Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

the man was staring at the pair of us in stunned amazement. In the background, a scraping, moaning sound briefly disrupted the bar as my two injured would be assailants dragged their broken, damaged bodies out of the bar, barely functional limbs dragging across the wooden floor.
    "Hey, man. I don't want no trouble," the barkeep said. "Like I said, ain't no fighting in this bar. I'm running a respectable establishment, you dig? I'm gonna need you to –."
    "The only thing I dig ," Roman said threateningly, cutting the man's delayed bravado off with a single, irresistible growl. "Is that if you don't get this lady," he placed his hand on my lower back apologetically, and I shivered with… something. "I mean, Ellie a drink, then you're going to have bigger problems to deal with than scraping a little bit of blood off the floor." The bartender's face went white, completely devoid of color, or blood, as he took in Roman's words. He physically shrank back, clearing his throat apologetically before he finally mustered the courage to say something.
    "You got it, boss."
    Roman turned to me with a smile. I marveled at the way he could change his spots like a chameleon, appearing for all the world as if he was happy to bring the power of God down on those who threatened him one second, and treating me like I was a fragile eggshell the next.
    "What will you have?" He said courteously, and I appreciated the way he asked me what I wanted first. Not a lot of men in my life ever did, but I loved it. Too many men seem to think chivalry is bossing their women around, ordering for them at restaurants and bars. It’s not. It’s understanding what your woman wants, and providing it.
    You really do know how to pick them , I giggled to myself, letting a smile break upon my face like the morning sun appearing on the horizon. Either it's a man who can't keep himself from laying his hands on you for all the wrong reasons , or a guy like this .
    Roman replied with a shy little smile as he saw mine, and I turned away from him instinctively, my cheeks going red with embarrassment. I was just glad that he couldn't hear what I was thinking. "A bourbon," I said, before changing my mind. "A strong one," I clarified.
    "Make that two," Roman growled to the bartender. "On the house."
    The man never once looked like complaining, and I found my mysterious savior's unhesitating use of his undoubted power over other men strangely exciting. I'd spent my whole working life as a reporter campaigning against powerful men, corruption and Alexandria's criminal elements, and the man now carrying our drinks to his dark corner table fit at least two of those three criteria. Yet I followed him without so much as a word of complaint, drawn in by a sense of calm confidence that seemed to radiate outward from the man wherever he went. The ice tinkled against the walls of the two dark amber glasses of bourbon as he set them down on a chipped and stained bar table. I followed his lead and sat down, my heart beating at a thousand beats a minute, as if I'd just finished up competing in the Olympics.
    The first words that escaped his mouth were, "I'm sorry."
    I cocked my head with surprise, and had to concentrate to make sure I heard him right. What's he got to apologize for? I wondered. After all, he'd just saved my life. Or at least, I was sure, my dignity and probably much, much more. My tongue felt dry with nervous tension, and I took a long, deep gulp of the cold yet burning hot whiskey in order to wet it, and to center myself.
    "What," I finally choked out, "for?"
    As he began his stilting, hesitant reply, I began to study the man more carefully. I wouldn't put money on it, but he sounded as though he had the slightest, faintest hint of a long-forgotten Russian accent. That, and his name, made me think bratva, but that didn't make sense. Why the hell would be Russian mob be interested in saving me? From what little I knew about them, at least in the last few years since the