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

I would, but it’s so profitable that the police would be too suspicious if I tried to cut my ties to the place.

When I walk into the club, it’s moderately busy. Tuesday nights are one of our slowest, but there’s still enough people inside to guarantee a great profit margin, keep a bartender busy, and give any man here decent odds of getting his dick wet.

On a raised platform, five VIP tables overlook most of the club. The men there are unmistakably Italian—the dark hair, dark eyes, olive complexion—and a poor gene pool that gives them a rapidly receding hairline.

I walk up to the section. Duilio’s son isn’t difficult to pick out. Everyone else either keeps their gaze down around him or keeps their hand gestures restrained. In appearance, he doesn’t resemble his father. He’s slim with a casual demeanor that could fit in at a country club. Whereas Duilio looked at everyone with an air of self-importance, his son observes everyone with a lazy curiosity—until he sees me approaching. Then he sits up, his focus as sharp as a sniper’s.

He stands up when I’m less than a foot away. My arm instinctively reaches back for my gun, but I let it relax as his eyes follow my movement. His actions may betray his emotional immaturity, but not even an idiotic child would make the mistake of trying to kill me in a club with my men scattered amongst the crowd.

“Mr. Alekseiev.” Duilio’s son gestures to the chair beside the one he just vacated. “I’d be honored if you joined me.”

I take the chair, pulling it out. I’m not enthusiastic about having my back facing an open area, but I’m not about to show my caution in front of the Colosimo Mafia.

The Italian sits down beside me. He gestures for the two other men at the table to leave. After they are gone, he turns to me.

“So, Mr. Alekseiev,” he says, his voice slick with fake courtesy. “Do you mind if I call you Lev?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t call me at all,” I say.

He nods. “Fair enough, Mr. Alekseiev. I’m Marco Colosimo, but I suppose you already know that.”

“I didn’t know your first name.” I turn my body, so I can check what’s happening behind me without seeming paranoid. His men are lingering nearby, but don’t appear to be preparing for an attack. “Your father never mentioned it.”

It’s meant as a small cut and from the look on his face, it cuts even deeper than I expected.

“Well, it’s not like the two of you met up with each other to talk casually,” he says. “I am sure you think that my men meeting here is some kind of power move—”

“I agree,” I say. “It’s not a power move. At least your father had the balls to not wait around for me, hoping to God that I’d notice him. He contacted me directly. None of this bullshit.”

He forces a smile. “I’m glad we agree. I simply wanted to be somewhere that we could talk. After all, we have a lot to talk about.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about.”

“You were in talks with my father when you killed him.” His jaw tenses at the last few words. “Perhaps we can finish that conversation.”

There isn’t a second I would ever believe that Marco cares about forming a truce and collaborating to take down the Calvino Mafia.

“Finish it then,” I say.

“First, I’d like to tell you something.” He picks up his glass, swirling the pale brown liquor inside. “I hated my father. People care about the bruises, but it’s the disappointment and shaming that sink in deeper. I’ve heard that’s something you might understand.”

“I have no complaints about my father,” I say, opening my hands to show my apathy.

“Not anymore, no,” he says. “And, now, I suppose, neither do I. From what I’ve heard, we had similar mothers as well. Of course, mine died from cancer, which isn’t comparable to your tragedy, but—”

“Why don’t you keep the rumors pertaining to my personal history in your diary and out of this discussion?” I try to keep the anger out of my voice, but it creeps in. He raises his eyebrow, hearing it. It’s a mistake. It’s fine for me to be annoyed about dealing with him, but getting angry about my parents can only be seen as a weak spot.

“I understand, Mr. Alekseiev,” he says. “My point, though, is that—despite my hatred for my father— family is still everything. I want you to know, in Jesus’ name and on my mother’s grave, you’re going to suffer for what you did.”

His tone doesn’t change as he talks. He’s in better control of his emotions than I thought, which is a problem. Emotions can be exploited. Cold logic is much harder to manipulate.

I lean forward. “I could shatter that glass in your hand and slice open your carotid artery. I could take my gun, shove it down your throat, and blow your spine out of your body before anyone else got a single shot off. With one gesture, every Bratva man in here would shoot you and all of your men and spray every patron in here with your DNA, and every fucking civilian in the joint would testify that they didn’t see a motherfucking thing. Junior, if you make a threat, you better be certain you have the upper hand or you’re going to be surprised at how goddamn easy it is for me to kill you.”

Marco doesn’t blink. “Go ahead,” he says. “But you’re a rational man. Even if you managed to kill me, it would only lead to investigations into Black Glacier. Even if I left now and you or your men killed me, my credit card information will show that the last place I went to was Black Glacier and I’m sure the police would love to include this club in their investigation.”

He slides the glass over in my direction, taunting me.

“Mr. Alekseiev, at least a few people here know who