Killing for Her: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

By Alexis Abbott

One kill is all it takes for her to be mine.

She's just a pawn in the Bratva's games. A virginal prize, exchanged from one boss to another. Her perfect curves and that sparkling smile, she'd be deadly if she hadn't been sheltered from her father's wicked world. Now she's being thrust into it.

A marriage to a man I know has a terrible temper and a cruel sense of torture.

She deserves better. Better than him. Better than me.

But I never said I'd save her out of the goodness in my heart.

I'll save her. I'll protect her.

And I will claim her. Even if it means the wrath of every family in Brighton Beach descends upon me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pathforgers Publishing
• Release date: Jun 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781718617100

Alexis Abbott

Alexis Abbott is a Wall Street Journal & USA Today bestselling author who writes about bad boys protecting their girls! Pick up her books today if you can’t resist a bad boy who is a good man, and find yourself transported with super steamy sex, gritty suspense, and lots of romance.She lives in beautiful St. John's, NL, Canada with her amazing husband.

Book preview

Anastasia

Ismile as the light breeze ruffles through the sheer white curtains at the great bay window. Glancing at the elegantly-carved mahogany clock in the corner of the room, I can squint my eyes and tell that it’s just past eleven in the morning. I sit up in bed, the silken sheets rustling around me, and lift my arms up over my head to stretch. It still feels a little odd to sleep in so late, especially after a year away at boarding school where my dormitory mistress woke us before dawn every morning. Even on the weekends! One might not expect a finishing school adjacent to a luxury ski resort in Switzerland to be quite so austere about scheduling, but they are. I feel another rush of relief to be done with all that nonsense. I mean, it’s not like school has ever been very difficult for me. I have always had a pretty quick mind. Math is boring, and science has way too many formulas, but I could always cobble together a good grade in the end. It was the history professor that held my interest, though, as well as the writing instructor who encouraged us to read all sorts of poetry. All of my dorm-mates despised it, but not me. The erotic imagery, the sensual descriptions of love and lust and eternity-- how could anyone hate that? But then again, I think to myself as I slide out of bed and pad over to the window, perhaps that was because all my friends had their own poetic love affairs to reflect on.

I, however, have always been too focused on school and travel and shopping to really care very much about dating. Besides, when you have moved around the world so many times as I have, you learn very quickly not to let yourself get too attached to anybody. I made that mistake once, long ago, as a little girl. It was my first time at a boarding school. I was born in St. Petersburg, but of course, my father insisted on sending me away for my education, wanting me to cultivate a more worldly perspective. So he shipped me off to London when I was only ten years old, and it was there that I learned English, croquet, and gained an eternal love for steak and kidney pies. It was also the place where I developed my very first crush.

His name was Liam, and I was smitten. Well, as smitten as anyone that age really can be. We even got to hold hands on the playground once before my father decided to take me out of school there and send me to the next academy-- all the way in Milan, Italy. Needless to say, my poor little ten-year-old heart was well and truly trampled by this move, and from then on, I have chosen to fly it solo. Never get attached, and your heart stays intact. It’s as simple as that.

So far, that philosophy has served me pretty well. I am eighteen now, as of six months ago, and I have very few attachments left in this world. That doesn’t bother me, though. I’m a pretty self-sufficient girl, if you ask me. I don’t need a whole entourage of friends or family to keep me happy. I have some old friends from my finishing school in Switzerland that I still keep in touch with after graduating a few weeks back, but who knows how long those friendships will hold up after a long time apart? We are all going in different directions, anyway. For example, right now, I’m lounging around one of my father’s vacation villas. This one is a palatial estate made of blinding white marble, made glittery by the reflection of the Black Sea just across the coastal road. If you stand out front of the place at just the right moment in late afternoon, the whole building seems to glow with the fading light of the sun. It’s pretty magical, if you ask me. And considering how many beautiful, exotic places I have visited in my eighteen years on the planet, that’s saying something.

I sit down on the edge of the bay window seat, reaching up to push the window a little more open. I inhale deeply, enjoying the lovely scent of the salty sea. It’s another gorgeous day here on the Bulgarian coast, and I’m already pondering what activities I can jump into today. It’s springtime, so the luscious green gardens, fields, and forests that flank our property are in full bloom. Between whiffs of Black Sea breeze, I can pick up the more subtle hints of flowers blossoming, and I can hear the faint chirping of birds in the trees. When my father first informed me that he was sending me to Varna for spring vacation after graduating from my boarding school, I thought he was crazy. I mean, Bulgaria? Really? All of my equally wealthy classmates were jetting off to Greece or Monaco, and here I was boarding my father’s private jet to eastern Europe. But I stand corrected now that I’m here. I understand why Daddy decided to invest in this property, after all.

I should never have questioned his judgment, to be honest. When has he ever steered me wrong? Daddy is a businessman, and a really good one at that. I don’t know a whole lot of details about what exactly he does, but judging by what my peers’ parents usually do for a living, I assume he must be some kind of stock market trader. Or a yacht dealer. Or a financial consultant for some big-wig company in New York City. Or maybe he’s just a lucky guy who has inherited a lot of cash. I simply don’t know. Every time in the past when I tried to pry into Daddy’s business dealings, he’s always shooed me out of the room. Even when I put my foot down and cross my arms over my chest and pout-- which usually works in every other situation-- he just smiles and tells me it’s nothing for me to worry about. Not that I’m ever worried about it in the first place. Just curious. Why should I worry? Daddy’s a capable man, and I never want for anything. So who cares how exactly he makes his money, as long as the cash keeps flowing?

I suppose one could say I’m a little bit spoiled. Pampered, more like. I don’t like it when people call me spoiled, because it makes it sound like I’m broken or faulty. I’m not spoiled, just well taken-care of! Nothing wrong with that. So what if I only ever stay in luxury resorts and wear only the finest, most recent designer clothes? Why should it be anybody’s business how many times I have gotten to fly out to Paris for Fashion Week or to Barcelona for my favorite tapas restaurant? When you have a private jet at your disposal, you might as well use it, right? Daddy says it’s fine. And that’s all that matters. He’s the one with the checkbook, but I’m the one with the limitless credit card.

A particularly strong breeze ruffles through my delicate vintage nightgown, making goosebumps prickle up on my legs. I giggle and smooth the skirt of it back down, heading across the room to the en suite bathroom to get ready for the day. I’m really excited, because Daddy is flying in today to join me for a few days of fun in the sun. This is how it usually works out. The school semester ends and he buys me a ticket for some gorgeous, exotic location. I never fly alone, of course. On past excursions, I have always either gone with a friend of mine or perhaps one of the many attendants and personal assistants my father seems to go through like tissue paper. It’s not that he is especially difficult to work for or anything, he just likes to keep things fresh and interesting. If that means firing an assistant after only six months so he can trade her in for a newer model, then so be it.

Of course, I’m not completely oblivious. I know that’s not the nicest way to conduct business. But like I said, Daddy won’t let me into his world. He handles the payroll, and he handles the hiring. I just go along with whichever brand-new, bright-eyed, pretty young thing he sends me. For example, Daddy was too wrapped up in some important meeting up in Moscow to attend my graduation from finishing school weeks ago, so he sent me a sweet, supportive new friend named Tatyana to watch me walk across the stage instead. I stuck around campus for a couple days after, shuttled off to a graduation after-party in Zurich, and then hopped on a private jet with Tatyana to come here to the newly-purchased vacation estate in Varna.

I have spent so much time on planes and trains and jets and in limousines that sometimes I feel like I might one day forget how to sit still. But it’s worth it. All the moving around and making new friends over and over again has toughened me up. I’m not the shrinking violet people think I am. Sure, I’m as pampered as a princess, and maybe even a little bit sheltered, but I’m not dumb. I’m more observant than people think, including Daddy.

I blink at my reflection in the mirror, trying to decide what kind of look I should go for today. It’s always exciting when Daddy comes into town. He loves me more than anything, but we don’t spend as much time together as I would like. He’s just a really busy guy, and I can’t hold that against him. After all, its his hard work that makes all my traveling and shopping and fine dining possible. I should be grateful.

But sometimes… I do get a little lonely.

I shake that negative thought off, though, and decide on a flouncy ponytail and some winged eyeliner. I wash up, put on makeup, pull my long, honey-colored waves back into a ponytail on top of my head, and then step into my walk-in closet. I love being surrounded by such pretty things. Dresses from Rodarte, blouses from Gucci, shoes of the Louboutin or Jimmy Choo persuasion. I have enough designer handbags to fill a small museum. And my jeans? Only the finest, perfectly-tailored fits for my body. I’m pretty petite, barely a few inches over five feet, with a narrow waist and curves. Compared to some of my classmates, who were six-foot-tall, rail-thin daughters of supermodels from Oslo and Stockholm, I sometimes felt a little too curvy. But that hasn’t stopped designers from sending me free goodie bags of their newest items, urging me to post photos of myself on Instagram in their clothes. It’s an easy way for them to get someone like me, with a following of over five thousand, to give them free advertising.

And for me, it’s just another freebie in a world that seems always eager to hand me things I want but don’t really need. Will I turn it down, though? Of course not! I’m not immune to flattery, after all. I live a life of conspicuous leisure, and my followers expect that from me.

I put on a sundress and strappy sandals and head downstairs. Tatyana, looking both exhausted and chipper at the same time, greets me with my favorite iced coffee and a low-calorie pastry. Thank you! I reply happily, taking a big bite.

You’re welcome, Miss Koroleva, she says, nodding.

I giggle. For the millionth time, you can call me Ana. We’re friends, Tatyana. My dad is your boss, not me.

Yes, Miss Kor-- Ana, she corrects herself, blushing. By the way, your father will be here any minute. His driver called to let me know.

I jump up and let out a squeal of excitement, nearly spilling my drink. Oh my god! Finally. I can’t wait to see him, I gush.

Just then, we both turn to look at the front door as we hear the sound of tires crunching on gravel. I thrust the coffee and pastry back at Tatyana and rush out the front door to greet my father, who’s just getting out of the big black sedan. He’s wearing a scowl until his eyes catch sight of me running toward him. He grins and opens his arms wide.

I throw my arms around him and kiss him on the cheek, my heart racing. Daddy! You’re here! Finally! I exclaim.

"Da, lisichka, he croons, patting my cheek. I’m here now. And we have something very important to talk about."

I look up at him with wide eyes. Oh, we do? What is it?

He glances around, giving the driver a curt nod. "Let’s go sit in the parlor, da?"

Okay, yes, of course, I say hurriedly. I rush back up the front steps and through the grand foyer. I sit down on one of the plush armchairs in the side parlor, watching impatiently as my father saunters into the room and sits down. Meanwhile, Tatyana is tasked with lugging his suitcase up the staircase. I can hear her grunting with exhaustion as the massive suitcase clunks against every stair. Daddy sits down across from me, leaning forward and steepling his fingers.

What is it? I ask excitedly. Where are we going?

He chuckles. Oh, my dear. No. We aren’t going anywhere. You are.

I frown and tilt my head to one side. Me? Alone? Where?

"You know your Uncle Liev, da?" he begins.

I nod. Yeah, of course. He’s not my real uncle, just an old friend of my father’s.

"And you know that he has recently lost his zhena," he continues.

I rest my chin on my hands. Yes. You mentioned that on the phone awhile back. How is he holding up? Is he okay? I ask. Daddy smiles wryly.

Look at you, already so concerned for him. This is how I know you will make a perfect fit for Liev, he muses, his Russian accent clipping every syllable.

I lean back, confused. A perfect fit?

"Da, my little angel. You are of a certain age now, and I am sure you have been wondering where exactly your life will take you next," he rambles, gesticulating with his hands. My heart begins to race a little faster. I’m still unsure what he means by all this but… I have a bad feeling about where it’s headed.

Yeah, maybe college, I suggest. He clucks his tongue.

Oh, a sweet and gentle mind like yours would be wasted on books, Daddy remarks, waving off my suggestion like it’s a gnat. I have something much more, ah, fulfilling in mind for my beautiful daughter. The light of my life. The jewel of my crown.

Alright, Daddy, get to the point, I counter. He notices that I’m eyeing him suspiciously now, but he only chuckles and widens his smile even more, unwilling to back down.

"Okay, my doch, I will tell it to you plainly. Your uncle Liev is lonely. In need of a wife to look after him, to keep house, to mother his young ones."

I raise an eyebrow, feeling sick to my stomach. And? What does that have to do with me, Daddy? I breathe.

Anastasia, this is a wonderful opportunity for you! To be a little wife to a powerful man. There is no better destiny for my sweet girl. The wedding will be lavish, of course, and you will live in a beautiful mansion, and you can summer in Europe--

I already summer in Europe! I interrupt, standing up and glaring at him in complete horror and disbelief. I’m in Europe right now!

He holds his palms, urging me to calm down. Da, but you will have your own estates, your own money, your own life--

No, I would have Liev’s estates. Liev’s money. Liev’s life. Not my own, I correct him.

Ah, but when you are married, it is all the same, Daddy says cheerfully.

I shake my head, my jaw dropping at the sheer lunacy of his plot.

"Daddy. Maybe you hit your head very hard and somehow this hasn’t occurred to you yet but I don’t want to marry Liev. He’s--he’s ancient!" I splutter, throwing up my arms.

He looks mildly offended. Mr. Ovechkin is my age.

I roll my eyes. Exactly.

He stands up and starts to walk over to me, but I jerk away, staring at him with tears in my eyes. Daddy, no. I won’t do it. This is insane, I tell him.

But you are used to this lifestyle, are you not? he asks in a quieter voice.

I wrinkle my nose. Yes.

And you want to continue to live this way?

I shrug. Sure. I guess.

Then you will marry Liev, he says matter-of-factly.

Is that an ultimatum? I gasp, horrified. I can’t believe this is really happening. I almost want to pinch myself and see if this is just a crazy nightmare.

No. It is a fact, Daddy says. You have no choice.

"Um, last I