Owned by the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva) Nicole Fox (year 7 reading list .txt) 📖

As tempting as it is to let him actually face some consequences for once in his life, I know I can’t do that. I’m his big sister. I’m supposed to protect him.

But it feels like my life is hanging on by a thread.

“What are we going to do?” he says after a long pause.

I keep my face buried in my hands. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“You could …” He lets out a breath. “I mean, you’re really pretty, you know? And you’ve sold yourself once, so …”

“You are not about to tell me to become a hooker,” I snap.

“Not a hooker!” he cries. “An, an escort—like, a classy one, high-class, you know? Do you know how much money some of those women make?”

“Is that really what you want?” I hiss.

“I don’t want any of this,” he counters.

“Then help.”

He spreads his hands. “I don’t know how,” he mutters in defeat.

“Whatever. I’m not doing that,” I tell him. Erik’s offer is still bouncing around my head. We are on the cusp of a disaster, I know, and right now I don’t see a way out of it. “It’s not like I even have the doctor’s office paycheck anymore.”

“We’re in a real shitstorm here, aren’t we?”

I cough out a laugh. “Way to stay positive.” I glance at the clock on the wall. “Oh shit,” I say. “I’m almost late for class. Are you going to be around for when Mom wakes up?”

Rob nods, but it doesn’t inspire me with confidence. Maybe I should skip class, but then again, I skipped last night to go to the auction. I can’t make a habit of it. I’ve worked too hard for too long to let it all turn to trash now.

Although, despite my best efforts, that’s the way it seems to be heading.

Why is nothing I do ever enough?

My mind is in disarray as I sit in my usual place at the front of the classroom. I stare down at my notes, trying to make sense of them. It’s not that I’ve forgotten everything I’ve learned, more that my thoughts keep skipping to Mom, to Rob, to everything.

Beside me, Bethany is taking diligent notes, sitting upright and attentive as she always is.

She’s a tall woman of about thirty, her blonde hair tied back in an efficient ponytail, her fingernails unpainted. No nonsense is the first phrase that comes to mind. Stone-cold bitch is the second.

We have never really spoken, but in a weird way, I’ve admired her ever since we started. She strikes me as one of those women who can face down any shitstorm and show it who’s boss. Like a Viking princess or something. No fear, no distractions. Just badassery.

She must have personal problems, I reason—who doesn’t? Surely, she’s had sick relatives, financial difficulties, her own personal version of hell. And yet somehow, she comes into class every single day ready to kick ass, ace tests, and intimidate people like me who can’t get their shit together.

She terrifies the hell out of me.

But I need a little bit of that warrior spirit right now. So I pull on my big-girl panties and turn to her after class.

She glances up as she packs away her things. “Yes?” she says briskly.

“I just wanted to say, ah, I think the point you made about hospice care was very, ah, well-made.” I curse myself. I sound lame, stumbling through my words. But the look she aims at me is withering.

“Right …” she says, shouldering her laptop bag.

“And I was wondering if you’d be interested in starting a study group?” I say with sudden inspiration. We are both pretty high-achievers in class—her more so than me, but still—so it does make a certain amount of sense. “We could cover each other’s weak points. I was thinking of inviting some of the others also, so it wouldn’t be just us two.”

I don’t want her to think I’m trying to copy, though that idea is absurd. Neither of us has any need to copy.

“Hmm.” She eyes me critically. “No, I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

“Ah, c’mon, why not?” I say, a little snappishly now. I can’t handle another bad break. Where’s that fairy godmother I’m always looking for?

“Listen.” She plants her hands on the table. The rest of the class is spilling out, leaving us standing squared-up like gunslingers meeting at high noon. “We’re both vying for the number one spot. You know that. I’ve got no interest in helping you usurp me.”

“Usurp you?” I laugh in disbelief. “What is this, Game of Thrones?”

She shrugs. “I’m going to finish on top, that’s it. So thank you for your interest—I mean that—but I’m not interested.”

“Excuse me for being friendly,” I huff, stuffing my laptop into the bag far more aggressively than I need to. “I guess I thought we were both human beings. I won’t be making that mistake again.”

“It’s nothing personal,” she says, softening slightly. “You take care of your business. I’ll take care of mine.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I snap, venom in my voice. “I’ll be just fine.”

She bites her lip and releases it a moment later. “Well, good luck,” she says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Upset me?” I laugh. “You couldn’t do that if you tried.”

She nods shortly. “Good to know. Now, is there anything else?”

She asks like she’s an impatient receptionist and I’m a stubborn customer. I don’t answer, just grab my bag and head for the exit. As I walk across the parking lot to the beaten-down Civic—that perpetual reminder of poverty—I’m steaming mad from the exchange.

But when I sit behind the wheel and the old engine coughs to life, I calm down. Bethany will do whatever it takes to win, even if it means being unnecessarily rude. She knows what she wants and she’ll go after it.

I can relate to that. Maybe I need to be more like her: ruthless, putting feelings aside. Because there are things I want, things I need.

And right