Owned by the Mob Boss - A Mafia Romance

R

me, hell i

ways felt at

from my face, coughing u

he upturned couch. More bullets tear t

voice booms throughout the room as he leaps over the ro

his gun raised, letting bullets fly as he

orn-rimmed glasses like a fucking librarian and he's biting

-command, Fyodor, watches Radovan with th

something to get h

jump up without thinking, aiming my pistol but knowing I could easily hit Radovan. Whatever hap

s over the sound of

ek. The Italian nearly has his pistol pressed against Radovan's chin. He's a reedy thing, i

yodor yel

ssing him into the air, and quickly turn to put a b

over my head. Another snap

t me as though seeing whatever god he prays to. I toss his body aside and spin to take care of the man who was

growl, as we duck d

e took them by surprise, but even Italian rats

had any. But

yes g

ch o

doorway with the heavy machine gun. He props the barre

ur the room in a single hailstorm of metal death. Som

se my

abs my ankle. I look down to find the crushed windpipe man gr

s head, the man by the machine g

world

c fire roars overhead. We roll over and scramble toward the closest cover-another

pathetic cry, but the air is too heavy with warfare to know for s

ner of the bar o

are waiti

ne manning the machine gun that con

comes sliding over the bar, oblivious to his shoulder wound. His

spins to a

g to my feet and thr

n squeeze the trigger. I twist the gun, aim it at his gut, headbutt h

like a defla

ter and I'd be dead, just another Bratva boss lost to history, but then F

nt. It's not the first time m

ke a Russian aristocrat than a mo

at." I nod

from his shoulder a

machine gunner right between the eyes. He lands on his wea

that, the he

our rearview mirror, the flames blazing int

a towel against his shoulder. "Just a vodka o

is city. Perhaps a few cousins remain, but if they rear their pathetic heads, we will t

s on me, as they often have been these past mont

he finest in Russian art. Some of them are originals. The room is already full of women in bikinis carrying golden

he senior men sit, though lately Fyodor has taken to sit

the favor of the me

the left side of his face. "I cannot disagree," he say

gruffly. "I don'

ds. "So drink. Tod

ke shots of vodka. It sears down my

R, the nigh

taurant with girls from the harem. Others pour ba

unk they forget wh

loudly, slamming his hand on the table. "Like we

lsing of my temples. Damir knows how I