Unprotected with the Mob Boss - A Mafia Romance

A hand claps my shoulder. I turn, all those sharp edges ready to cut someone, and release a slow breath when I see Ilya Sevostyanov. He always appears a bit sickly-pale skin, pale hair, shadows under his eyes.

Some think that a right-hand man should be made of sterner stuff. But Ilya is loyalty personified. Nothing is more important in my business.

"Duilio Colosimo and Siro Vozzella are at headquarters," he says.

"Fuck," I mutter. Not the report I was wanting to hear. I finish my last shot and set it down. "Let's go then."

He nods, and we depart.

DUILIO COLOSIMO CLASPS his hands on the long conference table at Mariya's Revenge headquarters. Between his massive bulk and the city lights glaring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, it's easy to miss his consigliere at his side. Siro Vozzella is a skinny little nobody with a protruding Adam's apple that's begging to be torn out.

"There's no reason for us to trust you, Lev," Duilio drawls. "You have a lot of men with blood on their hands and I have a lot of grieving widows."

I shrug. "Let them cry. I don't see how that's my problem or yours."

His upper lip twitches. "The Calvino Mafia is ... creating complications. They're not as powerful as your Bratva or as influential as my own enterprise, but they're a problem nonetheless. I might be willing to forget what has happened between us in the past if Gio Calvino was dead. You know how certain deaths can offer a somewhat, shall we say, comforting amnesia."

"If you want him dead, kill him," I say. "I don't understand what the complication is."

He smiles. His teeth are small and yellowed. "Allow me to explain. The Calvinos won't mess with the Alekseiev Bratva. But they will aggravate my family, if provoked. It's perfect for you to do it-to show our trust with each other."

"I don't see how this scenario proves that you're trustworthy," I point out.

"We're the ones with the dock-loading business-"

"-which you stole from the Irish."

"Regardless, you need us," he insists.

"I don't need you. I don't need anyone, Duilio."

He smiles again and I try not to retch. I can feel his frustration with me growing, but I don't give a fuck. The Italian bastard is clearly trying to back me into a corner. I'm not about to let that happen easily.

"My business will make it easier for you to traffic guns," he says, spreading his hands wide. "Without it, you can't expand your business at all. If you want this partnership to work, I need you to prove that you aren't just going to kill us all the moment we show up with your guns."

His excuses are thin, to say the least. But the death of one minor don might be a small price to pay to keep Duilio fat and happy.

I sigh and raise my hands in mock surrender. "Okay, Duilio. As a token of my goodwill, I can send a professional to do what you need."

His reply is quick. Too quick. "I don't want your 'professional.' I want you to kill him."

And therein lies the rub.

On the inside, I'm fuming. This greasy fuck thinks I'll be lured into a trap this obvious? It'd be insulting if it weren't so transparent. Blood on my hands and him with the ability to connect the dots for whoever is interested ... It would take a true idiot to fall for this little gambit.

And I am far from stupid.

But I don't betray any of that. All I do is shake my head. "No, I'm not going to do that," I say.

Duilio doesn't seem to notice the rage brewing in my chest. He tilts his head to the side, chins wobbling, and fixes me with his watery gaze. "I was under the impression that you were quite skilled at eliminating threats. I'd heard that you were willing to get your hands dirty for the sake of the Bratva."

"You should stop listening to rumors. They can cloud an old man's judgment."

He sneers. "I don't mean to sound critical. It's just that you're more like your father than everyone thinks."

There it is. The line has been crossed.

No one insults me like that and lives to tell about it.

In one smooth motion, I spring forward, grab a pen from the cup on the table, and jab it deep into the pulse in Duilio's fat neck.

At the corner of my vision, I see Siro lurch forward, hand in his jacket.

I yank the pen out of his boss' throat. Blood spurts out onto my pants as I turn and lunge at the scrawny advisor. He blocks my first thrust, but I swing my fist into his ribs and his body sags to the side. The knife he was reaching for clatters to the ground.

I stab the pen into his neck too, then drop it, putting my hands on his neck and gripping as tightly as I can. His hands grab my wrists, trying to pull me off, but blood is gushing out of his neck and his face is turning ashen.

It doesn't take long before his hands fall to his sides. His body goes limp.

I keep squeezing until I'm certain he's gone.

When I relax my hands, his body drops to the floor. I flex each of my fingers and shake off the stiffness. Adrenaline is coursing through my system. I want to fight, to drink, to fuck, to go to war right this second.

But I force myself to take one deep breath and regain control.

"I'll call the clean-up crew," Ilya says quietly. I turn around to look at him. His facial features are smooth, but there's a tension to his stance that's hard to ignore.

"You don't approve?" I ask. His expression doesn't change. "Speak openly, Ilya. This is not a time for discretion."

"I don't believe it was the smartest decision," he says, the words coming out slowly-a careful man with careful words. "When you killed off Duilio's soldiers in the beginning, it was dangerous. We all knew that, but as you foresaw, it was necessary. But this is the don. This could lead to a war with his family. He has a son and if his son rises to replace his father, he will want to prove his ability to lead by avenging the men you just slaughtered."

"They were already planning to kill me." I wipe blood off my hands. "That's why they were so adamant that I personally murder Gio Calvino. They wanted to kill me or entrap me. Either way, they had no interest in being allies. We'll just have to wait to see how Duilio's son reacts to the murder-if he cares about power and staying alive, he won't test the Bratva. But if he is a fool, then he will end up like them." I point to the bodies on the ground. "Bleeding like stuck pigs."

Ilya nods once. "Understood."

"Good. Call the crew. I have to change."

I take off my tie and head toward my office gym.

"MR. ALEKSEIEV, welcome back. And Mr. Sevostyanov, always a pleasure."

The doorman bows his head as Ilya and I step back into the hotel. The floor still vibrates from the music coming from the ballroom, but by this time of the night, there are more than a few empty parking spots out front. When I step back into the ballroom, there are only a few stragglers left, each in the later stages of intoxication.