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

in mock surrender. “Okay, Duilio. As a token of my goodwill, I can send a professional to do what you need.”

His reply is quick. Too quick. “I don’t want your ‘professional.’ I want you to kill him.”

And therein lies the rub.

On the inside, I’m fuming. This greasy fuck thinks I’ll be lured into a trap this obvious? It’d be insulting if it weren’t so transparent. Blood on my hands and him with the ability to connect the dots for whoever is interested … It would take a true idiot to fall for this little gambit.

And I am far from stupid.

But I don’t betray any of that. All I do is shake my head. “No, I’m not going to do that,” I say.

Duilio doesn’t seem to notice the rage brewing in my chest. He tilts his head to the side, chins wobbling, and fixes me with his watery gaze. “I was under the impression that you were quite skilled at eliminating threats. I’d heard that you were willing to get your hands dirty for the sake of the Bratva.”

“You should stop listening to rumors. They can cloud an old man’s judgment.”

He sneers. “I don’t mean to sound critical. It’s just that you’re more like your father than everyone thinks.”

There it is. The line has been crossed.

No one insults me like that and lives to tell about it.

In one smooth motion, I spring forward, grab a pen from the cup on the table, and jab it deep into the pulse in Duilio’s fat neck.

At the corner of my vision, I see Siro lurch forward, hand in his jacket.

I yank the pen out of his boss’ throat. Blood spurts out onto my pants as I turn and lunge at the scrawny advisor. He blocks my first thrust, but I swing my fist into his ribs and his body sags to the side. The knife he was reaching for clatters to the ground.

I stab the pen into his neck too, then drop it, putting my hands on his neck and gripping as tightly as I can. His hands grab my wrists, trying to pull me off, but blood is gushing out of his neck and his face is turning ashen.

It doesn’t take long before his hands fall to his sides. His body goes limp.

I keep squeezing until I’m certain he’s gone.

When I relax my hands, his body drops to the floor. I flex each of my fingers and shake off the stiffness. Adrenaline is coursing through my system. I want to fight, to drink, to fuck, to go to war right this second.

But I force myself to take one deep breath and regain control.

“I’ll call the clean-up crew,” Ilya says quietly. I turn around to look at him. His facial features are smooth, but there’s a tension to his stance that’s hard to ignore.

“You don’t approve?” I ask. His expression doesn’t change. “Speak openly, Ilya. This is not a time for discretion.”

“I don’t believe it was the smartest decision,” he says, the words coming out slowly—a careful man with careful words. “When you killed off Duilio’s soldiers in the beginning, it was dangerous. We all knew that, but as you foresaw, it was necessary. But this is the don. This could lead to a war with his family. He has a son and if his son rises to replace his father, he will want to prove his ability to lead by avenging the men you just slaughtered.”

“They were already planning to kill me.” I wipe blood off my hands. “That’s why they were so adamant that I personally murder Gio Calvino. They wanted to kill me or entrap me. Either way, they had no interest in being allies. We’ll just have to wait to see how Duilio’s son reacts to the murder—if he cares about power and staying alive, he won’t test the Bratva. But if he is a fool, then he will end up like them.” I point to the bodies on the ground. “Bleeding like stuck pigs.”

Ilya nods once. “Understood.”

“Good. Call the crew. I have to change.”

I take off my tie and head toward my office gym.

“Mr. Alekseiev, welcome back. And Mr. Sevostyanov, always a pleasure.”

The doorman bows his head as Ilya and I step back into the hotel. The floor still vibrates from the music coming from the ballroom, but by this time of the night, there are more than a few empty parking spots out front. When I step back into the ballroom, there are only a few stragglers left, each in the later stages of intoxication.

Ilya’s wife, Sophie, bounces over toward us. She is an ethereal beauty. Her blonde hair is so pale, it borders on silver. Every one of her features is delicate. I spotted her at one of our nightclubs—a shy little thing, dragged along by her friends—and was intrigued.

But when Ilya saw her, it was like he’d been struck by lightning.

He still looks at her the same way he did five years ago. A softer man might think it’s cute, but all I can think is that my lieutenant is going to be shot one day because he’s too busy staring at his wife.

“Honey, look what you missed out on.” She raises a plate of puff pastries stuffed with beef. Pirozhki. “I can’t believe Lev would take you away from your favorite snack.”

“My second favorite snack,” he corrects before kissing her temple. It turns into a playful nibble. She laughs. They start kissing, Sophie’s hand barely holding onto the heavy plate.

“Mmm. We should get home,” Ilya says. She nods into his chest. He takes the plate from her and looks at me. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Good night, Ilya,” I reply. “Good night, Sophie.”

After they leave, I walk over to one of the displays of Mariya’s Revenge. I pour myself a couple of shots before downing them.

The last of the stragglers trickle out, one by one. Seated at a table, I watch the cleaning staff come in. They give me quick smiles before starting to clean