Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(139)

“You’re home,” I smile as I head into the living room to greet him.

His face lights up with warmth as we greet, and the beautiful bouquet of flowers he whips out from behind his back helps. The assortment was carefully picked, including several white gardenias, the flowers I’d begged for at our wedding. I didn’t care about anything else, but gardenias were my dad and mom’s wedding flower, and he got her one every anniversary. Now the tradition has been passed down.

“I stopped off for these, kotika,” he says, and simple acts like that I know are far more troublesome now. He has a small army of guards with him wherever he goes. Though none of that keeps him from being sweet to me, like how he’s sweeping me up in his arm and pulling me in for a deep, passionate kiss.

The fire between us hasn’t dimmed at all as we make out, and before our greeting can be completed, my beautiful new flowers are fallen to the floor despite my best efforts, my red dress is crumpled beside it, and I am glistening with perspiration with my stunning, muscular hunk on top of me.

“It tortures me the whole day through to have to wait to ravage you,” he growls, plucking another kiss from my lips in our post-coital bliss.

I curl into him, knowing my hair and makeup is a mess, but I don’t care. Nothing could be more perfect than this moment as my mouth meets his, slower and lazier. I want to remember this moment, the light scent of flowers filling my senses, the feel of his heavy hands on my waist.

Then I lightly rub the back of his hand, guiding it lower, towards my navel, and I catch his eyes.

“I have good news,” I say, unable to resist smiling. My love was so virile and potent, we never needed to wait long for a new life to begin within me.

His face lights up just like it did the first time I told him I was expecting.

“Boy or girl, I hope this one is as amazing as you, my love. My life,” he says, overjoyed with the prospect of being a father the third time over.





Glossary





Avtoritet - The Authority, the Boss

Kotika - Kitty cat

Nichego - Nothing

Klyanus - I swear

Zasranec - Asshole

Da, da, moy drug - Yes yes, my friend

Podruga - Girlfriend

Politsiya - Police

Khorosho - Alright

Devushka - Girl

Sotrudnik - Officer

Mudak - Asshole/dickhead

Chert voz’mi - Damn it

Byet ostorozhen - Carefully

Zatk’nis, mu’dak - Dumb asshole

Pidarasy - vacation

Vy prekrasny - Beautiful

Obeshchayu - I promise

Ne volnuytes, kroshka - It’s okay, baby

Ochyen priyatno, sestra - Nice to meet you, sister

Moy brat - My brother

Bratishka - Little brother

Pozhaluysta - Please

Smelaya devushka - Daring girl

Sestra - Sister

Spasibo - Thank you

Da svidaniya - Goodbye

Fsyevo harosheva - Safe travels

Pizdoon - Fucking liar

Bozhe moi - My God!

Piz’da - Cunt

Govnjúk - Bastard / Shithead

Spetsnaz - Russian Special Forces

Nyet - No

Da - Yes





Part I





Saved by the Outlaw





24





Cherry





I should have worn better shoes.

Garden State, my ass, I think bitterly to myself as I awkwardly stumble through the warehouse in the dark. This morning when I woke up in my hotel room in Newark, I sleepily opened my shiny New Yorker suitcase to peruse my wardrobe options, all of which are also distinctly New Yorker in style. That is to say, they are much better suited to a strut down Fifth Avenue than a tromp through the muddy backroads of New Jersey.

Shoes, especially.

I am accustomed to sharp stilettos, suede ankle boots, and fire-engine-red pumps. None of which are particularly appropriate for a day of exploring the site of my father’s death. This warehouse is dark, dank, and definitely a stark departure from my usual haunts. I mean, I am a journalist, so you might expect me to be used to running around in unusual places, sniffing out the next big story. But because my deadbeat mom was so generous and considerate as to land me with a name like Cherry LaBeau, I’ve never exactly been on the shortlist for the Pulitzer Prize.

In fact, I’ve been lucky to score the cushy, inconsequential, lighthearted pieces they’ve handed off to me in the past. I’ve been a fashion blogger, a who’s-who editorialist, and a celebrity gossip generator for several years, and it’s paid fairly well — which is to say not much by most standards. Well enough to keep me housed, fed, and decked out in (admittedly out-of-season) designer clothes in the very expensive city of the Big Apple all this time.

It would almost be a dream job.

Except that it’s the opposite of anything I’ve ever dreamed of.

Despite the girly, tongue-in-cheek name on my birth certificate, I’d like to think there’s nothing very frivolous about me. Sure, I write the puff pieces they assign me and I wear the knock-off Carrie Bradshaw outfits they expect me to. I sign my ridiculous name with a flourish, and I dot my “i’s” with a heart. But beneath all that superficiality is a real, hard-hitting journalist, just itching to break free and finally write something of substance.