Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel(80)

So physically, I’ve got to look pretty damn put-together.

But here in the lounge, nobody can see me. So I pull my legs up underneath me on the velvety couch and open up my tablet, getting as comfortable as I can. Who knows how long I have before the thugs show up to ruin my day, and possibly my life?

Nervously, I scroll through pages of my own ads, hoping for a bite. But besides a few wishy-washy comments, there doesn’t seem to be much interest in the stuff I’m selling. After all, none of it is particularly fancy. I live a very simple life, and the accoutrements of my existence are equally simplistic. But damn, I’d still hoped for at least a few offers.

A lock of dark hair works its way loose from my braid and dangles annoyingly between my eyes, as though to add just an extra pinch of frustration to my day. I sit up straight for a moment and try to tuck it back behind my ear. But it keeps falling free again, and so finally with a groan of irritation I yank the hair tie off the end of my braid and shake my head, sending the freshly-wavy hair tumbling in a brunette cloud around my shoulders.

“Whatever,” I mutter aloud, raking a hand back through my hair and rolling my eyes. I hold up my phone to check my dim reflection in the black screen, to see my face framed with a mane of wild hair. So much for looking put together. Oh well, I think to myself, perhaps this cave woman aesthetic will strike fear into the hearts of the mafia guys.

My phone vibrates in my hand and the little ding-ding of the text tone goes off as the screen lights up with a text from Natalie.

It says: “stud on premises, I repeat, stud on the premises.”

I furrow my brows in confusion for a moment, and then as the realization dawns on me, I can actually feel the blood draining from my face and my stomach flip-flops with fear.

The next moment, there’s a soft knock at the VIP door and Ashton’s sweet, timid voice says from the other side of it, “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Uh, tell them we’re not open yet,” I answer firmly to buy myself some time, hoping my voice isn’t shaking as much as my hands are. I fumble to stuff my tablet back into my bag and untuck my legs from underneath myself. I smooth my tank top down and frantically try to restore some semblance of normalcy to my hair.

The door creaks open and Ashton pokes her head through, her blue eyes wide.

“Um, h-he’s very insistent, Katy.”

He? Did they only send one minion to collect my debt today? For a moment a barrage of wild thoughts rampage through my brain. Maybe if there’s only one of them, they’re planning to just drag me away. Maybe if there’s only one of them, I can fight him off. I’m fairly strong! I can totally take down a burly, bloodthirsty mafia thug on my own! Totally reasonable!

“Katy?” she prods, looking a little scared. Regaining my composure, I get to my feet and walk over, my heart hammering in my chest, but with resolution in my steps.

I gesture for her to come inside for a moment, and I explain quietly and quickly, “Okay, Ashton. Everything is going to be just fine. I just need you to stay cool and go get Natalie and get both of you into the storage room, ‘kay? Just hang out there and be very quiet. Don’t come out, no matter what you hear.”

I can see her shrinking in fear, her dainty hand coming up to cover her mouth. “What?”

I put my hands on both her shoulders and say emphatically, “You’re okay. Just go hang out in the storage room, alright? I’ll come get you when everything is over.”

“Actually, that really won’t be necessary,” interrupts a deep voice with a light accent.

The VIP door pushes all the way open and there is a tall man standing there, wearing a navy-blue suit with a dark gray tie. My brain seems to flounder for a moment trying to place his face, as he looks vaguely familiar. Then it hits me.

The guy I slept with a few months ago.

“You may not recall me,” he says, sidestepping Ashton and extending a hand to me.

I instinctively stand up straighter and move ever so slightly in front of Ashton as though to shield her somewhat. With some trepidation, I take his hand and give it a quick shake.

“I do,” I reply swiftly. My heart races as I take in his suit, his accent that I couldn’t properly identify before, his timing — he was a mafia guy. I should have known it all along. This is Brighton Beach, after all.

“Go to the storage room,” I murmur to Ashton, without breaking eye contact with the Russian guy. As she moves to leave, he gives us both a vaguely sympathetic expression.

“I told you that won’t be necessary. I am here of my own accord, and I tend to handle matters more, ah, delicately than some of my associates. There is no reason to hide,” he explains. The look in his eyes seems genuine, and I give Ashton’s hand a squeeze and nod for her to go.