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

Epilogue Erik

The music from the nightclub thumps through the ceiling, the heavy steps of the patrons pounding just beneath it.

I sit in the corner of the room with a glass of whiskey, moving my finger around the edge as the men drop bigger and bigger piles of cash on the floor. Anatoly stands just off to the side in the shadows, arms folded, a small smile playing at his lips. He has become more like the Anatoly of my youth these past two weeks, rising to the occasion and handling the business while I was in the hospital.

He is my second now, as he should have been all along.

“Fyodor’s men have either been dealt with or fled,” he told me when he visited me in the hospital. “There are a few who have pledged their allegiance. These are the lower-grade dogs, the ones who were following because he promised them money and power. They will take such promises from us just as easily.”

Once the cash has formed a pyramid, I stand up and place my whiskey on the table. My body is still a battlefield of twisting tendons and pulsing wounds, but I am healing and no truly lasting damage has been done. One day, I will look in the mirror at the faded scars and remember the days when I allowed my vigilance to lapse.

It will never happen again.

“This is just from the last month, boss,” Vadim says.

He is a tall, broad man with a face covered in Russian tattoos, his bald head gleaming in the lowlight. He was a lower-ranking officer before the war, but he has proved himself loyal.

“Business has gotten damn easier since that bastard Fyodor took a long holiday. All I’ve gotta do is roll up and tell them that Erik Ivanovich wants his collection and they’re falling all over themselves to get it done.”

“It’s the same with me,” Kostas growls, scratching at his fingernails with his ornate silver blade. “You’re feared throughout the city now, boss. Even more, I mean. People were talking up Fyodor like he was some kind of god, but now that he’s gone …”

I walk over to the pile of cash—masking the fact that it pains me, even now—and take a big wad of notes. I hand half to Vadim and the other half to Kostas. I look around the room at the other men: elite killers all of them, looking at me with a new mixture of fear and reverence in their eyes.

“Serve me well,” I tell them, “and you will all be richer than God. Play the games Fyodor tried and you will win the same prize.”

They all nod. Somebody mutters, “Damn right.”

“Do you still wish to pursue the Aryan Pact?” Anatoly asks, pushing away from the wall.

I nod, though my mind strays constantly to Camille. She will be in nursing school now. She is still considering the doctor route, but she is not the type to quit something when it is half finished.

“I want a map of all their businesses,” I tell him. “Put a board up here, like the police do, with their figurehead at the top and their lieutenants laid out beneath. We will cut the head off the snake and stamp the body into the ground as it squirms. And count the earnings.” I wave at the cash. “It will need washing.”

As the men go about their business, I return to my chair and take a long sip of whiskey.

I think about Camille, a nervous pit opening in my belly. It is strange, perhaps, for me to be nervous about a thing like this, given what I have just lived through.

But unanswered questions bounce around my head.

What if she takes it the wrong way? What if I am presuming too much? What if I ruin everything?

The pit in my belly gets wider and grows teeth as I wait outside the nursing school.

I am gripping the steering wheel too hard, my knuckles turning white. I try to focus on the moonlight dancing across the concrete instead, or picture Camille and my child on a warm summer’s day.

But I cannot distract myself.

The truth is, I am more scared now than I was when Radovan came crashing into that hotel room.

Camille looks just as beautiful in her casual jeans and sweatshirt as she would in a glittering dress. Her hair is tied back in a no-bullshit ponytail, which always appeals to me. It makes her look as capable as she is.

“Hey,” she says, when the doors flip up. She climbs in next to me and pecks me on the cheek. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I wanted to,” I tell her. “Anyway, I have a surprise for you. We are going to Années Folles.”

“You mean just about the fanciest restaurant in the city? Then I’ll have to change.”

I brush my hand along the back of her neck, loving the way I can track the tingles moving through her, the pleasure spreading.

“That will not be possible, I am afraid.”

“Why not?”

I grab her and pull her close to me. She moans deeply when I crush her lips in the kiss, her arms looping around my shoulders.

“You would not want to ruin the surprise, would you?”

I take Camille on the arm as we walk through the private entrance of the restaurant, the host bowing so deeply his nose almost touches his knees and then leading us to our table. The place is entirely deserted except for a spotlighted portion in the middle.

Ashley and Angela sit side by side, Angela giggling as Ashley talks animatedly.

“I swear to God, I thought it was my finger!” she is laughing. “That was when I first went to culinary school. I think the nerves were getting to me. I was running around the classroom screaming: I’ve chopped off my finger! Somebody call a doctor!”

“Oh my,” Angela whispers.

“But it turned out it was a piece of carrot and some sauce from a tomato that