Vegas Boss: A Mafia Hitman Romance Page 5

  So, he’s unarmed. But so am I, and his muscular body dwarfs mine.

  And then, the worst happens: I inhale too much dust.

  I try to resist, my face screwing up, my eyes beginning to water. I beg my body not to betray me, to keep my place a secret, but I can’t fight it any longer. I sneeze, trying to silence the noise as best I can, but it’s no use.

  Within seconds, Misha is on me, staring me down with those blazing blue eyes. I can scarcely breathe, but I’m determined to stay strong. I can’t show weakness.

  The recognition in his eyes makes my heart skip a beat.

  “Misty?” he murmurs, frowning. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I-I was, um…” I trail off awkwardly. Then I realize there’s no point in trying to make it coy. He will see right through me. I straighten up and reply, “You’ve been hiding a lot down here, it looks like. What is your full name, Misha?”

  He glares at me, his jaw tightening. I glance at his hands, which are surprisingly not balled into fists. It’s like he’s doing everything in his power to hold back.

  “Misha Chaykovsky,” he answers in a calm, low growl.

  “Well, then,” I begin, trying to stay tough. “Misha Chaykovsky, you are under arrest.”

  He doesn’t budge. He’s radiating pure rage and betrayal, but there’s something else there, too. Genuine pain. Hurt. I almost feel guilty, even though I know logically he is the bad guy, not me. So why do I feel so awful?

  And why isn’t he fighting back? Most men would have killed me already. But Misha is just standing in front of me, stoic and still. It occurs to me as clear as day: he won’t hurt me. Even though I am about to arrest him and destroy his life, he won’t lay a hand on me. There is some unspoken code of honor that prevents him from doing so, even though he so easily could.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” I begin quietly, watching his face. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of—”

  BANG! The door above us is flung open and several heavily-armed officers from vice come pouring into the basement. It only takes seconds before they’re clinking handcuffs over Misha’s wrists, dragging him into custody as I watch open-mouthed, in shock at how quickly it’s all unfolding.

  Throughout the entire ordeal, Misha never says a single word. One of my colleagues claps me on the shoulder and drapes a robe around me to cover my half-naked body, but I can hardly even respond. I did it. I cracked the case. I got the man arrested. I should be proud.

  And yet, why do I feel so awful?

  Misha

  I hear the sound of the air the inmate’s fist cuts as I move my head back just enough to dodge his wild punch. His second blow comes in and connects with my gut, but I tense my muscles before impact and barely feel a thing.

  The kid squaring off against me in the rec yard doesn’t know what he’s getting into.

  He’s in his early twenties with a shaved head, broad shoulders, tattoos up his neck, and a chip on his shoulder. He’d be intimidating to many other people, but to me, he’s just another one of the young punks constantly trying to get the upper hand on me.

  He’s just another gray face.

  Everything in here is gray. Gray walls, gray floors, gray ceilings, gray people, and a gray future.

  I can see the mountains just barely over the concrete walls, and they’re so distant and fuzzy that they might as well not be real. They’re just props to make us think we’re still part of the world we were snatched away from.

  My attacker lunges in again, and I twist away to the side, keeping my hands far from him. This time, his hardened knuckle grazes my brow, and I feel a slight sting.

  A drop of red falls from the cut to the gray concrete beneath us.

  I feel like I’m a bullfighter. The kid charges in time after time, but I just keep twisting away from him. Other inmates gathered around us, both to clear a space and to gawk.

  There are Russians here in the detention center. They know me, and they respect me, but every time one of them starts to come in to my defense, I hold out a hand to keep him back.

  In about ten seconds, the guards are going to be all over us, and I don’t plan on either me or my comrades spending a single second in solitary.

  The attacker comes low and tries to go for my legs, but I slide back and let him fall to the ground, scraping his chin on the concrete. There’s a ripple of laughter from the men around us, and I put my hands on my hips and smile down at him while he scowls at me and pushes himself up.

  “You’d be dead right now, if we weren’t behind bars,” I say patiently. “You’re welcome.”

  “Fuck you, Russky,” he spits back, and I soundly dodge another punch.

  “I’m not the one you want to be worrying about,” I grunt back. “They are.”

  The next second, no less than five guards descend on us, whistles blowing in our ears and nightsticks coming out. As I expected, three of them tackle me to the ground, while two take down my attacker. The rest of the crowd breaks up as I let myself be apprehended by the guards. Once I’m on the ground, a boot pressed into my back, I exchange a silent nod with one of the Russians making eye contact with me.

  He nods in return, and they disperse.

  I’m hauled back to my cell, saying not a word and making no move to resist. If I wanted to, I could kill all three of my guards without a second thought. So many times as they march me down the bleak hallways, I see moments where I could wrestle my way free and get a weapon from one of them.

  It’s my training kicking in from the Special Forces. I can read so much as a change in the way I’m being held as a weakness to be exploited. I have to hold myself back from it.

  The system is looking for me to slip up so I can lose my one chance at getting out of here, and I’m not going to give them that satisfaction.

  Within minutes, I’m back in my box of a cell, and the door gets slammed behind me with a clatter. I stand there a few moments, glaring at a chip in the ceiling before I slowly stride over to the bed and sit down on it.

  There’s a lot more waiting in jail than you expect. Sitting, waiting, thinking. Some would call it meditating, but I’ve never been about that kind of thing.

  It’s just time to either sharpen the mind or let it rot.

  Sometime later, I watch the lines of inmates walk past my cell as recreation time ends. The guy who picked a fight for me while I was trying to work out is gone, probably hauled off to seg. It was obvious to everyone that he started the fight, and I made a point not to fight back. He ended up looking like a punk, and I looked untouchable.

  And as the kid’s skinhead friends eye me furiously as they march by, I know just how valuable it is to seem untouchable in here.

  Incarceration turns good men into animals. Rising above that is a feat.

  I’ve had few times in my life where I need to hold back unbridled anger, so practicing this now has been a... unique experience.

  Every cell of my mind wants to focus all its fury on that one damn cop who put me in here.

  Nicole Burns.

  The name hovers over me. I could almost laugh at the fact that it’s an appropriate name, considering how badly she burned me. Or maybe that the name has been burned into my mind since she first pulled that badge on me.

  Everything about her is infuriating, in hindsight. That act as a stripper, the fake name, the fake personality... and she even had the gall to ride her cover all the way to my bedroom.

  The best sex of my life, with a cop. I smiled darkly and ran a hand through my hair. She really likes playing with the dragon’s fire, doesn’t she?

  Time for dinner rolls around, and a guard lets me out of my cell to march me to the mess hall, where the sea of men is already getting seated with trays of gray food. I go through the line with the other men, making no small talk before I make my way to my table and take a seat.

  Some of the other Russian inmates gather around me, giving me respectful nods of their heads before I g
rant them a seat. Even behind bars, I command their respect. They know their pakhan, even if they weren’t part of my organization on the outside.

  “The man who came after you in the exercise yard, he’s been put in solitary,” says the first man to sit down across from me. Within a minute, we have a table full of Russians. There is strength in numbers.

  “Good,” I grunt.

  “We’re already planning to retaliate,” he goes on, exchanging nods with a few of the others. “The skinheads normally stick together, but two of them break off to go jogging every other day, and-”

  “No,” I say simply, and the men are silenced, blinking in confusion.

  “Sir, this is an attack on our reputation,” one of the bigger men to my right explains respectfully. “If they sense weakness, they will strike first.”

  “When you are strong, let your enemies think you are weak, and when you are weak, let them think you are strong,” I reply in a cool, even tone. “We are Russians, not warhawks. You are fine men, and I see how you stick together. If some white supremacist trash wants to prod a sleeping bear, then you will swipe back. But do so slowly, and only when you know it will devastate them.”

  The men nod to me respectfully, seeing the wisdom in my words. They served me well on the outside, and I plan to run a tight ship as long as I’m in.

  The chatter of the people all around us is loud, but surprising as it sounds, this kind of public environment is one of the few moments we have to speak in private. Here and in the rec yard — crowds offer privacy to talk, because when you’re alone, the guards have ears everywhere.

  “Now,” I say after I’ve had a few moments to attack my food. “About this police officer, this Nicole Burns.”

  The men lean forward, interested. Word of my arrest spread quickly, but I’ve been relatively silent on the issue.

  “Sir, if I may,” the same large man says, and I raise an eyebrow at him, but nod. “I have a contact on the outside who may be able to pull strings for us and have her dealt with. He is not a man of your caliber, but he can get the job done in such a way that it looks like an accident — not a murder, but an injury that can’t be traced to us but will still send a message, if she’s paying attention.

  “You will not lay a finger on her,” I say calmly yet firmly, and again, my men are surprised. I have a fatherly love for my soldiers, but they are bloodthirsty.

  “Sir?”

  “Do not let this place give you a taste for petty revenge,” I explain. “That kind of behavior will make you look like the rabid beast the guards want you to be.”

  Even as I say the words, I feel the restraint cutting into me. I’ve had my best men try to backstab me and fail, but no betrayal has felt so bitter as Nicole’s. After that night we shared together, I thought I was seeing a woman in a way I’d never seen one before, but she turned all that into ash in my mouth.

  Still, I would stick to this tactic, because as much as I hate to admit it to myself... she’s my only way out of here.

  “Nicole Burns,” I say, my eyes panning around to each and every man present, “is the only witness to the evidence that got me arrested. As the arresting officer, her word is golden.” The men nod, following along. “But she had plenty of opportunity to make a move on me earlier than that, and she never did. I think this Nicole Burns is more than meets the eye.”

  “You think someone could sway her?” my acting advisor suggests, stroking his chin, and I give a single, slow nod.

  “She may be pliable. Her testimony is what will entirely determine whether I’m sentenced properly.” I make eye contact with each and every man at the table. “I am not deaf, either — I know there are rumors of plots against me on the outside. If I stay here, my position may be shaken, and I may be replaced with some ambitious young fuck who couldn’t care less about you all. As for me, you know I have never failed to support my comrades behind bars.”

  It’s not a lie. I’ve kept informants and supply chains close to the Nevada prison system for years, and the looks on the faces of the men around me tells me they’re grateful.

  “So we need to contact the officer, preferably with a sweet deal,” my advisor says.

  “Exactly,” I say. I glance past one of my men to the skinheads at the table across the cafeteria. They’re like devils chattering to each other. “If we need to make the deal even sweeter, we may be able to offer leverage against the skinheads. Two birds, one stone.”

  The men seem to like this plan, and they murmur approval amongst themselves.

  “Dmitri, you get word out to your contacts about wanting to meet with our Officer Burns. Nikolai, put some pressure on one of the rats around here and see what you can get him to squeal about that the police might like. The rest of you, be on your guard.” The men nod at my orders, and we finish our dinner in good spirits.

  I’m on my way back to my cell when Dmitri catches up to me. “Comrade,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “If your mind is on a coup from the outside, we should be wary putting pressure on the skinheads. They’re known to carry out hits for the highest bidder, and you’re still new.”

  “Let them come,” I say simply. “One of two things will happen. Either this plan will work and I’ll be out before a hit can make its way in, or I’ll be locked away long enough that a little time in solitary won’t kill me.” I crack a wicked grin over my shoulder at him. “A few years is worth a dead skinhead, don’t you think?”

  I’m only half-joking.

  We make our way back to our cells, but there’s a guard waiting by mine. At first, I worry that our talk at the table has already made it to the guards, but the man’s face doesn’t read as such.

  “Chaykovsky,” he addresses me curtly by my last name, “you’ve got a visitor. Do you accept?”

  I’m surprised, but my face doesn’t shift to give it away. “Who is it?” I ask.

  The guard frowns and looks at the little card in his hand, squinting at the name before he replies.

  “Nicole Burns.”

  Nicole

  This is not the way I ever pictured this mission to go. Not in a million years. Sure, I have caught the bad guy, or at least one of the bad guys, but it doesn’t feel as satisfying as I anticipated when I first got this assignment.

  I sat through months of planning and strategizing to make this happen. Undercover missions are never simple. It takes time to build a proper alias, to sketch out the necessary details that could be the difference between life and death. It really is that dire, especially when the assignment involves the mafia.

  If anyone at the club had caught wind of my true identity, I would have been in imminent danger. Not every cop can handle the stress and sacrifice of going undercover. For most of us, it means leaving or barely seeing our families and friends. It means being alienated and isolated from your usual life, from everything you know and love, for as long as the mission takes.

  Many of the guys in my department have families. Wives, young children, a domestic life they can’t just drop and abandon while they go off on some risky mission with a fake identity.

  But me? I am the perfect candidate for these missions. I don’t really have a family to speak of, and I definitely don’t have a husband or children.

  All I have is my little sister, Samantha. We are fairly close, talking on the phone every few days or so. But she’s a college sophomore, living all the way in San Francisco. She’s an eight-hour drive away, and besides, Sam has her own life, her own circle of friends who surround her and support her out in California.

  That’s not to say she doesn’t still love her sister; the two of us have relied on each other for years, especially after what happened with Mom. But she doesn’t visit home very often, and I can hardly blame her. Both of us have some less than pleasant memories here, and I’m happy that Sam got to go to California to escape the gloom and constant reminders of the past.

  So, without anyone here in Vegas to depend on me or look after me, I’m kind of mostly alone.
My career is the love of my life at the moment, and I made it that way on purpose. I have been independent for a long time, and I’m definitely not afraid of hard work and sacrifice.

  When my superior officer offered me the opportunity to go undercover, I jumped at the chance. I have been angling for a career-building shot like this for years, and I was more than ready to take it on.

  I simply told Samantha I was going out of town and would be unavailable for a while, which she accepted without hesitation or question. I sat through the strategy meetings, psychological testing, and security briefings like a champ. Did I look forward to posing as a stripper? No. Not really. I have always been in great shape, but I have never considered myself much of a dancer, and I don’t think of myself as a seductive woman. But I got into character by necessity, pulled it off without so much as a hiccup, and in the end, I got Misha Chaykovsky in handcuffs.

  A job well done, right?

  Not so much, according to my boss. I came into the office this morning expecting a little bit of fanfare, or at least some high-fives and a welcome back. But it’s almost as though nobody even noticed I was gone all that time.

  Weeks of undercover work passed by, and nobody cares. I am currently sitting in my office cubicle, staring wide-eyed at the massive stack of paperwork piled on top of my cherry wood desk. I thought at least some of this could be passed off to someone else. You know, someone who wasn’t on a top-secret, very important undercover mission to take down the mafia bigwigs in this city, and therefore a little bit distracted from the humdrum cycle of paperwork and filing.

  But no. Nobody covered me at all, it seems.

  “Wonderful,” I sigh to myself as I begin picking through the stack and sorting papers. And to make matters worse, there is a sticky note on my computer monitor with a message scrawled in my boss’s nearly illegible chicken scratch.

  COME SEE ME ASAP.

  “What the hell did I do now?” I groan, rolling my eyes. I don’t suppose there is a chance in hell he might just want to congratulate me on completing the mission and making the arrest. I get up, push my swivel chair in, and head down the hall to my boss’s office.