Unprotected with the Mob Boss - A Mafia Romance

LEV

S

he's still here.

When I step back out into the hotel room, the steam from the bathroom creeps out. Krystal, lounges on the bed, still naked.

Her blonde hair, soaked in sweat, sticks to her skin and she's wearing a smile that might be considered seductive by some. Not by me, though. She served a purpose. Now we're finished.

"I told you that you need to return to the party," I say. As I get dressed, I keep my gaze on her, waiting on a reply. Her tongue flicks over her bottom lip. Her hands curve around her breasts. She thinks we're playing some kind of game-my willpower versus my libido.

What she doesn't know is that, if she really saw the kinds of games I like to play, she'd run screaming.

"Oh, but I thought we could go for round two," she purrs. "I bet you can't fuck me as hard the second time."

I don't bother replying to her obvious bait. I pick up her dress and throw it at her before finishing buttoning my shirt.

"Get dressed and go."

She gets up onto her knees, the bed shifting under her weight. She rubs her hands down from her breasts to her thighs, her thumbs crossing over her slit.

"Come on, Lev. Please? Let's visit your place. I've heard it has enough rooms that we could be having sex for hours. I just want to see the lion's den. I could be your little kitty cat, you know?"

She smiles again, oozing sex from every pore.

I just stare back.

"Are you a journalist?" I snap after a tense silence.

She blinks, her hands dropping down to her sides. "What? Like ... newspapers?"

"Or do you work for another vodka company?"

She wrinkles her forehead in confusion. "I told you when we met. I'm a model."

"Why are you so invested in coming to my house? Is there something that you want?"

She laughs, a high-pitched giggle.

"I want you, Lev," she drawls. "Don't be so surprised. You've got that boxer's body, you know? All muscle. But without those gross ears."

She pauses, gnaws at her lip, then glances up at me again through heavy-lidded eyes. "I just thought I could see your house, that's all. If you don't want that, we can stay here and I'll show you what I can do with my tongue."

"You're not going to my house," I state. "I don't know if other people think this dumb bitch act is endearing, but I don't care what you want. I didn't get to where I am by catering to the needs and desires of obnoxious, boring women whose only talent is spreading their legs."

It takes a moment for my words to register. When they do, her smile slips away like I slapped it off her face. A flush of red fills her cheeks.

"You son of a bitch!" she screams, yanking her dress on over her head. "You narcissistic asshole!"

She stumbles off the bed, which only pisses her off more. I try not to laugh.

Krystal snatches the bottle of wine off the nightstand. Her arm cocks back. I step to the left as she throws the bottle. The bottle slams against the bathroom doorframe. Somehow, miraculously, it doesn't break. It just falls to the carpet with a thud.

"I hope you die!" she screeches. "I hope-I hope you know I'm going to the media about you. I'm going to tell them all what a cold, sexist, self-absorbed asshole you are. I'm going to tell them that you were terrible in bed and that your vodka tastes like shit."

I smile thinly. "The media has said far worse things about me. And if you knew which parts were true, you'd get out of my goddamn room."

I point to the door.

She huffs and puffs, but when I don't even blink, she just hisses and stomps out.

As she passes by me, she tries to take a swing. I grab her wrist before her fist reaches my face.

We stare at each other for a second before she drops her gaze and her hand relaxes. I let her wrist go. She skulks out of the room, pouting.

When she's gone, I pick up the wine bottle. There's not a single chip out of it. I pour a glass and take a sip. It's not strong, but I've been drinking all night.

The hotel room has large windows that allow New York City's lights to shine through. Other people might call it beautiful. All I see is territory that either belongs to me already, or will belong to me soon enough.

I see a city that wants to be under somebody's thumb. It just doesn't know it.

Yet.

I pluck my wallet from the nightstand, sliding it into my back pocket, and head out.

When I leave the hotel room, a drunk couple walking by lift their half-empty bottle of Mariya's Revenge to greet me.

"Good shit, brother! Best yet!" the man bellows drunkenly. His girlfriend laughs and shushes him.

I ignore them and take the stairs down to the ground level.

Booming music from the hotel's main ballroom shakes the floor. When I step into the ballroom, it's a world of bad decisions.

My event coordinator, Anya, insisted on an orange theme to fit the celebration, given that we're releasing our newest product: orange cream Mariya's Revenge vodka. But all of the models dressed in shades of tangerine look repulsive under the lights. I should have kept a closer eye on the details, but Anya should know my expectations better by now. I'll have to express my displeasure to her in the morning.

A man walks up to me before I get far. His baby face and spiky hair seem familiar, but I can't place who he is.

"Quite the vodka, Mr. Alekseiev," he says. "And quite the party. You should have these every week."

"On whose dime?" I say coolly. "Maybe you should be the one throwing parties."

He doesn't have the demeanor of a businessman. Where do I know him from?

"Absolutely," he says.

So, he's rich.

"But it wouldn't be good for my image to be throwing parties all the time. My publicist would kill me."

Rich, famous, and can't be seen partying consistently. That can mean only one man: Brett Russell.

I offer a wry smile. "Mr. Russell, everyone knows you're an unkillable man. I've been meaning to thank you for letting us sponsor you for the cycling championship." A tray of vodka shots stops by us. I take two of the shots and hand them to Brett, then pick up two more. "Here's to success without compromise."

Brett winces as he swallows the shots. I down them both before finding another caterer to pass the glasses off to.

"May I get you anything else?" the caterer asks, looking at me through a fan of eyelashes. Another one eager to bare all for me.

"More vodka."

There's a flicker of a frown on her face before she smiles again. "Of course."

Brett raises an eyebrow at me when she's gone and laughs. "Tell me, Lev: when you get to your particular tax bracket, does the IRS just start sending women directly to your bedroom?"

Before I can answer, Charles Schofield, the CEO of Everything Ice, comes barreling through the crowd to stop in front of me.

"Mr. Alekseiev!" He's sweaty, out of breath, and more than a little drunk. He offers me his hand but drops it when I don't react. "Ahem. Well. I've been waiting to meet you. I've thoroughly enjoyed watching how you've led your business to such a success in a short amount of time. As someone who's been in this business for quite a while, I can certainly say you have a one-of-a-kind mind. With that mind and my vision, we could develop something truly great. I want you to consider how Mariya's Revenge and Everything Ice could collaborate-luxury jewelry and luxury vodka. A sophisticated man puts a sophisticated necklace on his woman and they drink until they slip into bed together."

His rambling speech falls on deaf ears. I try not to wince, but I drink two more shots to get through his business proposal. Then I send him off with a curt handshake and a vague promise to connect in the coming weeks, though I have absolutely no intention of following through. I didn't get to my station in life by making ill-advised deals while drunk at a party.

Brett disappears sometime during Schofield's babbling. When I've sent Schofield off, I go do my obligatory lap of the festivities, glad-handing and smiling through gritted teeth. I take shots with anyone I talk to for more than a couple of minutes and keep hoping that more vodka will ease me into a sense of comfort, but there are sharp edges in all of my thoughts that no amount of alcohol seems able to dull.