Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2) (11 page)

R
oman

The pit of despair that had grown in my stomach, pulsating like a fire breathing dragon, already felt like a bad dream. The truth was out, in the open, and I no longer had a need to lie. I was many things – a killer, and worse – but I was never any good at lying. The terrible, creeping despair of our situation, though, was no better. The silence between us began to throb with tension, and I felt as though I had to fill it.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. "For lying to you. I was lying to myself, really. I didn't know how to tell you the truth, the truth that I –,
we
have a child, a baby, and that I don't even know his name. Or her name," I added bitterly. I couldn't help but express my violent hatred of the man who had done this to me – Victor Antonov. He was a weed, a worm, an example of the very worst that Alexandria had to offer, and he'd taken his brother's death not as a warning, but as an opportunity. He was the powerbroker in this town now. A week ago, I didn't care. A week ago, it meant nothing to me. A week ago, I didn't know that I was a father.

A flash of stricken worry danced across Ellie's beautiful cheeks. "What the hell are we going to do?" She gasped. "Oh my God, we need to call the police. Right now. What if someone has my baby! What if –," her voice cracked, and she looked ashen. I knew exactly what thought had crossed her mind. I was no stranger to it.

"No!" I snapped, putting more force into my voice than I had intended. Ellie's words cut through me.
My baby
, she said. It shouldn't have hurt me, but it did. It was my child, too. She recoiled like she'd been stung, like I'd reached out and slapped her. I never would.

I softened my voice, grinding my teeth together as I mastered my anger. It crashed against me, buffeting every last pillar of resolve in my mind, a seething hit of acidic rage that threatened to take control. I couldn't let it. I needed to be strong. For Ellie. For her child. For my child. Anger would get us nowhere. It was time to act smart.

"No," I repeated. "We can't. If they don't have it –," I paused. The word
it
sounded so impersonal, as though the child I was talking about wasn't my own, didn't have my own blood running through its veins.
I said it again
.

I decided to make my peace with it, for now. But when I broke that peace, and I would, someone would suffer. And that
someone
had a name. Victor Antonov. "If they don't already have our child, or know that he exists, then we can't give them the opportunity to find out. Believe me, the police in the city are crooked to a man."

"I know," Ellie said back shortly, her eyes closed as though reliving a memory. "I don't know how, but I know. You're right. But what the hell are we going to do about it? We can't just, just, sit here! We have to go back to the hospital."

"No, we don't," I replied. "They'll be watching –"

Her eyes popped open with sudden, betrayed energy. "You're being a coward," she said accusingly. "We can't just leave him," she said, unconsciously copying my description of our child as a boy.

"We're not going to," I said, my voice firm and unbending.

"But you said…" She broke off, her face screwed with confusion, and more than a hint of betrayal.

"All I said was that we aren't going to that hospital. There's only one of me, it would be suicide. No matter how many guns I bring. We have to be smarter than them, not stronger, because we'll lose that fight every day of the week."

"Then what?" Her tone of voice was harsh, clipped, and left me in no doubt that if my answer was unsatisfactory, then she would break off, ignore me, and strike out on her own path to save our baby.

"We have other options." I pulled my phone out of my pocket, as much to buy myself time as for any other reason, but not quickly enough to avoid the inquisitive look on Ellie's face, a look of hope that cut through the thunderous, tear-threatened squall storming across her face – fear, anger, and a burning desire to fight back against someone, anyone, all doing battle in one simmering cauldron of emotion.

"What are you talking about?" She said, her voice curt.

I wavered, a decade of experience of working on my own, of keeping my own counsel and hiding my own secrets fighting against my desperate desire not to have to lie to her any longer.

She grimaced, and the irritated gesture made her message as clear as if she'd shouted it –
no more games
. I bowed to her pressure like a stalk bending against the wind.

"I might have a lead," I said, remembering the feeling of my phone vibrating against my leg. "I'm not sure." Ellie's expression changed yet again, and a little jig of hope, of relief danced across her face. I couldn't stop myself thinking about how pretty she was, how beautiful. About how she, for a brief, split-second anyway, looked at me as a savior, and a someone to trust. But the second I looked back, it was gone. I let myself believe, hope really, that deep down she still felt something for me. No matter how selfish a thought that was right now, I had to hang onto it.

I raised the cheap black burner phone up to my eyes, conscious of Ellie's anxious gaze burning a hole in my forehead. A small LED light on the front glowed, then faded; glowed then faded in the universal notification that I had a message. I took a deep breath in, realizing that in the moment, I'd forgotten to breathe.

"What is it?" Ellie said plaintively, her voice cracking. I glanced up, and saw that the black, grim emotion that had wreathed her face only a few moments before was gone. "Tell me, Roman. Stop treating me like –"

I raised my hand and cut her off. "Okay, okay. I've got – well I'm not exactly sure," I said, acutely aware of the hesitancy that even I could hear in my wavering. The location was familiar, but confusing nonetheless. "It's a residential address. I just don't know what I'll find there."

Ellie opened her mouth to speak. Only one word came out. "We'll." It was laced with determination, dripping with a justified, righteous, crusading anger. And yet I thought I knew better. I put my foot in my mouth.

"No," I said firmly. "You're staying here."

Her head jerked upwards, her chin held high and proud. She was a little five foot tall bundle of roaring thunder, and I immediately regretted speaking up. No matter the difference in our sizes, she looked fiery enough to tear my head off.

"The hell I am," she snapped, spitting fire. "If you think that I'm going to sit around here while you save the day, you're insane. Trust me Roman," she laughed. "I don't trust you an inch."

Her words battered into me with the force of a boxer's punch, each knocking me back half an inch, tearing the wind from my God, silencing me. The last blow rocked me to my core. And yet I knew that I couldn't blame her for it. She was right. I needed to redeem myself with her, by her side, in full view. It was the only chance that I had of winning her back.

"Okay," I said, with a voice choked with emotion. "Okay. We'll go together. But when we're out there," I said, meeting her gaze fell on. "You do exactly what I tell you to do. The kind of men we are up against won't hesitate before pulling the trigger. You're a liability to them. Understood?"

She glowered in front of me, her petite body trembling with anger, and for a long, painful second I thought that she would refuse. An option flickered through my brain of locking her up for her own safety, but I dismissed it as soon as it crossed my mind. An acts like that would destroy her fragile confidence in me forever, and for good reason.

As she dragged out her decision, each second felt like a minute. When she finally acquiesced, with a tight nod, a tidal wave of relief broke against me with the force of an explosion. My posture softened, and tension I didn't know I was holding flooded away.

"Good," I said. "Now we're agreed, shall we go get our baby back?"

It was corny as hell. But it was necessary. It got Ellie to crack a smile. And maybe it gave me the opening I needed to start to win back her trust.

Maybe.

E
llie

There's fear, and there's worry, and there's terror.

And then there's what I was feeling as I sat in the passenger seat next to Roman – helplessness. It sapped away at my energy, swallowing it whole, draining my life force. I felt the tendrils of depression creeping up my spine and I felt powerless to resist. It was like the worst of my days under Rick's reign of terror, when I was afraid of so much as sneezing while he slept, in case I awoke the beast. But it was different, too. At least in one way. It wasn't the man I could see that I was so scared off.

It was the ones I couldn't.

Roman drove as though he were conducting an orchestra, not driving a car. His body was a hive of seamless, graceful, balletic movement. His eyes never stopped moving, flicking from right to left as he drove at the very edges of the speed limit, weaving through cars and maneuvering past huge, plodding trucks. I wanted to scream at him, to urge him to drive faster, and to hell with the law, but I knew he was right. Speeding might feel like the thing to do, but it was anything but. We had to operate inside the law, nipping around the edges perhaps, but coloring inside the lines until the very last moment.

When we would bring hell down upon the men who had taken our child.

Our child
. Even thinking about it was crazy. I couldn't quite believe that things had moved this far, this fast. A month ago, my biggest worry in life was strengthening my legs enough to walk. Two weeks ago, mastering something as simple as how to write my own name. A week ago, getting to grips with the idea that the neurons in my mind were beginning to knit themselves together once again, that I was healing faster than anyone had expected – and that I could go home soon.

I almost laughed out loud. That prediction seemed so far away right now that it could easily have been made in another century. My mind was spinning, whirling. The outside world appeared as a blur, cars and trucks and buildings flashing past so quickly I couldn't take them in before they disappeared. The only constant, in fact, was Roman. In all this, he was the only one who had remained by my side. Even when I ran off, he came to find me. To save me. Once, twice, and now a third time lucky. Even if it
was
a funny definition of luck. My eyes settled upon him, watched as he drove, his eyes narrowed and focused only on the 20 yards of tarmac dead ahead of him.

In the zone
.

Roman was the ultimate professional. His mouth was set with grim determination, his brow furrowed. He had but one goal, and just looking at him I knew that he would achieve it. He made me believe again, hope again, enough to pray again. I knew that with him by my side, we had a chance. No matter how great the forces stacked against us, we had a sliver of hope. Even though it seemed as though there was no way we could possibly fight through, or even survive ourselves, he gave me hope. And not just
hope
, either.

Roman was an all in one role model, the kind of man that I felt I should strive to copy. In any other age he would have been a leader, a general or a chieftain. His skills were timeless – strength, deadly accuracy, and the courage of his convictions. They weren't modern. He was almost a man born out of time. But right now, there wasn't anyone I'd rather have by my side. The way he acted was almost inspiring – not because he was showy, because Roman had spent an entire lifetime learning how to disappear into a crowd, not play to it, but because his deadly professionalism shone out. I knew that the half bit, sloppy mafia crooks who swarmed Alexandria like ants had, this time, bitten off more than they could chew. And the thought of them suffering at Roman's practiced hands warmed me up inside.

"Thank you," I murmured under my breath. It was meant just for me, but he heard. Of course he heard. His eyes snapped to face me, just for a second.

"Don't thank me yet," he said. Growled, more than spoke. "I haven't done anything."

I decided not to challenge him. I knew he had, because I'd be dead, not sitting by his side if he hadn't. But Roman clearly wasn't the kind of guy who needed his ego massaged, stroked or managed. He wasn't weak, far from it. That he wasn't into bling, diamond chains and golden rings didn't mean a damn thing. Not to me, and not to him. I changed topic. Focusing on the task ahead was the only thing keeping my mind off the enormity of what was at stake. "You trust this guy?" I stared dead ahead as I spoke, watching as Roman ate up the miles. It was a cheap trick, one I only used in a pretense at acting casually. I kept staring at him out of the corners of my eyes, straining to see the expression on his face, desperate to monitor his reaction.

"My source? Not as far as I can throw him," Roman muttered, a fatalistic grin tickling his cheeks. "In fact, I'd be surprised if that worm wasn't running to Victor right now and vomiting out everything he knows."

I stopped pretending I wasn't staring. My head snapped to face Roman, quick enough that it could have been mounted on a spring. My blood ran cold as I spoke, and the little hairs on the back of my neck all stood up as one. My brain dumped enough adrenaline into my blood to outrun a pack of chasing hyenas, yet strapped into the passenger seat of an old car, I couldn't
actually
do anything. "What," I choked. "What do you mean – he knows?"

Roman nodded grimly. "If not now, then soon. I –," he paused, correcting himself. "We didn't have any other choice. We're out of options, Ellie. It was either that, or nothing. And I'm not in any mood for nothing."

I gripped the car seat's hand rest, the thin flesh on the back of my hands turning white with the effort. I gulped. "Okay, okay, I trust you. But get us there fast, whatever you do."

Roman pulled a hard left, turning off the main street and down into a residential neighborhood. "Way ahead of you," he said.

"We're here?"

He nodded. "We're here. Number thirty-seven, it can't be far away."

Going against every one of my better instincts, Roman slowed the car down, almost to a crawl. He kept one hand on the wheel, and the other wriggled somewhere out of sight.

"What are you doing?" I begged. My legs were burning with impatience, as though a thousand tiny, poisonous fire ants were crawling up and down on the backs of my thighs. "Come on, hurry up, we've got to get there, to stop them!" I couldn't understand why he wasn't speeding, knocking men, and women, and children aside, powering past parked cars and driving on people's front yards to get there, even if only a few seconds faster. Okay, perhaps not the first bit, but didn't he know what was at stake?
Who is at stake?

Roman pulled into an empty parking space and turned to face me, killing the engine as he moved. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and placed it on my shoulder, where it hung heavy. His voice was deep, and rumbled as he spoke. "Listen to me, Ellie. Don't mistake patience for inaction. Don't mistake action for results. And don't you ever think that I want this any less than you."

I cringed as he spoke, but he wasn't done.

"Rushing in there could get both of us killed. And then who does our son have? No one. This is me. This is what I do." His voice softened. "Can you trust me to do it right?"

I nodded, masking a tear. "I can, I'm sorry. It's just –."

He stroked my arm as he spoke. "I know." He lifted his hand off my shoulder, twisting his body as he reached to fish something out of the passenger seat footwell. "Put this on," he said, handing me something – a heavy, navy-blue something. My brow furrowed together as I stared at it, my brain trying to match it against anything it had ever seen before.

"What is it?" I said, noticing a Velcro strap on the heavy package. Roman was already moving, his body reaching in a hundred directions at once. He opened the glove compartment, pulling two fresh, black magazines of bullets out and tapped them against the dashboard before stuffing them into a back pocket. He checked his handgun's action. He was fast, smooth and efficient.

"Bulletproof vest," he grunted. He was economical with his use of words now, as if his brain power was in use somewhere else. Focused on solving the problem. Focused on saving our son. I hope that was the case. I knew it was.

"Where's yours?" I asked, flipping the vest over now that I realized what it was, and that it was upside down. My aching muscles protested as I pulled the heavy Kevlar-plated garment over my shoulders.

"You're wearing it," Roman said, shooting me a quick, caring smile as he tightened up. "Come on, let's go. Whatever happens, stay behind me. If I get shot, run. And go to the FBI, not the police. Maybe they'll be able to help."

His door was open before I had a chance to reply to this new barrage of information, and I followed his lead. My head was spinning, but I knew I could figure out the details later. I closed the car door quietly, and as I turned I bumped into a letterbox bearing the number thirty-five. Next door's letterbox. "We're here," I whispered to myself.

Roman had his weapon up, pointed at number thirty-seven. It was broad daylight, and anyone could have seen. It was a white picket house in a white picket neighborhood. I knew that something was already wrong. I choked out the question, desperate not to hear his reply. "What is it?"

He didn't speak, perhaps couldn't, just poked his chin towards the house. I didn't need a second explanation. The front door was ajar, and shards of orange-red porcelain and clods of dirt littered the porch. There had been a scuffle.

We were already too late.