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

than the last, and once again I am forced to question this lion’s den I have so freely tossed myself into.

I study his face, looking for answers.

But Erik betrays nothing.

He’s utterly composed as he waves an easy hand. “Send them through,” he says.

Adrian nods and leaves.

“We will get this out of the way,” he says, “and then resume our evening.”

I nod, unsure of what to say. I realize I am clenching my fists. With an effort, I loosen them. The silence between us stretches until it’s so tense I can barely take it. Erik shows no sign that he even feels it. He just stands there, hands behind his back.

“Detectives,” he greets warmly when two people come walking down the hallway.

One is a red-haired man with a smattering of freckles and a fixed grimace. The other is a tall woman with a notebook clutched tightly in her white-knuckled fist, not much older than me. Is that fear making her shake like that? Is she afraid of Erik? My mind is spinning as each bad idea clashes with another, breeding sick, twisted offspring bad ideas.

“How is the family, Detective McCauley?”

“Fine,” the red-haired man growls. He’s guarded, wary of every word coming out of Erik’s mouth.

I take a deep breath and try as hard as I can to melt into the wall behind me.

“Would you like a drink or shall we get straight to business?”

“We won’t be here long,” McCauley grunts. “We’re here to ask about one of your employees, Radovan Yas—Yas-ter …”

“Yastrzhembsky,” the woman pronounces carefully.

“Yes,” McCauley mutters. “And a woman called Alena Smith. Both were found dead at the Sierra Sunset Hotel …”

I almost let out a whimper. Murder? Did Erik kill somebody? A woman, too; maybe it was a woman who tried to leave him.

More and more shreds of evidence in favor of the ‘Run like hell; Erik is a monster’ school of thought. Blood on the fingernails, gun compartment in the car, two dead bodies, and detectives at the door …

I grip the stair bannister hard, splinters gouging into my fingernails.

“And both, Mr. Ivanovich, have connections to you. Can you tell us where you were …”

His voice fades, but that’s just because my heartbeat is taking over everything like someone’s pounding a bass drum in my ear. Everything sounds blurry and faraway.

Boom-boom. Boom-boom.

I have to focus hard when Erik puts his arm around me. “I was having a private dinner with my partner, Camille,” he says. “I had lobster, if I recall correctly, and I believe she enjoyed some chicken salad. Would you like to know what we ate for dessert, detective?”

McCauley eyes me critically. “Camille …”

Boom-boom. Boom-boom.

“Greene,” I supply.

“Miss Greene, can you confirm this?”

I lick my lips. I somehow keep my gaze level. And, because I don’t know that Erik was involved in this, and because I need him for my mom’s sake, and because—the most depraved, illogical reason of all—despite everything, I can’t bear the idea of them dragging him out of here like a criminal, I say one squeaky little word:

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” His eyes flit between us. “We’ll call this a night, then. For now.” He offers his hand. “Mr. Ivanovich.”

He looks back at me as he rounds the corner, sensing much more than I would like.

The ride to dinner is tense and silent. Just before we step out to the restaurant, he touches my arm.

“I owe you my gratitude,” he says. “You were willing to risk the wrath of the law for me. Obstruction of justice, to put a name on it. That will not go unnoticed, Camille, even if money was your primary motivator.”

“It wasn’t the money,” I snap. “I don’t know what the hell they were talking about. Plus, you put me on the spot. And you’re going to be my baby’s father. What else was I supposed to do?” Again, the thought hits me that having his child is a dangerous proposition on so many levels.

His eyes move over me appraisingly. “Interesting,” he mutters, as though I’m some exhibit.

On a sudden urge I flip him the bird. “Yeah, and how about this? Is it interesting too?”

He almost smiles, but he kills it. “Come,” he says. “It is time to eat. And please, Camille, remember your manners.”

The restaurant is formal in the extreme. I feel like I’m on the set of Downton Abbey. White tablecloths, about thirty different forks, and waiters who have mastered the fine art of looking at you like you’re a piece of toilet paper stuck to the back of their shoe.

“I don’t belong here,” I mutter under my breath as we walk in.

“Of course you do,” Erik says quickly. I blush hard; he wasn’t supposed to hear that. “Prekrasnyy, remember?”

“Pre-crass-knee,” I say back, smiling against my better judgment.

I linger while Erik walks up to the hostess stand. I swear I see the hostess’s eyes bulge when he mentions his name, and immediately she starts tripping all over herself to greet us and welcome us to the restaurant. She scurries out from behind the desk and gestures for us to follow her.

For the billionth time since the night of the auction, I wonder: Who is this guy?

Erik takes my hand in his as we trail along behind the hostess towards a table set for two in the dead center of the restaurant. In some ways, it feels protective, the same way you’d hold a dog leash to make sure they don’t run anywhere they’re not supposed to. But in others, it feels warm, affectionate, caring. Things I’ve learned very quickly not to expect from Mr. Ivanovich.

Two waiters in tuxedos appear from nowhere to pull out our chairs. I sit nervously, tucking my dress under my legs and glancing around. I can feel the eyes of the other patrons on us. I take it that this level of service is not customary for most people who come here.

Once we’re seated, a third waiter steps up as the first two pour us drinks. “Good evening, Mr. Ivanovich and guest. It