Snow: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 2)

I feel a little thud on my back, as if a pillow fell on me.

It wakes me up.

I’m still wrapped tight in Snow’s arms, in his apartment.

It’s pitch black and very quiet. I know it must be late—maybe two o’clock in the morning. I hope Mila’s not worried about me. She knows I get home late from work, but I’m afraid she still waits up for me, or at least keeps an ear out.

I feel something soft brush past my face, and I realize it’s Snow’s little cat that woke me up. She’s jumped up on the bed, and she’s prowling around on top of us.

Snow’s eyes are open, too. Very softly he says, “What is it, Okalina?”

There’s a scratching sound at the door.

Snow sits bolt upright, looking toward the entrance.

Because his apartment is so dark, I can see a strip of light from the hallway leaking under the door. Dark shapes move across the light—feet, standing right outside.

Another scratch in the keyhole.

Someone is picking the lock.

I’ve barely had this thought before Snow leaps out of bed, snatching up a pile of clothes off the floor. He throws a sweatshirt and shorts at me, pulls the same on himself, and quietly opens his window, all before I’ve even had time to step into the shorts.

“Hurry, Sasha,” he whispers.

My hands are shaking so hard I can’t zip up the sweater. Snow zips it for me, then helps me climb out the window onto a rickety iron fire escape. He slides the window sash down again, as quietly as he can, considering how old and rigid the wood has become.

The little cat has followed us outside.

“Let her stay out,” Snow whispers to me. “I don’t want them to hurt her.”

“Who is it?” I whisper back.

He just shakes his head and takes my hand, pulling me down the fire escape.

I don’t have any shoes or socks. I see Snow carrying my shoes, along with the rest of my clothes and my purse. He’s grabbed those instead of his own things. At first, I think he’s being chivalrous, but then I realize he doesn’t want whoever’s coming to see my clothes in his apartment. That means he’s worried that it’s Krupin’s men. Or Stepanov’s.

The fire escape creaks and moans beneath our weight. Snow looks up repeatedly, afraid that the men will have broken into his apartment by now, and maybe come looking out the window.

He makes me wait on the second floor while he checks to make sure there’s no one down in the alley. Then he helps me down the last few steps, puts my shoes on my feet, and takes my hand as we sprint down the alley.

We don’t stop running until we’re several blocks away. My heart is galloping along in my chest, not slowing at all, even when we stop and lean against the wall of a dark, boarded-up bakery.

Snow is still barefoot, his chest likewise exposed to the chilly night air, since he hasn’t bothered to zip up his hoody. He looks like Tarzan—powerful and half-wild.

“Who was that?” I ask him again.

“I don’t know for sure,” Snow says, “but I’m guessing it’s Yakov.”

“Why?”

Did they find out about Snow and me? Is Krupin that angry?

“Krupin wanted me to throw the fight tonight,” Snow says. “I didn’t do it, obviously.”

I don’t understand.

“He wanted you to lose?”

“Yes. So he could bet against me.”

I feel stupid at how naive I still am. I didn’t know any of this was going on.

“And now he’s mad at you?” I ask.

Snow shrugs.

“Just a guess.”

“So you don’t think this is about you and me?” I ask him.

Snow throws a quick glance in my direction.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “But if you want to call it off . . .”

“I don’t,” I assure him.

I know it’s dangerous dating Snow right under Krupin’s nose. I don’t care. I’m not losing the only thing in the world making me happy right now.

When Snow said that he loved me, I felt a pure bolt of joy like nothing I’ve ever known before. I didn’t say anything back to him because I was so surprised. But the more I think about it, the more I think I might feel the same.

I’ve never known a man like this. Even while I’m enmeshed in the most terrifying circumstances of my life, he makes me feel protected. I believe that he’ll keep me safe, that he won’t let anything awful happen to me.

More than that, I feel seen by him. I think that he and I are similar in that people only notice one thing about us. For Snow it’s his size and strength. For me, it’s the fact that I look like a spoiled little princess. And maybe I was, before. But not anymore.

When Snow and I look at each other, we see what lies beneath. The dreams, ambitions, and imaginings. He’s not my opposite at all—I think we have more in common than anyone I’ve known before.

“I’ll take you ho—“ Snow begins to say, interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket. He pulls it out, wary at getting a text message in the middle of the night.

I glance at the message on the screen:

Gte out thy re cming

“Who’s that?” I ask him.

“Meyer. My trainer.”

Snow is frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

“He goes to bed early. And he doesn’t text.”

Snow scowls, thinking.

“I’ll take you home. Then I’ll go over there,” he says, deciding.

“No,” I say. “I want to come with you.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

Stubbornly, I cross my arms.

“I’m coming,” I tell him.

We have to walk quite a ways before we find a cab. The streets are nearly empty at this time of night. Several of the taxis that pass have already turned off their top lights, headed home and not picking up any more fares. At last I see one that’s still active. I hail it down.

Snow stands back, partly hidden by a parked car, so his bare feet aren’t apparent until I’m already getting in. The cab driver looks back at Snow with an alarmed expression, but I quickly say, “It’s just a short ride. Ulitsa Salova, please.”

I haven’t seen Snow’s gym before. It’s small and dingy looking from the outside, the painted sign on the window with its two yellow boxing gloves so faded and chipped that I only know it says “Golden Gloves” because Snow told me before.

“Does Meyer live here?” I say.

Snow nods.

“He has an apartment in the back of the gym.”

Snow ignores the front door, going around to the alley where there’s a secondary entrance that I assume leads right into Meyer’s apartment.

As we pick our way around the scattered bags of trash in the alleyway, Snow being particularly careful of broken glass because of his bare feet, he says, “This is where Meyer found me.”

Snow told me about his uncle’s death, and the orphanage that followed. But he hasn’t told me much about what happened afterward. I guessed that Meyer became something of a father to him, from Snow’s obvious affection for the cantankerous old man.

The door to the alleyway stands open, left ajar by whoever came here before us.

Snow holds up his hand, silently telling me to wait while he looks inside. I ignore him, following him into the small apartment. It’s extremely tidy, just like Snow’s place. I’m guessing it’s Meyer who instilled Snow’s sense of discipline—perhaps the naval uncle, too. He’s been raised by men, without ever knowing a woman’s love.

Meyer’s apartment is even more spartan than Snow’s. Yet the covers on the bed are rumpled, as if someone rose, interrupted, without a chance to make it again.

Snow gives a quick search of the kitchen, bathroom, and closet, which only takes a minute. Finding nothing, we walk through into the main gym.

Here I see the battered old ring where the boxers spar, as well as several heavy bags and speed bags, heavily patched. There’s a rusted squat rack with plates of various sizes, and a wall of jump ropes. It smells of iron, sweat, sawdust, and oil. So masculine that I wonder if a woman has even set foot in here before.

I see some mats in the corner, and what I at first take to be a pile of rags. When Snow runs over, I realize that the slumped shape is his trainer.

“Sasha!” Snow shouts, though I’m right behind him. “Help him, please!”

His voice is anguished.

He rolls Meyer over. The old man is badly beaten. His face is swollen and bloody, his shattered glasses laying a few feet away. It looks like someone stomped on them deliberately. His arm lays at an awful angle, and his skin is gray.

“Call an ambulance,” I tell Snow.

While he dials, I feel for a pulse on Meyer’s wrinkled wrist, on the arm that doesn’t seem to be broken.

It’s horribly reminiscent of a few hours earlier when I checked the Rabbi, already knowing he was dead. Meyer must be seventy at least. I don’t see how a man of his age could survive this.

“The ambulance is coming,” Snow tells me. “Is he . . .”

I wait, my fingertips seeking the slightest movement beneath the skin.

I think I feel a pulse. Faint and erratic, but there.

“He’s not dead,” I say.

Quickly, I elevate Meyer’s feet to send a little more blood to his head, and I gently chafe the uninjured hand to help restore circulation to the cold fingers.

While I’m doing this, Snow goes into the little office next to Meyer’s apartment and returns with a laptop. He opens it up, scrolling for something.

“What is it?” I say.

“There’s cameras,” Snow grunts, pointing to the corners of the room. “Meyer records our sparring matches, so he can show them to us afterward. But the cameras run all the time.”

Snow finds the feed he’s looking for, from an hour earlier.

The footage is black and white. But it’s clear enough to see what happened, and there’s sound, too.

Yakov and two of Krupin’s other men, Algorin and Bebchuck, broke into Meyer’s apartment. They hauled him out of bed and dragged him into the gym where they had more space.

“Where’s Snow?” Yakov demanded.

“How should I know?” Meyer croaked.

“You know where he lives. What’s the address?”

Meyer just shook his head, stubbornly.

“Tell us, old man. Or we’ll burn this place to the ground,” Bebchick said.

“With you inside,” Yakov snarled.

“You’re pretty tough, three of you against one old man,” Meyer said.

“You think you’d do better with the right odds?” Yakov laughed.

He unbuttoned his suit jacket, taking it off and handing it to Algorin to hold. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

“I heard you were hot shit back in the day, old man,” Yakov says. “Some kinda champion. But look at you now. Just another broken-down loser, training the next crop of losers.”

“That may be,” Meyer said calmly, “but you wouldn’t even make the cut, boy.”

Even on the black and white footage, I can see how Yakov’s face darkened.

He raised his fists and advanced on Meyer.

The old man put his hands up too, but as withered and hunched as he’s become, it was no contest at all. Yakov hit him again and again. Meyer’s glasses flew off his face, and Bebchuck stomped on them, making the fight even more uneven. It was obvious that Meyer could hardly see without them. Yakov’s blows fell on his face totally unprotected.

There was still some of the old quickness left. Meyer managed to block one punch and hit Yakov below the right eye, hard enough that Yakov stumbled back. That only made him angrier. He ran at Meyer, kicking, punching, and kneeing him in the gut, until Meyer was laying on the mats. Yakov continued to kick and pummel him, using the pointed toes of his polished oxfords.

It makes me so sick that I can hardly watch, the frail old body jolting under the blows. I can feel Snow’s rage like the heat of a furnace. He stares at the screen, unblinking.

Yakov didn’t stop until Algorin hauled him off, saying, “Don’t kill him until he gives us the address.”

Yakov paused for a minute, panting with the exertion of the beating.

“Where’s Snow?” he said again.

Meyer groaned, rolling on his side. He spat a little blood out on the mats.

“You’re a fuckin’ awful fighter,” he said.

Yakov flew at him again, kicking him in the face with a blow that knocked Meyer unconscious, and could easily have killed him.

The men left shortly thereafter, not having learned anything.

Snow closes the laptop.

He’s extraordinarily still. I’ve never seen him so enraged. It sends a chill through my body. I know Yakov deserves whatever Snow will do to him, but it terrifies me all the same.

I’m scared to speak a word.

Yakov found Snow’s apartment anyway, obviously. But Meyer never gave him up. The old man refused to betray him.

I look down at Meyer’s battered face. I love him for that. I’ll do whatever I can to help him.

I run to Meyer’s apartment and pull the blanket off his bed. I cover him up, then I run out into the street to make sure the ambulance doesn’t pass us by.

It arrives a few minutes later, the EMTs taking out their portable stretcher when I tell them that Meyer can’t walk.

They give Meyer oxygen. As they cover his face with the mask and the cool gas flows into his lungs, his eyes flutter open for a minute. He sees Snow looking down on him.

The EMTs strap Meyer to the stretcher, then carry him back out. Snow tries to get into the ambulance as well.

“Are you family?” one of the medics say.

“Yes!” I cry. “He’s family. Let him in.”

“Only him, then,” the other medic says to me.

“It’s alright,” I say quickly to Snow. “I’m going to the restaurant. I have to warn my father that there might be trouble.”

Snow nods.

“Be careful,” he says. “I’ll come find you, once Meyer is safe.”

I give him a swift kiss, then the medics shut the ambulance doors.

They pull away, sirens blaring.