Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(104)

But there’s definitely pep to my step, and I grab my coffee, heading towards the door.

“Road trip time!”

He leads the way on down out of the building, locking up behind him. We come out onto the street, where a beautiful black sedan awaits us, shiny and new, looking like it just rolled off an assembly line. Mikhail pushes a pair of sunglasses down over his eyes as he keeps watching, but makes it to the passenger side door before me to hold it open.

“Be natural, calm,” he assures me as I stand at the edge of freedom once more. Though not quite.

But it’s a step up. And the fresh air is wonderful, so I slip into his car and relax back into the plush seat. It’s roomy and reminds me of traveling in the back of the limo with Mr. Gallego. I have to push that thought aside, though. I’m still not ready to grapple with that.

When he slides into the driver side, I give him what I hope to be my most radiant smile. “Haven’t you noticed? I’m always calm.”

Mikhail gives me a bemused, uneven smile as he starts up the car and we begin to pull out.

“It’s not a joyride—you need to get away from here. Away from all of this, where it’s safe,” he explains as the city passes me by. “I have people very close to me out of state who can keep you secure, away from prying eyes, as this all blows over. These are good people. Solid like the earth.”

“I get it. I mean, I don’t. This is way over my head, and you aren’t exactly a giving conversationalist, but... I trust you. I know it must be really serious,” I say. I know it’s important to him that I understand he’s not trying to be a jerk keeping me locked up. At least, I think so.

My words seem to reassure him, because my Russian giant of a man quiets up and keeps his eyes ahead. He takes us through the concrete jungle of New York with great care, no cop in the world having reason to stop us.

As we come to the bridge leading out of the city, a toll booth looms, and we wait in line.

“So how do you know these people?” I ask, just trying to drum up conversation.

“The leader of this club is my brother,” he says in his gravelly, low voice. “He has full run of the area. All his people are loyal, committed. They are to be trusted.”

Though thoughts of being hidden among a... club are more than a little upsetting to me. I know what he really means.

“So we’ll be staying with a gang, is what you’re saying?” I ask with a little more panic in my voice than I intended.

He shushes me silently as it comes our turn to pay the toll.

“We’ll be staying with friends and family,” he informs me as the toll booth operator watches with particular interest to us both. Maybe it’s the car. It does stand out, even in this crowd. “And don’t call it that when you’re with them. They’re sensitive to that, da?”

I keep quiet until the window is back up and we’re on the move again.

“Right, but how is a gang going to be safe for me, Mikhail?” I ask, earnest in my fear. Everything about my life, ever since the party, has been terrifying. And the only constant has been Mikhail. Quiet, imposing, in control...

I should trust him more, especially after last night, and so my hand reaches out to rest on top of his. I can feel the thick, bulging veins upon the back of his powerful hand jutting out so prominently. They remind me of another part of him, a more private part, that pulsed with blood and veins.

“I know you wouldn’t take me somewhere unsafe,” I finally say, taking a deep breath.

His gaze flicks down towards our hands, then over at me.

“A gang as you call it—a family—is the only thing that will keep you safe, my kotika,” he says. “These are good people. Not like me. They do what they do because they must. They do not deal like mobsters,” he explains to me patiently.

“I have a feeling that if you weren’t a good person, I’d be dead by now,” I murmur, not ready to admit that fully. It sends a cold shiver up and down my spine just saying the words, a pit of heavy dread in my stomach. My hand tightens upon his, and I relax.

“You presume upon my character too much,” he says, but he leaves it at that as we settle into the rest of the drive. My mind is left to wonder at all the ways in which he thinks himself not a good man. And of what that means for our future.

I’m so distracted I barely notice the maroon car that’s still behind us. I recall glimpsing one just like it since the moment we left the toll bridge.





9





Mikhail





The old neighborhood.

The dingy docks, no longer as bustling as they once were, lining the shorefront. The buildings mostly old and peculiar. But there’s a simple sort of humble homecoming feeling to it. Even if I never called Bayonne home, it was a home that always awaited me, if I wanted it.