Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) by Nicole Fox (my reading book .TXT) 📕

“Furniture is for sitting. Floors are for walking.” I’m stern but not angry. Forceful but not threatening.

The line of her lips thins and narrows, and she squints at me.

I squint back until she softens her gaze. “Come on. I need your help.”

I take her to the former exercise room, now the soon-to-be nursery, trying not to focus on Kostya’s eyes drilling into me as we walk out.

The efficiency of Kostya’s staff is intimidating. Someone’s already hauled out the equipment, and I walk in with Tiana and sit us on the already-cleaned white carpet. Before we can discuss the décor—mermaids and narwhals, or, as Tiana calls them, “sea-ni-corns”—the doorbell peals.

Because the room has a glass door and floor-to-ceiling sidelights also in glass, I can watch Kostya move through the living room to the foyer and the door.

He invites Yelisey Rusnak in, then crosses his arms as the man speaks. I can’t make out the words, but Kostya’s posture changes, stiffens, and though I can’t see his face, I picture his mouth thinning and his squint as Yelisey continues.

Yelisey backs away as Kostya advances. His voice is low and I don’t know what they’re discussing, but Kostya’s anger is palpable. I hug Tiana close to my side. She’s unaware of her father’s mood, but I’m conscious enough for both of us.

He’s powerful and frightening because he’s so focused. Driven. He could never be a second to anyone. Kostya will always be the guy in charge, the one who makes the rules, the one who calls every shot.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s in charge of the Russian mob. That’d be ridiculous, for crying out loud. At least, that’s what I’ve always told myself. But it also doesn’t mean he isn’t who some of the raunchier tabloids like to say he is.

That’s dangerous. For me. For Tiana. Probably even for Yelisey, whose news has convinced Kostya to leave without saying goodbye to his daughter. Thank God she’s too distracted to notice.

And, while we’re counting small miracles, thank God that I finally have a minute to catch my breath without Kostya taking it away.

6

Kostya

It’s been four fucking days and I can’t sleep knowing she’s so close. This was a bad idea. And I’m tired of tiptoeing through my own house.

I like Charlotte. For more than her beauty, more than the way she is with my daughter. More than that soft look in her eyes when she gazes at me. She’s strong and smart. And that’s the problem.

She’s smart. Too smart. And if she figures out I’m the don of the most powerful Bratva in the country … she’ll have to disappear.

If there’s one thing I learned from Natasha, it’s that I can’t tolerate the blackmail. I won’t tolerate it.

But that is a problem for another time. First, I must deal with the man in front of me.

This Whelan bastard has been stubbornly hard to break. Yelisey is angered, but I cannot let him off the leash just yet. His anger will only add to the body count, and I am not yet ready to broker a full-on war with the Irish. I’ve sent him home for the evening to cool off. It’s my turn to take a crack at our captive.

“Why do you want us to hurt you?” I ask calmly. I’m seated in a chair across from the man, legs crossed, playing with a knife. He’s tied to his seat, beaten to a pulp. His eyes are so bruised that they look like battered eggplants. It’s a wonder he can still see through them.

“Fuck you, Russian pig,” he snarls.

I sigh. I’d hoped we were past this point. Looking up at Geoffrey, who is standing behind the Irishman, I nod. Geoffrey reaches into his back pocket and retrieves the plastic bag. He yanks it down over the man’s head and pulls it taut against his nose and mouth.

Screams, muffled, terrified. The screams of a dying man.

I count off the seconds. Five, six, seven …

“Enough.”

Geoffrey releases the bag and removes it at once, then steps back. I wait while the Irishman sucks in oxygen in deep, rattling gasps.

“I don’t like doing this, my friend,” I say politely. “But I will do what I have to do.” I lean forward and prop my elbows up on my knees. “I’ll ask my questions once more: who told you to shoot at me? What did you hope to gain by my death?”

The man does not reply.

I heave another sigh. He is testing my patience, but I will not let him see my frustration yet. I rise to my feet.

“So be it. Perhaps you will be more amenable to a conversation tomorrow.” I tilt my head towards Geoffrey again. He hits the lights, plunging the man into darkness, and we leave the room.

An hour later, I am still restless, sitting in my car in the drive outside my mansion. I can’t see Charlotte when I’m so on edge. She makes me want to take the edge off, and I can’t do it with her. She’s too important to Tiana—and to me.

That she’s avoiding me is a concern. Could mean she’s stumbled onto some detail she thinks she can use against me. Some leverage, some weapon.

No. Charlotte can’t hide anything. Her face is too honest, her eyes too clear. She’s incapable of deceit. I should know; deceit is my job. And I see none in her. But I need to watch her, just the same.

I need to go inside, but I’m keyed up now. Thinking of Charlotte in ways I shouldn’t be thinking of her. Imagining her waiting for me to come home with that unmarked skin, that tempting curve of her ass. With desire making her body tremble until I take her in my arms and …

“No,” I growl, out loud this time. I cannot risk her when she’s become so important to my daughter. I shouldn’t. I won’t.

Get out. Go inside. And don’t lay