Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (2 page)

H
e catches me
. Like it's nothing. Like I weigh nothing. Like he never left. Like we planned my falling perfectly.

And just like that, I'm in Grayson Petrokov's arms.

"You're back," I whisper. I sound like I'm in awe.

I am.

The last time I saw Gray, I'd been seventeen and he'd been twenty-two. The days of our exploring abandoned Brooklyn buildings together—and hiding from our violent fathers—had already disappeared. But even as we left our shared, scarred childhood behind, he still checked on me every night, climbing up the fire escape outside my bedroom window. I'd feed him dinner through the window, since his mother was gone and his father didn't give a shit.

And he'd make sure I didn't have any new bruises, that I didn't need a place to escape to for the night.

Not that his house was much better, but unlike my Dad, Gray's old-school Russian father didn't hit women.

He sure beat the hell out of his son though.

Seven years ago, Gray had changed from a wiry, rail-thin, tow-headed boy to a tall, towering, young man. He'd started working out and putting on muscle. He'd cut his hair short, and his signature white-blond locks had seemed to get darker and darker, kind of like his moods.

He began disappearing from our street, from my life, for days at a time. He was hanging out with big men with thick, Russian accents. He'd stopped talking to me. He said nothing was wrong, that he was just working. He said I should just concentrate on school and not worry about him so much.

He said of course he'd always be there for me, but in order for us to ever leave Brooklyn, he had to make some money first.

He'd just gotten his first tattoo.

And how he's here, and I'm in his arms—it's all I ever wanted. It's what I've embarrassingly, achingly dreamed about for years and years.

I'd just always thought that if he were holding me like this—like a groom holding a bride, about to cross the threshold into their new home, or their new life—that's that what we would actually be.

Not that Gray ever knew how I felt. We'd never even kissed. He never even seemed to
want
to kiss me, except for that one night, before he left—

My gaze falls to his throat. His skin is darker then I remember it, an amber tan that complements the burnished brown and gold of his hair. Above the starched white collar of his dress shirt, I see the edge of a black tattoo, rising. It could be a vine; it could be a tentacle. The rest of the tattoo is hidden beneath his clothes.

His hair has turned from light blond to burnt gold. It's cut short, almost a military-style cut, though it's a bit longer and messy on top. He's got a five o'clock shadow that's thick gold and brown, and I realize if I moved my face just a fraction of an inch closer, I'd know what it feels like to have that roughness rub against my skin.

He has a scar above his left eyebrow, a white, puckered line that looks like he was cut once, and badly. It's new to me, yet old to him.

And he's wearing a suit, a dark gray suit that matches his name and his eyes. He's always had those rare eyes that look light blue sometimes, and then at other times, steel gray. I always used to think, when Gray was mad, that his eyes looked like the sky above the harbor, right before a storm. When he was happy—or when he wore a blue shirt—they looked like a sunny summer day.

They look dark and stormy right now.

"I can't believe you're really here," I whisper. We stare at each other a moment, and I wonder why he isn't speaking. Then I realize: he did it.

He didn't forget about me.

He didn't lie to me.

He came back for me.

He said he'd come back once he made some money. Once he did whatever mysterious "job" he had to do. He said he'd come back and we could escape, get away from New York, away from our fathers, away from everything miserable in our lives.

"You came back for me," I say. My eyes sting and I know I'm about to cry, but I don't care.

But Gray sees my forming tears. For a moment, his eyes soften.

"Kat," he whispers. His voice is low, thick. God, he's a man now. He's got cheekbones for miles, a tense, square jaw. And those gray eyes are watching me, studying me, taking me in like he can't look away.

And I'm doing the same to him.

I could stay here for an hour, staring at his face.

"Oh, thank God you're here. You came back." I'm smiling so hard my cheeks hurt, and I'm surprised when I start crying at the same time.

"Don't cry, little Kat." Gray's voice is so low, so rough. He's even taller than he used to be, at least a foot taller than me, and so massive his shoulders fill the open doorway behind him.

"Shh," Gray murmurs. He sets me gently on my feet, and I'm amazed when he takes my face between his palms. His hands are rough, I can feel the callouses on his fingertips as he wipes away my tears. He holds me so gently. Like I might break at any moment.

Like I'm precious.

I shake my head and pull back, out of his arms. For a moment his eyes flare and I have the crazy feeling that he won't let me go, won't even let me back up a step. But he does.

"I'm fine," I say. "I'm sorry, I'm fine. It's just been a—a crazy day. First my Dad lied to me, lured me here saying he was hurt, and then locked me in the church basement." I pause, and a wild laugh escapes me. I realize I sound like I'm in shock. Hell, I probably
am
in shock.

"Gray, I want to know everything. I want to know where you've
been
for seven years. But—right now—we have to get out of here." I take a deep breath and hope that what I'm about to say won't make Gray run out of here and disappear for another seven years.

"I know you've been gone awhile." I try not to sound bitter. "But the Russians, the Solonik family, have taken over the neighborhood. Apparently my Dad owes them a lot of money. Like, more than he could ever earn at the bar. Even if we sold it."

I'm sure Gray remembers O'Malley's. It was my mother's family's bar, a good, old-fashioned, unpretentious Irish neighborhood bar that my father had apparently run into the ground over the last ten years.

“My dad wasn't exactly forthcoming on what he did to piss off the Soloniks so much. But," I pause and look down at my feet. I can't look Gray in the eye when I say this. "Apparently he's offered them the restaurant. And when that wasn't enough—he offered them me."

I screw up my courage and look up at Gray, past his clenched hands, his nice suit, to his stormy gray eyes—I'm startled by how
tortured
he looks.

"If I don't go upstairs and marry some Russian mafia henchman, they'll kill my father."

Gray still hasn't said anything. He hasn't even moved. But, under the surface, I see this anger working, moving, building. His body is as massive as a mountain, but I get the feeling that inside, his emotions are building up like an active volcano. And from the red tinge on his cheeks and his tight jaw, from the way his eyes are flashing—I have a feeling he could blow at any moment.

"So, it's not that I don't want to catch up, but I've been locked down here for an hour while everyone apparently waited for the groom to arrive. And now," I gesture at the door Gray so handily bulldozed through. "It's open. So maybe we could, I don't know, run like the wind and catch up outside? Maybe a million miles away from here?"

Gray finally cracks a smile. He has a few more lines around his eyes now, but other than that, his smile is the first real glimpse of the boy I used to know. I could always make Gray laugh.

I smile back.

"Kat," Gray says again.

"No, seriously, I want to hear
all about it
, big guy," I say, grabbing his mammoth hand and giving it a hard tug. I stumble forward a few steps; the giant rock formation Gray has turned into doesn't move. "Once we're, like, at the airport headed for France. Or Iceland. Or…Wisconsin.
Anywhere
but here!"

I turn and face him, grabbing for his hand again, but now Gray's not smiling. He looks, in fact, like he's either going to punch a wall or throw up. I'm not sure exactly how to read "pissed-off man of steel" yet, but I'm pretty sure it's one of those two options.

I start to drop my hand, but he reaches for it, faster than I would have thought possible. His grip is strong and warm, but I'm suddenly nervous.

Why the hell aren't we getting the hell out of here?

"Kat, I have to tell you something," Gray says.

And that's when I hear a deep, Russian voice behind me. I turn to see Viktor Solonik, the head of the Solonik family, in the doorway. He looks me up and down, appraising me like I'm a horse at auction, his hands brushing over his pockmarked cheeks. I've only ever seen him briefly, in passing. He uses the Café Russo as his home base. Everyone knows that if you want coffee, you sure as hell don't want to walk into the Café Russo.

Viktor finally drags his stare away from my body and up to my face; his attention feels like a knife prick on my skin. Then he turns to Grayson and says, "Ah, Petrokov, good: you have found your bride."

I
t wasn't supposed
to be like this.

I watch as Kat's shoulders freeze, her entire body locking into place at Viktor's words. I watch her turn to stone before me, and it enrages me. I didn't think I could be more fucking pissed-off than I already was… but that's what happens when Viktor Solonik opens his damn mouth.

It makes me want to kill someone.

Specifically him.

The fucking prick couldn't have stayed upstairs for five more minutes. No, he has a sixth sense for how to fuck with someone—his employees, his enemies, his friends. And there was no one who could stop him from playing with the lives of everyone around him.

No one, that is, except me.

I inhale slowly, wishing like hell I could wipe the smirk off his craggy face. Viktor's grinning, and though Kat has her back to me, from the glee on my current employer's face, it's clear that she's devastated.

Current
being the operative word.

For the millionth time, I curse Kat's idiot father. I'd had a plan, and it was working—of course. I'd found out a long time ago that it doesn't matter what anyone else does or says: as long as you know what you want and you never stop, you'll get it.

Unless fucktards of the highest order come in and throw your perfectly laid plans to the four winds. But then you pick up the pieces, you adjust course, you move ahead.

You conquer.

Still, I couldn't wait for the day when I could wipe the evil smile off Viktor's face, once and for all. But for now…

"
Pakhan
." I force myself to call him "boss" in Russian, though the word grates out of me. I've trained myself to never show emotion, to let them all think my nickname is earned, that I'm a pale shade of a man who only cares about killing and the paycheck that comes along with it.

They don't need to know that inside I'm a volcano; that one day I'll blow this motherfucking family up and burn it to the ground.

Then Kat turns around and I see her tear-stained face and the fire rages higher inside:
burn it all until there's only ash left
, the animal inside me growls. Most people don't know their animal nature. If you follow the rules of society, you can ignore the meat of our bodies and our baser instincts. You can sleep in a soft bed and have machines make your fucking coffee in the morning. You can distract your mind with phones and television and the internet all day long.

It's only when you feel—or inflict—pain, that you realize there's an animal inside all of us. An animal that, when cornered, will do anything—to escape the fire, to stop the pain, to keep its freedom.

But I can't let any of them see the beast that hides inside me.

Especially not my innocent little Kat.

So when she turns, her pale, freckled face as perfect and beautiful as I remember, I steel myself. I don't wince, I don't smile, and I definitely don't reach out to comfort her. Because if Viktor suspects I hold even an ounce of affection for this girl—this
woman
—she's in danger. More danger than she's already facing.

"Gray?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper. I don't move a muscle as I watch tears build in her eyes, making those green eyes that haunt my dreams shine like emeralds. "Is this true? You're…?"

She can't finish the sentence, so I do it for her.

"I'm part of Viktor's crew," I say. "And in ten minutes, I'm going to be your husband."

I
didn't think
it was possible, but my pale Irish girls turns a shade whiter.

"What?" she says. I watch a hundred emotions flash across her face, like slots on a slot machine. The one that finally clicks into place is anger. Her cheeks turn a delicious shade of pink and she looks from me to Viktor.

"Where's my father?" Kat demands.

"He's upstairs." Victor smirks. "Waiting to walk you down the aisle."

"How traditional," Kat says, heavy on the sarcasm. I love that spark she has. Does she realize she's shit-talking one of the most dangerous—if only because he's so fucking unpredictable—men in New York?

Besides me, of course.

"What? I don't get a white wedding dress?" She's got sass, but I can also see the tears glistening in her eyes. It makes me want to kill Viktor, and her bastard father, and everyone else in the room.

Which gives me pause, because when I think about killing all of these men,
I am really fucking considering it
. I can see it play out in my mind, the perfect, bloody choreography of it all. I'd walk past Viktor, unsuspecting and leering, then into the hallway. A sudden elbow to the bodyguard's face, breaking his nose, and the
byki
would fall. He's big but slow; I could grab his gun from his holster as he stumbles. He'd be dead before his head hit the floor.

Then I could turn, take out Viktor without fanfare. I'd love to give him a running monologue of all the people he's hurt, killed, abused—why he deserves to die. But that's Hollywood shit, the boastful bad-guy monologue.

The smartest plan is to get in, get the job done, and get out.

A head shot. Quick, efficient, painless. He deserves pain, but speed would be important because I'd need to get Kat out of here and out of the state as soon as possible.

And then I'd turn to take Kat's hand…and she'd probably run screaming from me. I can imagine the look on her face, when she sees what I've become. The monster I always feared in my father now lives in me, only it's worse, bigger, badder.

Sober. A stone-cold, sober killer.

And that's why I stayed away. Why I told her I left New York.

I would never taint her beauty, her innocence, her love for life—with my love. With the monster's obsession.

If her father hadn't fucked up things beyond all measure, Kat might've had a normal life. A house with a white picket fence and 2.5 kids and…it's worthless to even think about that. Because now her father's in bed with the Soloniks, and soon she will be, too.

They were going to give her to that sick bastard Markov.

Fuck that. If she was going to be in anyone's bed, it would be
mine
.

Victor's amused smile falls. "You want to wear white? I can strip you fucking naked and we'll walk your pretty pale ass down the aisle, if you insist on white. But whatever the fuck you decide to wear, do it quick because I've got places to be."

"Victor," I say. If he insults her again, I have a feeling my fist will connect with his face before I can stop myself. "I'll take care of her. Give me three minutes."

Victor gives me a cold stare. "Get her in line, or I will."

"Not a problem,
pakhan
."

He turns and stalks out of the room. Even after Solonik and his bodyguard disappear back up the church stairs, Kat remains frozen, staring out at the long, dim hallway.

"Kat," I say.

"What the hell is going on?" She crosses her arms, hugging herself, but she still won't turn around and look at me. I clench my fists to keep myself from reaching for her.

Instead, I walk around in front of her and shut the bathroom door. If any of Viktor's henchman wander down here, I want at least a moment of privacy with her.

With my bride.

I stand in front of the door, and I know I'm not a small man. I fill the doorway, tower over her. Still, she keeps her gaze trained at the space just to my right.

"Kat, look at me."

"No," she says, petulant, her voice shaking. "This can't be happening."

"I'm going to talk quickly because they'll be back at any moment, and I don't want Viktor getting any ideas in his head."

Shit. She looks panicked now, even worse than before.

"He wouldn't—what he said?"

"He'll never touch you," I growl, my own voice so low and feral it surprises me. But Kat seems to accept it, or take comfort in it.

"Gray, you—you work for that man?"

I tense. I don't want to get into my history; it will just upset her further. "What did they tell you, before your father locked you in here?"

"He said the restaurant was in trouble, and that in order to get a loan he—he wanted me to marry someone. A Russian mobster." A slow, horrified look spreads across her face. "You. It was you all along."

"It wasn't always me," I say. "But I heard what was happening, and I put a stop to it."

"I don't understand. Gray, do you—do you live in New York? I thought you left. Have you been here all along?"

I don't want to answer this, I don't want to go down this rabbit hole. So I don't.

"Your father doesn't know shit," I say. "And, he's a liar. The restaurant isn't in trouble. He is."

"What do you mean?"

"Your father has a gambling problem." I take a deep breath. I'm not used to talking, to being gentle. I want to be that for her, I want it to be like it used to be between us. Well, not exactly like it used to be—she'd been a child, then a teenager. I'd been young and naïve.

But I can’t kid myself. I want way the fuck more than we had before.

But I also want that closeness. I want that feeling, when it was just her and me together, like we were in a tent the rest of the world couldn't see, couldn't touch. Nothing could hurt us when we were together. Her presence had been better than any painkiller, any ice pack. A balm to make all my childhood bruises—both physical and emotional—feel better.

When I found out she was in trouble, I hadn't let myself really think about what the fuck I was doing. I just knew I was coming here, to rescue her, to stop whatever fuckery her father had started.

Now here she is. Now she isn’t just a memory, an ideal in my head.

How the fuck do I deal with the woman my little Kat has become?

A woman who would hate me if she knew the truth. And that—her hate—was the one thing I didn't think I could live with.

But I'd learned a long time ago not to lie to myself. Everyone else, maybe, but never to yourself. She could never love me. Not the monster I've become. And she should probably learn
that
sooner rather than later.

"He lost money. A shit-ton of money, and then he lost some more. He borrowed from the wrong people, and then to pay them back, he borrowed from Viktor. He kept gambling, and when he couldn't pay Viktor back, he started running drugs—"

Kat gasps, her hand jerking up to cover her pretty little mouth. But she doesn't interrupt.

"Your father isn't a good businessman. He isn't a good gambler. But he's a really shitty drug dealer. He lost product, then he offered up his restaurant—but it was too late by then. He's run the place into the ground, and he owes probably ten times what it's worth. That's when he brought up you."

"What?" Kat looks like she's going to hyperventilate. I take a step toward her, but she immediately takes a step back. She holds up her hand, and I laugh inside, thinking of what the men I work with would do, to see me stop on a dime as a girl half my size raises her delicate little hand.

Not that they'll ever see her. Not that I'll ever let any of them fucking near her.

"Keep going. What happened next."

"The bastard who calls himself your father offered you up. At first, Solonik honestly could have given a shit about another girl in his stable—"

Kat flinches. "St-stable?"

I don't want to scare her, but I don't want to lie to her. Not more than I already have.

"Brothels, down at Brighton Beach."

If she gets any paler she'll disappear.

"Kat, I would
never
let that happen."

"You said 'at first,'" Kat points out. "So at first I was going to be a whore, and then what?"

I don't like the cold, hard look on her face. She's putting up walls, and I must be fucking crazy because I simultaneously know this is why I left her, this is why I stayed out of her life: so she wouldn't become yet another ghost of a woman, pale, with her heart and soul walled off from the evil men surrounding her.

But at the same time, everything in me wants to rip those walls down. There shouldn't be any barriers between my girl and me.

"Fuck, Kat." I lean back against the door, crossing my arms so I don't grab her to me. "You don't need to know all this."

"I want to know everything," Kat whispers. Her hand creeps around her neck, like she's trying to comfort herself. It's killing me not to touch her. But soon…she'll be my wife soon enough.

I shouldn't have those thoughts.

I shouldn't touch her.

I should leave her alone.

But she'll be my fucking wife. At last
.

"And you—he chose you? You chose me?"

A loud knock on the door startles her. Tears fill her eyes.

"One fucking minute," I growl at the door, and footsteps slowly recede down the hallway.

"Kat." I step forward and take her face in my hands. God, she's so small. So fragile. "Viktor was going to give you to a man named Markov, one of his favored Brigadiers."

"Brigs-What?"

"Generals. Leaders of a small group of—it doesn't matter. He’s a bad man. I stopped it. But now the restaurant will belong to me.
You
will belong to me."

"How did you stop it?" Kat asks. The million-dollar question.

"I agreed to work for Viktor for the next ten years."

Kat's eyes widen. "And if I refuse?"

I step back. "Your father will most likely be tortured and killed, and they'll take the restaurant anyway." I leave out the fact that, now that she's caught Viktor's eye, she might be tortured, killed, or taken, as well.

Of course, I wouldn't allow that to happen. But Viktor
trying
to claim her was a distinct fucking possibility.

"And my father goes free, if I marry you? Why would the Russians want O'Malley's, anyway? It's just a crappy old Irish bar." She doesn’t wait for me to answer, not that I'd get into money laundering or drug running with her, anyway.

"If I don't marry you, they kill my father," she muses. "And if I do marry you—what happens to him?"

"I kill him for getting you into this fucking mess," I say.

She squints up at me. "You're so different. I can't tell if you're kidding or not."

I grin, though I'm sure it looks grim. "Neither can I."

The door begins to rattle as someone else pounds on it.

I step forward and take her hand. It feels good in mine, too good. "Kat, I would never force you to do this. A lot has changed but—I will not hurt you. And, I wouldn’t blame you if you said no and walked away." I'd have to kill a lot of people, probably sooner than I'd planned. But I wouldn't blame her. "Your father deserves to be tortured."

Kat's hand involuntarily clenches mine. "But it wouldn't be over, just because my father's dead, would it?" she says. She gazes up at me, those intelligent green eyes studying me. "They're not going to let me just walk away into the sunset, are they?"

I slowly shake my head.

She nods once, then faces the door like she's ready for the firing squad.

"Then let's do this." Her small hand squeezes mine, holds me tight, and for the first time in what feels like years, I struggle to keep my face a calm, cool mask. Inside, I'm on fire. She trusts me.
She wants me
.

Just like I want her.

Even if I shouldn't have her, I'm a bastard. Literally. Maybe once upon a time I had enough goodness inside of me to let her go. But now—she's walking into the lion's den.

I don't know if I can hold myself back from her, not anymore. Not when she puts her hand in mine, trusts me, would walk down the fucking aisle with me.

I open the door and lead my little Kat past one of the
byki
, a bodyguard Viktor obviously hired because of his size, but not his stamina. We walk upstairs while the bull-like man is still wheezing at the bottom of the stairs.

As we enter the hallway outside the church, I turn and look down at my little Kat's shell-shocked face. Part of me—I'd like to say the larger part, but that would be a fucking lie—wishes she'd have said no. She could have run. She might've had a chance at a normal life.

Another part of me wonders:
Could she have? Would you have let her go?

I focus on her beautiful face, those green eyes with a layer of gold in the center, like she still has a piece of Ireland hidden inside her soul. Her face with those pink, pouting lips, those freckles that are finely dusted all over her cheekbones and button nose. The one large freckle right above her lip that I have, since I was seventeen, wanted to taste.

How many nights had I tossed and turned, a horny fucking clueless kid, wondering where else she had freckles?

And now, tonight, I could find out.

I take her delicate face in my hands. Kat just looks at me, confused, her eyes glowing green in the setting sunlight. The stained glass behind her lights up like fire. Her eyebrows raise, little wings in flight, as I move close, closer.

She takes a quick little breath as I lean in, like she thinks I might kiss her. I suddenly want to, more than anything. But this is business—and even if there's something still between us—I'm certainly not acting like I give a shit about her. Not in front of any of the psychos who work for Solonik.

"Kat," I whisper. "You don't have to do this. So what if they kill your father? What's he ever done for you?"

Tears well up in Kat's eyes. "So I say no, and they just let me walk?"

I let her go, move back, shrug. "You say no, they take your business, they take your father." I give her a hard look. "And you don't walk. You run." I don't say out loud,
I'll help you. They'll never find you. I'll go with you
.