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

I scowl, but the teasing in her voice is invigorating. There’s something simplistic about it—there’s no layers or agenda underneath it.

“We have to have another spot where it’s normal that we’d encounter each other,” she says. “Where do insanely rich people go that average people also go to?”

“The gas station,” I say.

“Okay. We met at the gas station. And I went up to you because … you were being a dick to someone. Statistically, there’s a strong chance that happened at some point.”

We keep running. She almost trips but manages to keep herself upright and catches up to me. Her arm brushes up against mine as she tries to keep up.

“We met at the gas station,” she repeats. “You mistook me for one of your high school classmates. You bought me the bottle of soda I was holding. I had no idea you were rich. Our first few dates were very casual.”

If this were an actual business meeting, I’d give her some credit—it’s creative without being outlandish.

“Sounds good,” I say.

“Can we … can we please stop for a second?” she pants.

I stop. She stops a few feet ahead of me, leaning forward and trying to catch her breath. Her hand is pressed over her heart. I take a step forward to check on her.

“Do you need to sit down?” I ask. She shakes her head. Her face is covered in sweat, but she pulls it off well. One of the models I fucked a couple of months ago joked that she didn’t sweat, she glistened, but she was full of shit. Glisten is too elegant of a word, but as Allison closes her eyes, letting her head fall back as the sun beats down on her, there’s an unmistakable authenticity to her.

I could grab her, have her legs wrap around my waist, and fuck her against a tree, then in the fallen leaves. It’d be a perfect end to the run.

She stands up straight, taking a few more deep breaths. She pushes her sweatpants down and carefully pulls them over her shoes and off her legs.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask.

“It’ll be easier to run without them,” she says. “If somebody has a problem with it and calls the police, apparently you can take care of that.”

She balls the sweatpants in her arms and takes off running again.

I chase after her. She’s in her T-shirt, her underwear, and her shoes. Her ass sways with her movements and her thigh muscles contract and relax with her stride. It’s a thing of beauty.

I run slower now. There’s significantly less conversation. On some level, she must know I’m watching because she doesn’t check to see where I am.

Then the rain begins.

* * *

Water drips onto the floor as I close the door. Allison is drenched. Her dark hair appears pitch-black when it’s wet and it sticks to her shoulders and arms like latex. Her shirt is clinging to her skin, but more importantly, her underwear seems nearly translucent.

“I’m going to sit down for the next decade,” Allison says, walking toward the den. She’s carrying her sweatpants in her right hand and her bag on her left arm. The familiar body ache hasn’t hit me yet, but Allison is already walking with a slight, wincing limp.

I should head to the bathroom to shower.

I should go to my office to check on the sales of Mariya’s Revenge orange-cream flavor vodka.

I should check for movements from the Colosimo family.

But instead, I follow her into the den.

Allison collapses onto one of the couches. I sit down in the armchair. She turns onto her back, her eyes close, and she drapes her arm over them.

“Are you going to be okay?” I ask.

“I’m going to be great if someone kills me and resurrects me,” she says. “You run that much every day?”

“No. I try to do it every other day, but it depends on my schedule. On my off days, I do weight training.”

“Of course you do,” she mutters. “In between the blackmailing, just for the variety.”

“If you could have blackmailed me first, you would have. It’s the law of the jungle—eat or be eaten.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” she retorts.

“It would be weak and stupid not to.”

“You think it’s weak and stupid to be moral?” she asks, shifting her arm, so she can peek at me with one eye.

“I think it’s weak and stupid to be weak and stupid.” I wipe sweat off my forehead. “Do you think that being nice to the world will make the world be nice to you? I’m sure the view from up there on your high horse seems lovely. But here you are, in this den, with me. Your morals won’t help you down here.”

“Well, you see, Lev …” Allison covers both of her eyes with her arm again. “Normal people have this thing called empathy. It means that when other people feel bad, you feel bad with them.”

“That sounds like an impediment in my line of work.”

She props herself up on her elbow, her wet hair gliding over her skin, and turns toward me. There’s a hint of a smile on her face. I press my fingers near the corner of my mouth, so she can’t notice that I’m nearly smiling back.

“What?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I just find it fun to debate with people. It’s part of the reason I want to be a lawyer.”

“I get it,” I say. “I became a vodka manufacturer because I love to drink.”

“And you have the nightclub.” She stretches, a small noise of satisfaction escaping her lips. I’d love to get that noise out of her over and over. “After I did all that running and interrogating, you have to at least tell me why you thought I was stalking you in that nightclub.”

“I’m not convinced that you weren’t.”

She rolls her eyes before resting her head on the armrest, curling up like a small child. It’s a little endearing.