Page 4 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

For a second all I can do is stare.

And then another shot rings out. My eyes snap to the burst of light from the muzzle and my whole body jolts as if released from paralysis.

“What the fuck is happening?” I skitter backward, my feet shuffling on the cement, trying to reach for the side door I just stepped out of.

“Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me,” I whisper weakly into the shadowed alley, pressing my back to the wall. If there ever was a time to fade into the background, now would be a really good time for that to happen.

Tank Number Two grumbles something probably along the lines of how dare the flower dude make him kill the dead guy. But I can’t really make out what he says to the body on the ground before kicking him for good measure.

My stomach heaves. Blood pools from beneath his head, dark and slow, mixing with the rainwater and creeping across the concrete in a black halo.

I can't move, which would be a really useful skill to have right about now. Every muscle in my body locks up and my lungs stop cooperating. The paper crumples tighter in my fist, my palm slick with sweat, the folded edges cutting into my skin. My heart hammers so hard against my ribs I can feel the heavy thud reverberate through my entire body.

I try to swallow it back, but the bile rising from my stomach comes up anyway.

Then I see the third man.

Ice slides down my spine, vertebra by vertebra, so cold and precise it could be a finger tracing the bones. My stomach drops through the concrete and keeps falling. The air leaves my lungs in a rush that takes every coherent thought with it.

A third man steps out of the shadows behind the tanks. He walks toward the body on the ground with his hands in the pockets of a coat I recognize, casual and unhurried, like he's crossing a parking lot on the way to his car. He pulls a gun from inside the coat, points it at the back of the dead man's head.

Then pulls the trigger.

The crack bounces off the brick walls and I flinch so hard my teeth snap together.

He tucks the gun away and straightens up. A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, slow and satisfied, like he just won a hand of poker instead of putting a bullet in a man's skull.

“Fucking rat. Throw him in the dumpster where the trash belongs.”

His voice carries down the alley, calm and clear. His Russian accent thickens around the consonants. My stomach turns inside out because I know that voice. I used to think it was sexy. I've heard it whisper against my hair. I've heard it apologize to my sister with a charm that made Raine roll her eyes and smile despite herself.

My heart is permanently lodged in my throat. I know that voice. I also heard it promise me a life of safety and love.

Nikolai.

My blood goes cold so fast that my vision sharpens instead of blurring. Every detail in the alley burns into my retinas with a clarity I will never forget.

His face is pulled into a mask of indifference, like taking a life is business as usual for him. The really shitty truth is, after learning he isn’t simply a powerful businessman, but also Bratva, death is probably his normal MO.

Another wave of disgust hits the back of my throat and burns.

Three months of dinners, late night make out sessions, and midnight phone calls and I never saw this side of him.

It was a hard way to learn just how many masks a person can wear. I was so stupid to let a handsome face nearly sweep me off my feet.

And then I witnessed the mask slip. A waitress dropped a glass of wine on his lap one evening and the monster he kept chained burst out. He grabbed her by the throat and then slapped her so hard she fell to the ground. Nikolai’s father was there. I saw him help her up and tell her something, but I didn’t wait around until it was my turn. If Nikolai had no problem hurting some as innocent as a waitress, how long before that beast found me, too?

I left. That was three months ago and I prayed I would never see the man again, but apparently I didn’t pray hard enough.

There’s only a dumpster halfway down the short alley hiding my presence. All he would have to do is look up and he would see me.

No, no. This can’t be happening.

I can’t open the door to my shop and I sure as hell can’t make a run for it before they spot me.

The yellow light over my head has decided not to work, but how long before it revives itself?

I run the pads of my fingers along the brick wall. If I can only move out from under the light…