Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Read online

  Within about ten minutes of each other, just about everyone has arrived. I try not to smile at the thought of how long that habit will last. Today is only the first day of the semester, and my experience tells me that the majority of these students will be bright and eager for the first month or so, but only a few will maintain such punctuality the whole way through. Most of them still speak little or no French, too, so they have each other to rely upon as social outlets.

  But I intend to extend that punctuality as long as possible, or weed out the weak ones trying.

  “Welcome to training, everyone,” I announce after enough of the class is assembled, clapping my hands to get everyone’s attention. “Glad to see nobody’s booked a flight home yet. We have a long day ahead of us, so I expect all of you at your best.” It doesn’t take long to herd everyone together. I don’t patronize them with the routine of having everyone line up or stand at attention like trained dogs; I know better than to treat skilled athletes like soldiers. My skill and my voice are enough to command the respect I give them in due part.

  “My name is Maksim Pavlenko. To you, I am Monsieur Pavlenko, as our gracious French hosts insist. Let me be clear on one thing alone,” I say, pausing dramatically, to look each of them in the eye for an instant. “You are here because you have potential, not because you have any edge over your peers. I will not tolerate anything but exceptional teamwork going forward. I will not hesitate to cut you from this program if you fall short of my expectations, and I have seen some of the finest gymnasts in Paris come through these doors. While you are here, you must give this training your all — I say this for your benefit as well as your peers’. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Monsieur!” comes the general reply from the group, many of them nodding hastily.

  “Good,” I say, granting them neither smile nor shift in expression. “Now let’s get to work.”

  Drills begin immediately, and as I send the athletes through the routines that their muscles will know as intimately as walking by the time I’m finished with them, I monitor their progress with hawk-like attention.

  “Williams! Run that routine again, you know not to hold your back like that.”

  “O’Connell, you and Anderson help each other with your posture, I want to see both of you with your shoulders level without thinking about it before lunch today.”

  “You didn’t eat breakfast, did you, Jurkowski? You need to take care of yourself, no skipping meals while you’re on my watch.”

  I have to drill the athletes harshly. Gymnastics is already an incredibly demanding sport, but in Paris, the expectations surrounding the gymnasts is tripled, easily. Many of these girls have been used to being the best of the best in their respective hometowns, and it is even true that many of them have earned that respect from their childhood classmates and peers. But the feeling of superiority they’ve enjoyed for part of their lives must be stripped from them if they are to advance any further.

  As I bark orders at all of the trainees, I see some of them appear to be chafing under my commands, many of them never having been pushed this hard, this fast in a very long time, if ever. But this is by design.

  No part of me feels guilty for pushing the athletes so, not even as they’re fresh off the plane in a foreign land, probably feeling more vulnerable than they ever have before. This must be part of the process.

  This breaking period serves another purpose, too. As an instructor, it is essential for me to establish a clear hierarchy in the class as well as maintain my distance as a mentor rather than a fellow athlete.

  Every time I send one of the gymnasts through a routine, whether on a bar or beam or flat-footed, I personally demonstrate the technique they must use as a baseline for their development.

  “That,” I say after sticking a back layout with a half-twist while some of the students look on, “is not a technique I demand that you mimic to perfection. If I were here to teach you how to pantomime, I’d send you out on the streets to emulate the silent performers.” There’s a bit of laughter, and I afford them a half-smile. “I want you to look at the examples of me and the other trainers you’ll meet and develop your own, personal style from that template. Nobody can perfect your technique but you. It’s easy to forget that in a place like this — as a fellow foreigner, I can attest to that,” I say, and my words seem to encourage most of the gymnasts.

  “Now back to it, come on!” I shout, and in a moment, they’re off to training again.

  I admit, I have more of a teacher in me than I thought I would before starting here. It feels good to give the encouragement to these young women I never received when I was growing up, particularly not so in Russia.

  Memories of an old, weathered, dreary orphanage flit through my memories, me and my one friend in that cold and wretched place sticking together to steal food from the administrators and teaming up to defend one another from the other boys.

  I shake my head, snapping myself out of the memories. At least that place served to let me be cold and distant when I needed to be.

  As I monitor the progress of the gymnasts, I don’t fail to notice that some of their eyes rove to me when they think I’m not paying attention. I am a tall man, easily towering over all of them at six and a half feet, and my workout clothes shows off muscles far larger and harder than most gymnasts, both in my rippling arms and cut calves. My tight shirt leaves little to the imagination in my pecs and abdomen, as well as my stony back muscles that flex and stretch with each technique.

  These women are very young, and all of them are out of their element. It would be the easiest thing in the world to become unprofessional with them, and at least once a year, every faculty member has a story about a student who’s tried just such a thing. And there are more stories yet of those professors who have taken advantage of the women’s vulnerability.

  That is, in part, why I distance myself so harshly, so early, often before the women even arrive in Paris. There was one student in particular with whom I was especially harsh...and I haven’t failed to notice her absence today. As well as one other young woman’s. I know some of the students are prone to dropping out mysteriously, but such a thing is a rarity before the first day starts.

  “Martins,” I call one of the women over, and she looks up from her training. “Where are Greenwood and Mason?”

  She looks confused for a moment, then blinks in comprehension. “Oh! You mean Liv and Maggie? Uh, I don’t know. Heard they’re roommates, but haven’t heard much from them.”

  “Does anyone else here know them?”

  “Don’t think so,” she says with a frown. “Everything okay?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” I say with a frown, taking out my cellphone and waving her off. “But thank you.”

  I make my way across the gym to somewhere a little quieter, scrolling through my contacts to find their numbers — I made sure to have everyone’s contact information as they came over. These foreigners were all in my care, after all, and this was not the kind of program to be taken lightly.

  Not that I would suspect Liv to be the type to blow off training, which is why I felt a touch of concern as I listen to the droning ring go on and on. I furrow my brow and try Maggie’s number, but only to the same result.

  I can’t shake a strange feeling about their silence. In my years of running this program, some students had indeed blown off the classes to go enjoy Paris, but to do so on the first day?

  Liv was the most puzzling of the two. She’d been so submissive and meek when we’d met, obediently falling into step. When I first caught her staring at me, I thought she’d melt into the floor of embarrassment.

  That’s not the type of girl who wanted to ruffle feathers, especially not with her dedication.

  I can’t explain it, but I feel a certain connection to her, as I have since I first met her to invite her to the program. My professionalism required that I be harsh with her, perhaps more so than the other students. I’m not the type of traine
r who’d succumb to my baser desires, but I wanted to establish early than I was off-limits, and much too hard and cold for her.

  But my impression was such that I had truly high hopes for her at the time we met, and my instincts are rarely so far off.

  I peer at the students for a moment more before making another call — this time, to one of my colleagues.

  “Max? How’s the new batch of students?”

  “Excellent, but I’ve got to go track a couple of them down. Can you cover for me? I’ll owe you a drink later.”

  “Ehhh, fine, no problem, I’m around the corner.”

  “Thanks, I’ll leave my chart by the door — I’ve got to run.”

  “Good luck, Max.”

  I hang up the phone and head out of the building, leaving the athletes to handle themselves for the time being. By now, most all of them are self-sufficient enough to handle themselves for five minutes.

  For some reason, with every passing heartbeat, I feel a growing sense of urgency regarding the two students. My mind keeps recalling my first meeting with Liv, occasionally wondering if I was too harsh with her despite all the potential I saw, and perhaps that’s what rouses my sense of responsibility even more strongly than usual. Maggie strikes me as more inclined to cut loose, but both are still extremely talented, and the fact that they share an apartment and both haven’t shown concerns me all the more.

  I care deeply for my students. In all my time as a teacher, I’ve given more than a few rides home in pouring rain, helped them pay for their equipment and travel costs, and even given little lessons on how to cook cost-effectively. I have a personal stake in such things. So when a young woman fails to appear for the first day of training, I become concerned.

  Especially in the case of a talented young woman like Olivia.

  7

  Liv

  Something smells like death.

  I struggle to open first one eye, then the other, feeling like my eyelids weigh a thousand pounds apiece. My body is numb and heavy, and I can’t seem to orient myself. I have no idea where I am, only that I feel a damp, dank coldness sinking into my clammy skin. Even opening my eyes doesn’t help very much, as it’s almost pitch-black wherever I am right now. I might as well be blindfolded, for all the good my eyesight does me here. I blink impotently in the darkness, willing my arms to move, to feel, to do anything at all. But everything is so stiff and immobile, like I’ve been paralyzed. My muscles simply won’t answer to my brain’s instructions.

  Am I dying? Am I dead?

  My throat feels coarse and thick but I need to make some kind of sound. What if I’m not alone in here? Where are my parents? Am I in the hospital?

  Then it dawns on me that I’m not in North Carolina anymore; I’m in France. My sluggish brain trudges through the train of memories. I came to Paris to study and train under world-renowned gymnastics coaches. I came here alone. This is my first night in Paris, and…

  Maggie! Where is she?

  I was with her earlier tonight — I know that much, even though the rest of the night is still so foggy. I try to open my mouth to speak, but it appears that some kind of restraint is wrapped around my head, cloth fabric pressing in on my lips to keep me from forming words. Summoning all my strength and focusing every sleepy nerve of consciousness, I manage to push a moaning sound out of my vocal chords. Somewhere to my right I can hear a similar groan, more akin to a whimper, high-pitched and fearful. Maggie.

  My heart starts to race as the full gravity of our predicament settles in around me. We’re being held somewhere dark and dank, we cannot move or speak, and we have no idea where we are. At least, I have no idea. I wonder if maybe Maggie knows something — not that I can ask her, since neither of us can talk at the moment. I decide that’s got to be the most important thing, the first order of business. I’ve got to get this thing off of my mouth.

  But how can I do that when my arms don’t work?

  I grunt and strain, willing my arm muscles to respond to me, all in vain. I feel so detached from my own limbs, like they don’t belong to me. I can’t even figure out if they’re restrained or if I’m simply paralyzed. Closing my eyes, I decide to start small, with just my fingers. I try to recall the sensation of wiggling my fingers, and slowly but surely my fingers start to twitch. I let out a gasp of relief, realizing that I must not be totally paralyzed. I wonder if I may have been drugged, and now the effects are beginning to wear off. That must be it.

  Who would have drugged me, though? Where did this happen? How did we get here?

  A handsome, smirking face framed with sunshiny golden hair swims lazily to the forefront of my mind and I remember with a jolt: Will met us at a pub. He bought us drinks. We danced and I felt him rubbing up against me from behind, his hands grabbing at my hips as I feebly resisted. I remember being led into the backseat of a big, black car…

  And from there, the sensation of something sickeningly sweet and icy cold being pressed into my face, that frigid sweetness swarming into my nose and making me feel weak. I suddenly recall watching some crime drama on television years ago in which a girl was knocked out with a rag to her face — chloroform, it was called? Did that really happen to me? How could this be happening? I have training in the morning. I haven’t spoken to my parents in hours and hours. Surely somebody will notice that I’m missing, that something is terribly wrong.

  I work on bending my wrists next, and from there the rest of my arms. To my shallow elation, I find that my arms are not bound with anything, only my face. So as soon as I manage to regain control of my arms I reach up, fumbling blindly in the dark to find the binding around my head and tear it off. It’s only a piece of ripped fabric knotted at the back of my head. It’s secured too tightly to pull away without severely hurting my face, so I have to figure out how to untie it. My fingers are still clumsy, and it takes me a long time to undo the knot. Finally it comes loose and I throw it aside, opening and closing my jaw to try and work it back into normal condition.

  “Agghhhh,” I groan, my lips struggling to form coherent words. There’s another moan of response from the area to my right, which I can tell now for certain is Maggie.

  I feel around beneath me. I’m lying down on my back, with a hard, freezing cold concrete floor under my spine. I brace my hands on either side of me to push myself up into a sitting position, every nerve in my body protesting the effort. It feels like trying to walk on a leg that’s fallen asleep — everything is tingling with pinpricks of pain, urging me to be still and compliant, not to try and save myself. Every part of my frame longs to just lie back down and wait for whatever grim fate is coming for me. But I can’t give in so easily. I’m an athlete; I’m used to pushing myself through obstacles and disregarding the pain and discomfort warnings my body gives me.

  “M-Maggie?” I manage to croak, my throat still scratchy and my vocal chords weak.

  “Mmm!” she whimpers, and I can hear the rustling sounds of her own body trying desperately to move. She must have been dosed with the same stuff they gave me. I have to figure out how to reach her, reassure her that everything’s okay… even though I don’t know if things are going to be okay. Things definitely don’t seem great right now.

  I grit my teeth as I struggle to scoot closer to her. I can feel that I’m still wearing my white dress, same as before. So at least I know they didn’t undress me or anything. I shudder at the thought. Some timid voice in the back of my head suggests that maybe this is just a misunderstanding. Maybe it’s just a really, really bad hangover. I’ve never had one before — maybe it’s always like this. Maybe you always feel this scared and lost.

  But I know that’s not the case. As much as I want to believe that any second now the lights will flick on and we’ll find out that we were panicking for no reason… it’s not going to happen. This is a grave situation. And Will and his friends put us here. I kick myself for ever trusting him in the first place. I should have known from the very second he offered me a drink of his champagne
on the flight here that he was bad news. Cute boys like that don’t talk to me just because they like me. Of course he saw me as easy prey — small town girl with no real world experience, no solid footing, desperate for a friendly face. And Maggie was easy, too. All it took was one charming smile and she was hooked. I wanted to cry in frustration at how stupid we were, going to that bar. How could I have been so irresponsible? So trusting?

  Finally I scoot across the floor and feel my knee brush against something vaguely warm and trembling. Maggie yelps and starts wriggling around in fear.

  “Shh, it’s me. It’s Liv,” I mumble, my lips finally remembering how to shape real words.

  “Mm! Mmm!” she whines. I fumble around until I find her hand. I give it a squeeze and feel her instantly relax a little bit while I start untying the fabric strip binding her mouth. Once it’s pulled off, she starts to sniffle and cry.

  “Wh —what happened? Where are we?” she murmurs, her words slightly garbled.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. I can feel her heaving with quiet sobs as I help her to sit up. She falls into me, shaking and weeping. I let her fold into my arms, her frame crumpling into the fetal position as I hold her.

  “Those guys… they must have taken us,” she chokes out between sobs.

  “Yeah. I think you’re right,” I concede sadly, forcing myself not to cry, too. At least one of us has to hold it together, and it might as well be me. I have the feeling that if we were to both fall apart there would be no hope at all. I have to be strong, for both our sakes.

  “Do you hear that?” Maggie gasps suddenly, clutching at my arms. We sit stock-still and silent, listening intently. There’s a faint rustling, scraping, squeaking sound. Rats.

  “Oh, gross,” I breathe, shaking my head. Maggie, however, is inconsolable.

  “I hate rats. Oh god, oh god. What if they crawl on us? Or bite us? They carry rabies and other diseases, you know. And oh my god, if there are rats there are probably cockroaches, too,” she rambles, trembling as her voice gets higher and higher.