Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(89)

“Mr. Gallego wouldn’t give me anything like that. He’s a congressman, for Pete’s sake. Could you imagine the scandal if I was drugged while on a business meeting? The press would never let him live that down.”

“Eat,” he orders me sternly. “You are going to need your strength, and there won’t be much else to do around here for the next few days at least,” he instructs as he glares down at me, those large, powerful hands upon his hips.

Next few days?!

Instead of eating, I stand up from my chair, thinking for a brief second that if I stand up I’ll feel more powerful. I apparently forgot that I barely come up to his pecs, am at most half his weight, and my glare is probably not going to cow him the way I hope it will. Not to mention the fact that I’m not too steady on my feet right now.

Still, a girl’s gotta try, right?

“A few days? Listen, I can’t stay here a few days. Firstly, I have a job to get to, and that... that... cot you gave me might work for a drunk tank, but I’m sober now and that’s not going to cut it. And lastly,” I say, having lost count of my points, “I’m supposed to be helping Mr. Gallego on his re-election campaign this weekend. That was why he invited me out, to give me more details on what he needed me to do.”

As expected, my resistance proves absolutely useless upon him. I might as well have just blown sparkles at him for all he seems swayed by my words.

“None of that matters anymore,” he states simply in that harsh accent of his. “You have no job to return to. Gallego will not be running for re-election. And you are going to sit down, eat your food, then get changed, curl up on the couch, and watch some TV,” he instructs me. And a quick glance shows me that the drab couch indeed sits before a rather unimpressive flat screen TV I hadn’t even noticed before now.

“I suggest you get used to your accommodations, Ms. Allie,” he says firmly. “For your own safety, you are staying here for the time being.”

This is when dread really starts creeping in.

“What... what happened last night?” I ask, my hands suddenly turned to ice and beginning to tremble.

“Nothing that should concern you any longer if you care for your life,” he says to me with stern seriousness. “Now eat. Get comfortable. You are here until it becomes safe for you to leave again. For your own benefit I suggest you get used to it,” he explains before strolling past the couch.

There, he leans down and lifts a pile of clothes from the sofa, resting it on the back of the couch and patting it. It’s a pink, girly color.

“Here is a change of clothes for you. There is food in the kitchen, the TV has cable, and the bathroom is right there,” he explains, pointing to a small door off to the side. “I will be back later,” he adds as he heads to the main door.

“Wait!” The fear of being alone and not knowing what happened is apparently way stronger than my fear of what actually happened last night. Who is he?

“Just tell me what happened at the party,” I plead, my head getting woozy and sending me off balance as I careen into the couch.

It’s all hazy, but I think he catches me, sweeping in faster than my eyes can see. But then it’s all darkness.



I have no idea how long I was out, but as I come to I see the light streaming in through the window, a mesh of protective bars filtering it only a little. I realize I’m on that plain, grey sofa in front of the TV and window, still locked in the drab room.

More urgently, however, I feel something else come over me: imminent nausea.

The dark stranger, Mikhail, had warned me, but when it hits… it hits like a ton of bricks. I’m already on my side, but I lunge for the edge of the sofa to hurl, and thankfully, find there’s already a bucket waiting for me in place.

This isn’t a hangover. This is something more vile and scary, and I’m starting to believe the man when he said I was drugged. It’s almost impossible for me to believe, though. I’m just some aide for the congressman, trying to get some experience and work my way through school. Being drugged is something I’d more easily have accepted if I was out with guys my own age.

A sense of betrayal comes over me, fear over what my employer was intending on doing to me. If Mikhail is to be trusted—and I don’t know if he can—then he saved me from something terrible. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to wonder what a group of men would have done to a drugged and helpless young woman.

The pain that shoots through my stomach sends tears to my eyes, and my entire body feels overheated with anxiety. When finally I’m emptied of every last bit of food, there’s still a lingering agony in my gut, but my nausea subsides.