Stolen by the Mob Boss : A Russian Mafia Romance (Bratva Hitman), Nicole Fox [best ebook reader for surface pro .txt] 📗

she knows I’m right. “I’ll call you in a bit, okay? Try to control yourself. You’ll be really bored if you get yourself banned from the club for groping the golfers.”

“Very true,” she says, as though she’s actually considering it. “Alright, well, call me back soon before I do something irresponsible.”

I sigh as she hangs up. Then I put my phone on silent, making a very important mental note to change Ivy’s ringtone later, and smooth my hands down the front of my dress. It’s knee-length, like Father politely requests, but the neckline is cut low and revealing. I have to get a little wild, in whatever ways I can get away with it.

That being said, as I head into the comic book store, I’m wishing I’d brought a sweater. Not every person shopping inside will be a nerd with zero skills regarding the opposite sex—I’m a frequent shopper here, after all—but that is a large percentage of the clientele. Between the nerds and the teenage boys who ogle my bit of cleavage, I can feel like a slab of meat when I’m inside.

I take one step and suddenly, someone is standing right next to me. I jump and yelp in surprise.

“Sorry. I didn’t—”

Then, I look up. The man is tall and broad, but a dark hood is pulled low over his face so I can only see his mouth and chin. His lips are tightened into a scowl.

For a second, I wonder if it’s a member of my security team. But it can’t be. They usually opt for civilian casual—jeans, T-shirts, baseball caps. Not shadowy hoodies. Besides, this man is standing way too close and hasn’t said a word to me.

I shy away from him, spinning so I’m walking backwards towards the store, my eyes on the man’s looming frame. I regret making fun of the men who frequent the comic book store, because now I’m praying one of them will notice this creep outside and come save me. But I only manage two steps back before I hit something solid and warm. When I try to jump away this time, an arm wraps around my upper body, pinning my arms to my side.

Someone is grabbing me like they mean business.

I’m being squeezed so tightly I can barely breathe, but I strain my neck to look back. Same hood, same shadowy face, but unlike the other man who looked like he was gritting his teeth, this man’s mouth is parted, almost as if in shock. And his jawline. The stubble.

The handsome man from earlier.

A hand clamps down over my mouth, and I realize with horror that I’ve missed my opportunity to scream. Maybe if I hadn’t been so busy eyeing him before, I would have noticed something suspicious about him. And maybe if I hadn’t been staring at his square jaw and wide mouth, I would have had the presence of mind to scream.

I struggle, legs flailing, body thrashing, but I can feel the fight leaking out of me as if I’m a balloon and someone has poked a hole in my side. My vision goes black around the edges, my arms and legs get heavy, and my head sags to the side. I’m fighting unconsciousness and losing badly. If the man wasn’t holding me up, I would fall flat on the pavement.

Then I feel an arm behind my knees and my neck, and the gentle sway of his body as he carries me down the sidewalk. I don’t even have the energy to be terrified.

“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice a baritone lullaby carrying me off to sleep.

Then... darkness.

***

My eyes jerk open. I sit up, aware that something is wrong before I’m even conscious. My head swims, and I press a palm to my forehead to try to keep my brains from sloshing against my skull. I feel worse than I did after my twenty-first birthday when Ivy and I stupidly tried to take twenty-one shots to celebrate. We didn’t get anywhere near twenty-one, but I probably vomited twenty-one times. Happy twenty-first to me!

I’m clammy and cold. The air around me feels stale and still, and I don’t need to look around to know I’m in a small room. Each movement of my eyes sends a stab of pain straight to my central nervous system, but thankfully (or unfortunately) there isn’t much to look at.

I’m in a cell. Four white walls, no windows, one door with a sliding cutout big enough for a pair of eyes to look in on me. It looks like a room created to hold psychotic patients. I look down and practically expect to see myself tied up in a straitjacket.

I’m still in the same dress I was wearing earlier today. Wait, was it today? Or two days ago? My mouth is dry and my stomach is rumbling, and with no windows, I can’t say what time of day it is. Could I have been unconscious for more than a day?

I feel the rising tide of anxiety in the back of my throat. I swallow and refocus. I have to stay calm. It’s the only way I’m getting out of this alive.

I take stock of myself. The men who grabbed me on the street didn’t hurt me. They didn’t take my clothes off or beat me. I take it as a good sign that, whatever it is they actually want, it doesn’t seem to involve violence.

For now.

Slowly, I peel myself off the floor and stumble to the door. The doorknob is locked so tight it doesn’t even jiggle.

“Hey!” My throat is raw and dry, and the word comes out as barely more than a rasp. I cough and try again. “Hello?”

My voice echoes down what looks like a long hallway, and when no one answers, I begin to panic. Am I alone? Will I be left to die? Does anyone know I’m here?

I’m wearing a silver bracelet given to me by my father for Christmas. It has my name stamped on a silver