Page 26 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

Instead of answering me, the older brute of a man pushes me behind him and takes on the wave of fists and feet flying in his–our–direction.

In seconds the fight moves from my living room into my kitchen. The whole place looks like a war zone and the man responsible is standing in the middle of it with his breathing barely above resting. But the other guys are all clutching at various parts of their bodies wondering what the hell hit them.

Not that it matters, but me too. Because I’m starting to think he’s half god.

With eyes wild and muscles bulging, my ex’s father swings left, right. Anyone unfortunate to fall prey to his wrath crumbles to the floor in a bleeding mess.

I shriek when beefy arms snake around my middle and jerk me away.

A second rolling pin sits on the kitchen counter next to a half-full cookie jar. I grab the heavy cat-shaped jar, swing with all my might and land the ceramic cat onto the head of my attacker.

Cookies and cat pieces fall everywhere but not the dude squeezing the life outta me.

“I’m going to enjoy killing you,” he snarls, sharing his liquor breath with me.

I grab the rolling pin and turn just enough to bring it down on the man's skull with everything I've got.

Two hundred plus pounds drops like a rock. Face first into the hardwood floor.

“Ouch!”

My arms tremble from shoulder to fingertip. My knuckles ache where they gripped too hard. Remnants of soap suds drip down my forehead from my hair and sting my eyes. But I'm still standing.

My bodyguard swings his head around. Cold, blue eyes turn to impenetrable steel. He looks at the rolling pin then the man on the floor before his gaze moves to mine.

Surprise flashes over his expression. “Good girl,” he quips and this time it doesn’t piss me off.

"Get dressed. We're leaving."

I straighten my spine. Square my shoulders. A soap sud slides down my neck and disappears into the towel. "How do I know you’re not rescuing me only to off me yourself or sell me to some douche with a fat bank account?” I shake my head and take a few steps out of his reach. “Change of plans. I’m going solo.” Trust is a fickle beast. One second you have it, and then it’s gone.

My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter where I left it charging. The screen lights up with my sister's name. Right on time.

Raine.

"Besides, I just got my ride."

I lunge for the phone but the Russian is faster.

He scoops up my phone and me in one move and for the second time tonight, I'm airborne. I fist the back of his shirt and hinge myself around to make sure he hears me.

One arm locks across the back of my thighs, pinning the towel and my dignity down. I’m all about small silver linings, but right now I’d rather have my freedom than my self-respect.

The shipping container with legs grumbles pages of words I don’t understand and probably for the better. He strides through the wreckage of my apartment with determination.

“When I get down from here, buddy, you and I are going to have a face to face.” I hold my false hope of ever besting him, but I’m pretty resourceful. I thunk the sides of my fists against his shoulder blades, but the fucker just grunts and keeps walking.

“Sure, malyshka. We can do that.”

There’s a level of sarcasm in his voice that earns him a fraction of respect. And a whole bunch of ire.

I glance behind me and notice my towel has ridden up to where my ass cheeks poke out. Not great, but I’m more concerned about the revving motors I hear peeling down my quiet street.

I drive my boot into his hip. He doesn't flinch. I call him every name I know in English and invent a few new ones involving his heritage, his hairline, and the structural integrity of his entire gene pool.

"Put me down, you overgrown refrigerator! I swear to God I will shove this rolling pin so far up your..."

"That's a new one," my kidnapper cuts me off like I'm up here making jokes or something.