Stolen by the Mob Boss : A Russian Mafia Romance (Bratva Hitman)

by Nicole Fox

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  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  STOLEN BY THE MOB BOSS

  First edition. July 1, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Nicole Fox.

  Written by Nicole Fox.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also by Nicole Fox

  Stolen by the Mob Boss: A Mafia Romance

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Enjoy your free sneak preview of TRAPPED WITH THE MOB BOSS: A Mafia Romance by Nicole Fox.

  Also by Nicole Fox

  About the Author

  Also by Nicole Fox

  Wed to the Mob Boss (COMING SOON)

  Trapped with the Mob Boss

  Vin: A Mafia Romance

  Stolen by the Mob Boss: A Mafia Romance

  By Nicole Fox

  A mob boss killed her family. Now, he’s sent me to finish the job.

  Lucy is an innocent girl – orphaned by a terrible tragedy.

  Then she sees me kill a man in cold blood.

  I can’t let a witness roam free.

  But I can’t bring myself to kill something so innocent and beautiful.

  She wants revenge on the mob boss who stole her family.

  I can help her... under one condition:

  As long as she’s here, I’m going to make her MINE.

  Chapter One

  Lucy

  There’s a fire on TV.

  For a moment, I’m unsure what I’m looking at. The TV is across the diner, hoisted up in the corner of the room, but when I squint, I see that the news is reporting on a massive factory fire. I glance out of the window, and as expected, I see the black cloud ominously rising in the air. The fabric factory is quite a few miles away, yet I can still smell it from here.

  The thought of it sends me back to a place in my memory. Not a happy place. Not a place where I ever wanted to go again.

  I’m a little girl again, staring out with my nose pressed against the car window, watching as the smoke billows from the shattered windows of my home. All around us, lights flash, red, blue, red, blue, and I squeeze my eyes tight, trying—despite everything—to pretend that I’m not here.

  I was too young then to understand what happened. At least, to truly understand what happened. I heard lots of words when I climbed out of the car and took off running toward the flames. I could hear the policemen shouting at me to stop. And Nana begging me to come back. But above it all, I thought I could hear my parents calling my name.

  Only, they couldn’t have been. My parents perished in that fire. A gas leak, that’s what the detectives said. Mom and Dad never saw it coming. When Mom flicked on the burner to start dinner, everything went up in flames. Sometimes I wonder what that must have felt like. Did they suffer? Did they feel anything at all? Or was God merciful enough to make it quick and painless?

  I remember falling to my knees on the front lawn, sobbing as two firemen pulled me away from the flames. My lungs burned and my eyes burned but more than anything, there was the unshakeable hollowness of loss. I’d spent my entire life in that home. Every year on my birthday, Mom would line me up with the doorframe in the kitchen and carve a little mark above my head. Every Fourth of July, Dad would invite Nana and all of his family over, and at the end of the night, my cousins and I would sit in my bedroom and throw tiny little poppers at each other.

  I lost my first tooth in that house. I saw my parents’ first fight in that house. And just like that, it was all erased, wiped from existence.

  There was only one man to blame.

  The police ruled it an accident, something that could’ve happened to anyone, but that never sat right with me. Shady real-estate dealer Abram Konstantin received only a slap on the wrist. A “Promise you’ll be more careful next time?” My parents were burned alive and the only person that was punished was me? Bullshit. Nana says that if I hold onto this for the rest of my life, it’ll eat me alive.

  But the part of me that longs for justice says, let it.

  Let this ache and sorrow consume me and drive me to find the truth about what happened that day. Let it bring Abram to justice and show the world that the disgustingly wealthy can’t be allowed to get away with things like this. I want to make an example of him, to show that every life is precious and throwing money around doesn’t negate the negligence that killed my mom and dad.

  But the realistic side of me has to let this go. I can’t function if I spend all my life holding onto it. There’s no future if I’m stuck in the past. So, like I always do, I turn away from the television and take a moment to clear my head.

  This is why I hate slow days. When the regulars are in, I can distract myself. I can plaster on a welcoming smile and be the best waitress Rudy’s Diner has ever seen. When it’s empty, I find my mind wandering away, crafting daydreams of vengeance.

  It’s exhausting.

  I turn back to my job, cleaning the counters and rubbing down the cash register. Dirt and grime are no match for the chemical concoction that Madeline and I have created. After growing tired of keeping seven different cleaning products around, we spent one night creating the perfect solution to clean every last inch of Rudy’s. Our manager, Rudy Bradwell, was impressed enough not to yell at us for wasting most of his cleaning supplies while trying to find the right balance.

  If Nana knew these were the kinds of things I get excited about, she would be proud. All her life, she cleaned up after everyone else. She babysat me while Mom and Dad worked. Dad always told me that she was the strongest women he knew, next to my mother, and I understand why.

  Even now that I’ve moved back to town since graduation, Nana still likes to argue with me about taking care of her. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard the phrase, “I’m old, not dead.” She’s as hardheaded as ever, but every now and then, I feel her gratitude shine through.

  While I was away at school, Nana didn’t have anyone to talk to or keep her company. Most of her old friends have passed away, and while I was gone, very rarely did anyone stop by to say hello. Only a handful of neighbors checked in on her, and I’m thankful that they were able to care for her while I was gone because I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to Nana. After everyone that I’ve lost, I don’t think I could survive another loved one leaving me.

  “Are you ever not daydreaming?” a familiar voice asks from behind me.

  I turn to see Madeline approaching with a handful of dirty dishes, a mischievous smile on her face. She’s one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen. Perfectly dyed blonde hair, perfectly white smile, and the kind of curves any woman would kill to have. It makes sense that she’s a model when she’s not on the clock at Rudy’s.

  “Sorry,” I say, blushing. I ha
te that I have a tendency to get trapped in my head because I usually end up becoming much more reserved. People often read that as either standoffish or awkward, so I’ve been trying to live more in the moment and spend less time with my own thoughts. But old habits die hard, or whatever they say.

  “You know, I was thinking about what you said last week.”

  “What did I say last week?” I ask. Madeline disappears for a moment to drop off the dishes, then steps back out into the diner, hands on her hips.

  “You told me no guys were looking in your direction when I asked whether you were dating or not.”

  I self-consciously brush a lock of hair behind my ear and turn my attention towards the counter, wiping it down. I hate when Madeline puts on her matchmaker boots and tries to set me up with different guys. I mean, of course, I appreciate her offer and the fact that she tries to introduce me to new people, but her taste in guys doesn’t match mine. She likes older, obscenely wealthy guys that have connections. Not exactly my type.

  “But,” Madeline continues, “I think the truth is that you’re sabotaging yourself. That guy with the red hair during breakfast today is proof of that.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, trying hard not to blush.

  “You know exactly what,” she says, laughing. “I saw the way he was looking at you and how he kept trying to get you to sit down and talk to him. He was hot! We both know that.”

  “He was ... attractive, yes.”

  “Why didn’t you go for it then? Why didn’t you sit down and talk to him?”

  I sigh and turn around, leaning against the counter with one hip. “Because I’m on the clock and he had a tan line where his wedding ring used to be. He probably just got out of a marriage, and I don’t want to deal with all that baggage.”

  Madeline clicks her teeth and shakes her head at me. “This is what I’m talking about. You keep finding reasons not to go for men. You’re sabotaging yourself so you never get close to them.”

  “My god, it’s like Dr. Phil is in the diner with me,” I groan. I toss the rag behind me into a bucket full of other dirty napkins and wipes. “Maybe I just don’t feel like dating right now. Maybe with everything going on with Nana and my writing and this job, dating just isn’t high on my priority list.”

  Madeline shrugs. “Maybe. But I know you. I’ve seen you fawn over guys one minute and then find something wrong with them and turn your back the next. All I’m saying is, it couldn’t hurt to give a guy a chance before you turn him away. I think you could meet someone really special.”

  Despite all of her nagging, I know Madeline wants to be helpful and this is her way of showing it. Other people might grow annoyed with her incessant nudging and prodding whenever an attractive man walks into Rudy’s but it comes from a good place, so I don’t let it bother me too much.

  “Anyway,” she says, glancing around at the nearly empty diner. “We should probably get started on cleaning up after the breakfast crew. Lunch will be here soon.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say.

  ***

  When I close the front door behind me, the first thing I hear is a gasp from the living room.

  Something’s wrong with Nana.

  My heart rate spikes. I drop my purse clattering to the ground and spring around the corner as dark thoughts race through my head. Maybe she fell, or had a stroke, or someone broke in and ...

  Nope. I race in the room to find Nana with her eyes glued to the television. One of her soap operas is playing, and it looks like someone just got shot by a masked gunman.

  I let out a heavy sigh.

  My body begins to unwind, and I scold myself for being so paranoid. I can’t live every day anticipating the worst, but it’s another one of my tough habits to break. After everything that I’ve lost, seeing Nana join that list might just be too much for me.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Nana says without looking away from the television.

  “Hi, Nana.” I pull off my jacket and hang it up in the hallway, taking a seat on the big purple sofa next to her. It may be hideous, but the couch is one of the softest things I’ve ever sat on in my life, and though it doesn’t go with anything in the room, I think that’s how Nana likes it. Nothing in her home makes sense.

  She has massive paintings on the wall that span various artistic styles, from modern images of puppies to pop art replicas of celebrities and surrealist landmarks across the globe. Her rugs range from faux fur to homemade crocheted ones, and all the furniture in the house was picked up from yard sales or gifted to her after friends passed away.

  To say that Nana’s house is a collaborative group effort would be an understatement. That’s what I love about it. None of it makes any sense, but when it’s all together, that kind of chaos is harmonious.

  We sit in silence for a moment while the show’s climax plays out on the screen before us. When it goes to commercial break, she turns to me, pats my hand, and smiles.

  “How was work?” she asks.

  “It was okay. Relatively slow, but we got a lot of regulars in.”

  “Did you see that fire on the news?” Her voice is soft.

  I swallow hard and look up at her. I’ve never expressed the bit of PTSD I feel whenever I see things like that on the news, but Nana knows. Sometimes I wonder if she’s been a mind reader this whole time. Rather than saying anything, I just give her a slow nod.

  “Are you okay?”

  The way she says it almost brings tears to my eyes. Nana has this distinct ability to be stern and strong and confident when she needs, but also uncomfortably tender and caring. It always throws me for a loop when she switches it up and cuts right to the point.

  “Yeah,” I say quietly. I pick at the tattered edge of one of her throw pillows, keeping my focus on anything but the soft brown eyes staring at me. “I don’t think it’ll ever be easy.”

  “It won’t,” she confirms. “But you’ll learn how to cope better. You’ll learn how to take it all in, feel it, but not let it overtake you and your thoughts.”

  That all sounds nice and dandy, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be strong enough to somehow do what she does. I can’t imagine never feeling a twisting knife in my gut anytime I think about what happened to Mom and Dad. Not only is the wound still open from the fact that I lost them, but it’s made even worse, salt sprinkled on top, because Abram Konstantin will never be punished for what he did.

  Years ago, I sat down and tried to figure out everything I could about him. I wanted to know the man responsible for the death of my parents. I wanted to know who he was and why he was able to skate through life without any kind of repercussions for his actions. More frustrating than anything else was that he was essentially a ghost.

  The only articles I could find about him in English were about his real estate dealings and all the businesses he ran in the city. His entire online identity was a sterilized wasteland of uninteresting articles and pictures posing with powerful people. Though my findings were limited, I took note of all the people he was close with.

  Millionaires and billionaires, powerful people in town. He associated with the top of the top, and suddenly it started making sense. He didn’t get away with negligence because the police truly found him innocent. He used a more precious capital, one that wasn’t palpable but still carried more weight than cash. He had connections. He had people that could help him sweep the ash of my singed childhood under the rug, away from the public eye.

  There’s no way in hell I’ll let this go. But for Nana’s sake, I give her a small smile and a nod. “I’ll try,” I say. My answer seems to satisfy her because I watch as she leans back in her seat more comfortably.

  “Are you doing okay?” I rise from the couch and take a step toward her, grabbing one of her pillows and fluffing it up. Recently, Nana had a health scare, and I’ve basically become like her mother, always doting on her and trying to make her as comfortable as I can.

  “I’m fine, darling,” she says. She pats my
hand again reassuringly, and just like I lied to her about trying to let the fire go, I can see that she’s filtering her words and holding back what she really wants to say. I can’t blame her. Strokes aren’t anything to speak lightly of, no matter how minor.

  “I just want you to be okay. Even if it means taking more shifts at Rudy’s so that I can afford your medicine. Whatever it takes, Nana,” I say. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for her, and I want her to know that without a shadow of a doubt.

  “Lucy,” she says, almost sternly. I stop flitting around and look down into those deep blue eyes. “I’m the grown-up here. I’m taking care of you, baby. You shouldn’t be worried about me. What you should be worried about is having fun and meeting a nice man.”

  It takes all my strength to hold back a groan. Two times in one day is a little too much for me. “Nana, I don’t need a man.”

  “Nobody needs a man, Lucy. But they’re fun to have around. And I want you to experience that. I want you to settle down with someone nice. At least try.”

  “Okay.” There’s no point in arguing with her about this, and I’m afraid that if I do, she’ll get worked up and be sick again. “I’ll make you a deal. As long as you take the next few days off, I’ll go looking for a husband and we’ll make some grandbabies for you. How does that sound?”

  Her chuckle is sugar sweet, and I find myself growing warm from just her presence. Any time I start to feel anxious, I turn to her for relief. “That’s my girl.”

  The commercials end, and just like that, her attention is now laser-focused on the twisty, complex storyline playing out on the screen. I’ve lost her to her stories, but that’s okay. I have stories of my own to write.

  I give Nana a heads-up that I’ve put lunch in the oven for her, then grab my laptop bag and head downstairs. There’s a tiny little coffee shop a few blocks away, and with my headphones blaring my favorite song, it takes almost no time to make the trip. I step through the doors and give a small nod to the barista I see every afternoon.