Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (19 page)

I
shake
Agent Daniels' hand and take one last look at the Brighton Beach brothels before heading back to my car. I've done something my own father would have killed me for: I worked with the enemy, with law enforcement, and I took down my own
pakhan.
Our family's Godfather.

Our fearless leader.

I hadn't wanted to make my move yet. Not this soon.

But Declan, Chase and I had come to the brothels Friday night, only to discover Markov beating a young girl almost to death. And Solonik was there, watching the entire time. Drinking. Encouraging him.

So I challenged my
pakhan
, and anyone knows a challenge means one of us would die. He chose fists, but of course he cheated.

"Does it hurt?" Declan asks, his Irish accent thicker than normal. We're all exhausted, and haven't slept in two days. Chase joins us, rubbing his hands over his eyes.

"I've had worse." I brush at the bandage the EMTs had put over my arm, over the tattoo. "Hell, if my father were alive, he'd have taken an ax and tried to cut the tattoo off my body, anyway. He would say I didn't deserve the family's mark any longer."

Chase shakes his head. "Your father was an asshole,
pakhan
. You did what you needed to do, even if the Feds fucked it up. Now everyone knows you're in charge, and we're changing things around in this family."

I squint in the early morning light, the few remaining police cruisers pulling away from Markov's former fucked-up kingdom.

"Everyone but Solonik and Markov," I say. "Find those fuckers. Every single man has one mission: hunt them down, and bring them to me."

I move to open my car door, wincing at the pain. Chase takes the driver's seat, and Declan gets in the back.

Despite claiming he wanted to fight in hand-to-hand combat, Solonik had had a knife and had cut me deep. Before I turned it on him. I hadn't meant to kill him—at least, not at that moment.

I could still see the moment his own knife had slipped deep into his side. The exhalation of air. He'd looked up, into my eyes, me holding him like I was a father and he was a child. Ushering him into the next life.

Then everything had gone to hell.

The Feds—dammit, the Feds—raided the building. Agent Daniels had said they'd hold off for a week, but apparently even the government has its own special brand of assholes who want to jockey for power. It was blind, dumb, fucking bad luck that Chase, Declan, my men and I were in there.

And that I was holding a bloody murder weapon.

At least, I think it was a murder weapon.

Because at that moment, the F.B.I. came busting in, ordering everyone to freeze. Of course, eighty Russian goons opened fire. A hundred F.B.I. agents fired back. Smoke bombs and bullets and chaos galore.

And Solonik and Markov's bodies were never found
.

"Fuck!" I punch the ceiling of my car, denting it.

"Let us drop you off at your place," Declan says. "Kat will fix you up. We're on this."

I think of Kat: she's likely still at home, wondering where the hell I am. And judging by the flurry of text messages and voicemails she's left me, I'm hoping that's the case. My heart warms at the thought, a slow thaw for the ice I've carried in my veins the last few days.

Or she took her fucking passport and fled the country.

Of course, I wasn't a complete fool—and I wasn't ready to let her go. I'd placed a tracker inside her fancy purse. I'd be able to find her anywhere, the world over.

If she tried to leave me.

I'm not ready to face her yet. I laugh to myself. The great, brave Gray Petrokov—afraid of having his fucking heart broken.

"Nah, let's go back to the bar. I want to talk to all the other captains of the New York families. I want everyone to know: Solonik and Markov are dead men walking. And I'm the new boss in this fucking town."

I
t's dark
. I think it's daylight, but with the blindfold over my eyes, I get only the occasional flash of light. Like we're driving through trees.

We've been driving for hours.

I moan, trying to move my bound wrists and get some circulation back into my arms, but I suppress the sound immediately. When I wouldn't stop screaming, even after Markov had slapped me repeatedly, he'd stuffed an old rag in my mouth.

He was about to duct tape it into me when I began puking from the gasoline smell on it, from my fear…
from morning sickness.

Tears fill my eyes, but I try not to make a sound. I listen to my breathing.
Breathe in for four, out for five, in for four, stay alive
.

He'd pulled the rag out while I was puking, then hit me upside the head for getting it on his shoes.

But I'd stopped crying. I'd stopped making any noise. I would do anything to stay alive, to get back to Gray alive.

To keep my baby alive.

That thought brings tears to my eyes again, but thankfully they're hidden by the rough cloth bound around my eyes. I'm laying on my side, across the back seat. It feels like an older car, because the seats are covering with slippery faux-leather. My ankles are bound; my wrists are tied tightly behind my back. Every time Markov hits a bump, it takes all of my effort to stay on the seat and not slide right to the floor.

Markov starts whistling again. He's been doing that for what feels like hours, a perverted mash of childhood lullabies. No words, just the same haunting refrain, over and over and over again.

He also groans in pain from time to time. I hope he's bleeding to death, the bastard.

But even worse is the talking.

"You fucking bitch," Markov slurs. From the sound of a liquid sloshing, I think he takes another drink. I can only hope it's not liquor. But from the sudden jerks of the wheel, I'm afraid he's getting drunk.

Maybe he'll crash. Maybe he'll hit his head. Maybe I can escape.

But he didn't put a seatbelt on me—just threw me, blindfolded and bound, into the back seat of his car.

If we crash, I would fly through the air.

The tiny spark inside me would fly through the air.

Where would we land?

"Your
husband
is a traitor." Markov lets loose a long string of thick Russian. I think he's forgetting I don't speak it, or getting drunker, because half the time he seems to expect me to answer.

"Working with the Feds. Challenging Solonik. I bet Petrokov thought he'd fucking kill me, too. But now I have his little whore. I wonder, should I carve you up the way your husband carved Solonik?"

He takes another drink. Another bit in Russian.

"—your pretty thighs. I normally like them younger than you, but for you, sweet little thing, I'll make an exception. Don't worry. I'll train you well. I'll teach you something new every day. Then maybe I sell you, to make money. But then again, maybe I cut you up in pieces and send them back to your
traitor fucking husband
."

His words make my stomach churn, and I pray that I won't throw up again.

I pray—for everything.

But at least I know: Gray is alive.

I
'm riding
up my apartment's elevator, but I feel like I'm descending to Hell.

Will she be home? Did Kat stay—or did she flee from me?

I hope she listened.

I hope she trusted me.

I should have answered her panicked calls, but I was in the middle of a federal investigation, a fight for my life, and a mafia family takeover.

And to be honest: I was fucking pissed at her. I didn't trust myself not to want to hurt her, like she'd hurt me.

It was better this way.

But now, the kitchen's empty. The lights are off.

I walk slowly down the long hallway to my bedroom, my heavy footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors.

Maybe she's asleep. Maybe she's in the shower
.

I push open the door and discover…nothing.

I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, then scream like an animal and punch a hole right through my white, pristine fucking wall.

My knuckles are bleeding, but I don't feel any pain.

Chest heaving, I tell myself I don't care about her. I don't want her, not if she had been planning on leaving all along. The lying, scheming—heart-breaking—

That's when I see her purse. Her fucking big, blue-gray "like my fucking eyes" purse. I grab it, turn it upside down, empty it on the bed.

Money comes fluttering down, covering the white comforter with twenties and hundreds. A bed covered with thousands of dollars. All I ever
thought
I'd wanted. But no passport.

Wait. I reach in, pull the lining inside-out. There's her passport.

"Motherfucker," I whisper. I grab my phone, calling Chase on speaker while I pull up my tracking app. It loads too fucking slowly, and Chase answers just as the little green blip solidifies, showing me where Kat's cellphone is.

"Motherfucker," I moan. "Chase, get to Café Russo. Now. Kat's there."

* * *

E
xcept
, she isn't. Just her phone, abandoned by the sidewalk, next to the crime-scene tape and the bloody last resting place of Viktor Solonik.

The policewoman guarding the scenes eyes Chase, Declan and me, but doesn't say anything.

"C'mon," I order, and we all get back into Chase's SUV. As he peels out, I ask him where the fuck Elle is.

"I took her upstate, man. I was going to take Kat, but you said don't let Elle talk to her—"

"Enough." I lean my head back, wanting to punch a wall again.

Really, wanting to hurt myself.

She didn't leave me. But she's missing. Markov's missing.

Dear God, what have I done.

"Did Kat call her?" I bite out.

Chase winces, weaving through traffic. "You said to cut her off from Kat. I took her phone when she wasn't looking, man. I made Elle think she lost it, and I gave her a new one."

"Call Elle. Declan, get men on this. My wife is missing. No money, no phone. If she dies, if she gets
hurt
, I burn this fucking city to the ground."

F
inally the car stops
. I don't know whether to cry from relief, or cry from fear. Because now that we're not driving, he's going to take me out of the car.

Touch me.

Do whatever the hell he wants to me.

And from the way he's been ranting for hours—he wants to do an awful lot of really awful things.

I steel myself, though. I can do anything. I can do anything, I can survive anything, as long as I try to protect my stomach, protect what's growing there.

"Here, kitty, kitty." Markov's voice is low, slurred. I hear his car door open, his body stumble out, then the driver's door slams shut. I rub my face against the seat, hoping to loosen my blindfold, even a little bit.

On my left, the car door opens, right where my feet are. A burst of cold, fresh air washes over me. We're somewhere high, somewhere cool, somewhere away from the heat of the city in June.

A hand wraps around my ankle. I bite my lip to keep from crying out. He drags me, bound and blind and helpless, toward the door. He doesn't stop there; I realize too late that he's pulling me all the way out of the car—I cry out as I land, hard, on gravel.

"Ow," I moan. My hands are tied behind my back.

"Get up," Markov orders, pulling on the collar of my shirt.

I try to make my feet obey, but I just stumble and fall onto my other hip.

"Fucking stupid
су́ka
," he mutters.

And then suddenly—I can see! I blindfold has fallen to my neck. I blink furiously, the setting sun still too bright for my eyes. It takes a minute for my vision to clear, but when it does I see Markov, his brown eyes wild, a trickle of blood falling from his temple, coming at me with a knife in his hands.

I open my mouth to scream—but, will he hit me? Kill me anyway?

Do I need to play along? Are my chances of survival better if I don't fight him?

"Good pet, you learned not to scream," he whispers, his voice excited. "I'm going to have such fun teaching you what I like."

Instead of hurting me, he surprises me and uses the knife on the duct tape around my ankle, releasing my legs.

I gasp in pleasure, then pain, as blood rushes back into my that part of my legs.

"A good pet says thank you," Markov says. He holds the knife up in the fading sunlight.

I hate you.

I'll kill you.

Or Gray will.

"Thank you," I whisper.

A slow, intimate smile spreads across his beaten face. "I think we'll get along just fine."

He doesn't release my wrists, but pulls me up to a standing position, and then half-helps, half-drags me toward what I now see is a small cabin half-hidden by a copse of trees. We're parked in a clearing in the woods. And as far as I can tell, we're the only humans anywhere nearby.

There's no key, apparently, because Markov pushes the wooden front door right open. Inside, he paces and inspects the place, like he's familiar with the cabin but hasn't been here in quite some time.

Against the northern wall, there's a stone fireplace. I eye the metal stand next to it, with a small broom, a mini shovel, and an old, iron poker. A worn sofa and a couple old, upholstered chairs that look like they saw their best days in the sixties fill the middle of the room.

On the south side of the room, there's a doorway to what looks like a kitchen. I can see a stove, and the edge of a countertop. And alongside the western wall, is a bed.

One bed.

Markov smiles as he sees me watching it. "Only good pets get to sleep with their Master." He walks up to me, runs his hand over my chest, my stomach, then grabs me between the legs. "Act like a little bitch, and you sleep chained on the floor."

I bite back any reply—anything at all—and just nod. I'm exhausted, terrified, and starving.

Markov wanders in front of the fire, taking what I see now is a small bottle of vodka from his jacket pocket, and downing another inch or two. So that's what he was drinking in the car. He takes another step, weaving between the furniture.

"Does my pet want a sip?" he walks over to me, grabs the rope binding my wrists in one hand, then pulls me so hard backwards that I almost trip and fall.

"Open your mouth," he orders. I shut my lips and refuse.

"Drink or I cut off a finger," he shouts, right in my ear.

I open my mouth, just slightly, and he jams the bottle in, hitting my teeth in the process. Thankfully, he's so drunk that he basically spills half of what he wants to give me, and as I choke, I spit out most of the rest.

"Good girl," he mutters, wandering over to the bed. "Tired?"

I shake my head vehemently, and he laughs.

"Sure you are." He pushes me further into the room, then slams the front door shut. He locks a deadbolt, but that's all that's keeping us inside.

No keys. If he passed out, I can easily get outside.

But then I'd need the car keys. Shit, I don't know where he put them.

I need to stop driving myself crazy, but looking at the locked door, all I can think is: all Gray wanted to do was lock me up to protect me from psychos like Markov. Why didn't I listen?

"Thinking of your pretty fucking husband?"

I jump, both at how close Markov is, and how he eerily read my mind.

"No," I lie. "He's an asshole. More than you know."

Markov raises one bushy eyebrow. His eyes are bloodshot, and he pushes me toward the sofa while taking another swig of vodka.

"I know exactly what kind of asshole he is," Markov sneers. "He sold out the entire family to the F.B.I. He killed Solonik."

"He'll want to kill you, too," I say. It's a crazy idea, and I can't believe Markov would believe anything I'd tell him—but can I get him on my side? Would he believe me if I say I hate Gray? "He wants to kill everyone. He practically killed me."

Markov rests his head back on the sofa, groaning. I can see he's been hit a few times; half his face is bruised, and only turning a darker purple.

"What happened to you?" I say. "You need ice. If you untie me I can—"

Out of nowhere, he slaps me. So hard my head turns ninety degrees.

"I ran brothels," he says, closing his eyes like he just read a baby a bedtime story instead of kidnapping and hitting a woman. "I know how to tell when a woman lies."

My eyes watering and cheek stinging, I don't know what comes over me. "Fine. Fuck you and fuck your face," I spit out.

Markov's eye fly open, but to my surprise he begins to laugh. And laugh and laugh and laugh.

Jesus, it's disturbing.

"I don't care if you live or die," I say. And what's terrifying is, it's the truth. I pause, trying to gather my thoughts. What the hell am I doing? But he seems to like it. "But I want you to do one thing for me." I lean toward him, my body still unsteady from being tied and hit. I make my eyes as cold as I possibly can. I look at Markov and will him to believe me.

"Whatever happens to me, I want you to kill that bastard Grayson Petrokov."