Owned by the Mob Boss Read online

  “The bidding will proceed,” I order. A low murmur ripples through the crowd. I pay it no mind.

  The girl on stage doesn’t pose like some of the others did. She just stands with her shoulders back, head high, as though she is not in the least bothered by the gawping men all around. She’s a proud filly.

  Begging to be broken.

  The bidding runs high for her, getting to forty thousand.

  I sit back, letting it climb, letting the pretenders around me get hot beneath their collar for a girl far too good for them.

  Then I make my move.

  “Seventy thousand,” I call.

  Silence hits like a hammer. It is the highest anybody has gone all night.

  The amount surprises even me. It came unbidden, like a puppeteer took control of my voice, moving my jaw of its own accord. But as soon as the words are spoken, I can feel a fire ignite in my chest.

  I am already imagining stroking my hand down that sleek body, savoring the feel of her smooth curves, the rise and fall of her breasts and hips, the soft moan from her parted lips. My cock is rigid with desire.

  But there’s more to it than pure carnal need.

  It’s an unfamiliar feeling, utterly alien, and at first I don’t know how to control it. I want desperately to reach out and touch her right this second. To stake my claim like I’m branding her with my own name. A brutal, possessive urge.

  I want her.

  I need her.

  I will have her.

  This one is mine.

  “We have seventy thousand!” the auctioneer cries. There is not a peep from the crowd. “Going once, twice … and sold!”

  When it is over, the inferno that had taken over my chest simmers down some, but I can still feel it licking at my insides. I settle back in my seat and gaze, unblinking, as she walks confidently back the way she came. Her hips sway; her hair bounces in the light.

  She glances over her shoulder—at me, I think—and for a second I almost pursue her into the back.

  I stifle the thought. This is just business, I remind myself.

  Nothing more.

  4

  Camille

  Seventy thousand dollars.

  In the back room, I replay the sum in my head again and again, trying to convince myself that it’s real. It’s more money than I have ever dreamed of having in my hands at once.

  I’m supposed to go to the man—Mr. Ivanovich, someone called him—who bid on me and ask him for help to take the art to his car, but nerves swirl around my belly and there’s a sour taste in my mouth.

  This is real now. I just sold my virginity.

  The man was supposed to be ugly, old, and off-putting, the kind of man that would buy a woman because he had no other way of getting one in his bed.

  This man, though, was anything but ugly. In the dim light of the auction room, I caught glimpses of him: tall and lean with jet-black hair combed stylishly to the side, his hands inked with tattoos and his eyes so intense that I felt even more naked than I already was. He couldn’t have been older than thirty, yet he radiated power with his presence alone.

  I have to be strong now, I remind myself. For Mom.

  I take hold of the framed art piece and wheel it back down the hallway to the auction room, ignoring the pit in my belly.

  I am halfway across the room—which is bustling as the other women find their bidders—when the drunk asshole who was shouting all night comes ambling over. He is a squat man with squinty eyes, cradling a glass of whiskey.

  “Oh look,” he leers, mumbling through fat lips. “It’s Miss High and Mighty.”

  He makes to grab at my ass.

  I react without thinking, slapping him across the face.

  He stumbles back, trips, and ends up in a heap on the floor.

  But as soon as he hits the ground, my blood runs cold. What did I just do? I’m way out of my element here, and now I’m slapping the guests of the event? I look around. Every single person in the room is staring at me, eyes wide, jaws dropped. The girls in particular look at me like I’m a dead woman walking. I broke a rule, a big one, in a big way.

  I’m fucked.

  You could slice the silence with a knife—until, from across the room, somebody laughs deeply.

  I look over. It is Mr. Ivanovich, standing with his powerful hands hanging at his sides, looking even bigger in the light.

  He walks smoothly over, everybody flinching away from him as though he is on fire.

  “No,” he drawls down to the man I hit as he tries to climb to his feet. “Stay there, where you belong.”

  “Fuck you,” the guy sneers drunkenly, trying again to find his balance on unsteady feet.

  My buyer is impossibly fast. He kicks the man’s ankle out from under him, grabs one flailing wrist as he tumbles over, and lands with a knee in the middle of the man’s back, arm wrenched behind him.

  The drunkard’s angry tone is gone now, replaced with a blubbery whimper. I’m the only one close enough to hear what Mr. Ivanovich hisses into his ear.

  “Do not ever say those words to me again, my friend. Or you may regret it even more than you should regret your behavior tonight.”

  The man nods frantically, tears streaming down his face where it’s pressed against the carpet floor.

  Satisfied, Mr. Ivanovich stands, straightens his tie, and smooths back the strand of hair that has fallen over his forehead.

  I haven’t moved an inch. Who the hell is this guy? And when his gaze falls to me, a shiver courses down my spine.

  “This way,” he commands. I follow, mute.

  I wheel the art piece behind him, studying his broad back. He is all muscle, bulging against the fabric of his expensive suit.

  In the hallway, he hands me a small package: my clothes. I duck into a corner to pull on the glittering dress and slip into the heels.

  When I’m dressed, we go outside. He leads me across the parking lot to a sport car done in the same jet-black as his hair.

  He doesn’t look at me as he reaches for the art stand. I move to help him and our hands brush, a moment of tingling contact as his fingers close over mine, like lightning leaping from one to the other.

  I snatch my hand away, ignoring the warmth that moves through my body. He is a monster, I tell myself. He bought a woman.

  I just wish he wasn’t so handsome.

  I slide into the passenger seat and he climbs in next to me, his shoulder brushing mine. Heat seems to radiate from him.

  “So,” I say, “some party, huh?”

  The words hang in the air, and I curse myself immediately for saying them. ‘Foot in mouth’ syndrome has been a very real thing in my life for as long as I can remember. There’s a part of me that just can’t let an opportunity for snark pass me by, no matter how ill-advised it is or how much trouble it threatens to bring me.

  This, in particular, seems like a Hall-of-Infamy-level bad time to open my mouth.

  But the man says nothing. He just looks at me for a moment, and his eyes travel shamelessly up and down my body. If it were a normal day, I’d be insulted to have someone checking me out so openly. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t hide it. He eyes me like a treasure.

  Or, I gulp, like I’m his property.

  Then, satisfied by whatever he was looking for, he backs out of the parking lot without a word. I bite down, staring at my hands in my lap, trying desperately not to let any fear show on my face.

  “Where are we going?” I ask after a few minutes have passed.

  “Home,” he mutters. His voice is deep, with the barest hint of a Russian accent. It fills the car, fills me. I push those thoughts away. I have to remember who this man is. What my role in his life is.

  Rob’s voice echoes in my head: Just open your legs. That’s all you have to do.

  “And where’s that?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  I sit back, since he doesn’t seem in the mood for small talk. Of course he’s not. He just wants to hav
e sex with me. I try not to think about all the depraved things going on inside his head, but it’s difficult.

  Especially when some of those same things are flitting unwillingly through mine.

  He pulls up to a mansion on the outskirts of the city. It looks like an estate from a Victorian novel, all pointed towers and Gothic stonework gargoyles warning would-be trespassers that this is a no-fly zone.

  He leans over and types a number into the keypad. The ornate metal gate swings open. The whine of the gate only serves to make the nerves worse, my belly getting tense.

  It is going to happen soon.

  I have tried to push it from my mind, but I can’t any longer. He’s going to be on top of me, his manhood between my legs, his mouth devouring, his hands pinning me … I shiver at the thought.

  A butler opens the door, head bowed slightly.

  “Two old-fashioneds in the library,” Mr. Ivanovich says without a backward glance, striding down the luxurious hallway. Art hangs from the walls in special alcoves, with professional-looking lighting illuminating the brushstrokes.

  I don’t like that I still don’t know this man’s name. The longer I call him Mr. Ivanovich, the more I feel like I’m in a twisted, seedy version of Beauty and the Beast.

  But I can’t foresee a happy ending to this sordid little fairy tale.

  The butler doesn’t look at me or say anything before he too disappears. Gulping back the tide of fear rising in the pit of my stomach, I follow Ivanovich’s footsteps.

  Turning a corner, I find myself in the largest library I have ever seen in a house. Bookcases rise at least two stories high and a skylight opens up to the night sky.

  He sits at the table in the center. When I step hesitantly across the threshold, he nods at me to do the same.

  The butler enters shortly after, deposits the drinks, and then leaves.

  “Close the door,” Mr. Ivanovich calls.

  “Of course, sir.”

  He pulls the double doors shut, and then we are alone. The silence is deafening. I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. My hands are trembling, so I tuck them into my lap and cross my legs. It’s like I’m trying to take up as little space as possible. Maybe, if I try hard enough, I can disappear altogether. Remind me why I thought this was a good idea?

  I have to say something. Anything. Talk about the weather, his mom and dad, the big game last night, whatever tickles his fancy. But the dark thoughts tumbling through my head are worse than anything this man could possibly say.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself. God only knows if it’s true.

  “What is your name?” I ask, able to somehow keep my voice steady.

  He fixes me with an unreadable stare. The way the buttery light of the lamp off to one side hits his face makes him look like a villain from a spy movie. The collar of his button-down shirt is a smooth cream color that contrasts with the dark stubble on his jaw. Even from here—in the shadows on the other side of the table, and with little to no experience with men’s clothing—I can tell that the fabric is wildly expensive. So too is the watch gleaming on his wrist.

  But the fire in his eyes is not the self-satisfied smugness I got used to seeing in the rich men who liked to take three-martini lunches on Friday afternoons at my old waitressing job at a classy bistro downtown. Those men looked soft.

  This man is the farthest thing from that.

  “My name is Erik,” he says. I notice him rubbing at his shoulder and wincing slightly. He did that during the ride over, too.

  “Are you okay?” He’s leaning uncomfortably, too, favoring that side like he’s hurt.

  That same dark smile flits across his face. “It’s just a reminder of a mistake I will not make again.” He straightens up in his chair, and the momentary weakness is gone. He’s back to the way he was when I first laid eyes on him: all powerful.

  “Tell me about yourself, Camille.”

  I take a long sip of the drink that the butler brought, hoping the liquor will infuse me with confidence, because God knows I don’t have much of that naturally right now. I’m way, way out of my element. “Um, well, what do you want to know?”

  He shrugs. “Who you are; what are your interests?”

  I almost blurt out a laugh. Is he kidding? Maybe he’s forgotten why we’re here. I talk for a few minutes, but keep it vague.

  “Um, well, I’m a nurse—or, I mean, I’m going to be. I’m in school right now to be that. A nurse. Like, to become a nurse.” I want to punch myself in the face; has anyone ever sounded less cool? Obviously, the fact that I’ve never done anything like this before is part of the appeal of the whole auction thing, but still, you’d think I’d be able to find some way to not sound like a complete and total idiot.

  But something about this man is short-circuiting my brain. I can’t think straight, can’t take straight, can hardly even look straight. Because every time I do, those eyes are staring back into mine.

  Owning me.

  Devouring me.

  Without ever lifting a finger.

  As frazzled as I am, though, I have enough presence of mind to make sure I keep things brief. This guy is a pervert, after all; a sicko who just picked a girl out at auction like she was a steak at the butcher shop. I have to remember that.

  “What about you?” I ask, imitating his voice. “Who are you; what are your interests?” I think he smiles, but it’s hard to be sure with him, it passes so quickly.

  “I have many interests,” he says shortly. He doesn’t laugh at my joke.

  A silence hangs between us.

  I nod at the bookshelves. “Do you read?” I ask.

  “When I have the time. What about you, Camille? Do you read?”

  “I used to,” I tell him. “But now it’s mostly nursing textbooks. Thrillers were my thing. I could lose a whole week devouring thrillers.”

  “Is life not thrilling enough?”

  He moves his finger around the edge of his glass, slow, sensual, careful. Always in control.

  “My life?” I shake my head, giggling tensely. “No, not really.”

  His eyes trace over me and settle on my chest. I start to frown, when he says, “What is inside that?” and I realize that he’s talking about the locket I wear on a thin gold chain around my neck.

  “Oh,” I giggle awkwardly, fumbling for the clasp. I pop it open and lean forward to show him the two pictures. “This is my mother, and that’s my brother, Rob. Kind of a good luck charm or whatever. Keep them with me, you know?”

  He nods solemnly. “Your mother is a beautiful woman.”

  I feel a weird blush of pride at that. Who cares if this stranger thinks my mom is hot? But coming from him, it feels like water in a desert. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he means it sincerely. “Thank you,” I mumble. “She’s sick.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Sick?”

  “Yeah, uh, she has M.S. Multiple sclerosis.”

  “I am very sorry to hear that,” he says immediately. Again, I shouldn’t give a rat’s ass if he is sorry or not about my mom’s illness, but he’s genuine about this too, I can tell. It’s strangely touching.

  He stands suddenly. “Do you like classical music?” he says, going to the record player in the corner of the room.

  “Um, I usually prefer poppier stuff,” I tell him. “Something to dance around to—”

  A melancholy violin cuts into the air, followed by a light piano.

  He returns to the table and leans forward, those intense eyes searing into me. I feel more spotlighted than I did back at the auction. Part of me wants to run. Another, crazier part wants to lose myself in those eyes. I end up somewhere in between, fidgeting and glancing at him in intervals.

  “I have a proposition for you,” he says.

  “Oh?” I say, high-pitched. I have a good idea of where this is heading.

  But as it turns out, I am dead wrong.

  “Seventy thousand dollars is a lot of money, but I am willing to double it.”
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  “Double it?” I gasp, and then clamp my mouth shut, annoyed at myself for my eagerness.

  “Yes, but on one condition. I am not interested in simply taking your virginity. I am a powerful man, as you may have inferred. But I am lacking a son. If you agree to bear my child, I will double my bid and pay for all the necessary expenses—”

  “No,” I say flatly. “Absolutely not.”

  He leans back, looking almost impressed with my courage at interrupting him. But displeased, too. My heart is pounding worse than ever now. A one-off payment is one thing, but tying myself to this man, this bidder, for the rest of my life? Hell to the motherfreaking no.

  “I won’t … sell you my womb,” I say. “A kink is one thing, Erik, but this?”

  “Perhaps you need some time to think it over.”

  “No,” I retort. “I don’t. That’s my final answer.”

  His face betrays nothing. “As you wish. Are you enjoying your drink?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Finish it.”

  “Excuse me?” Something in his tone scares me a bit. He doesn’t seem angry or vengeful or anything like that. But it is like he took his “control meter” and cranked it up to eleven out of ten. Like he can just pitch his voice a certain way and my muscles will do what he says without my brain having any choice in the matter.

  “I told you to finish your drink.”

  I think about saying something back. So many things I could offer—Go fuck yourself tops the list. But instead, I do the unthinkable.

  I reach forward and tilt the drink to my lips.

  The liquor burns on its way down my throat, but I don’t stop until it’s gone.

  Erik watches, unmoving, unreadable.

  When the glass is drained, I set it back down with a thud and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Screw being ladylike. This kind of thing doesn’t exactly come up in etiquette classes, after all—not that I have ever been within a hundred yards of anything that ritzy. But still, the point stands. I’m in over my head here. Nothing to do but go with it.

  He nods, still so self-satisfied. Then he slowly stands and walks around to my side of the table. It feels like he got taller all of the sudden. He towers over me. Broad, dark, imposing.