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

I’ll have to call someone to take care of this, but right now, I need to deal with Allison. I walk back toward her, putting my arm around her shoulders. I expect her to flinch away, but she doesn’t react. She lets me guide her back to the car like a marionette. Given how stubborn she is, that tells me plenty about her state of shock.

I wipe the glass off her seat and keep a hand on her elbow as I help her into the passenger side. As I walk back over to my side, I can feel the glass shards in my palm. I pull out the two larger fragments, edges slick with blood, and toss them into the storm drain.

I couldn’t care less that Duilio or Siro are dead. I don’t care about their grieving widows, their orphaned children, the idea that they could have changed—I couldn’t give less of a flying fuck if they spent millions of dollars on homeless shelters and now hundreds of homeless people are dying in the cold.

I care only that they wanted me dead and that they were in my way. It was a problem with two outcomes: I end up on top or I end up six feet deep. There are no other possibilities.

But, seeing it on Allison’s face, it feels more personal. I still don’t care that the gunman is dead, but I understand how someone else could. I understand how they’d picture a child waking up to find out his or her father is dead. I understand how someone would say that he happened to be on the losing side, through no fault of his own. That he was just doing his job, following orders like a good soldier. That I deserve the exact same fate for all my sins.

But I don’t. Because, unlike this man, I don’t leave my target breathing.

As my heartrate slows down, a sharp pain radiates from my side. I glance down.

Blood.

9

Allison

In Lev’s car, we slip onto the back roads. I feel the breeze through the broken window, but it barely registers against my skin. My bag is still hanging off my shoulder and chafing against my skin, but I can’t seem to figure out how to move my arms or hands to do anything about it.

I twitch my fingers. They work.

Not paralyzed. Not dead.

I’ve witnessed two men killed in front of me and it felt like I was a ghost in both situations. I had no control over the situation. Everything happened around me and I was left just standing there, useless and guilty.

Heat rushes under my skin. I curl my hand into a fist. Prosecutors don’t freeze when a defendant becomes volatile. They demand answers. They see a weakness and strike.

I flex my hand again. I pull my bag off my shoulder and set it on my lap. I grip the strap, squeezing it in my hands.

“What the hell? What the fuck?” I say, the words coming out slowly, then picking up speed. “What just happened? Who was that?”

“I have no idea,” he says, his eyes focused on the road.

“You have no idea who you just killed—you have no idea, and yet you had a gun on you this whole time when we were just having dinner in my apartment. You have no idea, but you just killed that man and acted like it was nothing. You have no idea. Tell me something, Lev. Give me something. I deserve that much at least.”

“I saved your life and you’re making demands?” he asks. “Just take a breath, Allison. Just breathe.”

“You spent all this time accusing me of being a murderer, but you killed that man and you’re not showing the slightest remorse. You’re a sociopath.” I shake my head, looking out the window as we turn onto a sketchy road. We pass by a group of men standing at the corner. They eye the car with some interest but disregard it when they notice the broken window. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll tell my father what happened.”

“And he’ll find out what you did. He’ll start suspecting we’re accomplices,” he says. “Or, unlike his daughter, maybe he’ll be happy that I saved your life. Ally, it’s—”

“Call me Allison. We’re not that close.”

“Allison. It’s better if you don’t know anything. You don’t need to know. I’ll make it so it doesn’t affect you again.”

He takes his cell phone out of his pocket. As he finds a number on his screen and brings the phone up to his ear, the thought that he’s breaking the law sneaks to the front of my mind, which is ridiculous in the context of the rest of the night.

“Hey,” he says. “There was a situation in front of Allison’s apartment and another on Dover Street. I don’t need the clean-up crew. But it was them. They’ve already recuperated.”

I glance over at him, trying to read the space between the lines. As he looks back at me, I let my gaze slide down. That’s when I notice it.

Crimson.

Just the slightest bit, peeking outside of his sports jacket. I reach forward, pulling the flap of his jacket back. The bloodstain looks like a continent against the white of his shirt. It’s darker in the center than the outside and the cloth is sticking to his skin.

Lev takes his hand off the wheel, his legs keeping the wheel steady, and pushes away my hand, continuing to talk on the phone.

“You were shot,” I hiss.

“We’ll talk about it later. I’ll deal with it,” he says to whoever is on the other end of the call. Hanging up, he sets down the phone and turns to me. “It’s fine, Allison. It’s just a superficial wound. The shot grazed me. You should check yourself. Adrenaline can fool your body into thinking you’re not hurt.”

I run my hands down my body, checking for wet spots or signs of pain. Nothing. I