Owned by the Mob Boss Read online

  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 this guy too? Or maybe this is just my day to make men act like assholes.

  “Can I help you?” I say, a little snappishly because I don’t like that look one bit.

  “Is Mr. Ivanovich home?”

  “He’s out.”

  “Doing what?”

  I laugh. “Do I look like his babysitter?”

  He smiles tightly—or at least, I think it’s a smile. With him, it’s hard to tell. “That’s fine. I wanted to ask you a few questions, actually.”

  I can’t stop my heartbeat drumming, my palms getting sweaty. A police officer wants to interrogate me? That only happens in movies.

  “Would that be okay?”

  I hesitate, then nod curtly.

  “Great.” Again with that not-really-a-smile. “May we go inside?”

  I sit back, feigning disinterest. He looks at me like I’ve just tried to buy a twelve-pack without ID. Anger begins to replace anxiety. I’m so sick and tired of being judged by men.

  “I’m fine right here,” I tell him.

  He folds his hands. “Fair enough. Mr. Ivanovich made a substantial payment into your account last week,” he says. “Would you care to explain what it was for?”

  “Housekeeping,” I say without thinking. It even sounds fishy to me.

  He narrows his eyes.

  “That’s quite a chunk of change for housekeeping, Miss Greene. And, as I understand it, Mr. Ivanovich already has a housekeeping contract with Supreme Cleaning Limited.”

  “Maybe he’s a germ freak,” I say. “It’s not my place to question my employer.”

  Here I am, lying to the police again. Somehow, I keep my voice level.

  “Housekeeping,” he muses. “And yet you have the leisure time to sit out here and enjoy the sunshine. Does Mr. Ivanovich let all of his employees make use of his garden? That’d be one hell of a tanned staff.”

  It’s meant to be a joke, but there is a sinister note to his tone. His eyes get even narrower. At this rate, he’ll close them completely. At least then I wouldn’t have to endure this Law & Order shit.

  “Look,” he sighs when I don’t reply. He squats down so we’re looking each other in the face. “You seem like a nice girl. I don’t know why you’re here, but I think it’s fair you know who you’re living with.”

  His tone darkens. “Mr. Ivanovich is the leader of the Bratva crime organization, a notorious Russian Mafia that has been at the root of crime in this town since before my time with the force. He’s not the man you think he is.”

  My throat closes. I try to speak, but I’m almost glad I can’t.

  Because I have no idea what I would say.

  Those whispers, those signs … did I ignore them on purpose? Or was I just that desperate for the money?

  “Will you excuse me?” I stand up on shaky legs, but I won’t let this man see the effect he’s having. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  “I’ll wait in the living room,” he says, hounding me to the door.

  He’s knocked me off-balance, taken control of the interaction far too easily. One moment of vulnerability and he’s on me like a wolf.

  I find myself letting him into the house as I zombie-walk to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. I splash cold water in my face, trying to wake myself up.

  He’s not just part of the Mafia.

  He’s the motherfucking leader.

  It all makes sense, now that I think about it. But what doesn’t make sense is how I would blind myself to it.

  What did I think: upstanding citizens just loved to spend their evenings at sex auctions? Who else would turn up: Bill Gates? Mark fucking Zuckerberg?

  I let out a strangled laugh into my reflection. “No,” I mutter aloud, when the truth hits me. “No fucking way.”

  But it rings through my mind like a siren.

  Was I ignoring my instincts because I have feelings for Erik? How would that even be possible?

  I check off all the reasons it doesn’t make sense:

  He bought me, check.

  He treats me like a pet, check.

  He wants to use me as an incubator, a broodmare, a baby-making machine—check, check, fucking check.

  I’m gripping the edge of the sink so hard my fingernails bend against the enamel, almost snapping.

  I need to kill these feelings, and kill them fast.

  I signed a contract and I won’t go back on it, but I can’t let this seed of affection grow into anything bigger. That would be an absolute disaster.

  My mind fills with violent, bloody scenes, all those things that come along with being a Mafia boss. He must’ve tortured people, blackmailed them, intimidated and … no, I can’t hide from it. He must’ve killed people, too, maybe even those people the detective is accusing him of.

  I splash more water in my face and take a deep breath.

  “Get your shit together,” I tell the girl in the mirror.

  When I’m almost back to the living room, Erik’s casual voice drifts to me. “Thank you so much for the visit,” he is saying, “but you must give me warning next time, Detective. This is not how things are done.”

  Not how things are done … He says it like a man used to bribing police, used to getting his way. Suddenly, I want to run from the house. But that would anger him, wouldn’t it? That’s the last thing I can do now.

  If I felt trapped before, then right now I’m buried alive.

  Erik and the detective appear in the doorway. Erik’s expression shifts subtly when he glances at me, his lips getting tight.

  He knows something is wrong.

  “It has been a pleasure talking with you, Miss Greene,” Detective McCauley says with hidden meaning. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

  I stride past him into the living room, feeling like I’m in an observation tank with both of them gazing at me. I drop onto the sofa and run my hands up a
nd down my legs. I squeeze my knees to stop them from shaking.

  I have just about managed to get myself together when Erik returns. I aim a smile at him, not necessarily one hundred percent fake. Despite everything, I still feel something when I look into those intense, determined eyes. Talk about a mind fuck.

  “He should not have done that,” he murmurs. “And he will not do it again.”

  “Good,” I manage to say.

  He sits down next to me, his leg touching mine. I ignore the shiver that moves electric-like up my thigh.

  “I have been thinking about breakfast.”

  “Still hungry?” I try for a joke.

  His smile disappears as quickly as it appears.

  “About your desire to visit your mother. We will host a dinner here. You can invite your brother, too.” He puts his hand on my leg, stroking it up my thigh. “Would you like that, Camille?”

  “Uh, yes,” I say. I leap to my feet.

  He tilts his head at me, studying. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no.” Does my smile look as fake as it feels? “I just have a test to study for. Do you mind?”

  “The day after tomorrow,” he says. “For the dinner. Let your family know.”

  I almost run outside, but not because he’s a Bratva boss. It’s because, despite that, part of me still wants him.

  What the hell is the matter with me?

  10

  Erik

  Life as a don isn’t quite as glamorous as I once imagined.

  I spend the next two days running around the city extinguishing the fires that the detective’s visit creates: scorching possible leads, disposing of evidence, wiping the CCTV at the hotel.

  “We’re good, boss.”

  That becomes Oleg’s catchphrase, something he tells me each time we go out on one of these excursions. I have him comb the area for tails before so much as stepping out of the car.

  Perhaps that is a sign of paranoia, but if a man cannot be paranoid when the wolves are barking at his door, when can he?

  “That Ashley sure can cook,” Oleg tells me now as he drives us to Anatoly’s apartment. He still has crumbs clinging to his shirt. “I hope you’ve got her on a ten-year contract, boss, or she might just up and leave. Start a restaurant of her own or something.”

  I smile at him in the rear-view. “Ashley can do as she pleases.”

  He nods shortly. I see a flicker there, wondering at the true nature of our relationship. Some of the men know the truth—Anatoly, Fyodor—but many just assume she is my chef. I see no reason to correct them.

  “Just give me a rifle and a hit list and I’ll take care of our little problem,” he goes on. “Don’t see any need for this cloak-and-dagger business.”

  “You are a brave man, Oleg, but I would not so willingly waste your life.”

  He huffs. “It won’t be my life getting wasted. You can trust me on that. Should I wait outside?” he asks as he pulls into the parking space.

  “You can wait in the living room. I am sure Emily will have something prepared. That is, if you are still hungry.”

  He grins from ear to ear. “Did you just say ‘if’?”

  Anatoly answers the door in his bathrobe, a cigar sticking out of his mouth.

  “You look like an Italian,” I tell him.

  Ash flickers from the cigar as he smiles. “You sound like a man with a death wish. Come, we will talk in the dining room.”

  Oleg disappears, complimenting Emily on the spread she has laid out, as Anatoly and I retire to the balcony window. I sit off to the side, though, so that I am not in clear view of anyone who might be snooping from the street.

  Anatoly notes this with a slight nod and draws the curtains.

  “Is it that bad?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

  “Hmm. I understand that, Erik. The detective’s visit has disconcerted you.”

  “That … and the Bratva. What are they saying about Damir’s execution?”

  I take the whiskey and sip slowly, and then move my finger around the edge of the glass. It is a habit I cultivated a long time ago, a way to bring myself back to the present, to stop the phantoms lurking in my mind from intruding too forcefully:

  Camille.

  The police.

  The traitors.

  “You have put out feelers, I hope.”

  “I have,” he confirms. “Most of the men have had the appropriate response. They talk about how only a fool would cross you. They call Damir a snake—”

  “Which he was.”

  “And they are competing for the more important tasks: collections, protection, intimidation.” Anatoly scratches at his scar.

  “But?” I prompt.

  “Not all the men have seen reason. There are still those who wish us to cooperate with the Aryan Pact, as well as some of the other minor gangs. One idiot even mentioned extending a hand to the Italians.”

  “The Italians are dead,” I laugh gruffly.

  “Like I said, he is an idiot.” Anatoly takes a sip, adjusting his robe. “You should consider blackmailing this McCauley. It does not seem he is just going to disappear.”

  I sigh, exasperated, and wave a hand in the air. “There is nothing we can use. He is a Boy Scout. Pure as the driven snow.”

  “The bastard,” Anatoly growls. “It would be too perfect for us if he was a deviant. You have had his electronics searched?”

  I smile at the archaic language. Anatoly and computers do not go well together.

  “I have hired the best hacker I know, the one we used for the Lombardi job. The worst we found was a minor gambling habit. He likes the Jets, poor son of a bitch.”

  “If only this was a political campaign,” Anatoly murmurs. “We will have to think of something. He is not going to quit.”

  We sit in silence for a time, watching the late-day sunlight move across the curtains.

  “Fyodor is stirring the men up,” I say. “It cannot be anybody else.”

  Anatoly doesn’t deny it. “He has been a lieutenant for a long time. It is only natural some of the men should see him as a potential leader, just as it is natural for the alpha in a wolf pack to be challenged.”

  “Let us hope this ends with my teeth on his neck, then.”

  Anatoly is looking at me strangely.

  “What is it, old man?”

  “I just want you to know, Erik, I meant what I said at dinner. Camille … she is not just a surrogate, is she?”

  I sigh, finish the whiskey, and rise to my feet. “Is the therapy session over?”

  Camille stretches her legs along the couch, folding her sparkling heels at the ankles.

  I study the form of her thighs, the small muscles twitching, my manhood stirring as I imagine gripping just above the knee and then smoothing my hand up to her sex. I hear her moaning in my ear.

  This woman draws me in far too easily, which is a problem, especially after the detective’s visit.

  Can she be trusted?

  I curse myself. Idiot. Of course she can’t.

  This is a transaction, nothing more.

  The sun is setting, darkening like my mood. Her mother and brother are on their way for dinner. Already I am regretting the decision, but it is better than letting her waltz around the city unaccompanied.

  I am surprised she has not tried to run yet. Perhaps it is the money.

  Perhaps it is the sex that both of us, despite everything, are becoming addicted to.

  Or perhaps it is bone-chilling fear.

  She has been behaving differently these past two days, I think, not that I have spent much time with her.

  “I was in the garden earlier,” she says softly. It is the first either of us has spoken for at least ten minutes. “Are those orchids in the flower bed at the back?”

  “I am not the gardener,” I say, pouring myself a vodka.

  She bites down, looking like she might snap at me. Then she swivels on the couch and leans forward, all ea
ger. She is making an effort, but I can’t find it in myself to reciprocate.

  “Well, they’re beautiful,” she says. “And that winding path is like something out of a fantasy novel. It’s gorgeous. I walked right to the back. Did you know there’s a well back there? Coins are glittering at the bottom. Who threw them?”

  “The staff,” I grunt. “Or somebody else. What does it matter?”

  “Hmm.” There is much she would like to say, I can tell, but instead she nods to the mounted sword above the fireplace. “That’s really something. When did you get it?”

  “The pawnshop won’t take it, if that’s where your head is going.”

  “Jesus, Erik.” She almost glares, but maintains her composure. “I’m just making conversation.”

  “Perhaps you and your detective friend should take a stroll in the garden one day. You could take turns throwing coins and making wishes.” I sip the vodka, letting it burn down into my belly. Part of me hates the tone in my voice, but I press on. “I could get his address for you, if you want. You could be pen pals.”

  “That’s unfair and you know it,” she snaps. She sighs, slumping back on the couch. “You really are trying hard to make me hate you, aren’t you?”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Do you hate me, Camille?”

  I pour another vodka. I keep seeing Fyodor in a dark room, rallying his troops, plotting my downfall. Or, if not that, then the detective with my photograph pinned to a board—a target painted between my eyes.

  “Why can’t you just be normal for once? I was just trying to fucking talk to you. But obviously I shouldn’t’ve wasted my time. You just want a Stepford Wife, don’t you? Okay, here.” She sits up robotically and then asks in a monotone: “Did—you—have—a—good—day—at—work—honey?”

  “That is, in fact, an improvement.”

  I’m almost sure she smiles, but it’s gone too soon.

  “Why do we even hang out?”

  “Hang out? Is that what we are doing?”

  “Sit in the same room, be around each other. What’s the point? I should just spread my legs once a day and leave it at that.”