Unprotected With the Mob Boss

by Nicole Fox

  I take a deep breath. It doesn’t feel like I get enough air in, so I take another one. He reaches out toward me, but I take a step back from him. I look straight at him. Even in the dim lighting, he is intimidating and stunning.

  “Do you—” I stop. “What do you know about the shooting tonight?”

  He takes a step back, his head tilting. It’s the first time I’ve seen him seem confused.

  “What do you mean?” he asks. “I know what you told me.”

  “Come on, Lev,” I say. “I know about your business. I know who you are. You’re well-connected in the criminal world. Most criminals won’t move if they think it would upset the Bratva.”

  “Ally, this could have been anyone,” he says, his hands swinging out in front of him like he’s presenting evidence but there’s nothing there. “You must know that the police piss off a lot of people. It’s part of their job. Criminals don’t go to people asking for permission to do things. Yes, many of them are careful to not piss off the Bratva, but they wouldn’t think I’d be upset about them shooting up a police station.”

  “You should be,” I say. “That could have been my father who died. Those four policemen who were shot didn’t deserve to be attacked like that.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t upset. I said they wouldn’t think I was.”

  “Are you?” I retort. He stares at me for several seconds, his green eyes striking through me like the reverberations of a bass drum.

  “The truth?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t care about those policemen,” he says. “The police have had it in for me for a long time and—”

  “Because you’re a criminal who hasn’t served your time,” I interject.

  He takes a deep breath, his fingers flexing. “But I care that you care,” he continues. “I care that you’re upset. I care that this hurt you. I’m sorry if that’s not enough for you, but I warned you about this. I told you I wasn’t crying over people’s deaths.”

  I fold my hands over my chest. He looks away from me. His lip is slightly curled up in a partial snarl. I can feel the distrust breeding between us. It hurts, but it almost feels necessary. It feels safer to distrust him.

  I can’t be certain if he’s involved or not. And that will always be my problem. It will be worse once I try to climb that ladder into becoming the district attorney. I’ll always wonder if the case I’m prosecuting is one he knew about beforehand. I’ll see the photographs of the victims and wonder if my husband ordered the murders. And if I saw something so heinous that I felt morally obligated to turn him in, my ties to a Bratva boss would cast such a long shadow over me that I’d never be free from it. I’d always be the Bratva boss’ fiancée, his wife, his woman.

  “I want to go back to my apartment,” I tell him. He nods. When he looks at me, there’s nothing in his eyes. They’re cold like when we first met.

  “That’s for the best.”

  17

  Lev

  I’ve chosen a life of impassivity because rage is not an option. I’ve seen rage in my father’s fists like a bull trapped in a pen, and it only led to an FBI investigation and his death. I cut out those malignant emotions. It’s saved me from making the kind of reckless decisions that lead less capable men to end up on the wrong side of a gun barrel.

  But as I’m driving Ally to her apartment, the anger comes after me like a rabid dog. I focus on the rational aspects.

  It’s understandable that she’d see me as the source of all criminal activity in the city.

  It’s understandable that she wouldn’t trust me completely.

  It’s understandable that after her scare, she’d lash out.

  But the anger screams in my ear, telling me that no matter what I do for her or how much of myself I give, she will never trust me. I was willing to give her my leverage and she still believes I’d endanger her father. It doesn’t even make rational sense for me to go through all of this effort to get her father on my side, only to attack the police station, but she still believes I would.

  One hand on the wheel, I toss my phone into her lap. “Text Ilya. Tell him to send people to watch over your apartment.”

  “I don’t need anyone—”

  “It’s not up for negotiation,” I cut her off. “Either people are going to watch the apartment or you’re going back to my house.”

  “I can’t believe …” She shakes her head. “Never mind. Fine.”

  She texts out the message and tosses the phone into my back seat. She turns away from me, staring out the side window.

  I park a couple of feet away from her apartment building. Ally opens her door and gets out. She turns like she’s going to say something to me, but a second passes, and she shuts the door.

  I watch her step into the building before I stomp on the gas and drive away.

  At a stoplight, I grab my cell phone. There’s no text to Ilya. I growl through clenched teeth and quickly text him before driving again.

  The cars and buildings start to blur together as I pass through the city. I imagine letting my hand slip on the wheel, speeding into another lane, and letting another car crash straight into me. It’s not some pathetic death wish. I just need a little more adrenaline, a little more stimulation, a little more physical pain to distract me from my thoughts.

  I need a way out of this.

  I start driving east. The skyscrapers slowly die out, replaced by brick stores, their American flags snapping in the wind. I keep driving until I see the whitewashed store with a pinwheel instead of a flag.

  I park in front of the store. The decal on the window says Soft Horizon Salon. When I step inside, every instinct in my body tells me it’s not safe to be there, but I ignore it. I walk up to the owner, who’s standing behind a podium, jotting into a datebook.

  “Hello, Sarah,” I say. The chemical smells of a salon sting my nose. “How’s business?”

  Sarah Lyle, her bleached blonde hair curled around her shoulders, glances up at me. She tucks her arm closer to her body, but doesn’t show any more signs of fear. She’s wearing a tank top that’s tight enough that the outline of her bra is visible and her long pink nails click against the datebook as she sets her pen down.

  “Mr. Alekseiev. You don’t have an appointment,” she says.

  “No. I don’t,” I say.

  “I’m surprised you’re here,” she says. “I was under the impression that you thought my business was too risky to be seen around.”

  A man getting his neck shaved peers over in our direction. There’s also a woman getting her hair dyed. The woman is married to a gangbanger. I don’t recognize the man, but that doesn’t mean he won’t become an issue.

  “I need information,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.”

  I slam my hand down onto her hand. She yelps and tries to wrench it free, but I don’t let go.

  “Don’t try me today, Sarah,” I say. “I wouldn’t even need to touch a hair on your head to ruin you. If I tell the police that you allow criminals to conduct their business in your shop and launder money for the Colosimos, they will tear this place apart. Even if they don’t find anything, the police presence alone will kill your business. And once they think you’ve fucked up, one of your criminal friends will kill you.”

  I loosen my grip and she tugs her hand out of my grasp. She keeps her voice low. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about the police shooting,” I say. “Who was behind it?”

  She shrugs. “Nobody here.”

  “Sarah,” I growl.

  “It was a random act,” she says, tucking her hands in her back pockets. “One man who lost his mind. I’m sorry that’s not the answer you want to hear but it’s the truth. A gang member was leaving when the shooter was brought in—he heard about it. He’s not affiliated with anybody.”

  “Fuck.” I hit my fist against her podium. She jerks back. As I rub my forehead, she leans on the podium, her breasts ne
arly spilling out of her tank top.

  “Did you want somebody to get into a lot of trouble?” she asks. “Possibly the Colosimos? I’ve heard you two aren’t getting along.”

  I shake my head, rubbing my knuckles against my temple. “No. I just wanted to retaliate against someone.”

  “For hurting the police?”

  “For hurting someone I care about.”

  “Hmm.” She picks up her pen and taps it against her lips. “You look exhausted, Mr. Alekseiev. I don’t have another appointment for another twenty minutes. Maybe I could help you sleep.”

  “Fuck off,” I say. I turn around, wrenching the door open.

  As I walk out, the anger bites at my ankles again. There has to be a way to get rid of this rage. There has to be a way to kill it.

  Mariya’s Revenge headquarters is a five-story building predominantly constructed of glass. As I stride to my office, people avoid me, keeping their heads bowed to appear busy.

  I stop at my secretary’s desk. Letitia is a twenty-six-year-old former model. I know there’s a lot of snark around her, accusations of her getting the job because of her looks, which is true, but she’s also the most efficient woman I’ve ever met.

  She hands me a red folder. “Hammond wants your opinion on a new advertising agency, Quality Boulevard. Cooper is adamant about making a Mariya’s Revenge app. Gardner heard that you were dating the police chief’s daughter and he said—I’m quoting here—that you better fucking know what you’re doing. And a man claiming to be the police chief’s son is here.”

  I stop mid-turn. “The police chief doesn’t have a son.”

  “Yes,” she says. “That’s why I said he was claiming to be the police chief’s son. I looked into it after he left to get some coffee. He’s an Italian man, no facial hair, well-dressed, about five ten or five eleven, a hundred seventy to a hundred and eighty pounds. Late twenties or early thirties. Kind of slimy.”

  I tap the folder against her desk. “Thank you, Letitia. You are irreplaceable.”

  “I know.”

  “Send him in when he returns.”

  “Absolutely,” she says, turning back to her computer. I enter my office, setting the folder on my desk before sitting down.

  Marco Colosimo, coming straight to the throne to test me. Any other day, it would be a mild irritation, but this morning, if he wants to try to hurt me, it will make my day to ruin him.

  Letitia would have told me if Marco had come in with anybody else, but it still gnaws at me to see he’s alone. He’s taunting me. Showing me that he doesn’t need any guards, even when he’s in the center of my kingdom.

  I watch him through the glass wall as Letitia opens the door.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Alekseiev, but Mr. Harrington is here,” she says. She gestures for him to step in. He likely only took on the identity of Ally’s nonexistent brother because he believed Letitia would let him in on his word, but his use of her last name still adds to my anger.

  “Lev.” Marco walks straight over to me as Letitia leaves, closing the door behind her. I stare at him, but I don’t take his hand when he raises it.

  “You could have told Letitia who you are,” I say. He drops his hand. “It wouldn’t have changed the outcome. She wouldn’t have let you in without my permission even if you said you were Hitler or Jesus.”

  “Yes, but we all like to play pretend here, don’t we?” he asks. He takes the chair in front of my desk without asking. “Or is it true love for you and Miss Harrington?”

  A bait and switch—I can either agree with him, proving to him that he’s figured out my con, or admit that Ally and I have more going on than that.

  “You know how true love is,” I say. “An eternal vow until the next woman opens her legs.”

  He smirks. “Wow. It hurt you to even say that, didn’t it? She is a beautiful woman. I don’t blame you. Good connections, too. It’s almost in her blood.”

  “It’s a fraud, Marco. You should be smart enough to figure out why I’m doing it.”

  “I considered that,” he says. “Which is why I chose to leave my note in a public place. I heard that you were very protective when the two of you left the grocery store. It may be a fraud, but you wouldn’t be the first man to fall for a prostitute.”

  I lurch forward, my hand on his throat before I can stop myself. My thumb presses against the soft flesh as his hand clenches around my wrist, fear flickering in his eyes like hazard lights.

  Through the glass, I see Letitia turning away. I let my hand relax and let my arm fall back to my side.

  Marco rubs his throat. “So. Not just a hooker to you.”

  “Watch yourself, Marco,” I say. “I pay Letitia well enough that she will have no problem claiming that you attacked me and I killed you in self-defense.”

  “Sure,” he says. “She could claim that. But how do you think the police investigation will go? Only an Alekseiev would be ignorant enough to think that fucking the chief’s daughter wouldn’t lead to the chief despising him. You Bratva fools will never understand family loyalty. You’re too far up your own asses.”

  “Did you come here to just toss around schoolyard insults?” I ask. “Because while you scrounge around for cash, I make more money in an hour than you’ll see in a week.”

  His lip curls up in a sneer. “Yes, well, all that difference in income and we’re still both in this office, aren’t we? I just wanted to remind you that dating the chief of police will only give you minor protection from the boys in blue. It won’t protect you from my men.”

  “I have my own soldiers for that.” I lean against my desk. “But when I stuck your father and Vozzella like the pigs they are, I barely broke a sweat. So if your men want to die, send them right over.”

  Marco thrusts out of the chair, his fists clenched. He’s nearly shaking with anger. My jaw is clenched, but I keep my expression as neutral as possible.

  “I suggest you leave,” I say. “I’ll tell Letitia to give you a parking voucher.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  He storms out, fury following each of his steps like a trail of blood. I sit down at my desk, snapping open my laptop. I open the folder Letitia gave me, scanning over her notes.

  I call Hammond. I tell him to hire Quality Boulevard to see what they’ll come up with.

  I call Cooper. I tell him we’re not going to make an app.

  I call Gardner. I tell him to mind his own fucking business.

  I call Ilya. He tells me that the soldiers report that nothing has occurred at Ally’s apartment.

  I pace in my office. There are so many broken pieces that I’m holding, something is bound to cut me. I don’t know what I’m willing to lose. I’ve never been forced into a position where I might have to give up something—at least not since the day I left my house, leaving my mother to fend for herself.

  I sit back down in my chair. My phone beeps.

  Ilya: 5*4 31 6

  I don’t need Russia: From Slavic Tribes to Potential Superpower to translate the text. 5*4 means 54, the code for one of our weapons storehouses. Ilya would only be alerting me if it had been ransacked. There aren’t enough words in the message for him to be reporting any fatalities, which should be good news, but it also likely means no one was there to stop the thieves from taking everything.

  I grab my phone and jacket and leave my office, telling Letitia to tell anyone who calls that I had a personal emergency.

  As I get into my car, adrenaline is ripping through my brain like bullets. This is Marco letting his emotions get the best of him. He must have paid someone a lot of money to find out where one of our warehouses was. He can’t afford to make those types of payments, but he’s willing to implode his own syndicate to go after mine.

  Emotions will lay waste to even the richest of empires.

  I try to keep my cool while I drive, but even passing by police cars, it’s difficult to not slam on the gas. As I pass the police station—the flag hanging at half-sta
ff—my phone rings. I glance at it.

  Petrov.

  He’s a promising soldier, willing to die to prove his worth. But there’s no reason he would be contacting me instead of Ilya unless it was an emergency.

  “What?” I answer.

  “Boss, a Colosimo tried to get into Miss Harrington’s apartment. He’s dead, but Mr. Sevostyanov wanted us to call you.”

  “Stay there,” I order. “Deal with anybody who looks suspicious. Send someone to do a sweep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I hang up. Marco’s attack may have been a reaction driven by emotion, but he’s smart enough to attack me from more than one side and on opposite sides of the city.

  The warehouse or Ally’s apartment. My business or Ally, who could never understand how much danger she’s in. The kingdom I’ve poured sweat and other people’s blood into for the last five years or a woman who will never give me the benefit of the doubt.

  I yank on the steering wheel, letting the back of the car fishtail.

  I text Ilya to go to the warehouse as I step up to Ally’s door. I knock. As I’m about to knock again, she opens the door.

  Her eyes, slightly red-rimmed, regard me warily. Drops of water cling to her temples like she just splashed water on her face.

  “I’m coming in,” I tell her. I slide in past her, our arms bumping against each other. I walk around the apartment, checking for Julia, but she’s not inside.

  “Lev, you can’t just barge in,” she says. She sounds tired and even as she gestures around the apartment, her movements are lethargic.

  I ignore her, walking toward the window that faces the parking lot. I drove around, checking for anyone suspicious, and checked in with Petrov, but anxiety drills into my chest. I’ve tried to shake the fear, but if Ally was hurt because of the Bratva’s actions, it would be another burden I can’t fathom carrying.