Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (2 page)

“
S
mile
, honey!” my mom calls out, grinning widely from behind a big black camera. I struggle to balance both my clunky valedictorian plaque and the enormous bouquet of roses my father presented to me. My face just barely peeks out from behind the flowers and my dad pulls me close in a tight hug just as my mom snaps the photo. I blink rapidly, the flash burning behind my eyes. It’s probably the hundredth picture taken of me today at my high school graduation ceremony. The sun is beginning to make its slow descent down the horizon, casting a dreamy pinkish glow across the football field.

“Oh, that’s a great one!” exclaims my mother, who rushes over to show Dad the photo, kissing the top of my head along the way. Both of my parents are taller than me and very athletic; my mom is an avid runner and my dad used to compete in bodybuilding competitions. As a result of their shared passion, I have been raised with the expectations of attaining and maintaining physical perfection. But while I lack my parents’ height and overt athletic appearance, I am certainly a contender in my own right.

Ever since the day I was born a couple months premature, I have been tiny. I’ve always been a little smaller than all my friends and fellow students. So it was a struggle for my sports-obsessed parents, trying to situate me in an athletic track that I could feasibly do. I mean, it’s not like a five-foot-one girl is going to make it big as a basketball star or anything. And since I was also lucky enough to be born with asthma, I have never been the runner my mom hoped I would be (not for lacking of trying, I might add). But after years of bouncing back and forth between different sports programs, we finally settled on the one sport that’s become my ticket to success, my passion, the thing that drives my every thought and heartbeat.

Gymnastics.

I may not be able to sprint a mile in record time without hyperventilating, and I may not be able to even reach most of the exercise bars at the gym. But I can bend and twist and flip my body in ways nobody ever expected from me. I’m a pretty damn good gymnast, if I do say so myself, and getting to this point has meant years and years of hardcore dedication and training. There’s something so freeing and fulfilling about teaching my body to fly through the air, every muscle straining to the brink. Every time I run and leap, spin and stretch, I feel my heart soaring in my chest. And there is nothing in this world so satisfying as landing a difficult move, my feet grounding me gracefully to the earth once more. It makes me feel like a superhero. It makes me feel like I can fly.

And nothing — nothing at all — can get in my way.

Even the fact that I happen to live in a tiny, rural town in upper North Carolina. Nobody here does much of anything beyond the humble grind of hard work and gentle play. People here are quiet and modest, content to live simple lives away from the bustle of cities like Raleigh and Charlotte.

I have to admit that I, too, love living here. I mean, sure, sometimes it does get pretty boring. But the lack of things to do has proved to be beneficial to my gymnastics training. There are so few distractions that I’ve been easily able to throw myself wholeheartedly into the sport. I do have friends, but most of them are planning on going off to college and then returning to live here for the rest of their lives. There’s nothing wrong with that at all, but it’s not the plan I foresee for myself.

Don’t get me wrong, it
is
nice to live somewhere so safe and comfortable. People here don’t even really lock their doors or anything — everyone knows everybody else and we all collectively look after each other. So I can totally understand why bigger-city people like my parents, who hail from Chapel Hill, decide to settle down here. It’s also why people who are born here in Toast, North Carolina, are likely to stick around here. This place is picturesque and quiet, the people kind and humble.

And yes, the town really is called Toast.

“Oh, sweetheart. I can’t get over how beautiful your speech was,” Mom coos, stroking my cinnamon-brown hair back out of my face and beaming at me. “Even nearly made your Daddy cry!”

“Hogwash,” Dad retorts good-naturedly. “I’ve never cried once in my whole life!”

All three of us laugh at the inside joke: my dad is actually a notorious crier. He’s the sentimentalist of the family, always poring over old photographs and tearing up over cute videos of baby animals. It’s especially funny, too, considering the fact that he’s a huge, muscular guy. A bodybuilder who happy-cries at the drop of a hat — that’s my dad. He’s the gentle giant and my mom is the energetic go-getter. Both of them have big personalities, and I am often just the quiet, soft-spoken daughter trailing after them.

Not that they see it that way at all. My parents are almost embarrassingly proud of me and my accomplishments, probably prouder than I am.

“Are you ready for dinner with the team tonight after your last performance?” Dad asks, nudging my shoulder excitedly. We’ve been looking forward to the annual celebratory get-together with all the girls from my gymnastics studio and our coaches for months. It’s one of the biggest events of our year, which isn’t saying much, really.

But tonight will be different. The stakes are much higher. It’s not just a low-key dinner with friends and colleagues tonight — it’s the first time I’ll be in the same room as athletic recruiters from all over, including Europe! As far as I know, nobody this fancy has ever even looked at Toast on a map, much less come into town, but we earned a lot of attention when some videos got a lot of hits online recently.

“More nervous than excited,” I answer, biting my lip. My parents, my ever-present cheerleaders, rush to reassure me.

“No, no! Don’t be nervous! You’ve got everything going for you, Livvy,” Mom says, leading me away from the crowds of hugging graduates and families.

“They’re gonna love you. I bet they’ll even have offers for you,” Dad comments, waggling his eyebrows. I giggle at how silly he looks.

“And if they don’t, well, there’s always next year!” my mom concedes.

* * *

T
he performance went
off without a hitch, and while the last competition of the year is generally a light-hearted affair that none of us take too seriously, this one is different. We know we have special eyes upon us, and each of us wants to put on our best performance. Or at least, that’s how I feel.

When we finish our routine to thunderous applause, I run to my parents with a smile and they usher me on out. We have to go back home and get changed quick before the celebratory get-together.

When we get home to our little red brick house, I run to my room and head to my closet to pick out something nice to wear.

Living in such a small, empty town has always meant that fashion is at least a few years behind the rest of the world. In fact, when I was much younger, I was content to just wear whatever my mom could sew and knit for me. But of course, as I got older, I outgrew that. So now most of my clothes have been collected from various weekend trips to Greensboro for shopping.

Poring through my clothes, most of which are more suitable for a day at the gymnastics studio than a nice dinner, I finally decide on a knee-length emerald green dress, brown wedge heels, and a white knit cardigan. I look at myself in the mirror, sizing up my petite frame and fresh-faced look. I’m eighteen years old, but I often get confused for a younger girl because of my size and innocent appearance. People tend to treat me like I’m fragile, like I could shatter into teeny tiny pieces at any moment. I do look pretty delicate. But looks can be deceiving, and in my case that’s certainly true.

I sit down at my little wooden vanity (handmade by my dad) to put on a quick coat of mascara and a dab of red lip gloss. I smile into the mirror, hoping I look mature and talented enough to catch the eye of some elite recruiter tonight. As much as I love my little hometown and all its pastoral comforts, part of me has always wanted to venture out into the big, blue world and discover new places and experiences.

“Honey, are you ready to go?” my dad calls from across the house. I can hear his heavy footsteps creaking over the old wooden floors. This house has been standing here for decades and decades, and it shows. I love living in a home steeped in history like this. But I wonder what kind of history and art and culture I could discover living abroad!

“Yeah! Coming!” I shout out, slinging my purse over my shoulder and hurrying downstairs to meet my parents.

“You look beautiful,” Mom remarks. My dad sniffles a little at the sight of me and I grin. He’s such a sap.

We all pile into the car and drive to one of the few non-fast food restaurants in the area to meet up with about ten other girls from the gymnastics studio and the team of coaches, parents, and trustees involved with the program. As soon as the station wagon parks behind the restaurant, a couple of my friends catch sight of me and come running.

Holly Hixon and Ashley Wilson, my best friends, hug me tightly when I get out of the car, their faces flushed with excitement. “You’ll never believe who all is here!” Ashley gushes.

“There are people from New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago!” Holly gasps, taking my hand and pulling me toward the entrance to the restaurant. We’ve rented out the back dining room for the occasion and when we walk in, we go straight back, my parents following behind hand-in-hand.

There’s a long table in a decorated room, a white banner hanging on the wall that says
GOOD WORK!
It’s all a little cheesy, but it’s still sweet of them to put this together for us. The table is populated mostly by familiar faces, colleagues I train alongside every week, but there are several exceptions. The high-class men and women from big cities stand out like sore thumbs in this crowd. Even dressed in our modest best, we native residents look like country bumpkins next to the sleek black suits and designer makeup jobs of the talent scouts and recruiters. For a moment, I feel slightly embarrassed. I have a feeling these big-time folks look down on us just a little bit. After all, they’ve probably never been to a town with a population this small, in a place this far off the beaten path.

I take a seat between Holly and Ashley at the table, my parents sitting closer to the far end with the other parents and the coaches. After we all place our orders, I sip my homemade sweet tea and glance idly up and down the table at the unfamiliar people. Right across from me is a rather severe-looking, yet handsome man with olive skin and sleek dark hair. His eyes are a striking grayish-green, standing out in his serious, dark features. He looks to be at least five to ten years older than me, but he’s considerably younger than the other out-of-towners. He also looks less like a gymnast himself and more like… well, like a secret agent type. It’s the only way I can think to describe him. He has a grave, calculating expression, like he’s deep in thought the entire time, despite all the lighthearted banter surrounding him. I wonder what’s on his mind.

Then, just as I’m blatantly studying his face, those expressive jade-colored eyes turn toward me, locking gaze with mine. I instantly feel my cheeks burn, as I’ve been caught staring. I quickly look away, smiling at some silly remark Ashley is making to her coach. I try to play it off like I wasn’t just openly gawking at the attractive older man in front of me.

Smooth move, Olivia,
I think to myself.

Our food arrives and the conversation quiets down a little as we all eat, but I can’t shake the sensation of being watched. I can feel those intense eyes burning a hole in my head from across the table, even if I don’t dare to look up and check. I focus on my chicken parmigiana and green beans instead, occasionally laughing at a joke someone makes.

And when the meal is over and we’re all transitioning into the schmooze and mingle part of the banquet, my parents sidle over to me to whisper in my ear what kind of intel they’ve gathered about the talent scouts and agents in the room.

“That woman down there used to train with former Olympic gymnasts,” Mom says softly, pointing to a butch-looking woman in a pantsuit.

“That guy over there is a talent agent from an elite studio out in California,” Dad tells me, nudging me toward a snivelly-looking man with a mustache.

“Wh-what about him?” I work up the courage to ask, gesturing subtly toward the green-eyed man who sat across from me at the table earlier. My mom shrugs.

“No idea. Never seen him before and nobody else seems to know him,” Dad comments, shaking his head. “But he looks European, doesn’t he?”

Mom nods and whispers, “Maybe he’s just a spy for the Russian gymnastics team. They’re always neck and neck with the Americans at the Olympics.”

My parents both chuckle to themselves and I roll my eyes, sighing. Their laughter halts abruptly as the subject of our conversation turns to look toward us from across the room, his smoky gaze startling all three of us.

Then, the tall, severe-looking man comes sauntering over to us, looking like a lion stalking up to his prey.

My heart races, wondering if maybe he has supersonic hearing or something and he’s miffed that we’ve been talking about him. He stops just in front of me, and now that we’re standing so close together, I’m overwhelmed by our size difference. I’m barely over five feet, and he’s well over six. While my frame is petite and slender, everything about him is imposing and powerful.