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Owned by the Mob Boss Page 8


  She is not part of this world, I remind myself.

  But she will learn.

  “Will you move?” she huffs.

  When she makes to slap me again, I catch her wrist and drive her across the room. We do a jarring dance until I have her pressed up against and bent over the couch. My breaths come as quick and frantic as hers.

  I respect the fierceness in her, but I must tame it. Everything is hot: the fire, her breath, her body burning through her clothes.

  She parts her lips as though to snap at me again. I hook my arms around her and trap her against me, flattening her protesting lips with an angry kiss.

  She is moaning when I slide my hand up her leg, pressing the denim flat. I am almost at her sex—her stifled cries getting louder, more urgent—when the door opens beside us.

  I pause and lean back. It is Ashley, head bowed. “Uh … dinner will be ready soon,” she mutters, blushing hard and already retreating.

  I step back, the hunger dissipating slightly at the sight of Ashley. Camille brushes her clothes down.

  “You’re an animal,” she mumbles. It’s hard to read her tone.

  “I have never claimed not to be,” I counter.

  Her eyes flit between me and the door, where Ashley was just standing. Does she sense something? I will let her figure it out for herself.

  “I needed to go, like, five minutes ago,” she says.

  “So take my car. Do not let pride rule you, glupaya devochka.”

  She narrows her eyes. “What does that mean?”

  “Silly girl.”

  “Gee.” Her smile is somehow shy and cutting at the same time. “Thanks. Fine, I’ll take your car, if it means that much to you. But I’m selling mine and keeping the cash for myself. You got a problem with that?”

  I turn away without answering, pick up the vodka glass, and pour myself another drink.

  7

  Camille

  It feels strange driving Erik’s sedan at first.

  For starters, it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever been behind the wheel of, by several orders of magnitude. I’m afraid to even put my butt in the driver’s seat, for fear of somehow ruining the leather. I’m also half afraid that there’s some “eject the peasant” feature that’s going to skyrocket me into the stratosphere as soon as it recognizes that a girl like me was never, ever meant to be piloting a ridiculously expensive luxury car like this.

  As I pull out of the driveway and merge into traffic, I start to settle down, at least a little bit. Mind you, I’m still ignoring the screams of all the voices in my head telling me that if I so much as let a bird poop on the vehicle, much less scratch it or get in—God forbid—an accident, Erik will flay me alive. But I can no longer see the vein of anxiety pulsing in my forehead when I look in the rearview mirror, so I suppose I’ll take the progress where I can get it.

  I shouldn’t be this nervous. Hell, I’m still mad at him! How does he have such a gift for turning the simplest of things—how I’m getting to class today—into the most infuriating interaction I’ve ever had in my life? If I look close enough, I’m pretty sure I’ll still see steam pouring out of my ears, like I’m a Tom and Jerry cartoon character.

  The man is a grade-A asshole. That much is far beyond doubt at this point.

  But why? Why is he such a cold, emotionless prick, twenty-four hours a day?

  Only one way to find out. Start snooping.

  When I hit a red light, I take the opportunity to peek in the center console. To my disappointment, it’s completely barren. Not a trace of anything even remotely interesting. It doesn’t even look like it’s ever seen the light of day before.

  I pop open the glove compartment. Nothing there, either. Just a pristine owner’s manual to the vehicle and—wait.

  “Now, now, what’s that?” I mutter to myself.

  There’s a tiny scar in the leather upholstery on the inside of the drawer. It looks too clean and straight to be an accident. I poke it hesitantly, and to my surprise, a small flap of the leather peels back, revealing a little button. I reach out and finger it. There’s a small hiss, the release of a lock, and…

  The car behind me slams on the horn.

  I lurch upwards and smack my head on the ceiling. Cursing, I floor it through the light, which is now green, while waving an apologetic hand at the person to my rear. They speed past and give me the finger.

  “Sorry,” I say meekly to nobody.

  I get on the highway and cruise the six or so miles to my exit, wondering the whole time what the hell is in the secret compartment I just discovered.

  At the next red light after I get off, I finally dare to peek over.

  And… nothing.

  It’s as empty and flawless as the rest of the car. A big, disappointing nothingburger.

  Maybe I’m just overreacting, but the first thought my mind jumps to just refuses to dissipate: That’s for a gun.

  I know I’m right. Deep in my bones, I know it. There may not be a shred of evidence to support my theory, but as the little oddities pile up around Erik, this conclusion seems undeniable.

  I think back to the blood I saw under his fingernails earlier. I didn’t say anything, but it was impossible to miss. Crusted there, but with a slight smear, like it was still fairly fresh.

  Added up, it’s all too much to ignore. The gun, the blood, the attitude…

  Erik is dangerous. And he’s hiding something from me. Something very, very bad.

  I try to dismiss the thoughts. I have no proof, and goodness knows I’ve had enough of a stressful few weeks—maybe enough of a stressful life, even—to be seeing connections where there are none.

  But even when I force myself to think about my upcoming diagnostics class, I can’t shake the feeling that there are a lot of skeletons in Erik’s closet, and if I’m not careful, they’re all going to come crashing down on me.

  It takes a couple days to stop freaking out about driving Erik’s car. When I first pulled up outside nursing school, I half expected somebody to come running over, yelling, “Thief! Thief!” But I’m finally starting to get used to it. The heated leather seats help with that, I have to admit.

  I’m still not used to Erik, though, especially since we haven’t had sex since I signed the contract. I’ve spent my days just hanging around the house, going over my nursing notes or watching TV—feeling useless, basically, whereas usually my life is a battlefield of to-do lists and obligations.

  It’s a good thing, I assure myself. Erik is a pig who buys virgins, a manipulator who makes me want him more than I ever should.

  Best not to engage at all, if I can help it. Best not to think about having a baby with him. If I start down that train of thought, I might change my mind about the whole thing and I can’t do that. Mom needs me.

  I press the garage door button and it opens for me at once. I drive in, thinking about Erik, mostly wondering when it is going to start.

  ‘Anticipation’ isn’t the right word, but then neither is ‘fear.’ It’s more like something in between.

  The sex was good. That’s the worst part. I’ve woken up with my hand wedged between my legs more than once, the soft kisses of a dream lingering at the periphery of my consciousness.

  I wander through the large, mostly empty mansion. Sometimes it feels like a movie set or a haunted house attraction at a theme park. The hallways are long and foreboding, my footsteps often producing echoes that get lost in the high ceilings.

  I end up in the kitchen, looking for a bottle of wine. I may as well enjoy alcohol for as long as I can. The inevitable pregnancy will rob me of that small comfort, along with God only knows what else.

  “The cabinet on the left,” Ashley says from behind me.

  I jump a foot in the air in fright before wheeling on her. “Sorry,” I mutter. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  She wipes her flour-white hands on her chef’s shirt. “I didn’t realize I was that ugly.”

  “No, I didn’t mean—”
>
  “Relax,” she smiles. “I’m just fucking with you.”

  I wheeze something that’s half laughter, half sigh. “In that case, you are that ugly!”

  She laughs, wandering to the cupboard and taking down the wine bottle. She nods at another cupboard. “Care to get us some glasses?”

  I do as she says, and we take a seat at the little table in the corner. Ashley takes a long sip. “If you’d told me how exhausting cooking could be when I was a kid, I would’ve laughed right in your face.”

  “Everything is tiring, if you do it right.”

  Ashley raises her eyebrows. “That sounds like a saying.”

  I nod, my smile warm and unbidden. “One of Mom’s. She’d always say that whenever I was bored of homework or whatever. It was her way of keeping me focused.”

  “Is she the one who encouraged you to go into nursing?”

  I take a sip of wine, a glow moving through my body. It’s been so long since I’ve had a real friend. “She found me in the backyard one summer with this little mouse who couldn’t walk right. My brother thought it was gross. I tried my best to fix him. I think she saw something in me. She bought me a nursing book the next day.”

  “Why not a veterinary book?” Ashley asks.

  “Maybe because I mentioned how I wanted to fix Mr. Hershaw like I tried to fix the mouse. Mr. Hershaw was our neighbor who had cancer. It sounds lame, I know.”

  “Hey.” It’s only when she touches my hand that I realize tears have pricked my eyes. “That doesn’t sound lame at all. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, ignore me.” I rub at my face. “It’s just …”

  “Her MS?”

  I nod.

  “Horrible disease. Fuck the fucker that invented it. Fuck him straight to hell.”

  I half giggle, that kind of desperate laugh you do when you’re trying not to cry. “I don’t think anybody invented it, but I agree. What about you?”

  She shrugs. “What about me?”

  “What made you want to be a chef?”

  “Oh, nothing exciting.” She pats her belly. “I just love to eat and I got tired of people ruining my meals.” Her smile is warm, and the sight of a friendly face alone is enough to smooth away the worries wrinkling my forehead.

  We laugh and drink and make small talk for a little while. Then something strikes me. “Hey, Ashley, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure thing. Shoot.” She leans forward.

  “Erik, is he …” I pause, wondering how to phrase it. “A good person?”

  Ashley folds her hands, looking at me closely with an expression I can’t read. “I don’t know how to answer that question,” she says after a long pause. “But I know this: that’s something you ask about a boyfriend. Not about … well, whatever you and Erik are.”

  I swallow. “Talk about vague,” I say, trying to sound jokey.

  “I know,” she admits. “But just think about it like this. If you’ve got feelings for Erik, then maybe you want to ask questions like that. But if this is just …”

  She trails off. A business proposition is the missing end to that sentence. But she doesn’t need to say those words out loud. We both know what it is.

  “I know what you’re saying,” I sigh. “Thanks, Ash.”

  She raises her glass. “No problem, Cam.”

  We knock glasses together and move on to other topics, but she’s right. Erik is nothing to me. It’s better to keep this cold and impersonal. Terrible or good, it makes no difference. He could be the fucking tooth fairy for all I care, as long as he keeps paying for Mom’s health care.

  That’s what this is about. That is why I’m here.

  Not a single thing else.

  I’m lying in bed—‘my’ bed, in ‘my’ room, with my clothes still in their suitcases and my box of knickknacks sitting on the desk, as though I’m ready to flee at any moment—when there is a knock at the door.

  I put down the nursing textbook. “Yes?”

  The door swings open and Erik’s massive body fills the frame. He tosses a large brown package onto the desk. He’s wearing a suit and has his hair slicked to the side, looking handsome and powerful.

  “Ashley picked some clothes out for you. Put them on,” he says without looking at me, “and get ready. We are leaving for dinner in forty-five minutes.”

  I open my mouth to protest—a little heads-up would’ve been nice—but he’s already turning away. “Jerk,” I mutter when he leaves without saying another word.

  Yet I open the package and study the clothes and can’t help sucking in a surprised breath. They’re downright beautiful: a diamond-glittering dress with heels to match. Fancier than I’d normally go for—not to mention hellaciously expensive, judging by the feel of the fabric and the quality of the stitching.

  But I can’t lie, I feel a little like Cinderella as I pull it on, except for the slit up my thigh revealing a good amount of leg. Disney princesses don’t usually chart so high on the sex-appeal factor.

  I feel sexy and dangerous and strangely excited as I walk down the stairs.

  Erik is waiting for me at the bottom. His eyes get dark and intense when he spots me.

  “What do you think?” I ask, willing myself to stop blushing.

  He grabs my hips and pulls me close. I gasp and suppress a giggle, reminding myself that I am supposed to hate this man. But it is difficult as he brings his lips graze my neck.

  “You look magnificent,” he says.

  I push him away, laughing, though I do note the distinct feeling of my center growing hot and damp at the tease of his kiss below my earlobe. “Who taught you how to speak English—a James Bond villain?” I tease. “‘You look magnificent.’ Get outta here; no one talks like that.”

  He shrugs. “It is true.”

  I blush. The sincerity and authenticity in his voice is weird. It would seem almost vulnerable if he weren’t so confident about it. “Well, then, thanks, I guess,” I reply, eyes downcast.

  “Prekrasnyy would be the word in Russian, by the way,” he adds. “For magnificent.”

  I wrinkle my eyebrow. “Pre-crass-knee?” I ask, sounding it out slowly.

  Erik laughs and nods. “Something like that,” he murmurs. “Though the accent needs some work.”

  I pronounce it again, taking my time to mimic the way his mouth moves around the syllables.

  He chuckles. “A work in progress, we will call it.”

  “You know,” I venture, “you go from hot to cold so fast that it gives me whiplash sometimes.”

  He tilts his head to the side and takes me in. “How would you like me to be, Camille?”

  Again, he’s so blunt and honest that I find myself a little taken aback. “I mean, um, I don’t know … nice, I guess.”

  “Would you like me to be subservient? Should I kiss your feet? Is that what you’re looking for?”

  I punch him in the shoulder. “See, there you go. Being an asshole again.”

  He smirks, such an arrogant, infuriatingly handsome look on a man like him. “Perhaps you are the one who doesn’t know what you want.”

  I roll my eyes. “I know what I don’t want—to be psychoanalyzed by you. Put that one firmly in the ‘No’ column for me, please.”

  He nods slowly. “As you wish.”

  “Sir,” Adrian interrupts politely.

  Erik pauses. “This better be important.” His breath whispers across my collarbone.

  “It is, ah …” He glances at me.

  “Speak freely,” Erik mutters, turning.

  “The police are here to see you.”

  I watch his face closely as something like cold panic moves through me.

  The police? Why? What did he do? My mind fills with a dozen possibilities, each worse than the last, and once again I am forced to question this lion’s den I have so freely tossed myself into.

  I study his face, looking for answers.

  But Erik betrays nothing.

  He’s utterly composed as he waves
an easy hand. “Send them through,” he says.

  Adrian nods and leaves.

  “We will get this out of the way,” he says, “and then resume our evening.”

  I nod, unsure of what to say. I realize I am clenching my fists. With an effort, I loosen them. The silence between us stretches until it’s so tense I can barely take it. Erik shows no sign that he even feels it. He just stands there, hands behind his back.

  “Detectives,” he greets warmly when two people come walking down the hallway.

  One is a red-haired man with a smattering of freckles and a fixed grimace. The other is a tall woman with a notebook clutched tightly in her white-knuckled fist, not much older than me. Is that fear making her shake like that? Is she afraid of Erik? My mind is spinning as each bad idea clashes with another, breeding sick, twisted offspring bad ideas.

  “How is the family, Detective McCauley?”

  “Fine,” the red-haired man growls. He’s guarded, wary of every word coming out of Erik’s mouth.

  I take a deep breath and try as hard as I can to melt into the wall behind me.

  “Would you like a drink or shall we get straight to business?”

  “We won’t be here long,” McCauley grunts. “We’re here to ask about one of your employees, Radovan Yas—Yas-ter …”

  “Yastrzhembsky,” the woman pronounces carefully.

  “Yes,” McCauley mutters. “And a woman called Alena Smith. Both were found dead at the Sierra Sunset Hotel …”

  I almost let out a whimper. Murder? Did Erik kill somebody? A woman, too; maybe it was a woman who tried to leave him.

  More and more shreds of evidence in favor of the ‘Run like hell; Erik is a monster’ school of thought. Blood on the fingernails, gun compartment in the car, two dead bodies, and detectives at the door …

  I grip the stair bannister hard, splinters gouging into my fingernails.

  “And both, Mr. Ivanovich, have connections to you. Can you tell us where you were …”