Killing for Her Page 3

Growing up with a single father—my mother passed away when I was still a toddler—I was not ever prepared for this new, cruel reality. I was terrified and lonely, and I did the only thing I could think of: I called my nanny at the time, Dora.

  After an hour of crying and pleading on the phone, she took a red-eye flight down to the south of France to pick me up from that lavish summer camp and take me home. She taught me how to deal with my monthly problem, assured me everything would be alright. She hugged me and took care of me as she always had for the past few years of her employment by my father.

  In my eighteen years of life, Dora is the closest thing to a mother I can remember. We were nearly inseparable.

  I loved her.

  And then… my dad promptly fired her.

  Why did he fire her? Oh, because she gained a little weight and suddenly she wasn’t the glamorous, exotic young woman he had hired to look after me anymore. And in my father’s world, beauty and appearance is everything. Especially if you’re a woman.

  So I lost Dora, and when she left, a little piece of my innocence went with her.

  I look up at the stewardess and say, “I’ll have the figs, thank you. And do you by chance have any alcohol? I know Daddy usually keeps Russian Standard in the cabinet.”

  Shelley winces a little, and I can tell she’s not looking forward to having to tell me no.

  “Well, unfortunately, you are still under twenty-one, Miss Koroleva,” she begins cautiously.

  I sigh. “We’re still over Europe. I can drink legally here.”

  “We’re on the way to America, though, and you can’t drink there yet,” she counters, looking paler and more worried by the second. I hate this feeling; the knowledge that everyone my father hires is almost as afraid of me as they are of him. No matter how patient and kind I am to the staff, they never quite stop treating me with kid gloves.

  “Yeah, but Daddy’s not here. The cops aren’t here. I won’t tell anyone,” I reason with her. I give her a smile. “Seriously, it’ll be fine. I don’t want a lot. Just a splash of vodka in my orange juice. Besides, I haven’t had one of those juice boxes since I was, like, ten years old.”

  Shelley grins and tilts her head to one side, clearly considering my proposition.

  “I know you’re not a child anymore. You’re a young woman now. I just don’t want to get you—or me—in trouble with Mr. Koroleva.”

  “I won’t tell a soul, and neither will Tatyana. Right, Tatyana?” I ask, raising my voice a little and craning my neck to wink at her. She looks petrified for a moment at the sound of her own name, but then she smiles in relief when she realizes she’s not in trouble. She gives me a vigorous nod.

  “Yes, yes. Sure. Okay. Whatever you want, Miss Koroleva,” she replies meekly.

  “And call me Ana,” I insist.

  “Yes, Ana. Of course.”

  Shelley clucks her tongue, then shrugs and mutters, “Fuck it. You’re a grown-up. You can have a splash of booze if you want. But I do have a request.”

  I raise an eyebrow, smirking curiously. “Sure, anything,” I tell her.

  She leans in and whispers in a conspiratorial tone, “Things have been a little hectic in my life lately between this job and my boyfriend picking fights with me and stuff and I just… I’m wondering if… well—”

  “You wanna do a shot with me?” I finish for you. She chuckles, blushing bright pink.

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  I nod, grinning from ear to ear. “Sounds great.”

  “Sweet,” she says, then stands up straight and clears her throat. “I’ll be right back with your figs, Miss, and um, your juice box.”

  I have to clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle as she winks at me and leaves for a moment to retrieve our stuff. When she disappears, I see Tatyana pointedly avoiding eye contact with me. I can tell something is off with her. She’s always kind of a nervous person, but this is different. I unbuckle my seatbelt and move across the wide aisle to sit down beside her.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I ask her softly.

  She looks reluctant to tell me. I give her a nudge to the arm and she sighs.

  “Okay. Ana, I have to be honest with you,” she begins in her faint Russian accent. “I don’t feel very good about what your father has planned for you in America. It seems… wrong. I mean, you don’t want to marry Mr. Ovechkin, do you?”

  I blink in surprise at her openness. Usually Daddy’s staff are too terrified of his wrath to speak their minds.

  My stomach turns as the reality of my new life hits me like a ton of bricks. My hands start fidgeting in my lap and I reply softly, “No. Of course not. I’ve been kind of in denial about it for the past few days, but I guess it’s really happening. I’ve even tried to run off a few times in the past week, but unfortunately, Daddy has eyes and ears everywhere. I even tried to buy a plane ticket to India, you know. I thought of all places, that would be the easiest country to get lost in. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d pulled it off, but… well, I was desperate. Silly, right?”

  Tatyana shakes her head sadly. “No. I don’t blame you. I can’t believe he’s really going to do this to you. I apologize if I’m way out of line here.”

  I lean into her and manage to summon up a weak smile.

  “No, no. You’re totally right. It’s not fair at all. I keep hoping maybe he’ll change his mind at the last second or that maybe Mr. Ovechkin will back out of it himself. I just can’t seem to accept the truth,” I confess. “This... this isn’t the father I know.”

  “I wish there was something I could do to help,” Tatyana sighs. “I feel terrible about escorting you across the ocean to marry some ugly old man.”

  “No, it’s not your problem to deal with. You’re just doing your job. I would never hold this against you,” I tell her, patting her hand, trying to reassure her.

  Trying to reassure myself.

  Just then, Shelley returns with my figs and a screwdriver. I force a grin and hold up my glass to clink with her little shot glass, and we both down our drinks with a “cheers!”

  “Congratulations to the bride-to-be!” she chirps, her cheeks flushed from alcohol.

  “Thank you,” I reply, even though I can feel my heart shattering into a thousand pieces. Shelley leaves again and I offer Tatyana a fig. She shakes her head.

  “No, thank you. I’m watching my weight,” she says, patting her nonexistent belly.

  I open my mouth to tell her how absurd that is, but then I remember Dora and how Daddy fired her for putting on a few harmless pounds years ago. Tatyana is smart. She knows she has to stay pretty and slender to keep her job, as unfair as that may be.

  “Fair enough,” I reply, chomping into a fig. I love these things, even though I know he put them on the flight menu as a lame attempt to placate me. As if feeding me my favorite snack is enough to make up for the fact that he’s about to marry me off to one of his crusty, ancient business buddies.

  It lines up pretty perfectly with his modus operandi, though: giving me gifts to make up for something. A trip to Spain to make up for missing my birthday. A new Valentino gown to atone for firing my favorite assistant.

  In Daddy’s world, money is everything. It makes sense that he would approach parenting the same way, I suppose.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” Tatyana murmurs, biting her lip.

  I nod.

  “Has he done stuff like this in the past? Your father, I mean.”

  I give her a wry smile, but avert my eyes.

  “It’s hard to talk about, you know. He’s my father and I love him more than anything else in the world, but sometimes I do wonder if he has my best interests at heart. Don’t get me wrong, he spoils me and gives me everything I could possibly want or need. It’s just that I worry he sees me more as a pet or an asset than a daughter.”

  Tatyana’s pretty eyes sparkle with tears momentarily, but she blinks them back.

  “Of course. I can see how that might be diffi
cult. I apologize for asking.”

  “It’s fine. It’s nothing new to me by now. I just wish there was some way out of this. I mean, surely Daddy knows best, but what if he’s wrong this time? He says Mr. Ovechkin—Liev—will take care of me. Make me happy. But how can he possibly know that? What if, this time, Daddy’s making a mistake? He’s clever and he knows a lot more than I do about the way the world works. I can admit it: I’m sheltered. I’ve never even had a real boyfriend.”

  Resentment and anger make my heart beat quicken, and I try to push it down into the pit in my stomach. I can’t let it overtake me.

  Tatyana raises a flawless eyebrow and looks truly surprised. “Really? A girl like you with money and good looks? How is that possible?” she inquires, then immediately realizes she might have crossed a line. “Sorry. I get ahead of myself sometimes,” she adds quickly.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t offend me, I promise. Daddy’s the easily offended one. He likes to surround himself with yes-men. But me? I find it kind of refreshing to talk to someone who won’t bullshit me.”

  She slumps a little with relief, the tension leaving her face again.

  “You are much more fun to work with than Mr. Koroleva,” she admits. I put an arm around her and give her a quick, tight hug.

  “And it’s been great getting to hang out with you, Tatyana. You’ll be at the—the wedding, won’t you?” I ask, and I struggle to keep my brave face and my voice even. Lately it feels like I’ve constantly been on the verge of tears. I’m usually pretty pragmatic about my emotions; I keep my feelings under wraps, just like Daddy taught me.

  But this whole arranged marriage thing… it’s difficult to accept. And the more I talk about it, the more real it becomes.

  Tatyana grins. “Of course I will be there! As long as Mr. Koroleva lets me.”

  “Good,” I answer. “I’m going to need a friendly face in the crowd.”

  “Have you picked out a wedding dress yet?” she asks, trying to direct my attention away from the groom and back to something perhaps more fun to think about. It’s a valiant effort on her part, but there’s really no aspect of this wedding that doesn’t fill my heart with sadness.

  “He picked out the husband, I imagine he’ll pick out the dress too,” I say with some bitterness to my tone.

  Luckily, we are interrupted by the sound of the intercom clicking on. The pilot’s self-assured voice announces cheerfully, “Good afternoon, ladies and gents. We are now beginning our descent to John F. Kennedy International Airport in beautiful New York City, New York. The projected arrival time is approximately half-past-three, and the weather is a downright balmy seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, not a single cloud in the sky as you can see from your windows now. May I ask at this time for all passengers to fasten their seatbelts and settle in for a smooth landing. Thank you for your patience and cooperation and I hope to fly again with you all soon!”

  I roll my eyes and sigh, clicking the seatbelt into place as Tatyana does the same next to me. I crane around her to peer out the window, my stomach twisting into anxious knots as the private jet noses downward toward the earth.

  A half hour later, Tatyana and I disembark, retrieve our luggage, and make our way through the massive, crowded airport. I’m grateful to have her with me. No matter how many times I fly, I still hate airports, especially ones as large as JFK.

  However, just before we make it out of our gate, a tall, broad-shouldered man in dark sunglasses and a black suit stops us.

  “Anastasia Koroleva?” he grunts. I go pale, terrified that he’s some kind of government agent. Maybe he’s here to arrest me for having vodka on the plane. But then he looks at Tatyana and makes a dismissive shooing gesture. She holds onto my arm more tightly.

  “Who the hell are you?” she asks, surprising me with her ferocity.

  “I am Miss Koroleva’s escort. I’ll take her from here,” he says flatly. He reaches into his coat pocket and hands her a plane ticket. “This is yours. Terminal four, gate E-five. You’re heading back to Moscow. Your services are no longer required at this moment.”

  I gasp. “What?”

  “No, no. There must be a mistake,” she protests.

  He holds up a hand to silence us. “Your service is terminated from this point forward.”

  “But I—”

  “Please leave immediately. I must take Miss Koroleva to her car,” he orders. I know there’s no sense in fighting. With my heart breaking yet again, I turn and give Tatyana a hug.

  “I am so sorry,” I whisper in her ear.

  “No, I am sorry,” she replies. “Take care of yourself, Ana.”

  “You, too,” I tell her. She kisses me on the cheek, flips Mr. Sunglasses the bird, and storms off toward her flight. The man is utterly unruffled.

  “Follow me,” he says.

  With my heart hammering away like mad, I walk after him through the hectic airport, rolling my suitcase behind me and wondering what fresh hell I’m about to step into. I get through customs without a hitch, but my escort gets flagged for an impromptu pat-down. He glares at the agents as they surround him, and I can tell he’s barely holding back his anger. He wants to come after me. He wants to guard me.

  But for the moment, I’m without an escort.

  For once.

  I look around frantically, wondering if this is possibly my last chance to make a break for it. If I can get to the ticket counter... no, it’s too far away.

  My eyes fall across the crowds, looking for a way out.

  Instead, my gaze is drawn to someone who makes my heart skip a beat. A tall, bulky, impossibly handsome man in all black—much like my escort, only a million times better looking. He has inky-black hair, sharp, angular features and a powerful jaw. He ruffles his fingers back through his thick hair and then, to my amazement, he turns to glance at me. He looks like one of my father’s men. My jaw drops when my eyes lock with his.

  Piercing, bright blue eyes. Like two drops of the ocean lost in the crowd of angry, impatient people. He smiles at me. And for a split second, all my fear dissipates. The noise and the stress melts away as I stare at this ridiculously handsome man. He looks like the answer to my problems. I can’t figure out why or how, but before I can stop myself, my feet are carrying me over to him.

  I’m within five feet of him when suddenly there’s a huge hand gripping my arm, pulling me back. I whip around to see my escort has gotten through customs and caught up to me, his lips puckered and the furrow between his brows tight. I try to rip my arm free, but his vice grip is too tight.

  “Screw you,” I mutter angrily.

  “Just doing my job, Miss,” he says, unperturbed.

  When I turn back to look at the mystery man, he’s gone.

  Along with the last remaining shred of my hope.

  Nobody is coming to save me.

  Nikolai

  It has been over a day, and I still cannot get her out of my head.

  I knew Nestor was bringing his daughter into the country, but never in all my lifetime would I have guessed that she would have such an effect on me. She saw me. She should not have. And now, I realize that I should not have seen her, either.

  She is the kind of woman who could cloud my judgment, and I know it.

  But it’s too late now.

  The sight of her coming into view was like watching an angel walk on earth. The look on her face when our eyes met hangs in my mind, following me wherever I go, making my heart pound and my blood run hot. Even at a distance, I caught the scent of her perfume, and I swear I can still catch whiffs of it on me as if we were together.

  But she has my attention for more reasons than her beauty.

  That young woman is an innocent, I can see it in her eyes. She may be a spoiled brat of a mafia princess, but she is vulnerable, and she has not had a hand in a single one of the heinous crimes her father has committed. I know this, because I have kept track of Nestor’s every step as long as I could.

  She is yet another reason
to be doing what I am doing.

  My big van’s windshield wipers swipe away the flecks of rain hitting my car as I make my way down to the docks. But this time, though I’m winding through the same towering stacks of orderly metal shipping containers, I am not here to kill anyone.

  On the contrary, I’m here to receive something.

  I bring my car to a stop not far from where I’m supposed to meet with my contact. I’m wearing a heavy coat, gloves, boots, and a black beanie on this horrible day in early spring. It’s still nothing compared to the long winters of Russia, but I’ve adjusted over the years, and I’ve earned the right to gripe about the fickle weather from time to time.

  Nonetheless, this is one storm I’ve been grateful for.

  I get out of the car and make my way to the worker leaning against one of the shipping crates, smoking a cigarette. He eyes me up and down, evaluating me, and I give him a nod to confirm that I am the man he was paid handsomely to wait for.

  “Pedro?” I ask, and he gives a nod in return, gesturing for me to follow him. I do so without a word. Everything has already been arranged between us, and the fewer words that get spoken out loud, the better.

  I follow Pedro through the maze of shipping containers until we get to an area somewhat closed off from the rest of the docks. It’s secluded from the hustle and bustle of the docks during the day, which is perfect for the business we’re about to finish. It isn’t the first time I’ve done this, but I treat every time like the first so that I never lose focus, never give myself a chance to slip up. I have seen too many comrades fall that way, and I have even exploited enough such weaknesses myself.

  Pedro approaches one of the shipping containers that is subtly marked, and he points it out to me without a word, giving me a meaningful look. I nod my head at him, and I reach into my pocket slowly. His eyes widen, but I hold up my hand with a friendly smile, silently assuring him that I’m not about to pull a gun on him.

  He relaxes when he sees that I’m pulling a fat roll of cash out of my pocket. He even chuckles a little, and I give him a curt nod as we pass each other and I hand off the bribe to keep him happy and quiet. He slips a key into my hand in return. Pedro leaves the area, off to keep his family a little better fed while I am left to deal with the contents of the shipping container.