Shotgun Wedding: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (6 page)

H
is apartment is huge
. It's so big it almost—
almost
—makes him look like a normal-sized man. And it's also gorgeous.

"Wow, you really made it, Gray," I say, dropping my bags on the floor in the entryway.

Gray shrugs. "It's a place to crash. Come on, I'll give you the tour."

He leads me into the first room, his hand at the small of my back. The front door opens onto a large, open-air floor plan. The kitchen is to the left, and even from just a quick glance I can tell it's a chef's dream kitchen.

There's a marble-topped bar with a three, perfectly placed barstools. A step down from that and the room flows into a large living room, with high ceilings and one wall that's basically an entire bank of windows. There's a large, tan, overstuffed couch with white faux-fur throws tossed on either end. Two rich leather club chairs, and a tufted ottoman that's so big I could sleep on it. There aren't any curtains on the windows, and I can only imagine how bright and airy the place will look in the sunlight. Right now, the windows show the beautiful blue of the river at night, with the lights of the New Jersey skyline twinkling like stars in the distance.

Everything's decorated in muted shades of white and cream and gray, of course. Call it gut instinct, but I can't imagine my Gray picking out the perfectly positioned sculptures of giraffes that decorated the bookshelf. Or the dreamy, cable-knit throw that's in a basket by the fireplace.

The place screams interior designer. Probably a
female
interior designer. Not that I care.

"Kitchen, living room, closets," Gray says carelessly, though he carefully hangs his jacket up in the spacious entryway closet. He sounds like he doesn't give a shit that his apartment is basically interior-design heaven. He leads me deeper into the apartment, down a long white hallway. The floors are hardwood, smooth and shining and a perfect, it dark-chocolate brown.

But as beautiful as it all is, it also feels strangely unlived-in. I frown. There are no photographs on the mantle. No mess. No signs an actual person makes his home here. For one second I wonder, am I even in Gray's apartment? Has he just dumped me off at an expensive, pre-furnished rental?

Which is fine. I need to get out of here, as soon as possible. I need space. I need to go to my bank, see how the hell I can withdraw my life savings. Even if the grand total of my savings is a pitifully small amount.

I need to decide where, and when, I'll skip town.

I need to map out my entire life, I guess.

"How long have you lived here?" I ask.

Is it my imagination, or do Gray's shoulders freeze for just one moment? "Not long," he tosses out over his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you settled. I've got to hit the road."

Ugh. Why do I even bother trying to make conversation? Gray is just like his apartment: impressive on the outside, but cold and soulless once you look a little deeper.

What happened to him?
I wonder. But really, it doesn't matter. "My Gray" is just a memory, a figment of my imagination. I'd better pay attention to the
real
Grayson Petrokov, and right quick. Even if it's only so I know how to make him happy, calm, and content before I flee the state.

We pass a bathroom on the right and a bedroom on the left, and I get a quick glance of another monochromatic, perfectly appointed room. The hallways dead-ends into a large—holy shit, larger than my entire apartment—bedroom.

This must be the master.

The bedroom is immense, Spartan but luxurious. The only things in the room—besides another wall of giant windows and an enormous bed—are night stands on either side of the bed and a long, low bench at the foot of the bed. The bed frame and all the furniture match, and they all look like they were hewn out of fallen wood or something.

It's that beautiful, rustic look that makes it feel like someone just happened to come across a fallen tree in the forest, haul it back home, and decorate their house with it.

I bet they're as expensive as fuck.

Gray drops my bags on the bed, and gestures to another room behind him.

Oh wait. It's a closet.
A closet as big as my Dad's office at the bar
!

Or, Gray's office.

It's perfectly organized, like a display at a store.

"Are you really this anal-retentive?" I say, studying the rows of perfectly arranged shoes, and jeans, and black shirts. And more black shirts. Oh wait, there's a dark gray one. Gotta have variety. "And this…Goth?"

Gray smirks and comes up behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders. I shrug him off and walk back toward the bed.

"I paid some chick to put all that shit together. But—if you haven't heard of it—this space is called 'a closet.' It's where you hang all your clothes and put your shoes."

My mouth drops open. Is Gray being…
bitchy
?! Kinda funny, but bitchy?

"I know what it is, Gray."

"Oh, really? I wasn't sure, after seeing your bedroom."

"Oh my God!" I shriek. I am so pissed off.

And I am so trying not to laugh.

Then I realize Gray is doing the same. He loses the battle and throws back his head and laughs.

"That's right. Crack yourself up," I say. I cross my arms and bite my lip so I don't smile. "Fucking hilarious."

"I'm just giving you shit, baby girl. You can throw your stuff all over the place, if you want. But, you can also hang it up." He gestures to the side of the closet, and I realize there's a space that's cleared out, full of cloth covered hangars and nothing else. Gray opens a few of the built-in drawers, and they’re empty, too.

"Make yourself at home, babes."

I smile. That is actually sweet. Then it hits me.

"Wait, Gray. Is this
your
bedroom?"

Gray stares at me like I can't see my nose in front of my face.

"No. It's
our
bedroom."

I'm pretty sure my mouth drops open and I look like a goldfish.

"I think I just take the other bedroom. I know we have to sell this whole 'marriage' to make your boss happy," I pause.
And to keep my dad alive
. "But this is a little overkill, don't you think?"

Gray's face freezes into that impenetrable mask that I'm already beginning to hate.

"We'll discuss this later." He pulls out his wallet, goes through it, then holds up a credit card and a wad of cash. "I've got to get to work, order yourself some food and we'll talk later."

I take a few steps toward him, put my hands on my hips, and pointedly don't take his money.

"Actually, I've got to get to work, too. I'm bartending tonight."

"Kat, we already discussed this. I'm going to work. You're staying here. Where it's safe."

"Gray, if you're worried about keeping me safe, and I remind you that I would be going to work with you? You would literally be in the same building as me, I assume? Besides, O'Malley's is like my second home. I'll be totally fine there."

"O'Malley's isn't your
anything
anymore, Kat. And the sooner you get that through your pretty little head, the better. I'm not saying this to be an ass—"

"Oh really?" I hiss. "Because you're doing a pretty good job of it!"

Gray growls and takes a step closer to me. He towers over me, and I guess I should be afraid or angry, but all I really feel is a thrill of anticipation. He wants to fight? Bring it on!

"Kat, really bad men almost killed your father tonight. I watched as they beat him to a pulp while he was tied to a chair in a dark, Brooklyn basement. This is not a fucking joke. Those same men will have absolutely no problem hurting you. So when I tell you to do something, you do it, because I am looking out for you. I'm the only sucking person in the entire world looking out for you."

Gray stops talking suddenly, his chest heaving. He's got that slight reddish tend to his cheeks, his eyes are burning into me, and it's the longest speech I've ever heard him make.

Am I fighting him or fighting fate?

"I need to make money, Gray. Can't I just go in with you tonight and bartend for a few hours—"

Gray grabs my hand and closes my fingers around his credit card and the thick wad of cash. "Anything you need, I provide for you. Now stay here, take a bath, take a nap, watched the fucking Cooking Channel till you pass out. I don't care what you do, as long as you do it in this apartment."

And then he fucking kisses my forehead and leaves the room!

"Gray," I say, stunned. I follow him down the hallway. He's flipping leaving! "Gray!" I shout.

I run up to the front door, just as he stepping through it.

"Gray, please, let's talk. Where are you going? When will you be back? This is insane!"

Instead of answering me, Gray begins punching and numbers on a small keypad on the wall. I hadn't noticed it before, and his fingers are moving too fast for me to memorize a code or anything.

"This place has a better security system than the White House." He pauses and looks back at me, ignoring the small series of beeps the alarm system is making.

I'm so angry I'm seeing red.

"Well, you don't need to set it, because I'll be going out tonight. And going to work. Just give me the code to get back in."

Gray keeps talking like I hadn't even spoken.

"I'll be back early tomorrow morning." He pauses, suddenly looking a bit sheepish. "I don't think I have too much food here. But, order whatever you want. From anywhere—talk to concierge, they'll deliver. My wife deserves the best."

He flashes me a grin and then starts to shut the door.

"What!" I shriek "Are you honestly locking me inside your apartment!"

"Don't think of it that way," he says as he begins to shut the door. "Think of it as me locking the bad guys out."

And then he slams the door. I immediately open it, ignoring the beeping alarm. Then I jump, because there's a man standing in the hallways.

Right outside my door.

Gray's patting him on the shoulder.

"Kat, this is Dacko. He's here to protect you."

"You mean keep me from leaving?" I cross my arms and cock my hip. Seriously wishing I had death-ray eyes right now. There'd be one giant, steaming, dead hot guy on the floor.

Gray stalks back to me; he moves so swiftly it's startling. I get a glimpse of what his enemies must feel when he turns on them. Except, I'm not scared.

I guess I know he'll never hurt me
.

Except—he's
hurting
me right now! By being an arrogant, stupid, domineering ass!

"No, I'm protecting you." He leans in close to whisper in my ear. I hate that I breathe him in, like I can't get enough of his scent. He's sweet and spicy and there's a hint of tobacco and—I'm officially losing my mind.

Grays' lips touch my cheek as he speaks, low so that only he and I can hear. "There's a man out there who wanted to use your body as his own personal toy. And then he'd put you in a brothel. He's fucking pissed he lost his little prize, and he fucking hates me. So please know that this is not to punish you, or dominate you, or go on a fucking power-trip. This is me, keeping you safe, in my world."

He takes a step back, then another, walking backwards down the hall. His eyes are suddenly anguished. "I tried to keep you out of this world, Kat. But now you're here. And you need to learn the rules."

Dacko's face is bright red. He looks like a young, sweet bulldog. I don't want to cause a scene in front of him.

Then Gray smiles and blows me a kiss.

I give him the finger and slam the door in the face.

I still feel annoyed, so I scream through the stupid door, "You don't have to worry about anyone else! Because as soon as I can get out of here,
I'm
going to kill you!"

I
'm still smiling
at Kat's threat when I get to O'Malley's. I shouldn't be—I know she won't try to kill me, but who knows if she'll try to injure a major organ or not. Normally when I have a woman, I'm with them for a night, a week, a month at the most. In my line of work, it's better not to get attached.

Besides, I'd never met a woman who made me want to stay around.

But I liked the idea of having her home, waiting for me. Even if she might attack me…

The image of her on me—in bed—springs to mind.

Especially
if she might attack.

I put her out of my mind as I walk in the door, though. If I'm going to keep her safe and see her through whatever shit Solonik might throw at us over the next few months, I'll need a laser-focus at work. I'll need to be calm, cool, collected.

Then I walk into the bar and see Grigor-fucking-Markov drinking my vodka.

My crew is already there. Good. That's what I pay them for. Chase, Declan and five other guys are sitting at a table near the back. They're all spread out so that each of them can keep their back to a wall, but with their workhorse bodies and widely spread legs, they end up basically sitting in a giant fucking line behind two tables. They look ridiculous but that's how I sit, too; I always keep my back against the wall and my eyes trained toward the door. Toward potential threats.

And it looks like there are three of those, drinking at the bar.

"Petrokov, you finally made it." Grigor Markov stands up, still holding a glass of my vodka in his meaty fist. "Guess you enjoyed your bitch after all, eh?"

His two goons laugh and nod.

"Speaking of bitches, give my best to your mother," I mutter in Russian. It's childish, but at least I didn't cold-cock the asshole, which is what I feel like doing whenever I see him.

Chase, my right-hand man and one of only two people I trust completely in the crew, ambles over. The motherfucker's from the south, and he always seems more relaxed than the rest of us. If you just met him, you'd think he would amble through a gunfight. But I'd seen him, in Brooklyn parking garages and back alleys overseas. When the heat is on, there's no one I'd rather have beside me.

"Did you really just make a yo-momma joke?" Chase grins.

I shrug. "It was that or shoot him."

Chase nods. "Wise choice. And how's your lovely bride?"

"Locked in my apartment."

"Not so wise. You better sleep with one eye open tonight, man." Chase hands me a shot glass. He knows I don't drink, but I like to keep up pretenses around Solonik and his vodka-chugging crew. It always helps if your enemies think they know your weaknesses. I grab the shot glass and sip the water inside, then motion toward Markov.

"How long have those assholes been here?"

"About an hour," Declan says, joining our small circle. Declan's the other man I have complete faith in. He's Irish and—as fucked-up as it is—that's about all I know about him. Besides the fact that I saved his life and he's been loyal ever since. He's a sharp shooter, he liked steel-toed boots, and I've seen him beat five men down with his bare hands.

That, and he's got an Irish accent that basically removes women's panties all on its own.

But other than that, he doesn't talk about his past. Which is fine with me. We're all running from something here. Or, as I like to think about it, running toward a better fucking future.

"They say they want to plan out some shipments with you," Chase says. "In private. You want me to join the party?"

I've known Declan for about five years, but Chase even longer. We'd come up the ranks together, back when everyone in the neighborhood—including my father—worked for Old Man Dimitri. I never thought I'd actually say this about that psychopath, but I miss the old bastard.

At least he was reliable. He lived by the old rules. Unfortunately, Solonik doesn't. He came in and killed Dimitri and half of his crew. Dimitri was a psychopath but you know what to expect with him.

Solonik is terrifying because he changes his mind at a moment's notice. The only thing more dangerous than his incredible thirst for money, power, and blood is his manic personality. I hadn't been there, but I'd heard how he'd beaten an eighteen-year-old recruit almost to death, and then literally forgotten why he was mad at the kid in the first place. He'd held the boy's bleeding head on his lap and sung old Russian folk tunes to him until the crew's doctor had arrived.

And that's about the nicest thing I can think to say about him.

He's fucking
choknutyi
. Crazy.

His insanity helped him overthrow an older, weaker
pakhan
. But it was also Solonik's greatest weakness. And someday I'd exploit the hell out of it.

"It's okay." I place a hand on Chase's shoulder. "I'll take 'em down to the basement office. You really think they'd try anything with all of you up here?"

Declan eyes Markov and his men, who are rapidly getting drunk on my liquor. Markov's an unimaginative soldier, mostly content to do what Solonik says—however bloody it is—as long as he gets to relax at night with a drink, some Coke, and a whore.

And the word on the street is, he leaves the women bloody, too.

But ever since I "stole" Kat from him, he's been out to get me.

And while I'm more wary of crazy than stupid…sometimes stupid acts crazy.

"They're idiots. Who knows what they'll do," I say, throwing back the rest of the water. "But I can take them."

Chase flashes me a grin. "You could kick all their asses without breaking a sweat. But if they're stupid enough to have a gun—"

I shake my head. I'm a made man. If Markov or one of his cronies tried to kill me, they would be signing their own death warrant.

"Hopefully they're not
that
stupid," I say.

Chase sighs. "I was hoping, for once, we could just get fucking drunk. But no, it's work, work, work. All the fucking time. C'mon. I'll play
consigliere
and drag their drunk asses downstairs for you,
godfather.
"

I give him the finger and make my way down to Kat's father's former office. It's in the bar's basement, down a dank stairway, past the outdated kitchens, and it's dark, dusty, and a fucking disaster. Still, I sit behind his desk and put my feet up on his piles of paperwork like I'm proud as shit to be here. I can hear Chase leading Markov downstairs.

After Solonik took over, Chase had gone his own way and become an independent, hired gun. He'd never been a "made" man and wasn't cut out for a lifelong commitment, as he liked to say—not to women, or work.

I still worked for Solonik, as far as the psycho knew—I'd been recruited into the gang while my father was alive. When Solonik came on the scene, he was ready to kill dear ol' dad, and I was ready to cut and run.

But Solonik had made me an offer: stay five years, and I'll let your Dad live. I'd agreed, and my motherfucking father had the gall to die one year into my indentured servitude. I'd started taking on side jobs. Quick hits, secret assassinations. What Solonik didn't know wouldn't hurt him (though I wish to fuck it would), and each time I worked freelance, I made a fat addition to my off-shore bank accounts.

I would have left New York for good, but…I needed to keep an eye on my Kat. I didn't contact her. I let her be, though I had guys watching over her. My mistake was not watching over her fucking father.

But, she never needed to know any of that.

A small twinge hits me my chest. Is it guilt? Worry? I try to imagine her face if she ever found out that I'd never left. That I'd been only a few miles away from her, all this time.

A few miles on the map, but our lifestyles had been a million miles away from each other.

Until they crashed together.

I'm smart enough and get shit done efficiently and quietly. Good enough that Solonik keeps me around and doesn't want to piss me off. But I don't kiss ass enough to make him trust me.

And, he shouldn't.

Especially now. I'm still amazed he was open to me maneuvering him from giving Markov Kat as a fuck-toy. But that's what greed will do to you—I'd convinced I wanted more stability. I was getting older, my eyesight was going (yeah right). And that if we wanted to use O'Malley's to launder money, it would look a lot more legit if I married the owner and took over, versus a bunch of Russian names suddenly appearing come tax time.

After all, I'd reminded Viktor, how had the U.S. government finally taken down Al Capone?

Not for murder. Not gambling, exhortation, or any other shady shit.

For taxes.

Nothing certain except death and taxes in this world.

My mind flashes to Kat. She was a bright spot in an otherwise flat, gray world.

There's a knock on the door, and Chase opens it, rolling his eyes.

"Hey boss, Markov and his boys are here."

I don't stand.

"What's up, Markov."

Markov struts in, chest puffed out and his beady brown eyes drunk and itching for a fight. "Shitty place you got here, Petrokov." He goes over to the only seating in the room besides the desk, an old leather couch that has seen better days. One of his henchman goes to sit next to him, but Markov gives him a look and the two bodyguards stand awkwardly next to the sofa.

"Not as pretty as your brothels," I nod. Nor as soul-killing. If I were in charge, this family would not be selling women. It fucking disgusts me.

But you're not in charge
, I remind myself.
And you don't want to be. You want to get the hell out of here one day. Soon. Now that you have Kat, there's nothing else holding you here
.

Markov grins and preens. "Fuck yeah. You should see some of the new girls we just got in. Real…young." He leers at me. He knows I hate his side of the business.

"How young?" I say. If the fuckers are actually selling
girls
…

"Don't worry, don't worry, man." Markov leans back, legs spread, arms spread across the back of the couch. "They're
all
eighteen, at least." He gives a look to his men, who follow his lead and laugh like a bunch of Hollywood-movie cartoon villains.

"I'd invite you down to see them," Markov continues. "But maybe you'll be too busy with your new little bride. What a sweet little piece." He grins again, like he knows he's getting under my skin.

"I like my bride," I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk and staring Markov down, "because she got me this bar. And now we're going to make some fucking money."

"She gonna keep working here?"

A tendril of unease whips down my spine. That's a strange, calculating question from this asshole.

"She ain't gonna sit on my couch all day eating bonbons. Now what did you come here to talk about?"

Markov smiles that crazy, shit-eating grin one more time. Then he reaches in his pocket—my body freezes for a second, ready for the gun, ready to fight—but all he does is pull out a piece of paper.

"Viktor's got a big shipment coming in next week." He gets up, tosses the notes on the desk. "He doesn't trust the seller. Wants you and your rifle up high, keeping a watch while everything goes down."

I frown. "I married the
devochka
so I get this bar. So I get out of the field," I lie. I'd even let Viktor suspect that I was drinking too much, that my hands were getting shaky, my aim sloppy.

Markov grins. "Yeah, he mentioned you weren't what you once were, old man."

I scoff. I'm twenty-nine. Then again, with the life expectancy in this business, that made me at least middle-aged.

"But he said you need to be there. Date and time on the paper."

I feign subservience. "Sure, I'll be there. Whatever Viktor wants. I'll bring some of my men." The words are like rough stones in my mouth.

I hate the drugs, not only for the fucking hassle on getting them from out-of-state or out of the country, but because it's a short-end game. We should be diversifying into construction and waste management—I don't know why I even care. I just have to play along with Viktor's games until I can stash Kat's father safely somewhere, far the fuck away.

Then Kat and I can get the hell out of this town.

And finally start our happily ever after.

Markov grins and stands up. I can tell he feels like the big shot now. He can feel however he wants to feel, as long as he gets the fuck out my face.

Acting subservient to him takes more acting skills than I have.

"Solonik said don't bring your boys," Markov says. "Just the great, fearless Gray Petrokov should be enough—no?"

I watch him walk out. Another five or so hours, a few deliveries of cash to sneak on to the books, and I can go home to my Kat.

I shouldn't be thinking of her now. But I can't stop.