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

sexual, not anymore. I feel her hands on my face, tender, her lips on my cheek. I see her feeding our baby with the same careful care she gives her mother. I even see her in her nurse’s uniform, rushing around a hospital, stunningly capable.

I wanted a strong woman, and I found one. For my heir’s sake, not mine. But I never dreamed she would actually matter to me.

I have to reestablish control of myself. My feelings toward her, whatever they are, cannot be allowed to stampede unbridled.

More women come and go. The smart ones take one look at me and turn right back around. The less observant ones require a little more persuading, but they too do not last long.

Then Fyodor slides down next to me, his eyes glassy from the alcohol. He adjusts his tie and sits up straight, trying to mask his intoxication.

“Are you done with women now, Erik?” He tries to make it sound lighthearted, but there is a mocking tone there I do not like at all. “The men might think you’ve decided to become a monk. You should at least make a show of seducing a couple or three.”

“Is that what you would do, in my position?” I ask, tilting my head at him.

I take the pulsing of his neck as a good sign … until I realize that it would be just like Fyodor to feign fear.

“Your position?” he laughs. “I have no idea, boss.”

Boss. He has not called me that since before he became my second.

“It is just … we are blessed with beautiful, willing women. It is a shame to waste them. And some of them take it personally when you refuse them. Like that brunette with the rack and the pouty lips, for instance.”

“Let them take it how they wish,” I mutter.

Did I truly believe coming here would clear my mind?

“It is of no—”

The shattering of glass interrupts me, followed by Oleg’s outraged roar. One of Fyodor’s men steps back, holding the jagged half of the bottle.

It’s dripping with blood.

Oleg is bleeding from a gash in his shoulder, but it doesn’t faze him. He wheels on the man with his hands raised, ready to leap into violence.

I’ve seen Oleg like this before and I know what will come next. He will grab the man by the throat and squeeze until he can’t squeeze anymore. The man’s face will turn purple, his eyes bulging, and then he will collapse like a rag doll to the floor.

Part of me wants to let the action run its course, but if I allow one of my men to head down that violent road, others will surely follow, and all hell will break loose.

I can’t have that. Not now. Not tonight. Not with my entire empire teetering on the edge of a cliff.

“Oleg!” I roar, jumping to my feet.

Men are ranged all around: my men standing like soldiers on one side of the room, Fyodor’s rising from their seats and glancing at my second as though for permission. Never before has the divide been so evident.

“Fucking dog,” Oleg is growling, pushing up against me. “Let me have him, boss. I’ll end him quick and clean. Or slow and messy, if you prefer.”

“Calm down, brother.” I place my hand on his chest. “Remember where you are.”

He grits his teeth, wheezing. I turn to the man who struck him—Egor, a beanpole with a knife-like grimace—and nod at the shattered bottle in his hand.

“Drop it,” I command.

The moment of hesitation almost breaks my resolve. I see myself gripping the bottle, guiding it to his neck and carving him from ear to ear.

But then he lets it drop and takes a step back.

“He was slandering Fyodor,” he growls quietly. “Ask him if it is not true.”

“That is not your place, boy,” Fyodor replies, walking up beside me.

He is playing his part well: standing tall like my second, his narrowed eyes boring into the smaller man. And yet I am sure I detect a hint of pride in that expression, too. I wonder if he will congratulate him privately once the drama is done.

“Give the word, Erik,” Fyodor whispers out of the side of his mouth. “I will finish this here.”

I ponder that.

Would Fyodor truly kill a man who is loyal to him? It could work in my favor, I reflect … but then I realize that he could easily use it as fuel for the fire of discontent. He would tell the men that I forced his hand. It would only serve to make them even more uncertain about my leadership.

“No,” I say, stepping forward.

I look at the men one by one. All of them glance at the floor like chastened schoolchildren.

“Egor will pay Oleg two months’ wages as punishment for this transgression. And the rest of you … if you wish to leave the Bratva, you will leave the city. I mean it. Pack up your things and flee like cowards. Or money will be the least of your concerns.”

“You heard him!” Fyodor roars when a few let out low grumbles. “Your leader has spoken. Does anybody wish to argue?”

The men shuffle back to their seats.

I grit my teeth, glancing at Fyodor, not liking how this looks at all. They only accepted my decision once Fyodor gave his blessing.

I look down at the shattered bottle, imagining stabbing it deep into Fyodor’s belly. But in the end, I must maintain my composure.

I return to the booth, slowly pour myself a glass of vodka, and sip it as the party resumes, though there is a bitter tinge in the air now.

I stomp through the mansion, rage pulsing through my veins like acid, and drop down into the heavy seat in my home office.

The desk is large and papers lie scattered: business documents, property deeds, profits charts. I stare down at them, thinking about how little they mean if I cannot control the Bratva.

All will crumble to ruin if I do not rein in these renegades.

I think of my