Page 19 of The Mobster’s Secret

I’m about to put on some sweatpants when I notice a very fancy box sitting by the door. It’s pastel pink with a bow and is so big I could probably fit inside. There’s a note on top:

For you, princess.

The handwriting is bold and strong. Ivan’s for sure.

Slowly, I lift the top off and gasp when I see what’s inside. A plethora of designer clothes folded and neatly organized. Sweatpants, leggings, slippers, bathrobes, gowns. I recognize some of the brand names, but I don’t have to be an expert in fashion to know that the cost of everything here is more than all the clothes I brought from my apartment.

My lips twist into a smile, but I quickly push it away.

Part of me is impressed, but another part of me wants to set the whole box on fire and let him come put it out. He wouldn’t even notice the expense with all the money he has.

Am I really being rational about all this?

After all, I did let Ivan strip me naked last night. I let him slide his cock between my legs and thrust until we both came. I didn’t even shower afterward. It just didn’t feel right to go wash his cum off me.

I liked how he dominated me. Talked dirty to me. Told me how he was going to fuck me so hard I’d be begging for a break.

But at the same time, I can’t stop the independent part of me from rising up. I won’t be a kept woman. I won’t be bought. Looking out the window, I see that the briefcase with Ivan’s eighty thousand dollars is still sitting outside on the lawn. He didn’t even bother to bring it in, and I can’t hide the fact that his men knowing better than to touch it turns me on.

Ivan rules with the threat of violence. He is the king, and now I am his princess.

My heart starts pumping as the implications hit me.

Leaving the box of clothes where it was, I slide into a pair of my own sweatpants and an old T-shirt and step out of my room into the hallway. It’s like walking around the Palace of Versailles. I can’t help but marvel at the opulence as I make my way downstairs. There’s a door open to my right, and I peek inside to see Ivan sitting behind a desk, a row of his men standing loyally before him.

“The Messinas will try to move in on our territory,” he’s saying, his voice sharp and commanding. “Regardless of what they say, they’re going to start trouble. Coordinate with our cops on the payroll and make sure they know what’s coming.”

His eyes flick to mine, and for the first time, I see a side of Ivan I’ve yet to see: the fierce and dangerous side. The dark eyes that tell the tale of all the bloodshed it took for him to get here.

And a shiver runs down my spine.

I may not know much about the criminal underworld, but I’m smart enough to know that this has nothing to do with me and he doesn’t want to be bothered. So I turn around and quickly scurry away, following my nose down a back hallway. Someone’s cooking, and I’m absolutely starving.

The kitchen is bigger than my old apartment. There are two women working the stoves, one chopping vegetables and another overseeing everything. She’s one of those women that looks old but still moves like she’s in her forties. She’s pulling a big slab of deli meat from a fridge when she sees me.

“I know who you must be,” she says, eyes glistening as she waves a finger at me. “You’re the new lady of the house.”

“New lady of the house?” The words just slip out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying, infused with a spark of jealousy. “I thought Ivan doesn’t do women.”

The look this woman gives me can only be described as the same look your mom gives you when you’re a kid and you say something stupid and she’s trying her best not to laugh.

“Sweetheart, don’t you worry. There haven’t been any women here before you.” She takes my hand in hers and pats it gently. “My name is Marge. I’m in charge of running the house. You must be something special if Ivan brought you here.”

Her sincerity shocks me. She’s so sweet it feels like I’m talking to a grandmother who’s loved me all my life. I guess I just sort of pictured anybody working for Ivan, especially women, as miserable, hating their job, and only taking his money because they were forced to.

Marge, on the other hand, is friendlier than most baristas I run into.

“Um, I was just looking for some breakfast, but I can make myself something—”

“Nonsense, dear,” she interrupts. “How about some eggs? Would you like some eggs? Bacon? Waffles? Pancakes? Toast? Fruit? I can make you whatever you’d like!”

“How about some Sunday breakfast, Marge?” Ivan’s hearty voice from behind me nearly causes me to jump. I turn as he enters the room. He’s wearing a crimson suit with suede loafers and a black tie. He’s so big and strong the entire house seems to move around him.

Apparently, I cannot control my body around him.

My nipples instantly go hard, and a hot blush starts sweeping its way up my neck. Memories of last night instantly swim through my mind as I feel his massive body pressing me up against the wall, his manhood sliding in and out of my legs, stimulating my clit with each stroke.

My legs tremble, and a feeling swells in my center. A feeling of desire.