Dirty Minds: An Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

I looked ahead of me.

The van screeched several feet in front of me, swerved to the side, and slammed into a wall. The guy manning the mounted gun fell off the van’s top.

Glass shattered near them. I jumped up from the ground and limped forward, ready to shoot anybody that jumped out.

Footsteps sounded further up.

The panty store. Of course. That should have been my first guess with you.

“Come on!” I raced that way.

David jumped out of the van. Rage covered his face. “I’m going to kill him. I liked that goddamn van.”

“He’s in there. The store with the bras.” I smiled. “If he’s throwing mannequins, then he’s out of bullets.”

Three of our men jumped out of the vans, and followed with their guns.

This ends today.

We came close to the store.

And then Jean-Pierre popped up near a bunch of bras, and launched another mannequin our way.

I jumped to the side.

It smashed into the wall on my right.

I winked. “There you go.”

Jean-Pierre slung another one. It crashed to the ground in front of me.

Terror hit Jean-Pierre’s voice. “Rafael!”

“Yeah?” The other idiot popped out near a display of panties holding his own mannequin.

Hey, fellas.

Slower than I wanted, I raced their way. My legs burned. My kneecaps seared in pain.

“Rafael!” Jean-Pierre widened his eyes. “Run!”

“Shit!” Rafael dropped the mannequin and ran away.

“You better run!” I pointed and shot.

Missed and shot again.

Boiling anger flooded my veins “Come on. Die already.”

They scattered off within the shadows of the store. Probably hiding under racks of panties.

My mouse said you had dignity. Why not die with it?

I would find them.

This would end today.

The lingerie store was massive. I figured it would be easier to catch them, but as soon as we rounded the corner several feet, more bras and panties awaited. David and his men shoved racks away, like soldiers would chop through a jungle chasing after the enemy.

They were out of bullets, and we had many to spare.

We shot out. Hangers of panties and lace stockings swung back and forth, but no perfumed pansy in sight.

The lights shattered, blinking off and on.

“You’re in here. I smell your sweet little scent.” I shoved a rack of socks down. It crashed to the floor. “Do you smell as good when your gut is opened up?”

One of my men shot the head off a mannequin, probably thinking it was Jean-Pierre. Bits of mannequins splattered. Dust thickened the air.

Outside of the store, more people shouted and screamed. Police sirens blared. Even more people were shooting. Tires screeched. Someone else was driving in the mall.

Focused on killing Jean-Pierre, I hit the next section of the store. “You just couldn’t let me get my mouse. You had to continue to cause trouble”

Sleepwear and beauty products filled the shelves in this area.

David got to my side. “What do we do?”

“Let’s separate.” I pointed to the left. “Go there first. Get the funny one. Rafael. Leave Jean-Pierre to me.”

David headed off with one guy.

Two men followed me.

Movement came from the right.

I gestured to them. “Check that way.”

They raced off in that direction.

Ready for blood, I crept forward with my gun out. My heart boomed in my ears. More sweat trickled, dripping into my left eye. I wiped at it.

Someone grabbed me from behind wrapping their arm around my neck.

Jean-Pierre.

I pushed my weight back, taking us both to the ground. His hold loosened.

I roared and turned to him. “There you go.”

“Fuck you!”

I charged. He ducked but wasn’t fast enough. Perhaps on his best day with a little bit more rest, he could have avoided me. But like me, he hadn’t slept and my mouse had been knocking him around.

Did you give him those bumps on his head, mouse? I’ll finish him for you.

We wrestled on the ground.

Somehow I still held my gun.

Although exhausted, Jean-Pierre was still a fast bastard. It was hard to keep a hold on him. All I needed was one good aim without shooting us both. I grabbed his ear, angled his face down, and tried to rip the ear out of its roots. He punched me in the gut. I smashed his head into the ground. Blood appeared at his nose.

Not out yet, he rammed his knee into my chest.

His shirt ripped under my grip, as I dragged him forward.

Come the fuck on!

He resisted with violent elbows to my gut. I ax kicked and he upper cut. My jacket tore. Jean-Pierre spun, trying to break my grip. Not fast enough, I yanked him forward and he slammed down on my arm.

Fuck.

The pain was sudden and excruciating. He might have broken it.

My gun fell away.

It slipped and stopped three feet away.

No! I won’t die by this idiot’s hands.

We both struggled to charge for the gun at once. Stabbing and attacking. Beating and slamming. Biting and kneeing. When he attacked, I defended. When I struck, he barreled through it. And then somehow, we untangled. I rolled to the right into a robe display. He fell back into a shelf. It crashed to the floor.