Kostya: A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva) Nicole Fox (best ereader for pdf and epub TXT) 📖

out of my mouth, but I feel better as soon as it’s gone, like a wave of vomit. My stomach aches with the truth of it.

Kostya Zinon is a murderer.

He closes the distance between us. “I saved your life tonight.”

I laugh at the absurdity of it. “Sun’s up on a new day, Kostya, and just so we’re clear, I saved my own life. You gave me a ride.” I don’t know if I’m courageous or stupid, and I don’t care. I need to quench the burning in my guts. And setting the anger free is the only way I know how.

“I’ll caution you once more, Charlotte. Don’t make me say it again.”

I close the distance between us and wrap my fingers around his throat. It’s probably laughable—the man has a foot and a half of height on me, for crying out loud; it’s not like I’m an actual threat to choke him out. But I just have this burning need to lay my hands on him. I want to let him know that I can be dangerous, too. To my surprise, he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t even move.

“You say a lot of words that don’t mean anything. What difference does it make if you say them once or a thousand times?” I squeeze, digging my fingernails into his skin. “There are men trying to kill you.”

All I can think is, what about Tiana? How does he plan to keep her from becoming some sort of collateral damage?

“You have a daughter now.”

He shakes his head. “The Whelans won’t come after Tiana. A message has been sent.”

I don’t know what that means. Probably something dangerous in Mafia speak, but in Charlotte language it means nothing. “A message has been sent?” I scoff. Then I chuckle. Then I laugh. “Who are you that your message should mean one damn thing to these Whelans?” A question I’m sure the Whelans are also wondering. And while I’m at it … “And who are the Whelans?”

Kostya peels my fingers away from his throat and pushes his face closer to me. But I don’t flinch because the adrenaline is making me fearless. Fearless Charlotte might just be Stupid Charlotte by another name, but if I’m going to die because I didn’t take his warnings and he’s the murderer he’s so proud of being, then at least I’ll die with answers.

“You’re not ready for the answers to the questions you’re asking.” His eyes are huge in my face. They’re all I can see.

I hiss back, “In case you forgot, they were shooting at me just the same as they were shooting at you. I think you owe me answers.”

He searches my face for a moment, and he must find whatever he was looking for, because he shrugs and straightens up, then walks away, fixing his cuffs. I stay put, silent, waiting.

“The Whelans are Irish Mafia,” he says finally. “They work primarily in import/export operations, with a strong weapons business encroaching on the east side of the city. They’re responsible for fourteen murders this year and sixty-seven in the last decade. Their preferred method of torture is razor blades under the fingernails, and they like to finish their captives off with blunt-force trauma.” He turns back to look at me again, eyes icy cold. “Is that enough truth for you, Charlotte?”

I know he wants to scare me. I should be scared; after all, the things he just mentioned are downright terrifying. But I’m still hoping for an out, an escape route of some kind that leads away from all this madness and away from all the horrifying conclusions I’m right on the verge of finally accepting as real.

So I ask the one question that will solidify it all. This is Kostya’s last chance to turn back. If he just answers this one right, then he can convince me that all my crazy mob boss theories are just dust in the wind and I can go back to living my normal life of ogling him and playing Chutes and Ladders with his cute little daughter. He can be just a property developer, a hot rich guy with an ass to die for, and I can just be his secretary. We can still get back there. All he has to do is say the right things when I clear my throat and ask, “Why would the Irish Mafia attack you?”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wait on pins and needles.

He sighs and looks at me with a question in his eyes, like, Are you sure?

I nod imperceptibly. I am sure. Tell me the truth, for once in your whole life. I can handle it.

“I am Russian Bratva. Do you know what that is?”

“Enough. Probably more than you think.” As much as I could find on Google.

“Charlotte …” He sounds disappointed. And with his eyes closed, I can’t tell if it’s real or just more of Kostya’s games. More of his deceit. “Then you know nothing gets in my way. Not even my own feelings.”

I’m screeching before I even realize it. “What is that supposed to mean? That you have feelings for me? What kind of feelings—pity? Disdain? Or just a little horny every now and then? Oh, but if you have to kill me, you will. Because of course you will. You know what, Kostya? Fuck. You.”

He may be a Russian killer, but he’s no different than every other man I’ve ever met: emotionally illiterate.

I don’t have to stick around for him to make me feel less than I do right now, and to be honest, I don’t give a damn what he says anymore. He’s not the man I thought he was.

I want to punish him for deceiving me. My skin is too tight. My head is too full. My anger is too big for all of us—me, Kostya, and my rage—to fit in this room.

“I’m leaving.” If the car is out there, I’ll steal it. If not, I’ll walk. I can’t stay here with