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

“So you’re in a relationship with this man?” she says after a long pause. “You’re not being—”

“Nothing that has happened has been forced on me, Mom. I chose Erik.”

It’s only a half lie, I decide. Circumstances might’ve thrust us together, but there was nothing in that contract about wanting him bone-deep.

She lets out a breath, her body seeming to deflate.

“It’s a lot to take in,” she mutters. “But if you’re safe, and if you’re happy, that’s all I care about. Oh God, do you think I’ll be around to become a grandmother?”

“What?” I touch her face. “I know you will. Now let me get this dinner sorted out, okay? We can talk about the rest later.”

Mom goes into the dining room where Rob is, to my unending surprise, actually helping to set the table. Jackie offers me a small smile of support and then heads out there to join them.

As I’m draining the pasta to serve it, a heavy knock sounds at the door.

“Jackie!” I call, wiping my hands clean on the dishcloth. “Could you finish up in here? I’ve got a pretty good idea who that is.”

I walk toward the hallway, priming myself for an argument and praying there won’t be one at the same time.

The word ‘love’ floats around my mind like a mantra.

My belly gives a little twist. Butterflies, I tell myself, though for a crazy moment I truly believe it’s the baby kicking.

Maybe it’s absurd, but I find myself smiling as I open the door.

21

Erik

I watch the blood drain down the sink, swirling and shimmering.

It makes me think of the Bratva, turned crimson with all the betrayals, with all the second-guessing, slowly spinning toward an anonymous, undignified end. I scrape the dried remnants from under my fingernails and then walk into the hallway.

I need to set things right with Camille, whatever that means. I am not sure what I will tell her.

All I know is a man cannot live with a woman who hates him. I remember all too well how my mother would sit ghost-like across the table from Father, picking at her food, sighing every so often as though that was all she could bring herself to do. He had hollowed her out.

“Boss, I didn’t hear you come in.” Oleg looks far shiftier than usual, toeing the ground like a nervous girl just asked to the summer dance. “We tried calling.”

“I replaced my cell phone,” I tell him. “All of you are going to do the same. Safety measures.”

“Smart, yeah, it’s just …”

Suddenly, I am cold. Tension works its way into my jaw. My fists clench so hard I feel my knuckles stabbing through the skin, sore from the punishment I meted out earlier today.

“Where is Camille, Oleg?” I ask.

“That’s just it, boss …”

As I listen, I try not to fly into a rage, even as some detached part of me respects her for outwitting the men. We have held enemies in the mansion before—rarely, but unfortunately business and pleasure sometimes mix—and even they did not think of that.

But an innocent girl outsmarted every man on my staff? I almost want to laugh out loud.

“Bring the car around,” I order.

“Yes, sir.”

As we ride to her mother’s house, I press my hands flat on my thighs to stop them from shaking. I will contain it all until we are standing face-to-face. Only then will I let myself blow up.

She has overstepped her mark this time.

I pound the front door so hard it trembles in the frame.

Camille opens it.

“Erik.” She is smiling, looking not at all like somebody who’s just tried to escape. Damn, she looks happy to see me. “Come in. I’ve made some pasta if you’re hungry?”

I step into the house, a thousand angry rebukes trying to force their way out of my mouth. But then I spot Angela watching us and my shoulders slump, just for a second, but that’s all it takes. I can’t roar at Camille in front of her sick mother.

What kind of man would that make me?

“We need to talk,” I snap, but keeping my voice level.

She nods calmly. “I know. We can use my room.” She turns to the table. “You guys get started without me. We’ll be out in a minute.”

Angela’s eyes follow me across the room and down the hallway until we are out of view. Be kind to my daughter is the silent, ferocious message.

“You grew up here?” I ask, glancing around the cupboard-sized bedroom, the bed taking up almost half of it.

“Yes.” She shrugs. “It is what it is, you know?”

“It’s smaller than my smallest bathroom,” I whisper.

Camille has never asked me for more money and she’s always held herself with pride. I just assumed she was living more comfortably than this. I curse myself for a fool. If that was the case, why would she need to sell herself?

“We weren’t all born rich,” she says curtly.

I almost laugh. Perhaps I should tell her about the tiny apartment Father crammed us into after his coke habit became his profession: how I had to claw and spit and fight to reclaim the family home.

Instead, I grab her by the shoulders and pull her close to me.

“We had a contract,” I growl. “You were to stay at the mansion. I’d have every right to stop all payments to you and your mother. Do you understand?”

“Would you really do that?” She tightens her hands on my shirt, fingernails digging into my chest. “Don’t make empty threats, Erik. I …” She pauses, something unsaid passing across her face. “I know that’s not the sort of man you are.”

“You betrayed me again.”

I give her a shake. She falls against me and wraps her arms around my shoulders. My lips brush hers, a passing moment, instinct driving both of us.

Then she pushes confusedly away, flying across the room.

“For my mom!” she rages. “What did you expect me to do, really? If you thought I was just going to sit up there like