I Married a Mob Boss

by Shandi Boyes

  Just from the way he says “associates” indicates they’re the group of people I should avoid.

  “What about the cluster of women in the den?” I nudge my head to the sunken lounge we are gliding by that's filled to the brim with attractive ladies.

  Rico stiffens for the quickest second before he mutters, “They are. . . mistresses?” From the unsureness of his voice, his statement comes out sounding like a question.

  My heart falls out of my ribcage. “Mistresses? Whose mistresses?” I grimace when my voice comes out louder than I intend.

  He releases my hand from his grasp and places it on the curve of my lower back. “Once Vladimir is finished with them, anyone who wants them.”

  My first reaction is disgust. A majority of the women sitting in the den would be mid-twenties to early thirties, way too young to sleep with a man Vladimir's age. My second reaction is jealousy. Sick, twisted jealousy.

  My eyes rocket to Rico. “Do you have mistresses?” This time, my voice comes out level and calm, even though I'm anything but.

  After dipping his chin to a man standing guard near a concealed door, Rico guides me down an incredibly long dining table. Just like our room, this space is adeptly decorated with priceless paintings and opulent antique furnishings, but it isn’t enough to dampen the queasiness passing through me.

  Even with no knowledge of mob-related activities, I know he's moving us to the higher ranked seating. It isn't just the fact that the hum of conversation dulled the instant we entered the room, it's the fact that every set of eyes in the room are rapt on Rico and me—even with them sneakily peering up from the floor. But even being eyed like I'm a circus act and having a queasy stomach, I can’t harbor the vehement jealousy heating my blood.

  “Do you?” I ask again, ensuring I keep my tone as low as possible.

  Rico drops his eyes to me. “Do I what?”

  I snarl, bearing teeth. I can tell from the gleam in his eyes he knows what I'm referring to; he's just choosing to be ignorant. My scowl deepens, leaving a heavy set of wrinkles in my forehead.

  Spotting my angry snarl, his lips curl into a panty-wetting smirk. “Are you jealous, Kitten?” He leans in close to my side, gaining us the curious glance of a dozen people surrounding us. “Does my little kitty have her claws out, ready to pounce on any woman who dares get close to her man?”

  His words jolt right through me like I’ve sustained a physical blow, while also adding to my worry that there has been no sexual contact between us since my first morning waking up in this compound. It's inanely ridiculous for me to be jealous, but I can’t help it. Drugged mistake or not, Rico is still my husband, and just thinking of him with another woman triggers merciless jealously to sear through me.

  Feeling my usually carefree composure slipping, Rico murmurs, “You have nothing to be jealous of, Kitten.”

  His words don't offer me any reassurance. If anything, they make me even more irate. If he has nothing to hide, why skirt my question? Why not just be honest?

  My irritation switches to trepidation when he pulls out a chair second from the end and gestures for me to sit.

  “Exactly what rank are you in this industry?” I stammer out before I have the chance to stop my words.

  Before Rico can answer, his father enters the room from a concealed entrance on my left. He walks with a sense of animal arrogance like Rico, but his demeanor doesn't merely invite inquisitive stares of rapacious women; it demands resolute silence. For his age, Vladimir is a fit-looking gentleman of tall height and average build. His hair is dark brown and slicked back, and his face is void of the wrinkles most men his age would have. If I could look past his cold-hearted eyes and unapproachable demeanor, I'd say he is handsome.

  When Vladimir saunters deeper into the room, the attendees react similarly as they did when Rico entered. Half stare at him in awe, where the other half—the mainly female half—bow their heads. Following the vibe of the room, I tuck my chin into my neck and stray my eyes to the tabletop.

  "No, Kitten," Rico growls before pinching my chin and lifting my head back to its original position. "You do not bow to him." His tone is flat and laced with anger.

  Ignoring the fact I’m shivering like a bag of nerves, I lift my chin and swing my eyes to Vladimir. I’m taken aback when I discover the cold, depraved gaze running over my body isn’t from Vladimir; it's from the elegantly dressed lady standing beside him. Even with her eyes thinly slit, she has flawless facial features, plump lips, and a straight nose. Her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and her petite frame is draped in priceless silk and jewels. If I had to guess her age, I’d say she was early to mid-forties.

  Dropping her green gaze to me, the unnamed female asks, “Pochemu shlyukha sidit za stolom?”

  Although I don’t understand Russian, I can’t miss the callousness of her tone.

  “If you wish to address Blaire, you need to speak in English.” Rico shifts his eyes sideways to the unnamed lady. “She doesn’t understand Russian.”

  “And yet you still married her,” the dark-haired beauty retorts. “Spitting on your father’s grave before he has even stepped foot in there.”

  Rico’s jaw gains a tick, but he remains tight-lipped. He reassuringly squeezes my hand before gesturing for me to sit. When he secures a white napkin onto my lap, I twist it in knots, needing something to settle the sick feeling in my stomach.

  I swallow away a horrible bitterness in the back of my throat when Vladimir affixes his gaze to mine. His face is impassive, his eyes from the devil himself. He watches me for several uncomfortable moments, assessing me from the inside out. My stomach churns with both fear and grief. Fear for Rico striving to be just like him. Grief for Rico being raised by him. It must have been horrible, worse than the deepest pit of hell.

  I jump when Rico unexpectedly places his hand on mine, stopping my fidgeting movements. I've twisted the napkin so tightly around my fingers, it's cutting off my blood supply.

  With Rico breaking our horrifying connection, Vladimir takes a seat at the head of the table, then gestures for the dark-haired woman to sit. No words are needed to issue his request. His stern gaze is demanding enough for her to jump to his command. I only just hold in my surprised gasp when she takes the chair opposite me. I assumed she'd sit beside Vladimir considering they are husband and wife. How do I know this? They have matching wedding bands like Rico and me.

  “Shlyukhas don’t belong at this end of the table,” she snarls at me.

  My eyes rocket to Rico, seeking translation. His nostrils flare as his face lines with anger, but he maintains a quiet approach. Before I have the chance to ask what shlyukha means, the reasoning behind the dark-haired lady being seated away from Vladimir becomes apparent. Just like our meeting last week, Nikolai swaggers into the room with both the air of authority and a snip of fear. But unlike Rico and Vladimir, the female eyes in the room don't drop to the ground when graced with his presence. I don't know if that's because they see him as more approachable than his predecessors, or because he has not yet earned their reputation. Either way, my eyes immediately dart down to the table when he issues me a cocky wink.

  “Ah. My beautiful Ahren blushes too. If only you had fallen into my lap instead of Rico’s,” Nikolai jests before sitting in the chair across from Rico.

  The heat on my cheeks grows as does the grip of Rico’s hand curled around my thigh. Snubbing his brother's furious glare, Nikolai smiles a smug grin as he lifts his fingers to his lips, pretending to lock his mouth. After sinking deeper into his chair, he turns his eyes to his father sitting on his left. From the untroubled look on Vladimir's face, it appears this type of bickering is nothing new for Rico and Nikolai. Or perhaps he doesn’t know how to change his deadpan expression?

  With a wave of his hand through the air, Vladimir demands his staff to commence serving brunch. Unable to tolerate the evilness beaming out of numerous pairs of eyes in the room, I drop my gaze to my empty plate and concentrate on
keeping my breathing patterns level.

  Within minutes, my plate is loaded with a vast variety of food. Bread, sausages, eggs, Russian pancakes, and tea are plentiful. It smells delicious, but my stomach is too twisted to risk sampling any of it. So instead, I push my food around my plate with a fork while my eyes sneakily scan the room.

  While sipping on a glass of sweetened tea, my eyes anchor on a familiar face entering the dining room from the other end. Erik—Rico's lawyer. The women pay him the same amount of attention as Rico, but they don't hide it beneath lowered lashes. I can understand their fascination. When he isn't cloaked in darkness, Erik is a handsome man. Not as handsome as Rico, but that would be a hard feat for any man to conquer. After taking his seat three places up from Nikolai, Erik addresses my gawking stare with a hesitant smirk before accepting a plate of food from Maya. After returning his greeting, I return my devotion to sneakily assessing the room.

  Over the next forty minutes, the tension in the air never leaves, but the flow of conversation increases. Although most of the discussions are in Russian, I've noticed one word being used on repeat: shlyukha. If the sneer of their tone isn't enough of an indication it's a derogative word, the fact numerous pairs of eyes glare at me while saying it's a surefire sign.

  Unable to harbor my curiosity any longer, I turn my gaze to Rico. The stubble on his jaw is unable to hide its relentless tick, and his eyes are narrowed into thin slits. Obviously, I’m not the only one who has noticed the thick stench of hostility in the room.

  “What does shlyukha mean?” I keep my tone low, ensuring no one within earshot will hear my inquiry.

  Rico stiffens for the quickest second before wiping his mouth with a white napkin. “Nothing. Finish your breakfast, Kitten.”

  Anger unlike anything I’ve ever felt boils my blood. He didn’t even look at me while speaking. He just dismissed me without so much as a sideways glance. Strangers’ ignorance I can tolerate, but from my husband? No, that's something I will not stand for.

  Gritting my teeth, I stand from my seat and politely excuse myself from the table. I’ve reached my quota of dealing with ill-mannered men for one day.

  Before I have the chance to push away from the table, my wrist is seized, and I'm yanked back into my seat. My unladylike topple ends with a bang, not just to my backside, but my pride as well.

  “Sit down and eat.” Rico’s angry voice shudders through my chest.

  I stare at him, dazed and confused. Although the maliciousness of his words doesn’t match the remorse beaming from his eyes, tears still well in mine. Who is this man? He's not the man I’ve awoken to the past five mornings, and he's most definitely not a man I’d marry on sight.

  Battling against threatening tears, I direct my eyes away from the cold-hearted stranger sitting next to me. In the process of diverting my eyes, I catch the leering grin of the unnamed lady sitting across from me. Humor lines her heavily made-up face, and her eyes are brimmed with amusement.

  Noticing she has captured my attention, her evil grin enlarges. “Do you want to know what shlyukha means?” she asks me, her words laced with vindictiveness.

  Not willing to participate in the belittling games of this corrupt family, I shake my head before lowering my eyes to my barely touched plate of food. With my stomach swirling from the tension in the air, my usually robust appetite is waning.

  Any chance of easing the squishiness of my stomach falters when Nikolai remarks, “Shlyukha means whore, Ahren.”

  My heart drops into my stomach as my eyes rocket to Nikolai. I don’t need him to repeat his explanation. All the evidence I need projects from the amused gaze of every set of eyes gawking at me. They’re mocking and full of torment.

  “If you had fallen into my lap instead of Rico’s, I would have cut out the tongue of every man who dared speak of you with such disrespect,” Nikolai states before turning his eyes to his brother. “I wouldn’t sit by and watch my wife called a whore without reprimand.”

  “Zatknis',” Rico spits off his tongue, his eyes fixed on his brother. “Ili ya zakroyu yego dlya vas.”

  Rico’s words are obviously vicious, as the room falls into silence. It’s thick and tangible, and it has my pulse quickening. The smug grin Nikolai has been wearing all morning enlarges, clearly pleased he has sparked a reaction from his brother. After kissing the cheek of the lady seated beside him, Nikolai excuses himself from the table and walks out of the room with his cocky swagger on full display.

  Ignoring the pain stabbing the middle of my chest, I wait for the hum of chatter to once again fill the room before shifting my eyes to Rico. “You knew they were calling me a whore, but you said nothing?” My words come out in a hiss, strained through a sob sitting at the back of my throat. “Why didn’t you stand up for me?”

  “Now is not the time,” Rico replies, his words abrupt.

  “They called me a whore, Rico. When is that ever appropriate?”

  My voice gets louder as I battle to leash my anger, but even knowing I'm attracting stares, I can't stop my onslaught. I’m hurt that the only person who defended my honor was the man who wants me to call him Satan.

  “Why would you let them call me that?”

  His ticking jaw gains momentum. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  “No! Tell me now!” I shout, gaining me the attention of every pair of eyes in the room.

  I balk like I’ve been physically slapped when Rico snarls, “Because that's what all women are.”

  Chapter 21

  Before I can comprehend the repercussions of my actions, I raise my hand and slap it hard across Rico's face. The callousness of my hit forces Rico's head to sling sideways and for my palm to set on fire. Nursing my injured hand, I push back from my seat and make a beeline for the double doors at the end of the room. My heart is walloping against my ribcage, and tears are looming in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I will not give anyone in this room the satisfaction of thinking they have made me upset.

  My quick exit is halted when two large men block my path. When I try to sidestep them, they move back into my way. After exhaling a nerve-cleansing breath, I raise my eyes from their boot-covered feet to their faces. I gulp harshly when I see their furious scowls.

  Bile creeps up my windpipe as the severity of the situation smacks into me. I just slapped a head honcho in a Russian mob in front of his goons. Can I be any more stupid?

  I grimace when one of the wide-shouldered goons grabs the tops of my arms. His hold is so rough, panic zips through my system as fragments of my past clash with my present. Flashes of being grabbed in the alleyway momentarily daze me, but when the goon shakes me—knocking my back molars together—my fighter instincts kick in. I claw at him viciously and thrash out my legs, not willing to go down without a fight for the second time.

  My battle seems to irritate him more. He firms his clutch, and the redness lining his face intensifies.

  The massive brute's fingers only stop digging into my bicep when a deep voice from behind me growls, "Let her go!"

  Rico’s voice is so gravelly, it shakes my heart right out of my chest. Cranking my neck back, I watch him stand from his chair and urgently stride towards me. His gaze is fierce, and it sets my pulse racing.

  When the goon fails to acknowledge his request, Rico snarls, “This is your last warning. Get your hands off my wife before I slit your throat and watch your body shiver as you take your last breath!”

  I barely hear the collective gasps of the patrons seated at the dining table over the ringing of my pulse in my ears. Rico’s eyes show his threat is not idle; he fully intends on following through with his pledge if the goon doesn’t adhere to his warning. His whole composure is dangerous and menacing, and it sends my heart rate skyrocketing. His gaze is so toxic, the henchman drops his hands and takes a retreating step, his pupils large, his eyes wide. He looks even more frightened than I do.

  After speaking to the two gentlemen accosting me in a deep Russian tone, Rico curls his a
rm around my sweat-slicked back and guides me out of the room. Friction plagues the air, making it hard for me to breathe, while also adding nicks to my already damaged heart. I suck in deep breaths as I tell myself on repeat that I'm safe and no one can hurt me. I’m stronger than I was ten years ago. I’ve got this. I hope.

  By the time we reach the landing of the stairs, I’ve gathered back a small sense of normality. I’m still quivering like a bag of nerves, and hot, salty tears are rolling down my cheeks, but my survival mode mechanism has kicked in.

  Spotting the tears streaming down my face, Rico mutters, “Kitten.” His tone is an odd mix of authoritative and nurturing.

  Paying no attention to the lurking glares from the two men stationed at the end of the hallway, I pull away from Rico and angrily stride to our room. As my normal composure emerges from the thick cloud of despair, the events leading up to my frightened state steam roll back into me, particularly the part when Rico allowed me to be humiliated in front of dozens of spectators.

  “Keep the corridor clear,” he instructs the men before increasing the length of his steps to catch up with me.

  When he reaches me, he places his hand on the crook of my elbow. I yank away from him.

  “Kitten—”

  “Don’t Kitten me,” I interrupt, standing up for myself for the first time since. . . ever. “You lost the right to call me a nickname when you let people call me a whore!”

  His eyes drift around our surroundings before he murmurs, “I did that for you.”

  I stare up at him, shocked and disgusted. “Do I look like an idiot?”

  My chest is heaving, and tears are streaming down my face, but I hold his gaze, trying to display I'm not as weak as he thinks I am. He scowls but maintains the quiet approach he exhausted during brunch.

  “How could letting people call me a whore be for my own benefit?” My words come out rickety, hampered by the sob sitting in the back of my throat.

  When Rico steps toward me, I hold my hand out in front of me, demanding for him to stay away. I need to keep a safe distance between us, because even teeming with anger, an excited tingle ran the length of my spine when he grasped my elbow earlier. I clench my teeth and glare into Rico’s eyes, not just disgusted he let people belittle me in front of him, but also at myself. What type of sick, twisted person gets turned on by the same man stabbing a knife into her chest? I keep blaming Vegas for my foolhardiness last week. But it wasn’t Vegas. It was me. I am just as sick and twisted as the man standing in front of me.