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

you; what are your interests?” I think he smiles, but it’s hard to be sure with him, it passes so quickly.

“I have many interests,” he says shortly. He doesn’t laugh at my joke.

A silence hangs between us.

I nod at the bookshelves. “Do you read?” I ask.

“When I have the time. What about you, Camille? Do you read?”

“I used to,” I tell him. “But now it’s mostly nursing textbooks. Thrillers were my thing. I could lose a whole week devouring thrillers.”

“Is life not thrilling enough?”

He moves his finger around the edge of his glass, slow, sensual, careful. Always in control.

“My life?” I shake my head, giggling tensely. “No, not really.”

His eyes trace over me and settle on my chest. I start to frown, when he says, “What is inside that?” and I realize that he’s talking about the locket I wear on a thin gold chain around my neck.

“Oh,” I giggle awkwardly, fumbling for the clasp. I pop it open and lean forward to show him the two pictures. “This is my mother, and that’s my brother, Rob. Kind of a good luck charm or whatever. Keep them with me, you know?”

He nods solemnly. “Your mother is a beautiful woman.”

I feel a weird blush of pride at that. Who cares if this stranger thinks my mom is hot? But coming from him, it feels like water in a desert. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he means it sincerely. “Thank you,” I mumble. “She’s sick.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Sick?”

“Yeah, uh, she has M.S. Multiple sclerosis.”

“I am very sorry to hear that,” he says immediately. Again, I shouldn’t give a rat’s ass if he is sorry or not about my mom’s illness, but he’s genuine about this too, I can tell. It’s strangely touching.

He stands suddenly. “Do you like classical music?” he says, going to the record player in the corner of the room.

“Um, I usually prefer poppier stuff,” I tell him. “Something to dance around to—”

A melancholy violin cuts into the air, followed by a light piano.

He returns to the table and leans forward, those intense eyes searing into me. I feel more spotlighted than I did back at the auction. Part of me wants to run. Another, crazier part wants to lose myself in those eyes. I end up somewhere in between, fidgeting and glancing at him in intervals.

“I have a proposition for you,” he says.

“Oh?” I say, high-pitched. I have a good idea of where this is heading.

But as it turns out, I am dead wrong.

“Seventy thousand dollars is a lot of money, but I am willing to double it.”

“Double it?” I gasp, and then clamp my mouth shut, annoyed at myself for my eagerness.

“Yes, but on one condition. I am not interested in simply taking your virginity. I am a powerful man, as you may have inferred. But I am lacking a son. If you agree to bear my child, I will double my bid and pay for all the necessary expenses—”

“No,” I say flatly. “Absolutely not.”

He leans back, looking almost impressed with my courage at interrupting him. But displeased, too. My heart is pounding worse than ever now. A one-off payment is one thing, but tying myself to this man, this bidder, for the rest of my life? Hell to the motherfreaking no.

“I won’t … sell you my womb,” I say. “A kink is one thing, Erik, but this?”

“Perhaps you need some time to think it over.”

“No,” I retort. “I don’t. That’s my final answer.”

His face betrays nothing. “As you wish. Are you enjoying your drink?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Finish it.”

“Excuse me?” Something in his tone scares me a bit. He doesn’t seem angry or vengeful or anything like that. But it is like he took his “control meter” and cranked it up to eleven out of ten. Like he can just pitch his voice a certain way and my muscles will do what he says without my brain having any choice in the matter.

“I told you to finish your drink.”

I think about saying something back. So many things I could offer—Go fuck yourself tops the list. But instead, I do the unthinkable.

I reach forward and tilt the drink to my lips.

The liquor burns on its way down my throat, but I don’t stop until it’s gone.

Erik watches, unmoving, unreadable.

When the glass is drained, I set it back down with a thud and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Screw being ladylike. This kind of thing doesn’t exactly come up in etiquette classes, after all—not that I have ever been within a hundred yards of anything that ritzy. But still, the point stands. I’m in over my head here. Nothing to do but go with it.

He nods, still so self-satisfied. Then he slowly stands and walks around to my side of the table. It feels like he got taller all of the sudden. He towers over me. Broad, dark, imposing.

He offers a hand down to me. I reach up and take it with trembling fingers.

His palms are warm and callused. I can see the faint sheen of scars crisscrossing the backs of his knuckles.

He helps me to my feet. I keep hold of his hand, because I’m suddenly not so sure that my legs are capable of bearing my own weight.

He’s close to me now. So close. I can smell him. It’s rich-guy smell—dark, clean, woodsy, hints of spice and musk on the very edge of the scent. And beneath that, something more. More raw. More authentic.

Slowly, he pulls me closer to him. He’s invading my nostrils and my vision and my world. His hand is strong on mine, not tight but unyielding. He touches my chin to tilt my eyes up to meet his.

Then he brings his lips to mine.

I gasp into his kiss and reach behind me for support, accidentally knocking my hand into a glass in the process. It clatters to the ground and explodes. Crystal shards skitter across the hardwood floor.

But Erik doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even notice, really.

His lips