Russian Boss’s Secret Baby by Bella King
Ch 7
MIA
The door slams behind the men, and all I can hear is the sound of heavy boots and labored men disappearing up the stairwell. We all listen for a moment, and just as we’re about to sprint towards the door again, a loud, indistinct voice erupts from the helicopter outside at the top of the building.
They might be trying to lure the shooter out toward the patio, so they don’t have to shoot from the outside.
We make our way back to the other side and descend the stairs rapidly, the sirens and alarms still going off consistently, the lights flashing all around us and disorienting us. I’m ready to vomit, or to faint, but I know that my life is on the line no matter who finds me.
I can’t die like this. It would be such an American trope. I wonder to myself, what are the stereotypical ways of dying in Russia?
Eventually, we make it through endless floors and staircases and hallways until we’ve finally reached the parking structure. I can hear Slate on the phone communicating with his driver in Russian. He growls every word out like he’s about to jump through the phone and tear his driver to shreds.
I guide us all to the numbered platform where Slate says his driver will meet us.
As soon as we exit the building onto the platform, a sporty but powerful black car speeds towards us. “Get in, questions later, yeah?” is all I hear before Slate scoops me up in his powerful arms, holds me to his thick, warm chest, and climbs into the car without letting me go.
“There’s not enough space for another person in here, so we will make due,” he says, the contrasting quiet of the car interior amplifying his accent in my ringing ears. He adjusts me on his lap, placing his hand across my knees to steady me.
“Anyone want to tell me what the fuck happened?” the driver asks. “And who is this?”
Slate, Eli, and Michael exchange glances, each of them winding down from the sheer panic of the last hour’s events. I stupidly feel exempt from answering, since I don’t know the driver.
Instead of honoring my unspoken wishes, Eli gestures back at me. “Ask that one, she works here,” he says, his eyes half apologetic for shifting the burden of explanation to me.
I scoff. “Oh, right, that’s the kind of thing that happens weekly there, and not to mention I don’t usually get kidnapped by a mob boss and his buddies. So no, I have no idea. I’m Mia, though. Nice to meet you,” I say, trying to keep back some of the sarcasm in my voice, reminding myself that I am in fact in a car with organized criminals. Pissing them off isn’t a good idea.
“Oh, right, kidnapped. We can take you back, if you’d like,” says Slate, laughing sardonically as he looks out the window with a paranoid expression, scanning the streets for more squad cars as they swarm together and race towards the club.
The driver is silent at first, and I expect him to question my involvement or liability more. Instead, he just takes off down a few neighborhood streets off the main artery of the city where the roads are flooding quickly with police cars, ambulances, TV vans, and fire trucks. The sounds of the emergency vehicles creates a dissonant howl in the air.
“Well Mia, my name is Vasya,” the driver explains. “I assume you’re not unwise to the nature of the work these men do, so I won’t repeat what you already know. However, I have been involved with them for a long time, and I know how people get when they are anxious or feel threatened. So, don’t act anxious or feel threatened, because we don’t have time to make you feel better.”
That’s not the least bit comforting.
Vasya turns down a series of streets until the houses become larger, more ornate, and more imposing. Eventually, we reach a gated driveway concealed by huge trees and ivy vines. We wait a moment, and the gates open automatically.
My fight or flight instinct is starting to kick in.
What if this guy’s got like, a dungeon where he tortures and kills women?
“Calm down, Mia,” Slate says, as though he can read my thoughts.
“I am calm,” I lie.
“That vein in your little neck is pulsing very quickly. Take a deep breath,” he continues. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”
If his words were supposed to comfort me, they fail, just like the driver’s. Nobody can put me at ease when I’m being kidnapped by the Russian Mafia. There’s nothing these men can say or do that would make me feel better, aside from dropping me off at my home.
But we’re far from my shoddy apartment complex. We’ve reached a courtyard that is overlooked by a catwalk that connects two huge modern buildings.
As we pull around, Slate grips my arm again, though less tight than he had at the club. The doors pop open on their own, and we exit the car. Vasya pulls it out toward an underground parking garage, quickly out of our sight.
Slate, followed closely by Michael and Eli, leads me into the house, and immediately I am overwhelmed by how sharp and angular the inside of the house looks, as if Slate was a supervillain. Despite the circumstances, I am incredibly curious about the house, and am a bit disappointed when Slate pulls me into a small room off the living room where we walked in.
“Mia, first I need to thank you profoundly for getting us out of that club without being caught. I don’t know if I can express to you how much that means to me,” Slate begins. “What I do have to say, though, is that I’m afraid we have put you into a very… awkward position. I think we can all agree that we got a bit carried away with the storytelling, yeah?”
Michael and Eli both nod, their faces pale.
Oh god, they’re going to kill me.
“However, I do have a bit of a proposition for you that might help mitigate some of the tension this has caused between us,” Slate continues.
I panic, my heart thumping so loudly that I’m certain Slate and his goons can hear it. “I don’t want to die,” I say, my voice trembling.
Slate looks at me, his expression neutral. “I’m not trying to kill you, Mia. If I wanted you dead, you’d be in the ocean by now. I need you to have just a bit more trust in me, though,” he says.
I swallow hard. “Then what?”
“I need someone to keep track of my administrative needs,” I says calmly. “I’m too busy for it, and my previous assistant has decided to go completely AWOL on me. Your ability to think clearly and keep calm in a situation like today was very impressive. You can work better hours and receive much better pay. All you have to do is keep your pretty mouth shut about it.”
I don’t see any other option. Besides, I’m ashamed to admit what I’d do for money at this point. My dad needs my support, and I’m not going to let him rot in a cheap apartment instead of getting the help he needs.
Without much time to think it over, I raise my chin and look Slate dead in his eyes. “I’ll do it.”
