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

barely notice his hardened body underneath his shirt. His hands are clasped in front of him. There’s a half-inch of space between us, but it might as well be miles.

“Do you want me to make your chai tea?” he asks softly.

I shake my head, letting it drop in my hands. “That’s just going to remind me of my father more.”

He nods, frustrated. I know he feels useless. This isn’t something that can be solved with money or muscle. It’s out of his element.

His knee starts to jiggle. I remember that he did it in his car when we were driving to get my dress. He told me it wasn’t anxiety, but pent-up energy from not working out. I did the same thing when he was telling me what to do if he was killed. I’m taking on his mannerisms—and worse, his ideals.

He stands up and walks over to the home bar. I keep my head bowed. I listen to the clink of glasses, the clatter of ice, and the sound of liquor being poured.

When Lev appears in front of me with the glass of liquor—whiskey, maybe—I’m still surprised. It’s like my brain has splintered, no longer caring to make connections because all those connections point me in the wrong direction.

I sip from the glass. Lev sits back down beside me, nursing his own drink. He’s barely still for a moment before he shifts his weight, his knee starting to bounce again.

“My parents,” he says, “used to have this perfect relationship.”

He’s staring straight in front of him, his hands loosely holding his tumbler. I hold my breath, my mind playing through all the possible scenarios that he could be remembering.

He takes another sip of his whiskey. He doesn’t say anything more. I set my drink down, laying my head against his arm as I pull my legs onto the couch.

As much as my world is burning into ashes, it’s not the worst possible place to end up.

“I need to ask something,” I say.

“Ask it.”

“How deeply are you involved in the Bratva?”

He lets out a slow breath. “Why are you asking this now?”

“I saw how my father and the guy at the door reacted to you. You said the man on the motorcycle was one of the Colosimo men and you must be irreplaceable to be able to kill him without getting in trouble for it. He could have had information.”

“He was going to kill you. I had to kill him.”

“And the Bratva wouldn’t have cared about me dying. You could have used my death to get the Colosimos in trouble.”

“You’re more useful alive.”

“Lev,” I say. “I already know. You’re high up on the chain. You’re high-ranking. You’re one of the leaders. If you weren’t important to the Bratva, they wouldn’t let you keep all this money. But they’ll turn on you, Lev. You talk about dying at the hands of the Colosimos, but at least they’ll tell you that they’re coming for you. I’ve heard what the Bratva can do and the Bratva will kill you without any forewarning.”

“That won’t happen.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can know that,” he says. “I know that because I’m not just high-ranking, I’m the highest rank. I’m not just one of the leaders; I am the leader. The Bratva won’t turn against me because I am the Bratva.”

I sit up, moving away from him, my back pressed against the armrest. “No. No, you’re not. If you were the leader of the Bratva, you wouldn’t have been able to walk into the gala. You wouldn’t be able to run Mariya’s Revenge and the Bratva at the same time. People would figure it out.”

“People have.” He shrugs. “Thanks to my parents. Think, Ally. Do you see me answering to anybody? Do you think I got on the phone and begged some man to forgive me for killing that Colosimo man? Do you think I would have struck a deal to marry you if I thought someone above me could disapprove of it? No. I make my own choices.”

Even as I open my mouth, I know it’s true. I close my mouth, trying to find a flaw in his logic, but he’s right. I’ve let denial lead me this whole time.

Lev stands up. He walks past me as he leaves the room. He left his glass on the coffee table. I stare at it.

Should I leave? Is he getting a gun to kill me, now that I know the truth?

I walk over to the fireplace and pick up the fire poker, testing the weight in my hand. If he has a gun, it will be difficult to hit him hard enough before he gets a shot off—God knows he’s a good shot—but it could be my only chance.

But he said he’s never hurt me.

I grip the fire poker tighter. I could never trust his word. Now isn’t any different.

As I hear his footsteps, I raise the fire poker like a baseball bat. Every muscle in my body is tense, tight, coiled, ready to spring. My life depends on it.

His steps grow louder. Closer.

He’s at the door.

I readjust my grip. I’ll only have one chance to swing.

He walks in with the metal ammunition box. I freeze. He barely glances at the fire poker.

“If you put that back, Irina would appreciate it,” he says, putting the box on the coffee table.

I tighten my grip on the fire poker. “Are you going to tell everyone about Jeffrey Douglas?”

“Are you going to bludgeon me to death?” he retorts. “No. I’m giving you all of the surveillance footage and evidence I had collected to use against you.”

“You’re giving it to me?”

“Yes.”

“Why? That’s your leverage.”

He leans against the back of the couch. “I proposed to you impulsively, based on the fear that your father had sent you to spy on me. I don’t operate out of fear, Allison. Ever. It was a mistake to make and the mistake has only been compounded all along. By giving you back your own leverage, I’m giving myself control