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Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(137)

By:Alexis Abbott


The man who wanted me—wants me—tortured and killed. The man who made it so that I have nightmares of blood.

The man who gave me Mikhail.

It’s a twisted emotion, to loathe someone and yet be grateful for how all their horribleness opened me up to so many amazing things.

Yet this is my first time ever seeing him, and he’s not at all what I expect. He might even be handsome and charming, if he weren’t grinning at me deviously, the mastermind of all my pain and fears.

And he didn’t come with Nikki.

“Very brave of you to come all this way alone,” he says to me in his Russian accent. “Or is your little boyfriend around here somewhere?” he asks, making an act of looking around, as if Mikhail were some imp hiding behind one of the fancy tables lining the hall.

“I’m not going to let an innocent woman take my place, no matter what Mikhail wants,” I say firmly and with conviction. It surprises Gregorovich a little, but not much. He’s leering again in no time in that ivory colored suit of his, one hand in his pocket. No doubt grasping a gun.

“How noble. But I don’t think that dyke is as innocent as you believe,” he says, and I take back everything I said about him. He’s a creepy, greasy piece of shit, and no one could ever find him attractive after more than a few moments with him. “You don’t hang around bad men for that long without being a little bad yourself, hm?”

I want to hit him, then and there.

“If you let her walk on out of here now, I’ll come with you inside. That’s a fair offer. And a no-brainer,” I say firmly, sticking my chin up as I stand there in my blue dress. “I’m the one you want, after all.”

He stares at me a while, and I can almost see the nasty thoughts playing out in his head being broadcast through his eyes like projectors at a theater. It’s enough to make me feel like I need a long, scalding shower.

“I could just have you both right now, what would stop me?” he says.

“Why would you want to bother?” I counter. “This is much easier. Fewer chances of being caught,” I say, gesturing to a camera in the corner.

That really gets him, because he grins so wide it almost looks genuine. Mikhail says that’s how you know this creep is on the ropes. When he really pours on the deceit.

“Very well,” he says, then speaks into his own communicator. “Bring her out.”

We wait a moment, staring at one another. But when she doesn’t immediately appear, he grows quickly anxious and turns to the door, cursing into his mic. “What’s the hold up? Is that dyke struggling again?”

“That word is fucking gross...” I hiss under my breath, unable to contain my annoyance at him for a second. Which was dumb of me, I know—it drew attention back to me when I least needed it.

When I was pulling the sharp blade from my hair, used like a hair stick pin.

He turns to mock me just as the lights go out all around us, and I plunge the pointed tip at him.

I’m blind, he’s blind, everything is impenetrable blackness but for the lights of the city outside through the windows at the end of the hall. But I know I hit him, I could feel the dagger plunge in.

“Piz’da!” he cries out, and he lashes out at me. I take a blow to the side of my head that knocks me aside, but it’s nothing serious. I stumble in the dark and my eyes focus enough to make out his silhouette. And most noticeably, the dagger stuck through the palm of his one hand.

My disgust with his name-calling had given him time to raise his hand in defense. But I’m not sure that this was a better result for him than my original target anyhow.

The door to Gregor’s room opens, and in the inky blackness, the man I just stabbed raises his gun and fires into the nothingness wildly. The second pointed dagger in my hair had fallen to the floor when I pulled out the first, but keeping my cool, I use Gregor’s distraction to fumble on the carpet for it.

It’s easier said than done, and just as I find it, he turns his attention back to me.

“Piz’da!” he says again, but from out of the darkness looms Mikhail’s wraith-like shadow once more. And he puts a bullet through Gregor’s unwounded hand, making him cry out as his gun clatters to the floor. He screams in pain.

It’s my moment. That shot of Mikhail’s wasn’t a miss, he was giving me my opportunity. And I intend to use it.

Grasping the thin stiletto dagger in my hand, I jerk it up at him, stabbing it into his inner thigh. Then again I thrust it, this time piercing his groin. Then again. And again. Until the larger man falls over, and I climb atop him.

From that vantage point I can see the glint of fear in his eyes, as the city lights cast inwards, and I know we have the floor to ourselves. Mikhail never fails, and the way he confidently stands behind me indicates he did his job well and used all the time I bought him to eliminate Gregor’s goons.