Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Elena
Bang!
The first shot rang out, and I figured it was just a champagne cork popping. But then came the second, the third, and the screams. The hotel doors flew open with a crash, and five or six guys in black tactical gear and ski masks stormed in, guns drawn.
"Everyone down!" one of them bellowed in English with a thick Italian accent. "Move and I'll drop you!"
Panic hit like a wildfire—guests scrambling everywhere. My tray hit the floor, champagne flutes shattering in a spray of glass and fizz.
"Down! Now!"
My legs felt like lead, rooted to the spot. I stared at those masked bastards, the black holes of their barrels staring right back. My brain went totally blank.
"You deaf or what?" One of them stomped toward me, jamming his gun barrel against my forehead. "I said get down!"
That's when an arm snaked around my waist from behind, yanking me sideways hard. The shot cracked past my ear, close enough to singe a few hairs, and punched into the wall behind me.
"Don't move," a voice murmured in my ear, low and gravelly with just a hint of Russian. "Stick with me."
Before I could even process it, that arm locked around me like a vice, pulling me toward the side door.
"Hey! You two!" the guy snarled. "Stop!"
He fired, the blast deafening. I screamed, instincts screaming to drop and curl up, but his grip wouldn't let me. He pressed my head to his chest—I could feel his heartbeat, steady as a goddamn metronome.
Then another shot cracked out. His. Two of the thugs crumpled, dead before they hit the carpet.
"Move," he said, half-dragging me along. I finally twisted enough to look up at him.
Tall. Freakishly tall. Had to be six-four easy. Dark brown hair slicked back, sharp jawline cutting through the dim light. Eyes like deep green pools in some forgotten woods.
He was in a tailored black suit that screamed money, a ring glinting on his pinky. And in his right hand? A sleek silver pistol, still smoking.
"Stop!" Another goon swung his gun our way.
I didn't even have time to gasp. The stranger fired once—clean through the guy's chest. Blood misted out like a busted hydrant, and he folded like wet cardboard. We kept pushing toward the door. Almost there. Then one lunged from the side, barrel locked on us.
"Die, you fuck!"
Time stretched out, slow and syrupy. I swear I saw his finger tighten on the trigger, the muzzle flash blooming. The stranger shoved me behind him, whipping his arm up in a blur—
Crack. Crack. Two shots, back-to-back. The thug dropped, a neat red hole weeping in his forehead. And my savior? His left sleeve bloomed dark, blood soaking through the fabric.
"Shit," he muttered, but his face didn't even twitch.
"You're hit!" I blurted, panic spiking.
"It's nothing. Graze." He looped his arm around me again. "Let's go. Now."
He booted the side door open, hauling me into the alley. Pitch black out there, just faint streetlight spilling in from the end.
"Wait—your arm—"
"Told you, it's fine." He stopped finally, turning to face me under the shadows.
That's when I really got a good look. He was unreal handsome—high cheekbones, straight nose, full lips that looked sinful even now. Those green eyes? Calm as a frozen lake, like the shootout was just Tuesday.
"You okay?" he asked, voice steady enough to ground me.
"I... yeah. I'm good." My words stumbled out, my whole body still shaking like a leaf. "But you're bleeding."
"Like I said, don't worry about it." Then, out of nowhere, his thumb brushed my cheek—soft, almost tender. "Got some soot on your face."
That touch lit me up, sparks under my skin. We just stood there, locked eyes, the air thick with something electric. Minutes ago, this guy was dropping bodies like it was nothing. Now? He was handling me like I was glass.
"Who are you?" I managed, voice barely above a whisper.
"Your guardian angel." A smirk tugged at his lips, dangerous and promising. "And you? What's your name?"
"Elena." It slipped out easily. "Elena Jensen."
"Elena," he echoed, rolling it with that faint Russian lilt, like he was tasting it. "Suits you. Beautiful."
Sirens wailed in the distance then, closing fast.
"Damn it." He cursed under his breath, grabbing my hand. "Come on. We gotta bounce."
"But the police—"
"Cops show up, it's a shitshow of questions." His eyes sharpened. "Trust me, Elena. You don't wanna get dragged into that. Those assholes? Italian mob. If they find out there's a witness..."
He trailed off, but the look said it all—dead meat.
"Let's roll," he said, tugging me deeper into the alley. "Car's up ahead."
We hit the end, and there it was: a black Bentley, sleek as sin. He swung the passenger door open for me. I slid in, sinking into butter-soft leather. He climbed behind the wheel, fired it up. The engine growled low, and we peeled out into the night like a shadow.
"Your arm," I said again, eyeing the spreading stain. "You need a doctor."
"Nah." One hand on the wheel, the other—bleeding one—on the stick. "Just a graze. Didn't lodge. Been handling worse for years. I got it."
The casual drop of that little bomb made my stomach twist. "You do this a lot?"
"Depends on what 'this' means." That smirk again. "Shooting? Yeah. Saving lives? Now and then. Saving a stunner like you? First time for everything."
Heat flooded my cheeks—fear, adrenaline, or maybe just him. Hard to tell.
"Okay, seriously—who are you?"
"A businessman." Vague as hell. "Import-export."
"With a sidearm?"
"In my line of work? Standard issue." Then he flipped it back at me. "Where do you live? I'll drop you."
I rattled off my address, then stared out at the city blurring by. My heart was still hammering like a jackrabbit. I'd just survived a full-on firefight, courtesy of this walking red flag who'd pulled me out.
Insane. Straight out of a bad dream—or a damn good one.
The car purred to a stop outside my dump of an apartment building. The Bentley looked ridiculous parked there, like a Bentley in a junkyard. Highlighted just how out of my league this guy was.
"Thanks," I said, hand on the door. "For pulling me out. I owe you."
"Hold up." He fished a card from his inside pocket and passed it over.
Just a name and a number. No last name, no firm, no title.
"Igor," I read aloud.
"Anything you need—anything at all—call me."
I stared at it, then at him. Moonlight carved him up like some ancient god of war. Deadly. Magnetic. Impossible to look away.
"You could come up," I heard myself say. "I got a first-aid kit. Least I can do is patch that arm."
His eyes darkened, heat flickering in those greens like a struck match.
"You sure about that?" His voice dropped an octave. "Elena, if I come up... I might not play nice."
A shiver raced down my spine, straight to places it shouldn't. I knew better. This dude was trouble wrapped in Armani—armed and probably lethal. I should thank him, shut the door, and bolt the locks.
But staring into those eyes, at that jaw, that bloody sleeve... no way I could turn him down.
"Yeah," I whispered. "I'm sure."
His gaze lit up, predatory. "Alright then."
We headed up, my hands shaking so bad I fumbled the key twice. He loomed behind me, close enough I felt his heat, caught the mix of cedar cologne, tobacco, and that faint copper tang of blood.
The door swung open. We stepped in. I didn't even flip the light before he kicked it shut and pinned me against it.
"Igor—"
He kissed me. Hard. Hungry. His tongue claimed my mouth like territory, no room for debate. One hand cradled the back of my head, holding me right where he wanted. His body crushed into mine—solid muscle, all heat and power.
I meant to shove him off. Swear to God. But my hands betrayed me, climbing his shoulders. My lips parted wider, letting him in deeper. I arched against him, soaking up every inch.
"Fuck," he growled against my mouth, voice wrecked. "Elena, you're driving me insane."
His hands roamed—down my sides, gripping my hips, my ass—then he scooped me up like I weighed nothing. My legs hooked around his waist on instinct, and he carried me to the couch.
"Wait," I gasped between kisses. "Your arm—"
"Screw the arm." He dumped me on the cushions and came down on top, caging me in. "Right now? I just want you."
He started tearing at my clothes, rough and urgent.
His fingers fumbled with the buttons of my hotel uniform, popping them open one by one.
The fabric gave way under his insistent hands, exposing my skin to the cool air of the apartment.
I gasped as he yanked the top off my shoulders, his mouth crashing back onto mine in a bruising kiss.
His injured arm didn't slow him down; if anything, it made him more intense, like the pain fueled his hunger.
He peeled away my bra next, tossing it aside without a second glance.
His eyes darkened as he stared at my bare breasts, heaving with each ragged breath I took.
"Fuck, Elena," he growled, his voice thick with lust. He dipped his head, capturing one nipple between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make me arch off the sofa.
I moaned, my hands clutching at his broad shoulders through the expensive suit fabric.
His tongue swirled around the sensitive peak, soothing the sting before he sucked hard, drawing it deep into his mouth.
His free hand kneaded the other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers, pinching until I whimpered.
The mix of pleasure and pain shot straight to my core, making me wetter than I'd ever been.
He switched sides, lavishing the same rough attention on my other breast, his stubble scraping against my skin. I writhed under him, my hips bucking involuntarily, seeking friction. "Igor... please," I begged, not even sure what I was asking for.