Saved by the Outlaw: Motorcycle Club / Hitman Romance (48 page)

“You feel so good,
malishka
,” Ivan groans, the pleasure apparent on his face nearly enough to send me over the edge. “You’re so fucking good.”

Suddenly my orgasm is coming, and I start breathing heavily, my hips moving in rhythm with his motions. He can sense my impending climax, and starts fucking me harder, each push deliberate and deep. Before long, I cry out in bliss, my pussy clenching with waves of pleasure around his thick cock.

And he isn’t far behind.

“Oh fuck, Katy!” he bellows, and with one final thrust I can feel him pull out and spurt a hot, sweet stream of come across my thigh. I can’t explain it, but some part of me wants to cling to every last drop. I want him to mark me and tell me I belong to him.

And I realize now: I do. I belong to him, utterly and completely. And not just in the transactional manner, but in heart and soul.

I am his, for as long as he wants me.

He leans down to kiss me long and sweet. He lies down beside me and I turn to face him, feeling his seed slowly drip down my bare skin into the sheets. Ivan is gazing at me with the same dark blue eyes that have stricken fear and obedience into many a hard-hearted man — except now his eyes are soft, almost docile. There is a sweetness in his expression as he looks at me, and then a slow, beautiful smile lights up his features. I am breathless.

I run my hand across Ivan’s chest as we lie together, relief washing away any of the real worlds worries once again. I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself revel in the feel of his muscular chest, then down to his impossibly hard abs.

There’s a silence between us for a moment, but it feels peaceful, somehow. It’s as if both of us know not to speak, just letting the moment hang in the air lazily between us.

But my eyes open, and my gaze falls on the tattoo on his chest. An eight-pointed star, marking him as one of the Russian mafia’s men.

Just like that, the magic of the moment is dispelled, and I’m reminded of my debt. Of the fact that I belong to this man. Whatever glue is keeping us stuck together… it’s impossible to separate from the transactional nature of our relationship. It’s not an equal partnership. As much as I want to justify our dynamic by allowing myself to feel for him, to long for him, I can never fully erase the fact that we would not be together under normal circumstances.

He’s a mobster, Katy. Don’t lose yourself to this.

But then again, since when has any part of my life qualified as “normal?” And besides, it feels good, damn it! Not just the sex — though, oh God does
that
feel good — but just simply being with Ivan feels good. The majority of the time we’re together, it doesn’t even occur to me that we aren’t just a regular couple, even with his tattoos, his accent, and the nagging voice in the back of my mind, a voice I’m sure probably belongs to my dad.

If I’m going to belong to a hit man for a year, then I am for damn sure going to make the most of it, in whatever way I can manage.

“What are you thinking about?” Ivan asks quietly, his deep voice reverberating in his chest. I can feel the guttural vibrations of his words with my fingertips, and it’s nearly enough to make me want to fuck him again. Almost. But I am so comfortable here, like this. Just being.

“Your tattoos,” I reply simply. He peers down at his own chest.

“Do they bother you?”

I’m taken a little aback by the question. Ivan is certainly not the kind of guy to ask insecure questions — and he generally doesn’t need to ask me what I do and don’t like, either. He just knows. I pause for a moment and he seems to tense up a little, waiting.

“No,” I begin. Then, thinking better of it, I add, “maybe a little.”

“I would not have thought you the prudish type,
mishka
,” he says, bemused.

“Oh no, it’s not the existence of tattoos that bothers me,” I respond quickly. “Maybe just the, uh, significance of them.”

“Ah,” Ivan says.

“It’s just that it’s a little scary, for lack of a better word,” I explain hastily, hoping he isn’t offended.
Good move, Katy. Offend your gun-wielding, heavily-muscled, Mafioso pseudo-boyfriend while you’re lying naked beside him. Fantastic.

Ivan lets out a rare, low laugh. I instantly breathe an internal sigh of relief.

“Well, I suppose that is to be expected,” he says breezily. “In fact, I would be concerned for your mental health if you were not at least a little bit afraid of my associates.”

I can’t help but laugh, too, partly in relief and partly just at the absurdity of it all.

Ivan continues, “But, my
solnishka
, please understand that you need not fear them as long as you are with me. I can protect you. I promise you that.”

He turns to look at me, a soft smile on his full lips. I snuggle into his side, feeling very warm and safe. It’s not so bad, this relationship. Besides, I am getting a lot more out of this form of mafia protection than I was as just a debtor months before!

Suddenly, I find myself itching to confide in him the way he confided in me. I want him to know me, really know me.

“My mom and brother died, too,” I murmur, with no preamble. Probably not the most tactful start to this particular conversation, but here we are.

Ivan sits up a little bit, turning his full focus on me. He furrows his thick brows and cocks his head to the side slightly. “When?”

I sit up, too, and shift around to face him, sitting cross-legged on the bed and pulling a pillow into my lap for moral support. “Many years ago,” I reply. “And it was very much like the way your mother and sister died.”

“Car accident?” Ivan prompts, looking genuinely interested.

I nod, fiddling with the hem of the pillowcase nervously. “Yes.”

“Foul play?” he asks, the hardness returning to his expression.

“No, no. It was really just an accident,” I answer quickly. “Honestly, it was.”

Ivan runs a large hand back over his head. “Well, either way, it is a horrible thing.”

“Yeah, it is. I wasn’t as young as you, and I wasn’t in the car at the time. But I still think about them every day, you know.”

“You never really heal from that kind of wound,” Ivan agrees.

I’m quiet for a moment, biting my lip. Then, the words just fall from my lips: “But I can understand their deaths. Unlike my father’s.”

Ivan takes my hand in his, gently rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb supportively. This gives me the strength to continue. “He was murdered a couple months before you met me.”

“Who killed him?” Ivan demands, his rage suddenly bubbling to the surface.

I shake my head sadly. “I still don’t know. There was a quick but thorough investigation, but they never did find out. It drives me insane thinking that the murderer is still out there living his life while my dad is gone. It just isn’t fair.”

I’m surprised at myself for sharing this much. I’ve never found the words to tell anyone else, not like this. But something about Ivan does this to me, makes me act like someone else, someone more open, less afraid.

So I go on. “I was away at college when it happened. I grew up here, you know, and after my mom and Steven died, I never imagined I would leave my dad. I couldn’t just abandon him to run the club alone. But he encouraged me to leave, to go off on my own and live my own life. So finally, I did. And I was having so much fun, Ivan, just being myself, being a college girl. And then somebody killed my dad while I was gone.”

I stop to catch my breath and swallow back the lump in my throat. Ivan gives my hand a quick squeeze of encouragement and I resume the story.

“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.”

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.