Russian Boss’s Secret Baby by Bella King
Ch 5
MIA
Slate is absolutely terrifying.
I’ve never been more intimidated by any one person in my entire life. He has been mostly silent for this entire exchange, though I can see in his eyes that he is very present in the conversation. I calculate my responses carefully, ensuring that I do not come across as stupid or rude. I don’t want these men to think they can take advantage of me.
When I steal glances over at Slate, I can see a well-muscled body under his suit. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is a meticulous gym-goer, possibly some kind of ultimate fighter or boxer. He’s much taller than me, even in my five-inch heels, which gives him a considerable advantage when speaking to me.
He makes me feel so small.
His hands catch my attention more than a few times, and I notice that under the tattoos on his knuckles, there are scars that crawl their way across his skin like tree roots. To have obtained scars that deep on your hands, I can’t imagine the kinds of trouble you’d be in. If someone pulled me aside and told me that this person beats the bloody fuck out of people for fun, I would believe them without a doubt.
Maybe he is a boxer.
He smells rich. His cologne has the unmistakable subtlety of an expensive brand that a poorer man would compensate for by bathing in body spray.
Subtlety is the objective for rich men like Slate, only those who know really know. There are no logos or brand names on his clothes, he wears minimal jewelry; just a tiny gold chain around his neck, barely visible without a second look. He could very likely be rich enough to buy my entire apartment building in cash.
I try to look deeper, though, at the human in the clothes. It’s such an easy thing to forget in this kind of environment. We’re all just people.
When I look at him, I try to imagine what his childhood was like in Russia. He seems personable enough, if not a little bit arrogant. I would feel very silly asking him questions on such a personal level so quickly, but I doubt I’ll have the time to get to know him. He only has me for the evening.
When Slate looks at me, I can see intent in his eyes, and it makes me want to both crawl out of my skin and pull my dress up just a bit higher to entice him more. There is a certain sickly desire in me that is emboldened by men who scare me, and no man has ever scared me more than Slate.
This person is dangerous in every sense of the word; he is not pretending, he is not putting on a show for me. He is dangerous, and he wants me along for the ride.
I try to observe the way that Michael and Eli conduct themselves around Slate. It’s clear from a mile away who is in charge here, even if Michael might be just a bit beefier than Slate. Not by much, mind you.
On the other side of things, Eli is clearly less involved with the heavy lifting regarding their little international trade business. He’s probably the one who orchestrates all of the more heady stuff. I wouldn’t put it past him to be working for two different mafia families to keep his earning potential at its highest.
No matter how involved I do or don’t become with these three, I think I’m going to avoid Eli as much as possible. I don’t trust him.
I can see Zayn leering at me from across the room, equal parts jealous and curious as to why I was chosen to act as tonight’s eye candy for a group of unrepentant criminals. I know he would die at the chance to be in my place, but I doubt Slate and his men swing that way.
As I’m listening to Slate and Eli banter about details from their past escapades, I feel a horrible, nervous dread begin to grow inside of me. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to figure out what could have cause such a random and intense change in my mood. While I was mostly just embarrassed to have fucked up so badly in front of all of these guys, this feeling is imperiled.
But why?
I glance around the room while the two men continue, Slate now growing more and more frustrated at Eli’s insistence that Slate hadn’t been present for one of their more brutal executions.
Is my fear coming from them? I suppose it would make sense, two grown men whom I don’t know and don’t trust discussing details of murders they have committed. It would be stupid not to be afraid.
It isn’t that, though, and I realize my error too late as I notice a man in his mid-fifties saunter out of the elevator into the penthouse with an AR-15 slung over his back, his eyes red with mania and fury. “What the fuck?” I whisper, horrified to have said anything that could draw attention to myself, even in such a loud and bombastic environment as a nightclub.
Michael notices too, and immediately his eyes widen. “Oh, shit, we need to get the fuck out of here, Slate. Now,” he says in a low, panicked voice.
Slate looks behind Michael and immediately grabs at the inside of his jacket for what I assume to be a handgun. Now I know exactly where the instinct came from, but my revelation was too little, too late.
The man with the gun makes a beeline for the bar where Zayn is serving a group of young women, possibly more affluent college students. “Amanda!” bellows the crazed man loudly in the direction of the group, the veins and ligaments in his neck bulging with rage.
Amanda, a skinny brunette in an orange dress, immediately turns around and drops her glass. “Jonathan!? What the fuck? Get out of here. How did you find me?” is all she is able to say before he aims the weapon at her head and blows her lower jaw clean off.
The other three girls in her vicinity all scream, but at least two of them are shot in the chest and belly before they are able to flee.
The pops of gunfire split the room into a flurry of panic. Zayn ducks behind the bar, and I’m unable to see whether or not he is calling for help, looking for a weapon, or just panicking before his life is taken.
I’m left very little time to wonder, because Slate, Eli, and Michael quickly but smoothly move out of the booth, hands on weapons, Slate taking me by the arm and gripping me hard.
While I know that leaving the club with a man like Slate would never be in my best interest, I feel compelled to stay near him and his posse of armed men as the confirmed shooter begins to ravage the building, aiming and shooting at nobody in particular, hitting and killing more than ten, I will later hear.
My whole body is vibrating, and I’m shocked that I’m able to move my legs at all, much less in these goddamn heels.
Slate’s grip on my arm tightens as we approach an emergency exit. He leans down close to my ear. “Listen Mia, you know this building better than we do, so you are going to get us through this door and down to the parking structure without anyone seeing, okay? We are trusting you. Anything funny, and you’re dead. I don’t give a shit how pretty you are.”
I shudder. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
