Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel (4 page)

I turn and push my way towards the stairs as Oskar starts to drone on with the rest of the auction, my heart still pounding furiously.

Did I really just drop over one-and-a-half-million dollars on that woman?

As I push my way towards the back, I hear one of the men who had been jeering at the girl spit, and I hear him mutter to another loudly, “Didn’t think they let
the help
place bids at these things.”

“Hope he gets his fucking money out of it — for that much, I’d make a cum-slut out of that bitch all over New York State.”

Without a second thought, my body whirls around like lightning, my fist flying out and cracking the second man on the jaw. A moment later, he hits the ground, out cold.

Before the people around me can react, the man’s friend lurches at me, but I catch him with a quick punch to the gut, doubling him over, and with a quick crack to the back of the head with my elbow, I send him to the ground with his friend.

Up on the stage, Oskar is trying desperately to keep the audience’s attention, but many of the men are staring at me now. A few of them might have been thinking about jumping into the brawl, but my quick end to the hecklers seems to make them think twice. I cast them all a steely gaze before hearing a groan from one of the men I’d just dropped.

Kneeling down, I take him by the collar with one hand.

“Speak so crudely about a woman again in my presence, and it’ll be the last words out of the few teeth you have left,” I warn him.

Standing up, I glance at the men staring at the scene. “What are the lot of you looking at? Don’t you have a meat market to enjoy?”

Without looking back, I make my way up the stairs, and the other patrons give me a wide berth. I don’t look back, even though I can feel many eyes on me — Sergei’s, his wealthy friend’s, the bidders’, and even the young woman’s.

Nobody pays me much mind as I cross through the cafe and out onto the streets. None of them heard anything, I imagine. But as I start to head down the street, my head still buzzing over everything that’s happened.

I’d disobeyed orders, embarrassed Sergei Slokavich in front of more than a few wealthy friends, and abandoned my post.

More importantly, I’d just sealed my marriage to a young woman I didn’t even know. A woman whose first impression of me was beating two men to the ground without breaking a sweat.

I just bought a marriage.
What in the hell was I thinking? I swear under my breath, running a hand through my hair as I walk. I had wanted to spare her, but instead, I bound her to a contract assassin for life. The money was no issue — it was a little more than a dozen jobs’ worth, sure, but I had more where that came from. Besides, jobs outside the Bratva tend to pay better, and I might not be their most favorite person right now.

But marriage? I’ve never even come close to considering such a thing. Both in Russia and in the States, I’ve had plenty of fun with women, but married life doesn’t pair with my line of work.

Yet when the thought comes to mind, I can’t help but remember the sight of her up there, far too cold and alone for a ray of sunshine as beautiful and innocent-looking as her. I run a hand over my face, though, as I remember that she saw me strike down those two drunks — a harmless lamb’s first impression of the
Shadow
who now owns her.

The reminder hits me like a punch to the gut. If the poor girl was afraid enough tonight, how terrified must she be now?

T
he three days
leading up to my wedding have been the worst days of my life.

I have been holed up in my room as much as possible, my eyes wide and my lips sealed shut, too afraid to say anything to anyone. I probably haven’t said more than two words per day. My parents have dragged me around by the arm, from the wedding cake tasting to the dress fitting. As I stood on the little round platform being poked and prodded by the seamstress, my mother fidgeted awkwardly and my father pointed out all the areas where my skin could be seen. Even the most conservative dress in the bridal boutique was still too risque for my father’s tastes, as he agitatedly pointed out to the seamstress my exposed collarbone, forearms, and back. The dress was more akin to a prom dress in style, with a princessy, lacy corset top and a huge, fluffy skirt with layers upon layers of taffeta and tulle. The seamstress assured my father that she could easily and quickly sew in lace inserts to cover any exposed flesh.

“We don’t want her to parade down the aisle with her body on display for all the guests to see, of course,” explained my father. The seamstress nodded and gave him the same kind of smile everyone gave him — ready to obey. He was a scary man.

“Yes, her body is only for her husband to see. And God, of course,” my mother added.

As though the pair of them hadn’t just made me strip nearly naked and stand exposed before a group of rowdy, dirty, foul men in some basement of a Russian grocery and cafe.

The contradiction of these experiences blows my mind, still.

I can’t believe how hypocritical my parents really are. My whole life, they have treated me like a puritanical princess. But the second the clock ticked midnight on my eighteenth birthday, they suddenly decided to turn me into some kind of whore, to be bought and sold, traded away like chattel.

Sitting in the back seat of my father’s white Lincoln town car in my huge, poufy white dress, I have to fight back the tears that have been threatening to overtake me for days. As of yet, I’ve managed to keep myself from crying. Though, to be fair, that may have more to do with the fact that I’ve spent the past few days in a state of near-catatonic shock.

After all, before the other night, I was never even alone in a room with a male other than my father or Isaiah. Nobody has seen me naked, or even close, since I was a very small child. And then, to suddenly be surrounded by howling, lustful men in a dank room… it’s more than I can take.

I swallow back the lump in my throat and stare down at my newly-manicured hands folded in my lap. I had never been to a nail salon before, and under normal circumstances I might have even enjoyed it. The bright lights and endless selection of colors (though my mother insisted upon my getting a simple, classic French manicure) and the pop music playing in the background would have been truly exciting, otherwise. But under the circumstances, I merely sat limply at the manicure station, my eyes glazed over as the woman chatted gleefully with my mother beside me.

We are now en route to the church we’ve been attending since before I can remember, and I am nervous about seeing all the familiar faces there. Normally, I would have no reason to fear such a thing. The people of our congregation and the surrounding community all know me so well, know my family. I always dreamed that I would marry within this circle and that my wedding day would be filled with flowers and hymns and smiling faces.

Of course, it is likely that the flowers and hymns and smiling faces will be there.

But now, I will be constantly wondering if they know.

What if they all know what I did? What my family put me through? Will they judge me for marrying a man outside the community? All I know of him is his steely, albeit handsome, face and the fact that he has money — and lots of it. More than I ever realized one person could have.

Oh, and the fact that he has no problem using extreme violence to make a point.

I shudder to think what those clenched fists can do to me, if he so easily knocked a grown, rough-looking man to the ground. I want to believe that my parents would never shove me into a dangerous corner with someone who might hurt me. But after what happened the other night, my faith in both my parents and, dare I say it, my God, has been shaken. I want so badly to trust in them, to believe in a God who will protect me from darkness.

But it is difficult to feel anything but heartbreak and terror at the moment.

When the town car pulls up to the church, there are already smartly-dressed attendees milling about on the front lawn of the church. Our little chapel lies on the top of a hill down a dirt road, and the view overlooks the city below. In my many years coming here week after week, I have always found this outlook to be one of the utmost beauty. Somehow, being elevated above the hustle and bustle of our little town has always made me feel closer to Heaven.

Today, though, I only want to stare down at the ground morosely.

The guests clap excitedly, gasping in awe at the sight of me as my father helps me out of the car. My mother and Isaiah get out first, both dressed neatly in dark green. My father is wearing a black suit and dark green tie, and my mother’s dress is long and floaty. I wonder if dark green is supposed to be one of my wedding colors.

I don’t know because they have never asked me my preferences.

Besides, it hardly matters. Ever since the events of the other night, I have lost all interest in this wedding. My own wedding. I feel so numb, so broken up inside, that I can hardly force myself to smile when everyone rushes up to hug me and offer their congratulations.

But when Daddy fixes me with one of his notorious warning glares, I remember my position as a sort of diplomat for the family. Everything I do, every move I make, every word I say, reflects on the reputation of my family, and my father will not stand for anything less than perfection. In this case, it means I must proceed through the motions and rituals of my wedding as though I truly want to be here.

Even though I want nothing more than to curl up in a ball and cry.

My husband-to-be is nowhere to be seen, and I suspect this is intentional. My father knows how incongruous he is with the rest of the community. He’s an outsider, something our community has always looked at with suspicion and scorn. So the best option is to keep the congregation’s contact with him as limited as possible.

I don’t mind. I don’t want to see him anyway.

As far as I am concerned, any man who would attend an auction in which women are being sold like common cattle is not a man I want to marry. Not that I have a choice.

I know, deep down, that this must be what God wants for me. I have to believe that, otherwise I will be forced to rethink everything I have ever known.

“Congratulations, Cassandra! You make a beautiful bride!” exclaims one of the girls from church, Ruth-Ann. I know she is probably a little jealous. After all, she is twenty years old and still unmarried. In our circle, that is almost unheard of.

“Thank you,” I say, with a gracious smile.

She takes my hands, leans in, and asks in a hushed voice, “You must be so excited! I had no idea you were even engaged…”

I remember now. She is relatively new to our circle and she probably isn’t quite accustomed to the idea of arranged marriages yet. That’s why she isn’t married yet.

“It has happened very fast,” I admit, glancing around a little anxiously. I don’t want my father to see me talking too much about the details of this arrangement. I assume he isn’t particularly open to sharing just how my husband and I met.

Though, for all I know, this
is
the usual ritual. I have attended several weddings in my eighteen years, and for all the world they looked like normal events. But then again, they all looked very much like this one. Like mine.

How am I to know whether or not the other girls were put through the same meat market setup I was? I think back over all the weddings I’ve gone to. There was the union of Naomi and Jonah just a couple months ago. Naomi looked so happy, so complete, standing next to her tall, skinny new husband Jonah. Had she been forced into a room half-naked with a bunch of drooling, shouting men, too?

Probably not, I assume, since Jonah has been part of the congregation for years. No. They met the old-fashioned way, and now every time I see them at church they are hand-in-hand, always smiling, leaning on each other.

Tears prickle in my eyes again. I want that.

Is this how my father met my mother? He is much older than her… The thought sends a chill down my spine, though there is a passing reassurance. They still live a Godly life, after all, and mother seems happy and well taken care of…

I look out over the crowds and think to myself just how little I know about the man I am about to marry. I remember his stern profile, his enormous height and thick-shouldered build. His deep, foreboding voice reverberates in my head. He made an impact on me, and was by far the most handsome that I saw in the room. Maybe the most handsome man I’d seen in my life. But what do his good looks hide?

Suddenly, my father’s firm hand appears on my shoulder. He leans down to whisper into my ear, “Remember who you represent today.”

I have the strange, foreign desire to cry, to scream at him. This is my wedding day! I don’t know very much about marriage or about much of anything, really, but I do know that brides are supposed to feel good on days like this! But instead, I want to crumple to the grassy earth and go to sleep, to do anything that will make the world spin away into oblivion.

However, my sense of familial duty overwhelms me, and I simply reply, “Yes, Daddy.”

His iron fist tightens on my shoulder, causing me to wince a little. I love my father, and I know he surely only wants what is best for me. But sometimes he does hurt me. I want nothing more than to please him and make him approve of me, to get through this day unscathed by him. I follow his line of sight to the roadside, where a black car has just pulled up. It is an extremely luxurious-looking vehicle, shining and reflective, with very dark windows. I wonder what could be hiding behind the tinted windows.

Then it hits me.

It must be my new husband’s car. I see a muscle clench in Daddy’s jaw and his eyes go narrow, into dark slits. “He is here,” my father says quietly.

“Oh,” I breathe, my heart rate quickening.

“You must not betray anything. Don’t let anyone see your fear, Cassandra. Remember that your actions reflect on the family, and if you screw this up, you will ruin us all,” he explains quickly in an undertone. “Act naturally.”

I want to shoot back,
“What exactly qualifies as natural in this situation?”
But I bite my tongue, as I have always done.

“Yes, Daddy,” I say dejectedly.

The overlapping, excited conversations among the crowds have dissipated and now they are only whispering and pointing at the big black car. I suddenly feel very dizzy and I realize that I haven’t had much to eat or drink for the past few days. My head starts to go fuzzy, but my father’s vice grip on my shoulder holds me up.

Then the driver side door of the car opens up and out steps the man I am to marry.

I don’t even get much of a chance to gawk, because my mother and father rush over to herd me into the chapel. “He cannot see you before the ceremony! It’s against tradition!” Mother hisses vehemently, poking me in the small of my back to hurry me along.

The inside of the chapel is adorned with simple white and dark green ribbons, with floral arrangements flanking the marital podium. The priest is already standing there waiting. I have known him since childhood. His name is Father Harrison and I spent much of my younger years wanting to marry
him
, actually. He is an older man, but to a young girl like me, he was the pinnacle of manly ideal. He has been the head of our congregation ever since I can remember, leading the services with a loud, powerful voice and elaborate gestures.

Now, of course, he is old and grey, but still charismatic. When his eyes land on me, he holds his arms open in a stance of welcome. “Little Cassandra Meadows! Hard to believe that it’s time for you to become a real woman of God!”

His warm smile reassures me, even as my father’s hand on my shoulder must be leaving a bruise. Daddy waves to him as he rushes me into a tiny side room to await the ceremony. My mother stands in the dark chamber with me, the both of us quietly listening to the crowds filing into the chapel pews. I peer through a crack in the door, the sliver of space allowing me a very limited view of the church interior. I see my fiancé walk briskly down the aisle, his back straight and head held tall. I can’t see any details, but just the sight of his hulking frame is enough to send a shiver down my spine. I feel so small and fragile in contrast to him.

Everyone is tittering excitedly, quietly, as he passes down the aisle. I blush, knowing that my fellow churchgoers are confused by the fact that nobody recognizes him. He is something very rare, indeed: a stranger in our midst. Surely, they must all be questioning how he managed to sneak his way in. I can just imagine the whispers going around,
“Who is this strange man?” “Is he one of us?”

And the worst of all:
“How in the world did they ever even meet?”

I want to vomit, right here in the side chamber of my own wedding chapel. My mother seems to pick up on my nerves, as she gently brushes the hair off of my shoulder and kisses the side of my head.

“Don’t be afraid, dear. I know it is daunting, but we all must take this vow. Trust in God to protect you,” she says, so softly I can barely hear her.

“I want to make you and Daddy proud, but I’m scared,” I reply, in an equally low voice.

“We
are
proud, Cassie. Just be strong.”

Outside in the church, the crowds are all cooing “aww” and I look through the crack to see my little brother, tiny, sweet Isaiah, walking down the aisle holding what looks like a ring pillow. His unruly brown hair is swept back using a copious amount of gel, and there is a half-frightened, half-petulant look on his cherubic face. My heart surges in my chest, and I have the sudden urge to burst out of the chamber, rush down the aisle, and scoop him up in my arms. Something deep in my soul tells me that I won’t be seeing him very often after today.