Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (20 page)

E
lle bursts
into the bar's office like she's on fire. She's going so fast she stumbles over the threshold, pausing a moment and catching herself before she turns, sees me, and attacks.

Chase slams into the office one second later, shouting her name.

I can't believe the balls—ovaries?—on this chick. She lunges for me, literally throwing herself onto my lap before reaching out her hand to slap me.

I let her. Hard. Once.

Then I grab her wrist, at the same time Chase does.

"Jesus, Elle—" Chase groans.

"It's fine," I spit out. I'd been wanting to hit my own damn face, out of pure guilt. The rush of adrenaline felt good. I needed a fight, wanted blood—but not with her. "She loves Kat. Just like I do."

Chase is holding her back, his arms encircled around her. The pretty blonde is breathing hard, high color on her cheeks, fire in her eyes.

"Bullshit!" she shouts at me.

Chase begins to drag her out, muttering how he told her she had to be calm if she came in—

"Stop. Sit." I gesture toward the couch. I pour Elle a whiskey and hold the glass out to her; it's a shitty peace offering, but it's an offering nonetheless. "You got one hit in. That's more than any other man. You don't get another. Now if you want to help me find your friend, let's
talk
."

Elle cuts a glance at Chase, who's leaning back on the couch, his arm across her shoulders. At first glance he looks relaxed, like a guy with his girlfriend. But I can see he's tense, ready to jump up at a moment's notice. Stop his girl from attacking me.

"Fine," Elle says, grabbing the whiskey. She takes a sip and doesn't wince. "First thing I'll say is: you're an asshole. No, wait." She glances at Chase, and I see his jaw tense. "You're
both
assholes. This one steals my phone, and doesn't let Kat contact me. And you—" She points an accusing finger at my face. "You ignore her calls? Her texts? You leave her alone for three days without telling her what the hell's going on, that you're literally in the middle of a mob war or some shit?"

I meet Chase's eyes. He just shakes his head slightly.

"You trust her enough to tell her this shit?"

Elle downs the rest of the whiskey. "I'm right here. You want to talk? Talk to
me
. And even if he doesn't trust me, Kat
does
. I can't say I trust either of you right now, but I'm assuming you're the best chance she has. She's been gone over two days. Now where the hell is she?"

I pick up my laptop and hand it to Chase. "The video came from the feds. Traffic camera near Café Russo."

I watch their faces as they watch the scene I've studied over and over again. See their reactions as Solonik stumbles into view. They speak, but you can't see her face. Just her back. Then she turns around, the black-and-white footage grainy and wavering.

But you can still see her scream.

Then they see him grab her and force her into a black SUV, which police found abandoned near the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn.

"So Markov does have her." Chase's voice is hard. Elle bites back a sob. I notice that, although they're sitting next to each other, she won't look at him and isn't touching her.

Shit. Not only have I fucked up the one good thing in my life—now I've fucked up them, too.

I never should have come back for Kat. I never should have let her in, to my life, my heart, my world.

I close my eyes, though my world's so dark right now, it doesn't even matter if my eyes are open or closed—everything's dead, gray.

I'm gonna kill that man.

And if he's hurt her—if he's killed her—fuck me if I won't want to follow her.

But first, I'll deal with that asshole.

The phone rings. The old office landline, which is fucking odd, because I haven't given that number out to anyone.

We all stare at each other a moment, and then I pick up the old, black rotary phone. I don't say anything. On the other end of the line, I hear heavy breathing.

Someone's panicked.

"Kat?" I say. At my words, Elle jumps to her feet. Chase stands, coming over to me so he can try and listen to the call.

A deep inhale, an exhale. And then a surprisingly cold voice
, her voice
, on the other end of the line.

"He wants to see you," Kay says, inflectionless. "Drive north up Highway 90. You, and you alone. He'll text more directions in three hours."

"Kat, I'm coming, I'm coming for you baby—"

"Good," she says, her voice like ice. "If you don't, he'll kill me."

She pauses, and then she sounds strangely excited. Happy? "And if you do come, then he'll kill you."

* * *

I
would've run
out the door and driven north immediately. I would have done
anything
. I was out of my mind after she called.

But even Elle stopped and tried to talk some sense into me.

Chase and Declan demanded to come with me, though I told Declan someone halfway sane had to stay in town, just in case I didn't come back.

"Don’t say that," Declan had warned me.

"Not saying it doesn't make it any less true." I'd clasped him around the shoulder, then started loading up enough artillery to stock a war zone. We agreed Chase and another soldier would come up in a secondary vehicle, but travel about thirty minutes behind me in case Markov had someone watching the roads. Thirty minutes after that, two trucks of men would follow up, and after looking at a map, we sent three more cars heading north, but following different routes.

Wherever she was—even if I couldn't get to her—someone would.

It only took forty minutes for everyone to load up and get organized, but I was jumping out of my skin. Gone was the ghost who could phase in and out of life, without feeling, without caring. I was a human, a fucked-up human. But I was alive. And even if it was the last thing I'd ever do, I was going to make sure Kat stayed alive.

My men gather around me as I got in the car, but then Elle slips through the group, running straight at me. For one moment I think she's going to hit me again, but she stops short in front of my open car door.

"Gray, bring her home." She holds her hand out, and then I realized she's giving me something. I open my palm, and she drops a light, plastic pen into my hand.

"What is this—" My words stop. My stomach drops. It's a pregnancy test. A fucking
positive
pregnancy test. I stare into the girl's wide blue eyes. "Whose is it?"

"Kat's," Elle says. "And yours."

I
can't believe
he fell for it
,
I can't believe he fell for it
,
Oh God, did he really fall for it
?

"What are you thinking,
Katya
?"

"That I can't believe he fell for it."

Markov snorts. "He thinks he's so smart. But he's a fool."

Of course, I don't mean Gray—I mean Markov. Markov can't seriously think I want Gray dead, can he? But I've been an incredibly convincing actress over the past two days. I deserve an Academy Award, but I'd settle for getting out of here alive.

Markov's voice is getting more and more breathless. I don't know what happened to him during the shootout with the F.B.I., but he's got a dark circle on the side of his t-shirt. I don't mention it, and neither does he, but it's been blooming like a deadly rose all morning.

I'm hoping he'll just bleed until he passes out, and then I can get the hell out of here. Steal the car, steal his phone, call Gray.

Because even though Markov's weak, he's got me. He finally cut loose my wrists, but I didn't have much of a reprieve. He then handcuffed my left wrist to the old iron bedrail. I shake it absently; the posts don't give.

I'm stuck. And I'll be the first thing Gray sees when he busts through the door—and even though I don't know why he wouldn't call me back, what the hell his problem was—I have to believe he still cares for me.

Even if he didn't tell me he loves me
.

And that will be his weakness. He always told me, if other members of the family thought he cared for me, I would be his weakness—a way to his heart.

I hope it's still true, because that's what my entire plan is based on.

I convinced Markov that instead of hiding out, fleeing the state—and probably killing me sooner rather than later—he should use me as bait.

"You hate him, don't you? You hate him as much as I do." I'd lied over and over and over again. "So get him up here. You're not a coward, but Gray is: he went to the Feds. Get your revenge. Get me
my
revenge."

When I'd called Gray, I'd tried to make my voice sound cold. Heartless. Had he noticed? Had Markov? Was any of this worth it?

Was
I
the coward? If I truly loved Gray, would I sacrifice myself—do anything to keep him safe? Had I called him only to bring him to his death?

But our child.
Our
child.

Markov picks up his cell, and I shift on the bed, watching him. He paces the room, playing with the shotgun he'd brought out from who knows where. I watch the stain on his shirt grow larger, darker, but he's like a rabid raccoon. The fact that death is creeping toward him only energizes him and makes him stronger.

Markov stops to text, and I know he's sending Gray toward us, though in a roundabout way. He's paid a few people along the route to watch and make sure Gray's alone.

"He's almost here, little Kat." Markov walks triumphantly toward me. He's got a pistol on a holster on his side, and the rifle. "Now we get to find out if you were telling me the truth, or if you're just another lying
pizda
."

"What are you talking about?" I don't bother to ask what the last word means; from the way he's leering at me, I get the idea.

Markov sits next to me, the bed creaking under his weight. He puts an arm around me like a lover might, and I cringe at the sharp scent of body odor—and fear—that surrounds me.

Please don't throw up
.

I've only done it once, and blamed it on nerves. My worst fear is that Markov finds out I'm pregnant, because I know—
I know
—he'd do anything to hurt Gray. And killing his unborn child would rank pretty high up there on the list. Earn him a regular gold medal in the Psychotic Mafia Member Olympics.

"You tell me you hate your husband, that he forced you to marry, that he forced you to spread your legs, that you haven't seen your father since Petrokov 'escorted' him out of town."

I nod, breathing through my mouth. "I did. It's all true."

Markov laughs, pulling me close. He puts his nose in my hair and inhales deeply. I force myself not to pull away, not to cringe. I stare at the door.
Any minute, any minute, Gray will rescue me
…

"I'm going to give you a choice, Katya: do you die first, or second?"

My head whips around and I stare into his rabid eyes. "What!"

He laughs again. "Surely you didn't think I would let you live?"

I feel tears welling, and he watches them gleefully, reaching out a finger and catches one from my cheek, sucking it into his mouth. "I only regret I wasn't well enough to fully taste you, sweetling. But I think killing Gray will make me harder than anything you could do for me. No offense."

"What do you mean, do I want to die first or second?"

"Ah yes." Markov sets the rifle to his left, on the side of the bed, out of my reach. But then he pulls out a pistol, though "pistol" probably isn't the right word. I don’t know anything about guns, but this one looks particularly deadly. Boxy, large, utilitarian, black. Not the pretty kind you see in old Westerns. This is made to kill with maximum efficiency, and it's in the hands of a killer.

He twirls in on his finger, laughing at my panicked expression.

"Gray is going to come in that door, and he's going to see you. Now, I
am
going to shoot him as soon as I see him. A gut shot with a rifle is not a good way to die, but it's exactly what he deserves. It takes a long time—longer than you'd think—for a man to die from a wound right
here
."

Markov places his hand directly over my womb. I grit my teeth. I don't move.

He laughs and withdraws, going back to playing with his gun.

"You choose: after I shoot Petrokov and start his suffering, do I kill
him
before
you
? Of course, if I do that, I'd have to torture you a bit. Maybe fuck you—or that pretty little mouth of yours. I mean, we need to give Petrokov a
show
. Something to watch while he rolls around on the floor, bleeding. I like that option, because Gray gets to see me own you."

He trails a rough hand down my cheek and I reflexively shake my head.
No, no to all of it!

I close my eyes. "And the other option? I die…first?"

Markov grins, and pulls me close like I'm a dear friend, a sweet sister. He turns and speaks quietly, intimately: "Ah yes, I do think that might the easier way for you. You'd get a nice, clean death. One bullet, through the temple. No pain. At least, not much, I don't think—who can say?"

He smiles at me like we're discussing a dinner menu.

He's talking about death like it's a fine vintage of wine.

"And if I die first, when do you kill Gray?"

"Ah! That's the beauty of my plan: I don't kill Petrokov.
You do
."