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

“Go ahead, sweetheart.” He leans his head against his hand. “Your father will be fired as soon as the news breaks about the murder, so the investigation into me will go nowhere and your father will look even worse for going after the person who revealed his little girl’s secret.”

I grab the ammunition box and fling it toward the fireplace. It smacks against the stone before spilling its sodden contents on the floor. I storm out of the room, the explosions in my brain setting fire to everything except the fact that I want to put my hands around Lev’s neck and show him what an actual murder looks like.

I stop at the entrance doors. No matter how badly I want to run out of here, no matter what outburst I try on for size, he’s trapped me.

I turn around. He hasn’t followed me. He knows he doesn’t need to.

I take several deep breaths, pacing around the area. I have to change my mindset. This is for my father. This is for my future. This is for all the victims’ families. If I want to be a good person, I need to be willing to make sacrifices.

I return to the den. Lev is still in his armchair, drinking while gazing out the window. The ammunition box and his evidence are still spread out on the floor. He doesn’t turn to look at me when I step back in.

“When we’re married, you’ll need to watch what you drink,” I say. He turns to me. “You never know what ingredients could be added to give it a little kick.”

“Is that a threat?” he asks with a small smile. “You’re eager to rack up that body count.”

I pick up my glass off the table, which has been filled up again. He knew I was never going to leave. I take a gulp out of it, enjoying the burning sensation down my throat.

“You’re a piece of shit,” I bite out. He stands up, takes the glass out of my hand, and leans forward. His lips brush against my cheek.

“But I’m yours,” he says.

He stands back and straightens up, eyeing me carefully.

I say nothing.

Lev smooths back his hair. “Let me show you the house.”

He starts walking out of the den without waiting for my answer. I follow him out, keeping at least a few feet between us.

The mansion is extravagant, to say the least, but it never descends into a desperate desire to show off his wealth. Many, many parts of his home are expensive—the red-tinted hardwood floors, the skylights, the private courtyard, the cutting-edge technology humming behind every wall—but there’s never an attempt to fill up space with unnecessary displays of wealth. There’s no gold lions or diamond-encrusted map of NYC.

As much as I hate to admit it, it’s refined. But I’m certain it’s just like him—enticing façade, but hidden rot under its foundation.

On the second floor, he skips over one of the rooms. The door is closed, so I can’t see what it is. I stop in front of it. He turns to see why I’m not following him.

“What’s in there?” I ask. “Your doll collection?”

“No. It’s my bedroom.” Before I can stop him, he opens the door. “You don’t need to see it. There’s not much inside.”

The bed could easily fit three people on it and it has a thick, white comforter—the kind that if you fell back onto it, you’d sink several inches and still feel the layers of softness underneath you. There’s only one pillow. The only other notable thing inside is the speakers that are built into the walls.

“I expected a bachelor pad,” I admit.

“Is that what you wanted?” he asks. For the briefest second before he looks me in the eye, his eyes flicker up and down my body.

“You just seemed like the type that would have the leopard print silk sheets, the mood lighting, maybe a clap-on disco ball—the tools of seduction, you know?” I say sarcastically.

As I glance back at him, I’m struck by his appearance again. He’s not beautiful. At least, that’s not quite the right word. Everything about him is too severe—the angles of his jaw, the ruthlessness in his eyes, his movements—to make me think of beauty, but I can feel my pulse in every part of my body when I look at him.

“I don’t bring women back to the house,” he says. “I’m not running a bed and breakfast.”

“Why not? You’re such a charming host,” I mutter.

He seizes my arm.

It should scare me—he’s significantly bigger and stronger than me. Even just looking down at his fingers around my arm, I know that he could snap it easily.

The aggression in his face slips away—not like he’s made it disappear, but more like he’s tucked it away for later use.

“Let’s go back to the den.”

He closes his bedroom door. I should be relieved, but as he lets go of my arm—my skin a bright red—I’m stuck with this ache.

I follow him. I don’t have a choice anymore.

6

Lev

In the den, I walk straight to the bookshelf. I take down Russia: From Slavic Tribes to Potential Superpower. The binding is loose, but the invitation is still easy to find. I take it out and put the book back.

I hold it out for Allison to take. She hesitates before snatching it from me. She reads it. And rereads it.

“What the hell is this?” she demands.

“You should recognize it. You must have gone to it a couple of times.”

“No.” She’s holding the invitation so tightly that she’s crinkling the edge. “The Great Blue Foundation gala is for the NYPD and donors. Why do you have this?”

“Because I support our brothers in blue.”

“Bullshit,” she mutters. “You have to donate a lot to be invited and you were afraid of the police chief’s daughter being in your nightclub. You’re not funding your own criminal investigation.”

“No, but I can make the police a