Sold to the Mob Boss: A Mafia Romance (Lavrin Bratva)

by Nicole Fox

  I groan, roll over, and look at my alarm clock. Holy shit. I slept for way too long. It’s already late in the morning. I can’t even remember the last time I slept fourteen hours straight. I think about the dream and shiver before I sit up, drag my feet off the bed, and rub my knuckles onto my eyes.

  The aroma of sweet and salty foods invades my room and I head toward the kitchen where Wendy and Jenna are preparing breakfast. My mouth instantly waters when I spot my favorite treat sitting on the counter. Decadent cinnamon buns from the corner bakery, each one as large as a side plate with gooey cinnamon filling. Cream-cheese icing covers the golden tops so heavily that it’s tough to take a bite without getting an icing moustache. They’re my soul food, and I’d club a baby seal to get my hands on them right now. My stomach rumbles.

  “Look who’s finally awake,” Jenna says as she spreads avocado over toast and sprinkles tomato on top. “Your breakfast awaits, Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Ha. Ha. Gimme that,” I say with a laugh as I swipe a cinnamon bun from the box and sit down at the table.

  Bacon sits on the plate in crispy waves, the fat glistening in the sunlight streaming through the dining room window. I grab a piece and stuff it into my mouth. The salt mixed with the lingering sugar from the bakery bun is perfection.

  Jenna and Wendy join me. Both swipe through their phones as they make faces and shove food in their mouths. I snort. Nothing like being so disconnected from human interaction. “You guys gonna put down the phones anytime soon?”

  “Sorry, Annie. Just checking my bank account. My dad still hasn’t transferred over the money I asked for,” Wendy says.

  “And I’m waiting to see if I got the internship at the publishing house in the fall,” Jenna says.

  “You better bring home some new releases before they hit the shelves. I’m dying to read a new fantasy,” I say.

  Jenna sticks her tongue out at me. “Not before I read it first.”

  Wendy rolls her eyes. She’s not big on reading, and she never misses a chance to call Jenna and me four-eyed bookworms—which, to be fair, we are. She’s more of a cheesy rom-com movie chick. I tried to introduce her to audiobooks, but I think she made it halfway through the first one I gave her before passing out. I remember finding her on the couch, snoring with her mouth wide open, as a baritone-voiced man narrated love scenes into her earbuds loud enough that the sound leaked out and I could hear him. The memory still makes me laugh.

  “Ugh, my dad isn’t giving me money until next Tuesday. Supposedly, he’s only sending money once a month—on the fifteenth, like I’m on welfare or something. The man will never use all his money by the time he dies, even if he tries. But nooo. He has to torture me.”

  “Woe is you,” Jenna says, laughing. “I mean–”

  “Wait.” I hold up a hand, cutting her off. “Next Tuesday is the fifteenth?” Please let her be wrong. Please let her be wrong.

  “Yeah, Ms. Sleepyhead. You’ve slept away so many days this week you’re losing track of time,” Jenna says.

  No. This can’t be happening. No. No. No.

  My period is late.

  I stand up so fast my chair scrapes against the tile floor. I toss my plate in the sink and head to my room to grab my purse and bolt out the door. I’m not about to explain to my roommates that I might be pregnant. After all, this might just be the stress from everything I went through. I mean, all the events have given me nightmares and affected my sleeping patterns. Yes, no need to freak out. It’s just stress.

  I take the long way to the pharmacy to avoid Henry. Time is of the essence—for my sanity, if nothing else—but avoiding people is even more important. If anyone so much as makes eye contact with me right now, I might break into hysterical tears. My feet pound the pavement. I round the corner and see the big red letters of the pharmacy come into view.

  I burst through the doors. Racing down the aisle, I grab a handful of pregnancy tests—the more, the better, right? My cheeks are hot and red. I have no idea why I’m embarrassed. I’m not a young teenager. I’m an adult.

  An unwed adult who may be carrying a mob boss’s child.

  But no one knows that. I make my way to the register, put my items down, and the clerk rings them up. After paying, I grab the bag and race out the door. But instead of heading home, I walk to the campus library. There are numerous bathrooms there and I won’t have to explain to Wendy and Jenna why I suddenly ran out. They’ll be all too curious about what I have in the pharmacy shopping bag.

  Luckily, the library isn’t that far, or maybe I’m just walking that quickly. But I bound up the stairs to the second-floor restroom and hurry into a stall, slamming the door as soon as I walk in. I rip open the first box, do my thing on the stick, and wait, shaking it to hurry up whatever voodoo takes place inside these things. I feel as if hours are passing by instead of seconds. I keep my eyes closed for as long as I can. Finally, after a couple minutes have passed, I take a deep breath. I’m not ready to see the results, but I allow my eyes to drift open.

  Positive.

  No. No. No. I rip open the second box, repeat the process. Pee, close my eyes, wait.

  Positive.

  The third. Same thing.

  Positive.

  What the actual fuck? Why? Why is this happening to me? The universe has thrown some of the worst crap at me and instead of picking on someone else, it chooses to deal me another shit hand at life. I sink to the floor and bury my face in my hands and cry. I don’t know what to do or who to turn to.

  I just want my mom.

  I need my mom.

  I want to go home. To my real home.

  I’m not sure how long I sit there, crying until there are no more tears left. I feel numb, like I’m in a dream of a dream. Eventually, I make myself get up.

  I wipe my eyes and throw the tests into the trash can. After washing my hands and straightening my hair, I head up to the third floor and sit at one of the empty computers. Pulling up one of the discount travel websites, I book a flight home. I definitely need my mom. She’ll know what to do.

  Luckily, there’s a flight for later today. I pull my credit card from my wallet and pay for my ticket, wincing when I get the confirmation email notification on my phone. Looks like grading more tests is in my future, because that bill is going to hurt.

  I forward the flight info to my mom and tell her I’m making a surprise trip home for a few days.

 

 

 

 

  No need to let her know about the pregnancy via text. That information requires a face-to-face conversation, and a stiff drink before, during, and afterwards.

  I log out, gather my things, and head home. My eyes are swollen and red-rimmed from crying. I brace as I open the door to the apartment, wondering what Jenna and Wendy are going to say and how I can weasel my way out of that conversation.

  But to my surprise the apartment is empty. Thank God for small favors amidst this shitstorm of bad luck. I hurry to my room and pull my suitcase from the closet. As soon as I’m done packing, I pull a check from my purse and fill it out so that my roommates have my part of this month’s rent. I leave it on the counter in the kitchen along with a note saying I needed to go home and that I’ll give them a call tomorrow.

  Then I head back into my room, grab my suitcase, and lock up before I head downstairs. Checking the clock on my phone, I realize the train won’t get me to the airport in time, which means I’m going to have to hail a cab. Great, another bill to add to my growing collection.

  The best place to get a taxi is a few west. At least the weather is nice enough that I don’t have to worry about standing and waiting in the rain. I really don’t need any more obstacles thrown at me right now. What I can use is actually a one-way ticket to an endless spa vacation.

  But lugging a suitcase four blocks is
no fun, especially when the pavement is all cracked and overgrown. I kick a twig in front of me and launch it into the street.

  A few taxis drive down the street. Lights are off, though, so they must already have customers. But I only have one more block to go. I hope the traffic isn’t bad, otherwise I’ll really be cutting it close. At least my suitcase is small enough to carry on so I can just go right to the security line.

  I huff and blow a strand of hair from my eyes just as I hear tires skid. I whip my head around, expecting to see a near accident. But what I find is a sickeningly familiar face exiting the passenger side of the car.

  He’s got dark hair slicked back, olive skin, and gold jewelry dripping from every possible place —rings, necklaces, an extremely expensive-looking watch. His cheesy shirt is two buttons undone, revealing a broad chest full of curly hair. He looks every bit the part of the Italian gangster.

  Which he is.

  “Hello, dolce,” Gino snarls. “Been lookin’ for ya.”

  I drop my suitcase and start running. But a hulking brute in a designer suit rounds the corner and grabs me in a bear hug. Two more come and take hold of my arms and legs.

  I start screaming. And screaming.

  But no one comes out of their houses. No one steps up to protect me. No one grabs my hand and leads me to safety. Nikita isn’t here this time. I’m alone. Where is he? I wonder crazily as the men toss me into the trunk of the luxury sedan. I land with a painful thud.

  When I look up. Gino flashes me a cruel, toothy grin.

  Then he slams the trunk shut, and all I can see is darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Nikita

  I know it’s early morning because my heart is pounding right out of my chest. That’s how I wake up every day now, like someone just fired a gun next to my eardrum. Only, there is no gun. At least, not yet.

  I open my eyes and look at the ceiling over my cot. Cracks spiderweb through every inch of the plaster, and water stains are spreading out from one corner like a plague. This place is crumbling around me, like my world. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about either one.

  Hopeless week after hopeless week is taking its toll on me. I’m weary—deeply bone-tired, soul-tired—in a way that I can’t remember ever feeling before. Even when I first came up to take the reins of my father’s business, I didn’t feel this unending exhaustion.

  Nor the desperation. I feel like I’m on the losing end of a brutal chess beatdown, watching one by one as my pawns are taken from me and dumped into the river, bloodied and bruised. Rooks, bishops, knights—all are stripped away and tossed into a dumpster like anonymous bags of trash. My men. They were loyal to me. They had families.

  And now they’re dead, for the sake of the side they chose. There’s only me left. A lonely king, with little but himself to rely on.

  I shake off the morbid thoughts and stagger to the kitchen, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Breakfast is meager, these days. A few bites of some fruit, if I’m lucky. Not that I have much stomach for eating.

  “Didn’t sleep well again?” Eitan enters the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee.

  “None. Spent half the night counting bodies, the other half counting sheep. Surprisingly, neither helped.”

  Eitan snorts, then lifts his ceramic mug to his mouth. “You never know where inspiration strikes.”

  I eye the coffee table as Eitan and I enter into the living room together. It’s old-fashioned and wooden, not one of those mass-produced items with veneers over compressed fiber boards, but actual, real wood. My father purchased it from an antiques auction years ago.

  I shudder as my eyes scan the surface, strewn with notes and drawings from the meetings I’ve had with Eitan and the rest of the men as we try to come up with a way to take down our enemies. But none of those pieces of paper contain anything remotely useful. And in an hour, we’ll be at it again, talking through every possible angle and brainstorming, only to come up empty-handed.

  “Should I call the men in?”

  “Not yet.” I need some time to get my thoughts in order, to prepare myself for the inevitable dead-end we’ll meet at the end of the day. My head throbs already, like someone has taken a knife to the inside of my skull. I lean back into the couch. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to will the pain to go away. “Fuck, this headache is killing me.”

  “Do you need something for it?”

  I open my eyes and look up at my advisor. “Only a miracle, Eitan. Only a miracle.”

  He gives a hollow laugh and settles down into the dusty armchair on the other side of the table. His eyes roam over the map spread out on the table. “Where will it be today?” he mutters, as much to himself as to me. He lets a wandering finger trace over the contours of the city. “Downtown? By the docks? Los Arcos?” He points at each in turn, and I know exactly what he’s picturing:

  Blood. Bodies. The taunts of Gino smeared across city sidewalks like hideous graffiti. Men, women, and children—none have been spared.

  “Not yet, Eitan,” I say. “For just a few minutes, let me enjoy the silence of the morning and a simple cup of fucking coffee. Then we can face the day.”

  I can feel his gaze on me. He’s a good man. He deserves better than this: boarded up in a rat hole, waiting to die. “As you wish, Nikita.”

  I let my mind wander. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take long before she appears in my thoughts. Annie Thornton. The girl who got away. It’s a funny thought, in a morbid sort of way. I picture her doing the most mundane things. Laundry, cooking, studying. I don’t know exactly why, but it’s comforting to think of Annie living a normal life, when mine has been anything but since the moment she entered it. My little bird, winging in and then out of my life ... and leaving utter carnage in her wake.

  “Thinking about her, sir?”

  I huff. “Am I so obvious?”

  “Your face scrunches up every time you do.”

  I raise my head slowly and look at him. “She probably went home to her mother by now. I think graduation took place last week. ’Tis the season, you know?”

  Before Eitan can respond, the front door swings open and one of our men stumbles inside and collapses in the foyer. Blood seeps onto the carpet beneath him. Eitan and I spring up and race over to his side.

  Eitan closes the door and locks it as I drag the man into the living room. Already, the man’s eyes are swollen shut and bloody spit drools from his slack, broken jaw. His face is soaked with congealed blood, and more of it leaks from cuts beneath tears in his clothing. When he tries to speak, his cracked lips fail at the first syllable. He’s messed up in a bad, bad way.

  Hearing the commotion, a few of the other soldiers from bedrooms down the hallway come running in and together, we lift him onto the couch. The man is mumbling incoherently. I lean closer to put my ear by his lips, hoping to make out what he’s saying.

  But it’s just gibberish. I sigh, frustrated, and lean back. “Clean him up,” I order the soldiers. “We need to figure out what he’s telling us.” I start to stand and walk away, when suddenly, the man grabs my forearm. His grip is surprisingly strong, given his condition, and there’s a new fire and clarity in his eyes.

  I watch his lips work as he forces out the words. “Gino ... has ... a ... message.”

  Fuck.

  The Italian won’t stop until we’re all dead. My headache comes back full force and I rub my temples. “What did he say?”

  “He ... has her.”

  Panic begins like a cluster of spark plugs in my abdomen. Tension grows in my face and limbs, and my breathing becomes rapid and shallow. “Repeat that.”

  “He has her,” the man sputters again. The burst of strength that gave him the energy to speak is fading quickly now. I can see the lights in his eyes dimming. He just took too much damage; his body can’t sustain him much longer. Slowly, his grip on my forearm eases and falls away.

  And just like that, he’s dead.

  I stand and scream. “Fuck!” L
ashing out, I kick over the coffee table and send its contents flying all over the room.

  Eitan hands the bandages and alcohol to one of the other men and walks over to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. But I angrily shake it off and punch the wall. Over and over until my knuckles are bloody. Drywall splinters and the room fills with the dust of the plaster, but I don’t stop. I need the pain, I need the blood, I need to know I’m fucking alive.

  “Nikita,” says Eitan. “This isn’t helping her.”

  I whirl to face him, fists raised. My first instinct is to strike him. Eitan closes his eyes, ready for the blow. Then, the fight just disappears from my body. My shoulders slump.

  He’s right. Punching a wall won’t save Annie. Screaming and flipping tables won’t stop Gino. There is only one thing left to do.

  I look at the blood dripping down my fingertips, then up at Eitan. “I’m going after her,” I rasp. “And I’m going to kill him for touching her.”

  Eitan nods, and we begin to prepare.

  ***

  Before we leave, I gather the men around me. The last remnants of the Lavrin Bratva. Good men, loyal men, fierce men, all of them. Some served my father and his father before him. Now, they have only me to lead them.

  “I’m going to say this one time and one time only,” I begin in a solemn voice. I look around the dingy room at each of them in turn. “Any man who joins me on this mission will likely die. The odds are poor. The Italians have more men, more guns, and they will be on their home territory. They’re vicious dogs, every last one of them, and they will not hesitate to make your death long and painful.” I swallow hard. “So, if any one of you wants to walk away now, I will never blame you for that choice. Go, take your families, and run. And live. You deserve that much. I would give you more if I could, but this is all I have left. You’re forgiven already, and no matter what you decide, the Lavrins will remember your name and your loyalty.”

  I pause and wait.