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

her lower lip in calculation. Perhaps she will overstep her mark here. But after an observant moment, she turns to face me. Her T-shirt has risen to reveal a pale slice of belly. Hunger lights in me as fierce as the flames.

“You’re late,” she says.

I place my drink on the table. “And you are not where you should be.”

“Well, whatever. But I didn’t expect you to take this long. I’m going to miss nursing class, and my car is at my place. I need a ride back so I can pick it up.”

“You are really so attached to that old hunk of metal?”

“Obviously not,” she laughs, as though I am a fool. Her impudence is intriguing and tiring both. “But I need to get to class. What am I supposed to do, fly?”

I wave a hand and look away. “Use one of my cars. Use ten, if you want.”

“I’d rather use mine.”

“Are you that eager to break down on the highway?” I ask.

“I’d just rather use my own car. What’s the big deal?”

In truth, I do not care what car she uses, but given my current mood, her blatant lack of respect sends me storming across the room.

I press myself against her. She backs up, knocking into the desk. The glass spills sideways and the liquor splashes across the table.

She gasps when I bring my face close to hers. I smell her perfume, flowery, awakening something within me.

“I will not allow—”

“‘Allow’?” she gasps.

I press on: “I will not allow the mother of my child to risk her life again and again in some deathtrap.” The thought of losing Camille sits poorly with me. The thought of having to raise our child without her is even worse. “You will take one of my cars, and you won’t dare raise your voice to me again.”

She tries to push past me. “Forget it,” she hisses. “I’ll get a taxi.”

I take a step back. “No,” I say calmly. “You will not.”

She slams her hand against my chest. I do not move an inch, though I feel the impact move through me. I clench my jaws tightly. She has crossed a line nobody would ever dream of crossing with me, and she does not even realize it.

She is not part of this world, I remind myself.

But she will learn.

“Will you move?” she huffs.

When she makes to slap me again, I catch her wrist and drive her across the room. We do a jarring dance until I have her pressed up against and bent over the couch. My breaths come as quick and frantic as hers.

I respect the fierceness in her, but I must tame it. Everything is hot: the fire, her breath, her body burning through her clothes.

She parts her lips as though to snap at me again. I hook my arms around her and trap her against me, flattening her protesting lips with an angry kiss.

She is moaning when I slide my hand up her leg, pressing the denim flat. I am almost at her sex—her stifled cries getting louder, more urgent—when the door opens beside us.

I pause and lean back. It is Ashley, head bowed. “Uh … dinner will be ready soon,” she mutters, blushing hard and already retreating.

I step back, the hunger dissipating slightly at the sight of Ashley. Camille brushes her clothes down.

“You’re an animal,” she mumbles. It’s hard to read her tone.

“I have never claimed not to be,” I counter.

Her eyes flit between me and the door, where Ashley was just standing. Does she sense something? I will let her figure it out for herself.

“I needed to go, like, five minutes ago,” she says.

“So take my car. Do not let pride rule you, glupaya devochka.”

She narrows her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“Silly girl.”

“Gee.” Her smile is somehow shy and cutting at the same time. “Thanks. Fine, I’ll take your car, if it means that much to you. But I’m selling mine and keeping the cash for myself. You got a problem with that?”

I turn away without answering, pick up the vodka glass, and pour myself another drink.

7

Camille

It feels strange driving Erik’s sedan at first.

For starters, it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever been behind the wheel of, by several orders of magnitude. I’m afraid to even put my butt in the driver’s seat, for fear of somehow ruining the leather. I’m also half afraid that there’s some “eject the peasant” feature that’s going to skyrocket me into the stratosphere as soon as it recognizes that a girl like me was never, ever meant to be piloting a ridiculously expensive luxury car like this.

As I pull out of the driveway and merge into traffic, I start to settle down, at least a little bit. Mind you, I’m still ignoring the screams of all the voices in my head telling me that if I so much as let a bird poop on the vehicle, much less scratch it or get in—God forbid—an accident, Erik will flay me alive. But I can no longer see the vein of anxiety pulsing in my forehead when I look in the rearview mirror, so I suppose I’ll take the progress where I can get it.

I shouldn’t be this nervous. Hell, I’m still mad at him! How does he have such a gift for turning the simplest of things—how I’m getting to class today—into the most infuriating interaction I’ve ever had in my life? If I look close enough, I’m pretty sure I’ll still see steam pouring out of my ears, like I’m a Tom and Jerry cartoon character.

The man is a grade-A asshole. That much is far beyond doubt at this point.

But why? Why is he such a cold, emotionless prick, twenty-four hours a day?

Only one way to find out. Start snooping.

When I hit a red light, I take the opportunity to peek in the center console. To my disappointment, it’s completely barren. Not a trace of anything even remotely interesting. It doesn’t even look like it’s ever seen the light of day before.

I pop open