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

“He should not have done that,” he murmurs. “And he will not do it again.”

“Good,” I manage to say.

He sits down next to me, his leg touching mine. I ignore the shiver that moves electric-like up my thigh.

“I have been thinking about breakfast.”

“Still hungry?” I try for a joke.

His smile disappears as quickly as it appears.

“About your desire to visit your mother. We will host a dinner here. You can invite your brother, too.” He puts his hand on my leg, stroking it up my thigh. “Would you like that, Camille?”

“Uh, yes,” I say. I leap to my feet.

He tilts his head at me, studying. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no.” Does my smile look as fake as it feels? “I just have a test to study for. Do you mind?”

“The day after tomorrow,” he says. “For the dinner. Let your family know.”

I almost run outside, but not because he’s a Bratva boss. It’s because, despite that, part of me still wants him.

What the hell is the matter with me?

10

Erik

Life as a don isn’t quite as glamorous as I once imagined.

I spend the next two days running around the city extinguishing the fires that the detective’s visit creates: scorching possible leads, disposing of evidence, wiping the CCTV at the hotel.

“We’re good, boss.”

That becomes Oleg’s catchphrase, something he tells me each time we go out on one of these excursions. I have him comb the area for tails before so much as stepping out of the car.

Perhaps that is a sign of paranoia, but if a man cannot be paranoid when the wolves are barking at his door, when can he?

“That Ashley sure can cook,” Oleg tells me now as he drives us to Anatoly’s apartment. He still has crumbs clinging to his shirt. “I hope you’ve got her on a ten-year contract, boss, or she might just up and leave. Start a restaurant of her own or something.”

I smile at him in the rear-view. “Ashley can do as she pleases.”

He nods shortly. I see a flicker there, wondering at the true nature of our relationship. Some of the men know the truth—Anatoly, Fyodor—but many just assume she is my chef. I see no reason to correct them.

“Just give me a rifle and a hit list and I’ll take care of our little problem,” he goes on. “Don’t see any need for this cloak-and-dagger business.”

“You are a brave man, Oleg, but I would not so willingly waste your life.”

He huffs. “It won’t be my life getting wasted. You can trust me on that. Should I wait outside?” he asks as he pulls into the parking space.

“You can wait in the living room. I am sure Emily will have something prepared. That is, if you are still hungry.”

He grins from ear to ear. “Did you just say ‘if’?”

Anatoly answers the door in his bathrobe, a cigar sticking out of his mouth.

“You look like an Italian,” I tell him.

Ash flickers from the cigar as he smiles. “You sound like a man with a death wish. Come, we will talk in the dining room.”

Oleg disappears, complimenting Emily on the spread she has laid out, as Anatoly and I retire to the balcony window. I sit off to the side, though, so that I am not in clear view of anyone who might be snooping from the street.

Anatoly notes this with a slight nod and draws the curtains.

“Is it that bad?” he asks.

“I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

“Hmm. I understand that, Erik. The detective’s visit has disconcerted you.”

“That … and the Bratva. What are they saying about Damir’s execution?”

I take the whiskey and sip slowly, and then move my finger around the edge of the glass. It is a habit I cultivated a long time ago, a way to bring myself back to the present, to stop the phantoms lurking in my mind from intruding too forcefully:

Camille.

The police.

The traitors.

“You have put out feelers, I hope.”

“I have,” he confirms. “Most of the men have had the appropriate response. They talk about how only a fool would cross you. They call Damir a snake—”

“Which he was.”

“And they are competing for the more important tasks: collections, protection, intimidation.” Anatoly scratches at his scar.

“But?” I prompt.

“Not all the men have seen reason. There are still those who wish us to cooperate with the Aryan Pact, as well as some of the other minor gangs. One idiot even mentioned extending a hand to the Italians.”

“The Italians are dead,” I laugh gruffly.

“Like I said, he is an idiot.” Anatoly takes a sip, adjusting his robe. “You should consider blackmailing this McCauley. It does not seem he is just going to disappear.”

I sigh, exasperated, and wave a hand in the air. “There is nothing we can use. He is a Boy Scout. Pure as the driven snow.”

“The bastard,” Anatoly growls. “It would be too perfect for us if he was a deviant. You have had his electronics searched?”

I smile at the archaic language. Anatoly and computers do not go well together.

“I have hired the best hacker I know, the one we used for the Lombardi job. The worst we found was a minor gambling habit. He likes the Jets, poor son of a bitch.”

“If only this was a political campaign,” Anatoly murmurs. “We will have to think of something. He is not going to quit.”

We sit in silence for a time, watching the late-day sunlight move across the curtains.

“Fyodor is stirring the men up,” I say. “It cannot be anybody else.”

Anatoly doesn’t deny it. “He has been a lieutenant for a long time. It is only natural some of the men should see him as a potential leader, just as it is natural for the alpha in a wolf pack to be challenged.”

“Let us hope this ends with my teeth on his neck, then.”

Anatoly is looking at me strangely.

“What is it, old man?”

“I just want you to know, Erik, I meant what I said at dinner. Camille … she is not just a surrogate, is she?”

I sigh,