Stolen by the Mob Boss : A Russian Mafia Romance (Bratva Hitman) Nicole Fox (unputdownable books TXT) 📖

to scream. It’s like someone’s stolen the words from me and locked them up, leaving me with only a bunch of shapes and squiggles on my keyboard. Everything seems foreign. I want to disappear.

Instead, I put my forehead on my folded arms and suppress a long, draining groan. It’s dramatic—such a first-world problem—but I need to just take a break from this. Spend some time doing something else. I don’t know where these blocks come from, but I still haven’t mastered the art of breaking through them. I don’t have a fancy ritual for unsticking myself from this wordless trap. I don’t have any regular solutions to inspire myself.

All I know is that when I was younger, this didn’t happen. I could spend hours in the living room, typing away all kinds of stories. None of them made sense, but dammit, I was writing something. At the very least, I had words on a page and not just the vast emptiness of white that I can practically feel staring back at me through the screen.

Rather than forcing myself to sit here and figure out a way to write myself out of a narrative hole, I close my laptop and put it back into my bag. There’s no point in wasting time trying to force the words if they’re not going to come.

I slip my phone from my pocket and dial Madeline’s number, drumming my fingers on the wooden table as I wait for her to pick up.

“Hey,” she says, chipper as always. I’m jealous of how much energy has, even after she’s worked all day and dealt with less than favorable employees.

“Hey! I was wondering if there’s any room for me there?”

“I thought you were taking the day off and getting some writing done!”

“Yeah, so did I,” I laugh bitterly, rolling my eyes at myself. “I’ve got major writer’s block and I’m tired of sitting here and staring at all my work. I’m afraid if I do that any longer, I’ll realize how much I hate it and erase all of it.”

“Oh please,” she says. “I’ve read some of your work. You’re a great writer. In fact, you made me like true crime books when that stuff used to scare the shit out of me.”

There aren’t many people that I’ve let read my unfinished work, but one day while I was at Rudy’s, typing away, Madeline stood over my shoulder, her eyes skimming over my screen. At first, she thought that I was doing an essay about murder, but as she read more, she eventually realized that it was fiction. Ever since then, she’s demanded that I keep her up-to-date and send her chapters of this new manuscript.

I want to be annoyed because I know that it’s the writerly thing to do, hiding your work until it’s finished, but I need that encouragement. Madeline supports me when all I want to do is delete every word I’ve ever written and punt my laptop into outer space.

“I’m glad you liked it,” I say, biting back a bashful smile.

“Don’t delete anything, okay? Just keep it and come back to it whenever you’re feeling less stressed. I’m sure you’re probably already stressed taking care of your grandma too, huh?”

I hadn’t even thought about that. Whenever I find that I can’t seem to put anything down on the page, it’s usually when things in real life are harder. After Mom and Dad died, I didn’t write for years. When I went through finals during my senior year of college, the last thing my mind could do was conjure up a good chapter or two. And now, with Nana’s health becoming more of an issue, I’ve lost my way again.

“You might be onto something, actually,” I murmur.

“I told you, I’m a lot smarter than I look.” We both laugh at her bragging. “Anywho, Tina just left for the day, so if you want to come by and fill in for her, I think Rudy would be cool with that. I’ll double-check after this call, though.”

“That sounds perfect. Thanks, Maddie.”

“No problem!”

I’m feeling just a little less dejected. There’s an actual reason that I can’t write. Too much is going on for me to focus on my protagonist and her dangerous situation. I swing my bag over my shoulder and head up to the front to order a coffee to go. I figure I’ll walk to work since it’s not too far, and on the way there, I can drink my favorite mocha to keep me warm.

“That’ll be $5.48,” the new barista says. He’s cute, but I still prefer the one I normally see instead. Sometimes he gives me a discount, which I definitely appreciate.

“Sure,” I reply. I pat my pockets for my wallet, and my stomach sinks when I feel nothing but my phone. When I check the other pocket, I find that one completely empty. The woman behind me lets out a noise of impatience, and when I give a panicked look to the barista, he keeps his expression blank, like he’s unamused with me.

“Sorry, I just ...”

Anxiety starts to roll over me, and I search through my bag, placing down a few coins that I know won’t add up to the price of my drink. I want to shrink into the bag and hide forever, but I’m frozen in place, frantically praying that somehow, I can come up with enough to buy this drink and escape this uncomfortable situation.

“Ma’am,” the barista says, “You can step to the side if you need to look for more money.”

The tone of his voice tells me that isn’t just a suggestion. He needs me to move because I’m holding up the line. My face burns hot with humiliation. I nod, biting down on my bottom lip to keep from bursting into tears. The lady beside me impatiently steps forward, side-eying me on her way up.

I keep fumbling, coming up with hairpins and chapstick tubes, but no more money. When the lady in line gets her order, she brushes