Owned by the Mob Boss - A Mafia Romance

1

ERIK

A

ll 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 finest 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.