Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(136)

“We’re going back to where this all began, kotika,” Mikhail says to me.



“How did you know he meant this hotel?” I ask, feeling a strange sensation as I sit outside the hotel where my whole life changed.

“Gregor knows I never set foot back at the scene of a hit. Especially not one as big as this with an ongoing investigation. He thinks he’s safe from me here, because the increased security will make it impossible for me to get in without being detected and recognized,” he explains, and that all makes too much sense.

It’s past midnight, time crawling by as we race back to the city, and I’m still wearing my messy mix of his clothes and mine.

“So how are we going to do this?” I ask.



Walking into the hotel, I feel an uncanny sense of deja vu. Even though I wasn’t really fully conscious the entire time I was here before, I know it. And I have a queasy feeling in my stomach.

What happened here—and especially what almost happened here—turns my stomach.

I’m holding a coat over one arm and wearing a dress that fits not quite perfectly, but near about. My hair is done back in an emergency ponytail. Where Mikhail got the dress in such short notice, I didn’t ask, but I put it on.

So here I am, dismissing the approaching concierge as I make my way to the elevator with my best attempt to appear like yet another lady arriving late. I know what they must think, I’m either some young kept girl coming back after a late night or a sex worker heading up to a client. But that’s kind of the point: to be dismissively ignored as a part of the usual guests.

Each floor up is agony, and I feel my heart beating like loud drums, foretelling a coming doom.

Once I arrive at the floor Mikhail told me about, the very same one he plucked me from that bloody night, I see at the end of the hall two men in dark suits clearly standing guard. Another one is pacing the hall. And all three see me immediately.

I push down my fear, though, and I walk ahead.

Stick to the plan, my inner voice tells me. So I stick to the plan.

The three men all stare at me, not sure what to make of my approach at first. But then one of them mutters into a microphone pinned to his jacket and two doors open alongside me. More men pour out around me, and one immediately blocks off my way back.

Why did I propose this? Why did I insist?! This is madness! A voice in my head screams, but it’s too late to back out.

I stop in front of the two guards at the big, double-door.

“I have a message for Gregorovich.” My voice sounds surprisingly calm, in control. My mind is chaos, but I don’t betray my inner fears. “It’s important,” I say when they hesitate.

But their eyes dart away, and it’s just as Mikhail said. They’re being watched too. For all the security this place brings them, the cameras prevent them from gunning me down or forcing me into anything then and there. It’s a double-edged sword, as he said. Hems both them and me in.

One of the men takes hold of my arm, and though he tries to make it look harmless, his grip is tight. I immediately struggle, make a big show of it for the cameras as Mikhail instructed.

“He has to meet me out here,” I say as the guard relents. “I want to talk in the hall about an exchange. Just him and I.”

“Nyet,” says one of the men immediately. “The boss will not see anyone privately.”

“Very well,” I say, licking my lips as if thinking about it. But Mikhail told me they’d say this. Thankfully, they’re predictable, and my boyfriend knows them better than anyone else. “One of you can remain. But has to stay at the end of the hall. For my safety.”

“Nyet,” he says again, but then he pauses, seeming to listen to something coming from his earpiece. “Da. Da,” he says then instructs the other men with simple hand gestures, and they all begin to walk away, returning to side rooms until there’s just the one head guard and me. “I must frisk you first,” he says.

I walk a few paces away to the most open area of the hall, there I hold out my arms, put my feet apart a bit as the man moves in, patting his big, grubby hands over me. Every second is torture and reminds me of what Mikhail really saved me from, but I don’t even quiver.

How am I handling this so well? Even as he cops a feel of my ass, just to show to me he can get away with it or put me on edge, I don’t sway. He’s going to get his, and soon.

The whole time, my heart is beating faster than it ever had before. No marathon can tax that muscle as hard as it is now. But I never show it. I kept my cool, my face stony and calm.

The thug who frisked me merely rises up and backs away without a word, opening the double-doors for his boss. Gregorovich.