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

mirror that stretches across the east wall, a jacuzzi, and the black vanities—all breathtaking, all flawless. The walk-in shower is particularly overwhelming.

The outside is simple enough. There’s one glass wall, plus an opening on one side, where I can walk through. There is a bright light shining over the shower and thirteen metal contraptions underneath it, which appear to be twelve different water jets and a removable showerhead. The removable showerhead would only reach my shoulder. The water jets are high enough that the water would reach my head, but I can’t imagine that they’re high enough to reach Lev’s head.

There’s an electronic touchscreen on the wall beside the shower. I tap on it. Six options pop up.

Waterfall

Massage

Steam

Music

Daily report

Change color

I’ve never hated rich people more than I have in this moment. I tap Steam. Four of the water jets start producing steam. I watch it curl inside the glass for a minute before I tap it again to stop it. I tap Music. It gives me various genre selections. I tap Waterfall.

Water starts pouring down from the light. Or else, it’s not the light, but another shower head. I press Change Color and select turquoise. The light changes color, so the water appears to be a greenish-blue shade. On the screen, it’s asking me to choose a temperature. It’s set at 100 degrees, so I keep it there.

I pull off the sweater, my bra, and my underwear. When I walk into the water, the water cascades over me. The pressure is almost painful, but as I get used to it, it massages my skin like a real waterfall, except there’s a faint woodsy scent. In most houses, I’d imagine it came from somebody’s soap, but the scent continues to envelop me with the same intensity, so it must come from the showerhead.

There’s a notch in the wall with a bottle of shampoo and a bottle of soap. I spurt out some shampoo and knead it into my hair. It’s Lev’s scent—that smoky, spicy fragrance that hooks me and makes me feel like the criminal he says I am.

I close my eyes.

I start to imagine things. Like Lev opening the bathroom door. I’d pretend to be outraged by him coming in. I’d probably try to leave the shower, but he’d block me from leaving. His clothes would come off and he’d join me under the waterfall. Our bodies would rub against each other, his mouth hot and open against the side of my neck, his erection pushing against my inner thighs. He’d screw me so hard, I’d only be able to lean against him, his arms keeping me from slipping and cracking my head open.

I open my eyes.

What the hell is wrong with me? Jeffrey Douglas’ murder has messed up the synapses in my brain. There’s no way I’d normally be attracted to Lev. I’ve always been attracted to honorable men—the ones who volunteer, the social service workers, the emergency service technicians.

Lev, on the other hand, is a rich, arrogant, controlling prick, who is likely involved in shady business and could have used his millions of dollars for better things than a shower with a touchscreen, twelve jets, and a fucking waterfall setting.

After I’ve cleansed myself of sweat and dirty thoughts, I step out of the shower. I wander the bathroom, searching through cabinets and shelves for fresh towels. When I don’t find any, I take one from the metal bars mounted on the wall, which I assume are the ones that Lev has used.

It’s warm.

I pull it around me, the softness and warmth almost as good as the water. I touch the metal bar. It nearly burns my skin.

I could see how Lev decided that being good isn’t worth his time. Because being corrupt seems to pay incredibly well.

I open the bathroom door and peek out. He’s not lingering in the hallway. I close the door again and get my phone out of my bag. I bring up my browser and search Lev Alekseiev.

Mariya’s Revenge Selling New Vodka Flavor

Mariya’s Revenge Snatches Top Sales

Mariya’s Revenge or Mariya’s Revenue? Sweet Flavor, Sweeter Sales

Alekseiev, Mariya’s Revenge Owner, Praises the City and the Sinners

For several pages of search results, there is nothing negative about Lev. If he’s been involved in any criminal behavior, he’s either sued his way out of it being mentioned on the internet or he’s kept everyone blackmailed into silence.

As the warmth from the towel fades, I set it back on the bar and slide on the sweater. The smoky and spicy scent takes hold of me again. I try to ignore it, grabbing my bra and underwear, but I know I’m going to be reminded of his body every time I inhale now.

I leave the bathroom. As I descend the stairs, I hear the faint patter of rain and go toward the entrance. At first, through one of the long windows beside the door, it looks like fog has concealed the view of the yard.

It’s pounding down so hard that it’s causing a mist. I move closer to the window. There’s a small section of the road that’s visible from the house. I watch a truck drive down, forced to plow through the inches of rain on the road, swerving dangerously as if the tires can’t find traction in the downpour.

I won’t be able to leave.

It’s hard to not believe I did something wrong when I defended myself against Jeffrey Douglas when the universe keeps trying to punish me.

I wander down the hallway, passing by all of his rooms with the hardwood floors, the marble floors, chandeliers, and technology I couldn’t dream of living with before this. The dining room has a table with twelve chairs. The table has a glass top with a claw-foot base. The kitchen has marble countertops and stainless steel appliances without so much as a fingerprint blemishing the shining surfaces.

My heart races each time I enter a new room, expecting to see Lev, but he’s not on the first floor. When I reach the kitchen,