Taken by the Boss
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Taken by the Boss copyright @ 2020 by Brook Wilder and Scholae Palatina Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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BOOK 1 of the Ivanov Bratva trilogy
BOOKS IN THE IVANOV BRATVA TRILOGY:
TAKEN BY THE BOSS
OWNED BY THE BOSS
HELD BY THE BOSS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
IVANOV BRATVA TRILOGY
TAKEN BY THE BOSS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
BOOK 2 - OWNED BY THE BOSS
BOOK 3 – HELD BY THE BOSS
OTHER BOOKS BY BROOK WILDER
IVANOV BRATVA TRILOGY
TAKEN BY THE BOSS
OWNED BY THE BOSS
HELD BY THE BOSS
TAKEN BY THE BOSS
Chapter 1
Stella
“Where the hell is it?” I mutter under my breath.
A grunt comes from the bed behind me, and I pause. The guy stays asleep as he rolls over and drags the pillow against his chest. I let out a quiet breath and continue to hunt for my other bright red pump. Frustrated, I blow a puff of air to get my black, messy hair out of my face. I hold one pump in my right hand and glare around the swanky Manhattan pad for the other.
The night was wilder than most with this guy I hooked up with. I found my blouse hanging off the fan blade, my skirt over the dresser mirror, and my panties and bra at opposite ends of the bedroom. I had hoped this guy might be able to help satisfy a persistent itch I’ve had for the last five years.
No such luck.
I’m beginning to think no guy ever will and quietly curse the asshole that has me all worked up. He’s not even here. Shit, I haven’t seen him in years. But he still shows up in my dreams when I least expect him. Like last night. It’s the real reason I’m flustered, not the missing shoe. I check under the bed, then the dresser, and finally spot my shoe. I snag it and quietly back out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I take a second to think over last night. His name. What’s his name? Hell, I can’t even remember.
Frank. No, maybe Freddie? Eh, not like it matters. What I do know is it does not start with a D. No guy I fall in bed with ever has a name that starts with that cursed letter. He messed me up in more ways than one. I want to get over him and not be the girl that thinks about the first man to break my heart, but I can’t help it.
Silly me actually thought he might be my way out of this life. Then he went and threw me to the curb like I was nothing. He wasn’t the guy I thought he was or the friend. I still hate myself for thinking I could trust him. I grab my purse on the way to the front door, dig around for my keys, and head out of the building. It’s a little after seven, but the streets are already packed with people on their way to work. Once I’m at the sidewalk, I pause to readjust my red pumps, twist my black skirt around so it’s facing the right way, and hurriedly button the last few buttons of my black, form-fitting blouse so not all of my cleavage is showing.
“Francis,” I blurt out suddenly, and two women walking by give me a funny look. I return it with a cold one of my own, and they move along a little faster.
That’s what the guy’s name is. I picked him up at a local upscale bar, the Black Pearl. He wasn’t too hard to seduce. None of them are, honestly. If they knew who I am, they might hesitate, but thankfully no one really cares about names in these situations. They just care about taking off a woman’s clothes and getting laid.
I glance up and down the street and spot my red Mustang parked a few spots down. I thought I drove last night. I slide in behind the wheel, rev the engine with a smirk, and press the accelerator to the floorboard. I zoom through traffic easily, ignoring the honking horns and middle fingers thrown my way. The last couple of years have made me reckless. If my parents know of my less-than-perfect lifestyle of late, they keep it to themselves. I’ve proved to my father, the head of the Russo family and part of the Italian Mafia, that I can take care of myself. Not like our family is that great anymore to begin with, thanks to dear old dad. We’re in decline, and everyone knows it. The sharks are circling, which means I have two choices.
I can go down with the rest of my family, or I can finally find a way out of this crime-riddled life.
I know damn well I have no real power despite who my dad is. Women in this world are meant to know their place. Stay quiet. Do what they’re told. My fingers curl painfully around the steering wheel as I remember the night I learned that lesson. It was the same night I decided I hated the man I once idolized as my hero. Every man in this life is the same. Ruthless. They don’t have hearts, and they certainly don’t know what it means to really care for or love anyone. All they care about is getting rich and staying in control.
If I can’t find a way out soon, I’m going to be trapped just like my mother and so many other countless women. The plan I put in motion is beyond reckless, but there’s nothing else I can do. If I can pull it off, I’ll either find my way to freedom or die trying. It used to scare me, thinking of dying. But a life spent with a man like my father terrifies me more.
I will not be trapped, and I will not become someone’s punching bag.
The tires squeal as I pull into the lot and park. I double-check that I look mostly presentable, then climb out of the Mustang. There are groups of students milling around and talking on their way to classes at Columbia University. I’m not friends with any of them. How can I be when I’m the daughter of Joseph Russo? It’s safer to keep my distance from anyone not already living in my world of crime. I’ve taken enough of a risk by working with a group of students on a very special project. They said they understood the risks. A part of me doesn’t care if they do or not as long as it gets me out.
My heels click loudly on the paved paths as I make my way toward the buildings. I have plenty of time to grab a coffee and stop at the small café on campus. I order my usual caramel latte and sit on a wooden bench beneath a willow tree. It wasn’t too hard to convince my parents to let me attend classes, especially when I showed them they were all in finance. It would help the family business, so they allowed it. My father only ever let me see the books. I wasn’t allowed to be part of any official meetings and couldn’t be seen by his partners. That was just out of the question. I asked once and only once.
The bruises from that fight took a week to fade.
After a quick glance around the campus and not seeing any men I recognize as my father’s goons, I smile to myself. My schedule might say I’m attending financial classes, but they don’t know what else I’m doing on campus. I’m not sure what made me do it, but I decided one day to take a risk that could put
me in some deep shit if Dad ever finds out. I’m auditing a journalism class. I’m not sure yet what my plan is, but this is step one of it. The project with the students is step two. If I can bring down my family and use it as my way out, I’m going to. I don’t owe them anything except years of being terrified and heartbroken. Of being told I’m only to worry about the family business and that my own life doesn’t matter.
As I sip on my coffee, I watch the branches of the willow sway in the morning breeze. Without meaning to, I’m back to thinking about the dream that made me wake up with a racing heart this morning. It’s part memory and part what I wished we would’ve had.
But he was nothing except a liar. He didn’t love me, no matter what he said.
“Stop thinking about him,” I whisper to myself, but his face appears in my mind’s eye.
My pulse shoots up, and then I’m seeing every vivid detail of the dream all over again. I hear him saying my name much as he did that night. Those hazel eyes suck me in, and I swear I feel his hand brushing my hair back from my shoulder, feel those lips on the soft, tender skin just below my ear. My night with Francis was intense, but the dream I had of the one man I’ll never be able to forget is ten times hotter. I rub my thighs together and dig my nails into the bench to try and get a grip on reality. He’s not here. I’ll never be with him again.
“God, I hate you,” I mutter, forcing the last images of the dream away. “Just stay out of my head.”
I push to my feet to head to the journalism class. Holding my head high, I keep the cold look of indifference on my face to stop anyone from trying to talk to me. I’m not in the mood for another one-night stand. Not until I know I can keep Danya Ivanov’s memory from surfacing. I’m here to learn, not reminisce about the past.
Walking inside, I bump into a guy who’s got a good head over me. I blink as he reaches for my elbow to straighten me, smiling as he does so. I freeze and stare intently at his face.
“Sorry, not awake yet,” he says, still holding my elbow. “You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
I swallow hard, and the illusion is gone. For a second, I swear it’s Danya standing in front of me. I yank my arm free and stomp away. For five years, I’ve been trying to drive that man from my head. No amount of one-night stands is going to do it. I’m not even sure I’ll ever find a guy that will help me truly get over him.
“Hey, you sure you’re all right?” The guy who bumped into me has caught up and walks alongside.
“Said I was.”
“You sure? You look a bit pissed off at the world.”
I shrug. “Happens. Mind leaving me alone now? I have a class to get to.”
He doesn’t back off though. Instead, he rushes around in front of me and plants himself right in my path. I consider stomping on his foot with the heel of my shoe, but when I glance down, my heart lurches into my throat. Those are not normal shoes. Those are steel-toed boots. I know because every one of my father’s goons wears them when they’re on bodyguard detail.
Or when they’re following Joseph Russo’s daughter around.
The coffee cup starts to slip from my hand, but he catches it and hands it right back to me. The grip on my elbow is firm as he steers me out of the way of other students.
“You do have a class to get to,” he says, the kind smile still on his face, but now his eyes are cold. “I’m curious as to why you’re going this way to class, Stella. You should be in a completely different building.”
“I was meeting with another student to get notes,” I lie.
His brow raises. “Sure you are. I’ll be certain to report as much to your father.”
I want to stay strong in the face of this asshole, but I know what he’s capable of. I know what they all are. I tremble thinking of how easily he can hurt me. So much for telling myself I’m not scared of Dad or his goons anymore. “Let go of my arm.”
He does to my surprise, but those cold eyes tell me without words whatever I’m up to, I better stop. How did Dad know? Or did he? And how long has this creep been following me around? I turn to head back the other way. There’s no choice now but to go to the class I’m supposed to be in. Dammit. I walk as quickly as I can in heels and expect the bodyguard to fall away, but he appears at my side, easily keeping up with me.
“By the way, that guy you went home with last night, how was he, huh?”
I give him a disgusted look and pick up the pace. It doesn’t faze him one bit. “Get away from me, all right? You’ve made your point.”
“Have I?”
I whirl around to smack him, but his hand is already on my wrist, holding my arm to my side. He backs me into a short hall and around the corner, out of sight from other students. “Get away from me, or I’ll tell my father.”
“Your father has instructed me to remind you that you have a duty to the family business. It comes first. It always comes first.”
“And?” I try to get my hand free, but his grip tightens until I wince.
“And you are not to have any more of these flippant one-night stands of yours.”
Mentally, I breathe out a sigh of relief. So Dad doesn’t know about the journalism classes or the project. Good. “What does he care if I sleep around? Not like any of these guys know who I am.”
He tilts his head back and forth. “Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter. You are requested to have drinks with your father at five o’clock. There is some business he needs to take care of, and it involves you. I suggest you not be late. It won’t be appreciated.”
My eyes narrow as I ask, “What kind of business?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Oh, and I’m to tell you to wear something … nice.” His eyes rake over me as he backs off. “Understand?”
I square my shoulders and this time when I shove past him, he laughs but lets me go. I hurry across campus to get to my real class. I find a seat toward the front and take out my small notebook and pen, not that I need them. I’ve always been able to simply listen and absorb. Today, though, I can’t concentrate enough to even pay attention. I’ve never seen that guy before, but there’s no kidding myself. He’s definitely one of my dad’s. When class ends, I file out with the rest of the students. It doesn’t matter.
He’s right there waiting for me. He keeps his distance, but I sense his eyes on me the entire way across campus and back to my Mustang. He made no mention of knowing about the journalism class I’ve been auditing. With any luck, this is the first day he’s been watching me, and my secret remains just that. By the time I’m in my car and driving away, I’m more paranoid than I’ve ever been. That and I want to know what the hell Joseph Russo is up to now.
If it involves me, I know it won’t be anything I like. Cursing, I speed through traffic once more and head toward Queens, where we live. The family business always comes first. That’s what’s been drilled into my head since I was five. The closer I get to home, the more my stomach sinks. The way that goon spoke to me, the way he looked at me, I have a terrible feeling I know what’s about to be asked of me.
I already hate my father. Now, I’m about to hate him even more. As if this day can’t get any worse. At least I won’t be seeing any sign of Danya Ivanov at this meeting. Our families do not do business together. That was made very clear to me five years ago when he turned his back on me because of my name.
Because I wasn’t good enough. And I never would be. I laugh bitterly. There is no such thing as love. That is just a fairy tale for a little girl, and I haven’t been a little girl in a very long time.
Chapter 2
Danya
The right hook catches me off guard and I stumble back. The man I’m sparring against, Lukas, doesn’t hesitate to exploit my blunder. He charges at me with two more quick hits toward my kidneys. Those I do manage to block and nail him in the nose with my elbow. I follow it up with a kick to his chest and another to his right knee. He goes down but rolls away before I can finish him off.
“You a
sleep, boss?” he asks with a smirk as he bounds across the mat. Blood drips from his nose, but he lets it be.
We’re all used to being bruised and bloodied. Part of the job.
The training facility is filled with men loyal to the Ivanov family, including my father, but mostly to me these days. Some of them watch Lukas and me spar. Others lift weights and practice their knife skills on other mats close by. Booms echo from the gun range set up toward the rear of the building. I’ve been training with these men since I was old enough to fight. My father, Mikhail, would have it no other way. He sent me to an elite Russian military school for a year when I was fifteen. Being the son of the Mafia king has its standards. Some might say they’re impossible, but here I stand, in charge of all our men, and next in line to take over someday.
I smirk right back at Lukas and feign to the right. He takes the bait like always, and this time when I deck him, he hits the mat hard. I stomp my boot onto his back. He grunts in pain and taps the mat.