Owned by the Mob Boss Read online

  I just feel like I’ve slipped into an alternate reality. Maybe I’m dreaming. I pinch myself and check that I’m not standing here naked. But reality seems intact; the pinch hurts.

  “I’ll see you later then, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her, smiling warmly. “See ya.”

  In the car, I sit back for a moment, going over the conversation, confused by her sudden change of character. Multiple personality disorder? Blackout drunk? Enticed by my fancy new car? All of the above?

  But when I start the engine—and turn on the heated seats; thank you very much, Erik—I let my suspicions go. The day has been far too long, and tense, to be playing Nancy Drew.

  Did I just make a new friend?

  I think so. It feels weirdly good.

  When I get to the mansion and Adrian informs me that Erik is not home, I’m pissed at the disappointment that moves through me like anesthetic.

  Suddenly, I feel far more tired than I did walking up the path. I was primed for sex, for an argument, for a discussion, for something. Distantly, I wonder if I am becoming addicted to the man.

  During the drive home, my mind was one step from a porn flick, playing lucid images of the carnal madness we would fall into the moment I stepped in the door.

  Ashley emerges from the kitchen when I go to make a mug of tea, getting settled for bed.

  “Erik won’t be home until early morning,” she says, reading me. “But I’ve prepared some light supper if you’re hungry?”

  I smile. “Sure, that sounds nice.”

  We eat the small dishes of beef stew at the little table in the corner. Ashley really is a next-level chef. What would normally be just a snack turns into an almost religious affair. I find myself savoring every bite, making hmm noises that would be over the top if they weren’t one hundred percent genuine.

  “Jeez, Ash,” I smile afterwards. “Your talents really are wasted here.”

  She smiles warmly, waving a hand. “Erik is good to me. He lets me take time off whenever I want. He never makes a fuss when I ask for a raise … which I’ve done many, many, many times.” She giggles, oddly girlishly from such a solid, capable-looking woman.

  It looks like the evidence that Erik is not such an asshole is stacking up today, though part of me wonders why he is so patient with her. And what does she need all that time off for? But it’s not my place to pry, I remind myself.

  “Oh, I haven’t mentioned this yet,” I say, “but I wanted to thank you for the clothes. Erik tells me you’ve been picking them out for me. I was a little shocked at first. I mean, jeez, dressing like a runway model every day? But I’ve gotta say I’m getting used to it.”

  Ashley narrows her eyes. “Erik has been choosing your clothes, Camille.”

  “What?” I laugh. “Since when is he a fashionista?”

  She shrugs. “There’s more to him than meets the eye. I can tell you that from experience.”

  Again, that unbidden suspicion rises.

  She’s not talking like an employee. But then, I’m an ‘employee’ too.

  Perhaps he bought Ashley the same way he bought me? This could just be what he does: buy women, use them, and then cart them off to some quiet corner of his mansion to be reassigned, like taking a horse to the glue factory.

  “Oh,” I mutter into the too-long silence.

  “How are things with you two?” she asks.

  I shake my head, knowing I can’t untangle this Chinese knot of emotion into an easily understood answer.

  On the one hand I hate him; on the other hand, I know that I don’t hate him, not really. And on the third hand, all I can think about is how he makes me feel when his pleasure-filled growls move like whispers over my skin.

  Then there’s the fourth hand: the gentleman he was with Mom, and how easily he handled Rob. Giving him a job? That was a miracle out of left field. A kindness that I know damn well my shithead brother didn’t exactly earn on merit.

  “That complicated, huh?” Ashley interjects.

  I laugh. “Am I really that obvious?”

  “No.” She stands, clearing away the dishes. “I am just used to people being confused by Erik.”

  Before I can ask what she means by that flagrantly vague comment, she disappears into the kitchen.

  I go upstairs and drop into bed, but I am restless, unable to sleep. I end up rolling over and grabbing my cell phone.

  Bethany answers almost right away. “Hey,” she says. “I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

  “Well, I’m dying of boredom so I thought I’d offer an ceasefire on the bitchiness.”

  She laughs. “Sounds good to me. Are you studying?”

  “Should I feel guilty that my answer is no?”

  She laughs again. “Not unless I should feel guilty that I’m having a very intense date with a glass of Pinot. Not with your man tonight?”

  “Who said I had one?”

  I can hear her shrug. “I just assumed. Am I wrong?”

  “No, it’s just, you know … complicated, I guess …” I pause. How much can I reveal?

  “Well? Don’t keep me in suspense. I’m perpetually single, so I’m always thankful for some vicarious living.”

  “He’s a proprietor,” I say. “And he’s … Oh Jesus, Bethany. He’s so intense that sometimes I feel like I’ve died and gone to some fucked-up heaven, but a heaven where the angels are ripped and dominating and sexier than the devil. And then other times it’s like he’s trying to win a biggest jerk in the world competition.”

  Feeling, real feeling enters my voice.

  “Maybe I’m falling in love with him,” I laugh. “Or maybe I’m just trying to work up the courage to run screaming for the hills. I don’t even know. Sorry, I didn’t mean to overshare. Jeez. Don’t mind me, I’ll be inserting my foot directly into my mouth.”

  I guess that’s a by-product of not having girlfriends for so long. I need to rein this shit in.

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” she says. “It sounds like you’re on quite the roller coaster.”

  “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “At an art auction,” I say quickly. It’s not untrue, I suppose. Good enough as an excuse, anyhow. “What about you? Apart from your beloved glass of red, you up to much this evening?”

  “Just going over some notes for tomorrow,” she says.

  “The joys of atrial fibrillation,” I giggle.

  “Oh no, this is for the self-defense class I teach down at the rec center.”

  “Really?” I gasp.

  “What, don’t wanna be friends now that you know I can kick your ass?”

  “No, I just didn’t … what sort of class is it?”

  “MMA,” she answers. “Kickboxing, wrestling, a little jujitsu, as well as some Krav Maga stuff. If some prick in a dark alley decides he wants to try some shit, he better not be too attached to his testicles.”

  “Is that your tagline?”

  “One of them.”

  We laugh together as the conversation moves onto our nursing studies, talking for half an hour as I pretend I’m not waiting up for Erik.

  When I finally hang up, and Erik is still not home, I collapse into a deep sleep, filled with vivid dreams.

  Erik stars in all of them.

  12

  Erik

  “Do you know what I want most in life?” the woman sighs, jiggling up and down in her low-cut dress. An attempt to draw my attention, no doubt.

  It is a scene I am familiar with: the girls who hang around the Bratva throw themselves at me, hoping … for what?

  Power? Love? Money?

  “Fun!” she cries, leaning across the table to touch Oleg on the hand, but eyeing me in an attempt at seduction.

  Perhaps she wants to make me jealous. If that’s the case, she is playing a losing game.

  Even sitting in the dais of the Red Ruble, with women swirling, liquor pouring, and the music pumping, my thoughts are consumed with C
amille. Her brother overstepped the mark by asking me for money, but that only serves to remind me that Camille has never done the same.

  She is a woman of her word, content with what we agreed upon. Nothing more, nothing less.

  “Isn’t that the whole point of life?” the facile woman giggles.

  “Not thirsty, boss?” Oleg grins, gesturing at the bottle of vodka.

  I incline my head. “Go ahead, Oleg. You pour.”

  A look passes across his face, watching me watch the room. It’s split down the middle, for a man with eyes to see it: Fyodor’s loyalists crowd around near the booths, sitting almost like they’re at church, quiet and well-behaved. My men pull women into their laps and toss back their drinks as Bratva soldiers should.

  I am glad when Oleg takes the woman away, leaving me to return to fantasies of Camille. But these are not just sexual, not anymore. I feel her hands on my face, tender, her lips on my cheek. I see her feeding our baby with the same careful care she gives her mother. I even see her in her nurse’s uniform, rushing around a hospital, stunningly capable.

  I wanted a strong woman, and I found one. For my heir’s sake, not mine. But I never dreamed she would actually matter to me.

  I have to reestablish control of myself. My feelings toward her, whatever they are, cannot be allowed to stampede unbridled.

  More women come and go. The smart ones take one look at me and turn right back around. The less observant ones require a little more persuading, but they too do not last long.

  Then Fyodor slides down next to me, his eyes glassy from the alcohol. He adjusts his tie and sits up straight, trying to mask his intoxication.

  “Are you done with women now, Erik?” He tries to make it sound lighthearted, but there is a mocking tone there I do not like at all. “The men might think you’ve decided to become a monk. You should at least make a show of seducing a couple or three.”

  “Is that what you would do, in my position?” I ask, tilting my head at him.

  I take the pulsing of his neck as a good sign … until I realize that it would be just like Fyodor to feign fear.

  “Your position?” he laughs. “I have no idea, boss.”

  Boss. He has not called me that since before he became my second.

  “It is just … we are blessed with beautiful, willing women. It is a shame to waste them. And some of them take it personally when you refuse them. Like that brunette with the rack and the pouty lips, for instance.”

  “Let them take it how they wish,” I mutter.

  Did I truly believe coming here would clear my mind?

  “It is of no—”

  The shattering of glass interrupts me, followed by Oleg’s outraged roar. One of Fyodor’s men steps back, holding the jagged half of the bottle.

  It’s dripping with blood.

  Oleg is bleeding from a gash in his shoulder, but it doesn’t faze him. He wheels on the man with his hands raised, ready to leap into violence.

  I’ve seen Oleg like this before and I know what will come next. He will grab the man by the throat and squeeze until he can’t squeeze anymore. The man’s face will turn purple, his eyes bulging, and then he will collapse like a rag doll to the floor.

  Part of me wants to let the action run its course, but if I allow one of my men to head down that violent road, others will surely follow, and all hell will break loose.

  I can’t have that. Not now. Not tonight. Not with my entire empire teetering on the edge of a cliff.

  “Oleg!” I roar, jumping to my feet.

  Men are ranged all around: my men standing like soldiers on one side of the room, Fyodor’s rising from their seats and glancing at my second as though for permission. Never before has the divide been so evident.

  “Fucking dog,” Oleg is growling, pushing up against me. “Let me have him, boss. I’ll end him quick and clean. Or slow and messy, if you prefer.”

  “Calm down, brother.” I place my hand on his chest. “Remember where you are.”

  He grits his teeth, wheezing. I turn to the man who struck him—Egor, a beanpole with a knife-like grimace—and nod at the shattered bottle in his hand.

  “Drop it,” I command.

  The moment of hesitation almost breaks my resolve. I see myself gripping the bottle, guiding it to his neck and carving him from ear to ear.

  But then he lets it drop and takes a step back.

  “He was slandering Fyodor,” he growls quietly. “Ask him if it is not true.”

  “That is not your place, boy,” Fyodor replies, walking up beside me.

  He is playing his part well: standing tall like my second, his narrowed eyes boring into the smaller man. And yet I am sure I detect a hint of pride in that expression, too. I wonder if he will congratulate him privately once the drama is done.

  “Give the word, Erik,” Fyodor whispers out of the side of his mouth. “I will finish this here.”

  I ponder that.

  Would Fyodor truly kill a man who is loyal to him? It could work in my favor, I reflect … but then I realize that he could easily use it as fuel for the fire of discontent. He would tell the men that I forced his hand. It would only serve to make them even more uncertain about my leadership.

  “No,” I say, stepping forward.

  I look at the men one by one. All of them glance at the floor like chastened schoolchildren.

  “Egor will pay Oleg two months’ wages as punishment for this transgression. And the rest of you … if you wish to leave the Bratva, you will leave the city. I mean it. Pack up your things and flee like cowards. Or money will be the least of your concerns.”

  “You heard him!” Fyodor roars when a few let out low grumbles. “Your leader has spoken. Does anybody wish to argue?”

  The men shuffle back to their seats.

  I grit my teeth, glancing at Fyodor, not liking how this looks at all. They only accepted my decision once Fyodor gave his blessing.

  I look down at the shattered bottle, imagining stabbing it deep into Fyodor’s belly. But in the end, I must maintain my composure.

  I return to the booth, slowly pour myself a glass of vodka, and sip it as the party resumes, though there is a bitter tinge in the air now.

  I stomp through the mansion, rage pulsing through my veins like acid, and drop down into the heavy seat in my home office.

  The desk is large and papers lie scattered: business documents, property deeds, profits charts. I stare down at them, thinking about how little they mean if I cannot control the Bratva.

  All will crumble to ruin if I do not rein in these renegades.

  I think of my father, of weak men, of the mutinies I have read about in my studies of history. It always starts slow, this subtle degradation of power. But when the collapse comes, it is anything but slow. Everything I have built will turn to ash around me.

  “Fuck!” I roar, grabbing the chair and tossing it across the room. It is a large room, a large chair, but my fury makes it seem small.

  It smashes into the opposite wall, leaving a crater of wallpaper and plaster. I grip the edge of the desk as my chest heaves. My breath comes raggedly through clenched-tight teeth.

  “Fuck,” I whisper after minutes, as my breathing slows.

  I stand up and go into the next room. The wall is bulging from the impact. I will instruct Adrian to arrange contractors, I decide … and then I look around the room, the largest guest bedroom in the house, and my mind transforms it.

  It would make a fitting bedroom for my son or daughter.

  I can see the crib in the corner, a mobile hanging from the ceiling casting moonlit shadows on the walls; the corner could be made into a toy area. The room is easily large enough for a punching bag, or a rowing machine, for when the baby gets older.

  We could build a life for our child here.

  I laugh at myself. That would mean being tied to Camille forever. But I already knew that, did I not? Somehow, though, this is different. It really hits me now, the revelation sending my mind years i
nto the future, where I have never let it venture before.

  Being tied to Camille does not sound as terrifying as it should.

  I think back to my outburst at her over breakfast the other day. I cringe at the memory. I was cruel, needlessly so. I owe her an apology—or something like it. A gift, perhaps. Something to make amends.

  I return to the office and pour myself a vodka, toss it back, and then pour myself another. I am drinking too much. Once or twice, I imagine small footsteps padding down the hallway. I envision the door swinging open and a sturdy, wide-shouldered toddler tottering in.

  In the reverie, I rise from the chair and sweep the boy into my arms.

  “Dada,” he says.

  Now, I really know I need to put the vodka aside.

  Because when this imaginary boy calls me his father, I find myself smiling warmly.

  What the fuck have I unleashed?

  13

  Camille

  I walk into the hallway and listen for sounds of Erik.

  I’ve noticed a change in him over the last day or two. He’s been more withdrawn, acting all caveman when I try to start a conversation. Once, he actually grunted at me and I almost cold-cocked him. It’s like he’s rebuilding the walls around him that I was only just starting to tear down.

  Not that I want to tear them down, I remind myself.

  I’m not exactly surprised when I find him sitting in the dimly lit living room, slouched in the chair, nursing a glass of vodka. He’s staring off into space as though replaying some personal nightmare.

  My heart drops, surprising me.

  No matter how often I remind myself that this is nothing more than a transaction, I can feel him tugging on my proverbial heartstrings. Playing me like a fucking violin.

  “Evening,” I say, trying for chirpy.

  But it seems he’s not in a chirpy mood. He inclines his head in bare acknowledgment.