Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (3 page)

I gulp, and I can feel my parents bristling uncomfortably behind me.

“You’re Olivia Greenwood,” the man says, and I realize now that it’s the first time I’ve heard his voice all night. In fact, a lot of other people have stopped their conversations to glance over at the surprising sound. His voice is deep and somber, with just a lick of an accent I can’t quite place. Every word from his lips seems to vibrate in the air.

“Y-yes, that’s me,” I reply awkwardly.

He nods. “I have seen videos of your training and competitions and read your stats. You have a few achievements under your belt,” he explains. Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded like a compliment, but in his grave tone it sounds almost like a put-down. Or a threat.

“Thank you,” I murmur, blushing.

“May I speak to you in private for a moment?” he asks, glancing briefly at each of my parents behind me. All three of us nod in response and the man gestures for me to follow him to the little outside patio. I’m half-afraid that my father is going to demand to come along, but to my relief, he doesn’t. I need to be able to handle whatever this guy has to say. On my own.

So I follow Mr. Mystery outside, where the air is slightly chilled. Goosebumps prickle along my arms and bared legs, but I suspect that may be less due to the weather and more about the fact that an intimidating stranger has cornered me alone.

“My name is Maksim Pavlenko, but my colleagues often call me Max. I have come on behalf of an elite gymnastics company with a close affiliation to the Sorbonne in Paris. After reviewing your progress as an athlete and sending me out to review your last performance live, the company has chosen to offer you a place in their highly competitive program. You would study at the Université de Paris and train under the tutelage of world-renowned instructors, such as myself,” he explains, his expression never lightening up for even a second.

I am stunned and overwhelmed by this barrage of information, and apparently it shows, because he then gives me an even colder, impatient look.

“This is an opportunity to die for, and it is not offered lightly. If you wish to accept, it is imperative that you tell me now,” he commands. My mind is racing, my heart pounding. How am I even supposed to respond to something like this? I had no expectation of anything so serious happening tonight — especially not to
me
!

But I quickly stammer, “Yes, I-I would love to. I just —”

“Very well,” he interrupts, guiding me back into the restaurant and toward my waiting parents, who both looked utterly bewildered. Without another word to me, Pavlenko describes the details of the arrangement to my parents, leaving me standing stock-still and silent the whole time. Holly and Ashley shoot me concerned, questioning looks, but all I can do is give them a strained smile and shrug. I know they’ll be happy for me, but it also means that I’ve bested them. We’re all friends, but we’re competitors, too. Besides, if I go away to Paris — which still seems like an impossible pipe dream — who knows if I’ll even ever see them again?

Still, I tell myself as Pavlenko arranges my travel and schooling plans with my parents, he is right. This is an opportunity I cannot pass up. On the ride home from the banquet, I don’t say a word even as my parents chatter excitedly about Pavlenko’s offer. It’s all happening so fast, but it’s definitely for the better, isn’t it? Gymnastics is my passion, and I will never fulfill my ambitions if I just languish away here in Toast.

Paris is the place to be. Even if it means leaving behind everything I’ve ever known or loved.

Right?

But then I remember what happened the last time I flew anywhere...

I
’ve only been
on a plane once in my life, when I was ten and we flew to Orlando for a family vacation at Disney World. I was so scared that my parents had to give me a special medicine from the doctor to chill me out and calm me down for the flight. Every slight turbulence felt like instant death to me. I just knew we were going to drop out of the sky and plummet to our doom at any moment. My mom spent the entire flight stroking my hair and reminding me that it’s more likely to get in a car accident than a plane crash.

Which only had the effect of also making me terrified to get in the taxi waiting for us when we landed in Orlando.

I’d like to think that I’ve matured a little bit since then. Mellowed out, even. But when the day of the flight arrives, I’m trembling yet again. It looks like my old phobia is still going strong, unfortunately. And this is a scarier flight than just hopping on a plane to Florida: this time I’m flying over the Atlantic Ocean.

And I’m doing it all by myself.

“You’ll be just fine, sweetheart,” my mother assures me, her voice wavering. Both of my parents have been excessively hovering over me for the past few weeks, fussing over every little thing and wanting to spend all their time with me. I understand why. This will be the first time I’ve ever lived away from home, and Paris is a long, long way away from North Carolina. I’m an only child and my parents have always been like my best friends, so this is going to be very difficult on all of us. I can’t imagine what it will be like not seeing them every day. Don’t get me wrong, in some ways I am looking forward to the freedom and independence of my new life.

But I’m also scared.

What if I get there and I can’t make any friends? I don’t even speak French! What if I get lost? Or mugged? I know frightening things can happen in big cities, and I’ve spent my whole life living in a place where nobody even thinks to lock their doors.

“It’s not just the flight, Mom,” I admit, sitting on a bench in Raleigh-Durham International Airport. My dad puts an arm around my shoulder and squeezes me tight.

“Don’t let the city intimidate you,” he says. “Livvy, you’re a tough cookie and I know you can handle whatever comes your way.”

“It’s just that… well, what if nobody likes me?” I ask meekly, my voice very small. Both of my parents rush to reassure me.

“Honey, I don’t think you’ve ever met a person who didn’t like you,” Mom says.

“What’s not to like?” Adds my father.

I can’t help but think of Pavlenko, remembering the way he regarded me as though I were just some small annoyance, a gnat buzzing in his face. He delivered the Paris offer almost begrudgingly, like he didn’t agree with the company’s assessment of my talent.

Like he didn’t think I was good enough, but he didn’t want to say anything.

But that’s not a problem I want to worry my parents with. So I keep it to myself. Then a woman’s voice comes over the intercom and announces that my flight, Raleigh to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, is boarding in thirty minutes. My parents exchange heartbroken, desperate looks. I know they’re going to miss me. I hope they don’t fall apart without me around to keep them busy. They’re both so involved in my life that I wonder how they’ll manage living their own lives now that I’m leaving.

My father is already in tears, wrapping his arms around me and rocking me back and forth. Mom joins in the group hug, petting my hair and kissing the top of my head.

“Oh, we’re going to miss you so much,” Mom sniffles.

“Promise you’ll call every day, no matter how much it costs,” Dad blubbers, his tears staining my sweatshirt. “We love you, Liv. Please be careful.”

“Text us the second your plane lands, okay!” Mom adds.

As they finally release me from their combined embrace, I assure them that I will keep in contact and that I will love and miss them more than anything. And it’s true. While I’ve always had casual friendships here, no relationship has ever even come close to the tight-knit dynamic of my little family unit.

They walk me as far as security will allow, and then I’m on my own. Waving tearfully to my weepy mother and outright sobbing father, I pass through the security checkpoint and proceed nervously on to the terminal. When I board the plane, I feel that old fear settling in again. The plane is so cramped and warm inside, and I feel slightly claustrophobic. And this time I don’t have my mom to reassure me the whole way.

But I can do this. I have to.

My seat neighbor is a rather attractive guy who looks to be in his twenties, and when he notices me fidgeting, he asks if I’m a nervous flier. I sheepishly confess that I am, and he pats my hand, giving me a wink.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe,” he tells me, smiling. I blush, not accustomed to a lot of male attention. Every guy I interacted with in my hometown I’ve known since I was a little kid. When the population is that low, you kind of get to know everybody more intimately than you’d like. So no matter how objectively cute a guy in my graduating class might be, I would always remember him as the kid who picked his nose in first grade. Besides, gymnastics has always superseded any interest in romantic entanglements, for me.

So I am about as experienced as a nun.

The guy introduces himself as Will and says that he’s also going to Paris to study at the same school as me! Of course, he’s going as a graduate student, whereas I will be a lowly undergrad. Still, he flirts with me in a non-threatening, easy going way, and we spend the whole flight chatting about how excited we are. Will explains that he’s been to Paris many times before, and he offers to help show me around and get used to the place. I can’t believe my luck!

When the flight attendant comes down the aisle, Will purchases a miniature bottle of champagne and sneaks me a sip. It’s the first time I’ve ever had champagne — or alcohol, period. It burns in my mouth a little bit, but I actually enjoy the taste once I get past the bubbles.

“You’ve really never had a drink?” Will asks in an undertone, his eyebrows raised.

I shake my head and shrug. “No. For a long time my hometown was in a dry county so people still don’t really drink a whole lot. Plus, you know, I’m underage.”

He laughs. “Yeah, that never stopped me.”

As we share the champagne, I start to feel a little giddy — definitely more upbeat and optimistic about my Parisian experience than I was when I boarded the plane. I mean, I’ve been excited all along, but until now my anxieties have kept my elation to a minimum. But now I just want to jump up and down and turn backflips!

The rest of the flight passes by much more quickly than I expected, probably thanks to the booze and Will’s pleasant company. It’s exciting to have a cute boy so interested in me, and when we finally land in Paris, he suggests that we share a taxi together. I agree happily as it’s nice having an older guy to guide me through the massive airport, and the two of us collect our luggage and walk out into the French sunshine.

“We did it!” I exclaim, breathing in deeply as the sounds of the big city whirr around me.

“You’re in Paris!” Will says, nudging my shoulder. “How does it feel?”

“Like a dream,” I breathe, my heart soaring. I cannot believe I’ve made it all the way here — little Liv Greenwood, all the way from the middle of nowhere to the almost mythical city of Paris! It almost feels like I’m watching a movie starring myself, and at any second the end credits will pop up and transport me back to Toast, where I’m a nobody once again.

Will and I take a taxi to the University, where we get out and walk around on campus for a while. It’s mind-blowing to be somewhere so deeply entrenched in history beyond my own nation, the white walls of the old school nearly vibrating with centuries of memory. Then we simply stroll along the streets, dragging our luggage along behind us. I feel so small in this massive, beautiful, vibrant city — like an ant crawling on the face of a gigantic marble statue. Every building tells a story, every corner we turn reveals another architectural masterpiece I’ve only ever seen in the pages of an art history textbook.

This is a fantasy, a wild daydream — but it’s also my life now!

Around noon, I check my phone and realize I forgot to text my parents, I have been so distracted. I finally reply to their barrage of concerned texts, assuring them that the plane landed and I’m perfectly fine. I’m more than fine, though, I’m floating on cloud nine.

“Oh, I believe I’ve got to head back to the campus to meet with my gymnastics coordinator,” I tell Will, a little sadly. I am excited to meet the trainers and my fellow gymnasts, but I’m also reluctant to leave Will. It’s so nice to have found a friend already, especially one who seems to genuinely care about making me feel welcome.

Suddenly, Will catches me in his arms and dives in to kiss me.

I’m so shocked that I actually yelp in surprise, barely managing to dodge out of the way before his lips collide with mine. His kiss lands awkwardly on my cheek instead, and when he releases me, he looks a little miffed. “Did I misread something?” he asks, ruffling his hand through his blond curls.

“Oh, uhh, I just — um — I need to get going,” I tell him quickly, backing away to hail a cab. On the one hand, I am flattered that such a cute boy has deemed me worth trying to kiss, but at the same time I am taken aback by how forward he is. After all, we barely know each other! Does everyone move this quickly in France?

Thankfully, a taxi pulls up and I start to hastily climb inside. Will rushes forward to ask through the window, “Wait! When will I see you again? How will I contact you?”

I shrug and say, “Oh, um, I’m sure we’ll see each other around campus!”

And with that, the taxi peels off down the winding Parisian streets toward the school. I slump in the back seat, my heart pounding after such a strange, sudden encounter. I’ve only been in the city for a few hours, but it’s already been a much different experience than anything I ever had in North Carolina. If this is how quickly things can happen in just one morning… what all will happen in a year or two?

W
hen my taxi
pulls up to the curb and lets me out in front of my stop on campus, I’m still trying to shake off my encounter with Will. The last and only other time a boy tried to kiss me was in second grade at my birthday pool party. His name was Michael, and I pushed him into the pool and ran away. And this time, I merely jumped in a cab and ran away. I’m starting to wonder if this is how I will always react to male attention — immediately jump into extreme evasive maneuvers. It’s becoming my trademark move.

It’s about one in the afternoon now and the exhaustion of flying and then dragging my luggage around the city all morning is getting to me. But it’s my first day in France — the first time I’ve ever left America! — and I am not going to let jet lag nor a weird sexual advance get me down! The instructions I have pulled up on my phone in an email from Pavlenko inform me that I’m supposed to be meeting my roommate in a courtyard on campus at half past one. So I’m just barely going to make it on time. I hurry down the beautiful, historical, arched hallways and rush out into the lazy afternoon sunshine to meet the girl I’m going to share a place with. I’m incredibly nervous and a little bit self-conscious, afraid that something will go wrong.

What if she doesn’t like me? What if we don’t get along?

I wonder if she’ll be from a small town like me or if she’ll already be acquainted with city life. I can’t decide which would be better. If she’s also a small-town girl, then maybe she’ll understand me. But if she’s used to taking public transportation, dodging in and out of traffic, following the hustle and bustle of the city… well, then maybe she can help me adjust.

I cross the courtyard, pulling my wheeled suitcase behind me, looking around for someone who looks like they’re waiting for me. Most of the people I see here look distinctly French — sleek black clothing, effortless style. Then I see her.

There’s a girl who looks to be about my age, standing in the center of the courtyard. She’s glancing around nervously, her hands fidgeting in front of her. She is much taller than me, and maybe even slimmer. This girl looks to be the very epitome of the gymnast image. Her straight auburn hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail and she’s wearing jeans and a pink tank top with a green cardigan over it. She stands out in the sea of dark, probably designer duds. She has to be the one, for sure.

I hurry toward her and she finally looks my way, her hazel eyes going wide and round.

“Are you —?” she begins, her voice sweet but a little shrill.

“Olivia Greenwood,” I greet, holding out my hand to shake hers. “I’m assuming you’re waiting for a roommate? For the gymnastics program?”

She nods, somehow looking both relieved and anxious at the same time. “Yes, hi. My name is Margaret-Ann Mason, but I go by Maggie, please.”

“You can call me Liv,” I add, giving her a smile to try and ease her anxiety. She seems a little stiff, like she’s still uncertain of me. I hope it’s not something I’ve done wrong.

“Have you been by the flat yet?” she asks, then takes notice of my luggage and blushes. “Oh, I guess probably not since you’re still pulling a suitcase around. Duh.”

I relaxed a little, realizing that her aloofness probably has less to do with judging me and more to do with her own insecurity. She seems sweet, but I can already pick up on the fact that she’s a little too hard on herself. A lot of gymnasts are. We’re forced to compete within such strict guidelines that some of us develop complexes about it. Just like my short stature marks me as an outsider, I can imagine that Maggie’s height and awkwardness set her apart, too.

“Yeah, I just kind of spent the morning, uh, looking around.”

“Well, I can take you to the apartment, if you like,” Maggie offers, brightening up. “My parents sent me here a week early to get accustomed to the city, and I’ve visited Paris a bunch of times before, so I know my way around pretty well!” She immediately blushed, probably feeling like she’s rambled too much. But I like people who talk a lot. My parents were always chattering back and forth while I just listened contentedly. It was comforting to me.

“That would be awesome,” I assure her. “I’m totally new here.”

“Okay,” she says, biting her lip. She still looks nervous, but there’s a sparkle in her eye. Maggie leads me across the large campus and out to the street. Instead of hailing a cab — which is how I always assumed everyone in big cities got around — she just started walking, with me trailing slightly behind.

“Is the apartment close to here?” I pipe up, my shorter legs struggling to keep up with this Amazonian new acquaintance.

“Oh, yes! It’s within walking distance of the university. The training studio isn’t far from here, either,” she explains. We walk for a while longer down the wide, busy streets, and then we turn a corner and Maggie points upward at a gorgeous old building with black, wrought-iron balconies jutting out from its stony face. “Home sweet home!” she exclaims, beaming.

“Wow,” I breathe, tilting my head back to gaze up at the many stories. I had no idea we would be staying in such a gorgeous place. This looks like a movie set, like a postcard. I’m expecting a Juliet to appear on a balcony and call out for her Romeo at any moment.

“I’m sure you’re tired of lugging that thing around,” Maggie comments, gesturing toward my suitcase. “Wanna go inside? I’ll show you our flat!”

She leads me through a giant set of carved wooden doors and we climb several flights of shining marble stairs, my suitcase clunking along behind us. I’m nearly out of breath by the time we reach the sixth floor.

“Yeah, the walk-up is a bit of a hike. But just wait until you see the inside!” Maggie remarks. We walk down a long hallway to room 608, where she takes out a key and opens the door to a spacious, airy apartment. My jaw drops instantly.

Everything is decorated in stark, clean whites and pale powder blues, with quaint little fixtures and floral designs on the molding. The ceilings are surprisingly high, and as I walk into the main living area, I am stunned nearly to tears by the sight of a massive, wall-to-wall set of windows. I rush over and look down to see that our apartment overlooks the street below, as well as a blooming green park across from us. Thin, gauzy white curtains are draped at either side of the wall of windows, pulled back to let in the lovely sunshine. I spin around and gawk at Maggie, who is also beaming excitedly.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she says, clasping her hands in front of her.

I nod vigorously, still at a loss for words. There’s a soft white sofa and two straight-backed blue armchairs with carved wooden legs. I can see the tiny kitchen area back toward the entrance, a line of gleaming white counters and minimalist appliances recessed in a smartly-lit alcove.

“Where’s the bedroom?” I ask, and Maggie guides me to a little room off to the right. It’s a bit tight, with two twin beds pushed against opposing walls, but it’s very cute. Just like the rest of the flat, the walls are a milky white and the floors a deep, natural hardwood. We both have white bedspreads with blue quilts folded on them — and here I realize that I’m rooming with a girl who actually makes her own bed every morning instead of leaving it a mass of tangled sheets like I do.

The bathroom is connected to our room through a door with a crystal-blue novelty doorknob. It’s fairly standard, with a pedestal sink and a shower stall. The floors are bright white marble, however, and so highly polished that I can nearly see my reflection.

“This is amazing,” I gasp, turning back to Maggie. She toys with the end of her flouncy ponytail, looking nervous once again.

“I —I’ve never had a roommate before. In fact, I’ve never really had a lot of friends,” she admits, her eyes riveted to the floor bashfully. “Oh, that makes me sound pathetic, doesn’t it?”

“No, no,” I assure her. She’s blushing furiously, her cheeks patchy with rosy splotches.

“It’s not that I don’t like other people or anything. I’ve just always been so busy with gymnastics, of course, and then there’s the homeschooling thing…”

Ah, there it is. That explains everything.

“I understand,” I tell her, walking over to pat her on the arm. “I’ve only had a few close friends, my whole life, and they were gymnasts, too. It’s hard to get out and meet people when you’re so focused on the future.”

“Exactly,” she says, looking a little relieved. She seems to soften instantly, her stiff edges melting away.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never had a roommate either. I’ve only ever lived at home with my parents. This is totally new for me,” I go on, walking over to my bed and sitting down. Maggie follows suit, perching on the edge of her bed.

“Me, too. I have to confess that my parents are a little, um, overbearing,” she describes, twirling the tip of her ponytail. “I love them and I know they have my best interests at heart, but they’ve never really let me do my own thing. This is the first time they haven’t been right behind me telling me what to do every minute of the day.”

“How does it feel? Having all this sudden freedom?” I ask, pulling my legs up to sit cross-legged on the bed.

Maggie chews her lips thoughtfully for a moment, then replies, “It’s a little scary. I mean, I’ve been to Paris before, but never on my own. My parents only just left yesterday to go back to Chicago. I thought they’d never leave…” she trails off.

I laugh, “Yeah, mine aren’t that bad, but it’s still kind of liberating to be able to do whatever I want, whenever I want. Or at least I assume it will be.”

“I’ve only had less than twenty-four hours of freedom but I haven’t done much with it yet,” Maggie sighs. “I spent the whole morning being too afraid to leave the apartment alone until I finally worked up the courage to go to campus and meet up with you.”

Suddenly, my cell phone chirps, alerting me to a new email. It’s a message from Pavlenko, informing me that my training will start first thing tomorrow. My heart sinks momentarily. I was hoping to get a little more time to settle in and see the city before jumping right back into the wham-bam schedule of training, studying, and more training. I have no illusions about what this career will mean for me: constant exertion, single-minded focus, and no time or energy for much else. And I’ve accepted that, since I have to.

But damn, I was hoping to at least see the Eiffel Tower first.

“What’s that?” Maggie asks.

I sigh and slump back onto my bed. “Looks like my training picks up tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah, they don’t give you a lot of time.”

“Yea... Are you with Monsieur Pavlenko as well?”

She nods her head, and I see the corner of her mouth twitch.

“He’s... a hard man, isn’t he?” I say, testing the waters and avoiding what I really want to say.

“Yea, I heard he was like... raised really strict or something. But that’s what gets results, right?”

“I guess. It’s just... when I first met him...” I trail off, not even sure how to finish that sentence. Do I tell her how sexy I thought he was, and then how disappointed I was when I realized how cold and professional he treated me? But then, isn’t that just how teachers have to treat their students at this level? Just thinking about his gorgeous eyes, though, sends a flush through my body. He’s totally different from every other man I’ve known, and thinking about the childish and brutish attempt at seduction that Will tried on me, I know that Monsieur Pavlenko would be far more suave.

“When you first met him...?” Maggie prods, and I realize I’ve drifted off in thought, and I shake my head, embarrassed. There’s no way I can tell her any of that.

“I just got here,” I murmur, trying to change the subject. “I just wish I had a chance to experience Paris and settle in before I get shoved into a gymnastics studio twenty-four-seven.” Even if that does mean long hours trying to please my new instructor.

There’s a long pause. Then Maggie bounds over and jumps onto my bed beside me, surprising me with her sudden display of enthusiasm. She struck me as the kind of girl who was always prim and proper, keeping a polite distance between herself and everyone else. But maybe, just maybe, that’s only due to her parents’ overprotection. Maybe the real Maggie is going to break free now that she’s got an ounce of freedom.

I kind of hope so. It’ll be interesting to see someone so straight-laced spread her wings a little bit. She nudges my shoulder excitedly.

“Hey, we still have the rest of the afternoon and the evening!” she exclaims. “We could totally explore the city and still be back in time for you to get a good night’s sleep to be ready for tomorrow. Don’t you think?”

I sit up and give her a quizzical expression. I know I’ve only just met her, but nothing about her so far has indicated a streak of spontaneity. Still, I have to admit that the offer is tempting, even if I am pretty exhausted.

“You know what? Hell yeah. Let’s do this. I’m in Paris, damn it! I can sleep when I’m dead!” I say, jumping up and starting to unzip my suitcase. If I’m going to see this beautiful city, I am sure as hell not doing it in my jeans and a sweatshirt!

Maybe I show up tomorrow for practice exhausted. Big deal. What can go wrong?