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

father, of weak men, of the mutinies I have read about in my studies of history. It always starts slow, this subtle degradation of power. But when the collapse comes, it is anything but slow. Everything I have built will turn to ash around me.

“Fuck!” I roar, grabbing the chair and tossing it across the room. It is a large room, a large chair, but my fury makes it seem small.

It smashes into the opposite wall, leaving a crater of wallpaper and plaster. I grip the edge of the desk as my chest heaves. My breath comes raggedly through clenched-tight teeth.

“Fuck,” I whisper after minutes, as my breathing slows.

I stand up and go into the next room. The wall is bulging from the impact. I will instruct Adrian to arrange contractors, I decide … and then I look around the room, the largest guest bedroom in the house, and my mind transforms it.

It would make a fitting bedroom for my son or daughter.

I can see the crib in the corner, a mobile hanging from the ceiling casting moonlit shadows on the walls; the corner could be made into a toy area. The room is easily large enough for a punching bag, or a rowing machine, for when the baby gets older.

We could build a life for our child here.

I laugh at myself. That would mean being tied to Camille forever. But I already knew that, did I not? Somehow, though, this is different. It really hits me now, the revelation sending my mind years into the future, where I have never let it venture before.

Being tied to Camille does not sound as terrifying as it should.

I think back to my outburst at her over breakfast the other day. I cringe at the memory. I was cruel, needlessly so. I owe her an apology—or something like it. A gift, perhaps. Something to make amends.

I return to the office and pour myself a vodka, toss it back, and then pour myself another. I am drinking too much. Once or twice, I imagine small footsteps padding down the hallway. I envision the door swinging open and a sturdy, wide-shouldered toddler tottering in.

In the reverie, I rise from the chair and sweep the boy into my arms.

“Dada,” he says.

Now, I really know I need to put the vodka aside.

Because when this imaginary boy calls me his father, I find myself smiling warmly.

What the fuck have I unleashed?

13

Camille

I walk into the hallway and listen for sounds of Erik.

I’ve noticed a change in him over the last day or two. He’s been more withdrawn, acting all caveman when I try to start a conversation. Once, he actually grunted at me and I almost cold-cocked him. It’s like he’s rebuilding the walls around him that I was only just starting to tear down.

Not that I want to tear them down, I remind myself.

I’m not exactly surprised when I find him sitting in the dimly lit living room, slouched in the chair, nursing a glass of vodka. He’s staring off into space as though replaying some personal nightmare.

My heart drops, surprising me.

No matter how often I remind myself that this is nothing more than a transaction, I can feel him tugging on my proverbial heartstrings. Playing me like a fucking violin.

“Evening,” I say, trying for chirpy.

But it seems he’s not in a chirpy mood. He inclines his head in bare acknowledgment.

“Are you trying to depress me?” I laugh, switching on the light.

He sits up with a sigh, moving his finger around the edge of the glass like he always does. His shirt is untucked and unbuttoned to his chest, beads of sweat sliding down to his pectorals.

The emotion is so plain on his face. It’s strange to see. I almost want him to go back to being a cold robot. Terminator is at least preferable to this Eeyore shit. But then again, that isn’t exactly fair. Eeyore, as far as I can remember, never looked like he wanted to kill somebody.

“Have you eaten anything tonight?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Just this.” He raises the glass.

“How nourishing,” I joke. “Well, where’s Ashley? I’ll get her to whip us something up.”

“I gave her the day off. She has an appointment.”

The cogs in my head turn. Ashley gets away with far more than I’d expect a Bratva boss to allow. But I keep my suspicions hidden.

“I’ll make something, then,” I say. “But I’m not having you sink into this … into whatever this is. Hasn’t anybody ever told you that your moods are contagious? You don’t wanna push me back to my goth phase, believe me.”

That gets a slight smile, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. “Perhaps I want to see you all in black,” he murmurs, still staring off at nothingness.

“Come on.” Maybe it is my nursing instinct, but I find myself next to him, my hand on his arm. “You can’t just wallow all night. It’s unattractive.”

“Really?” He turns to me. “Do you find me ugly now, Camille?”

I shift my hand so that I’m clutching onto his fingers. He tightens his fist powerfully, trapping me.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “You do know how creepy this is, right? It’s like walking onto the set of a horror movie, and not a good one, either. A fucking trashy horror movie.”

He smiles weirdly, and then sits up suddenly. “I have something to show you,” he says. “Follow me.” He strides from the room, leaving me little choice but to go after him.

“You don’t have to be so mysterious all the time, you know!” I call ahead as I hurry to catch up to him. I let out a shuddering breath when he wraps his arm around me, guiding me up the stairs.

It isn’t that I think he’s going to initiate sex. He’s holding me differently, almost caringly, and he doesn’t lead me toward his bedroom. Instead, he takes me to a suite of rooms at the rear of the mansion. I have never had reason to