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

is a pleasure to have you join us to dine this evening. May I get you something else to drink?”

“Champagne. The ’42. Donald knows the one,” Erik says brusquely.

The server bows. “Of course, sir. I will be right back with your selection.”

“The ’42, yeah?” I say sarcastically. Apparently, not even the city’s most extravagant pomp and circumstance can quell my innate need to be a sassy biotch in Erik’s presence.

“It is the best,” he replies.

“Oh, I have no doubt of that. Only the best for Mr. Ivanovich.”

He studies me for a moment.

“What?” I challenge. “I don’t like the way you’re ogling me. Feels like there’s something up your sleeve.”

“You know, Camille … I am not your enemy.”

I almost spit out the sip of water I was taking. “No? What are you then?”

“That is for you to decide.”

“Well, I already decided you’re an asshole. And the detectives at the house seemed to decide that you’re a suspect in a double homicide, too. So, are you just looking for more titles on top of that, or what?”

He chuckles. Before he can answer, the sommelier, Donald, returns with the champagne and offers the label to Erik for inspection. He nods, the cork is popped, and the pleasant fizz of the drink splashing into our glasses fills the air. The man places the bottle in the ice bucket to the side of the table and retreats.

“The detectives made a mistake,” he says when we’re alone once more.

“Then why did you make me lie?”

He sighs thoughtfully. “I am in the business of people, Camille. I have found that sometimes, innocent details can be weaponized into something that bears little resemblance to reality. And in some cases, such as this evening, it is best for everyone if certain information is kept out of the hands of those with an agenda.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to give me much more info than that, are you?”

“You suppose correctly,” he smiles. He raises his glass. “To new partnerships.”

I raise mine and clink it against his as obnoxiously as I can manage. “To business,” I counter.

“Business,” he repeats, that same smirk spreading across his face. “Yes, to business indeed.”

The head waiter comes over and lists the specials for the day. “We have this evening an amuse-bouche of tuna tartar and elk carpaccio, a lobster bisque soup with cilantro oil and cherry finish, a filet mignon with bearnaise and truffle oil, and a delectable side of the chef’s interpretation of tagliatelle carbonara.”

I look at Erik. “Does any of that appeal to you?” he asks.

I gulp. “I don’t know what any of that is,” I admit.

For a moment, I’m one thousand percent sure he’s going to make fun of me. Then he nods solemnly and turns to the waiter. “Two of each,” he orders.

“Very good, sir,” says the man before backing away and disappearing once more.

I’m fiddling with the napkin in my lap. “Not much experience with the fancy food,” I mumble. It sounds even stupider out loud than it did in my head, no matter how true it is.

“What did you eat growing up?” he asks. His voice is free of judgment. It’s a simple question, no more and no less.

“Whatever Mom could find time to cook, mostly. Lots of spaghetti. Frozen dinners. Casserole for weeks. I can’t even look at lasagna to this day. I had enough of that for three lifetimes.”

“She was a working single mother,” he says.

I nod. “Yeah, big-time. Worked three jobs for as long as I can remember. Whatever it took to keep us alive and cared for.”

“And your father?”

I shake my head. “Gone. Left when I was little.”

He tsks, and I notice his fingers drumming on the table. “A man who leaves his family is no man at all,” Erik rumbles.

I look at him. There’s a fire in his eyes that I haven’t seen much of before, if any. I’m not sure yet what to make of it.

“What about your family?” I ask.

He shakes his head curtly. “I don’t talk about my family.”

“Oh,” I say meekly. “Yeah, okay, got it.”

We fall into an awkward silence, saved only when the first course of food comes. It hardly looks like food to me, but Erik gestures for me to take a bite at the same time as him. I poke it hesitantly with one finger.

“What animal are they claiming that this is?” I ask.

He laughs, a deep sound emanating from his chest, soothing and carefree. “Elk and tuna,” he answers. “It’s very tender.”

“If you say so,” I groan, before closing my eyes and popping it in my mouth. I’m expecting a horror show of weird flavor, but to my surprise, it’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I groan out loud before I realize I’m making a scene and clap my hands over my mouth in shame.

“That is—and I’m not exaggerating even one percent here—the literal best thing I’ve ever eaten. Holy crap.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he says. “There is much more to come.”

He isn’t lying, either. By the time we get to dessert, I’m fairly certain I’ve doubled my bodyweight, and my tongue has gone through one culinary orgasm after another. I don’t even think I can handle a single bite more, but Erik insists on me at least tasting the baked Alaska that they’re serving as a finale.

“You have to try it,” he says. “It’s the chef’s specialty.”

“I’m about to blow up like Violet Beauregard in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory,” I warn. “I swear, if I eat anything else, you’re gonna need a wheelbarrow to get me out of here.”

“Nonsense,” he dismisses, waving his hand. “You must.”

I let out a sigh. “Fine, then, have it your way. Can’t say I didn’t warn you though.”

Just like everything else, it’s amazing beyond description. But I can only stomach one little morsel before I throw my fork down. “That’s it, I’m crying uncle. No more, please, I’m begging you.”

Erik’s eyes twinkle. “Begging me? I like the sound of that.”

I can feel the flush rise to