Chapter 8
Anna
Someone should have told me to avoid all contact with hot, muscular men in form-fitting tuxedos. They should have gone further by warning me that they were dangerous predators.
Plus, I should have paid more attention to the city I’d committed to moving to. New Orleans was known for spirits thriving amongst the living, every cemetery haunted and half the locals knowing voodoo by the time they reached kindergarten.
Oh, what a mess.
The man I’d fucked for hours, the same man who’d carried a weapon with him to a benefit performance and who was about to drive bullets into the brains of several men had recognized me.
As soon as he’d spoken, I’d known who he was.
Besides, the handsome masked stranger’s scent had stripped me of every cognitive thought, every breath.
If I recognized him after hours of wild, wanton sex, he’d certainly recognized me. What in God’s name was I supposed to do now? I wasn’t honestly certain.
Go to the police? And tell them what? Besides, I was hoping he’d forget all about me. That’s what I had planned to do with him.
What if he wouldn’t allow me?
How had I fallen into yet another fire?
Maybe now was the right time to contact my father. Yet I knew what he’d do if I told him I was being chased by a horrible Russian and had maybe found myself in danger in a brand new city. He’d force me to come home. I wasn’t ready yet.
An ache had formed behind my eyes, the anxiety increasing.
Ugly faces.
Brawny men in suits.
Weapons attached to holsters.
Leering looks.
The horrid images from the brutal night lingered in my mind no matter the distance achieved. One night of pleasure and I was right back to feeling completely suffocated.
Then I’d run into the man of my dreams, my ultimate fantasy and an obviously highly dangerous man who had nearly forced me to run back to the hotel and hide under the covers.
I knew men like the mysterious stranger far too well, monsters with weapons who handled business with force and violence.
I had no idea what had been really happening with the men being on their knees, but I doubted they’d been caught trying to break in.
He’d been so attentive even in his act of domination. But I’d overheard his phone call. While there’d been no glaring telltale sign of his predatory nature, I’d caught wind of whatever problem he was having he had no intention of handling in any traditional sense.
Then I’d seen his weapon.
He’d obviously been in charge of an entire operation. But of what? He knew I was a dancer. Would he come find me? My stomach was in knots.
His voice had been like velvet, curling around me with warmth and the promise of seduction if I’d agreed. He’d offered me an olive branch to keep my mouth shut. I had no doubt and that’s exactly what I planned on doing.
It was just my luck getting lost now not once but twice. I’d been thirty minutes late to my meeting with Irina and she’d been none too pleased or impressed.
After shuddering, I took a deep breath, looking both ways before crossing the street, in enough of a daze a driver beeped his horn.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” I threw my hand out, offering a smile, prepared for a middle finger. Shocked when he waved after giving me a look to ascertain if I was okay to finish crossing the street by myself.
An entirely different big city.
You would think that after living in New York, I’d be numb to the noise and insanity of people’s everyday lives. They were far too busy in their lives to care about anyone else.
I’d learned to blend in for several reasons, including security and anonymity. Until the single incident, doing so had worked. I’d worn bland clothes, my hair usually in a messy bun and very little makeup since I’d sweat it off during dance practice.
Maybe that’s why the moment I’d found myself on Bourbon Street, I’d been in shock and awe of everything.
The color and architecture of the buildings was incredible, so old and ornate with pots of flowers handing from exquisite iron railings.
Music was coming from every direction, loud and boisterous, bringing smiles to people’s faces.
My thoughts briefly drifted to the man from that morning.
And the night before. He’d certainly been a breath of fresh air, far too attractive for his own good.
In my mind, the man had been a god, more handsome than any I’d laid my eyes on in a very long time.
His strong jaw had been peppered with well-groomed stubble, chiseled from exquisite granite.
Every other feature had matched in a dangerously effective GQ way, including his high cheekbones and aristocratic nose.
His touch had been enigmatic. Electrifying.
The connection had been unlike anything I’d ever even fantasized about.
My pussy continued to ache. Even my bottom was a sweet reminder of the time we’d spent together when I moved.
Now, the beautiful images and lingering scent of him had been tarnished.
Or was I making something out of nothing?
Yet there’d been no mistaking his aura or the danger surrounding him. Thank God, he’d allowed me to walk away. I kept walking, trying not to look anyone in the eye.
Delightful smells of baked goods and coffee, Cajun and Creole kept my stomach rumbling.
And the people of New Orleans. Oh, my God.
The people whether visitors or locals were one million percent eclectic in dress and everything else.
Even on a late morning, they were wild in appearance, a few in costumes so garish I had to fight to keep from bursting into laughter.
Everyone had a smile on their face, eager for the day.
Everyone but the two men I’d run into earlier. They’d worn grimaces. At least they had an adorable dog. That had been a huge surprise. I did my best to push aside what had occurred, instead concentrating on making connections and going to my to-do list.
Tiny beads of sweat tickled my face, the day extremely humid. Hot. Hot. Hot. Baby. I’d walked four blocks and I was already sweating. But I was free.
At least for now.
With the visions lingering, I fought my way through the crowd, determined to keep going. I’d come this far, changing my life on a dime. I had no intention of allowing Russian savages to destroy all I’d worked for.
As I stopped to take a breath, glancing at my phone, the reality of my predicament washed through my mind. If my father had agreed to the arrangement, then why wouldn’t he call me? He wouldn’t allow the horrible men to snatch me off the streets. Would he? Not my father.
Unless he’d been convinced there was no other choice.
That was crazy. My father was the most powerful man in the world.
I kept walking.
I’d be forced back to Sicily where I’d find myself engaged to the son of one of the four other families in the Italian mafia.
No longer would there be a chance for all my dreams to come true.
Was it possible the bastards would find me in my new home?
Yes, but given the only person I’d told where I was going was Mikhail, the likelihood of anyone discovering my destination was low.
Unless I made a huge name for myself. One of the incredible aspects about joining the New Orleans Ballet was that while their reputation was stellar, they were still considered relatively small. A perfect location and size for me to continue honing my skills.
Who was I kidding? I was hiding out, buying time.
Something had changed in my father’s life.
That could be the only reason the Russians had all but kidnapped me.
I certainly didn’t know much about the politics of the mafia except for what I’d seen on television and had read in news reports, but there were always factions of one crime syndicate threatening another for power, money, and territory.
Maybe I’d believed my father invincible, allowing me to escape my legacy.
It was useless to call my mother or brother. Maybe Luciano.
Or Sophia.
As a crowd of people passed, I turned away out of habit, glancing at my reflection in a store window. Loose strands of ebony hair were falling from my usual bun from the humidity. I’d shoved the hat inside my bag but was grateful I’d been wearing it when I’d run into my mystery lover.
As I tucked the strands behind my ear, vivid green eyes met mine, my reflection unable to hide worry and fear. They reflected sadness in leaving everything I’d come to love. And there remained a dark, yellowish, and still swollen patch under my eye that foundation couldn’t seem to hide.
Another reason I’d appreciated the mask. Even after several days, the ugly reminder was still there.
Sighing, I placed my fingers gingerly against my skin, wincing as soon as I did.
The pain had been nothing in comparison to what I’d experienced several times before, but it had been another reminder of why I’d wanted nothing to do with the princess lifestyle.
I made a face in hopes of obliterating the sadness, allowing a short groan while admitting I looked terrible.
I’d barely managed to powder my nose to reduce the shine and add a little blush and mascara. Today, the smattering of freckles I worked hard to hide with makeup was like a beacon of innocence.
Only the things I’d been through, the horrors I’d seen in my short life would age anyone. It certainly had done so with me. After taking a deep breath, I purposely turned away, feeling more alone than I had in a very long time.
At least I’d remembered that an old friend lived in New Orleans. When I’d called her, she’d given me advice on a cheap hotel. I’d packed up and had left New York only a few hours after the incident at the theater.
The email I’d left the ballet director in New York had been written amidst tears and anguished sobs. At least the lie of a family member facing a horrific medical condition seemed plausible enough. Maybe I’d merely flamed the bridge and hadn’t burned it down.