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

I think about the whispers I’ve heard over the years about the Russian Mafia, the bane of the city, as well as the pieces I’ve put together myself. He’s Russian, he’s scary, he buys virgins, he drives like the devil himself is on his trail … there could easily be something criminal going on here. And the odds are looking better by the minute.

Plus, he’s acting all cagey, staring at his eggs like they’re the key to life’s greatest mystery.

“Hmm,” I mutter.

“What?” He scowls. “Not satisfied?”

“Really, I don’t give a damn,” I lie. “But I wanted to tell you, I’m going to need to visit Mom soon. It’s been too long already.”

“I will have to consider that,” he replies carefully.

“Consider what?” I snap. “Letting a daughter see her sick mother? That’s a new level of sadistic, Erik.”

“Then I suppose I am a sadist. Small wonder I do well in business.”

“Again with the bragging. Did your mother raise you to toot your own horn all the time?”

He fixes me with a cold glare. “My mother is dead. And no one taught me how to do anything. I taught myself. Now, are we going to continue with the inquisition, or would you like to enjoy a pleasant breakfast?”

He wants me to be writhing uncomfortably in my seat, and for a moment, that’s exactly what I do. The eggs don’t taste as good all the sudden. More like ash in my mouth, actually.

“What do you do for fun?” I say after a while.

He sighs, mouth full of steak, before washing it down with a gulp of coffee and looking at me with his head tilted. It’s kind of a cute affect, if I’m being honest. Like how a dog looks at you when it’s after some table scraps.

“I don’t.”

“Oh, c’mon,” I insist. “Everybody’s got some hobbies. What do you do when you’re not being Mr. Big Bad Businessman, or a wannabe NASCAR driver?”

He chuckles softly. His laugh is rare enough that I’m a little startled by it. “I read. Histories, mostly. Biographies of great men. I work out.”

“You strike me as the Zumba type.” I bite my lip, waiting for a laugh, but instead he just stares at me blankly.

“Zumba?”

I clap my hands to my cheeks in faux-shock. “You’re joking! You don’t know what Zumba is?”

“Assuming you’re not having a stroke right now, then I’m fairly certain you’re making up words to get a rise out of me,” he drawls.

“Nope, if only you were so lucky. Stand up!” I pop out of my seat and prance over to him. “I know you’ve got a stereo system in this fancy house, right? Play some music!”

He resists me for a moment, then lets loose another sigh and points to a remote nestled in a hidden compartment in the wall. I bop over there and mash buttons until I get a dance playlist cued up. The rhythmic bass streams through the speakers. My hips are wiggling already.

I can’t help it. I’m a big Zumba fan. They used to host free classes at the rec center when we were kids, and I’d try to drag Rob there with me when he was still drunk enough from the night before to be in a highly suggestible mood.

“Now, I’m quite sure you’re having a stroke.”

I throw my head back and laugh. “You can’t snide your way out of this one, Sourpuss. Get up and dance with me.”

To my surprise, he lets me pull him out of his seat. I lead him in a little side-step number. I may be physically pushing his hips from side to side, but my God, the man is actually—well, calling it ‘dancing’ might be a bit of a stretch, but he’s definitely doing something in time to music, and that is a sight I never thought I’d see in a million years.

I clap, delighted at this unexpected gift from the heavens above. “Now hold me and follow my lead!” I say.

I don’t dare look him in the eye. I’m sure that as soon as he feels my gaze on him, he’ll run away and never return, much less dance with me ever again. But when I take his hands in mine and rest my head on his chest, I can feel him still moving with me. Left, sway, right, sway, again and again.

The music fades away. When it’s gone, it’s just the two of us standing in the kitchen in a close embrace. It feels … intimate. Vulnerable.

Without breaking the spell, I raise my lips up to his, eyes closed, and offer a soft kiss. His mouth meets mine, just as tentative, just as careful, like the wrong movement will send this moment shattering into infinite irretrievable pieces.

I slide my hands down his torso, savoring the feel of his rippling muscles under my touch. Down the pecs, down the washboard abs, into …

Is that a gun?

My fingers wrap around cold metal, encased in a leather holster. My eyes flutter open and I look down.

There’s a gun belted onto his waist.

Erik’s eyes open in confusion. When he looks down and sees what I’m holding, he shoves me away roughly.

I stagger backwards a few steps, then look up at him. “Who are you?” I whisper. “Why do you have a gun?”

He glares at me, eyes raging with fire. “This was a mistake. I’m leaving,” he growls.

“Done so soon?” I snarl.

“I have business to take care of at the nightclub,” he says. “We will discuss this later.”

Then, just like that he is gone, leaving me with an infuriatingly tasty breakfast but a bad taste in my mouth.

I’m sitting outside in the noon sunshine, textbook open on my lap, when the red-headed detective from a few days ago comes walking up the driveway as though on a mission.

He’s about to knock on the door when he spots me. He turns with purpose and then strides across the lawn and stands over me.

“Miss Greene,” he says ominously, his grimace deepening.

Have I done something to offend