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

His eyes flash with anger and his fingers tighten around my arm as I struggle to pull away. He isn’t throwing off warm fuzzy vibes and fear knots a ball in my stomach as I think of everything I’ve seen and heard. I don’t have a lot of evidence, but this moment definitely ticks a box in the Mafia column.

“How did you get past Yelisey’s background check?” Before I can answer—more accurately, demand to see said background check—he leans his forehead against mine and repeats, “Why did it have to be you?”

There is a certain desperation in being groped—and not in the good way—by a large Russian man who is accusing me of spying for his enemies. I’m picturing my mother, alone, never knowing what happened to me after the night I asked her to watch Tiana. And oh, poor Tiana. First her mother, then me.

“It’s not me, Kostya. I’m not a spy for anyone.” My voice wavers, making me sound weak and frightened. And while I’m both, I hate that he knows it. Right now, I hate him. And I hate myself for my stupidity.

He shoves me away again, and I stumble backward. I can’t believe this is the same man who wishes me sweet dreams every night—well, the nights he’s home—the same guy who sat through the same princess movie four times so Tiana would sleep. The same man who has loved my body so thoroughly, so generously.

He spins away and runs his hands through his hair, loosens his tie, and flicks open the button at his throat. “I’ll ask you once more: why are you here?” His voice is low, dangerous.

I don’t know what answer will take the anger away, open up the lines of communication, make him stop looking at me like he wants to kill me or more like he’s sad that he has to have me killed. “I’m here because I …” I want to tell him the truth. But I’m not ready to give up on finding out who he really is, and no way is he just going to come out and tell me if he’s a Russian Bratva king. “Because I’m falling in love with you.”

Oh God. Of all the BS I could’ve pulled from thin air, I went with love?

“Falling in love?”

And maybe I’ve thrown him off-kilter because he lets me move in close, run my fingers over his chest to his collar, around his neck, and into his hair. And I’ve thrown myself off-kilter enough I can’t decide whether or not I’m just trying to save my own ass or if there might be a hint of truth in what I said.

But as his arms come around my waist, it doesn’t matter. Mafia boss or not, I want to be in his arms. Which reminds me of Yelisey, in the other room, with my voice recorder. And there’s not one damn thing I can do about it because Kostya has his mouth against the spot just under my ear that makes my belly quiver and my panties wet.

I want to touch him, to feel the heat from his skin, the contraction and expansion of each muscle. He’s extraordinary, and my little lie has gifted me another opportunity to explore him. Plus it’s saved my life. Because undoubtedly, if Kostya isn’t going to kill me, Yelisey will on Kostya’s order. Although Kostya doesn’t seem much like a guy who hides from doing his own dirty work.

He growls in wordless frustration as he tugs my dress up with one hand and yanks my panties down with the other. I still want to touch him, but he spins me and pushes me over the sink. And before I can brace myself, he’s inside me, banging his hips into mine, and grunting with each thrust.

There’s no grace, no elegance left in me. I’m wanton and feral, clutching him anywhere I can reach, grabbing his wrists and hanging on while the passion inside me builds. His fingers curl into my flesh and I cry out because I’m close, because I want to come, because my skin is too tight to contain me.

He grunts, gives another thrust, and his body tenses as mine blows apart. I can’t breathe or think, have no idea what just happened or what it means this time, but neither do I care.

When I stand, he rests his forehead against my shoulder. “You shouldn’t have come here, Charlotte.”

I smile because I’m still basking in the afterglow.

I would turn to look at him but he’s holding me too tightly and I can’t move. And it takes me all of ten seconds to let the panic take over. “Let me go.” I’m quiet because the tears are choking off my ability to draw in enough breath to form words.

He squeezes tighter.

“Kostya, please.” I try to pry his arms from around me, but he’s strong. Too strong. “Kostya.”

“Why did it have to be you?” This time there’s no mistaking the anguish in his voice and I don’t know everything, but I know enough to understand he thinks I’m some kind of spy.

This time, my tone is soft because I need him to believe me. It doesn’t take a genius to know the sex wasn’t enough to save my life. “Kostya, whatever you think I am”—no way am I using the word spy—“I’m not. I’m just Charlotte. Me.”

I can’t see his face, but his arms fall away and I can hear the rustle of his clothes as he yanks his pants up and tucks his shirt in. “You are a liar.”

And before I turn, he’s out the door, and I hear the sound of furniture being dragged in front of it.

He’s locking me in.

I probably should’ve told Mom to pack a bag just in case, because it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting home anytime soon.

I go to the door and smack the wood. “Let me out. Kostya!” Each slap is louder, more frantic, and