Unprotected with the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Alekseiev Bratva)

by Nicole Fox

  “I don’t care,” my father grunts, but he stops struggling against Rauch. Rauch releases him. My father takes several deep breaths, shaking his head. He’s trembling with anger. He turns to me. “I thought I raised you to be smarter than this. You’re being reckless. I didn’t raise a foolish woman who would fall all over a man just because he’s rich. I’m so disappointed in you.”

  “You damn well know Ally is incredibly smart,” Lev cuts in. “And I’d appreciate if you didn’t refer to my fiancée in such a demeaning way. She’s going to put you in her shadow sooner rather than later, Officer.”

  “You shut the fuck up,” my father snarls. My mother has walked up behind him. She tries to put a reassuring hand on his back, but he moves away from her like he’s repulsed by all of us.

  “Dad,” I start, taking a step toward him.

  He shakes his head, pointing his finger at me again. “I can’t talk to you right now. Linda, let’s go.”

  He stomps toward his car. My mother gives me a quick smile but follows him without saying anything. Rauch gives us all a wary look before turning toward the rest of the parking lot, where some donors and policemen have stopped to witness the scene. A few of them have their phones held out in front of them.

  “Thanks, folks!” Rauch calls out. “We’re sorry about that. Remember, never mix alcohol with the new boyfriend! Have a good night, y’all!”

  Lev wraps his arm around my waist. I nearly stumble twice as he guides me to the car. He opens the door for me and helps me into the seat, but I barely notice. As he gets into the driver’s seat, I start shaking. My face floods with heat. Tears start to gather on the rims of my eyes.

  “Ally,” Lev says. That’s all it takes. The waterworks are unleashed. Lev puts his hand on my back, rubbing between my shoulders. “It’s okay. It’ll be fine. I promise. Everything will be good soon enough.”

  I want to believe him, but I know that he means that everything will be good soon for him.

  For him, marrying me is the secret code to ensure his freedom.

  For me, it’s the end of all of my important relationships.

  They’ll all be overwhelmed by lies soon and at the center of it will be a man who knows me well enough to stop for chai tea on the way home, but not well enough to know that I’m not that smart and I am being foolish. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be relieved when he doesn’t drop me off at my apartment. I wouldn’t feel his hand on my knee and consider letting my world burn while I isolate myself with him forever.

  As I sit in Lev’s den, I feel inadequate. Poor. Everything around me is worth more than I could ever dream of making.

  My father has never before said he was disappointed in me. He wasn’t like those emotionally distant fathers, who kept their feelings under wraps. He told me he was proud during every significant step of my life. If he was disappointed, he might convey it in subtle ways, but he never felt it strongly enough to say it, to hurt me like that.

  Lev sits down beside me. He took his jacket off in the car, but for once, I barely notice his hardened body underneath his shirt. His hands are clasped in front of him. There’s a half-inch of space between us, but it might as well be miles.

  “Do you want me to make your chai tea?” he asks softly.

  I shake my head, letting it drop in my hands. “That’s just going to remind me of my father more.”

  He nods, frustrated. I know he feels useless. This isn’t something that can be solved with money or muscle. It’s out of his element.

  His knee starts to jiggle. I remember that he did it in his car when we were driving to get my dress. He told me it wasn’t anxiety, but pent-up energy from not working out. I did the same thing when he was telling me what to do if he was killed. I’m taking on his mannerisms—and worse, his ideals.

  He stands up and walks over to the home bar. I keep my head bowed. I listen to the clink of glasses, the clatter of ice, and the sound of liquor being poured.

  When Lev appears in front of me with the glass of liquor—whiskey, maybe—I’m still surprised. It’s like my brain has splintered, no longer caring to make connections because all those connections point me in the wrong direction.

  I sip from the glass. Lev sits back down beside me, nursing his own drink. He’s barely still for a moment before he shifts his weight, his knee starting to bounce again.

  “My parents,” he says, “used to have this perfect relationship.”

  He’s staring straight in front of him, his hands loosely holding his tumbler. I hold my breath, my mind playing through all the possible scenarios that he could be remembering.

  He takes another sip of his whiskey. He doesn’t say anything more. I set my drink down, laying my head against his arm as I pull my legs onto the couch.

  As much as my world is burning into ashes, it’s not the worst possible place to end up.

  “I need to ask something,” I say.

  “Ask it.”

  “How deeply are you involved in the Bratva?”

  He lets out a slow breath. “Why are you asking this now?”

  “I saw how my father and the guy at the door reacted to you. You said the man on the motorcycle was one of the Colosimo men and you must be irreplaceable to be able to kill him without getting in trouble for it. He could have had information.”

  “He was going to kill you. I had to kill him.”

  “And the Bratva wouldn’t have cared about me dying. You could have used my death to get the Colosimos in trouble.”

  “You’re more useful alive.”

  “Lev,” I say. “I already know. You’re high up on the chain. You’re high-ranking. You’re one of the leaders. If you weren’t important to the Bratva, they wouldn’t let you keep all this money. But they’ll turn on you, Lev. You talk about dying at the hands of the Colosimos, but at least they’ll tell you that they’re coming for you. I’ve heard what the Bratva can do and the Bratva will kill you without any forewarning.”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I can know that,” he says. “I know that because I’m not just high-ranking, I’m the highest rank. I’m not just one of the leaders; I am the leader. The Bratva won’t turn against me because I am the Bratva.”

  I sit up, moving away from him, my back pressed against the armrest. “No. No, you’re not. If you were the leader of the Bratva, you wouldn’t have been able to walk into the gala. You wouldn’t be able to run Mariya’s Revenge and the Bratva at the same time. People would figure it out.”

  “People have.” He shrugs. “Thanks to my parents. Think, Ally. Do you see me answering to anybody? Do you think I got on the phone and begged some man to forgive me for killing that Colosimo man? Do you think I would have struck a deal to marry you if I thought someone above me could disapprove of it? No. I make my own choices.”

  Even as I open my mouth, I know it’s true. I close my mouth, trying to find a flaw in his logic, but he’s right. I’ve let denial lead me this whole time.

  Lev stands up. He walks past me as he leaves the room. He left his glass on the coffee table. I stare at it.

  Should I leave? Is he getting a gun to kill me, now that I know the truth?

  I walk over to the fireplace and pick up the fire poker, testing the weight in my hand. If he has a gun, it will be difficult to hit him hard enough before he gets a shot off—God knows he’s a good shot—but it could be my only chance.

  But he said he’s never hurt me.

  I grip the fire poker tighter. I could never trust his word. Now isn’t any different.

  As I hear his footsteps, I raise the fire poker like a baseball bat. Every muscle in my body is tense, tight, coiled, ready to spring. My life depends on it.

  His steps grow louder. Closer.

  He’s at the door.

  I readjust my grip. I’ll only have one chance to swing.

  He walks in with the metal ammunition box. I freeze. He barely glances at the fire poker.

  “If
you put that back, Irina would appreciate it,” he says, putting the box on the coffee table.

  I tighten my grip on the fire poker. “Are you going to tell everyone about Jeffrey Douglas?”

  “Are you going to bludgeon me to death?” he retorts. “No. I’m giving you all of the surveillance footage and evidence I had collected to use against you.”

  “You’re giving it to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? That’s your leverage.”

  He leans against the back of the couch. “I proposed to you impulsively, based on the fear that your father had sent you to spy on me. I don’t operate out of fear, Allison. Ever. It was a mistake to make and the mistake has only been compounded all along. By giving you back your own leverage, I’m giving myself control back too.”

  “Are you breaking up with me?” I cut in. I sound angry, but that fear he’s talking about is in the center of my chest. I must be suffering from severe Stockholm Syndrome, but I don’t care what the name is. I need more time before I’m locked out of his life. And I don’t like hearing that everything we are is a mistake.

  “No,” he says. “I don’t want you to be forced to live by fear either. So I’m giving you the leverage I had.”

  “You’re messing with me. You have to have copies of all of these things. You told me you had copies.”

  “And they’re in there.” He leans toward me. “I had no time to prepare to do this. I don’t need to use mind games. You can go to the police if you’d like. I’ll beat the case, but maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

  He rubs his forehead. When he looks at me again, there’s a pain in his eyes I hadn’t seen before.

  “I don’t want you to live in fear of me. My parents lived in fear of each other and I’m not going to go down that road. At this point, you’re a complication and I don’t need it. You can go to your parents, admit that they were right, and live the rest of your life perfectly happy.”

  He’s not looking me in the eye. His words should feed into my feelings of inadequacy, but all those hard feelings fade and all I feel is the need to be closer to him. I’m not ready to live the rest of my life yet.

  Without giving myself time to overthink things, I undo my dress’ knot behind my neck and let the fabric fall. I couldn’t wear a bra under the dress without the band being visible, so when Lev looks at me, I have his full attention. I slide off the couch, pulling the dress down to the floor. It puddles at my feet. The feeling of silk on my skin is pleasant, but the look that Lev is giving me is thrilling and threatening all at once.

  I settle back on the couch, naked except for silk underwear. Lev’s eyes are predatory, skimming over my body like he’s plotting how to conquer every part of me. My pussy pulses at the thought.

  He pounces, his hands on my shoulders as he pins me to the couch. He crushes his mouth against mine, his hands sliding over my body with an insatiable hunger. I try to kiss him back, but he’s a famished predator; I can only receive his need and give myself over to him completely.

  He yanks his shirt open, a couple of the buttons snapping off. He whips it onto the floor before returning to his starved kissing. His hands move down to his belt, grinding near my clit as he works the buckle and unfastens his jeans. I arch my back, needing more contact.

  He lifts himself off me, climbing off the couch to kick off his shoes and pull down his pants. His size surprises me again. I’ve seen it before, but either my memory is fuzzy from the alcohol or it just seems bigger in front of me.

  His hand strokes his cock, his eyes scouring my body. My body is nearly shaking, from need and fear.

  “Lie over the armrest,” he orders. I don’t think twice about it as I do what he says. I settle over the armrest, my stomach comfortably on the thickest part of it.

  He moves over toward my head. His cock dips in front of my eyes. As I raise my chin, stretching to reach it, he grabs under my arms and pulls me farther up, so the upper half my body is dangling over the couch. I put my hands down to prevent myself from falling.

  “No,” he says. “Keep your hands behind your back.”

  I unsteadily cross my wrists behind my back.

  The couch shifts and I feel Lev’s legs settle outside of mine. His cock taps against my ass twice before circling around my slit. One warm hand settles over my wrists, clasping around them. His grip slowly tightens. His cock presses against my entrance.

  He slams into me. At first, there’s hot pain shooting through me. I cry out, but as he presses his weight against me, burying himself in me, the pain sharpens the desire, like it has deepened what I’m capable of feeling.

  He keeps his weight on me, a slight ache in my wrists from it. I feel his warm breath against my hair. I squirm against him, trying to get some more friction. His body quivers over me as he gives a breath of laughter.

  “What is it about you?” he mutters. “I try to get rid of you, try to get rid of your control over me, and you make me lose control again.”

  I try to move my hands. He tightens his grip.

  “Are you afraid?” he asks.

  The answer is yes.

  I’m afraid my relationship with my parents is over.

  I’m afraid of the future.

  I’m afraid of the Bratva.

  I’m afraid of getting a call and hearing that he’s dead.

  And underneath him, yes, there’s fear, but in this position, I trust him completely. It’s fear, but as long he’s there, it’s thrilling fear. It’s conquerable.

  His grip on my wrists starts to loosen and his weight starts to lift. He starts to pull out. Uncertainty starts to enter the room.

  “No,” I answer his question.

  The moment I speak, he thrusts back into me, jabbing my clit against the armrest. I wince, but as he picks up his pace, the friction sends strikes of lightning up my body.

  He releases my wrists. I try to put my hands underneath me against the side of the armrest, but every time he bears down, my hands slip. I grip onto the edge of the couch cushion as I keep sliding forward.

  His hands slide under my breasts, giving them a squeeze before he pulls me back a bit. It prevents the blood from rushing to my head like before but my clit isn’t hitting the armrest like before. I move my hand underneath me, barely brushing against my clit before he pulls my arm out, pinning it down on the couch cushion.

  As I feel the peak approaching, he stops. He pulls out, the emptiness inside me more present than ever. I turn my head to look at him. Beads of sweat curve around his forehead as he grabs my shoulders, flipping me over easily. He spreads my legs open, my right leg draping over the couch. He slams back into me, but instead of returning to his previous rhythm, his pelvis grinds against my clit.

  His hands cradle my face and he looks directly at me as the climax rips into me. He must know he needs to hold me together because the ecstasy shatters inside me. Riptide after riptide of pleasure floods me, pulling me under.

  Lev groans, deep and gruff, as my pleasure triggers his orgasm. His cock spasms inside me, filling me with his heat.

  He rests his forehead on my clavicle. When he lifts his head again, his expression is softer than I’ve ever seen it. He raises himself up, kissing my forehead once and my lips twice.

  He pulls himself off me slowly and picks up his shirt, wiping the sweat off his face. I move onto my side. This is how it ends. He’s had his last fuck, gotten it out of his system.

  “Did you want to fuck me in as many positions as possible?” I ask softly. “Is that why you stopped and moved me?”

  He carefully folds his shirt, not looking at me. “I just wanted to be able to see your face for once.”

  He sets the shirt down. He crouches down near the couch, so we’re closer to being eye to eye.

  “We’re going to shower,” he tells me. “We’re going to sleep. And I’m going to keep you until the day I die.”

  They’re not quite wedding vows, but as he scoops me up in his arms, our skin sticking to each othe
r, I know he means every word.

  I don’t know whether to cry tears of joy, or scream and run like my life depends on it.

  15

  Lev

  I’ve always slept erratically. When I was a child, I’d see the shadows of my parents through the crack of the door, intertwining to become one shadow. When I was a teenager, I kept the door closed, but I could still hear the screaming, the pleading, the sound of flesh striking flesh. The night before I left the house, my mother was trying to muffle her crying. My father had raised us from poverty to middle class, so when he told me if I proved myself as a foot soldier, I’d become a Bratva boss one day, I was eager to leave the house to prove my tenacity. I told myself I’d return one day and find a remedy for the poison in our home.

  But my mother did that on her own and that’s when my regrets began filling up the barrel chamber.

  I wake twice in the nighttime, which is a significant decrease. Every time, I turn to see Ally. Her body is a range of hills and valleys, each crying out for my touch, my kiss. The first time I wake up, I settle my hand on her hip. The second time, I move my hand over her breast, her heart beating under my palm.

  When I wake up the third time, I check my phone. Three notifications.

  Ilya: No leads yet.

  1 missed call

  Ilya: 4 14 6 2 10 23 70 32 23 7

  I stare up at the ceiling for several seconds before carefully rolling off the bed. I tuck the blanket closer to Ally. I open the door a crack and slip out.

  I go down to the den and grab Russia: From Slavic Tribes to Potential Superpower. I take it to the office. I flip it open to page 4, word 14: law. Page 6, word 2: enforcement. Page 10, word 23: discovered. Page 70, word 32: Mach. Page 23, word 7: Ten.

  Law enforcement discovered Mach ten. He must mean MAC-10. Illegal firearms wouldn’t have been the first evidence we would have tried to get rid of, but it would have been on the list. It doesn’t directly link us back to the Bratva, but it’s enough for them to keep digging. If they figure out we’re transferring the weapons through furniture delivery, that could be connected back to us.