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

I mistook for blood.” She shakes her head ruefully. “Like I said, I was nervous. We all had a good laugh about it, though.”

“I hope we are not interrupting,” I say, pulling back a chair for Camille.

“No, I was just regaling Angela with how silly I can sometimes be.”

“Sometimes?” I smile.

“Hey.” She shoots me a dark look. “You be careful.”

“Hey, Mom.” Camille touches her hand. “How’re you feeling?”

I sit down and wave the waiter over. We order our drinks and I study Angela.

Rob’s death tore her to pieces at first, but all the Greenes are fighters, and now she seems to be doing a little better. That gladdens me, especially considering the purpose of this dinner.

The conversation comes in fits and starts, Ashley doing a terrible job at concealing her excitement, Angela withdrawing into herself as Camille helps her to eat her main course.

“Is it just me?” Camille whispers in my ear. “Or is everybody acting, like, really weird? Have I got something on my face? What the hell’s going on?”

“I have not noticed anything,” I mutter. “Perhaps it is the wine.”

“Speaking of wine.” She gives my hand a squeeze under the table. “Why haven’t you had a glass yet? And you’re pale, Erik.”

I massage her shoulders, kissing her just behind the ear, the place that always makes her shiver.

“Just try and enjoy yourself,” I whisper.

“Do you two need to get a room?” Ashley grins.

“In front of her own mother, no less!” Angela laughs, but there is a strained quality to it.

Camille raises her eyebrows at me, as though this is proof. And she is right. Everybody is behaving strangely.

I have never wanted dessert to arrive so badly.

“Tell me about your latest Poirot, Mom,” Camille says. “I want to hear everything.”

The waiters bring out the Golden Opulence Sundaes and the entire table draws in a breath of anticipation. The dessert has a golden flower-type arrangement on the top, expertly carved from chocolate.

Camille glances around the table, eyes narrowed.

“Okay, what are you all staring at?” she laughs.

“We want you to take the first bite,” I say.

She tilts her head at me.

“I’m missing something.”

“Take a closer look, dear,” Angela whispers.

Camille peers at her dessert.

For long moments, I think she is going to miss it. But then she sits back in her chair as though a gust of wind has just blown in here. She grabs the edge of the table. The pit in my belly devours.

She is going to say no.

I have made a mistake.

The relief washes through me like cool water when she grabs for the glittering diamond ring. She turns to me, lips trembling, eyes brimming with tears.

I fall to one knee and take the ring from her hand, sharing a moment of silent amusement as we both acknowledge the chocolate smeared across our fingers.

“Is this really happening?” she whispers. “Oh God, Erik! I might cry!”

“Camille Greene,” I say, holding her hands steady. “There is much I would like to promise you. I would like to say that I will always stay out of prison, that I will come home on time every night, that I will never get shot again. But I cannot offer any of that. All I can promise, from the depths of my heart, is that I will love you every day for the rest of my life.”

Tears glisten down her cheeks.

“Will you marry me?”

She makes a choking sound, and then thrusts her ring finger forward.

“Yes, Erik! Of course I fucking will!”

“Language!” Angela cries, mirrored tears glistening in her eyes, too.

I slide the ring onto her finger and take her in my arms. She leaps up and wraps her legs around me. We stumble to the wall, kissing each other, hands pawing. The only thing that stops us from tearing off each other’s clothes is Angela and Ashley.

When I put her down, her face is red and a smile that makes life worth living has spread across her face.

“You two knew, then,” she says, walking back to the table. “I wasn’t going crazy. You need to seriously work on your poker faces.”

“Well, maybe I helped pick out the ring,” Ashley admits. “Here’s a rule for you, in your new married life. If you need to pick out a new suit or sports car, send Erik. If you want an expert opinion on jewelry, come to me.”

“Mom?” Camille slinks down next to her, touching her hand. “Are you okay?”

Angela blinks back tears. “When he asked my permission, oh, I didn’t know. I said I’d trust your judgment. So much has happened, so much craziness. But now I know you’ve made the right choice.”

I sit down and wave at the waiter.

“Champagne!” I call. I wink at Camille. “And some sparkling juice!”

As we fall upon our desserts, Camille leans close to me, her breath dancing like tingling fingers down my neck.

“There’s something I can’t promise you, either,” she says.

“Oh?”

She grabs my leg, tightening her grip.

“That I’m not going to jump on you the second we get somewhere private.”

I laugh, not able to stop myself from kissing her again. Even as Ashley makes mock vomiting noises, even as Angela lets out a civilized sigh, even as the old Erik calls out in my mind that I promised I would never let myself feel this—even as Dad’s voice whispers that love is the way to ruin—I kiss her, hard, passionately.

I never dreamed I could be truly happy. Now I know how foolish that was.

“Forever?” Camille says, her tears warm against my face. “Can you promise me that?”

“Always.”

I kiss the tears away, tasting her, this woman I would rather die than be without.

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My enemy’s daughter. My