Stolen by the Mob Boss : A Russian Mafia Romance (Bratva Hitman) by Nicole Fox (classic fiction TXT) 📗

morning come flooding back to me. The way he held me against his chest as he pounded away, rough and brutal. I’ve never considered myself someone that enjoys sex that way, but with him, it made sense. He couldn’t be sweet and tender, not in a scenario like that. Not after I slapped him and yelled at him. And I’m glad he wasn’t kind. I’m glad he didn’t sugarcoat his advances towards me. There was something undeniably sexier about him telling me what would happen and me pressing his buttons anyway.

Swallowing hard, I look at the eggs he’s scrambling in a small glass bowl. “My mom used to love her eggs super runny. I never liked that.”

“No?”

“Nope. I always ate them when she made them, but I hated it. I like them firmer. One time, I was sick of her cooking, and tried to make breakfast for myself. I had to be seven, maybe eight. I thought I knew everything about cooking.” I can barely start to retell the memory without laughing softly. “I woke up super early and decided that day was my culinary debut. I had all the ingredients laid out and everything. The only problem was that I didn’t know how to work the dials for the burners. I buttered the pan and turned it on, letting it melt the butter while I ran off to go watch cartoons.

“The problem was, I turned on the wrong burner, and the washcloth that we used to clean the counters was sitting on the back burner. By the time I came back after a commercial break, the whole rag was up in flames.”

Roman’s eyes widen, and a smile forms on his face. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious!” I exclaim. “I almost started crying, but I had to think on my feet. I grabbed the rug and hurried to the sink, soaking it to put out the flames. When I was finished, I wiped my forehead like I got away with it, but my mom was standing behind me the entire time, watching me make a fool of myself.” I shake my head and laugh some more.

Mom was pissed. She never let me forget it, and even now, as I retell the story to Roman, I can remember the angry lines forming in her forehead. She’d told me time and time again not to mess around in the kitchen, but I didn’t listen. I was young and hardheaded, and I had something to prove to her. It’s a wonder the house didn’t burn down then and there. No, that would come a few years down the road.

After we stop laughing, Roman looks at me and says, “You’ve never been good at following the rules, have you?”

“Maybe not,” I say, shrugging. “But following the rules is boring. It’s more fun to learn the rules and then learn how to break them without getting in trouble.”

Roman sighs and glances up at me. “You sound like my brothers.”

“What were they like?” I ask.

“Gedeon was a smartass,” he says, mixing up the eggs. I watch as he seasons them, leaving them chunky and fluffy, just how I like them. “He always ran his mouth. Always got us all in trouble. And Ivan followed him like a shadow. If Gedeon did something, Ivan wanted to do it too. He was that way for me as well, but he really attached himself to Gedeon.”

I smile fondly. I can see that dynamic perfectly. They must have been younger than him. It makes sense, Roman as the oldest. The leader. The role model.

“One time, Gedeon decided that he wanted to be some sort of survivalist. He’d been watching TV shows about it, and decided that forest life was for him. Our mother told him that he wasn’t allowed to do something like that, but he didn’t agree. He packed up his bags in the middle of the night, and he and Ivan ran away from home.”

I cover my mouth. “Oh my God. Your parents must have been terrified!”

Roman nods. “My mother was frantic. She thought someone had broken into the house and kidnapped them or something. Eventually, we found them a mile away, living in a tent they’d set up by the river behind our house. Dad was fuming. Now that I look back, it was kind of funny to imagine them running away and living off the land for a night, but in the moment, we were sure a bear had gotten them or something.”

I can’t believe that I ever thought what I did was dangerous. I was just cooking inside the house, meanwhile Roman’s brothers were turning into Bear Grylls, roughing it out in the middle of nowhere. My story doesn’t hold a candle to his.

“Were you a good kid?” I ask.

Roman doesn’t say anything for a long while. He takes all the food off the burners and begins plating it, dividing everything into two. Behind us, the toaster pops and four pieces of bread come out, perfectly cooked.

“I wasn’t a bad kid,” he says. “I don’t think I was good, but I didn’t cause trouble. I stayed to myself. I kept out of trouble.”

Roman as a child is a funny thing to imagine. For some reason, I just picture him as the same person he is today, all hard eyes, strong jawline, and muscle. The only difference is, he’s fourteen or so.

“Is what happened with your parents ... what made you decide to do this for a living?”

I can tell that question isn’t something he expected, because his whole body tenses up and his lips flatten into a paper-thin line. I swallow hard, realizing that I’ve crossed a line I didn’t quite know existed. I mean, I knew his descent into darkness was a touchy subject, but I thought maybe he would be more willing to talk about it now that we were sharing stories.

I just want to know how he got from well-behaved and mild-mannered child to cold-blooded, emotionless killer. That kind of drastic change in