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

the glove compartment. Nothing there, either. Just a pristine owner’s manual to the vehicle and—wait.

“Now, now, what’s that?” I mutter to myself.

There’s a tiny scar in the leather upholstery on the inside of the drawer. It looks too clean and straight to be an accident. I poke it hesitantly, and to my surprise, a small flap of the leather peels back, revealing a little button. I reach out and finger it. There’s a small hiss, the release of a lock, and…

The car behind me slams on the horn.

I lurch upwards and smack my head on the ceiling. Cursing, I floor it through the light, which is now green, while waving an apologetic hand at the person to my rear. They speed past and give me the finger.

“Sorry,” I say meekly to nobody.

I get on the highway and cruise the six or so miles to my exit, wondering the whole time what the hell is in the secret compartment I just discovered.

At the next red light after I get off, I finally dare to peek over.

And… nothing.

It’s as empty and flawless as the rest of the car. A big, disappointing nothingburger.

Maybe I’m just overreacting, but the first thought my mind jumps to just refuses to dissipate: That’s for a gun.

I know I’m right. Deep in my bones, I know it. There may not be a shred of evidence to support my theory, but as the little oddities pile up around Erik, this conclusion seems undeniable.

I think back to the blood I saw under his fingernails earlier. I didn’t say anything, but it was impossible to miss. Crusted there, but with a slight smear, like it was still fairly fresh.

Added up, it’s all too much to ignore. The gun, the blood, the attitude…

Erik is dangerous. And he’s hiding something from me. Something very, very bad.

I try to dismiss the thoughts. I have no proof, and goodness knows I’ve had enough of a stressful few weeks—maybe enough of a stressful life, even—to be seeing connections where there are none.

But even when I force myself to think about my upcoming diagnostics class, I can’t shake the feeling that there are a lot of skeletons in Erik’s closet, and if I’m not careful, they’re all going to come crashing down on me.

It takes a couple days to stop freaking out about driving Erik’s car. When I first pulled up outside nursing school, I half expected somebody to come running over, yelling, “Thief! Thief!” But I’m finally starting to get used to it. The heated leather seats help with that, I have to admit.

I’m still not used to Erik, though, especially since we haven’t had sex since I signed the contract. I’ve spent my days just hanging around the house, going over my nursing notes or watching TV—feeling useless, basically, whereas usually my life is a battlefield of to-do lists and obligations.

It’s a good thing, I assure myself. Erik is a pig who buys virgins, a manipulator who makes me want him more than I ever should.

Best not to engage at all, if I can help it. Best not to think about having a baby with him. If I start down that train of thought, I might change my mind about the whole thing and I can’t do that. Mom needs me.

I press the garage door button and it opens for me at once. I drive in, thinking about Erik, mostly wondering when it is going to start.

‘Anticipation’ isn’t the right word, but then neither is ‘fear.’ It’s more like something in between.

The sex was good. That’s the worst part. I’ve woken up with my hand wedged between my legs more than once, the soft kisses of a dream lingering at the periphery of my consciousness.

I wander through the large, mostly empty mansion. Sometimes it feels like a movie set or a haunted house attraction at a theme park. The hallways are long and foreboding, my footsteps often producing echoes that get lost in the high ceilings.

I end up in the kitchen, looking for a bottle of wine. I may as well enjoy alcohol for as long as I can. The inevitable pregnancy will rob me of that small comfort, along with God only knows what else.

“The cabinet on the left,” Ashley says from behind me.

I jump a foot in the air in fright before wheeling on her. “Sorry,” I mutter. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She wipes her flour-white hands on her chef’s shirt. “I didn’t realize I was that ugly.”

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“Relax,” she smiles. “I’m just fucking with you.”

I wheeze something that’s half laughter, half sigh. “In that case, you are that ugly!”

She laughs, wandering to the cupboard and taking down the wine bottle. She nods at another cupboard. “Care to get us some glasses?”

I do as she says, and we take a seat at the little table in the corner. Ashley takes a long sip. “If you’d told me how exhausting cooking could be when I was a kid, I would’ve laughed right in your face.”

“Everything is tiring, if you do it right.”

Ashley raises her eyebrows. “That sounds like a saying.”

I nod, my smile warm and unbidden. “One of Mom’s. She’d always say that whenever I was bored of homework or whatever. It was her way of keeping me focused.”

“Is she the one who encouraged you to go into nursing?”

I take a sip of wine, a glow moving through my body. It’s been so long since I’ve had a real friend. “She found me in the backyard one summer with this little mouse who couldn’t walk right. My brother thought it was gross. I tried my best to fix him. I think she saw something in me. She bought me a nursing book the next day.”

“Why not a veterinary book?” Ashley asks.

“Maybe because I mentioned how I wanted to fix Mr. Hershaw like I tried to fix the mouse. Mr. Hershaw was our neighbor who had cancer. It sounds lame, I know.”

“Hey.” It’s only when she touches my hand