The Hitman's Property (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Book 2) Read online

  15

  The speakers in the elevator were broken. The relaxing music that was supposed to fill the speaker box was replaced with a jarring robotic mixture of hisses and whines, the melodic tones struggling and failing to reach through. The elevator gave a shudder each time that it rose past a different floor, and I would be lying if I said that it didn’t worry me a little.

  But damn it, work, work…

  It was finally time for Zharkov to get what was coming to him.

  I reached behind my back and pulled out my pistols as the elevator stopped and a garbled voice announced: “Top floor, penthouse suite.”

  The automatic doors slid open, and my guns were aimed and steady; I was calm but ready to pull the trigger. I cautiously exited the elevator and walked through a small hallway that led to the living room of the penthouse. On the left wall there a painting of a flock of pigeons; on the right wall, there was a portrait of a naked Greek lady. From the living room, I heard the faint sound of Russians gleefully chuckling. The hallway led straight into the living room. There was no avoiding it.

  I was finally in Zharkov’s penthouse.

  Aiming my guns, I crept forward, past the paintings and right to the edge of the hallway, where it opened out into the living room. Peeking around the edge of the wall, I saw a grand piano and a purple-cushioned stool, white marble floors, a Greek sculpture of a man, long, cream couches and a glass table.

  I also saw two Russian men, each sitting on one of the couches, both with their backs turned to me, laughing at the TV.

  I could only see them from the back, but even so, it was easy to tell them apart. One had blonde hair and wore a white bandana tied around his head. His arm was draped over the back of the couch and was covered in Russian prison tattoos. He was thin, and the third finger of his hand was amputated at the second knuckle. The other man was bald and had thick neck fat that squeezed into disgusting rolls, obscuring his neck tattoo. He lifted his hands and shouted something in Russian as he watched the TV screen, and I saw that he wore a gold ring on every one of his chubby fingers.

  I receded back into the hallway and put my pistols into the back of my jeans. There was no need to make noise if it wasn’t necessary.

  Clenching my fist, I knocked against the wall.

  Knock-knock.

  “Aye? Who’s there?” one of the men shouted in heavily accented Russian, his voice a deep boom meant to intimidate the intruder.

  I cleared my throat. “Room service,” I responded.

  “Bring it in then!” the other man yelled, giggling.

  “Wait,” the booming man spat. “We no order any room service!”

  “Mr. Zharkov did, sir,” I said.

  “Then bring it in!” the booming man shouted, and I breathed a sigh of relief that they fell for it.

  Zharkov was here, then. That’s all that I needed to know.

  “It’s a lot of food, and I’m going to need some help,” I said.

  “You go and help the lad,” the booming man snapped.

  The other man grumbled something in Russian, but I heard the sound of feet rustling and then the man was walking toward the hallway. I pressed myself against the wall directly near the entrance to the living room and listened to the man’s footsteps walking across the marble floor. He was not wearing shoes, and his socks only made a light padding noise. But that was enough for me to pinpoint his direction. He continued to grumble in Russian, and then the man with the missing finger walked around the corner. His bandana shot up with his eyebrows, and he went to shout, and reach for his jeans, but I clamped my hand over his mouth and gripped his wrist.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I whispered in his ear.

  I pulled him back into the hallway almost to the elevator and then wrapped my hands around the man’s throat. He The Russian kicked and squirmed as he fought to break free.

  “Da! Da!” He cried.

  He grabbed onto my leather jacket, and we tussled for a few moments, but I was able to break free of my coat and wrap my hands around his throat again.

  His muffled voice was struggling as I crushed his throat, suppressing his voice box and preventing his ability to speak. My body turned predatory, like a wolf who was determined to tear apart its kill. My every muscle honed, every tendon on edge, sweat dripping down my forehead, my forearm muscles. I squeezed his throat harder and harder. Slowly, the man’s kicks got weaker until his legs started to spasm. My expression was blank, and I was calm as I concentrated on my macabre task. I held his throat in a death grip until the spasms stopped, and then I quietly placed the man’s corpse on the floor.

  The Russian gazed up at me, mouth slack, eyes empty but somehow still protesting his untimely death. If I had been a different man, a look like that would’ve made me feel something, maybe a brief moment of remorse. But I didn’t feel sorry for him. I had more work to do, and it would get a lot uglier before the smoke cleared.

  I crept to the edge of the hallway and peeked around the corner again.

  The other Russian was still staring at the TV like nothing had happened. I crept forward as quietly and expertly as a tiger in the jungle, knees bent, hands at my sides, boots staining the marble with dirt but making no noise to announce my arrival. I could see that the Russian was watching some television show that featured women dressed provocatively. The man leaned forward at the screen, tongue hanging from his mouth, and muttered something in Russian as he appreciated the view. I crept forward until I was standing right behind him, the smell of smoke, alcohol, and sweat impregnating the air. Then the man looked up, and the glow of the sun made the TV reflective for a moment, and our eyes met in the reflection.

  “Wha—” The man started to shout.

  I leaped forward and wrapped my forearm around his fat neck, feeling my muscles dig into the meaty flesh. He grunted, and then his voice became quiet. He brought his hands up and gripped my arm, trying to wedge his fingers between my arm and his neck and pry it loose. I squeezed harder until there was no gap between his neck and my arm. His breaths came out as desperate wheezes, and as I took his life, I caught my reflection again on the TV screen. My veins were popping out of my forearm as I squeezed harder and harder until I felt as if they might burst because of the pressure that I was exerting as I snuffed out this Russian bastard. I was quiet, and I looked like a psychopath. Maybe that was what I was: a mass-murdering, stone-cold psychopath. There was no way around it, and there was no point in denying it.

  But, I thought as the Russian took his last breath if I have to be a psychopath to get Tess back, then I will. I will do whatever it takes.

  I placed the man back on the couch and propped him up so that it would look like he fell asleep while he was watching TV. Then I stood up and looked around the room. There were four hallways that led out of this room branching out into other parts of the penthouse suite. One hallway led to the employee elevator, and another paved marble hallway was located directly to my right. It was lined with sculptures, paintings, and a Russian flag on the wall that faced the main elevator for guests who entered the penthouse. I assumed that the hallway that smelled like meat and other delicious dishes lead to the kitchen, so I headed for the remaining hallway because that is likely where I could find the bedroom.

  When I started to enter the hallway, I saw that there was a pair of red lace panties draped across the floor. I envisioned Tess in those panties, her face tear-stained, and saw her shivering as Zharkov reached out to touch them. I saw Tess—my woman—crying silent tears as Zharkov licked his lips and looked at what was beneath the red panties.

  I clenched my fists, fire burning within me, and approached the door at the end of the hallway.

  16

  “Don’t you know how many women would kill to be in your position, you ungrateful bitch!” Zharkov shouted.

  I stood just outside the door, so close that I could hear their conversation. His voice was lightly accented and somewhat Americanized.

  “I am a rich, powerful
man, little dove.”

  “Stop calling me that! I’m not your fucking ‘dove.’” I heard a woman shout.

  Tess.

  “I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want. You’re mine! I purchased you!” Zharkov yelled and cursed. “Some women would kill to be in your position and what do I get instead? An ungrateful little whore. Do you know how many women say to their girlfriends, ‘I would kill to be with Zharkov’? How many women would sell their own children to be with me? And I choose you, little dove. And this is what I get. Tears! And are they tears of joy, of appreciation? No, no! They are tears of—what? What, little dove?”

  “Disgust!” Tess’ perfect, beautiful English accent cried out. “That’s what they are, you old, fat pervert! Tears of fucking disgust!”

  “Where have your manners gone?” Zharkov growled, and I heard him walk across the marble floor toward Tess’ voice. “I remember when you used to dance, smile for me and now you have resorted to this! I remember when you would dance naked for me for hours with a happy smile on your face! That American thug has given you some strange ideas, indeed.”

  “He’s not a thug,” Tess breathed. “He’s ten times the man that you’ll ever be!”

  “Where is he now, then huh? Where is your knight in shining…”

  I lifted my leg, aimed, and kicked the door open with all of my strength. The door smashed clean off of its hinges and flew into the room.

  I leaped into the room, teeth bared, hands clenched into fists, gazing around madly. I saw the lavish four-poster bed, covered in fold upon fold of red silk sheets, and the three fine art paintings that hung on the walls. I saw the half-empty bottle of vodka that rested on the floor, as well as the suit shirt and pants that lay discarded next to it. I saw a red lace bra, and I saw Tess…

  She lay amidst the red silk sheets completely naked but with a black collar around her neck. Even my fucked-up mind couldn’t turn this into sexual and arousing sight. The skin under her eyes was puffy and red from crying, and her eyes were bloodshot. A hand-shaped bruised marked her upper thigh, and she lay curled in a ball, as though she was expecting more injuries, like a blow could rain down on her at any time. When the door crashed open, she flinched away and covered her head, most likely thinking it was Zharkov’s fists that had made sound of the crash.

  Zharkov stood next to the bed. If ever there was a more disgusting-looking prick, I had never seen him. He wore three gold rings and was naked apart from a purple silk bathrobe. His three-inch, erect cock poked up under his plump, hairy belly—which hung down so far that it almost obscured his small, pitiful member. His arms and legs were covered in hair like a gorilla, and his face was squashed, unattractive and unsightly. His huge nose was flat and his bone structure resembled a Cro-Magnon, like a Neanderthal. His green eyes were squinted, and his mouth was crammed into a constant leer. The bastard was bald apart from a few strands of wispy white hair and he could pass for a filthy animal on any given day of the week.

  “What!” he grunted, turning toward me as I walked into the room. He was pissed that I had interrupted his assault on my woman, but I would show him better than I could tell him that a man should never raise his hands to a woman or a child.

  He would regret the day that he ever laid eyes on my Tess.

  I would make sure of it.

  Zharkov’s pinched face appeared confused. He was clearly surprised to see me; his eyebrows rose, his mouth opened into an O.

  “Where are my men!” Zharkov breathed, and cried out in Russian into the next room.

  “I doubt that they’ll hear you,” I advised him. I wanted him to grasp the full meaning of my words so that he would know what was coming.

  Tess lifted her head from the bed at the sound of my voice. “Liam!” she wept, tears flowing from her eyes. “Thank God that you’re here!”

  “What are you gonna do, you fat, perverted fuck?” I snarled not taking my eyes from Zharkov. “You ain’t got your piss poor men surrounding you and now you have to be a man and have to fight for yourself!”

  I was enraged.

  My voice got louder until it made the bedroom vibrate with its force.

  Answer me! What the fuck are you gonna do!”

  Zharkov sighed, and then he smiled.

  “Ah, yes,” he laughed, with a casual shrug, his fat clammy body jiggling as he maneuvered his way across the room. “I suppose that a man must tend to his own needs sometimes, aye? Come on, then, and let us go to war. I guess it was only a matter of time before you would show up and try to claim this worthless whore.”

  This motherfucker just signed his death warrant. I was eager for it; I already savored the satisfaction that I would receive from ending him.

  “It’s just you and me now. Man to man.”

  “Man to man? I like that,” Zharkov corruptly smiled. “No guns. No weapons.”

  “No guns. No weapons.” I repeated, now standing in a fighting position. My black T-shirt was long enough to cover the two pistols that were tucked inside my jeans. I would pull them out if I needed, but right now all that I wanted to do was take great pleasure in finally having my chance to beat this motherfucker until he took his last breath.

  “Liam!” Tess shouted. “He has a…”

  I turned my attention away from Zharkov to Tess for a split second, and I had never seen a man his size move at that speed. In a flash, he’d taken a long switchblade from the pocket in his silk bathrobe and darted forward. I grunted and took a step back—a step which saved my life. Instead of the blade cutting deep into my neck, it arched upward and sliced a thick gash up the side of my face, from just above my lip to just under my eye. I roared and took another step back, my face puffing up, my vision blurring and blood pouring down my face and dripping onto the marble floor.

  “Weak fucking Yankee!” Zharkov screeched, running towards me, the switchblade flurrying, coming at me like a dozen striking vipers. “You Bianchi lads are weak fucking idiots!”

  I dodged and ducked until my back was to the open doorway. Zharkov pressed on, and I crouched low and threw myself at the man, flying through the air like a torpedo and catching him in the waist. Zharkov grunted, but he kept his legs apart, grounding himself, and he hardly moved. I spat and gripped his waist, my legs straining, and lifted the man off of the ground. I struggled as I lifted Zharkov high up into the air and went to smash him into the ground, then—.

  A searing, hot pain filled my shoulder as the knife pierced my skin, tore through my shirt and penetrated into flesh and muscle. I snarled and dropped the heavy asshole as pain shot up my arm. Zharkov stumbled back, waved his arms to catch his balance, and then threw himself forward again.

  “Yankee fuck!” he screamed. “Yankee cunt!”

  I was vaguely aware that Tess was screaming: “No! No! No!”

  But the fire-hot pain in my shoulder and face dampened the sound. I lifted my arms to protect myself, and the switchblade cut across both of my forearms, slicing deep. More blood, poured out of my wounds and drenched the marble floor.

  “She’s mine!” Zharkov growled like a mad man. “She’s mine! She’s mine!”

  Zharkov lifted his pudgy leg and kicked me in the balls. A jolting pain shot through my body, from my balls up through to my chest and to the bottom of my throat. I coughed—blood flew from my mouth and splattered Zharkov, who was stabbing me repeatedly in my chest with his blade. My bloody spit caught him in the eye, and he cursed in Russian and went to wipe it away.

  With my vision blurry, my body screaming, I threw my body weight at the man, slamming into him and knocking him off of balance. He stumbled back, the switchblade flying across the room as he landed on the bed, the mattress making a creaking sound as his fat ass dropped down and splayed across it.

  I clenched my fist, ignoring the tugging at my shoulder, in my forearm, and threw a powerful right hook at Zharkov’s face. He tried to move back, but he was too slow, and my fist caught him in the jaw. There was an audible crack, and his neck snapped to the si
de.

  I got up from Zharkov, dazed and my vision fuzzy. I realized that my body was finally taking a toll on me after about a week of brutal fights, sleepless nights, and constant running. As much as I wanted to be Superman for Tess, I was still human at the end of the day. My body was weak, but I refused to let Zharkov get off easy.

  Zharkov rolled off of the bed and collapsed onto his back on the floor. I was ready to end this once and for all and fell upon him, pinning him to the ground. My arms moved like pistons, over and over, slamming into Zharkov’s face. My fists were grazing, cutting, and clobbering his face. My muscles contracted as I destroyed Zharkov’s nose, breaking it and causing it to explode in a crimson shower. He wiggled his head from side to side, spattering the floor underneath him with blood.

  “Fuck you!” I roared, punching Zharkov’s lips into his teeth, blood dripping from his mouth down his cheeks.

  “Fuck you!” I punched down again, but Zharkov suddenly jerked to the side. My fist smashed directly into the marble floor and my knuckles cracked, and the cut in my forearm tore open even wider. I tried to clench my fist, but it felt like my knuckles had come loose and were bouncing around inside my skin; like marbles being shaken in a loose bag.

  “Ahhh!” I growled, clenching my other fist and bringing it up as I prepared to throw another punch.

  “Leave him alone!” Tess screamed in the background.

  Zharkov threw his head to the side, found my bad hand, and bit down on the knuckles fiercely. There was a pop, and I let out another scream. I went to grab his throat, but he brought up his hands and grabbed me by the wrist. Our eyes met for a moment, two blood-drenched men, and then he lifted his head and butted me in the nose. I fell back and off Zharkov as I hit my head against the floor and stars danced across my vision, as I blinked away blood and moisture.

  A few moments later, I almost stood all the way up when Zharkov kneed my chin, knocking my head back and slamming the back of my head into the marble floor. Blood gushed from my mouth, and I was surprised that I was still conscious as hard as my head hit the floor. A pool of blood formed around me as I lay flat, looking up at the ceiling of the penthouse.