Owned by the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva) Page 2

  “Traitor!” I roar, throwing myself on top of him.

  Alena batters my back with balled-up fists as Radovan tries to wrench the barrel into my neck to get off a shot that will end my life. I wrestle with him, my muscles straining so hard that veins bulge on my forearms. I knock him with a quick elbow. His mouth fills with blood. He makes a groaning sound as I finally get ahold of the gun.

  Alena smashes a glass over my head.

  I stumble.

  Radovan leaps for the gun.

  But it is too late. I fire right between his eyes, killing this man who has been loyal to me for years.

  He crumples back, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Blood seeps into the carpet.

  I turn to find Alena diving at me with a knife.

  “No!” I roar, raising the gun. She doesn’t stop. Maybe she loved Radovan; maybe she needs the money from whoever is paying for this hit job. Something like grief mixes with the fury in her face.

  I make to drop the gun to wrestle the knife from her, but then Radovan twitches behind me, not quite dead. Men never die as quickly in real life as they do in the movies.

  Mayhem consumes us and I end up firing three more shots: one into Radovan and two into Alena’s belly.

  “Shit,” I mutter, standing up as Alena slumps on top of the big brute. My shoulder throbs in agony.

  I glance down at them as Alena bleeds to death. I wonder if I should call the cleanup crew. My chest is heaving in shock and white-hot rage as blood pulsing from my shoulder stains my shirt.

  But I can’t call the crew, because that would mean letting the Bratva know about the murder. It would make me look reachable, vulnerable to those who wish to do me harm. And like Anatoly said, that would only make the rift between me and Fyodor worse.

  I need to deal with this myself.

  I give Radovan a kick in the side, shaking my head. “I thought we trained you better than this,” I sigh. “You should’ve waited until we were fucking.”

  2

  Camille

  “I’ll be sure to pass on the message immediately.”

  I’m using my polite receptionist’s voice—cheery, enthusiastic, and literally the exact opposite of how I feel right now. I’m so tired I could just collapse onto the desk, but Dr. Delson expects professionalism above all else, and I can’t afford to lose this job.

  “Yes, thank you. Have a pleasant evening!”

  I hang up and let out an end-of-the-day sigh. Not that this is really the end of the day for me. The glory of my second job, working the overnight shift at the stockroom, is calling to me as soon as I finish up here.

  Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Ugh.

  I gather up my things and walk across the office to Dr. Delson’s office.

  “Ah, Camille,” he says with that shifting smile as I knock and peek in. He’s a tall older man whose light green eyes often flit down to my shirt. Which is strange, because I make sure to have zero cleavage while I’m here. Or while I’m anywhere, actually. “Are you done for the day?”

  I nod. “Just heading out. Is there anything else you need?”

  He glances at the window, pitch-black except for the pale glow of the streetlights. “No, but please, let me walk you to your car. We can never be too careful.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” I protest. “I should be okay.”

  “Oh, nonsense.” He claps his hands together. “I would never be able to forgive myself if something happened.”

  He climbs to his feet and hurries us out the door. The parking lot is empty and my car not more than thirty feet from the exit. But Dr. Delson walks close to me. I shift away, trying not to be too obvious about how uncomfortable I feel. We end up doing a weird shuffle-dance on the way to my beaten-up Honda Civic.

  “I just wanted to say that, Camille, you are doing great work. Really excellent.” His smile is moist, reflecting the streetlamps.

  His praise seems a little over-the-top for answering calls and booking appointments, but I incline my head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Dr. Delson.”

  He puts his hand on the car, trapping me. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. If he tries to do anything to me, I’ll implement the two-step plan I learned from a women’s self-defense class that a crazy ex-boyfriend dragged me to years ago:

  Number one, knee to the groin.

  Number two, go for the pepper spray in my handbag.

  “Please, Camille, call me Nelson.”

  He’s used the same line on me before, but I’ve never taken him up on the offer. Partly because I want to do everything I can to keep him from running wild with his hot young secretary fantasies, but mostly because I don’t trust myself not to laugh in his face. Nelson Delson! His parents must’ve hated him.

  “Well …” I take my keys out of my handbag and give them a jingle. “I better get going.”

  “Yes, of course.” But he doesn’t remove his arm.

  I’m picturing my two-step maneuver as he eyes me hungrily. My nerves are jittery. I almost turn and just climb into the car, but there is something unsettling about Dr. Delson. I’m not sure what he’d do if I turned my back.

  “Do you mind?” I say at length, nodding at his arm.

  His mouth tightens as though I’ve just offended him. “I actually wanted to talk with you, Camille,” he says tersely.

  “Oh?”

  Get me out of here, I beg silently to whoever might be listening—God, my guardian angel, fairy godmother, anyone. I know where this is going. He’s hinted at it before, but until now I’ve always been able to dance around his advances.

  But my prayers go unanswered. This time, he’s not leaving me any loopholes.

  “There’s a function next Saturday for all the doctors in the area,” he says. “And I’m allowed to bring a plus-one. I was wondering if you would come with me.”

  I am shaking my head before he’s even finished talking. “I’m really sorry,” I say, as apologetically as I can muster, “but I can’t. I’m too busy with nursing school and taking care of my mom. You understand.”

  “Do I?” He makes a face somewhere between a sneer and a leer. It’s an unflattering combination.

  He sucks in a slow breath.

  “You know, I’ve been very patient with you, Camille.” He arches his eyebrow. I can’t stand the way he says my name; it makes my skin crawl. “It’s the least you could do. It would be a real shame if you were forced to find another position … especially with your mother being so sick.”

  That does it. I snap without thinking. “Forget it, Dr. Delson. If you’re going to try and blackmail me, I quit.”

  He takes a step back, laughing cruelly.

  “We were downsizing anyway,” he says breezily, not at all the kind man who interviewed me a few months ago, or even the lecherous creep who was pinning me against my car just thirty seconds prior.

  Now, he’s just a cruel beast with a poor girl at his mercy. I wonder if this was what he wanted from me all along.

  He waves a hand.

  “So be my guest. Quit. Good luck out there, Camille. It’s a dog-eat-dog world.”

  Rob is hunched over in front of the TV when I storm into the house, heart still pounding from the exchange with Dr. Delson.

  My brother’s lank black hair hangs over his stoned eyes, which are fixed on the basketball game. From the way he’s tap-dancing his fingers on the backs of his elbows, I know he must have money wagered on the outcome. Our small two-bedroom apartment reeks of cigarettes and whiskey and weed.

  I repress a sigh. Just because Dad walked out the year you were born, I snapped at him once in an argument, it doesn’t mean you get the right to make us live in hell. You need to get a handle on your shit, Rob.

  But he never has, and it’s been years. He barely looks at me as I walk across the apartment to Mom’s room. Her caretaker, Jackie, is walking down the hallway with an awkward twist to her lips.

  “Camille,” she calls to me, “I’m so glad you’re hom
e!”

  “Why? Is something wrong with Mom?”

  I glance in apprehension at her bedroom door. Her multiple sclerosis is still in its relatively early stages, but it hasn’t been getting better. I live in constant fear that something catastrophic will happen when I’m not here to comfort her. Leaving the house every day for work practically gives me an anxiety attack. Every time my phone dings unexpectedly, I jump out of my seat behind the desk at Dr. Delson’s—or rather, I used to. Guess I won’t be doing much of that anymore.

  “Did you check her blood pressure? How have her moods been? Has she been sleeping too much? Too little?”

  “No, no!” Jackie says quickly. “It is not that. Your mother is fine. She is sleeping right now, but no more than usual. No, it is just that I am still out two weeks’ pay. I wouldn’t bring it up, you know, but my rent is due tomorrow and …” She looks around the room, embarrassed.

  “Oh.” I bite my lip. But inside, I’m screaming. That’ll be the last of my cash.

  But what else can I do? I’m not the only person in the world with problems.

  “Of course, Jackie. Don’t worry. I’m really sorry about that.”

  I reach into my purse and take out the money, leaving a pitiful three dollars crumpled at the bottom.

  “Here you go.”

  She takes it and folds it efficiently. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She starts to leave, then pauses, studying my face. “Hey, are you all right, Camille?” she asks cautiously.

  I nod, wearing what I hope is a convincing smile. “Always,” I tell her. “You just worry about my mom. I’ll be fine.”

  “Angela is a strong woman.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Same time tomorrow?”

  “Yes, see you then. Have a good evening.”

  Once she’s left, I crack the door and peer in at Mom, sitting up in her chair, snoring softly. She looks peaceful. At times like these, I can almost forget about her illness.

  “Shit!” Rob roars from the other room. I sigh, smooth the hair back from her forehead, and leave as quietly as I can.

  He’s on his feet when I return to the den, pacing up and down.

  “Your team lose?”

  He scoffs. “How could you tell?” He wrings his hands, huffing and puffing like an animal in line at the slaughterhouse. “This is getting fucking ridiculous. Shit, shit, motherfucking shit! How many guards does the local bank have?” He is ranting, teeth grinding like a maniac. “One, right? I could take down one fucking rent-a-cop.”

  “Rob.” I walk across the room, hand outstretched. “Don’t talk crazy.”

  “You don’t understand,” he growls, batting my hand away.

  “No, you don’t understand!” I snap.

  He pauses. Even hopped up on weed, alcohol, and adrenaline, he can tell that something is wrong. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it—I know firsthand that his offers to help usually end up causing more harm than good—so I just give him the SparkNotes version of today’s batch of godawful drama and misfortune. Out of a job, low on funds, depressed for the future. The usual.

  It sounds even worse out loud than it did in my head. I feel a nasty migraine coming on.

  “So the bank isn’t such a bad idea, then?” he laughs cruelly.

  “Don’t be stupid.” I drop onto the couch. “But we do need some money, fast. What about … something less drastic?”

  “Like what, petty theft?”

  I shrug. I can’t believe it’s come to this.

  “And that’ll keep us going for what? A month? Less?”

  “I’m not the one who spends all our money making stupid bets!”

  “If my team had won, we’d be rolling in it right now!” he yells. “Can’t make a fucking three-pointer to save their fucking lives. Jesus fuck …”

  “But they didn’t!” I toss a cushion at him, though it misses by a foot. “Now we’re really screwed.”

  We fall silent and watch a stream of cringeworthy car ads and commercials for payday loan companies on the television. One of them has a mascot of a giant dollar bill dancing across the screen and diving into a pool of fake cash like Scrooge McDuck. The sight of all that money, fake though it may be, almost makes me vomit.

  Rob lights up another blunt. I give him a nasty glare, but he ignores me. It’s long past the time he once listened to his big sister.

  As we sit there, I think about how Rob’s life could have gone an entirely different direction. If he hadn’t gotten into drugs. If he hadn’t ended up in juvie. If he didn’t have a rap sheet the length of my forearm that reads like a buffet of petty crime: grand theft auto, burglary, vandalism, public intoxication, on and on like that. Maybe, without that stuff hanging over his head, he’d be able to get a job. A life.

  “There is something else,” Rob says quietly after a while, sliding over to sit next to me on the couch like a conspirator. “You’re a virgin, right, Camille?”

  “Ew!” I hiss. “Rob, what the fuck?”

  “Just answer the question,” he says implacably. He’s got that stubborn gleam in his eye. I know him well enough to know that he won’t drop it no matter how much I protest.

  If only he could contribute something to the house other than the constant smell of pot or getting our mom’s nurses to quit the second he decides to try hitting on them.

  But still, I don’t like the question, or the implication, or—most of all—the fact that it is one hundred percent, certifiably true.

  I am a virgin.

  But there’s no way I’m admitting that to my shithead little brother.

  “What makes you think that?” I demand.

  He rolls his eyes. “I know you. Don’t bullshit me.”

  “What if I am?” I laugh, more at the absurdity of it all than at anything actually funny. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well—it might just be our way out of all our problems.”

  “You’re making no sense,” I tell him.

  “I heard about something,” he says. “An auction where they sell women. I mean, sell their services, if you know what I mean? They pay big for virgins, Camille, and all you have to do is open your legs. Anyway, it’s better than losing your v-card in that piece-of-shit Civic you drive to some dude who works at Denny’s, or—”

  I slap him across the face. Hard.

  The sound of skin hitting skin echoes in the room, along with the tinny chirping of whatever late-night TV show is following the basketball game. Rob looks stunned, then sad, then angry, all at once, like a rainbow of feelings.

  He starts to stand, face reddening. I feel bad immediately. What he said was fucked-up, sure, but slapping him was probably a step too far. “Rob, I—”

  Mom lets out a cry from the bedroom. I’m immediately on my feet, rushing so fast I almost trip.

  I yank open the door. She’s on the floor, panting, her whole body twisted.

  “Rob!” I cry. “Call 911, now!”

  The next few hours are chaos: the ambulance arriving; sitting in the back telling Mom everything will be okay as she stutters and dribbles and waves her hands in agony and I wrack my brains wondering how we are ever going to pay for all this.

  In the waiting room, as I nurse my third cup of shitty hospital lobby coffee, Rob takes out a small slip of paper and hands it to me.

  There’s a lawyer’s office address written on it.

  “This is the man who will arrange it,” he says. “Just think about it. Otherwise …”

  “I don’t need to hear about ‘otherwise,’” I interrupt, snatching the paper.

  “But you’ll think about it?”

  I shake my head, not giving him an answer.

  But I’m running out of options.

  A week later, I’m sitting in the lawyer’s waiting room.

  I’m cursing fate, cursing my situation, cursing myself for not being able to dream up a better way to climb out of this mess.

  When I checked in, I was fidgety, wondering if the smiling, put-to
gether receptionist knew the reason I am really here. I force my hands to be still in my lap and take a deep breath.

  This is for Mom, I remind myself. Everything I do is for her. This will be no different.

  “Mr. Johnson will see you now,” the receptionist calls over.

  I stand up and walk into his office, trying and failing miserably to look confident. The lawyer, Mr. Johnson, glances up at me through stylish hipster glasses that don’t match his Mr. Potato Head mustache and combed-over gray hair.

  “Thank you for coming,” he says brusquely.

  I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice, I almost say. But I bite my lip.

  “We have a few details we need to clarify before we can continue.” He slides a thick document across the desk. “But first, you’ll need to read through this.”

  I flick through the pages, laughing cynically. None of this feels real.

  As I read through, I start to get at least a vague understanding of what I’m getting myself into. The whole thing seems so implausible, so brazen. How can this be a real thing? Shouldn’t someone be onto this by now? The cops, the president, Chris Hansen on To Catch a Predator? I was always told that the adults in the room would never let anything like this happen. And yet here I am—an adult, and helpless to do anything but play along and try to get out unscathed.

  The papers in front of me are describing my ‘position’ as an ‘auctioneer’s assistant.’ As far as I can tell, I’m basically supposed to stand on stage with a piece of art that’s ostensibly for sale, but only in a wink-wink-nudge-nudge kind of way.

  Everyone in the audience will know what they’re actually bidding on: yours truly, untouched by the hand of man.

  The job requirements pay special attention to my ‘fitness’ and my ‘willingness to work hard’ in presenting the finest art to the finest clientele.

  The veiled language is clear:

  I must be fit enough to open my legs for the type of man who would buy a woman’s virginity.

  I must work hard in this endeavor.

  I must ‘please my employer.’