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

finish the whiskey, and rise to my feet. “Is the therapy session over?”

Camille stretches her legs along the couch, folding her sparkling heels at the ankles.

I study the form of her thighs, the small muscles twitching, my manhood stirring as I imagine gripping just above the knee and then smoothing my hand up to her sex. I hear her moaning in my ear.

This woman draws me in far too easily, which is a problem, especially after the detective’s visit.

Can she be trusted?

I curse myself. Idiot. Of course she can’t.

This is a transaction, nothing more.

The sun is setting, darkening like my mood. Her mother and brother are on their way for dinner. Already I am regretting the decision, but it is better than letting her waltz around the city unaccompanied.

I am surprised she has not tried to run yet. Perhaps it is the money.

Perhaps it is the sex that both of us, despite everything, are becoming addicted to.

Or perhaps it is bone-chilling fear.

She has been behaving differently these past two days, I think, not that I have spent much time with her.

“I was in the garden earlier,” she says softly. It is the first either of us has spoken for at least ten minutes. “Are those orchids in the flower bed at the back?”

“I am not the gardener,” I say, pouring myself a vodka.

She bites down, looking like she might snap at me. Then she swivels on the couch and leans forward, all eager. She is making an effort, but I can’t find it in myself to reciprocate.

“Well, they’re beautiful,” she says. “And that winding path is like something out of a fantasy novel. It’s gorgeous. I walked right to the back. Did you know there’s a well back there? Coins are glittering at the bottom. Who threw them?”

“The staff,” I grunt. “Or somebody else. What does it matter?”

“Hmm.” There is much she would like to say, I can tell, but instead she nods to the mounted sword above the fireplace. “That’s really something. When did you get it?”

“The pawnshop won’t take it, if that’s where your head is going.”

“Jesus, Erik.” She almost glares, but maintains her composure. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Perhaps you and your detective friend should take a stroll in the garden one day. You could take turns throwing coins and making wishes.” I sip the vodka, letting it burn down into my belly. Part of me hates the tone in my voice, but I press on. “I could get his address for you, if you want. You could be pen pals.”

“That’s unfair and you know it,” she snaps. She sighs, slumping back on the couch. “You really are trying hard to make me hate you, aren’t you?”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Do you hate me, Camille?”

I pour another vodka. I keep seeing Fyodor in a dark room, rallying his troops, plotting my downfall. Or, if not that, then the detective with my photograph pinned to a board—a target painted between my eyes.

“Why can’t you just be normal for once? I was just trying to fucking talk to you. But obviously I shouldn’t’ve wasted my time. You just want a Stepford Wife, don’t you? Okay, here.” She sits up robotically and then asks in a monotone: “Did—you—have—a—good—day—at—work—honey?”

“That is, in fact, an improvement.”

I’m almost sure she smiles, but it’s gone too soon.

“Why do we even hang out?”

“Hang out? Is that what we are doing?”

“Sit in the same room, be around each other. What’s the point? I should just spread my legs once a day and leave it at that.”

I shrug. I nearly say: Fine by me. But something stops me.

“What is going on with you tonight?”

“You invited a fucking detective into my home!” I growl, losing myself for a moment. “If you want to turn me in, there are easier ways to do it.”

“Turn you in? For what?” She strides across the room, gesturing wildly. “I thought you were just a proprietor?”

“Sit down, Camille.”

“No!” she flares. “I won’t sit here listening to this shit when you’re the motherfucker who manipulated me into being a Mafia boss’ fucking … fucking slave.”

I squeeze the vodka glass so hard it almost shatters. “Is that what he said?”

“‘Bratva’ is the term he used. I Googled it. You’re the leader of the Russian Mafia, Erik.” She pauses, eyeing me. When I say nothing, she goes on. “Well, aren’t you going to deny it?”

“I owe you nothing,” I tell her.

“So that’s a yes.”

“If I am what you think I am,” I say, rising to my full height, just inches away from her, “you should be more careful.”

We are so close I can see the flutter in her neck. Panic? Lust?

She gazes at me in that confused way that has come to mean conflicted desire. But there is a shadow of rage in her, too.

“Is that a threat?” she hisses. “If it is, you should know something. I’m not some scared little lamb. I’ve been fighting my whole life and I’m not about to stop now! So why don’t you just back the fuck—”

The doorbell interrupts her.

Seconds later, Adrian’s voice rises. “Sir, ma’am, please, this way.”

Camille composes herself at once, wiping any signs of the argument from her face. A moment later, it’s like nothing ever happened. I’m impressed.

“Let’s just try to have a nice evening, okay?” she says, voice softening. “I don’t want to stress Mom out.”

It’s the concern that does it, that makes me question this whole exchange. How can a man be angry at a woman who cares so deeply for her sick mother?

I consider apologizing, but of course I do not. I refuse to give her that power over me.

Angela is no less beautiful for her illness.

She has the same wavy hair as Camille and the same blue eyes, alert and bright as Rob wheels her to the table.

Rob is a different story: a scrawny, fidgety scrap of a man with greasy black hair hanging over his eyes. A man should prepare for a dinner, take some pride in his appearance, but Rob