’ve just overplayed my hand.

T
his safe house
wasn’t setup to keep people in, it was set up to keep people out, and that’s my one advantage here. But so far it’s not really paying off for me very well.

My high heel didn’t turn out to be the miracle tool I hoped, and my attempts to use it to pry open the door or barred-windows failed. The utensils in the kitchen were all even worse, plastic and easily broken.

On the plus side, I didn’t find any cameras, so maybe it was just a fluke earlier when he came in just as I was trying to bust out. I still don’t know what to make of him. Part of me believes him, that he only wants to keep me safe from whatever the hell happened that night. But I don’t know if that’s just lust speaking or not. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, and there’s nothing more that I’d want to believe than the idea that he’s my Prince Charming, rescuing me from some bad men.

As I exhaust all the options I can think of, though, it’s seeming less and less likely that escape is possible. I’ve not heard or seen anyone else, and I still have no idea how much time has passed since that... man captured me.

Rescued.

Who knows.

The only thing I know is that my window is my best option for escape, and I can’t give up. I glance around the room, and when my eyes settle on the TV, I get a bright idea. It’s big, and probably too much to carry comfortably, but maybe if I can hoist it up and throw it through the glass...

It’s a long shot. A really long shot. And I don’t know what I’m going to do once the window is out, but I can’t just sit here like a damsel in distressed for Mikhail to
save
me from whatever is happening out there. I have to rescue myself, damn it!

I unplug the TV and try to pick it up, but it digs into my arms and is almost too big for me to lift, but finally I manage.

It’s a struggle to heave the TV, but as I heft it up I hear the door knob turn, and as I struggle to put the TV back into place I realize there’s no way I’m doing that before he catches me.

“What are you doing?” he asks, that deep, dark voice of his so blasé about the whole thing as he stands there watching me. “If you didn’t like the placement of the TV, you could have just asked,” he says, that grizzled man seeming almost amused by me, if I could read anything on his stoic face.

I brush some hair from my eyes, feeling guilty as sin, as if I’m doing something wrong by trying to break out of this prison. I’m scared and I don’t want to piss him off, but at the same time, I’m curious about him. About who he actually is.

I gotta get a grip.

“Yea, well, I never got your number,” I answer back, filled with snark.

“Apologies,” he says dryly and he heads into the kitchen area, toting a large brown paper bag that looks to be packed with boxes. He returns a moment later, the towering brute plucking the TV from my grasp and putting it back where it came from. “You know, smashing out the window would not help you. It is barred, and the streets are many floors below. Nobody could hear your cries,” he explains to me with the air of a patient wiser man, even if he has the look of someone dangerous in that tight fitting sweater and jeans.

“At least I’d be able to enjoy some fresh air,” I say, my arms folded beneath my chest, but it’s all bravado. I feel like a quivering bird held in his palm, just waiting for him to squeeze a little too hard. I’m only alive because of him, or so he says, but this isn’t my life or the life I ever wanted.

He walks past me over by the wall, and taps a thermostat there.

“You can control AC and heat here, don’t worry about the light bill,” he says with a hint of humor to his voice before he heads back into the kitchen.

“Ahh, funny,” I say, some of my normally sarcastic self seeping out. I like it when he banters with me.

I have to walk around the sofa to see him there, taking out plates and serving up some food from the package he brought. Some take out no doubt.

My stomach growls with desire. Since whatever drugs I had made me reject everything in my system, I’ve been starving but too afraid to eat. I sniff the air, catching the various scents of foreign cuisine, and my palm goes to my tummy to quiet it down. Last thing I need is for this guy to know how desperate I am for a bite.

“I couldn’t dream of putting you out with an exorbitant bill, though,” I say, trying to keep things light. Maybe that’s what is needed.

“So considerate.” I notice he’s serving up egg rolls, and that familiar scent comes back to me: Chinese food. “I did not catch any dietary concerns,” he says with that accent of his, “but I thought: everyone likes Chinese.”

He comes out of the kitchen, laying the two paper plates full of food onto the table before retreating back in to pour us both up some water.

I stare after him in disbelief.

“A meal together. How cute,” I grin, but before he’s even returned from the kitchen, I’ve scalded my tongue on the egg roll, and I’m grabbing for the glass of water like a toddler.

So much for playing it cool.

“It is still very fresh,” he says, a caution that comes too late. “They know me there, make it just for me. But this time I had them prepare a little extra,” he gestures to one side of my plate. “You’re a lovely young woman, so I thought perhaps you are a vegetarian or some such, everything on this side is free of meat,” he explains before seating himself down like he was in a mess hall and digging his fork into a piece of meat.

He’s no vegetarian, that’s for sure.

I gulp back the water, but I can already tell I won’t be able to taste anything else on my plate with a burned tongue and I sigh.

“So you’re vying for, like, the most considerate kidnapper award?”

“When one does something, you must always give it your best,” he says in that way of his, drawing out the words with that eastern flavor, and a healthy dose of dry, dark humor. Though the close proximity gives me time to study him, to see the scar on his face, right up along the highest part of his cheekbone. His jawline lightly stubbled with dark hair.

He catches me staring and I quickly avert my eyes. I’ve never been the kind of girl that’s been shy around men, but there’s something about him that makes me feel like a girl again. If I wasn’t his captive, I’d probably have hit on him at a bar or something. He has a rugged charm about him, and I admit that his sense of humor aligns with mine a little too well.

“So you’re single, huh?” I venture a guess, though as soon as the words are out, I wish I hadn’t said them.

He arches a brow, looking about as surprised by the question as I am, but nods his head.

“
Da
,” he says, and I know enough from movies to realize that means ‘yes’. “A man in my line of work doesn’t make a good husband. A woman deserves more than a man who is out at all hours, life on the line all the time.” He shakes his head slowly as he eats, “No. I tried that long ago, before I entered the Special Forces.”

“Military?” I ask, surprised he’s even answering any of my questions. I take a bite of something I don’t have a name for, but mostly I’m finding myself curious. He hasn’t actually hurt me or put me in any danger, though I know better than to trust him. At least, my brain knows. The rest of my body wants to gobble up everything he tells me.

“
Spetsnaz
,” he says, nodding his head before downing almost his entire glass of water in a few gulps. “We were like your Navy Seals in a way,” he says, those dark eyes of his searching out mine as he explains things to me like a patient teacher. “We went where soldiers know better than to go. Did things they could not. You understand?” he asks, and he’s waiting. Watching. Wanting to know if I truly do understand.

Is it meant to be taken as a threat?

I try not to flinch under his hard stare, and suck in a deep breath. I will not let this man intimidate me.

“You’re a badass. I get it.”

“So you should understand that you’re safer here with me, than out there,” he says, speaking calmly as he points to the door. “There are men after you, as we speak. I have confirmed it for myself.”

“Listen, I might be cute, but I’m not so cute that anyone’s going to be after me,” I say, masking my fear with sarcastic humor. I don’t know if he’s really being serious, but something in his eyes tell me he is. But I can’t just hide in here the rest of my life.

He laughs at me just a little and continues to eat a moment before speaking.

“By no fault of your own, you have been a part of something ugly. I wish it was not so, but I can’t change what’s already done. Your boss is dead,” he says, that proclamation rather brusque and pointed. “A man like him simply doesn’t die and it go unnoticed,
nyet
? And it is too important to leave open to question. The kind of questions a surviving witness can raise.”

“I didn’t
witness
anything!”

“It does not matter,” he says, and I see his thick forearm swell through his sweater as he clenches his fist. “It only matters what they think you witnessed,” he explains to me, his voice getting darker, more serious. “Do you think someone has a congressman killed without wanting to make very sure it never comes back to him, hmm?” he says, his eyes boring into me with their intensity.

It sends a shiver down my spine and I swallow hard.

“I can’t stay here forever. What are you going to do to me?”

“To you?” he asks, eyes wide before he laughs and looks away. “Nothing. But I do not send pretty, young women to their deaths. No matter how dense in the head they’re being,” he says, that patience eked away a little as he puffs up his broad chest and sighs.

“I’m not dense. But how many kidnapped women have you
saved
that are just totally fine with being your captive, huh?”

He gives a light exasperated sigh and finishes off another generous bite before looking back at me.

“I do not make a habit of this, if it’s what you’re meaning. You are the first. But too much time and money had been sunk into getting the target where he was needed to be. If I didn’t do the job then, a messier hit would’ve happened as they all left, and you’d be dead instead of complaining,” he says, revealing all that info so calmly.

A storm is brewing within me, emotions surfacing that I didn’t know even lingered beneath my skin. My heart pounds and I stare at the man ahead of me. I know what he meant about what he did. He killed people. He still does.

I’m here, having a quaint little dinner with what is possibly the sexiest killer in the world. Not that I know a lot of killers. Any, actually, before him.

My skin flushes and for a second I feel like I’m going to be sick again, but I swallow it back as I force myself to stand. Tears are stinging my eyes, but I blink them away, fury and terror swirling within me.

“You want me to thank you or something, Mikhail? Is that what this whole dinner business is about?”

He takes one of the napkins in hand, unfurls it and calmly wipes his mouth.

“I do not want your thanks, or your gratitude,” he says, still sitting there at the table. “What I want is for you to sit tight until it is safe for you to go. Or until I figure out where you can go that won’t get you killed,” he says, looking right at me. With those dark eyes of his.

The eyes of a murderer.

He should make me sick. He
does
make me sick. So why am I so drawn to him and what does that say about me? Normal girls don’t feel drawn to their murdering kidnapper.

I take in another deep breath of air as I continue to stare at him.

“I’m not staying here. If you were supposed to kill me and you didn’t, they’re going to be looking at where you lead them. It’s only a matter of time before they find this place, if they don’t already know of it.”

I have no idea who they are, or if I’m correct, but I’m taking a giant stab in the dark in order to gain my freedom. To plead with him for a way out.

His brows furrow a little and he looks at me.

“Only a handful of men in this city know who did the hit. You’re sitting with one. The others are all well under my influence,” he says with that stoic gaze of his, unflinching and serious. “And furthermore, they do not know about this place. This is my safe house. A place where nobody in my life knows how to get to. Where if everyone in the world turned on me, I could come here and last out a long, long wait. This place,” he says, jabbing his long index finger into the table, “is my insurance. And now it is yours.”

I hate that somehow, he’s making me feel bad for taking this all for granted, and I fidget under his hard stare.

“People... people who hire hitmen don’t just forget about murder witnesses. I’ve seen the movies, you know. The ones where people are sitting and having breakfast twenty years after the fact, and they get a gun in their face. This is never going to leave me.”

His broad jaw sets tight and he looks at the food, taking a deep breath.

“I’ve told them that there were no witnesses. That you must have left the scene before I hit. The local boss is being paranoid, and wants to take you out just in case,” he turns his gaze towards me, staring hard. “But when you don’t show up for a while, and nothing comes of it... You will be forgotten. Business moves on as usual. As it must,” he explains firmly.

I shift forward. This is dumb. I shouldn’t be getting nearer to him. I shouldn’t be placing my hand on his jaw, my fingers caressing him tenderly.

And the worst part is I don’t even know if it’s all just a ploy to get him to let me go, or if I just want to touch him. To know he’s real and to feel that stubble beneath my palm.

“You’re trying to do the right thing,” I say more softly, and I truly believe that’s what he thinks he’s doing. Hell, maybe that is what he’s doing. Maybe, beneath that gruff exterior and hard gaze and that gun on his hip, he really is my knight in shining armor.

My fingers trace back over his jaw, towards that red scar on his face, and I watch as his rugged features contort into a look of curiosity. He’s almost as confused by my actions as I am.

“I am not a school boy to be manipulated,” he says, his voice a little quieter. “I am looking after you, not because I’m out to be the hero. Not because I expect some big thank you.” He reaches up and wraps his hand about my wrist, that grasp of his so tight as he rises up to tower over me again. “I saved you because I wanted to. I’ll keep you alive, because that’s my desire. It is no more complicated or complex than that, and I expect nothing else than for this to end with you alive and well, if cranky.”