Wicked Proposal - A Mafia Romance

When he's asleep, I tiptoe out, grab my keys, say bye to Kallie, and steel myself for the night.

Outside, I'm relieved to see that the Maybach is gone. Thank Christ. I'm halfway to Rhonda the Honda when⁠-

"You."

2

MIA

Suit Guy looms under the streetlight, all sharp angles and simmering rage. His tie is undone, jacket discarded somewhere, sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos snaking down his forearms.

Up close, he's younger than I thought-late twenties? early thirties at most-with the kind of face that belongs on either a billboard or a wanted poster.

And right now, he looks like he wants to put my face on a Missing poster.

"Did you get my fucking car towed?" he snarls at me in a rasping, feral baritone.

I tilt my head. "I did try to tell you."

"You had no right." His jaw tics.

"Actually, if you had bothered to listen to me for even one second, I could've told you that was my driveway, and I actually have every right." I unlock my door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got vaginas to steam."

He blocks my path. "Do you think this is a joke?"

"I think you're in my way."

"You made this much harder than it had to be."

I laugh right in his face. Buddy here doesn't know the first thing about how hard things can get.

"Life has a funny way of doing that, doesn't it?" I remark.

I try to sidestep him again, but he grabs my wrist.

Big mistake.

My body moves before my brain catches up. A twist, a shift, pressure-and suddenly, he's against the hood, my elbow jammed under his throat.

"Do not touch me," I snarl right back in the same growl he used on me.

He goes still.

Not scared, though.

Intrigued.

His gaze flicks to my fresh set of scrubs, my shaking hands, the faded scar on my throat that Brad left there.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" he murmurs.

The streetlight catches his eyes. Gray, with flecks of gold.

Dangerous.

I release him and step back. "And you're full of shit. Now, for the love of all that is holy, can you please move so I can get on with my life?"

He doesn't do anything of the kind. Just watches me, lips curving in a crooked half-smirk. "What's your name?"

"To you, it's Tow Truck Tina. For God's sake⁠-"

"Tough act." He straightens his cuffs. "But that grip? You've had training. Nursing school doesn't teach you that. That's more."

I freeze. How the hell did he know⁠-?

He smirks and rakes his eyes up and down my body. "Scrub pants, sneakers, adrenaline shakes. You know how to handle yourself. But you learned it the hard way, didn't you?"

"Wow. You're a detective and a dickhead. Multitalented."

I reach for my car door, but his hand shoots out, pinning it shut.

"Wait." His voice drops, barely audible above the street noise. "I have a proposition for you."

I bark out a laugh, right in his smug face. "I'm not interested in any proposition from a guy who can't read a 'No Parking' sign."

"What about one that could solve your financial problems?" His eyes flick to my worn-thin scrubs, to the fraying strap of my bag, then back to my face, which is worn-thin and fraying in its own kind of way. "All of them."

Something in his tone makes me pause. The streetlight casts shadows across his face, but his eyes are clear. Calculating.

He means it.

"Three minutes," he presses. "That's all I'm asking. I'll tell you what I need and why you're perfect for it, and when you tell me yes⁠-"

"-if I tell you yes⁠-"

"-when you tell me yes," he overrides, "then I'm going to put a large amount of cash in your hand, and you're going to thank me for the easiest money you've ever made in your life."

I should tell him to fuck off, then knee him in the groin and run. As a matter of fact, I'm about to do exactly that⁠-

But then I think of Eli's shoes.

Of the pile of bills on my counter.

Of the three jobs that still aren't enough, have never been enough, have only ever felt like hole-riddled pails I desperately use to bail out a sinking ship that keeps taking on more water, and more water, and more, more, more, dragging me and Eli alike down to the bottom of a black ocean that never gave a damn whether we lived or died.

"Two minutes," I hear myself say. "Not a second more."

The man's smile stretches wider.

3

YULIAN

THIRTY MINUTES EARLIER

"Blyat'!"

I barely restrain myself from hurling my phone across the street.

Maksim's update has been nothing but shitty news: Nikita still hasn't been found. Not at her apartment, not at her usual haunts, not even at HQ.

Maks is my best friend and second-in-command, but he's still getting my full wrath right now. Mostly because I have nowhere else to vent.

"Boss-"

"Did I fucking stutter?" I interrupt. "Find her."

"I've got all our men on it," Maksim sighs. "Did you find out why her GPS signal died in Brownsville?"

"Hey!" someone pipes up down the sidewalk.

I ignore that voice behind me.

"No," I mutter to Maksim. The truth is, I don't have a goddamn clue why Nikita's GPS would lead here at all.

She lives in Manhattan, for fuck's sake. There's nothing in this armpit of New York that could have lured her here⁠-

Unless...

Unless she found a lead.

"Excuse me? Sir?" The voice behind me is closer now. More insistent. "Your car is⁠-"

"Shh." I hold up a finger to silence the nagging woman. Whatever she wants with my car, she can wait until I'm done. "Maks, you got anything else?"

"Not really," he answers. "I just- Wait, hold up. I just got word that the man we captured is awake."

My hackles rise. "Put him on the line."

"You're already running late to the gala, Yul. Let me handle this. I can⁠-"

"Now, Maks."

My second gives a frustrated sigh. "Alright, fine. But I'm not driving your ungrateful ass halfway across the city during rush hour."

"You will if I need it."

He bites out a curse in Russian. He knows I'm right. He knows he'll never say no to me, even if I'm the one making myself late for tonight's event.

Maksim is a lot of things, but disloyal isn't one of them.

Not when it comes to me.

Which is why I don't doubt for a second that he'll do as I say.

There's a little scuffling at the other end of the line. I walk into an alley and lean against the graffitied wall. It isn't exactly a private setting to carry out an interrogation by phone, but it's as private as it'll get right now.

"No!" a new voice cries out. "I don't know anything! I don't⁠-"

"According to his ID, his name is Boyan," Maksim informs me. "Just so you two can be on a nice, friendly, first-name basis."

"Hello, Boyan." My tone goes as cold as the fucking grave. "I'm going to ask you a few questions now. If you answer them, I'll ensure that you don't suffer. If you don't... Well. There's only so much I can do."

"I don't know anything!" Boyan repeats, panicked. "I never met her! I just⁠-"

"Maksim," I cut in, "break one of his fingers."

He doesn't hesitate. A second later, a sickening crunch echoes across the line, followed by a scream.

"Let's try this again," I growl. "I will ask. You will answer. Say you understand."

Boyan's wails turn to silent sobs. "Y-yes. I understand."

"Good. Then tell me how you knew Nikita."

"I d-didn't," the man sniffles. "I swear, I⁠-"

"Maksim. Break another."

A second crunch.

A second scream.

"T-that wasn't the deal!" Boyan cries. "I answered your question!"

"And I didn't fucking like it," I snarl. "So do better."

"I was hired! I-I swear, I⁠-"