Sold to the Hitman(37)

“Now that, I would relish,” Kasym says with a wicked laugh.





14





Cassie





When Andrei returns, it is as though nothing has happened — except that his eyes have this faraway look, his face hardened against the world once more.

He still takes my arm with a soft touch, guiding me gently through the opera house as we navigate the post-show crowds back to the car. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep on the ride home, though I occasionally sneak a one-eyed glance over at my husband in the passing neon lights intermingled with nighttime darkness.

There is something unnamed consuming him, preoccupying his mind. The thought that he is hiding something from me eats away at my newfound happiness, no matter how desperately I long to ignore it, to put it far from my mind so it can’t plague my joyful heart.

I don’t know what it is, and I dare not ask, afraid to shatter the illusion.





15





Andrei





I know I’m going to be easily the most down-dressed person at this party, but I don’t like looking like a villain from some crime drama on television.

My car pulls up the long driveway after passing security, and for once, every other car on the lot is on par with mine — a lot of sports cars, a lot of black luxury sedans, and a handful of limousines.

I’m on the job again.

This contract could not have come at a more opportune time. Ever since my display at the auction where I bought Cassie, things have been somewhat tense with Sergei Slokavich, to say the least. He regards me with the air of caution he’d long ago thrown to the wind, confident that I was nothing but his lackey.

But I am not so willing to break ties with the Bratva that I will cut out Sergei just yet. He’s a disgusting man, but he has his uses.

He reached out to me, offering me a job as his bodyguard for the evening at a party at Seneca Lake, about five hours from our home in Brighton Beach. It’s a luxurious countryside estate with a gorgeous view of the water, and the climate is perfect for the state’s wine industry. The owner of this particular manor is one such winemaker — one who happens to have very close ties with the Bratva.

But as legitimate as his business is, a significant amount of smuggling takes place within those wine barrels, so nearly every smuggler and human trafficker worth their salt will be in attendance.

And it’s one of those human traffickers who is my target for the evening.

Boris Mikhailov is his name. He’s responsible for orchestrating the sale of hundreds of women from Serbia, Croatia, and Bosnia to powerful men here in the USA. He started out as the owner of some kind of loan shark operation that taught him the art of trapping trusting victims in need.

The only ones who will mourn his passing are the wastrels getting drunk on bad wine here this evening. And I have the perfect cover.

I arrive about fifteen minutes before Sergei, as arranged. I step out of my car, clad in a designer leather jacket and snug-fitting jeans that are flexible enough for easy movement. The tattoo of my Russian star is just barely visible under the collar of my shirt.

I lean against my car, waiting for Sergei. It would be bad form for me to make an appearance without him, and I suspect he has this in mind — doesn’t want me getting too far away from my place. All the better he’s totally unaware that I’m using him as a cover for the night.

Some time passes as I check in with Cassie by text; she’s been practicing her newfound painting talents while I’m “away on business.” I often wonder how much she’s guessed about the business I conduct. She knows I carry out some security jobs for the Bratva, and I’ve told her as much on this trip, but I’ve spoken not a word to her about the more...direct business I take care of.

Sergei’s approaching sedan snaps me from my thoughts. He and his other muscle step out of the car; he’s wearing a large fur coat and garish sunglasses, his patchy facial hair as unkempt and greasy as ever. He grins at me when he sees me approaching, but I know it’s forced.

“Andrei, Andrei my boy!” He holds out his arms, and I embrace him out of courtesy.

“Safe trip, I hope?” I ask.

“Bah!” He gives a dismissive wave at his other bodyguard, the car’s driver. “This doorak drives like a blind old man, but here we are, only an hour late, eh?” He gives a cackling laugh and pats me on the back as the three of us head for the estate.

It’s an opulent villa-style property, complete with fountains along the cobblestone walkway to the grand entrance and elaborate garden space out front — all patrolled by surly gentlemen carrying guns, of course.

The party is as boring as I expected it to be. Once we’re inside, we’re greeted by a manservant who guides us to a large room occupied by an array of middle-aged and older men every bit as sleazy-looking as Sergei. Each one of them has a scantily-clad young woman or two in their arms, and of course, wine is being shared freely among the guests. The women at these kinds of events are paid workers, though, not slaves, even if few of them look happy about tonight’s gig.