Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(130)

“Hey Hernando, Mom’s going to fight me on this, but I’m going to give her a nice weekend in a ritzy hotel on the Upper East Side, okay? I want you to go with her and take care of her. Here’s my credit card info for the booking,” I say, quickly wrapping up the call. At least Hernando knows how to take orders.

And then I sit back, the phone call ringing in my head.

“She hasn’t sounded that happy since Dad died,” I say quietly. “She’s never let anyone else take care of her, only me...”

“Don’t worry,” Mikhail says, perhaps mistaking my words for worry, “Hernando is the best in his business. He can be trusted. I made sure of that before I hired him.” The stern look on his broad-jawed face tells me exactly how serious he took my mother’s care.

It takes a little longer for it to dawn on me that this is likely the nicest thing that anyone has ever done for me. I could excuse his saving me for some twisted moral code, or because he has the hots for me. But taking care of my mom—something he did since he first took me captive, apparently—is something altogether different.

It shows that from that first day together, he never lied to me. He never deceived me.

He has been the man he told me he was, and for better or worse, I know that we’re in this together now. I reach out, touching the back of his hand, letting him feel the slight weight of my skin on his.

“Thank you, Mikhail,” I say, and I hope he can hear the earnestness in my tone.

He doesn’t respond immediately, just gives the slightest crook of a smile before twisting his one hand around and holding mine as he drives us along into the darkening night. We hold hands like that in quiet for a while as we drive through forested back roads away from the cities and people.

It’s the kind of scene that should send chills down a girl’s spine: driving into a dark, forested road, away from all witnesses, in the clutches of a killer.

But after all that’s happened, my trust in him rewarded, my own abilities to defend myself—and him—proven, I feel so very calm. In control. For the first time in my life, I feel like I can trust my own judgment. My own abilities.

Mikhail pulls us off the road into an old sports field, which looks out of use.

“What are we doing here?” I ask, not quite putting all the pieces together. There’s no buildings as such, unless you count an outhouse and what looks to be a padlocked storage shed.

“We have some time to kill,” he says, opening his door and getting out. “Come with me.”

He shoots me a wry grin before getting out, and I follow. I’m still holding the gun in my lap as I climb out. It’s dark and I can’t see well, the white paint on the structures the only thing making them stand out.

The stars glow above us, just a sliver of the moon that barely lights our way as the silence of the rural area stretches out. It’s so quiet, it almost hurts after living in New York for so long. All there is around us is crickets and a bird in the distance.

Mikhail leaves my side and goes over to the storage shed, hitting a switch along the side and making lights go up around the grassy area.

For a second, I’m blinded, having to shield my eyes from the sudden light, but then I can see what I’m looking at. An abandoned baseball field, the grass grown out a bit, but still cleared enough that there doesn’t seem to be any mosquitos, the breeze keeping them at bay. A few yards away is a row of bleachers, and beyond that, simply trees.

It’s actually beautiful, for an old sports field.

Mikhail just walks towards me, my giant, mafia brute looking dashing in his shirt and jacket, while I feel a little silly in a mix of his clothes and mine.

“Take out your gun,” he says to me, and I do after a moment’s delay.

“You did very well today. Saved both our lives,” he says, resting his large hand upon my shoulder, squeezing before he guides me into the field. “But without training, it’s a miracle you hit anything. Especially under pressure. If we’re going to survive all of this, you’ll need more than your wits about you.”

He crouches a little behind me, his thick arms wrapped about, guiding my own slender limbs up, positioning me according to his exacting expectations.

“When you hold a gun, you have to do so like this. It’s the best way to absorb shock and make sure your aim is true,” he explains to me in that deep, husky voice of his, every word a tickle upon my eardrum.

He feels so warm and reassuring, but I understand why he wants to teach me. Because maybe he won’t always be right there to reassure me or finish the job. I’m going to need to learn to stand on my own two feet and rely on my guts and wits if I’m going to be living in his world.