Owned by the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva) by Nicole Fox (fantasy books to read .txt) 📕

I push those thoughts away. I have to remember who this man is. What my role in his life is.

Rob’s voice echoes in my head: Just open your legs. That’s all you have to do.

“And where’s that?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

I sit back, since he doesn’t seem in the mood for small talk. Of course he’s not. He just wants to have sex with me. I try not to think about all the depraved things going on inside his head, but it’s difficult.

Especially when some of those same things are flitting unwillingly through mine.

He pulls up to a mansion on the outskirts of the city. It looks like an estate from a Victorian novel, all pointed towers and Gothic stonework gargoyles warning would-be trespassers that this is a no-fly zone.

He leans over and types a number into the keypad. The ornate metal gate swings open. The whine of the gate only serves to make the nerves worse, my belly getting tense.

It is going to happen soon.

I have tried to push it from my mind, but I can’t any longer. He’s going to be on top of me, his manhood between my legs, his mouth devouring, his hands pinning me … I shiver at the thought.

A butler opens the door, head bowed slightly.

“Two old-fashioneds in the library,” Mr. Ivanovich says without a backward glance, striding down the luxurious hallway. Art hangs from the walls in special alcoves, with professional-looking lighting illuminating the brushstrokes.

I don’t like that I still don’t know this man’s name. The longer I call him Mr. Ivanovich, the more I feel like I’m in a twisted, seedy version of Beauty and the Beast.

But I can’t foresee a happy ending to this sordid little fairy tale.

The butler doesn’t look at me or say anything before he too disappears. Gulping back the tide of fear rising in the pit of my stomach, I follow Ivanovich’s footsteps.

Turning a corner, I find myself in the largest library I have ever seen in a house. Bookcases rise at least two stories high and a skylight opens up to the night sky.

He sits at the table in the center. When I step hesitantly across the threshold, he nods at me to do the same.

The butler enters shortly after, deposits the drinks, and then leaves.

“Close the door,” Mr. Ivanovich calls.

“Of course, sir.”

He pulls the double doors shut, and then we are alone. The silence is deafening. I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. My hands are trembling, so I tuck them into my lap and cross my legs. It’s like I’m trying to take up as little space as possible. Maybe, if I try hard enough, I can disappear altogether. Remind me why I thought this was a good idea?

I have to say something. Anything. Talk about the weather, his mom and dad, the big game last night, whatever tickles his fancy. But the dark thoughts tumbling through my head are worse than anything this man could possibly say.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. God only knows if it’s true.

“What is your name?” I ask, able to somehow keep my voice steady.

He fixes me with an unreadable stare. The way the buttery light of the lamp off to one side hits his face makes him look like a villain from a spy movie. The collar of his button-down shirt is a smooth cream color that contrasts with the dark stubble on his jaw. Even from here—in the shadows on the other side of the table, and with little to no experience with men’s clothing—I can tell that the fabric is wildly expensive. So too is the watch gleaming on his wrist.

But the fire in his eyes is not the self-satisfied smugness I got used to seeing in the rich men who liked to take three-martini lunches on Friday afternoons at my old waitressing job at a classy bistro downtown. Those men looked soft.

This man is the farthest thing from that.

“My name is Erik,” he says. I notice him rubbing at his shoulder and wincing slightly. He did that during the ride over, too.

“Are you okay?” He’s leaning uncomfortably, too, favoring that side like he’s hurt.

That same dark smile flits across his face. “It’s just a reminder of a mistake I will not make again.” He straightens up in his chair, and the momentary weakness is gone. He’s back to the way he was when I first laid eyes on him: all powerful.

“Tell me about yourself, Camille.”

I take a long sip of the drink that the butler brought, hoping the liquor will infuse me with confidence, because God knows I don’t have much of that naturally right now. I’m way, way out of my element. “Um, well, what do you want to know?”

He shrugs. “Who you are; what are your interests?”

I almost blurt out a laugh. Is he kidding? Maybe he’s forgotten why we’re here. I talk for a few minutes, but keep it vague.

“Um, well, I’m a nurse—or, I mean, I’m going to be. I’m in school right now to be that. A nurse. Like, to become a nurse.” I want to punch myself in the face; has anyone ever sounded less cool? Obviously, the fact that I’ve never done anything like this before is part of the appeal of the whole auction thing, but still, you’d think I’d be able to find some way to not sound like a complete and total idiot.

But something about this man is short-circuiting my brain. I can’t think straight, can’t take straight, can hardly even look straight. Because every time I do, those eyes are staring back into mine.

Owning me.

Devouring me.

Without ever lifting a finger.

As frazzled as I am, though, I have enough presence of mind to make sure I keep things brief. This guy is a pervert, after all; a sicko who just picked a girl out at auction like she was a steak at the butcher shop. I have to remember that.

“What about you?” I ask, imitating his voice. “Who are