Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (13 page)

W
hen I wake up
, I'm disoriented. Tightly tucked bedsheets hug me, holding me against a mattress. My last recollection is of collapsing hard against a wooden floor.

"Penny?" I recognize the voice. My name floats around the room, reaching my ears through the thick mental haze clouding my thoughts.

"Penny?"

My memories seep back into my consciousness, and I remember everything. The file drawer full of weapons, the stacks and stacks of biographical files… the file on me.

I groan, attempting to form a coherent sentence, but my brain remains muddled. But I have control over my limbs, so I flail them. As I struggle, a tearing sensation rips through my left arm.

Then a pair of strong hands clamps down on my thrashing arms. The sensation of panic and urgency fades away, replaced by calm and control.

"Penny. I'm here. You're okay now."

That voice… it's Havok.

I force my eyes open and fight for focus. When it comes, I'm staring up at Havok's narrow, chiseled, slender face. His tousled hair hangs down into his eyes, and his face betrays an expression that I've not seen before.

Worry.

His eyes dart toward my arm, which he holds in his strong grip. "You ripped out your IV—"

"Ahh," I say, still unable to form words, my lips and vocal cords uncooperative. I fight through it through sheer force of will, and finally I construct a coherent sentence.

"You animal," I say. "I saw... I saw..."

Another face appears in my peripheral vision, crunching out my train of thought like a bootheel against glass. As it comes closer, I glance down and read the badge pinned on the man's white coat. "West Ark Veterinarians," it reads.

"The only animal here today is you," says the man in an Italian accent.

"Who're you?" I say, stitching my eyebrows.

"Earl is an associate of mine," says Havok. "Patches people up, doesn't ask a lot of questions."

My mind races. "Help me," I beg, turning to the other man. He's older, a bit paunchy, and he must've forgotten his hairline back in Italy.

He just shrugs. His voice is livelier than his appearance. "I am helping you."

"No," I say, "This man is a kidnapper, a bad man. He's—"

The doctor cuts me off with laughter. He prepares a replacement IV while he speaks. "Lady, I just patch people up when he asks me to. I jump when they say jump. I got no idea what you're talking about and it ain't my business."

My heart sinks. Havok chuckles. "Forget it, doc," he says. "She's been out of it."

"I have not," I protest. I struggle in the bed again. "You've been keeping me—"

"Quiet," says Havok, in such a sharp and authoritative tone that I dare not talk back to him. "Hold still."

I do as I'm told, and the sensitive skin of my elbow reports a pinching pain as Earl slides another IV needle into it. I flinch. I've always hated needles.

Just a few moments afterward, my worries are bathed in calm. There must be something in the IV other than saline. I try to fight it, but I fail. Vaguely, I wonder if Havok's going to use chemical sedation as a tool against me now, to make sure I'm never able to escape. It's a sickening thought.

Havok and the doctor exchange words, standing off to the side of the room. I'd be able to make it out if it weren't for this IV buzz turning my brain to mush.

I drift out of consciousness, and when I come back to, Havok is standing over me again. There's no sign of the other man. I could've been out for five minutes or five days. It's impossible to tell, and that disturbs me.

When I attempt to speak, though, it's much easier than last time. I also recognize the room. For some reason I'd been under the impression I was in a hospital, or at least the veterinarian's office. But this is Havok's bedroom. My hands are free of handcuffs, but there's still an IV snaking into my arm.

"H-how long was I out?" I say.

Havok's face is a blend of anger and concern, but it seems to me that the anger is winning out right now.

"It's my turn to ask questions," he says.

For some reason, I want him to climb into bed next to me and cuddle me instead of berating me. And it hurts me that I have to flush the thought from my brain. Because he can't console me. He's a monster, and he doesn't have my best interests at heart. He lied to me, kidnapped me, and it seems like he was going to kill me.

He fishes around in his pocket and withdraws an orange pill bottle.
My
orange pill bottle, that I threw out weeks ago.

"What the hell is this?" he says.

Just seeing the bottle reminds my body of the chemical withdrawal happening inside it. A dull pain restarts inside my head, like a wire brush being dragged across the inner surface of my skull. Even though it would be bad for me, I desperately want another pill. Just one more.

"Where did you get that?" I say.

"Checked your trash."

"What are you going to do with me?" I say, trying to ignore the agony rampaging through my body. "You're sick."

He shakes his head. "You don't get it at all," he says.

"That you've kept me prisoner?"

"It's for your own protection," he growls. He runs his hands through his hair, more exasperated than I've ever seen him. He's a man on the edge. "At first, I brought you here so you wouldn't go to the cops. But I couldn't let you go. There were human traffickers after you, Penny."

Human traffickers after me? But I saw the files in his office. How stupid does he think I am?

He goes on. "This is what killed my father," he says, glaring at the pill bottle in his fist. "Borrowed money to pay for his addiction. And when he couldn't pay it back..." His voice trails off. "I can't lose someone else the same way," he says, before walking away.

His story sounds like a fabrication to me. If there's any human trafficker in this picture, it's him.

E
ven during the
dead of night, I can't sleep. My eyes dripping with exhaustion, I stand in the doorjamb of the bedroom and watch her sleep.

I should have seen this coming. Don't know how I missed the signs, how she managed to hide the pills from me.

I don't know why I didn't love her when I had the chance.

I just can't lose somebody else the same way.

The doc says she's stabilized, that she'll make a full recovery. And by that time, the chemical addiction in her brain will have been broken.

But I know how these things go. Saw the same scene repeat itself all through my childhood. Addiction is evil. Every time you think you've killed it, you find out it was just hiding in a dark corner. And it comes back, stronger than before.

I stand clad in boxer shorts. Cold air blows against my bare skin from the vent above the door, prickling me. I take a step forward into the bedroom, toward this beautiful, sexy, tormented girl that I can't rip out of my thoughts, no matter how hard I try. I step lightly, careful not to wake her.

I'm reminded of so many times before, when I've snuck into a bedroom, knife or gun in hand, my target peacefully sleeping and unaware they're going to die in their sleep. Sometimes I wake them up on purpose. Sometimes by accident. Sometimes they don't wake up at all. They go to bed expecting to wake up in the morning, but they simply don't.

Only, it's not like that at all. It's the exact opposite. I'm not sneaking in to take Penny's life. I'm sneaking in to watch her sleep. To protect her as best I can.

When I first brought her here, I tried to keep my hands off her. I wanted so badly to kiss those tits, feel that smooth, hard stomach, fuck that tight pussy with my thick cock. I wanted to make the girl mine. But when I finally got the courage to do it, it was already too late to make her mine.

It fucking sickens me to see her poisoning her body like this. She's too good for that shit. Too good for a ruthless killer like me. But now I have to keep her even closer. Because if I let her go now, she'll die. If not at the hands of the West Ark mafia, at her own hands as soon as she gets her next bottle of pills.

Next to the bed, I stand stiffly, my eyes darting over the shape of her body. She looks so peaceful, her chest rising and falling, her cheek against the soft white pillow.

I extend my arm, brushing the back of my hand against her cheek, then her hair. She's brought out something inside me that I thought was long gone.

But then her eyelids flutter, and I withdraw my hand sharply.

She wakes and looks up at me.

"What're you doing?"

The same question I'm asking myself right now.

"Checking on you," I say.

She rubs her eyes and scoots to an upright position against the headboard. "Can you turn the lights on?"

I do, and she's even more gorgeous in the light than in the dark. The IV bag drips, hanging on a metal pole next to the bed. It's a mixture of saline, light sedative, and methadone, an opiate blocker to reduce the physical side effects of withdrawal.

"I want answers," she says.

For some reason, some of the compassion I was just feeling turns to annoyance. "
You
want answers?" I shake my head. "You broke into my study. Violated my trust."

She cradles her head in her hands, and draws her knees up to her chest. "Yeah. Because you were keeping me prisoner."

"You aren't a prisoner."

"Jesus," she says. "Then what am I? And what are you?"

I open my mouth to argue, but she snaps back. "You owe me the truth."

I'm silent. Goosebumps crawl along my flesh. It's fucking freezing cold in here now. Finally, I speak. "You want the truth? Fine."

Before I speak further, I cross the room—my bedroom that she's taken over—and grab a shirt and pants from the closet. I pull them on, facing away from Penny. Then I turn around.

"The truth is that I kill people for money. I'm a hitman for the Bratva, Penny. I'm not a good man."

She nods. "That's what I thought. But you're not telling the whole truth. You kidnap girls."

I shake my head. "The Bratva started with that shit a few months ago. Wasn't my idea. Even I can't stomach that shit."

"But you kidnapped me."

"I was protecting you," I say, glaring at her. "The day I killed that scumbag you called a boyfriend, it
was
me who was supposed to take you. But I brought you to my home instead."

She scoffs. "If you really wanted to protect me, you'd have gotten me as far away from you as possible."

I shake my head. "The Bratva have eyes, Penny. They see more than you know. And I already told you. I couldn't take the chance of you going to the cops."

She crosses her arms, unhappy. "Just let me go. I'll take my chances."

"So you can turn back into a junkie and get rounded up by the mafia? No," I say.

She scowls, not speaking.

"I have business to do," I say. "Earl will be here soon to take care of you."

"I don't want any more medicine."

"Too damn bad," I say. I leave the room, flipping off the light switch behind me.

I won't let her turn out like my father.

M
y head slips
back into fog when Havok leaves the room. There's no clock in here, and I struggle to judge time.

I don't know if Havok is telling me lies, the partial truth, or the full truth. All I know is that I'm not willing to take any more chances. I'm getting the hell out of here as soon as I can, and then I'll fend for myself.

I wait until I hear what sounds like the garage door opening and Havok leaving.

Then, I try to get up. I struggle to send all my willpower into my leg muscles, to swing them out of bed and carry me to the door. But whatever they're pumping into me is strong, and it's impossible. I'm still not handcuffed, though. Havok must assume the medicine is enough to keep me put.

So, I clench my teeth and yank the catheter out of my arm. A cold liquid drips from the plastic tip onto my bare skin. I tuck it away under the sheets, and wet liquid begins to pool in the fabric.

As I lay there, the IV drug cocktail dripping onto the mattress instead of into my veins, I begin to recover my strength. Not enough to get out of bed, but enough to bend down to the trashcan and fish out the used IV needle.

I clutch the sharp object in my hand, tight, under the covers. And I wait. Havok said the vet, Earl, will be here in the morning to check up on me. I just need him to think everything is normal when he gets here.

Stay awake, Penny.

* * *

S
leep threatens to take me
, tries to massage me into unconsciousness with its soft fingers. But I fight it off until I finally hear the sound of the mansion's front door swing open. And the way it opens, the way it closes, it doesn't sound like Havok.

Sure enough, when the bedroom door creaks open, it's the pudgy, bald veterinarian. The kind of man who pretends to help animals, but who's really sold himself out to the mafia. As soon as he enters the room, the scent of dog reaches my nostrils.

I keep my eyes pressed closed. But I hear him approach, and I sense his presence right next to the bed. My heartbeat quickens, and he grumbles to himself something about it being too early in the morning for a house call.

"Alright, you junkie," he says, "Let's get this over with." He grabs the sheets on top of me, tossing them to my knees to reveal the arm that used to be piped into the IV machine. Only this time, the needle is in my fist, and the medication is soaked into the bedsheets in a giant puddle.

"What the—"

I open my eyes, and with a scream, I plunge the thick metal needle right into his throat. It connects with the flesh, the sharp tip sinking deep into his rough, red skin.

He lets out a horrified scream, clasping his hands to his throat, where the needle hangs halfway out of his neck.

"You junkie bitch!" He coughs and sputters, yanking the needle out of his neck, but the delay gives me the time I needed to get on my feet.

"I'm sorry," I say, as I pick up the metal pole holding the now-empty IV bag. I swing it hard, the top-heavy end connecting with the man's skull. One of the sharp hooks digs into his scalp, and blood sprays down onto the carpet. He staggers as I wrench the metal out of his scalp. The hook makes a tearing sound as it comes out of his skin, a noise that I didn't know human flesh could make. He wobbles toward me, pressing a hand against the flap of skin on his head. "I'm sorry," I repeat, and I crash the pole down onto him again. This time, he crumples to the ground.

I drop the pole, gazing at him. I've never wanted to hurt anyone before. And I didn't want to hurt him either. Guilt tugs at my heartstrings. But I have to do what I have to do to get out of here.

I rush downstairs, and go to the laundry hamper in the closet. I grab jeans and a t-shirt, and pull them on after shedding the gown I was wearing. I must smell like a donkey right now, but there's no time to shower. I've got to leave before Havok gets back.

My purse sits on the dining table, the spilled contents littering the table's surface. Havok clearly rooted through it while I was under. I cram all my stuff back into my purse as fast as I can. Then, I find my shoes by the door, slip them on, and escape out into the humid morning.

* * *

M
y first instinct
is to get as far away from West Ark as I can. I don't know if Havok is telling me the truth or not, but somebody's going to be after me, whether it's the Bratva or him. The only sure thing is that I need to get far, far away.

I keep my head down as I walk through the West Ark downtown streets. Businessmen, couriers, mothers, and families pass me on the street. With my disheveled appearance, it occurs to me that I blend in better now than ever. I avoid eye contact with everyone, looking down at my feet.

There are still a few twenties in my purse from my last shift at
Fascinations
—Havok didn't take the money when he went through my stuff.

As I walk, I realize what I need to do. Mackenzie. I need to call her.

At the next convenience store I pass, I dip inside and purchase a prepaid phone. Mackenzie's number is one of the few I have memorized.

I dial her. There are a couple rings, then an automated voice.

"This number has been disconnected."

Fuck. She's had that number for years.

With a sinking feeling, I realize the possibility that they—the Bratva, Havok, whoever—must have gotten her too.

I jam the phone in my purse, then walk back onto the main sidewalk. But a hard, metal object presses into my side, and I stiffen. My head swivels.

Igor stands behind me. "Walk," he says, "or I shoot."