Unprotected with the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Alekseiev Bratva), Fox, Nicole [spiritual books to read TXT] 📗

“It’s your trial,” he says. His foot is jiggling now. I’ve never seen him nervous.

“Maybe you’re antsy because you’re lying to me.”

“No. I’m not antsy. I’m usually working out right now, so I have a lot of pent-up energy.”

“Oh.”

I’d forgotten about his exercise regimen. It should have occurred to me that he’d always have a busy schedule and my request would interrupt it. It’s hard to relate the man who is taking time to go shopping with me with the man I saw kill someone yesterday. The man I now know for sure is part of the Bratva—fairly high up, I suspect.

My bag vibrates. I pull out my phone. It’s a text from my mother.

Haven’t heard from you in a while :) text me so I know you’re alive. Love you!!

I text back. Everything is going good. I love you.

I put my phone back in my bag. I glance at Lev. His leg is no longer jiggling.

“Who’s texting you?” he asks.

“It’s not my father, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say. “It’s just my mom checking up on me. You can read it when we park if you want.”

“It’s fine.”

I swallow, the tension in the car making me feel claustrophobic.

“Do you ever hear from your mother?” I ask. He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything more as he parks the car.

I look out the window. The sign in front of the shop says Renovate.

* * *

Renovate Boutique is designed like a beehive. The center room is hexagonal with several displays showing dresses, shoes, bags, and jewelry. The walls are covered with hanging dresses, each wall showing different colors like a spectrum. There are several rooms surrounding the center room, which from what I’ve seen in one of the dressing rooms, are all hexagonal too.

The sales assistant, Louisa, puts dresses in my arms like they’re babies. While I told her my preferences, she seems insistent on basing my choices on my body frame, skin tone, and hair color. Her latest one is a short dress that resembles a rose with its color and layers.

I glance at Lev. He’s sitting on one of their sofas while intently focused on his phone. He could be intentionally ignoring me or merely plotting someone’s death. It’s completely possible that he’s doing both.

I go back into the dressing room. Three sides of the room have massive mirrors that cover their walls. There’s also a stool, where I set my clothes after I undress again. I’m a little less self-conscious compared to the first three times I’ve changed but there’s still a feeling that I’m not like the other women who walk in here—the thin, tall, ex-model arm candy of rich husbands. I couldn’t even get the first dress over my hips. These dresses are for women who don’t need a police chief father in order to find their way to Lev’s bed.

I pull the dress up, taking a breath as I manage to sneak it past my hips.

So Lev is part of the Bratva. He’s capable of killing people. In all likelihood, that man he killed in front of me was not the first man he ever killed. He didn’t hesitate at all when the man was completely defenseless. The only reason he didn’t shoot him right away was because I interrupted him. If he’s willing to kill a defenseless man, is he willing to kill anyone? Everyone? Or is it only people who try to hurt him?

I take the dress off. It pinches at my waist and I hate the prom-esque look of it. I get dressed again and take the dress out to Louisa.

“It’s just not right,” I tell her. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so picky.”

“That’s fine.” Louisa waves away my concern. “This one might be better for you. With your pale skin and your hourglass body, it will make you look gorgeous. I believe that, one hundred percent.”

I take the dress from her, but I’m focused on Lev, who is talking to someone now, his lip curled up in a small snarl. I try to hear what he’s saying, but he’s keeping his voice quiet. His lips form a few curses.

Louisa’s eyes are on me, waiting for me to try on her dress. I retreat to the dressing room and shed my clothing again.

Can I be that critical of Lev for the murder he committed after what I did? They were both in self-defense. And, in the murder he committed, he was protecting me. It was a life for a life and I can’t be ungrateful that the life that was spared was mine. If he’d hesitated for a second—if he was inexperienced in killing—a mortician could be dressing me instead of me dressing myself.

I pull the dress up. It fits. I check myself in the mirror.

My throat swells. My legs fill with lead.

It’s a simple white dress. The ruffles on the skirt make it look like a waterfall.

It’s not exactly like the dress I was wearing on the night of the car crash—the stitching is a lot more intricate on this one and the other one had a top that resembled a corset while this one is looser—but I can see myself in that dress that night. I remember putting it on and believing it was going to be just another fun night.

I remember the blood staining it. Being certain some of the blood wasn’t mine.

I crouch down. I lean my forehead against the mirror. My breath steams the glass, though it feels like it’s getting trapped in my chest.

I see the other car coming closer and closer. I start to scream, but it’s not soon enough for Lily to swerve.

Sweat drips onto the mirror. My chest feels like it’s cracking open—maybe because we hit the sign so hard that the seat belt left bruises I could still see long after they faded.

I open my eyes. Julia is crawling into the car, her words soothing, though they’re not making sense to me. There’s