Saved By The Hitman: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance Read online

  We’ve fucked like addicts these past couple of days, only stopping when Juliana needed some time for her body to recover.

  I move close to her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders, pulling her close to me so that she lays her cheek against my chest in that close, special way she has.

  “Tell me you trust me,” I whisper, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear.

  She tilts her head toward the movement, a bright smile spreading across her cheeks, flashing for a sunlit moment before anxiety makes her lips all wavy.

  She squeezes close to me, looking up, biting her lips for a moment.

  “I trust you,” she says, releasing her lip. “Please come back to me.”

  “Always,” I growl. “Every day for the rest of our lives. You’re not getting rid of me now, Juliana.”

  She smiles, blinking away a tear.

  “I’m holding you to that,” she says.

  I wipe the tear from her cheek with my thumb, and then lean down and lay a kiss on her lips, the most tender kiss I can summon. Otherwise, I just know that I’m going to lose control and consume her lips with mine, capture her tongue and the thousand tastes of her mouth.

  She backs up into the safe room, keeping her eyes locked on mine with every step.

  I keep mine fixated on her, staring right into her soul, muttering a silent prayer that I’m back here in a couple of hours to let her out.

  Otherwise, the door will release in twelve hours and she and Patricia will have to start an adventure of their own, one that has nothing to do with me.

  My heart tightens at the prospect.

  I close and lock the door before I change my mind.

  Igor has contacts in every single law enforcement agency in the country.

  He has spies everywhere.

  In a perfect world, I’d be able to get somebody else to handle this problem for me.

  But the only person I can rely on to handle this evil bastard is myself, the same way I’ve relied on myself my whole damn life.

  I turn away from the safe room, gritting my teeth, getting my mind ready for war.

  I heft the duffle bag full of cash over my shoulder and make my way to the backyard, careful to keep to the edge of the property where I’m least likely to be seen.

  If everything goes well, Igor will take my bribe and back off. It’s not like he has any real stake in Juliana except for his twisted code of honor.

  And even in the Bratva world, three hundred thousand isn’t an amount to be laughed at.

  I walk to the woods that border the garden and enter them, memories of my childhood surging up inside of me.

  I was a lonely wanderer, making my way through the woods, becoming part of them, alive to every tiny noise, every broken twig, every stirring animal.

  But then my mind shifts and I see myself and my children walking this same path. I imagine four or five of them, of various ages, but the one that’s clearest in my mind for some reason is a young boy with Juliana’s thick brown hair and my blue eyes. He has an open smile as he stands there in his chunky walking boots, staring up at me.

  I can teach him so much. At least, I hope I can.

  I can teach him to be better than me, less broken, less savage than me, while reminding him that a man must be savage sometimes, no matter how civilized he becomes.

  I imagine leaning down and scooping him up into my arms, hugging him close to me, and whispering in his ear, telling him I love him. I’ll always love him. He’s my son and I won’t coddle him, no damn way, but I will teach him to be a good man, I’ll be involved in his life.

  I pause and let my eyes skirt over the winter-dark foliage, a few shafts of hazy sunlight making the dew-wet leaves glisten.

  I ache to be here with my family.

  I ache to feel their presence all around me.

  But I have to fight for that future.

  I walk to the edge of the forest where I left the off-roader. I stow the duffle in the trunk, next to the tools of my work, the guns, and the knives that will be easy to hide for the meeting.

  I’ve got no doubt that they’ll pat me down, but Bratva men can be clumsy, especially the goons. I’ve slipped by them a few times before, and I’m counting on the same carelessness now.

  I drive down the road, trying not to let my thoughts scatter back to the safe room. But it’s impossible not to think about my Juliana with Rebel in her arm. And then Rebel flits and a baby lies in her place, and Juliana stares down at our child with all the love in the world brimming from her glistening eyes.

  She’s going to be such an incredible mother.

  That’s the life she deserves, one of peace and contentment and family and love, not running across the States with Patricia, always looking over her shoulder.

  If I have to kill a hundred men to secure my woman’s future, then I will, without question.

  I shut my mind away from the future and my family as much as I can as I take the quiet roads to the warehouse, my temples pulsing as a song of war starts to rise up inside of me.

  Hopefully, this will be the last time I have to turn into a dead-cold killer, the last time I have to break off a piece of myself and leave it on the battlefield.

  I turn into the clearing in the forest to find an orange, rusty gate propped open by cinderblocks. The warehouse is a picture of shattered windows and overgrown weeds, creeping like nature’s hands up the side of the building and invading the shattered windows.

  I drive up to the entrance, my senses piqued and heightened, my instincts niggling.

  Something is wrong.

  The Bratva wouldn’t let me drive up to the entrance like this, untouched, unsearched. They’d want to make a show of power, display their dominance by having me pull over and step from the car.

  Suddenly, a bullet pings off the driver-side window, the shatter-proof glass making a crunching sound.

  It’s the only thing that saves my life.

  Another bullet hits the windshield, and then my tires with a ping noise as the bullets bounce off of them, too.

  Thank fuck I took precautions.

  I scan the warehouse and then spot the shooter, lying prone in jet black clothing with the barrel of his rifle sticking out between the intertwined ivy.

  Fuck.

  This was a setup, a much cleaner one than I expected.

  I thought Igor would at least show his face before they tried to kill me, giving me a chance to end this.

  But it’s clear that this was an assassination attempt, plain and simple.

  Which means Igor is somewhere else.

  Something drops in my stomach a weighted stone causing my insides to twist painfully.

  The realization stings.

  Igor is at the house.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Juliana

  “Try him again,” Patricia says, a warble in her voice.

  “I am,” I reply sharply, dialing the number for Jett’s burner cell for what must be the tenth time.

  But the line cuts out straight away, the signal dying.

  We’re huddled at the back of the safe room, away from the metal door which hisses. On the other side, men are talking loudly in Russian, so loudly I can just about hear their voices through the thick metal and the grinding hiss of the blowtorch, or mechanical saw, or whatever the heck they’re using to try and bust their way in here.

  They’re going to cut their way in and then slaughter us, coldly execute us, Rebel included.

  Or maybe they’ll take their time.

  Maybe they’ll torture and humiliate and degrade us first.

  The lights inside the safe room flicker.

  “He’s locked us in and now they’re going to kill us,” Patricia snaps, pacing up and down in front of the bunk beds, wringing her hands.

  I rock Rebel in my arms, the little dog trembling each time the door makes a hiss or a crunching noise. She was barking at first, but now she’s starting to calm, but only a little. Her lips are pulled back to reveal her teeth
, a growl sounds softly at the back of her throat. For the first time since I got her, I wish that Rebel was bigger, a massive angry fanged hound that could slaughter enough of these men to at least save her own life.

  “He’s not going to leave us here,” I say.

  “How do you know that?” Patricia cries.

  “I just do,” I tell her.

  “How much more do you think that door can take?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmur, looking over at the door again.

  The metal glows a deep lava-orange.

  Even from all the way across here, I can feel the heat kissing my skin, making my cheeks warm.

  It would be pleasant if it didn’t feel so much like hell.

  “They’ve been going for half an hour,” Patricia says.

  “You’ve been keeping track?”

  She nods, laughing in a strangled way, without a hint of humor in the noise. “Every second they take is a chance, right? Maybe Jett will return. Maybe he’ll save us.”

  “He will,” I tell her fiercely, my heart pumping erratically in my chest. I don’t like that note of doubt in her voice. “He’d never leave me behind. I’m carrying his child. We’re in love.”

  Patricia flinches, pausing in her pacing. “In love? Since when?”

  “Since the first moment we saw each other,” I declare, with much more confidence and bravery than I’d ever been able to summon if I was telling Jett any of this.

  “Does he feel the same?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmur, and then falter when tears start to bud in my eyes.

  “Oh, Julia,” Patricia says, walking over to me and placing her hands on my shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. I just know it will.”

  We sink onto one of the bottom bunks together, the three of us huddled close as the metal sparks and hisses and makes angry noises that go directly into my chest.

  Time passes and all we can do is sit and wait.

  Patricia starts to murmur prayers under her breath. I didn’t know she was religious, but the prayers seem to bring her strength. She closes her eyes and clasps her hands tightly to her chest, her words coming faster, more urgently, as though she’s imploring the universe to save her soul, if not her body.

  I can’t find it in me to pray to God.

  All I pray for is for Jett to return to me, my man, my savior.

  I try not to let doubts arise in my mind, but then another half an hour passes, and more minutes tick by, on and on, until little niggling voices start to tell me I’m an idiot.

  This was his plan all along, a voice hisses in my mind. It sounds like Casey Jenkins, one of the top dogs in high school, a cheerleader who always had a cutting comment ready to make me feel small. He lured you in and then sold you to the Bratva. He’s returned to his woman now, his skinny, attractive woman, and they’re both laughing at you, you stupid girl.

  I scream no in my mind, over and over again. That can’t be true.

  Even if it should be impossible, I know Jett. I trust him. He’d never abandon me like that.

  “Julia,” Patricia whispers.

  “What?” I say.

  “Listen.”

  “What?” I snap, heartache making my tone vicious.

  “Listen.”

  I’m about to snap at her again, but then I hear what she means. The constant buzz has stopped. Now, I can hear voices raised, their words slowly becoming clear to me.

  A flare of hope flurries in my chest.

  I stand slowly, feeling Rebel’s heartbeat pick up against my palm, as though she’s daring to hope, too.

  “Julia,” Patricia hisses when I start to walk toward the door.

  But I don’t stop. I can’t. It could be my man.

  “You foolish man,” a male voice growls, in a heavy Russian accent. “You should have run. You had a chance. This girl is nothing to you. Now you’ve forced me to handle this myself, and that is never a good idea, American, no. The Bratva must always keep their word.”

  “I’ll give you one chance. Leave now. Or things are going to get really fucking bad for you, Igor.”

  My heart flutters and I let out a gasp without meaning to.

  “Jett,” I scream, unable to stop myself, a thousand celebratory tingles dancing around my body. “You came back for me.”

  “Of course I did,” Jett roars.

  But then my belly starts to sink. I heard several Russian voices out there just below the buzz of the tool they were using to break in.

  What chance does one man – even a man like Jett – have against so many?

  “You have to run,” I yell, the certainty of it crashing into me. “You can’t be here. They’ll kill you. Run, Jett. Leave us.”

  “Smart slut,” Igor laughs, loud enough for me to hear. “You should listen to her, American. One man against six of my best killers. What sort of a fool are you?”

  “I like those odds,” Jett snarls.

  “Do not be a fool,” Igor shouts.

  “You’re the fool,” Jett says, cold now. I have to strain to hear him. “You came after the woman I’ve bound myself to. You came after my woman. Do you realize how fucking stupid that makes you? Have you never heard the name, Jett Jackman? Every man here is a killer, a rapist, a child molester, or a monster. Every man here deserves to die. Guess your biggest mistake, Igor.”

  Igor chuckles, but even through the metal door of the safe room, I can hear a note of hesitation in the noise.

  “What?”

  “You put me in a room where I don’t have to hold back. You put me in a room where I can let the beast free.”

  “Men,” Igor roars.

  I yell and stumble backward into the room when the gunshots start, loud bangs that sound like firecrackers being let off on the other side of the door. Patricia appears behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and guiding me deeper and deeper into the safe room, back into the bathroom, where she slams the door and stands in front of it with her arms crossed.

  “I have to go out there,” I gasp, my mind filled with images of Jett’s bloody face, his smeared brains.

  I shiver like I’ve got a fever.

  “They’re going to kill him,” I gasp.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Patricia says, the constant bang-bang-bang of gunshots ceasing now.

  I can’t hear anything anymore.

  There’s too much distance between us and the thick safe room door.

  My legs become jelly and I slump against the wall, sliding down, holding Rebel tight to my chest and trying to focus on keeping her calm.

  That’s all I can do, sit here and wait, sit here and pray.

  Minutes pass, but it feels like forever, each second expanding to an epoch of its own. I smooth my hands over Rebel’s ears and up and down her body, waiting for the buzz of the Bratva tools to start attacking the door again, telling me that Jett lost.

  My man is dead.

  More minutes—more agony.

  And then the door creaks and grinds mechanically.

  “They made him give them the code,” Patricia murmurs, turning toward the bathroom door with her hands fisted as though in defense. “We’re dead. Oh, God. Stay behind me, Julia. Maybe we can surprise them. Maybe you can get away while they’re dealing with me.”

  “No,” I say firmly, rising to my feet and walking up beside her. I reach down and take her hand, still cradling Rebel to my chest with the other. “Patricia, I need you to know, really know, I don’t blame you. I love you. You’re the mother I ever had.”

  Patricia sniffs and paws at her cheeks. “I love you,” she croaks. “You’re the best daughter I could wish for.”

  Slowly, the door opens outward.

  My heart leaps and soars and dances.

  Jett stands there, his face grim-set, his jet black clothes splattered here and there with shimmering crimson. He has his hand on the back of another’s man neck, squeezing, causing the man’s face to constrict in pain. He’s short and balding and wears an ill-fitting
suit, stained with blood, one of the sleeves torn.

  “Tell her you’re sorry,” Jett snarls. “Swear on your father’s name that you will never try to hurt her, or me, or our family ever again. Swear it in the name of the Bratva, or you will die here.”

  The man makes a pathetic whimpering noise, his eyes wide pits.

  I peer around Jett’s body, worried that one of Igor’s men is going to sneak up on Jett.

  Jett sees me looking, meets my eyes cooly, and shakes his head.

  They’re dead, his look says. I had to do it.

  “I’m s-sorry,” Igor whimpers, sounding like a scared child. “Oh, God, please don’t hurt me. Please.” He starts to blubber, tries to fight it, and then fails as tears stream unchecked down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t try to hurt you again. I’ll stop chasing you. Please, just don’t hurt me. Please. I swear on my father. I swear on the Bratva. Please don’t hurt me.”

  He sounds like a scared child, nothing like the confident, ruthless man I’d envisioned when he was on the other side of the door.

  Jett nods matter of factly and reaches into his pocket, taking out his phone.

  He presses a button and Igor’s voice rises into the room, repeating what he’s just said.

  “How do you think it’d go for you if your men ever heard this recording?” Jett growls. “If I ever see you again – if I see any Russian anywhere near my family – I’ll release this recording. That’s it. We’re done. And don’t think killing me will save your sorry ass. I’ll have safety measures in place. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Igor pants. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  “Good, now get the fuck out of here.”

  Jett spins and tosses him away. Igor stumbles and lands on his face, letting out a wheezing, shivering noise, and then climbs clumsily to his feet.

  He sprints out of the room.

  “Men, get up. We’re leaving. Get the fuck up. Now.”

  “I thought you killed them,” I murmur, my voice sounding hollow.

  “No,” Jett growls, turned sideways with his hands on his hips, watching the door for any sign that they’re going to return. “I don’t kill if I can help it. I just worked them over. They’ll be bloody and injured for weeks, but they’ll live.”