Owned by the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Ivanovich Bratva), Nicole Fox [book recommendations for teens txt] 📗

lie off the bat. “I, uh … I didn’t really have a choice. My mom needs the money.”

He nods again, and again I have that feeling that he gets way more than just the outline of the situation. It’s like he can read my despair and my frustration immediately, even though I have all my walls up and my hackles raised to the fullest. “We can discuss payment details momentarily. I assure you, you will not be disappointed. Follow me.”

He turns without awaiting a response. I ignore the way the shirt hugs his back, his confident stride, all those signals that remind me of the sex. I push it down and seal it in a box deep in my mind.

He bought a virgin. He’s a pig. I have to remember that.

He drops easily into the chair and gestures at the one opposite. I sit down on the edge of my seat, ready to get out of here any moment.

“To a change of heart,” he says, pouring us both a drink and raising his in a toast.

I push mine aside. “A change of mind,” I correct. “I still think it’s disgusting.”

He shrugs. “Semantics.”

“But,” I swallow hard, “yes, I would like to take you up on your offer.”

“Good,” he says. “But it is not so easy as that. There are stipulations.”

“What kind of stipulations?”

We are talking about my body, not a freaking merger and acquisition. The legal language sets my teeth on edge.

I don’t let any of it show on my face, though. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Until you give birth to my son, you will live here with me.” He takes a small sip from the glass and places it down slowly. Everything he does is so controlled. “And you will be required to quit your job.”

I stifle a laugh. “Oh, what a shame,” I say. “I had dreams of becoming head stock clerk.”

His eyes flicker as though in amusement. “So you agree.”

“If I say no, will we still have a deal?”

“No.”

I throw up my hands. “Then what choice do I have? But I have a few stipulations of my own.”

He waves a hand. “I cannot promise to grant them, but you are free to speak.”

“How kind of you.” My tone is bitter. “I’ll keep going to nursing school and I want weekly payments for my mother’s health care. We’re …” I trail off. I was about to say, ‘We’re lost without it.’ But I won’t show weakness in front of him.

“Do you imagine you are my only option?” he murmurs. “There are plenty of women who—”

“Is that a no?” I say, making to stand up. “I don’t like wasting my time.”

Is that admiration I read in his expression? It’s almost like he likes the fact that I’m not immediately kowtowing to him.

“I have no desire for your mother’s condition to worsen,” he says easily. “And if going to nursing school brings you some comfort, then I will allow it. But none of this will interfere with our agreement. You should know, too, that I myself will put my son in you. No sperm donation, no doctors interfering, no IVF.”

I swallow, belly thrumming. Nerves, I tell myself, just nerves. “There’s something else, then,” I say, sitting.

“More demands?” he laughs. “You’re not exactly in the strongest of negotiating positions.”

“If it has to be sex, it will be clinical. Just for the pregnancy. No emotions, no kissing, nothing that isn’t strictly required.”

“‘Strictly required,’” he repeats. “What a lovely phrase. Tell me, Camille: do you take me as a romantic man?”

“And I want to be part of the baby’s life!” I blurt instead of answering his question.

I didn’t mean to say that, but as soon as the words are out, I know they’re true. I won’t be like Dad, abandoning my child to a single parent, even if it does mean tying myself to this man.

The thought of a future of co-parenting with this monster makes my blood run cold. But I force the thoughts from my mind. Not now—show no weakness. There will be plenty of time later to consider the ramifications of what I’ve just said.

God, how have things gotten so crazy so fast?

Erik hesitates, a small smile playing on his lips. Like he can see the war raging in my head, the thousand nagging questions, the storm of worries.

But he says nothing. Just nods. Then he reaches across the table and offers me his hand. “So we have a deal.”

I give him my hand and we shake. He holds on for just a moment too long, squeezing. His eyes dance over me.

Then he sits back and folds his tattooed hands. “I will have my lawyers draw up the contract. In the meantime, my butler will drive you home so that you can collect your things. You are free to go.”

I don’t like being dismissed like that, but I’m glad to get out of there. I feel his eyes on me all the way to the door.

And I can’t help but notice that my center is soaking wet.

6

Erik

I sit in my desk, reading the contract by the sunlight shafting in through the stained glass windows.

The contract is written like a surrogacy agreement, which, I suppose, it is. Briefly, the realization crosses my mind that what I’m doing is literally signing up to have a child. A little boy who might look just like me. Or a daughter, who could reflect her mother’s looks and spirit … the thought of having a mini-Camille running around the house, much less any child at all in a home that’s never known anything but blood, rattles me and I push it away and go on rereading.

Once I am satisfied, I sign my name, and then draw a cross where Camille’s signature will go. When I am done, I call Anatoly.

“How is the shipment?” I ask.

“Steady,” he replies, which means the drugs are selling well in the nightclub. “But some of the dealers are insistent that they want to make overtures to those