Dirty Hearts: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

Why would you think this was a smart move?

Something registered within Jean-Pierre’s eyes as he turned to Emily. “What’s your name?”

Smart, my mouse didn’t answer.

Still, I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice. “You talk to me!” I fisted my hands. “You come into my bedroom in the middle of the night. I’d heard the French could be rude to tourists, but this is ridiculous.”

“Get Misha on the phone.”

I frowned. “You could have asked that anytime this afternoon or maybe after breakfast, and perhaps I would have obliged, but currently Misha has been avoiding me, and I don’t fucking like you right now.”

“Celina stole something from Misha. Do you know what it is?”

“I barely know Celina. My Uncle Igor would talk about her in passing. She was just one of his mistresses he helped out from time to time. Little projects to keep him from mourning his wife.”

“Igor and I fought a war.”

I sneered. “Not on any high level.”

Enough with this.

I rose from the bed. “I would cover myself, but let’s face it. We both know you hoped to see my dick.”

Closer. I just need to get closer.

I stalked over to him.

His men raised their weapons and pointed at him.

If you wanted me dead, you would’ve shot me long ago. No. You want me to do something, and all I want to do is kill you.

I inched closer. All I needed to do was grab one of the important ones by the neck and drag them to me. Rafael or Jean-Pierre. Either one would do. I’d grab them, get the others to put their guns down, and then sling them all off the balcony.

Paris will rain men today!

I took another step. The other men looked unsure of what to do. Jean-Pierre kept his gun pointed. Death blazed in his eyes. This was not the calm relaxed man I was used to talking to. Still, I began to inch closer, but then Emily’s shaky voice stopped me. “Kazimir.”

One more step, mouse. Don’t worry.

I stopped in front of the Butcher. “So, how does it feel, Jean-Pierre? You’re here. Finally, I’m naked and in the bedroom with you. Was it everything you thought it would be?”

“I’m done with games this evening.” He glared at me. “The clock is ticking. I want answers. Eden was kidnapped by the Bratva.”

Who did Igor say that Jean-Pierre was stalking? Some sort of musician. Was her name Eden?

I shook my head. “Is this all still about your flute player?”

“It’s the violin.”

I leaned in closer. “You start a war with me over a fucking musician?”

“The war hasn’t started yet, but it might happen.” He signaled to his men. “Take him on the balcony.”

I would like to see them try.

“No,” Emily spoke.

Jean-Pierre’s men widened their eyes as they looked her way. I did too. Emily rose from the bed with another gun in her hand. “You can talk to him in here. Not on the balcony.”

No, mysh. I don’t want them to even know you’re in here.

Jean-Pierre’s voice laced with edge. “Put the gun down.”

My heart almost stopped.

Emily looked scared. It wasn’t the best time to reason with her. Instead of putting the gun down, she shot at Rafael’s leg.

Fuck it.

I charged for Jean-Pierre.

Violence erupted. I grabbed Jean-Pierre as his men rushed for me. It didn’t matter. As long as I had his neck within my hands, this moment would be over. But Jean-Pierre slammed my head with the butt of the gun. Goddamn it. Pain burst, but not enough to stop me. I shoved him up against the wall.

So close.

His men dragged me off him.

Rafael yelled behind us. “You almost fucking shot me?!”

Emily screamed.

No.

My survival was no longer important. Everything turned to my mouse. All my attention. All my energy. I shoved his men to the side and raced her way. Three men grabbed and grappled me to the floor.

No! Get away!

“Enough!” Jean-Pierre shot at the ceiling.

Everyone else paused. I glanced Emily’s way. She had Rafael in a headlock.

Pride and horror twisted in my heart.

No, mysh. They can’t know you’re important.

She let Rafael go. Terror filled her eyes as she stared back at me.

Damn it. I’m so sorry, mysh. Your men should’ve been here.

“I should fucking kill you.” Rafael rubbed his jaw and reached for her.

She ducked his grip and slid off the bed.

“You don’t lay one finger on her!” I went crazy on the floor. Another man had to help hold me back. Still, with five of them on me, I moved them an inch forward, never giving up or calming down.

“She’s crazy. And he won’t say shit or doesn’t know shit.” Rafael straightened his jacket. “What now?”

Leave, so I can kill you later.

Jean-Pierre looked at Emily. She’d wrapped herself in a bed sheet.

“Take her.” Jean-Pierre glared.

No. No.

I still wasn’t sure I’d heard the right thing. Was it all in my mind? Was he really that crazy?