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

He’s right. I do have questions. I’m burning up with them, consuming myself with them, thrusting aside sleep to wrestle with the same questions over and over again:

How can I be a father? A partner?

What can I give my son? What can my enemies take from him?

What can they do to Camille if they get her?

I try to put my anxieties into words, but I find myself struggling. “I … I want to know that I am making the right choice,” I say carefully. “By bringing a child into this world.”

Anatoly looks out into the distance once more. I can see a bird winging over the houses far away. The hustle and bustle of the city seems muted from up here, like the volume on the outside world has been turned down almost to nothingness.

“It is a reckless thing that a parent does. But it is also the most caring. You give the world to your child, and yet you cannot do that without exposing your child to the world. This is the enigma.”

His words hit home in a way I had not expected. Maybe that is exactly what I fear. Who am I to bring a life into this world? I have seen the things it contains: pain, death, betrayal from those you love. It is a nasty, violent life. My future child has done nothing to deserve such wickedness.

But maybe I can forestall those things. Maybe, with the resources I have spent my life accumulating, I can give my child the world they deserve. Free of the things that plague me.

And maybe I can give Camille that world, too.

Before I can reply, though, Emily sticks her head through the patio doors. “Boys?” she says. “Dessert time.”

Anatoly winks at me. “Perhaps dessert will clear your mind.” He walks inside, whistling a happy little jingle.

“Please, God, no more,” Camille begs, pushing back from the table. “I thought I had enough to eat at dinner the other night with Erik, and now you’re just giving me PTSD flashbacks to that.”

Emily laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Camille smiles. “As you should. I’m just going to wash my hands real quick. Bathroom is down the hall, right?” She rises and scurries away.

“And you, Erik, would you like more?” asks Emily.

“No, thank you,” I decline politely. “Everything was delicious. Your hospitality, as always, is impeccable.”

“Aren’t you a charmer,” she chuckles. I offer her my plate, but she grabs my hand instead. “Please hold onto this one,” she whispers, looking into my eyes meaningfully. “She is good for you.”

Anatoly just nods sagely, the old bastard.

Camille reappears from the bathroom before I can say anything. She eyes the three of us, reading the situation, and grins suspiciously. “Why are my ears on fire right now?”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” Emily laughs. “We were singing your praises!”

We head out to the car. I am about to start the engine when Camille makes a little huffing noise.

“Is there something you want to say?”

“Not if you’re going to ask me in that tone.”

I bite down. “I will not tiptoe around your delicate feelings, Camille.”

She nods slightly, chastened. Or perhaps I am just seeing what I wish to see. Is it even possible for Camille to be chastened?

“It’s just strange, seeing you there, acting all … normal. I almost expected you to say grace at one point. I mean, jeez, that was a whole other side to you. You seem really close to them. They seemed more like your parents than your aunt and uncle?”

“Is that a question?”

“How could you tell?” she smiles.

“Would you care to be less vague?”

“Are they—like parents to you?”

I nod shortly, shocking myself. I have not talked about this for a long time. But there is something in her expression, drawing me out, the openness of it.

I start talking, and it feels like someone else’s words coming out of my mouth.

“My mother and father were killed in a home invasion,” I say, my voice dead. I am long practiced at pushing down whatever emotion the memory provokes. “Anatoly and Emily took me in and raised me. They are good people.”

“Oh, Erik, I’m so sorry.” She brings her hand to her mouth, letting it drop a second later. “Were the killers ever caught?”

“They met the fate they deserved.” I remember how the Italian’s eyes narrowed when I placed the gun to his forehead. How his friend panted and begged like a coward.

But she does not need to know that.

I jerk myself back to reality. “Are we done with the interrogation?” I snap. I should not have shared even this half-truth.

“For fuck’s sake,” she hisses. “Do you always have to be a jerk? We’re just talking, Erik.”

“Maybe I am tired of talking.”

I fire the car to life and pull out, headed for home. We merge onto the highway, joining the rest of the traffic, anonymous.

Or so I thought.

But as I change lanes—left, right, right, left two; an old habit to check for tails—I see it. A black sedan, less than ten years old judging by the make and model, being driven with obvious intent.

Someone is following us.

I take a deep breath and let it rattle out through my clenched teeth. I can feel Camille’s eyes on me, wondering why there is now stress and focus rolling off me in waves. But I don’t have time to answer her questions.

“Put on your seat belt,” I order.

“What? Why—”

“Now.”

She bites back a response. Good. If only she did that more often.

I cut off a pickup truck to my right to gain access to a hundred-yard stretch of open lane. I push the accelerator with my foot, feeling the low roar of the engine as it engages and propels us forward. Eyes glance down to the speedometer: seventy, eighty, ninety miles per hour. One oh five. One ten.

Slide left. Left again.

Glance in the window.

The car is still with us.

Its windows are tinted, so I can’t see much aside from the vague