Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(142)
The rat-like man falls on his hands and knees, buckling over in pain as he yells out, “Klyanus! I have nothing to say! It’s not one of ours!”
“I can’t abide a liar,” says the third man. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize he’s the one with the resonant voice. He’s even taller than the blue-shirt guy, with broad shoulders, and very dark hair. Even from here I can see the muscles tight underneath his dark jeans and black, short-sleeved shirt. There’s a thick black leather jacket crumpled behind him on the floor, as though he recently took it off. Then I notice that there’s a similar-looking jacket lying vaguely behind the blue-shirt guy, too. Weird.
“Hear that, zasranec? Your lies won’t be tolerated!” shouts blue-shirt. He pulls back for another kick but the cowering rat-man shrinks away instinctively.
The man in black raises a hand to stop them, his other hand rubbing at his temple.
“Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way, eh?” he begins, that deep voice filling my brain like intoxicating cigar smoke. “Perhaps you’d respond better to positive reinforcement.”
The rat-man perks up immediately, his sniveling face peeking out from behind his arms. He nods rapidly and begins to stand back up to take a few steps toward black-shirt. “Da, da, moy drug! What is your offer?”
Blue-shirt gestures angrily toward him, giving his associate a scathing, indignant glare. “You want to make a deal with this slug, Leon? Come on! Let’s just bash his ugly face in!”
“Quiet, Lukas!” black-shirt commands, holding up one finger to silence him. So his name had to be Leon. The name made me shiver.
Blue-shirt — Lukas — backs down, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes. Then Leon moves in on the rat-man and says, “What can you tell me about what happened here? How much do you really know?”
Fidgeting nervously and glancing back and forth between Leon and Lukas, the rat-man stammers, “I-I don’t know much, b-but I could give you some names of those who m-might have information for you.”
Leon snaps his fingers and the rat-man flinches. “Well? Spill!”
“F-first I need to know what you’re gonna give me in return.”
Lukas rounds on him furiously, snatching him up by the collar. “How about letting you leave this shithole with your miserable life? That good enough?”
Terrified, the rat-man starts to ramble very quickly. “I-I heard from my cousin Vic that his podruga’s sister knows a guy who got p-picked up by the politsiya about the LaBeau case!”
At the mention of my own last name I let out a startled gasp and drop my boots to the floor with a resounding, echoing clunk. My eyes go wide as all three men swivel around toward the sound — toward me.
“What the hell was that?” snarls Lukas, looking around with narrowed eyes.
“Help! Help!” the rat-man starts squealing, desperately thinking I might be a cop or someone here to rescue him from his chained interrogation.
“Zatk’nis, mu’dak!” roars Lukas, jabbing a right hook into the rat-man’s face.
“Who’s there?” calls out Leon, walking briskly toward me, squinting.
Oh no.
He’s going to find me. I’m going to die. They’re going to chain me up and beat the hell out of me like they’re doing to the rat-man. It’s all over.
Just then, my fight or flight instinct kicks in. Flight takes the reins.
With a terrified little squeal I stand up, tuck my boots under my arm, and bolt away as fast as my nearly-bare feet can carry me, my heart pounding in my ears.
“Stop! Stop right there!” Leon shouts, his voice running chills down my tingling limbs. I can hear his heavy footsteps quickening behind me. He’s chasing me.
“Boss?” Lukas yells.
“Stay back! I’ve got this!” Leon calls back in response.
He’s got this.
He’s got me.
25
Cherry
My head is pounding and my entire body aches, my legs having gone numb from running so far, so fast, in the cold air. My feet are frozen by this point, my toes totally without feeling. I’ve still got my boots tucked up under my arm, which is trembling but paralyzed in a kind of vice grip. The muddy, slushy earth beneath me splatters and smacks with every frantic step I take. I have not dared to look behind me, and I can’t hear much beyond the booming of my heart beat and the blood rushing in my ears. I am not a runner by any means, and in fact my gym membership card was little more than a shiny, colorful little decoration on my dresser back at my apartment in the city. I went a few times, but it was never a priority for me. The work I did, the kind of profile I kept, required me to be pretty and slim, but certainly not buff.