Dirty Minds: An Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

“I can do that.”

He quirked his eyebrows. “Can you?”

He will want to kill you, but. . .

I whispered, “I have my limits.”

Jean-Pierre considered it and then spoke, “This is an interesting topic, but you won’t talk to him before I do. Perhaps, we should discuss what you would do once we exchange.”

“I can’t make promises, if I don’t know what Kazimir has in mind.” I studied him.

This isn’t working.

I tapped my thigh with one hand. “We… we could be friends, Jean-Pierre.”

“And what does a friendship involve?”

“Lots and lots of trust.”

“I’m not letting you go, Mouse.”

“But if I go—”

“You won’t.” He snorted.

I tried again. “If I do, give me time to stop this.”

“Stop what?”

“A war between us.”

“I haven’t even thought beyond that.”

Idiot! How the hell haven’t you thought beyond that?!

I held in my anger. “That’s the problem.”

“Okay.” He stared at the poster for a few seconds. “If you go to Kazimir first, then I’ll give you time.”

“Let us leave Paris?”

“Oh yes. Kazimir and you leaving Paris would be fine with me.”

I returned to pacing. “And no war?”

“Not on my side, if Eden is back to me unharmed.”

I eyed him. “Define unharmed.”

“Not injured.”

“Kazimir wouldn’t hurt her. If others did, then that’s your problem with them. Not ours.”

“Fair.”

Fuck it. We’ll just have to wrestle. Who wants out of this room more?

“Okay.” I walked over and held my hand out to him. “We exchange with a few hiccups, but we don’t stress about those hiccups.”

He quirked his brows. “What am I shaking to?”

“Our friendship and no war.”

And maybe this ass whipping. Mine or yours.

Hyping myself up for a fight, I kept my hand out. “Jean-Pierre, to friendship?”

He extended his arm to shake.

Our hands connected.

You can do it. You can do it.

My arms were sore, but I gently pulled him in for a hug. He leaned my way. I kneed him hard in the crotch.

Sorry, Jean-Pierre.

Grunting, he doubled over. I used his weight against him and pushed him into the bookshelf. Ballerina figurines fell all over him as he crashed into the floor.

Sorry, Natalie.

Under the shelf, and cracked figurines, he reached out to grab me. “Get back over here!”

“I can’t.” I jumped out of his way and slammed his head against the shelf.

Pass out, man. Come on.

The shelf crashed further down on him. More ballet shoes fell around him. He blinked. Blood trickled down his forehead.

There we go.

He shut his eyes and rubbed his head.

Goodnight, buddy.

Nervous, I reached under his jacket and took his gun out the holster.

Okay. Now the guards in the hallway.

Movement came behind me.

Damn it.

Jean-Pierre would not passed out. He looked dizzy, but he was definitely trying to push off the bookshelf and get up.

Focus. Breath. You’ve got this.

Opening the door, I hurried out with the gun pointed.

Guard on the left.

I shot him in his leg. He fell on the ground and reached for his gun. I shot the arm and took it from him.

Where’s the other guy? I know your bitch ass is around here.

I rushed down the hallway with both hands pointing guns.

Shit. There you go.

The man walked out of the kitchen with a plate in his hand and a fork full of eggs in front of his face.

“Think.” I headed down the hallway. “What do you want to do? Eat or get shot?”

He glanced over his shoulder.

Rafael must’ve still been out on the balcony. I had no idea where Natalie, Benji, or Louis was.

“No one’s watching.” I inched further. “No one has to know.”

The guy put the food in his mouth and went back into the kitchen.

Let’s hope Jean-Pierre doesn’t kill you.

I ran to the front door and opened it.

Another guard stood outside the apartment.

I shot him in the chest.

He fell to the ground.

Rafael yelled from somewhere behind me. “What the fuck is going on?! Jean-Pierre? Louis?”

I shot the guard again, shut the door, and raced down the hallway toward the stairs. There was no way I would take that slow ass elevator.

I did it. I fucking did it!

A boom sounded behind me. I ran into the stairwell. Some fast guard pulled up right behind me.

Where the hell did you come from?

I shot him in the leg, then in the chest, and ran upstairs. More guards would come. Everyone expected me to go downstairs and out of the building. Somehow I would have to figure out another way near the roof. Maybe the buildings were close, and I could jump over.

Fuck. I suck at jumping.

I sped up the stairs.

Noises erupted below me. There’d been some other people in the stairwell that had nothing to do with Jean-Pierre or me. An old man screamed. A woman shrieked.

I stayed to the wall so if anyone looked up they couldn’t see me climbing up the stairs.

It’ll work. I’ve got this.

I did my best to keep the noise down as I hurried up.

Someone yelled. “Where is she?”