Page 23 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

“Not if I have something to say about it.” Not my best comeback but I’m not exactly looking to make a good impression with my words. Just with my rolling pin. He’s so focused on killing me, he doesn’t realize I intend on doing the same to him. Instead of swinging wide, I take the handle of my weapon and drive it into his balls.

Score!

Fury warps his face into something that looks more monster than human. “You stupid bitch,” he hurls at me, stumbling forward. I try to move out of the way, but he recovers almost immediately and then two things happen at once.

First, I'm suddenly hurling down the length of my hallway.

Second, my towel did not make the trip with me.

I very quickly realize the glittering mess on the hardwood is not stars reflecting off my newly polished floor from the overhead skylights. My landing is going to suck hairy donkey balls.

“Shit!”

I lose the rolling pin as I brace for impact, curling my arms over my face because bare skin and broken glass are not friends.

But I never hit the floor.

A solid chest stops me cold and feels a lot like a brick wall. Arms lock around me and swallow every ounce of momentum before my body can meet the glass-covered hardwood. The air punches out of my lungs on a grunt and my bare, damp skin presses flush against expensive material… and the warm wall of muscle beneath it.

Ice-blue meets startled violet.

My brain catches up three seconds late. I'm not bleeding and I'm not on the floor. But I am pinned against a man I can't fully see. His arms clamp tight enough around me that my feet dangle six inches off the ground.

My brain screams danger and my hands, elbows and feet get the memo to fight instantly.

Using everything I have left in the tank, I drive my elbows backward and the heel of my gardening boot cracks into a shin. I'm soaped up and still wet enough that I’m slippery. Hands grab at me and the brute who caught me harrumphs a few times when I catch his jaw and ribs with a good crack of my elbow.

He says something in Russian and then he’s back to catching my flailing arms and legs.

“Hold the fuck still.”

Another string of Russian.

“Fat chance of me making this easy on you, buddy!” With more of my wannabe fighting abilities, I rear back and land my knuckles against his jaw.

Pain flashes up the length of my arm and I know I’ll feel the aftereffects of that for days.

Fuck it. I swing again and land a left hook this time.

He, on the other hand, doesn’t look fazed.

Damn.

My back shoots straight up and the whip of fear slashing me locks my knees.

“I said be good or so help me⁠—”

"Let go of me! Let go!" I cut him off.

"Be still, little girl." A Russian accent curls underneath the English like smoke through a cracked window.

Energy of a thousand pissed-off female warriors surges through my veins and then everything fast forwards.

“Screw you!” My veins burn with fury. “Little girl, my ass!” I repeat through clenched teeth and make sure every syllable I utter drips with my rage.

“Da. Exactly. Little girl.”

A swift hand comes down on my bare ass.