Killing for Her: A Mafia Hitman Romance Page 5

  The butler looks a little taken aback by the question. That’s not a great sign.

  “Gregory Chilton,” he says, “at your service.”

  Yikes. Even Daddy doesn’t program his staff to introduce themselves like stock characters in some outdated British period drama. Or at least, he doesn’t do that in front of me.

  “What would you prefer I call you?” I ask pointedly.

  He looks visibly uncomfortable with the question, but replies quietly, “Anything you like, Miss Koroleva. As the future lady of the house, I defer to your authority.”

  My eyes widen and I can feel my heart sinking down into my stomach.

  “What about Greg? Is that okay?” I ask, trying and failing to stay cheerful.

  “As you wish, Miss,” he replies.

  “Right. Okay. Well,” I say awkwardly, turning back to the driver. “I guess I’ll be done here in a little while.”

  “I will wait outside for you,” he answers. Then, in a lowered voice, he adds, “Good luck.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him earnestly.

  I’m going to need it.

  The driver leaves and I step into the massive foyer, staring around at the gaudy interior. The ceilings are vaulted, the walls decorated with mismatched paintings by various well-known artists, but something about their haphazard, unharmonious jumble makes me think these paintings were not purchased by someone with a discerning eye for art, but by someone who simply wanted a status symbol. The bragging rights of getting to point to the wall and say, I own that. A museum could make use of it, but I own it.

  Again, not a great sign of things to come.

  “If you’ll follow me, Miss, the master of the house is waiting for you upstairs in his study,” says Greg.

  The master of the house? Oh boy. I follow him up the grand spiral staircase flanked with gold-trimmed banisters and more lurid paintings. A chandelier made of what looks like Swarovski crystal dangles overhead like a bright, expensive Christmas ornament. Greg leads me down a long hallway filled with yet more paintings, this time bearing the faces of old-timey men. Busts of generals and lieutenants, wealthy aristocrats with high collars and smug expressions. I wondered if the men depicted were ancestors of Liev himself. It wouldn’t surprise me, not in the context of this ridiculous house.

  Finally, we come to a door at the end of the hall, and Greg raps lightly on the smooth wood. A familiar, annoyed voice from inside barks, “What is it?”

  Greg grimaces slightly and replies, “Your future wife has arrived, Mr. Ovechkin.”

  I hear the shuffling of papers, and then the distinctive grunt of an older man getting up off of a piece of furniture, and then heavy footsteps. The door swings open and Liev’s round, bulldog-like face splits from ear to ear in a wide grin. He’s dressed in a business suit, one nearly identical to a suit my father owns. I can just picture the two of them going shopping together at some high-end menswear boutique. Yelling at the tailor, demanding new patterns and cuts.

  It’s not a nice image.

  “My dear little myshka!” he exclaims, opening his arms wide. “What a lovely sight you are for a lonely old man.”

  I force my lips to shape into a smile. “Hi, Mr. Ovechkin. It’s b-been a while.”

  His beady black eyes flit over to the butler and he glares.

  “Well? What are you standing around for? Get out and do something useful. This is a party of two, Chilton.”

  I nearly gasp at how rude he is to the butler, but Greg takes it all in stride. He bows away, murmuring a string of apologies. Liev rolls his eyes and shakes his head, then puts his fat, fleshy hand on the small of my back to usher me into the room.

  “Come, come. Sit with me, my dear,” he says, shutting the heavy door behind us. I find myself glancing desperately at the three wide windows behind his gigantic Cherrywood desk, as though I might jump out of them to escape. The view from the windows is impressive. Even in the fading light of evening, I can see a manicured lawn with fountains and topiary in the shapes of birds. It reminds me of a shoddily-recreated Versailles, without any of the charm.

  I sit down in one of the cushy armchairs, my eyes drawn instantly to the massive set of ivory tusks jutting out of a plaque on the wall. Beside them is a mounted tiger head, and what looks to be the head of a rhino. Liev follows my gaze and chortles, pointing at it as he settles into the chair beside me. “Ah, you’ve noticed my hunting trophies. That rhino in particular was a difficult hunt. A worthy adversary, but I got him in the end,” he brags.

  “Aren’t those endangered?” I ask, squinting.

  He shrugs. “Oh, those scientists are always cooking up some new reason to deny a man his right to go head to head with a beast. But don’t you worry, I have the best connections. I know where to find the safari guides who look the other way. Perhaps that could be an idea for our honeymoon, myshka! Have you ever been on safari?”

  It takes all of my willpower not to grimace. I simply smile and shake my head.

  “No, I have not. Guns aren’t exactly my favorite.”

  “Nonsense, nonsense. We’ll have you shooting in no time,” he laughs, brushing off my reluctance like it’s a piece of dust. “Anyway, I wanted to bring you here so we could meet before the wedding and discuss, ahh, business.”

  “Business?” I repeat, raising a brow.

  He nods, rubbing his hands together.

  “Da. Your father tells me you have just finished school, and he was wondering what should be the next chapter of your life.”

  “Yes. I was planning to go to university, study international relations,” I tell him, warming to the subject. “I’ve always had an interest in politics and diplomacy and—”

  He holds up a fat finger and clucks his tongue. “Oh, how ambitious you are, my little busy bee. But don’t you worry about all that. No need to fret over making money and building a career. Not anymore.”

  “But I would like to—”

  “I said, not anymore,” he repeats more emphatically, staring hard at me with those black, piggish eyes. I realize how futile it is to tell him what I want. I close my mouth and he smiles, putting the “charm” back on. “As I was saying, you have grown into a beautiful young woman. No longer the skinny little girl whose tap dance recital I attended years ago. Oh, you were so cute in that leotard, your little curls in pigtails. I knew even back then that you would be a truly phenomenal woman once you matured.”

  I can’t tell if he means it as a compliment or not. I give him a forced smile.

  “Th-thank you?” I murmur.

  “No, thank you, Anastasia. And thank your wonderful father for arranging this! You know, when my wife passed away some time ago, I was understandably crushed. Don’t be jealous, Anastasia,” he quips, giving me a wink that could curdle milk. “I did love her for many years. But fate had other plans. I was so lonely. I have great wealth. Much freedom and many privileges that other men could only dream of. But even the most independent and powerful man has one particular need that cannot be satisfied by money alone. Can you guess what that may be?” he asks, leaning forward.

  What I want to do is vomit all over his shiny loafers, but instead I just shake my head, feigning ignorance. Liev reaches over and grabs my hand with his squishy, wrinkly one. It takes all my strength not to jerk away from him.

  “That need is best fulfilled by a young, nubile body,” Liev says, utterly without shame. “And you, my little roza, are just what the doctor ordered.”

  I’m speechless, staring at him open-mouthed and wide-eyed. Luckily, he doesn’t seem at all worried by my reticence. He steamrolls onward. “Throughout time, there has been no greater partnership than a powerful man and a beautiful woman. What I can bring to the table is strength, knowledge, wealth, connections. I can fly us anywhere, procure for us any luxury you may desire. And what do you have to offer in return? Beauty. Youth. Innocence. Where I am hard, you will be soft. Where I am harsh, you will be gentle. You see? It is like yin and yang. A partnership for the ag
es.”

  I can only nod slowly, taking it all in. My mind is overflowing with fear and disgust, but I have to make it through this meeting somehow. Liev seems pleased. “See? You are already in agreement! Ah, I knew you would be a perfect fit for me, Anastasia. Sweet and gentle. Agreeable. Everything a man could want. And your body? Well, let’s just say that the animals on our honeymoon safari won’t be the only ones on display,” he chuckles.

  “So this is really happening?” I mumble breathlessly.

  He grins. “Da, da. I can hardly wait. It’s just like my good friend Theodore Harrington always says: you must pluck a flower as it blooms, for once it wilts, there is no use for it. And you, my little minx, are in full bloom,” he croons.

  There’s a faint crashing sound from across the house, and Liev’s warm expression instantly morphs into a scowl of irritation. He stands up and dusts off his jacket, then says to me, “Stay here. It seems that my new maid is just as incompetent as she is unattractive. Give me a moment to set her straight.”

  He storms out of the room, already cursing and shouting. As soon as he’s gone, I hop up with half a mind to jump out the window after all. The name he mentioned sounds familiar to me: Theodore Harrington. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks.

  That’s the name of the congressman whose name has been in the news lately for allegedly groping an underage waitress at his private yacht club. I have heard whispers of his bad behavior through the usual girl-gossip channels online, and he’s long been considered a creep, all-around. It does not bode well that my future husband is buddies with a guy like that.

  A stack of papers on the desk catches my eye. When we first arrived, I heard him shuffle some stuff around on his desk. Almost like he was rushing to hide something. Suddenly, my curiosity overwhelms me. I hurry over to the desk and extract the stack out from under a big glass paperweight and start hastily scanning the documents for anything interesting. At first it all looks like a bunch of business jargon and legalese until I notice the name Theodore Harrington again—along with the name of an airline.

  The Bloom Express.

  I furrow my brow in confusion as I pick it up. Again, the name sounds oddly familiar, and not in a positive way. I read over the document and realize it’s a printout of an email correspondence between Harrington, Liev, and some other men. They are discussing an upcoming “pleasure cruise” on a private jet. I read further down and have to clap a hand over my mouth when I see the phrases “barely legal” and “mile-high club.”

  That’s more than enough for me to put my suspicions together.

  Liev Ovechkin is a bad guy. A pedophile. An abuser.

  And soon? He’ll also be my husband.

  Nikolai

  A moth lands on my face as I sit so perfectly still that I look like a statue, lying on my stomach in thick hedges. It rests for a moment before taking off again, nothing but my body heat giving away the fact that I am not part of the layout of this estate’s gardens. I am wearing all black clothing, from my balaclava to my sweater, gloves, pants, and boots. My outfit is made of materials that will not catch on the branches and twigs that conceal me when it’s time for me to run, because that time will come—and soon.

  Even the sniper rifle in my hands is jet-black.

  It has been four hours.

  I have lain perfectly still in this exact same position, watching the window. For what feels like an eternity, I have waited for my prey, more patient than the wolf or the hawk. It seems so simple now, just waiting in the bushes for my target to appear, but a world of preparation went into the simple action. As I told Maxym, I am taking no chances, taking no risk for failure with this operation.

  It isn’t every day that I get a shot at assassinating Liev Ovechkin. And I’m here to make sure it’s the only shot I need.

  Four hours ago, I set my plans in motion.

  Every morning, the security guard who covers the night shift of the Ovechkin estate grounds leaves his apartment in his junker of a car to get coffee at the same cafe. Weeks before, I watched him on this routine, day in and day out. I’ve even sat in the cafe, out of sight, listening to him on the phone. He complains about his job to his friends, his mother, and his girlfriend. Liev is a miserable man to work for, and the morning routine is his only time to vent about it. The guard works long hours and gets paid next to nothing for it.

  It was the easiest thing in the world to stop him this morning at that cafe and have a chat with him. It was even easier to bribe him a year’s salary to ensure that he and his fellow guards not pay attention to this particular part of the estate gardens at this time of night. All I asked was a brief window of opportunity. The guard readily agreed. Money changed hands. The deal was made.

  I didn’t plan on having to act so soon, but time is working against me now. And the prep work I did beforehand paid off.

  Four hours ago, I parked my car outside this estate in Nassau County wearing a denim jacket over my clothes and a tattered snapback to hide my face. With my rifle stored in a case, I made my way on foot to the estate, keeping to the shadows and staying out of sight of the many security cameras the stunningly rich people in the area own. I had already cased the estate many times over the weeks.

  I know Liev Ovechkin’s daily routine better than he probably knows it himself.

  He wakes up late, usually well into mid-morning or sometimes noon. Every day, he enjoys a sumptuous brunch out on the back patio, usually forcing whatever poor girl shared his bed last night to pretend she isn’t terrified of him while sipping on mimosas and getting ready for whatever else he might ask her to do.

  He then goes back inside for most of the afternoon, and from my interviews with the security guard and others like him who work for the man, I know that he spends most of this time either handling business calls, meetings, or sticking his prick into the girl from the night before, if he likes her.

  In the evenings, he takes his dinner at home on weekdays and out at business dinners on the weekends before retiring to his estate here, sometimes to indulge in drugs and sex workers, other times to get drunk in his office and rail at whatever subordinates are at the estate at the time.

  There are other details I have memorized over the weeks, just by watching. I know which wines he prefers, what foods he is allergic to, when his dry cleaning comes and goes, and how long it takes him to get downstairs to one of his cars. There are a dozen different ways I have killed him in my mind, following my plans through step by step in my imagination.

  And walking through each plan to its conclusion brings me special joy each and every time. I am not a sadist. I usually take little joy in killing. I always pick my own contracts, and the men whose lives I take are only the worst of the worst, those who the world is far better off without.

  But this one is personal.

  It isn’t just about the politics. It isn’t even about my own fight to the top of the ladder in Brighton Beach. No, it’s about the hundreds of men’s and women’s lives he has thrown under the bus and into the gutter over the years. It’s about what he did to my parents. It’s about how he helped create the monster I am.

  My eyes are on the window of his office. Most evenings, he makes his way to the window and enjoys a smoke or a glass of wine, peering out onto the gardens, often while making a phone call. Liev doesn’t need to be subtle, walking down the road to make business calls. Everyone in his home knows who he is and what he does. He’s a powerful enough man that he both doesn’t need to hide and does need to stay safe.

  But he is smug. He thinks himself safe. And best of all, with the marriage negotiations happening between him and Nestor, he is distracted.

  The time is soon. I can feel it. I lower my face to the scope of my sniper rifle, and I put the crosshairs on the window. Finger on the trigger, I wait.

  Seconds pass. Minutes. My ears are keen to everything going on around me, every insect crawling through the leaves and the traffic in the distance.

  When a pair of hands thrust the w
indow open, my heart beats just a little faster, and my body tenses. I focus my gaze through the scope and get ready. My target appears in the window.

  I take my finger off the trigger, and my jaw falls open.

  It’s her.

  The girl from the airport is at the window. She looks every bit as beautiful as I remember her, perhaps even more so. The breeze blows her hair back away from her face, and in the faint moonlight, her face is even more lovely, her eyes shining with more passion... but not the kind of passion that makes my heart stir with desire. There is fear in those eyes—fear and determination.

  Just what are you planning, Miss Koroleva?

  She peers out the window and looks down, biting her lip. Through the scope, I can see the emotions running through her mind: fear, anxiety, desperation, determination. I realize what she’s about to do before she even begins, even though I pray that she isn’t so foolhardy as to think she can really make it work.

  But before my eyes, I see her climb up onto the windowsill and turn around, sticking a leg down to try and find purchase on the stonework below.

  I am stunned by her audacity.

  That stone wall is one that would give even me pause before I tried to scale it, one way or the other. The stonework is hardly suited for such climbing, and too much of it is smooth and easy to slip on. Somehow, I doubt that she has had the same kind of training I have for such situations. But I must admit, her smaller size could work to her advantage.

  That isn’t the case, however. From the moment she nearly slips and falls on her first step, I can tell she’s no secret gymnast about to make her way down with speed and dexterity. This is the act of a desperate woman, and to try something as foolish as this, she must be desperate indeed.