by Nicole Fox
I am happy. Despite everything we’ve been through, despite our past and the trauma we’ve endured, I’m happy now. And for right now, that is all that matters.
When I slide inside of her, I’m not thinking about what a bad time it is for another baby. I’m not thinking of all the reasons I should say no. I’m just thinking that this moment is perfect, and no bad thing could ever come from it.
I slide into her, and Courtney’s eyes widen. She opens her mouth like she wants to warn me, but she must see the surrender in my face. Her face splits into a wide grin, and then she drags her nails across my back, and rolls her body up and against mine.
She presses her fingers into my lower back, clinging to me with every thrust, drawing me in deeper and deeper until I can’t hold back anymore.
I gasp and spill into her, and I feel Courtney tense and release, her body moving in rhythm with mine.
When we’re done, we lie on the wooden floor, entwined in one another, sweaty and naked and spent. And happy.
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THE END
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Sneak Preview: Owned by the Mob Boss
By Nicole Fox
She is untouched. Innocent. Desperate. Mine.
I was raised to rule.
Hardened by the laws of my family:
Take what needs taking.
Break what needs breaking.
Camille is no exception.
Her body belongs to me now,
Courtesy of a substantial cash payment to the Archangel Vision auction.
I know she fears me.
I know she wants me.
But what I want to know is this:
Is she ready to give me a child?
Erik
All around me, hell is erupting.
But I have always felt at home in hell.
The bullet cracks an inch from my face, coughing up plaster and bits of wall.
I duck aside and throw myself behind the upturned couch. More bullets tear through the fabric, whistling in the air.
“Motherfuckers!” Radovan roars. He’s a giant man, so his voice booms throughout the room as he leaps over the room partition and rushes at the remaining Italian mafiosos.
I peek over the edge of the couch. He has his gun raised, letting bullets fly as he reaches into his back pocket for his knife.
Beside me, Damir fires more shots. He’s a little man with horn-rimmed glasses like a fucking librarian and he’s biting his bottom lip like he’s nervous. But he doesn’t miss once.
From the corner of the room, my second-in-command, Fyodor, watches Radovan with the same tense expression I must be wearing.
He’s always doing something to get himself in trouble.
Suddenly, an Italian leaps from their barricade and wraps his hands around Radovan’s throat. I jump up without thinking, aiming my pistol but knowing I could easily hit Radovan. Whatever happens, we can’t let one of our men die. It’s bad enough that Oleg took that slug in the shoulder.
“Erik!” Fyodor shouts over the sound of gunfire. “Get down!”
I ignore him, a bullet whipping so close to me I can feel it brush like wind against my cheek. The Italian nearly has his pistol pressed against Radovan’s chin. He’s a reedy thing, in one of those slick suits they all wear, only now it’s slick with the blood of his comrades.
“Erik!” Fyodor yells again.
Somebody grabs at my shirt. I throw a wild fist, tossing him into the air, and quickly turn to put a bullet in the attacker’s throat. He slumps, gurgling.
I duck as a bullet whines over my head. Another snaps at the ground at my feet.
I grab the Italian by the throat and crush his windpipe with one vicious squeeze. His eyes bulge and he looks at me as though seeing whatever god he prays to. I toss his body aside and spin to take care of the man who was firing at us, but he is already lying facedown in a pool of blood, Damir’s knife buried in the back of his neck.
“Use your wits,” I growl, as we duck down behind the bar.
Radovan grins at me, blood smearing his face. We took them by surprise, but even Italian rats like these will fight when backed into a corner.
“Never knew I had any. But thanks, boss.”
His eyes go wide.
“Watch out!”
I turn just in time to spot the Italian standing in the doorway with the heavy machine gun. He props the barrel on the edge of an overturned table and smiles savagely.
Time slows to a crawl. He could light us all up, devour the room in a single hailstorm of metal death. Someone has to stop him before he can get to the trigger.
I raise my gun.
But before I can fire, somebody leaps from the shadows and grabs my ankle. I look down to find the crushed windpipe man gripping my foot, wheezing and dribbling but still as yet alive.
As I make to empty my clip in his head, the man by the machine gun finishes setting up his mount.
And the world explodes.
I throw myself at Radovan and drag him to the ground as the cacophony of automatic fire roars overhead. We roll over and scramble toward the closest cover—another section of the bar—as the man on the floor crawls after us, reaching for a knife.
I kick him in the face. His head snaps back. I think he lets out a pathetic cry, but the air is too heavy with warfare to know for sure. I kick him again, hard. His nose erupts in a torrent of blood.
We round the corner of the bar on hands and knees.
But they are waiting for us.
Two last Italians, aside from the one manning the machine gun that continues to rain fire on our position.
One of the men hefts a shotgun and aims it at us, but then Oleg comes sliding over the bar, oblivious to his shoulder wound. His blond hair is slicked straight back, flecked with crimson stains.
The Italian spins to aim at Oleg.
“No!” I roar, leaping to my feet and throwing myself at him.
He pushes the barrel into my belly. I grab his hand just before he can squeeze the trigger. I twist the gun, aim it at his gut, headbutt him so hard he almost flies off his feet, and then let the buckshot go.
He crumples like a deflating balloon.
The last Italian behind the bar raises his pistol to my head. A second later and I’d be dead, just another Bratva boss lost to history, but then Fyodor steps out and cleaves the top of his skull with a well-placed bullet.
I nod shortly in acknowledgment. It’s not the first time my lieutenant has saved my life.
He bows slightly, looking more like a Russian aristocrat than a mobster—all suave, inscrutable smile.
“Give me that.” I nod to his rifle.
He takes the strap from his shoulder and tosses it to me.
I spin as I catch it, peer over the bar, and then shoot the machine gunner right between the eyes. He lands on his weapon, mouth split open, the lights rapidly leaving his eyes.
And just like that, the hellfire ceases.
We leave Genovesi’s like a funeral pyre in our rearview mirror, the flames blazing into the night sky, and head out to Red Ruble.
“I don’t need a doctor,” Oleg says, pressing a towel against his shoulder. “Just a vodka or five, and a willing woman to warm my sheets.”
“You’ll have both,” I tell him. “You did well. You all did. The Italians are done in this city. Perhaps a few cousins remain, but if they rear their pathetic heads, we will take them as war trophies. This city belongs to the Ivanonich Bratva. Never forget that.”
The men nod seriously, though I feel Damir’s eyes on me, as they often have been these past months. He doesn’t look as pleased as he ought to be.
We head around the back and into the private function room, the walls displaying my Serovs, Repins, and more, all the fine
st in Russian art. Some of them are originals. The room is already full of women in bikinis carrying golden trays of vodka and champagne. Their fake tits are also the artwork of masters, and nonetheless pleasing to look at.
Anatoly is waiting for me on the raised platform where the senior men sit, though lately Fyodor has taken to sitting down in the pits as though he is one of the soldiers.
“He is trying to win the favor of the men,” I mutter quietly.
Anatoly is a gray-haired man with a scar running down the left side of his face. “I cannot disagree,” he says. “But you mustn’t let him see how it makes you feel.”
“Feel?” I laugh gruffly. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Good.” Anatoly nods. “So drink. Today is a good day.”
We click our glasses together and take shots of vodka. It sears down my throat, settling warmly in my belly.
Hour by hour, the night wears on.
Some of the men retire to the rooms above the restaurant with girls from the harem. Others pour back vodka until they end up slumped in their chairs.
And some get so drunk they forget who their leader is.
“Now we can join with the Aryan Pact,” Damir says loudly, slamming his hand on the table. “Like we should have done before we killed the Italians.”
The only sign of anger I show is the pulsing of my temples. Damir knows how I feel about those white supremacist worms.
“With their trucking connections,” he goes on, “we’ll be able to start shipping weapons across state lines, under the radar. It’s a win-win.”
“Damir,” I call across to him. “Your efforts would be better spent finding a woman for the night. Preferably one who will help you forget how to speak.”
He glares at me. I almost leap across the room and smack him in the mouth for his insolence. Oleg is looking at him sideways, as though wondering what on earth he’s thinking. It’s a sentiment I relate to.
“I could make the call right now,” he says, ignoring me. “Five minutes, it would take. A new arrangement that would make us all rich.”
“You are richer than you have any right to be,” I say calmly. “Be happy with what the Bratva provides.”
“A man can always get richer.”
“A man can forget his place, too, it seems.” I put my hands on the edge of the table. “Are you sure you want to have this conversation, Damir?”
He glances around the room, down at his feet, and then pushes his glasses up his nose as though the vodka has infused him with courage. “Fyodor would not hesitate because it makes him queasy,” he sneers. “Fyodor would—”
“Enough,” I say flatly.
“Enough,” Damir echoes like a schoolboy, shaking his head. “Yes, I believe I have had enough.” He rises to his feet, grabs his bottle, and swaggers drunkenly from the room.
I make to follow him, fire raging through my veins at the disrespect. Anatoly places his hand on my arm. “Erik,” he says quietly. “You will only widen the gap between those who support who and those who …”
He does not need to say it: those who support Fyodor. That gap has been causing me sleepless nights of late. A widening rift, with dire consequences if I let it worsen.
Yet, Fyodor is still my second, and has shown no signs of disloyalty. I am still very much the boss of this Bratva. Time to assert my authority.
“Fyodor,” I growl.
He glances up from the woman he has been talking with. He did not look up during the exchange, even when his name was mentioned, though I’ve no doubt he caught every word.
“Damir needs a lesson in discipline. Make it clear that he will not mention the Aryan Pact again.”
Fyodor rises to his feet swiftly, but still with that inscrutable smile on his face. He inclines his head. “Of course.” He nods at the woman. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I watch as he disappears after Damir. “If that happens again,” I murmur to Anatoly, “there will be blood.”
“It is only right,” he agrees. “But give the drunken fool a chance. An execution is no small thing.”
“Neither is a soldier who thinks himself a general.”
Anatoly is about to say something else when Alena climbs up the steps and slides into my lap. She is the woman I have been fucking these past couple of weeks, nothing more significant than that. Tall, with legs that can wrap around a man and make him forget, for a few hours, the weight of the world. Her eyes are glassy with liquor as she throws her arms around my shoulders.
“Should we get out of here?” she whispers seductively in my ear.
“Woman,” I snarl, shifting so she falls onto the chair beside me. “You just interrupted your superior.”
Anatoly raises his hands with an indulgent smile. “If a pretty girl cannot interrupt me, who can? I am done anyway, my boy. Emily is waiting up for me.” He rises to leave.
“Well?” Alena whispers, sliding her hand up my thigh. “Seeing as it’s just the two of us … You could even take me home. Back to your place.”
“No,” I say at once. “If we leave, it will be to a hotel.”
She makes a catlike whining noise, but knows better than to argue the point. She knows I am not ready—will never be ready—to invite her into my personal sanctuary. I feel nothing for her except the pulsing at the base of my manhood.
But it would be good to forget, just for a little while.
“Come on, baby,” Alena breathes, tugging on my shirt.
She seems distracted this evening. Usually she throws herself at me as though her life’s goal is to make me love her, eyes burning into me, tugging and sighing and moaning. But now she is glancing at the door. And then she compensates by being far pushier than usual, her hands tightening to fists on my clothes.
“Come on.”
I grab her by the shoulders and shove her back onto the bed. She falls with a giggle, though it sounds somehow off. I do not know Alena as well as she would like, but my senses have been honed through years of filthy, bloody work.
Something is wrong here.
Or is it perhaps that the night has made me paranoid? Fyodor and the treacherous game of politics that is leadership in the Bratva, Damir and his stomach-churning desires to forge alliances with racist monsters, the remnants of the Italian mafia still nipping at the edges of my territory… it’s enough to drive a weaker man insane.
But I was born for this.
Alena tilts her head up at me, trying to look cute. It is like she is playing a part. But of course she is. She has been playing a part ever since we met—loyal fuck toy, mindless distraction.
So why is there a pit in my belly?
I ignore my gut instinct as I climb on top of her. We throw ourselves into the foreplay, but again there is something amiss in Alena’s moaning. It is even more overdramatic than usual.
Then, just as we are about to start having sex, she gives me a little kiss on the cheek and stops us.
“One second, baby,” she says. “I’ve got this new toy I want to try. Do you mind?”
Before waiting for an answer, she slides from beneath me like a serpent. She makes toward her bag. My breath catches in my throat; my gut churns.
I tell myself to relax. Surely, I am wrong. Merely a man on edge, imagining monsters under the bed when there is nothing to fear.
But when she veers for the door and flings it open, everything I suspected presents itself in cold, savage reality.
I leap to my feet and pull up my pants, cursing myself for a fool. My pulse is pounding in my throat. My whole world has shrunk into one question:
What is on the other side of that door?
When Radovan steps through with the pistol, my heart almost stops.
But I don’t have time for emotion. There is only raw survival, or death. Nothing more. So I force the sorrow down into my gut.
If I am going to die here tonight, I will do it as a man.
Alena disappears behind Radovan’s broad back, shielding herself.
“Yo
u two make quite the pair,” I say calmly.
“I told you I didn’t have any wits,” he says, sounding almost sad.
But that doesn’t stop him from raising the pistol.
I charge. Bang. The room erupts as the gun flash winks. He fires again and lava pours into my shoulder, pain flaring.
“Traitor!” I roar, throwing myself on top of him.
Alena batters my back with balled-up fists as Radovan tries to wrench the barrel into my neck to get off a shot that will end my life. I wrestle with him, my muscles straining so hard that veins bulge on my forearms. I knock him with a quick elbow. His mouth fills with blood. He makes a groaning sound as I finally get ahold of the gun.
Alena smashes a glass over my head.
I stumble.
Radovan leaps for the gun.
But it is too late. I fire right between his eyes, killing this man who has been loyal to me for years.
He crumples back, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Blood seeps into the carpet.
I turn to find Alena diving at me with a knife.
“No!” I roar, raising the gun. She doesn’t stop. Maybe she loved Radovan; maybe she needs the money from whoever is paying for this hit job. Something like grief mixes with the fury in her face.
I make to drop the gun to wrestle the knife from her, but then Radovan twitches behind me, not quite dead. Men never die as quickly in real life as they do in the movies.
Mayhem consumes us and I end up firing three more shots: one into Radovan and two into Alena’s belly.
“Shit,” I mutter, standing up as Alena slumps on top of the big brute. My shoulder throbs in agony.
I glance down at them as Alena bleeds to death. I wonder if I should call the cleanup crew. My chest is heaving in shock and white-hot rage as blood pulsing from my shoulder stains my shirt.
But I can’t call the crew, because that would mean letting the Bratva know about the murder. It would make me look reachable, vulnerable to those who wish to do me harm. And like Anatoly said, that would only make the rift between me and Fyodor worse.