Never Have an Outlaw's Baby: Deadly Pistols MC Romance (Outlaw Love) (30 page)

“Okay. I'm not as hard as my gramps. I'll tell you that much. Prison's rough. You're right – it's boring as all fuck. My old man brought us over here when we were just kids. Guess me and my brothers have been in the US of A too long to be as cold as our Siberian forefathers. You wanna hear about my regrets? Just one.” He held up a pointer finger.

I waited. Fighting off another round of shaking knees, I slid back into my seat, pressing the phone so tight to my ear I thought I'd leave a permanent imprint there.

“I'm listening. What is it?”

“I regret ever responding to that fucking note in the pretty pink envelope. You're young and beautiful, Sabrina. You ought to be writing about fashion and eccentric artists. Shit, maybe slipping on some pretty lingerie and posing for the magazines for some side cash. Not spending a bright autumn day chasing down monsters in this fucking place. Go home.”

I stopped, stared, and felt my nostrils flare. Before I could say anything, he slammed his phone into the wall and shuffled up. He never looked back once as he walked to the door, slow and steady, moving like a stuffed orange tiger who'd just had a good meal.

You can guess who. Ugh.

He never looked back, not even when I smashed my phone down and ran a trembling hand across my face. I had to fight every urge to pick the phone up and begin smashing it to bits against the wall.

This asshole frustrated me in all the wrong ways – mentally, physically, sexually. Admitting that last one made me want to try to break through that glass slab myself so I could follow and strangle him.

No, no, no, this couldn't be happening. God damn.

I'd lost my story and my pride in one blow. I certainly wasn't going to write about how I'd just gotten completely owned by the twisted asshole who'd demolished my Uncle's best bar and lounge to become the biggest terrorist in Chicago's recent history.

I spun, flustered, fighting down the lump in my throat. Charlie the Warden was already standing there with the door open, an apologetic look on his face. I didn't care about making a scene. I hurled the unused notepad into the little waste bin on my way out, stomping past him so quickly I didn't care about the dark, cruel eyes in the dingy cells ogling me as I marched to the exit.

I
sat
in the Silver Pear downtown, enjoying my second martini on the house. Free drinks at the family's bars were the only perks I allowed myself for being a Ligiotti girl – not counting the fat trust fund dear old dad left me before he ODed one cold winter night half a decade ago.

I was his legacy. I wanted to make him proud, and Uncle Gioulio too. The interview was supposed to do that, and I'd fucking blown it.

The glory would have to wait while I licked my wounds and regrouped. Right now, all I was concerned about was dousing my belly in as much alcohol as I could get without falling off my chair.

My heels rubbed together, close to starting a fire beneath the leather booth, but it wasn't half as hot as the ridiculous furnace beating in my belly. I dreaded the call from Richard the blogger. Just dreaded it.

Not only would I have to tactfully admit I'd bombed the one story good enough to get me an in with his wildly popular blog, but I knew I'd feel the failure all over again. I couldn't just swallow the humiliation and move on.

Nobody treated me like Anton did – nobody! Sure, growing up a second generation crime princess made me as entitled as they come. But Anton Ivankov had knocked me to the floor as a
journalist
and wiped his feet on me.

Shallow, angry sips slid down my throat. I wished I'd ordered something stronger. If I wanted to be brutally honest – and I did – the bastard stirred up more than humiliation.

The coarse, filthy way he'd talked was burned into my head, like he'd pulsed those words against my skin with his rough lips. He was masculine power personified, stuffed into a bright orange jumpsuit. I couldn't remember the last man who'd really made me ache, pulsed a sultry tension through my core, folding everything inward.

Probably because there wasn't one. Anton had done the unthinkable, and it was just my luck that he was the one man on planet earth who was totally off limits.

Maybe being twenty-two and a virgin does crazy things to the mind.

No boys had the balls to ask me out in school. Word travels fast when you're a dead mobster's daughter, a living crime lord's niece, and you get chauffeured to prep school everyday by two big Roman bulldogs who'd knock some gangly kid's teeth out if he even looked at me the wrong way.

Well, fuck them. I didn't want a coward. And screw the goofy frat boys I'd been tempted to have a quick, drunken tryst with in college. They obviously hadn't tempted me enough.

I was holding out for a
man.
One who could pull my hair, drag me up to his level, and fuck me into the mattress until I couldn't remember my own name. Anton offered it all, if only he wasn't behind bars.

Unfortunately, it seemed like all the real men lived in the blackest corners of the underworld. Darker than anything I'd experienced. And that made me sad because it called me to tip-toe into them, go to all the places my father never wanted me to visit, into the shadows I'd determined to avoid.

My head was spinning. I was still hot, crazed, and slightly wet, no matter how much I drank.

Bastard!
He'd gotten underneath my skin, into my blood, crawled up inside me when I wasn't looking.

That call with Richard didn't seem apocalyptic anymore. No, what really worried me was a freak possibility of a second interview with Anton.

If he could leave these kinda scorch marks on me in a taunting half hour session, what would he do next?

N
ightfall
.

I took the call from Richard and talked it up like a triumph. It wasn't just saving face – it was keeping my face from getting peeled off in the cutthroat world of weekly features and ad-driven exclusives.

He only sounded half-convinced. Too bad. I'd find some way to
make
this thing a win. I had to.

First, though, I had a two block walk home to my little condo, and then a few more shots of whiskey before I passed out early.

Anton came to me in the sleek, cozy darkness when I laid down. My brain wouldn't let go of his feral energy. He leaped into my bed, pushed between my legs. I reached down to bat his hands away, but he just jerked them up above my head in his huge fists, growling as he smashed them into the pillow.

“Stop fucking fighting me, babe. This is what you want. Your pretty mouth can tell all the lies it wants, but your pussy's all truth. Shit, I've always wondered what an Italian girl feels like.” He hovered over my lips, breathing hot breath, one bite away from getting his teeth on my tender flesh. “Do you fuck like your family does business? Sneaky? Sloppy? Merciless? Or are you gonna drain my balls like an Ivankov's girl, fuck me like it's the only time you're ever gonna have a dick this good in you?”

I tried to let out a scream, but he smashed his lips to mine. A bomb went off in my belly. Before I knew what was happening, my legs trembled. I couldn't feel anything except the fire between them, a rising fire he controlled.

“What's the matter? Haven't you ever been fucked before?” Rearing up, Anton's dark eyes flashed. He rocked his hips against me knowingly, raking my throat with his stubble.

To my horror, my hips rose to meet his. I grunted, throwing my weight into it, grinding my sopping wet panties on his cock.

It was all he needed. With another growl, he reached down, ripped them down to my knees, and shifted his weight until he was totally on top of me. His icy eyes glowed with the same playful fire during the interview, and then he tugged on a zipper, shoving down his pants.

His cock pressed against my folds. So damned big, harder and hotter than anything I imagined.

No! It's going to hurt me. It's going to rip me apart.

No time to dwell on those thoughts. He covered my mouth, giving me a wink like he knew how to read my mind. Guess he did since he was a figment of my own lust.

“No!” I screamed it through his fingers, and it came out like a feeble whisper.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he said, rubbing his length against my clit, harder with every word. “You fucking asked for this, babe. Now I'm gonna deliver exactly what you're hankering for. You want it hard and rough. And if you don't, you sure as fuck will after this.”

His cruel blue eyes froze me with fire as he pulled back. Then his hips slammed down, throttled against me, tearing me open for him. I arched my back and –

“Fuck!” I bolted up, hurling the heavy blanket off me.

Crazy, crazy dream. It was like he was really there, truer than any nightmare. I was burning up a second ago, but now I was freezing cold. Folding my arms, I felt the clammy heat on my skin, wondering why I was so damned cold.

I wondered, but I already knew. Anton Ivankov had officially gotten into my head like a parasite, an evil, sexy intruder I was sick and insane to want.

My body jerked again when the phone rang on my nightstand. I picked it up, grinding my teeth, reminding myself to pick a different ring-tone later on. Hearing the
boom-boom-boom
of some stupid pop song screaming at me this early was officially too much.

“Hello?”

“Brina, it's Richard. Listen, I wanted to apologize for being such a dismissive asshole yesterday. I'm sorry I ever doubted you.” He sounded excited.

I frowned. “What? What are you talking about?”

“We just got a lovely thank you here at the office from Lake Federal Correctional. Dunno what the hell you said, but it must've left a mark on Mister Ivankov. He thanked you, thanked the blog, and he says he'd like to do a followup soon! Can you get your draft over to me today? Can't wait to see what the hell you've got.”

“Sure.”

“Fantastic!” The word burst out of his mouth so loud I had to hold the phone away. “This is fucking gold, Brina. Keep it up and you're gonna be getting exclusives with way more than the Chicago bomber.”

The call went dead. I flung the phone down on my mattress and collapsed headfirst. All the blood seething through my loins was racing up my spine now, pooling in my head, trying to cool the evil burn building in my brain.

I had to see him again. There was no going back. And – worse than anything – he wanted to see
me.

Why, why, why ran through my head, touching all the horrible possibilities. I shook my head, trying to understand, and failing.

I thought I was going for a real hard hitting exclusive with a hardened criminal. Instead, I was becoming a prisoner myself with a bigger, fancier cell, a whole universe compared to his tiny six by eight world.

Unlike him, though, I had a way out when all this was over.

I had strong family ties and a clean record on my side. If I mined him for gold, I could do anything I wanted.

“You can do this,” I whispered, clenching my fists as hard as I could.

Yeah, I could, and I had to. If I could get it over soon, then I'd come out of it with a story as awesome as Richard imagined, or fall right on my face. Whatever way it went, it would end there, wouldn't it?

Anton had gotten his hooks in me for sure. But I was determined to dig them out, throw them away, and never, ever fret over the big handsome bastard in the orange jumpsuit again.

I
lay in my cell
, wondering who the fuck I'd pleased up in heaven to drop this miracle in my lap. The Ligiotti girl was beautiful, hungry for my every word, and also dumb as a stump.

Well, at least as far as what came next was concerned.

Blowing up those twisted fucks at Club Duce must've scored me some points with the angels of justice and death. Yeah, the media loved to beat their chests about the twenty upstanding citizens I'd slaughtered. Nobody except my two brothers and I knew upstanding citizens don't visit a place like that after hours, owned by an Italian mob boss with a love for making easy money off slave pussy.

No point in talking about that. It wouldn't buy me parole. It sure as shit wouldn't win me any points with the sassy little beauty queen I'd just invited back for a followup.

I had to make shit happen myself if I ever wanted to see the light of day again. My brothers were on the outside waiting, scheming, looking for a sign. I took the fall for Lev and Daniel like a good elder brother should, and there was no fucking way they'd leave me high and dry.

We had a plan for these situations. You do a lot of goddamned planning when making good money puts your ass on the line in all the worst ways.

Escape was barely harder than whispering it. They were just waiting for me to give the word, the signal. And I couldn't wait to see the crazy ass look on their faces when I busted out and dumped a Ligiotti girl right in their laps.

Vengeance wasn't supposed to be this easy. Neither was a second crack at fuckface Gioulio.

I grinned, slapping my stress ball from one hand to the next. It was my fifth ball in the last six months I'd gotten trading petty shit with different fractions, something to keep the bones in my hands strong and my mind happy. Came in handy when the urge to grab some fuck by the throat and squeeze him 'til his head popped off got too strong.

And when I wanted to fuck? It was a godsend. Tonight, the little ball was my faceless angel, crushed in one hand and then the next, back and forth, long after my knuckles went numb.

Sabrina looked far hotter than the daughter of my sworn enemy had any business being. Or maybe my brain automatically saw a perfect ten
because
she was a Ligiotti. The hourglass hips, big ripe tits, and hazel eyes beneath her raven hair just completed the ensemble.

Perfect ten. Perfect tease. Perfect for me to fuck one day when I got outta here.

Christ, it was gonna be a fuck to remember too. I'd start an earthquake right in the middle of goddamned Midwest when my hips went to work on her. I hoped to hell she'd cling onto me and take it like a slut, ride the seething volcano of testosterone pent up for way too fucking long.

If she didn't? Tough. Shit.

Nothing was gonna stop these fists from hammering their way outta this hellhole. And a few smooth caresses sure as hell wasn't stopping my dick the instant it was pressed up against soft, wet female flesh.

I almost popped the stress ball like a fat water balloon, thinking of all the ways I'd dig my fingers into her ass while I slammed into her cunt, showing her Ivankov's fuck hard, long, and honest.

“Hey!” A fist pounded on the bunk above me. “You still down there jacking off to that reporter girl?”

I grinned in the darkness, throwing the ball to my opposite hand, hard enough to make a resounding
slap
. “Go back to sleep, old man. You know I don't spend precious energy jerking off. Don't need to waste my jizz in my own fucking fist. Pussy's on the menu for me soon.”

Dino snorted. “You planning something, Russki?”

“Nothing you need to know about,” I growled, pinching the ball in one fist. “I'll send a Christmas card to your crew if it all works out.”

The old biker chuckled. “Don't think the Devils up in Des Moines want much to do with you Russian bastards in Chicagoland. But yeah, give 'em my regards.”

I grunted, wondering if I'd look half as good as the leathery fuck above by the time I pushed sixty. Whatever. I had about thirty years to find out, and I sure as shit wasn't spending them behind bars.

Old Dino had a whole crew waiting on the outside, tons of biker buddies in the notorious Prairie Devils MC, who ruled the plains out state. Here, it was just me and my brothers, and we owned a piece of Chicago.

If everything went as planned, we were gonna own a whole lot more soon, carving out prime cuts from the late Ligiotti empire.

Shit, maybe I'd really make off with Sabrina in the process. I deserved a pretty trophy after a year rotting in courtrooms and cramped cells. There was so much left to experience on the outside, starting with whether or not a dark Italian princess could keep up with my Slavic need to fuck around the clock.

A
couple days later
, I saw Charlie walking up to my cell. We'd just gotten through our time in the prison yard. Maybe the extra sheen of sweat from all that iron I'd pumped would turn Sabrina's head harder. Good looks have always served me well, clouding up the minds of opponents and prey, if they're female.

I worked hard on being ripped, and I wielded it like a weapon. Real strength comes when you can stand up and watch a lesser man cower. I wasn't interested in flexing guns for girls, but making them as hard as I fucking could to beat any bastard who crossed me into the floor.

Of course, having a killer bod to match the bloodlust in my veins drenched every panty I ever came across without lifting a finger.

Sabrina's were gonna be the latest on my list. Playing with her last time, watching her get flustered, hit the fucking spot. I knew there was more to the girl's blush than raw anger when I saw it. She would've jumped my bones and started grinding on me if it wasn't for that fucking glass.

Today, it was time to shift into a different gear, give her a better chance to lead the questions. That damned interview had to get published, after all, if I was gonna swing the trap.

“Come on. She's waiting for you,” Charlie said, giving me a suspicious look.

I felt the hair prickling on that bastard's neck every time he walked me down to the visiting room with his underling guard. They had me in the middle, standard procedure, good distance between us, but I knew that fuck always wondered if I'd lunge, grab him by the throat, and slam his face into the ground. He'd be dead before anybody could get off a shot.

Killing his ass wasn't on my schedule today. I didn't have it in for these fucks, even though drawing their blood sounded good after a year of them herding me like a goddamned sheep.

He held the door open and I walked in, then slammed it tight behind me. It took my eyes a couple seconds to adjust to the bright white fluorescent light. Then I saw her behind the glass, and cracked a smile as I approached.

Fuck, she was young. I had to check to make sure she was really outta college, and not just a freshman straight outta daddy's penthouse. Though her old man was long gone, so it would've been her uncle instead.

Gioulio Ligiotti. Latest lord of the city's leading Italian crime family. Also the fuck my brothers and I were gonna kill, one way or another – but that was getting ahead of myself.

I plopped down in front of her, resting my chains on the small wooden desk, reaching for the phone. The girl already had hers up against her ear, patiently waiting for me.

“Didn't expect you'd come back so easy after last time,” I said.

“You wanted me to. I think you're sorry for what happened.” Surprising confidence rang in her voice.

Surprising, because it was fake as shit. She thought she could grab me by the balls and give them a good twist by looking me in my blue eyes, pretending to be stronger. I had to play along, even though I would've liked nothing better than to pop outta my chair and slam both fists on the glass. It was tempting to remind her who was in control here.

Would she topple over, giving me a perfect view of those sweet tits beneath her sweater? Or would she high tail it to the door, shaking that fine ass, leaving me to grip the ever living shit outta my stress ball?

Later,
I promised myself.
Keep your cool and maybe you'll find out. Maybe you'll get to do things to little Miss Ligiotti that'll make your brothers cry with jealousy.

“Sorry? Whatever. I agree it's good to start over,” I said coldly, flashing her a thin smile. “I'm ready to be a good boy this afternoon. Are you ready to listen?”

She nodded, a fresh new notepad in her hands. “Let's take a different approach. I know, we've already figured out you don't do remorse, regret. So, do you actually feel proud of the things you've done? The bombing?”

Good question. I leaned in, tightening my fists, pausing just long enough to see the nervous uncertainty light up her eyes.

“I'm proud of serving my family. My people. This fucked up world doesn't have many places for men anymore. I can't run off to the battlefields like gramps did for the motherland. I'm American through and through. Haven't been to Moscow since I was a baby. Still, the values are the same, especially here in the land of opportunity. Best thing I can do is make my family proud, doing what we do best.”

“Yeah?” Her eyebrows lifted. “And what's that?”

“Making bank. Spilling blood, sweat, and tears, getting our piece away from the rest of the mad dogs chomping at the bit in this town. You ever heard of the Red Eagle?”

She shook her head.

“It was a little vodka bar my Uncle Volodya started right off Fulton, back in the late nineties, about the time I figured out I could do a whole lot more with a woman besides stare at her pretty dress.”

I dropped my eyes, a blatant attempt to catch some tits hidden behind that fabric. It was too high to see any skin, but fuck if it wasn't tight enough to see her curves, make out the plush outline of those tits my hands burned to ravage.

Shit. It was way too early in the interview to let my dick get this hard, snapping at my orange pants, too stupid to know throwing her to the wall and fucking her wasn't an option right now. Not just yet.

Good thing reporter girl was just as flustered. Her cheeks got a little brighter, and she lost my gaze, darting to her notepad and then back up, trying to clear the steam throttling her brain – or maybe oiling up her pussy.

“Uncle Volodya tried to go legit. He was a good guy. Funny, generous, dedicated to his work. He got rave reviews and tons of tourists. He was making money hand over fist, and for awhile my old man was looking at getting into the biz himself. Then one day a pack of Yakuza put three neat holes in his chest and popped about as many heads as they blew vodka bottles. You wanna talk about massacring innocents? This family lived it. We let our guard down. After Uncle Volodya, we learned there was no going back.”

I paused. She scribbled furiously – probably trying to keep her pure eyes off me. I sure as shit didn't keep mine off her. No, it was the perfect opportunity to watch her tits bobbing underneath that shirt, watch her plucking at her glossy bottom lip with those little teeth.

I'd suck that sweet flap between my lips ten times harder. Fuck, I'd bite it, sink my teeth in, taste her and memorize it before we fucked ourselves crazy.

“Tell me about your brothers. Family's obviously important to you.” She looked up, tucking a loose strand of that silky black hair over her ear.

“Lev and Daniel are my blood. They've got my back and they always will. I watched them come up behind me as a kid. They cried just as hard as I did when our parents died. They celebrated like fucking maniacs right along with me every time we won something new for the family. They're my brothers, in blood and spirit. The shit we've done...it brings you close, Sabrina. Closer than anybody living a nice, quiet life on the outside will ever understand.”

There was that nervous flash again in her hazel eyes. I smiled. She didn't know that I knew exactly who her family was. Just like she didn't realize I was staring at my ticket to a family reunion really soon.

“I want you to give me a moment,” she said, twirling the marker against her lips thoughtfully. “Sometime when you knew this was the life for you, and there was no turning back. Was there one?”

I nodded. She did a damned good job of changing the subject, deflecting the shit I said about criminal lives. This little reporter knew a helluva lot more about it than anybody else who'd be sitting in that chair for a sensationalized bullshit rag.

“3:30 PM. A cold Wednesday, about four years ago. That was the day I held my old man as he coughed up blood and shuddered one last time, on his way to meet the reaper. It was a hit and run. They did it quick while he was walking on a busy street, slammed him to the wall and sliced his throat with a piano wire. Sloppy as shit. He played dead. Took him about a half hour to bleed out and go cold. Long enough for me to come running when I got his garbled call. Not long enough for the medics to do shit. It feels like it was yesterday, and it's still gonna feel that way next week too.”

Sabrina stiffened. She sat straight up, a dark sympathy swirling in her eyes. Good thing they were so bright just then, because with her sitting up like that, my eyes wanted to fall instantly to her tits. My hands hurt, begging to flatten themselves against the glass, wishing to high hell they could find their way through and squeeze her nips.

“And how did that make you feel?”

Fuck, was this chick even wearing a bra? I looked down, giving her my best sad puppy dog face, hoping it wasn't too fucking unbelievable. No, she had a bra after all, but it didn't do anything to hide her curves and edges. Thorns scraped my veins, a horny numbness, aching to get outta this cage, lay her down, and fuck the living shit outta her.

Patience, you bastard,
I thought.
Finish this shit right, and you might get your chance in another week.

“Alone,” I said. “Like I'd been thrown in solitary, except nobody was ever coming back. I was the only one of my three brothers who got to say goodbye to papa. I gave myself a day to be quiet and sad at his funeral, and then...”

When I wouldn't finish it, burying my face in one hand, she tapped the glass gently. I threw my hand down, making her think I'd swept a fake tear from one cheek.