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

I grit my teeth. So, they want to sell drugs to the Aryan Pact. “What is their reasoning?”

“Keep the peace, Erik, always keep the peace.”

“Request declined, old man.” I repress a sigh. “You know better than to ask. Is there anything else?”

“One more thing,” he mutters, sounding as though he doesn’t want to broach it. But Anatoly is never one to shy away. “Damir has been making similar overtures, as well as rallying men to Fyodor.”

I resist the urge to flip the desk. “Damir has done enough. It is time we had a red council.”

I’m sure I hear him swallow nervously. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise. Make the arrangements.” I hang up and rise from the desk, fists clenched.

A red council. Every man in the Bratva knows the seriousness of those words.

It means that Damir will be executed. His insolence has gone on long enough.

I walk into the hallway to find Camille struggling with the butler at the bottom of the stairs.

“Please,” she is saying, making to lift one of the suitcases. “Let me help.”

But Adrian is too proud for that. The stocky man shakes his head. “Ma’am, you must allow me.”

“I’d listen to him,” I say from the top of the stairs. “He is not easily dissuaded.”

She shoots me a look, that same one that has been replaying in my mind ever since she left to collect her things. She has her fair share of insolence, yet it is a fire I can appreciate. I study her athletic body, mentally stripping away the jeans and the T-shirt to what lies beneath. My body stirs when she stomps up the stairs toward me. There is something magnetic about her courage. No other woman would dare approach me like this.

Brave, but stupid.

“Let’s get it over with, then,” she sneers, but the disgust is feigned. I can read her better than she would like.

She makes to push past me, but then Ashley climbs up the stairs. Ashley is always smiling, even when she is angry, and right now she is anything but. She is wearing her chef’s uniform, a solid woman with arms made thick from endless meal preparations. She is all gesturing hands as she skips over to Camille.

“Hello!” she cries. “You must be Camille. I’m Ashley. I’ll be keeping you fed during your stay. It’s so nice to meet you.”

The change in Camille almost makes me smile. She lights up, shaking hands with Ashley. I take a step back. I always find it difficult to disrespect Ashley. Plus, there’s no harm with the women getting acquainted.

“So, I hear you’re a nursing student?”

Ashley managed to get that and more out of me through her interrogation last night at dinner. I am relieved when my cell phone rings again, giving me an excuse to leave them to women’s chatter.

“Is it done?” I ask, walking down the hallway.

“Yes, Erik,” Anatoly says. “One hour at the Ruble, but if that does not fit with your—”

“It fits fine. Prepare the men.”

There is still the business with Fyodor to consider. My mind whirs as I return to the women. Fyodor, the Aryan Pact, those men who might wish for a change in leadership—it is all a house of cards I must balance. And if it topples … But I will not let myself consider that.

“Since you two are getting on so well, Ashley, show Camille to her quarters. I have some business to take care of. One of my men will call ahead upon my return.” I face Camille. “You will wait for me in the living room.”

She rolls her eyes at Ashley. “Is he always this bossy?”

On a whim, I step between the women and grab Camille by the shoulders. I sense Ashley turning her back to us as I press my lips against Camille’s.

Camille struggles for just a moment, before she lets out a muffled moan that tells me everything I need to know. Then she shoves me in the chest. It’s not enough to really do anything, but I back away anyway.

“We had a deal,” she accuses. Her voice is angry, but her cheeks are flushed and her deep blue eyes wide and excited.

I ignore her comment. “Be ready,” I warn. “I do not like to be kept waiting.”

I sit at the head of the room in the back of the Ruble. The lights overhead spill out, the color of dried blood.

Oleg stands just behind me with his hand near his hip as though ready to grab for his gun, loyal as ever. Anatoly sits on my right and, to my left sits Fyodor. There is something perverse about the man who has caused so much trouble—directly or indirectly, it remains to be seen—taking his place beside me, but it cannot be avoided.

The men border the room, some of them half hidden in shadows where the eerie light does not reach.

When I rise, they do the same, looking up at me with respect on their faces. It is impossible to know whose is feigned and whose is genuine, but they are about to get a lesson in loyalty.

“We are gathered here to give one of our brothers, Damir Nikolaev, a fair hearing. He is accused of disloyalty and disturbing the peace of the Bratva, threatening our business, our livelihood, our Family, by attempting to create a rift between me and Fyodor. Now bring him in, and we will hear him speak.”

I sit down and the room does the same. Oleg exits by a back door and appears a few moments later from the front entrance, pushing Damir in front of him. The man is fidgeting now worse than ever, glancing up at me like I am both his savior and executioner. It is a fitting expression.

I could be either.

Oleg returns to my side, leaving Damir stranded in the center of the room. He awkwardly adjusts his glasses.

“You know of what you stand accused,” I tell him. “Do you deny seeding discontent within the Bratva, discussing Fyodor