Owned by the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva) by Nicole Fox (best romantic novels in english .txt) 📗

Owned by the Mob Boss

A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva)

Nicole Fox

Copyright © 2019 by Nicole Fox

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Also by Nicole Fox

Unprotected with the Mob Boss

Broken Hope

Broken Vows

Knocked Up by the Mob Boss

Sold to the Mob Boss

Stolen by the Mob Boss

Trapped with the Mob Boss

Vin: A Mafia Romance

Contents

Owned by the Mob Boss

1. Erik

2. Camille

3. Erik

4. Camille

5. Camille

6. Erik

7. Camille

8. Erik

9. Camille

10. Erik

11. Camille

12. Erik

13. Camille

14. Camille

15. Erik

16. Camille

17. Erik

18. Camille

19. Erik

20. Camille

21. Erik

22. Camille

23. Erik

24. Camille

25. Erik

26. Camille

27. Erik

Epilogue

Sneak Preview of Unprotected with the Mob Boss

Also by Nicole Fox

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Owned by the Mob Boss A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva)

By Nicole Fox

She is untouched. Innocent. Desperate. Mine.

I was raised to rule.

Hardened by the laws of my family:

Take what needs taking.

Break what needs breaking.

Camille is no exception.

Her body belongs to me now,

Courtesy of a substantial cash payment to the Archangel Vision auction.

I know she fears me.

I know she wants me.

But what I want to know is this:

Is she ready to give me a child?

1

Erik

All around me, hell is erupting.

But I have always felt at home in hell.

The bullet cracks an inch from my face, coughing up plaster and bits of wall.

I duck aside and throw myself behind the upturned couch. More bullets tear through the fabric, whistling in the air.

“Motherfuckers!” Radovan roars. He’s a giant man, so his voice booms throughout the room as he leaps over the room partition and rushes at the remaining Italian mafiosos.

I peek over the edge of the couch. He has his gun raised, letting bullets fly as he reaches into his back pocket for his knife.

Beside me, Damir fires more shots. He’s a little man with horn-rimmed glasses like a fucking librarian and he’s biting his bottom lip like he’s nervous. But he doesn’t miss once.

From the corner of the room, my second-in-command, Fyodor, watches Radovan with the same tense expression I must be wearing.

He’s always doing something to get himself in trouble.

Suddenly, an Italian leaps from their barricade and wraps his hands around Radovan’s throat. I jump up without thinking, aiming my pistol but knowing I could easily hit Radovan. Whatever happens, we can’t let one of our men die. It’s bad enough that Oleg took that slug in the shoulder.

“Erik!” Fyodor shouts over the sound of gunfire. “Get down!”

I ignore him, a bullet whipping so close to me I can feel it brush like wind against my cheek. The Italian nearly has his pistol pressed against Radovan’s chin. He’s a reedy thing, in one of those slick suits they all wear, only now it’s slick with the blood of his comrades.

“Erik!” Fyodor yells again.

Somebody grabs at my shirt. I throw a wild fist, tossing him into the air, and quickly turn to put a bullet in the attacker’s throat. He slumps, gurgling.

I duck as a bullet whines over my head. Another snaps at the ground at my feet.

I grab the Italian by the throat and crush his windpipe with one vicious squeeze. His eyes bulge and he looks at me as though seeing whatever god he prays to. I toss his body aside and spin to take care of the man who was firing at us, but he is already lying facedown in a pool of blood, Damir’s knife buried in the back of his neck.

“Use your wits,” I growl, as we duck down behind the bar.

Radovan grins at me, blood smearing his face. We took them by surprise, but even Italian rats like these will fight when backed into a corner.

“Never knew I had any. But thanks, boss.”

His eyes go wide.

“Watch out!”

I turn just in time to spot the Italian standing in the doorway with the heavy machine gun. He props the barrel on the edge of an overturned table and smiles savagely.

Time slows to a crawl. He could light us all up, devour the room in a single hailstorm of metal death. Someone has to stop him before he can get to the trigger.

I raise my gun.

But before I can fire, somebody leaps from the shadows and grabs my ankle. I look down to find the crushed windpipe man gripping my foot, wheezing and dribbling but still as yet alive.

As I make to empty my clip in his head, the man by the machine gun finishes setting up his mount.

And the world explodes.

I throw myself at Radovan and drag him to the ground as the cacophony of automatic fire roars overhead. We roll over and scramble toward the closest cover—another section of the bar—as the man on the floor crawls after us, reaching for a knife.

I kick him in the face. His head snaps back. I think he lets out a pathetic cry, but the air is too heavy with warfare to know for sure. I kick him again, hard. His nose erupts in a torrent of blood.

We round the corner of the bar on hands and knees.

But they are waiting for us.

Two last Italians, aside from the one manning the machine gun that continues to rain fire on our position.

One of the men hefts a shotgun and aims it at us, but then Oleg comes sliding over the bar, oblivious to his shoulder wound. His blond hair is slicked straight back, flecked with crimson stains.

The Italian spins to aim at Oleg.

“No!” I roar, leaping to my feet and throwing myself at him.

He pushes the barrel into my belly. I grab his hand just before he can squeeze the trigger. I twist the gun, aim it at his