Page 27 of Sinful Promise

“Did he do something to you?”

Roman’s face turns dark. “What’s with all the questions?”

“No reason.”

I sigh. I must’ve exceeded my quota for the day.

It’s getting dark outside. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep while I sneak a look at Roman as we move under streetlights. Sex appeal clings to him like the tailored shirts he wears.

What is he up to? Men in the mafia don’t do anything unless there’s something in it for them. Why are these two risking their lives for me? They know Papa. They know what he’s capable of, and yet they don’t seem scared of him.

I doze off, jolting awake when the car bounces over speed bumps. I sit up and look out the window. I stretch. My muscles are stiff from the long ride. “Where are we?”

“Where do you think?” Roman chuckles and waves a hand at a small airplane. “The airport.”

The planes are small, not big enough for commercial flights, so we must be at a private airport. Alex parks next to one of the airplanes.

We exit the car, and I stare at the jet, marveling at the sleek lines of the aircraft and wondering how much it cost. Such luxurious travel is a perk only the rich and powerful enjoy. I’m both curious and anxious to fly in style. In all my daydreams of visiting exotic places, I never pictured this.

While the men load the plane, I take a short stroll to stretch my legs. Several rifle cases are loaded into the hold. Why do they have so many, and what were they up to? Were they planning to kill Papa? A risky move in my country. Much smarter to have waited for him to come to Russia.

A tall man wearing a trench coat crosses the tarmac, approaching Roman. They shake hands, and the guy hands him something in an envelope. Roman slips it into his pocket. The man in the trench coat strides off, and Alex calls me to stand beside him.

He lights a cigarette, and I fan the smoke away from my face. “You know smoking is bad for you.”

“Yeah, that and a few other habits. How can I pick just one?” His lips curl, showing his teeth, but it's not a smile. There’s something menacing about his expression, so I drop the subject.

Roman’s eyes zero in on me. I blush under the intensity of his gaze.

“I have your passport,” he says. “We can board now.”

Holy cow, he got me a fake passport. What else can he do with a snap of his fingers? He’s like James Bond, for Christ’s sake.

I hang back, waiting for Roman to board first, but he slips behind me. “Let’s go,” he says, calling out to Alex.

Alex nods and drops his cigarette.

I tenuously walk up the steps. This is the first time I’ve ever flown, and my stomach is in knots with anticipation. I glance down to make sure I don’t miss a step and notice my sneakers. I’m no fashionista, but I’ve seen enough movies to know I’m underdressed for a private jet.

Katsia and I would watch American movies and dream of a better life. We planned our wedding day down to the last detail: designer dress, fresh flowers, and gourmet appetizers, with a seated dinner following the reception. Our hair and makeup would be done professionally, just like a Hollywood starlet prepping for the red carpet. Of course, we were only kidding ourselves, but our fantasies temporarily alleviated the monotony of our dismal lives, mine more than Katsias’s.

Once inside the plane, I see four recliner-size leather chairs. I sit in one by the window, and Roman buckles the seatbelt over my lap. His closeness takes my breath away. Even though he’s no longer in my personal space, his cologne lingers in the air, teasing me and triggering a now familiar throb and slickness between my legs.

We’ve been on the road for so long that the dark stubble on his chiseled jaw has grown in, giving him a rugged look. If anything, it makes him even more appealing. I gaze at his profile, transfixed, my heart racing. I quickly avert my eyes in case he turns to look at me, not wanting to get caught staring at him.

“Is Irina still coming?” I ask Alex when he plops down in the seat across the aisle. There’s safety in numbers. I’ll feel better knowing I’m not alone with two men if she’s on the yacht.

“Yes. I hate cell phones,” he grumbles while angrily poking the screen with his finger.

The plane starts to roll, and Roman buckles himself into the seat beside me.

“Yachts come in different sizes. How big is this one?” I ask him to get a feel for the sleeping arrangements.

“It’s big, big enough to sail across the ocean. Don’t worry, my little dove. You’ll be safe. I don’t take women against their will.”

It’s like he can read my mind.

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