Owned by the Mob Boss Read online

  He shrugs. “Semantics.”

  “But,” I swallow hard, “yes, I would like to take you up on your offer.”

  “Good,” he says. “But it is not so easy as that. There are stipulations.”

  “What kind of stipulations?”

  We are talking about my body, not a freaking merger and acquisition. The legal language sets my teeth on edge.

  I don’t let any of it show on my face, though. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

  “Until you give birth to my son, you will live here with me.” He takes a small sip from the glass and places it down slowly. Everything he does is so controlled. “And you will be required to quit your job.”

  I stifle a laugh. “Oh, what a shame,” I say. “I had dreams of becoming head stock clerk.”

  His eyes flicker as though in amusement. “So you agree.”

  “If I say no, will we still have a deal?”

  “No.”

  I throw up my hands. “Then what choice do I have? But I have a few stipulations of my own.”

  He waves a hand. “I cannot promise to grant them, but you are free to speak.”

  “How kind of you.” My tone is bitter. “I’ll keep going to nursing school and I want weekly payments for my mother’s health care. We’re …” I trail off. I was about to say, ‘We’re lost without it.’ But I won’t show weakness in front of him.

  “Do you imagine you are my only option?” he murmurs. “There are plenty of women who—”

  “Is that a no?” I say, making to stand up. “I don’t like wasting my time.”

  Is that admiration I read in his expression? It’s almost like he likes the fact that I’m not immediately kowtowing to him.

  “I have no desire for your mother’s condition to worsen,” he says easily. “And if going to nursing school brings you some comfort, then I will allow it. But none of this will interfere with our agreement. You should know, too, that I myself will put my son in you. No sperm donation, no doctors interfering, no IVF.”

  I swallow, belly thrumming. Nerves, I tell myself, just nerves. “There’s something else, then,” I say, sitting.

  “More demands?” he laughs. “You’re not exactly in the strongest of negotiating positions.”

  “If it has to be sex, it will be clinical. Just for the pregnancy. No emotions, no kissing, nothing that isn’t strictly required.”

  “‘Strictly required,’” he repeats. “What a lovely phrase. Tell me, Camille: do you take me as a romantic man?”

  “And I want to be part of the baby’s life!” I blurt instead of answering his question.

  I didn’t mean to say that, but as soon as the words are out, I know they’re true. I won’t be like Dad, abandoning my child to a single parent, even if it does mean tying myself to this man.

  The thought of a future of co-parenting with this monster makes my blood run cold. But I force the thoughts from my mind. Not now—show no weakness. There will be plenty of time later to consider the ramifications of what I’ve just said.

  God, how have things gotten so crazy so fast?

  Erik hesitates, a small smile playing on his lips. Like he can see the war raging in my head, the thousand nagging questions, the storm of worries.

  But he says nothing. Just nods. Then he reaches across the table and offers me his hand. “So we have a deal.”

  I give him my hand and we shake. He holds on for just a moment too long, squeezing. His eyes dance over me.

  Then he sits back and folds his tattooed hands. “I will have my lawyers draw up the contract. In the meantime, my butler will drive you home so that you can collect your things. You are free to go.”

  I don’t like being dismissed like that, but I’m glad to get out of there. I feel his eyes on me all the way to the door.

  And I can’t help but notice that my center is soaking wet.

  6

  Erik

  I sit in my desk, reading the contract by the sunlight shafting in through the stained glass windows.

  The contract is written like a surrogacy agreement, which, I suppose, it is. Briefly, the realization crosses my mind that what I’m doing is literally signing up to have a child. A little boy who might look just like me. Or a daughter, who could reflect her mother’s looks and spirit … the thought of having a mini-Camille running around the house, much less any child at all in a home that’s never known anything but blood, rattles me and I push it away and go on rereading.

  Once I am satisfied, I sign my name, and then draw a cross where Camille’s signature will go. When I am done, I call Anatoly.

  “How is the shipment?” I ask.

  “Steady,” he replies, which means the drugs are selling well in the nightclub. “But some of the dealers are insistent that they want to make overtures to those proud white men.”

  I grit my teeth. So, they want to sell drugs to the Aryan Pact. “What is their reasoning?”

  “Keep the peace, Erik, always keep the peace.”

  “Request declined, old man.” I repress a sigh. “You know better than to ask. Is there anything else?”

  “One more thing,” he mutters, sounding as though he doesn’t want to broach it. But Anatoly is never one to shy away. “Damir has been making similar overtures, as well as rallying men to Fyodor.”

  I resist the urge to flip the desk. “Damir has done enough. It is time we had a red council.”

  I’m sure I hear him swallow nervously. “Are you sure?”

  “I wouldn’t have said it otherwise. Make the arrangements.” I hang up and rise from the desk, fists clenched.

  A red council. Every man in the Bratva knows the seriousness of those words.

  It means that Damir will be executed. His insolence has gone on long enough.

  I walk into the hallway to find Camille struggling with the butler at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Please,” she is saying, making to lift one of the suitcases. “Let me help.”

  But Adrian is too proud for that. The stocky man shakes his head. “Ma’am, you must allow me.”

  “I’d listen to him,” I say from the top of the stairs. “He is not easily dissuaded.”

  She shoots me a look, that same one that has been replaying in my mind ever since she left to collect her things. She has her fair share of insolence, yet it is a fire I can appreciate. I study her athletic body, mentally stripping away the jeans and the T-shirt to what lies beneath. My body stirs when she stomps up the stairs toward me. There is something magnetic about her courage. No other woman would dare approach me like this.

  Brave, but stupid.

  “Let’s get it over with, then,” she sneers, but the disgust is feigned. I can read her better than she would like.

  She makes to push past me, but then Ashley climbs up the stairs. Ashley is always smiling, even when she is angry, and right now she is anything but. She is wearing her chef’s uniform, a solid woman with arms made thick from endless meal preparations. She is all gesturing hands as she skips over to Camille.

  “Hello!” she cries. “You must be Camille. I’m Ashley. I’ll be keeping you fed during your stay. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  The change in Camille almost makes me smile. She lights up, shaking hands with Ashley. I take a step back. I always find it difficult to disrespect Ashley. Plus, there’s no harm with the women getting acquainted.

  “So, I hear you’re a nursing student?”

  Ashley managed to get that and more out of me through her interrogation last night at dinner. I am relieved when my cell phone rings again, giving me an excuse to leave them to women’s chatter.

  “Is it done?” I ask, walking down the hallway.

  “Yes, Erik,” Anatoly says. “One hour at the Ruble, but if that does not fit with your—”

  “It fits fine. Prepare the men.”

  There is still the business with Fyodor to consider. My mind whirs as I return to the women. Fyodor, the Aryan Pact, those men who might wish for a change in leadership—it is all a house of cards I must balance. And if it topples … But I will not let myself consider that.

  “Since you two are getting on so well, Ashley, show Camille to her quarters. I have some business to take care of. One of my men will call ahead upon my return.” I face Camille. “You will wait for me in the living room.”

  She rolls her eyes at Ashley. “Is he always this bossy?”

  On a whim, I step between the women and grab Camille by the shoulders. I sense Ashley turning her back to us as I press my lips against Camille’s.

  Camille struggles for just a moment, before she lets out a muffled moan that tells me everything I need to know. Then she shoves me in the chest. It’s not enough to really do anything, but I back away anyway.

  “We had a deal,” she accuses. Her voice is angry, but her cheeks are flushed and her deep blue eyes wide and excited.

  I ignore her comment. “Be ready,” I warn. “I do not like to be kept waiting.”

  I sit at the head of the room in the back of the Ruble. The lights overhead spill out, the color of dried blood.

  Oleg stands just behind me with his hand near his hip as though ready to grab for his gun, loyal as ever. Anatoly sits on my right and, to my left sits Fyodor. There is something perverse about the man who has caused so much trouble—directly or indirectly, it remains to be seen—taking his place beside me, but it cannot be avoided.

  The men border the room, some of them half hidden in shadows where the eerie light does not reach.

  When I rise, they do the same, looking up at me with respect on their faces. It is impossible to know whose is feigned and whose is genuine, but they are about to get a lesson in loyalty.

  “We are gathered here to give one of our brothers, Damir Nikolaev, a fair hear
ing. He is accused of disloyalty and disturbing the peace of the Bratva, threatening our business, our livelihood, our Family, by attempting to create a rift between me and Fyodor. Now bring him in, and we will hear him speak.”

  I sit down and the room does the same. Oleg exits by a back door and appears a few moments later from the front entrance, pushing Damir in front of him. The man is fidgeting now worse than ever, glancing up at me like I am both his savior and executioner. It is a fitting expression.

  I could be either.

  Oleg returns to my side, leaving Damir stranded in the center of the room. He awkwardly adjusts his glasses.

  “You know of what you stand accused,” I tell him. “Do you deny seeding discontent within the Bratva, discussing Fyodor as my potential replacement, and betraying the vows you took the day we took you off the streets and made a man of you?”

  “Of course I deny it!” he breaks out, so violently his glasses topple from his face.

  “You did not talk with …” I glance down at my notes, though I know the names. It is worth it to make him sweat. “… Kazimir, Ovdei, and Tikon in the back room of the Shining Jewel, urging them to undertake an assassination attempt with the purpose of putting Fyodor in my place?”

  He opens his mouth dumbly, glancing around the room. I can hear what he wants to scream: You rats, you betrayed me! But he has enough sense to leave that unsaid. Instead he wheels on me.

  “I would never betray the Bratva!” he declares.

  “And yet you have not answered my question.”

  His whole body is beginning to tremble in that way men do when they are staring death in the face. “Only an idiot would go against you, Mr. Ivanovich. Do you take me for a fool?”

  “I take you for a snake. Now answer the question.”

  He leans down and picks up his glasses, but he is shaking too much to slide them onto his face. He drops them as his hands fall to his sides. “I was not discussing assassination,” he mutters. “I was just … exploring options.”

  I lean forward. “Tell me more,” I say.

  “It wasn’t about you. It was about the entire Bratva. It was not, not …” He shakes his head, eyes rolling as he tries to dream up some excuse. Damir has never been the sharpest of my men. “There is nothing wrong with a two-tiered system.”

  Laughs rumble from the edges of the room. I mark those who laugh too hard, knowing they might be overcompensating.

  “Two-tiered system? Speak sense, if you are able.”

  “You handle one branch of the Bratva. Fyodor handles another.” He stares at me, tears pricking his eyes now. “It was a terrible idea. I am an idiot for even suggesting it. But it was not betrayal, never that. In the future I will—”

  “If you had told me the truth,” I say, “I might have granted you mercy. I have reliable reports that you were seeking my death. You should have practiced your lies before coming in here.”

  I rise from my seat and walk slowly across the room, aware of the eyes on me, of the importance of this moment. I take the blade from the sheath strapped to my back and stride over to Damir. He raises his hands, making gasping noises as he trips over his own feet toward the door.

  “I pronounce you guilty, and sentence you to death,” I intone.

  I dart, catch him, and with one fluid motion cut the artery in his throat. I grab the back of his neck and hold him in place as blood spurts, showering my shirt, my pants, and finally my shoes as he collapses onto his face.

  He bleeds out at my feet as I turn to the rest of the room.

  I feel nothing except distaste that it has come to this. Executing my own men is something I will never enjoy, even when they deserve it.

  But enjoyment and necessity are two very different things.

  “This man was a fool,” I say, putting the knife away. “He could not even think of a decent lie, and so he has paid the price. You can come to me for anything, men, but disloyalty is something the Bratva will never tolerate.”

  They are trying to look tough now, unfazed. But I can see the fear behind the masks they wear.

  “If anybody wishes to ask about Radovan and Alena, now is the time.”

  The room is as silent as the grave. I nod shortly and stride back to my place on the dais.

  “You did the right thing,” Fyodor mutters as I take my seat. “A pathetic excuse like that deserves no patience.”

  For a brief moment, I take comfort in Fyodor’s words. He is saying the right things at every juncture, and his loyalty has never visibly wavered. Yet it can be no accident that his name keeps coming up with every ill rumor of an impending mutiny. Either he is an innocent figurehead and smokescreen for someone with malevolent intentions, or he is playing the part of the puppet master with extraordinary skill. As much as I would prefer for my second to be guiltless in this matter, I am not so naïve as to believe that he is entirely free of blame.

  I’m rubbing my bloody hands on my pants when it hits me: Fyodor could’ve easily convinced Damir that his reasoning was solid, that his lies would be accepted. Fyodor could have orchestrated this whole thing, including Damir’s meeting with the men from the Aryan Pact. Suddenly, I am not so sure.

  “Of course,” I say to him, betraying nothing. “The traitor got what he deserved.”

  I take a fast shower and then carry my bloody clothes into the parlor at the rear of the mansion, skirting around the living room where I know Camille will be waiting for me. I changed in the car, not thinking about Damir’s gushing neck or the whining noises he made as he died at my feet.

  He deserved his death, as do all traitors.

  Still, killing a member of the Bratva is no small thing. It will either serve as a warning … or fuel those who wish to back Fyodor.

  I get the fire going and pour myself a vodka as it crackles to life. I sip, staring into the flames, and then grab the clothes and toss them in. They lick at the edges, charcoal black, and then begin to crisp and burn.

  I see my father in the flames and hear his drawling voice.

  I see Anatoly, frowning.

  I see the Bratva rising up like a phoenix and my future child leading it.

  I am so transfixed I do not hear her until she is a mere few feet from me.

  I turn to find Camille eyeing the clothes, biting her lower lip in calculation. Perhaps she will overstep her mark here. But after an observant moment, she turns to face me. Her T-shirt has risen to reveal a pale slice of belly. Hunger lights in me as fierce as the flames.

  “You’re late,” she says.

  I place my drink on the table. “And you are not where you should be.”

  “Well, whatever. But I didn’t expect you to take this long. I’m going to miss nursing class, and my car is at my place. I need a ride back so I can pick it up.”

  “You are really so attached to that old hunk of metal?”

  “Obviously not,” she laughs, as though I am a fool. Her impudence is intriguing and tiring both. “But I need to get to class. What am I supposed to do, fly?”

  I wave a hand and look away. “Use one of my cars. Use ten, if you want.”

  “I’d rather use mine.”

  “Are you that eager to break down on the highway?” I ask.

  “I’d just rather use my own car. What’s the big deal?”

  In truth, I do not care what car she uses, but given my current mood, her blatant lack of respect sends me storming across the room.

  I press myself against her. She backs up, knocking into the desk. The glass spills sideways and the liquor splashes across the table.

  She gasps when I bring my face close to hers. I smell her perfume, flowery, awakening something within me.

  “I will not allow—”

  “‘Allow’?” she gasps.

  I press on: “I will not allow the mother of my child to risk her life again and again in some deathtrap.” The thought of losing Camille sits poorly with me. The thought of having to raise our child without her is even worse. “You will take one of my cars, and you won’t dare raise your voice to me again.”

  She tries to push past me. “Forget it,” she hisses. “I’ll get a taxi.”

  I take a step back. “No,” I say calmly. “You will not.”

  She slams her hand against my chest. I do not move an inch, though I feel the impact move through me. I clench my jaws tightly. She has crossed a line nobody would ever dream of crossing with me, and she does not even realize it.