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

look over at Lev. I almost expect him to be checking me out, but his body is tense and his forehead is furrowed.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Check again.”

As I run my hand over the back of my thighs, he presses a button for his mansion gates to open up. I pull off my seat belt while he parks.

My brain is on fire, each piece of information and emotion adding a new flame. Jeffrey Douglas died as a result of my actions. Lev kept a gun with him during a simple dinner. This strange man wanted to kill Lev. He could have killed me. Lev killed him without hesitation or remorse. And we left another crime scene.

My life isn’t this. I don’t manufacture relationships for selfish personal gain. I don’t get into car chases. I don’t watch people get killed and get in the car with the murderer like nothing happened.

The bodies are piling up. There’s going to be a point where I can’t see over them.

I jerk my door open and take off running.

I pass by a massive mountain of a man standing by the door. I barely give him a second thought, yanking open the front door and running inside. I get to the end of the hallway, ending up in the dining room. I take my cell phone out of my bag. My hands are trembling as I find my father’s number. I tap it.

Lev grabs me so abruptly that I can barely register where he came from. He wrenches the phone from my hand, ending the call before it hits two seconds. He throws the phone onto the table. It bounces once before sliding to a stop.

I smack him. I shove him. The tension under my skin is enough to break me and I need to break someone else to release it. When I try to hit him again, he grabs my wrists. His fingers easily overlap mine—just another reminder of how much bigger he is than me.

“You should have made your first hit count,” he growls.

In his eyes, I see the killer—I thought he was hard and emotionless, but I see the frozen rage now, just needing a flame.

I wait for him to shove me away from him, to hit me, to make me feel his complete control over our situation. He keeps his gaze on me but slowly loosens his grip on my wrists until he lets them go.

“You need to remember what’s at stake—your career, your father’s career, your whole family’s reputation, and all those victims’ loved ones. That man was trying to kill us. I did what I needed to do to protect us.”

I rub my wrists. “Then tell the police that.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Fine,” I say. I reach around him to get my phone, but he grabs my shoulder and shoves me back.

“You’re not getting that back any time soon.”

I swing my hand up, hitting him across the face. He barely winces. He grabs my arms, yanking me around him, and shoving me up against the wall. He steps up, our bodies almost touching as he pins my arms against the wall.

“Take a goddamn breath,” he commands. I lunge at his face, not sure what I’ll do if we connect—bite him, maybe?—and he pulls away just in time. His lip curls up, anger flashing in his eyes. I’m certain he’s going to hit me. I’m certain that this is the point where he changes from the manipulative sociopath to the brutal monster who needs someone to lash out at.

He kisses me. It’s an open-mouth kiss, a bruising kiss. It’s brutal and my body arches against his to meet the brutality. When he pulls away, my body is flush against his. With every breath, I try to get my body to relax, but my body is thrumming and desperate for more.

I take a deep breath. “You can’t hold Jeffrey’s death over me now. We’re both killers, so you can’t tell me—”

He kisses me again. The kiss is like grief, going through stages. First, denial as I start to push against him. Then, anger as he pushes himself against me hard enough that it takes some of my breath. His mouth demands my mouth’s attention, punishing me for my resistance, and I love it. As I start to kiss him back, my hands on his waist, my fingertips brushing against his gun, we switch to the bargaining stage. I promise him passion as long as he gives it back to me in the same degree. His hands are off my arms, moving to my hips as he agrees to my terms.

We’re both killers now.

I put my hands on his shoulders and push him away. There’s a starving look in his eyes and he seems ready to pounce on me, but he sways for a second before raising his hands in compliance.

Stage four: depression.

“I need some time,” I mutter, moving around him. I grab my bag. He leans against the wall.

“I can’t let you leave right now,” he says. “Your life could still be in danger. Just stay until after the gala.”

“You mean until you get what you want?”

“I didn’t get what I wanted,” he says.

I bow my head, fiddling with the straps of my bag. “I need to be able to leave. I still need a dress for the gala.”

“I’ll get you one,” he says.

“You can’t keep me a prisoner in your house,” I tell him. He rubs his bottom lip. He’s a blade, all sharp edges, solid, and smooth. He could slice me in half and both my halves would want him.

He walks over to the table and picks up my phone. He holds it out to me. When I try to grab it, he flicks it out of my reach.

“Your father doesn’t need to know anything. It will only hurt people,” he warns. I snatch the phone out of his hand, turn from him, and walk away.

As I walk down the hallway, I expect him to call out to me. When I open the