Romance: Motorcycle Club Romance: Outlaw Biker's Baby (Contemporary Alpha Male MC Biker Romance) (Bad Boy MC Biker Pregnancy Romance) (7 page)

''We're Russians. We've got a lot of friends to call
on,
and that's what I'm going to do. Very soon Hyka will be floating face down in the Hudson River.''

''But what about Igor? Who will look after him?''

''Go back to London. Igor will contact you when he gets better. If he does.''

Cassy thought about what he'd just said. ''If he does.'' There was a chance Igor would be a vegetable, but if Michael
were
in danger, she would go back to London.

*****

Jesus what wrong with me Cassy thought as she leaned over the flower border and threw up? She'd taken Michael for a walk in the garden of Igor's London home and suddenly felt ill.

''Sick?'' Michael asked.

“Yes. I feel a bit sick. Shall we go inside?''

Michael nodded. ''Inside. Yes inside.''

Cassy went to the bathroom and threw up again. ''Shit,'' she muttered. She took off her top and felt her breasts. She hadn't noticed, but they were a little sensitive to the touch. I'm in a foreign country with the responsibility of an autistic brother, and I'm more than likely pregnant, she thought.

''Michael, we've  got to go far a walk again,'' she said.

They wandered slowly down to a drug store and went inside. The old woman behind the counter gave her a tester kit and Cassy paid.

Cassy didn't know what to think when the display showed: ''Pregnant.'' She wanted to cry. She was thousands of miles from home, and the father of her child was unconscious in
hospital
. She put her hand on her belly and closed her eyes. Suddenly she was overcome with tender feelings for Igor that were so strong, she picked up her cellphone and called Dima.

''Great timing,'' he said. ''I'm at the hospital. They called me and told me he'd woken up. Do you want to speak to him?''

''Oh yes,'' she said enthusiastically.

''Hello,'' he said.

''How are you feeling?''

''Okay. The doctor says I'll be out in a few days. They were a bit worried about me,  but the swelling in my  brain has gone down.''

''Thank God. Igor, when are you coming to London. I need to talk to you.''

''What about?''

''I can't tell you on the phone, but I need you to come here as soon as you can.''

''Are you okay?'' he asked.

''Yes perfectly. Michael is
okay
as well. It's just, I.........I need you.''

Igor smiled. He was pleased she'd said that.
He
'd realized in the few hours he'd been awake that he needed her very much as well. When he thought of her, he knew his days of womanizing were gone. There was only one woman for him now. ''Cassy, Dima and I have one last task, then I will come to London.''

''What
task
?'' she asked.

''We have to finish what we started.''

''No Igor. You
were almost killed
. My God, you're lying in a hospital bed and talking about going out to fight. Are you insane?''

''Insane or not Hyka is going to pay. This time, we're going with our friends.''

''No Igor, I forbid it.''

''And who are you to forbid me anything? If you
remember,
I helped you when I didn't have to. Without me, Michael would be dog meat. Never talk to me like that again.''

Cassy wanted to tell him about the baby. That's why she was so worried. She didn't want her child to grow up without a father. ''Sorry. Do what you have to do. But come to me in one piece and soon. Okay?''

''Alright,'' he said.

When he'd hung
up,
Cassy called a friend of her late
father's
.

''Dennis it's Cassy.''

''Cassy. How's Michael after what happened to him?''

''Okay I think. There doesn't seem to be any
bad
reaction. Maybe in the future, who knows.''

''Margery and I were so sorry to hear what happened. But at least, he's home now.''

''Actually, we're in London, but it's a long story. Dennis, I need your help. I want to sell everything. The business and the house.''

''Wow. Are you sure?''

''Perfectly sure. I was never really interested in the toy business, and I don't think dad would have minded me selling it. What do you think it's worth?''

''About fifteen billion dollars.''

''Really?''

''Yes,
really
.''

''Can you start the procedure for me? I'll see that you're well remunerated.''

''Sure. Give me a couple of
weeks; I
'll consult the lawyers and get back to you.''

''Thanks, Dennis.''

Cassy sat down and wondered what it would be like to have that kind of money in the bank. She didn't want to be a business
woman; she
wanted to be a good mother. With that kind of security,
she
could help her children become anything they wanted. She'd never have to work
again,
and she could buy Michael all the care he needed.

Cassy had promised Igor she wouldn't call him for a few days. He needed time with Dima to correlate a plan for the extermination of the man who kidnapped Michael. Her sickness
continued,
and she often went to bed very early and dreamed about how Igor would react when he found out she was expecting his child. 

After a week, she started to worry. She called.

''Igor. What's happening? I'm worried.''

''Not now,'' he said and hung up.

What the hell?
She
thought. She called back.

''Listen, I'm in the middle of something. Haven't you got any fucking patience?'' Igor said.

''Sorry,'' she replied.

Perhaps she'd interrupted him in
the middle
of the task at hand, she thought. Still, even if she had, there was no need for him to talk to her like that. When he got to London, she would inform him of her displeasure at the way he spoke to her.

*****

Michael was sitting in an armchair working out how many roses were on the wallpaper, and Cassy was lying on the sofa feeling queasy. CNN was on TV, more as background than active viewing.

Cassy started to listen when she heard the words, ''Albanian and Russian.''

''There has been a shoot out in Brighton Beach, New York between what is thought to be a Russian gang and an Albanian gang. It isn't clear what the motive was, but eye witnesses report a group of about twenty Russians bursting into a well know
restaurant
that belongs to Murat
Hyka,
an Albanian
businessman
. The whereabouts of Mr. Hyka is unknown, but it
is thought
he was taken away from the scene by a group of Russian men. So far the police have made no comment, except to confirm that three Russians
were killed
in the shootout and five Albanians.''

''No,'' Cassy said. ''Oh God no, please don't let it be him.''

''Cassy okay?'' Michael asked.

''Yes darling, I
'm fine,
'' she sobbed.

''Don't
look fine
,'' he observed.

''No really I'm fine.''

Cassy left the room and tried to call Igor. No reply. She tried Dima. Also no
reply
. Now she was frantic. If it was him, what would she do? No, it couldn't be. The reporter had said there had been twenty
Russians,
and only three were dead. The chances were, Igor wasn't one of them.

Throughout the evening, she kept CNN
on
and saw the same report time after time. It was no comfort. The names of the dead
weren't given
. All she was doing was making herself more miserable, she thought.

''Bedtime Michael,'' she said at half past ten.

When Cassy got ready for bed, she prayed that he was still alive. She closed her eyes and tried to
sleep,
but it was useless. An hour later
she
got up and wandered down to the sitting room. She turned on the TV and again waited for news.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. ''Michael,
go
to bed,'' she said.

''It isn't Michael. It's me.''

Cassy jumped up and threw herself at Igor. ''How the hell did you get here so quickly?''

''It's only five hours flying from New York.''

''I thought you were dead. They said on CNN......''

''Never believe the press.''

He kissed her and lifted her up. ''There's only one place I want to go with you,'' he said.

''You'll have to be very careful with me from now on,'' she said. He looked at her quizzically. ''I'm pregnant.''

''What? How?''

''That's the dumbest question I've ever heard. I'm about five weeks.''

''So, it's mine?''

''Jesus Igor. What do you take
me for
?
Of course,
it's yours. You're going to be a father.''

''Oh my God. Really?''

''Yes.''

He took her to the bedroom and made love to her. He was a passionate lover, but this time, he was gentle, tender and very loving. Cassy fell asleep more satisfied than ever in the knowledge that he was safe.

When they woke, she rolled to
him,
and he put his arms around her.

''What happened?'' She asked.

''Dima, me and a few others went to his restaurant. We asked him about Michel. He told us to fuck off. He was
very rude
. A few of his men came out and started shooting, but we soon silenced them. Then we took the fat little ass-hole and threw him in the river. At the time, he was wearing a concrete sock.'' He squeezed Cassy to him. ''It's over Cassy.
You and Michael are
safe now. We can go back to New York.''

''I don't want to. I'm selling all my assets in America. I want Michael to have a happy home here. England is much less violent than the US.
He's been
through a lot. I'll pocket a few billion from the sale of the toy
business,
and we can live a happy life, without worry.''

''Okay. What do you think about us?''

''I don't want you. You are far too violent.''

Igor sat up and looked at her face. She was laughing. ''Joke, right?''

''Of course, it's a joke. I love you. I
was terrified
you'd
been killed
. At that
moment,
I knew you were the one for me.''

''And I love you. So, let's stay here. I'll make some inquiries about a school for  Michael.''

Michael, I'm having a baby,'' Cassy said at breakfast.

''Baby,'' he repeated.

''You know what I mean. Don't you? We are going to have a baby in the house.''

Michael looked at her and put his hand on her belly. ''Okay. A baby,'' he said.

*****

Cassy had a boy and a year later a girl. She and Igor were married when both children were old enough to walk down the aisle with them. Igor concentrated on buying and selling real estate and never again entered into dubious activities.

Michael lived with Cassy and Igor. Their children loved him and looked after him as a brother.

*****

THE END

1

It was Saturday, and it was my first off day on a weekend in a
really
long time. I couldn’t remember having a Saturday off since I had started working for Mr. Black. That wasn’t his real
name,
of
course; I
was pretty sure there wasn’t anyone in Russia with the last name of Black, and my boss was as Russian as they got. His accent was so thick it was hard to understand him sometimes.

I was Russian in the sense that my great grandfather came over and built a life for himself. His name had been
Pitor
Anismov
. He did pretty well for himself, the old guy. My
own
grandfather told me a lot of stories about him. Grandpa was Alan
Anismov
. Alan was as American a name as old
Pitor
could come
up with
. He wanted his son to be American. He hated Russia. It was
cold; it
was hard living. America represented something to him. An opportunity.

Grandpa had two daughters. My
mom,
he named Rebecca, and her sister was Rose. Rose died when she was only
five; I
never met her. My mom married a guy named Mike Jones, and they got me, Peter Jones. Doesn’t sound very Russian, and it took me a while to convince Mr. Black that my family came from there. Having Russians, it was important to him.

I
was named
after
Pitor
, but with the American spelling. When he came
over,
he made money any way he could. I’ve taken that
up to
. I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of, and a lot of
things
which could land me in jail, but hey, a job is a job. I keep my head down, steer clear of cops, and make sure the guys I rough up
really
have it coming to them.

Mr. Black is a fair guy, believe it or not. He’s big and round, with a bald head and a fat stomach, but he calls
it like
he sees it, and he plays everyone straight. There’s something honorable about
that, really
. A criminal who tries to do right by his
own
ethics and moral code. I’m the same way. I won’t knock over some mom and pop shop unless they’re laundering money for another
guy
or something like that. My boss is the same way.

But he works us a lot. I do
this; I
do that. I’m on call
twenty-four
seven. That’s why I was looking so forward to that Saturday.

I slept in, having a weekend day off. I didn’t wake up until after noon. I lounged in bed for a bit, until my stomach was telling me I needed food, and then I got up. I was halfway through my second bowl of Frosted Flakes when my cell rang. I grabbed it and sighed. It was Mr. Black.

“Peter my boy,” the old man grumbled. “I need you.”

I knew better than to argue. “What can I do for
you,
Mr. Black?” I asked.

He gave me an
address
and told me I was working security at nine that evening. I hung up and finished my cereal.
Nine wasn’t so bad.
Of course, if Mr. Black told me nine, he expected me there by eight thirty.
I, at least,
had the day. I went back to bed.

By
six,
I climbed out of bed and slowly got ready after wolfing down a sandwich. By eight twenty I was parking across from the address I had
been given
. It was a place downtown, in a seedy looking neighborhood. The building was squat and wide, just one story, with no windows that I could see. All gray and closed off. The door was large and metal, and a man in a suit was loitering outside of it.

I locked my car and made my way across the street.
I realized I knew the man standing by the heavy door, and he nodded to me as I got closer.
His name was Marco, and he worked for David
Zinga
, a Mexican arms dealer that Mr. Black was
friendly with
.

“Marco,” I said, stopping
for a minute
to chat with the guy. He was smoking, and he took a long drag on the cigarette he held between two fingers before answering.

“How goes it, Peter?” He asked, his voice
low
, like a tiger’s growl. He was a big guy, muscles upon muscles, with a scar running down one cheek.

“All right. It was my day off,” I complained, and Marco laughed, but his eyes were sympathetic.

“What’s a day off?” He asked, and it was my turn to laugh. I slapped him on the back and stepped inside. I expected the building to be dark, but it was well lit. There was a small hallway right at the entrance, with a door propped open at the end, and beyond that a large open room. Lights hung from the ceiling, buzzing
softly
as I passed underneath them. At the far end of the
room
was a small stage of sorts, a raised section of flooring which came up to my waist. There was a door there, built into the wall on the rear of the stage. A friend of mine stood there, another guy who worked for my boss, someone I had pulled a few
jobs with
. His name was Vlad, and he was about ten years older than my twenty-five. His last name was Nikitin, and he was like Mr. Black, right from the mother country. His accent wasn’t as pronounced
however
, he had apparently moved to America with his family when he was only three. He was tall and angular, with a long crooked nose that had
been broken
more than once.

“Hey kid,” he said to me as I found the steps to the stage and moved up to greet my friend. He always called me
kid
.

“Hey Vlad,” I said. “Mr. Black coming?”

Vlad shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows,” he said. “I think a lot of big hitters will be
here,
though.”

“What is this?” I asked. “Arms deal?”

Vlad laughed and shook his head. “Not quite Kid,” he said. Then he nodded to the door which stood off to the side, leading from the stage. “
Go check
it out.”

I looked at him, wondering if he was trying to get me in trouble. I was just working security. Mr. Black, and the others like him, they didn’t like us small timers getting our noses where they didn’t belong. I was muscle, plain and
simple
. I had my gun, in a shoulder holster under my suit jacket. Mr. Black always had us in shirts and ties.

I made my way to the door at the back of the
stage
and then looked over my shoulder, back to Vlad. He laughed and waved me on. “It’s
fine; just
us
grunts here so far.”

I nodded and opened the door. It was dark in the back room, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. There were fewer lights here, their bulbs orange and
slight
instead of bright and yellow. In front of
me,
there was a cage, big enough for a man, but it was empty. I moved on.

I found another cage, but this one wasn’t empty. It was six feet high and four feet wide, and two women stood in it, holding one another and crying. They looked young, both of them no older than twenty. They had fair skin and dark hair, and their eyes were dark and hard to see in the
low
light. They looked to me and shrunk away. It made me feel terrible. I was a bad guy, I did bad things, I knew that, but these two women, as scared as they obviously were, seeing me and reacting physically like that, it made my head swim with shame.

“I won’t hurt you,” I said as I
stepped by
. Beyond that
cage,
there were others, each with one or two or sometimes three young women inside. I felt nauseous, and I hurried and turned back to the door, and rushed out onto the stage.

Vlad saw me and he laughed. I felt a wave of anger roll through me. “First
rodeo
?” He asked.

“What is this?”

“What do you think
kid
, come on, you’ve done too many bad things to be naive.”

I knew what it was of course. Those women were going to
be sold
. Sold to
rich
weapons dealers and drug
kingpin
sold into their beds. Sex slaves. Young women, twenty, nineteen, God one had looked fifteen. I shook my head. I wanted to leave then and there, just walk out the door. And I would have if I hadn’t stopped and thought about what Mr. Black would do if I did. If I
walked
out of a job, there was a chance my legs would
be broken
. Broke legs
was
literally
the best case scenario. I could also wake up at the bottom of a
river; cement
blocks strapped to my
legs
.

I didn’t say anything to Vlad. I didn’t know what to say. I moved to the edge of the stage and sat for a moment. My adrenalin was pumping, my heart beating a thousand miles a minute. I had been
calmer
in gun fights. Something about those cages, those women, it
really
got me. I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat.

Half an hour passed and men started streaming in. Not grunts like me, but rich guys. Mobsters, crime lords, all in expensive suits. Old guys, fat guys, one guy with a giant scar running from eye to chin that made Vlad’s look like a scrape a kid got falling off his tricycle. These guys were big
time
though I noticed none of them were good looking. They were the kind of guys who had to throw their money around to get chicks. And what was an easier way than just buying a woman outright? I tried not to think about what was about to happen
around
me, and stood off to the side of the stage. Vlad was at the other end, a few guys from different crews
were dotted
around the room. I didn’t expect trouble, in all it would be an easy job, if not for the fact that I was about to see women sold into sexual slavery.

Mr. Black wasn’t there, and I was thankful for that, though if I was
there,
I knew he had his fat fingers into the pie somewhere, and he was profiting off the night. I tried to push it from my mind as the first woman was brought out.

I was expecting them to pull the cages out, but they didn’t. A man brought a woman out, bound at the wrist with thick rope. She was beautiful, wearing a short dress with a plunging neckline. I guessed that she was thirty or a bit older, and then the bidding started.

Men in the audience, standing in front of the stage, held up small paddles. An auctioneer was on the stage, standing next to the woman. It was over in a matter of minutes. An old man with a lazy eye I didn’t recognize bought the
thirty-year-old
for thirty thousand dollars. It was a lot of money to me, but somehow it didn’t seem as though it was enough for someone’s life.

The night wore
on; women
were paraded
out, one after the other. All of the pretty, none of them older than that first
woman
. I tried not to look at them, and didn’t for long, but as they
were led
through the door at the back of the stage, I would steal a glance. I couldn’t help it. I had to see them, if only for a moment.

Then she walked through. I didn’t know her of course, but something about her struck me. She was gorgeous. She seemed a few years younger than me. She had dark olive
skin
and dark hair. Her eyes were the brown of
a coffee
with too much milk in it. She wasn’t
American; I
could tell that just by looking at her. She was
Mediterranean
. She had to be from
Greece
or someplace similar.

The young woman was wearing a short dress, much like the first one had been. She was curvy, with
well-defined
hips and large breasts which pushed at the top of her dress. Her nipples were hard, natural in the chilly warehouse. She looked terrified. Her lips were plump and sensual, and they
were pulled
into a tight frown. I saw her, and I felt as though I had known her for years.

The bidding was fast and furious
on
her. It got up to fifty thousand, and the next thing I knew it was at seventy thousand. I thought quickly. I had a couple hundred thousand in the bank. Not bad for a grunt like me. I knew how to save. The bidding was up to one hundred and fifteen thousand when it started to slow. I stepped forward just before the auctioneer could award the olive skinned woman to a fat guy with a bad combover.

“One hundred twenty thousand,” I said.

Silence. Every face turned towards me. I ignored
them
and stepped to the woman. I looked
to
the fat man with the bad hair, to see if he would bid more. He didn’t.