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

as my potential replacement, and betraying the vows you took the day we took you off the streets and made a man of you?”

“Of course I deny it!” he breaks out, so violently his glasses topple from his face.

“You did not talk with …” I glance down at my notes, though I know the names. It is worth it to make him sweat. “… Kazimir, Ovdei, and Tikon in the back room of the Shining Jewel, urging them to undertake an assassination attempt with the purpose of putting Fyodor in my place?”

He opens his mouth dumbly, glancing around the room. I can hear what he wants to scream: You rats, you betrayed me! But he has enough sense to leave that unsaid. Instead he wheels on me.

“I would never betray the Bratva!” he declares.

“And yet you have not answered my question.”

His whole body is beginning to tremble in that way men do when they are staring death in the face. “Only an idiot would go against you, Mr. Ivanovich. Do you take me for a fool?”

“I take you for a snake. Now answer the question.”

He leans down and picks up his glasses, but he is shaking too much to slide them onto his face. He drops them as his hands fall to his sides. “I was not discussing assassination,” he mutters. “I was just … exploring options.”

I lean forward. “Tell me more,” I say.

“It wasn’t about you. It was about the entire Bratva. It was not, not …” He shakes his head, eyes rolling as he tries to dream up some excuse. Damir has never been the sharpest of my men. “There is nothing wrong with a two-tiered system.”

Laughs rumble from the edges of the room. I mark those who laugh too hard, knowing they might be overcompensating.

“Two-tiered system? Speak sense, if you are able.”

“You handle one branch of the Bratva. Fyodor handles another.” He stares at me, tears pricking his eyes now. “It was a terrible idea. I am an idiot for even suggesting it. But it was not betrayal, never that. In the future I will—”

“If you had told me the truth,” I say, “I might have granted you mercy. I have reliable reports that you were seeking my death. You should have practiced your lies before coming in here.”

I rise from my seat and walk slowly across the room, aware of the eyes on me, of the importance of this moment. I take the blade from the sheath strapped to my back and stride over to Damir. He raises his hands, making gasping noises as he trips over his own feet toward the door.

“I pronounce you guilty, and sentence you to death,” I intone.

I dart, catch him, and with one fluid motion cut the artery in his throat. I grab the back of his neck and hold him in place as blood spurts, showering my shirt, my pants, and finally my shoes as he collapses onto his face.

He bleeds out at my feet as I turn to the rest of the room.

I feel nothing except distaste that it has come to this. Executing my own men is something I will never enjoy, even when they deserve it.

But enjoyment and necessity are two very different things.

“This man was a fool,” I say, putting the knife away. “He could not even think of a decent lie, and so he has paid the price. You can come to me for anything, men, but disloyalty is something the Bratva will never tolerate.”

They are trying to look tough now, unfazed. But I can see the fear behind the masks they wear.

“If anybody wishes to ask about Radovan and Alena, now is the time.”

The room is as silent as the grave. I nod shortly and stride back to my place on the dais.

“You did the right thing,” Fyodor mutters as I take my seat. “A pathetic excuse like that deserves no patience.”

For a brief moment, I take comfort in Fyodor’s words. He is saying the right things at every juncture, and his loyalty has never visibly wavered. Yet it can be no accident that his name keeps coming up with every ill rumor of an impending mutiny. Either he is an innocent figurehead and smokescreen for someone with malevolent intentions, or he is playing the part of the puppet master with extraordinary skill. As much as I would prefer for my second to be guiltless in this matter, I am not so naïve as to believe that he is entirely free of blame.

I’m rubbing my bloody hands on my pants when it hits me: Fyodor could’ve easily convinced Damir that his reasoning was solid, that his lies would be accepted. Fyodor could have orchestrated this whole thing, including Damir’s meeting with the men from the Aryan Pact. Suddenly, I am not so sure.

“Of course,” I say to him, betraying nothing. “The traitor got what he deserved.”

I take a fast shower and then carry my bloody clothes into the parlor at the rear of the mansion, skirting around the living room where I know Camille will be waiting for me. I changed in the car, not thinking about Damir’s gushing neck or the whining noises he made as he died at my feet.

He deserved his death, as do all traitors.

Still, killing a member of the Bratva is no small thing. It will either serve as a warning … or fuel those who wish to back Fyodor.

I get the fire going and pour myself a vodka as it crackles to life. I sip, staring into the flames, and then grab the clothes and toss them in. They lick at the edges, charcoal black, and then begin to crisp and burn.

I see my father in the flames and hear his drawling voice.

I see Anatoly, frowning.

I see the Bratva rising up like a phoenix and my future child leading it.

I am so transfixed I do not hear her until she is a mere few feet from me.

I turn to find Camille eyeing the clothes, biting