Devil's Prey(12)

I grimaced and bore my teeth in defiance while he did nothing more than  unclick the safety. My eyes glared into his and behind his cold veneer, I  could see an inkling of the real Max.

He had absolutely no intention of killing me but I didn't have to know  that and he made sure of it. I couldn't fight him forever, not when  there was a loaded pistol pressed hard against the soft flesh between my  jaw, just above my throat. It was a fatal wound, one I wouldn't walk  away from. It would blow my brains clear through my head, skull  fragments included. And if he were smart, the bullets were armor  piercing rounds designed to do the most damage.

I breathed harshly through my mouth. "I'll be a good little girl if you let me go."

"You mean to sit on the sofa, right? Because you're not leaving the  hotel. Not right now, not ever if I have my way-at least not without  me."

"I promise to sit on the sofa." I breathed out loud and tried to  maintain my composure but I'd already lost the fight. My knees felt weak  and the alcohol, as smooth as it may have been made me slow and  sluggish. I couldn't fight back even if I wanted to and that was the  honest to goodness truth.

Max slid the safety back on before he lowered his gun and pushed me  toward the loveseat. I fell back into the plush leather and tried to  calm my breathing while he stared at me with a mixture of desire, anger  and something else . . . could it be fear?

Of me?

Nope, I'd definitely imbibed too much if I ever thought tough and strong Max would fear a little nothing like me.

I crossed my arms against my breasts and glanced at him as bent down and  put the nine-millimeter on the table out of my reach before he stood  over me, his stance frightfully menacing. "Sorry. I'm not good at all  about apologizing and what not but when you scared me like that and then  made fun of me, I lost my shit. Yeah, I admit, I may be a cold blooded  killer but it takes me back . . . to a time when I couldn't defend  myself so yeah, I tend to freak the fuck out and go overboard."

"No harm, no foul," he bit out in a deep voice that spoke volumes. "I  may never be able to produce any functioning sperm again but what the  hell-it's not like I ever wanted a fuckin' kid anyway. You just saved me  the cost of a vasectomy."

"All jokes aside, are you gonna tell me anything about why we're here?  Who we're working for? Why we're going through all this trouble? I'm  hoping to God it will be worth it but knowing my luck, it'll probably  turn out to be a clusterfuck of epic proportions." I massaged the aching  skin between my chin and throat; I instinctively knew I had a bruise  forming already.

Max threw up his hands as he made a full circle before he joined me and  sat a little too close for comfort on the loveseat. "I'd think that  would be obvious to a smart chick like you. Mags, you didn't just fall  off the turnip truck and you sure as hell aren't a shrinking violet. Who  do you think we're working for if we're staying in this hotel?"

A sickening bile rose in my throat but I swallowed it back down. "The Russian Mafia."

"Not just any mafia family though . . . the Koslakov Mafia to be exact."

I couldn't help the chuckle that escaped my slightly parted lips. "Of  course. He wants to take out some of his competition. The Abandonatos  control this part of Nevada with Raymond Jackson. Your boss-whoever it  is you answer to-doesn't want to negotiate, does he?"

"I'm afraid Dimitri is done with negotiations. He's Russian and the  world he comes from is very different than it is here. I should know . .  . I spent ten years with him while he built up his empire in Eastern  Europe while his home base was in St. Petersburg," Max explained in a  controlled voice.

Finally, with trepidation, I faced those glacier blue-green eyes. "Are  you . . . Russian too? I mean, is there any relation between you and  this . . . Koslakov?"

"Not in a blood relation sense, no." He paused and looked away from me  as he continued, "None of my family calls Russia their mother country if  that's what you're thinking. My mother is half-Eastern European and  grew up under the iron curtain but she fled as soon as she was able to  do so. As for the rest of my European ancestry, it's of little  importance. The name I use is not my own and for your safety, you will  never find out my real name."         

     



 

"Maxwell isn't your real name?"

"No, it isn't." He stood suddenly and walked over to the bar area where  he grabbed a crystal whiskey glass, the bottle of Macallan 25, walked  back over to the loveseat and sat next to me again.

I removed my iPod from underneath my ass and set and it on the magazine  table while he stretched out, his legs a good length apart from one  another, allowing his thigh closest to me to rub against mine. I could  feel the heat from his body through his jeans and my own. This guy  constantly ran hot or so it seemed. Or maybe I just needed to get laid  and was looking for any excuse to make it happen.

Max poured a healthy dose of scotch for himself while filling my glass  up to the halfway point. I grabbed my whiskey tumbler from the table and  sipped from it.

"Shit," I murmured. "We got some real issues between us, Max. I gotta be  able to trust you and you're not givin' me much to go on here. I'm not  asking for a detailed background report or even your medical history but  I have to know something about you."

He swallowed his scotch and poured another round before he clutched the  glass like it was long lost lover. "Why? It's not important where I'm  from or who my parents are-were, in my case. They're dead to me. Why do  you care at all?"

"You know everything about me." I looked at him and could feel my eyes  grow distant, detaching myself from the present situation. "Don't  pretend like there's no file on me because I know one exists. That's why  you were in Brad's office. You wanted everything he had on me so if you  had to make me disappear, there would be no trace. You needed my  aliases, my family history-everything. And like the fuckin' idiot he is,  he gave it to you. Let me guess: blackmail?"

"Nope. A simple exchange, actually." He swigged from the scotch, his  aquamarine eyes glancing into mine. "Drugs for you. The WKs are  branching out . . . the meth trade is good but so is heroin. It's making  a comeback. I delivered a shipment and he handed everything he had on  you to me . . . and also gifted you to me in lieu of . . . cash  currency."

My eyes widened in complete and utter surprise. "I was payment for  drugs? So, what? All that talk about my freedom was bullshit? What would  you have done if I'd said ‘no' to your little proposal?"

"As much as you may think I am a monster, Magnolia, alas, I'm not. If  you were any other bitch, I would have driven you to one of our stables  where we keep the girls that are trafficked over here. They wouldn't  have put you to work of course . . . not like that. You would have been  entertainment for the men who work there and probably had a job doing  the books. You are a Reynolds and an Abandonato, after all."

"I suppose that would be a lateral move but . . . thank God it didn't  happen." I sat back and allowed my head to rest against the buttery-soft  leather sofa as the scotch did its intended job. "I'm nothing but bait?  A pretty face to convince my mother's cousin I mean him no harm. Does  he know who you are?"

Max shook his head. "I have always had a background job. Nothing up  front. Angelo has never met me and doesn't have a clue I am part of the  Koslakov Mafia. It will stay that way for as long as this charade has to  take place."

"How long will this last?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "We're not sure yet. In the meantime, we have  bought a house in the gated community of Serenity Village. It's in Birch  Tree. Neutral territory . . . so to speak. There are quite a few  members from the Lucifer's Saints who live there. We do business with  them and they are perfectly safe. We can blend in and you will be able  to make some friends."

I knew where this was going. This wouldn't be a quick "mission" at all.  If a house had been paid for, this would take months, perhaps as long as  a year for us to establish contact and work our way into the Abandonato  family. It wouldn't be easy either because the man didn't trust  outsiders. Although we shared blood-albeit very little-I was still a  stranger.

"Okay . . . well, I've already said yes to this hackneyed plan so I need  some reassurances from you." I swallowed the rest of my scotch and set  the glass on the table. "Let's play a game. Usually it's called ‘Twenty  Questions' but I highly doubt I'll get two or three answered by you. I  need to be able to trust you if we're going to pretend to be engaged . .  . so you have to tell me information about you very few people would  know."