Trapped with the Mob Boss: A Mafia Romance (Petrov Bratva) by Nicole Fox (best book recommendations txt) 📗

still, and I don’t need to look around to know I’m in a small room. Each movement of my eyes sends a stab of pain straight to my central nervous system, but thankfully (or unfortunately) there isn’t much to look at.

I’m in a cell. Four white walls, no windows, one door with a sliding cutout big enough for a pair of eyes to look in on me. It looks like a room created to hold psychotic patients. I look down and practically expect to see myself tied up in a straitjacket.

I’m still in the same dress I was wearing earlier today. Wait, was it today? Or two days ago? My mouth is dry and my stomach is rumbling, and with no windows, I can’t say what time of day it is. Could I have been unconscious for more than a day?

I feel the rising tide of anxiety in the back of my throat. I swallow and refocus. I have to stay calm. It’s the only way I’m getting out of this alive.

I take stock of myself. The men who grabbed me on the street didn’t hurt me. They didn’t take my clothes off or beat me. I take it as a good sign that, whatever it is they actually want, it doesn’t seem to involve violence.

For now.

Slowly, I peel myself off the floor and stumble to the door. The doorknob is locked so tight it doesn’t even jiggle.

“Hey!” My throat is raw and dry, and the word comes out as barely more than a rasp. I cough and try again. “Hello?”

My voice echoes down what looks like a long hallway, and when no one answers, I begin to panic. Am I alone? Will I be left to die? Does anyone know I’m here?

I’m wearing a silver bracelet given to me by my father for Christmas. It has my name stamped on a silver plate in cursive, and I spin the plate around so it’s on the inside of my wrist and use it to bang against the metal door. The sound echoes off the walls and makes my ears ring, but it’s better than screaming. I’d rather scratch my bracelet than lose my voice.

Almost immediately, I hear pounding footsteps growing louder, but I keep banging.

Maybe the person coming is a rescuer. Someone who will be horrified to see a woman being kept in a room.

“I’m in here,” I say, a dry cough breaking up the words.

When I stretch on my tiptoes to look through the small opening in the door, brown eyes are already looking back at me. I rasp out a scream and stumble backwards, tripping over my feet and falling on my ass.

The door opens slowly, and I scramble back against the far wall, tucking my legs in front of me to try and make myself as small as possible. Whoever is on the other side of the door, I know they aren’t here to help me.

Bright white light fills the room, and I realize the overhead light has been turned on. I blink against the burning in my eyes, and the figure in front of me begins to take shape. Blue jeans, muscular legs, white T-shirt with a fitted brown leather jacket over top, and then a square jaw. The square jaw. It seems silly to remember a feature like that, but I’d know it anywhere. Give me a line-up, and I’d pick him out of it based solely on that jaw.

It clenches, and I look up and realize the man is smiling. It sends a shiver down my spine.

“If you don’t want to be tied up and gagged, I suggest you be a good little hostage and keep it down.” His voice is as deep as I remember, and I swear I can feel it rumbling through the floor.

“Hostage?” I croak. I sound like a frog, and I know I shouldn’t care what this man thinks of me, but I do.

He steps backwards through the open door—if my legs didn’t feel like jelly, I might try for an escape—grabs something off the floor, and returns with a bottle of water and a gas station sandwich wrapped in plastic. He tosses both at me. Instead of catching them, I deflect them and then have to crawl across the floor like an animal to grab greedily at the water. After downing half the bottle, I wipe my mouth and lean back against the cold concrete wall.

The man crosses his arms, the collar of his shirt shifting enough for me to catch a bite of black ink sneaking over his shoulder and towards his neck. Tattoos. “Yes, hostage. If you haven’t noticed, this isn’t a five-star resort. No cabanas, no towels folded into different animals, and no open bar.”

“There’s room service,” I say, holding up the bottle. Joking during times of extreme stress have always been my coping mechanism, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.

The square jaw hardens.

In one bound, the man crosses the room towards me and bends down close enough so I can feel his hot breath on my face. I turn my head and flatten against the wall, but I can’t help but look at him. He’s beautiful.

I’m reminded of a church sermon I heard as a kid. The pastor explained that the devil was once one of the highest angels. He was beautiful, but evil existed inside of him, and he was cast out of heaven. This man might as well be the devil. The beautiful, sinful devil.

I’m already looking at him, but he grabs my chin and turns my face to his. When he leans forward, I think he might kiss me, but he stops an inch away. His fingers squeeze my face until I worry my bones will shatter.

“You will be here until your father pays your ransom,” he says slowly, his brown eyes scanning my face robotically, looking for any signs of weakness. “If you want to enjoy your stay, I suggest you obey