Unprotected with the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Alekseiev Bratva) by Fox, Nicole (classic books for 12 year olds .TXT) 📗

I get up, pulling my bag over my shoulder. As it begins to buzz, I unzip it to get my phone. It’s my father again. He must be worried that I haven’t called yet to say I’m home. I put the phone back in my bag. I’ll be calling him soon anyway when I report that Jeffrey is drinking and driving.

The exit door squeaks as I push it open. At first, I don’t see Jeffrey, but after the door closes, I notice him leaning close to one of the dumpsters. He nods at me.

“Hey.” I try to give him a flirty wave, pretending to stumble a little as I step toward him. “Um, I was just hoping to bum a cigarette from you.”

“Sure,” he says. He lets the cigarette dangle in his mouth as he taps the pack against his palm. He pulls out one of the cigarettes. I take two more unsteady steps toward him.

Then everything happens fast.

As I reach for the cigarette, he lurches forward, grabbing my arm and yanking me toward him. He drops the cigarettes as he grabs my other arm and shoves me against the wall. The air whooshes out of my lungs. I see stars where my head cracked against the bricks.

“Bitch,” he spits out, the cigarette flinging out of his mouth and bouncing off my shirt. “You don’t think I remembered you from the courtroom? You don’t think I saw you watching me in there? You dumb, bootlicking bitch.”

“Let me go!” I struggle against him, but he’s a lot stronger than he looks. When I try to kick him, he presses his whole body against me, pinning me against the wall. “My father is the chief of police. I’m friends with the DA. Don’t do anything stupid. Just let me go and I’ll forget this whole thing.”

“You know, that whole time in the courtroom, I imagined being pressed up against you like this,” he sneers. His face is right up in mine, breath hot on my cheeks. “It was so hard to concentrate on my lawyer and the DA while you were sitting there, so uptight that I knew you’d be the best fuck of my life. I’m thankful that I didn’t go to prison because now I can get what I want.”

I spit at him.

His jaw stiffens. He spits back at me. It lands on my chin before it drips down to the ground. Still, his hands keep me pressed firmly into the brick wall at my back.

“Just for that, this is going to be ten times worse for you.” He moves his hips back to try to pull down my sweatpants.

I stomp on his foot. He jerks backward, loosening his grip. As I turn to run, his hand swings through the air. It hits me so hard across the face that I slam into the dumpster, the metal edge jamming into my ribs before I crumble onto the asphalt.

My bag falls beside me. Inside it, I see the glint of something aluminum.

I pretend to be writhing in pain. I keep one hand on my face as my other hand inches toward my bag.

“Get up,” Jeffrey snarls. “Let’s see if your high horse protects you from getting fucked next to the goddamn trash.”

My hand shoots forward, snatching the pepper spray can from my bag. I pray that it’s facing the right way as I press down on the top.

The pepper spray disperses in a cloud of orange. As it hits Jeffrey, his head jerks back. He makes a sound like a mountain lion’s scream. He takes several steps back as he tries to use the heel of his palms to rub his eyes, but it only makes things worse for him. Coughs wrack his body as he hunches over, desperate for air.

I scoot back on my butt as his coughing becomes more severe, dragging my bag with me. He’s spinning in place, roaring in pain.

I clamber to my feet and take a couple of steps back, toward the exit door. His coughs start to sound strangled. He falls onto his knees, his hands on his throat.

Something is wrong.

He’s convulsing on the ground, and foamy drool is issuing from his mouth. His eyes are wide open and a sickening shade of red.

Then, just as suddenly, he stops. Every muscle in his body goes slack.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

Cautiously, I drop my bag again and step towards him. I reach a hand out to check for a pulse.

But as soon as I’m in range, his eyes fly back open and his arm swings out, hitting against my shoulder before he grabs the front of my shirt. He pulls me closer to him. His coughing sprays his spit onto my face. His other hand grasps my neck, his thumb digging into my throat. It feels like a vise clamped around me, cutting off the air. Stars are swirling again, thick and fast. Black is creeping in at the edge of my vision.

I pry his fingers off my neck, his thumbnail dragging across my throat, and yank his other arm hard enough that he releases my shirt. I take several steps back until I’m pressed up against the wall, gasping for air.

On the ground in front of me, Jeffrey’s coughs start to turn into dying rasps.

I dig through my bag and grab my phone. I dial 9. As my finger moves to the 1, my father’s number pops onto the screen.

You’re also a reflection of me.

Jeffrey falls onto his side. His hands curl into fists. He presses them close to his neck. His face is bright red.

His rasps quiet into whimpers, and then nothing. There is only silence, the distant rumble of cars on the freeway, and my own labored breathing.

Is he dead?

Being the daughter of the chief of police is different than being the daughter of other fathers. As a kid, people assumed I could get away with anything because my father would