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

is wearing a crumpled shirt and saggy pants that haven’t seen an iron since the day they were stolen.

“This really is some place,” Rob says after we have eaten our starters. It is the second insinuating comment he has made. He openly gawps at the silverware, the display cabinet with the antique china, the sconce lights. He has the air of a thief appraising a potential heist. “I bet this fork costs more than our apartment.”

I feel Camille’s forced smile on me, willing me to keep up the pretense.

“So you listen to a lot of audiobooks, Angela?” I say, ignoring him.

“Oh, maybe too many!” she cries, slurring a little. “I’m working my way through Crime and Punishment right now.”

“One of my favorites,” I say.

“Really?” She frowns doubtfully. “I can’t get on board with it, truth be told. Don’t you think he drones on and on?”

I smile. “I will have to allow you that, but there is a certain beauty in it.”

Camille’s eyes widen as though I have transformed into a different man. Is she really so surprised I can be civil?

“Beauty and a whole lot of blah-blah-blah!” Angela giggles. “Camille and I have always been more into thrillers, haven’t we, dear?”

Camille nods. “We used to listen to them when I was a kid, after I’d done my homework. But you always ruined them.”

“Me?” Angela gasps. “How?”

“You always guessed the ending!”

“How much does a place like this run you?” Rob interjects clumsily. “I mean, do you rent or own it?”

“Own,” I murmur, shooting him a glance.

“Hmm, must be worth at least ten million, right? Is that right?”

“I prefer not to discuss money at dinner. I find it spoils my appetite.”

Camille draws in a breath. “Remember when you spoiled that Poirot for me, Mom? We hadn’t been listening to it more than ten minutes!”

“And this fuckin’ food!” Rob roars, drowning out his sister. “This is restaurant stuff, right here. Michelin star shit. You must pay your chef boatloads.”

“Oh, Rob, do you have to curse?” Angela grumbles.

“My staff is well-compensated,” I say, cutting into the steak.

Camille cuts her mother’s food for her, paying careful attention as she chews. She dabs the napkin under her lip when she dribbles some orange juice.

I find myself imagining her as a mother, something I have not yet done, and how wonderful she will be at it. It’s a thought out of left field. I try to suppress it, but it resurfaces over and over throughout the meal, an earworm that refuses to leave me be.

“So we have discovered that you are a bibliophile, Angela,” I say. “But how else do you fill your time?”

“Scrabble, I love Scrabble! I play with Jackie. She’s my caregiver when this one isn’t around.” She smiles lovingly at Camille. “I like to bird-watch, too. I was obsessed with it before …”

Emotion enters her voice. She visibly pushes it down with a grit of her teeth. I see where Camille gets her fierce streak.

“It must be peaceful,” I fill in the silence.

“Oh, it’s about the most relaxing thing in the world.”

“They must be really well compensated, right?” Rob growls abruptly, glancing at Angela as though she is rude for redirecting the conversation from money. Under the table I squeeze my fist, my patience becoming threadbare. “Your staff, I mean, in a big place like this. You know how to pay people what they deserve, don’t you, Erik?”

Camille is shooting him frantic looks but Rob has his eyes fixed on me. They are wide, and, I now realize, coked-up.

Does this man have no self-respect? If he was not Camille’s brother … but I do not let myself go down the road of what-ifs. It will not serve my anger well.

“You paid Camille a hefty chunk, didn’t you? All that money just for a little housekeeping.” He narrows his eyes. “I suppose it involves a lot of carrying though, right? But I’m sure Camille knows how to bear the load, right? Right?” He is picking at the tablecloth.

“I don’t understand,” Angela mutters. “Rob, is something wrong? What are you talking about?”

I level my gaze at him. He must sense the rage pulsing through me, because he has the good sense to lower his eyes.

“He’s just being silly,” Camille says, placing her hand on Angela’s. “Earlier, I told him how hard I’ve been working, carrying all the cleaning supplies up and down the stairs, shifting the heavy furniture so I could vacuum behind it. Rob, can’t we just have a nice meal?”

“I think that would be best,” I say, my eyes still burning into him.

He throws his hands up. “I was just talking,” he whines like a child.

For the rest of the dinner, he sulks and I focus on Angela, enjoying drawing her out, enjoying the deep bond she and Camille so clearly share.

After dessert, I lean across the table and touch Rob softly on the arm. He flinches, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

“Perhaps we could have a private conversation?” I ask.

He licks his cracked lips. “About what?”

“What else?” I smile, sitting back. “Money, since you seem so interested.”

He glances around as though an escape hatch is going to materialize. But then something in him hardens. He pushes from the table far too forcefully, the chair screeching in protest. “Fine by me,” he grunts. “Let’s go!”

He marches from the room.

I stand slowly, ignoring Camille’s panicked expression as I leave to handle business.

11

Camille

I glance at the door, worry driving through me like a spike.

But I keep babbling nonsense, for Mom’s sake. She didn’t notice the fire heating up within Erik, nor Rob’s lame attempts to push his buttons, and I don’t have the heart to clue her in. She’s been through a lot. She deserves a nice evening with no complications.

“…And then I have to change all the sheets. There’s a lot of beds in this house, so sometimes it can take an hour, sometimes less.”

While my mouth runs, my mind fills with violent vignettes: Erik’s fist crunching into Rob’s belly. Rob doubling over