The Mafia Contract Series

This can’t be happening to me. One minute I’m daydreaming in the English countryside and the next I’m in a strange dystopian city wondering if I’ll make it out alive. To make matters worse, my kidnapper appears to be hovering close to death, and I’m not far behind him.

I can’t remember ever being so ill in my life, and he doesn’t seem much better and as I stagger after him back down the hated concrete staircase, I wonder what the fuck is going on.

As we exit, the cold wind makes me shiver but gives me some much-needed oxygen to inflate my wretched lungs and I’m surprised when he takes my hand and says roughly, “Stick close to me. I’m not sure if I’ll get us there alive.”

“What do you mean?”

My voice shakes as I sense danger approaching and he growls, “I’ll tell you later. Trust me.”

I would laugh out loud if I could but I’m so weak, I’m tempted to curl up and die in the stairwell of the slum I’ve just been evicted from.

As we set off, I wonder where we’re going and why and as we turn the corner, the scene is a mirror image of the one we’ve left. Tall gray buildings that look as if they need tearing to the ground stand watching our progress with angry scowls. I’m certain nobody actually lives here because I haven’t seen one human life form since I arrived.

I’m not even sure what time it is because the sky is gray and austere, much like when we arrived, and only the grit in my eyes reminds me I really should be sleeping by now.

I’m shocked when the savage heads toward what looks like a wrecked vehicle and removes a credit card from his pocket.

As the door flicks open, he says with an urgent whisper, “Hurry, we need to get on the road.”

“Is this car yours?” I gasp in a hushed whisper, and he rolls his eyes. “Seriously, do you really think I’d buy this shit heap?”

“No.” I shake my head.

“No, what?”

“I’m not stealing somebody’s possession.”

He almost growls with frustration, anger, or it could be a mixture of the two making me wonder about my sanity in standing up to him. Then without another word, he pushes me roughly into a car that smells as if something died in here and says hoarsely, “Do as I say if you want to live.”

He jumps in beside me and I stare in astonishment as he proceeds to hot-wire the car and before I know it, we are screeching away from a place I never want to visit in my lifetime again.

The roads are in definite need of repair along with the entire city, if I’m honest, and if there was anything left inside me, it would surely be making an appearance round about now. As we speed off to God only knows where, I study my captor a little closer. He looks like shit, and I guess I’m not much better and I say with a hint of shock edging my words, “What’s happening?”

“We’ve been poisoned.”

I heard him right the first time, but say weakly, “That can’t be right. Why would anyone want to poison us?”

“Welcome to Russia, moya krasivaya roza.”

“What did you even say?”

He laughs softly, which is the first sign of normality in a man who makes a psychopath seem sane.

“I called you my pretty English rose.”

“Oh.” I’m surprised and yet it stirs a warm sensation inside me as I shrink back in my seat and let his endearment wash through my body like an antidote to a snake bite.

Just that one sentence makes me warm to him and then he surprises me again by saying sweetly, “How are you?”

“OK, I guess, under the circumstances.”

His gruff laughter almost makes me smile and I say with curiosity, “What is your name, if I’m allowed to know such classified information?”

“Ivan.”

His reply is short and sweet, and I roll it around in my mind.

For a moment I say nothing and then say tentatively, “You said we were poisoned. Who would do that?”

He sighs deeply and looks so tense it makes me afraid for our safety.

“It could be many people. I’m not sure who is responsible. So, for now, we must hide until we discover their identity.”

“And the plan is…?”

I gently try to coax the information out of him, and he snaps, “There is no plan.”

Well color me confused because now I’m even more worried and say urgently, “We should go to the British embassy. They will help us.”

He laughs out loud, and I say tightly, “They will. What’s so funny?”

“Even the British embassy can’t protect us from whoever this is. Do you really believe your government has any jurisdiction here? Do you imagine the American government has a magic wand hidden inside a frame on their marbled walls? No princess, this is mother fucking Russia, and she makes the rules up as she goes along. She’s deadly, depraved and sly. She has no friends, and she trusts no one. She is the darkest demon dressed as an angel and would kill you dead with a welcoming smile. There are no friends in Russia and the fucking embassy is the last place we should go to for help.”

“But you’re Russian. Why are they trying to kill you?”

I’m a little stung by the derision in his voice and his laugh has no humor in it as he hisses, “Would it shock you to learn it may be my own father responsible?”

“Yes.”

I gasp and he laughs bitterly. “It could also be yours. I’m still figuring that one out, though.”

“Mine.” Picturing my father being responsible for doing anything remotely like this seems preposterous and I say angrily, “My father may be an adulterer and easily led, but he’s not a killer and why would he want to kill me? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m not talking about the man you call daddy, princess.”

Like a knockout punch, his words hit home and wound me so deeply I’m winded for a second.

He must instantly regret his words because he reaches out and grasps my hand, which shocks me more than anything he just said.

“I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

I blink in surprise because hearing my name on his lips is strange and before I can respond to that, he swerves down a track and says urgently, “This is the end of the road. We make the rest of the journey on foot. Can you walk?”

“I think so, but…” “Then move.”

He exits the car and curses as his feet hit the ground and once again, I wonder if he’s ok himself. I haven’t missed the angry cut on his head where he fell, and his ashen color tells me he’s struggling as much as I am and as my own feet hit the ground, I know why because my legs are so weak, they almost buckle under me.

However, before I can fall, a strong hand grips mine and he says in a slightly warmer voice, “Come. We’ll be safe soon enough, and then we can rest.”

“But how will we be safe? Somebody is out to, well, get us.”

Once again, he shakes his head and, sounding almost amused, whispers, “Like I said, trust me. I’ll get you to safety even if the last thing I ever do.”

He moves off as fast as his battered body will let him, and I swear I feel every stone under my shoe as my body struggles with unwanted activity. I notice we are hugging the perimeter of the airfield that we arrived at, and I see various planes waiting on the tarmac and wonder if, somehow, he intends to hot-wire one of those. I wouldn’t put it past him and part of me is impressed by the warrior holding my hand so tenderly.

Ever since I met him, I’ve been fantasizing about him in a very inappropriate way. All it takes is one look at his strong jaw dusted with dark stubble and my legs go weak. The icy blue eyes that could cut glass and the close-cropped hair that is more practical than stylish tell me this man has more testosterone running through his veins than blood.

I like it–a lot and he intrigues me. Our conversations have been brief and I long to tear away a little more of the packaging because I have a feeling that what’s inside is a rare find for a woman like me.NôvelDrama.Org holds © this.