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

to Erik, mentally counting the steps of the driveway to plot my escape.

Erik has turned into a ghost, nowhere to be seen.

The more I stay here, looking over all the expensive things he’s bought me, the more acrobatic flips my mind does to make excuses for him.

Love … what a silly word that is in my situation.

I can’t love somebody who purchased me, any more than a can of beans can love somebody who buys it from the grocery store. I’m an item to him, nothing more. I should come with a fucking receipt.

I think about calling Mom and venting to her, since she’s my only remaining friend now. But what will I say?

“Hey, Mom, I know you think I’m over here sprucing up the living room, and I know you’ve got one of the worst diseases a person can have, but I’m having some relationship problems. Care to lend an ear?”

I make another circuit of the mansion, pausing dead-still outside Erik’s room when I hear his voice.

I put my hand over my mouth to kill any noise.

“The Ruble,” he’s saying, almost too quiet to hear. I press my face against the door. “2:00 a.m., yes, fine. No, no, keep them there. I will handle it. Yes, Uncle, do not worry. They will learn their lesson.”

My blood chills.

What sort of ‘lesson’ is he going to teach? I’m pretty damn sure it isn’t algebra. I try to envision Erik standing at the front of a class—another mental backflip—but of course it’s something much worse. He might beat a man to death tonight. He might return home with blood under his fingernails, in his hair, splattered on his shirt like that time I caught him burning one.

I retreat to my bedroom and wait for 2 a.m. to come and go. Listening intently, I hear the click of the front door closing.

That’s the last straw.

I’m not going to hang around here like a princess trapped in a tower. After everything that’s happened tonight, this might be my last chance to get out. If Erik is intent on playing games, let’s try hide-and-seek.

I go into my bedroom and grab my bag from the floor. I don’t pack anything that Erik gave me, just the clothes I brought here. I’m not about to be labeled a thief as well as a runaway.

I shoulder the bag and take one last look around the guest bedroom: the bed well-made by Adrian, the large window overlooking the front lawn, the frankly absurd desk sitting in the corner.

It’s a room I never could’ve dreamed of growing up, spending whole afternoons daydreaming about what it would be like to have a little foldaway desk and a nook for organizing homework.

“You’ll have a bigger room one day, I promise,” Mom said one night, the shame that she couldn’t provide lending a sour twist to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I wish I could give you more.”

Of course I told her it was more than enough. I ended up studying on the floor, using an upturned tray to rest my notebooks on, legs splayed either side. I knew I’d gotten a good studying session in when my lower back started to throb.

But at least Mom wasn’t a criminal, I remind myself, as I stalk through the mansion.

Everything is quiet, my footsteps making catlike whining noises in the silence. I wince at each one. I end up dancing around like a ballerina on my tiptoes until I come to the front door.

That joins the creaky club as well. Then it’s open, and cool night air brushes against my sweaty upper lip.

I walk into the night.

“Miss Greene.”

A man emerges from the shadows, hard-faced and hard-eyed. He’s dressed all in black and moves in front of me, as massive as a vending machine.

“Mr. Ivanovich would prefer if you took some rest this evening. It has been a long day for everybody and he is concerned for you. If you would like to take some air, please make full use of the rear garden.”

I bite down, feeling like a bird fluttering against cage bars, wings snagging. So much for a self-imposed prison.

“You can’t just keep me here,” I say, making to step around him.

He shimmies to the side to cut me off, an unmovable object.

“Please,” he says easily. “I have strict instructions.”

“What if I just ran?” I snap. “Would you tackle me? Come on, let’s try it. I’ve always wanted to be in the NFL.”

He smiles like a Scout leader at an enthusiastic child. Oh look, the little fella’s got a whole lot of chutzpah.

“That will not be necessary,” he says. “You have everything you need here. Unless … is there something you would like me to send for?”

A man who knows how to respect a woman would be nice. I can tell that he’s going to keep up this I’m-here-to-help customer service shit.

“No, just fucking forget it.” I scowl.

I turn around, making a noise somewhere between a snake and a wolverine, and then march back into house. Going upstairs, I scan the perimeter military-style. Men stand at all the exits ready to cart me back into the house.

I return to the bedroom and slump down, closing my eyes as tension works its way through my body. Then I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.

And I scream.

I scream so that the veins in my neck bulge and my chest trembles. I batter the bed with my fists, stunned that I’ve been able to keep myself composed up until now.

Have I been living in a dream world, twisting Erik into something he’s not?

It’s true, I knew the arrangement. But there’s a big difference between agreeing to put my head in a noose and standing on the gallows, the crowd screaming for blood, trapped with only one way out.

I roll over, laughing at myself.

So, okay, that’s a little dramatic. Erik doesn’t want to kill me.

No, he just wants to turn me into a puppet.

Dance when he says dance

Smile when he says smile.

Fuck when he