Page 91 of Possessive Mafia Vows

He moves closer, blocking the weak light from the dingy corridor outside, and I’m flooded with fear that he’s armed. I might be stronger than I realize, but I’m not reckless, and I’m getting out of here alive, no matter what it takes.

Because seeing him like this has rammed home to me that people like Nick Morris don’t deserve to win. They don’t play fair. They see a prize, and their sense of entitlement takes over, triggering the belief that they should have whatever they want. Like the world owes them.

Well, fuck you!

I stumble back across the basement to the low bed which is little more than a lumpy mattress on a cot and sit down before my legs give way. I grab the blanket and drag it around my shoulders. It provides a little warmth, enough to stop my teeth from chattering and for me to glare at Nick as he follows me into the room and shuts the door behind him.

We’re plunged into darkness again, and I focus on the shape of him silhouetted against the wall to stop myself from crying out.

He flicks a switch on the wall and a small lightbulb swinging from the ceiling produces a feeble light. His shadowy face is gray, his eyes like empty sockets, his lips almost non-existent.

“Why am I here?” I try an alternative question.

He stands facing me with his arms folded across his chest. I hope that the cold is getting to him too. It’s a small comfort.

“You’re here as leverage, Sienna. If you’ve done what we hoped you would do, Kyle Murray will meet our demands in return for your life.”

There are so many points to take from this statement that I hardly know where to begin.

“What am I supposed to have done?”

He has been in the room for less than a minute, and it’s already starting to feel like a sick dystopian reality show, where the contestants are supposed to guess their next move. Get it wrong, and—bad luck—you’re dead.

“Make him fall in love with you. Give him just enough to keep him wanting more. Dangling the proverbial carrot so to speak.”

“You’re sick, do you know that?”

A sinister lopsided smile turns his expression ugly. “Oh, I’m not the one who’s sick, Sienna. There are far more dangerous people in the world than me, and some of them are right here in this building.”

Nausea rolls my stomach like I’m on a boat, and I swallow bile, the burning sensation in my throat making my eyes water.

“What demands?” I ask.

“The Titan … for starters. It will be enough to keep you alive. For now. Then we’ll move onto the Rinse, and finally the monstrosity known as the Wraith.”

“Why?” I can hear the incredulity in my voice. “Why can’t you open your own casino? Why do you have to steal someone else’s?”

“Oh, I don’t want the casinos.” He studies his nails as if he has just realized that dirt is collecting underneath them. “The people who are paying me can do whatever the fuck they want with them. They can take a wrecking ball to them for all I care.”

“The people who are paying you?”

Anger blooms inside my chest, red and hot and punchy. Kyle and his brothers have worked hard to build their businesses from the ground up. Sure, they might have mafia connections, and they might get their money from illegal practices, but right or wrong, it’s their livelihood. The casinos and hotels belong to their family. They live and breathe the family business, something that men like Nick Morris would ever understand.

These people Nick is working for, they won’t care about the Titan or the Rinse or the Wraith the way Kyle and his brothers do. They won’t put their heart and soul into making them successful. He already said he doesn’t care if they demolish them. So, why are they so desperate to steal them?

“Their name is Bogrov,” he says, slicing through my simmering rage. “I don’t expect you to have heard of them. They’re Russian bratva.”

Bratva? The word rings alarm bells inside my head.

“Mafia to me and you.” Nick answers the question for me.

“I-I thought there was some kind of code between the mafia families.”

He snickers. “Only in the movies. It’s dog-eat-dog in the real world. The Bogrovs have come along and decided that they want a slice of the Murray pie. Who was I to refuse them?”

This conversation is making me feel physically sick.

Heis making me feel physically sick.

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