Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(48)
I step to the doorway and pause, looking back at her. “I understand if you don’t wish to speak to me, and I won’t blame you. No matter what. But I will keep you safe, and I will save Maggie. I promise.”
With that, I move back into the main room and look to Felix, who’s still at the computer, but the look on his face tells me he has something.
“Progress?” I ask him hopefully. I could use a distraction. I’m not a man who usually retreats into memory like that, and it puts me in a strange funk.
“Progress,” Felix affirms with a smile, tapping something on his screen before turning the laptop around to face me. I see an address on the screen, as well as a map of the location the phone was traced to.
“That’s quite a manor,” I say, “on the outskirts of the city.” I grimace, my fists flexing. “Liv said the bastards already have a buyer for Maggie. If they’re at an estate like that…” I trail off, knowing that the answer may be that she’s part of the entertainment for the night, and Felix looks concerned by my face.
“A manor is gonna have one hell of a security force, Max,” Felix warns, but I’m not fazed as I cross the room and pick up the same weapons I used to storm the apartment the first time, strapping some to my legs and some into a leather jacket that I draw over my shoulders.
“Yes, but you forget, this is the Bratva,” I say, rolling my shoulders. “I still have a few connections there — I only pissed off the ones tied to the slave trade, and most parties like this are mixed company. I am highly skilled, Felix,” I say with a smile, glancing back at him to enjoy his perturbed expression. “More than a few high-ranking members will jump at the chance of having me back. Even if that means my crashing a party under friendly pretenses.”
“So you’re just gonna...waltz in there?”
“I’m more of a tango man myself, but yes,” I reply candidly.
Felix opens his mouth a few times to protest, but sighs, taking a drink of the beer he’s helped himself to from my fridge. “Well, shit. You know what? Okay. I’m not even gonna say anything. You go do your scary murderer thing, and I’ll just uh, sit here with my spreadsheets and make sure your girlfriend doesn’t go chasing after you.”
“Student,” I correct him, giving him a meaningful look, and he rolls his eyes.
“Alright, alright. Go on, get out of here. And Max?” he says as I’m halfway to the door. “Don’t get shot — my hacking programs can’t extract a bullet.”
“No promises,” I say, “just keep her safe.” And without another word, I head out the door and down the stairs to walk into a manor full of the Russian mob.
17
Liv
We’re awkwardly avoiding each other’s eyes, both pretending to be totally engrossed in our own respective distractions. I’m fidgeting with my hands and looking down at a Kindle in my lap, even though I haven’t turned the page in several minutes. It’s open to some book about gymnastics training techniques, but the whole thing is written in French, so it’s not like I can comprehend anything on the pages anyway. And Felix, my glorified babysitter, is fiddling with an iPad, clicking around on the screen and heaving dramatic sighs every now and then.
The near-silence is getting to me.
“So, how do you know Max again?” I ask suddenly, unable to stand the quiet tension any longer. The young man’s bespectacled face quirks upward and he blinks at me, his dark eyes comically enlarged behind the frames of his glasses.
“Uh, well, we’re good friends!” he begins. Then he quickly corrects himself: “Okay, more like okay friends. We go way back.”
“Are you, like, a gymnast or something?” I question, doubting that would ever be possible. This guy doesn’t look like he’s ever done anything more strenuous in his life than post a Facebook status. But I’m determined to dig into the mysterious background of the man who saved me, the man whose hard body was pressed up against me in bed last night.
I want to know he isn’t horrible.
I want to know that falling for him isn’t the second biggest mistake since landing in France.
Felix snorts as though I’ve said the stupidest thing in the world.
“Oh, god no,” he retorts, wrinkling his nose. Then, as it dawns on him that I might find this response a tad bit offensive, he backpedals. “I mean, I wish. It would be nice to be a jock. Might have better luck with the ladies, if you know what I mean…”
“Sure,” I agree flatly. His smile fades away and he swallows hard. I can tell he’s not used to spending time around women alone — or around women, period, for that matter. He’s the kind of guy who’s got a closer bond with his laptop than he’s ever had with another human being. But I don’t get the same sense of creepy desperation from him I would usually expect from such an awkward, mouthy, nerd type. He seems less threatening than that.