Attending The Russian Mafia: An Instalove Possessive Alpha Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 165) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Attending The Russian Mafia

  NEWSLETTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  About the Author

  ATTENDING THE RUSSIAN MAFIA

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 165

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2020 by Flora Ferrari

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  ATTENDING THE RUSSIAN MAFIA

  This billionaire’s possessive passion has me captivated.

  My dad’s best friend gets me a job working as an air hostess on his private plane, but when some criminals make derogatory comments about me, this primal alpha won’t let it slide. He goes feral.

  I can’t believe that he wants me, a naïve younger woman, and he’s not put off by my inexperience. He knows how to take what he wants.

  “And I claim you, Sophia. Forever.”

  But what is my dad going to say when he finds out about me and the Bratva bad boy who just-so-happens to be his oldest friend?

  This possessive silver fox does not take no for an answer, and there’s no way I even want to turn him down, but what if the criminal underworld is just too tough for me?

  Can I follow my dreams and become a Michelin-star chef at the same time as being chased by the feral primal alpha, or will my dad’s disapproval ruin the passionate connection we share?

  *Attending The Russian Mafia is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Sophia

  “You must never look Mr. Elgort in the eye,” Kenny Finks, my manager, tells me. He completes the douchebag effect by waving his finger in my face, giving me the crazy urge to snap my hand out and grab it.

  Instead, I fold my arms over my air hostess’s uniform and try to swallow the sharp nerves that are filling my mouth with way too much saliva.

  “And do not speak to him,” Kenny goes on.

  He’s a short, red-haired man with a patch of freckles crawling like a bunch of sneaky insects up the left side of his face. In his crisp blue shirt and pants, he looks boyish, as though he’s borrowed his dad’s uniform.

  But then, perhaps I just don’t like him because he keeps wagging that frickin’ finger at me.

  “Unless he speaks to you,” Kenny says. He snorts, shaking his head. “Not that that’s going to happen.”

  We’re standing in the small staff room of the private plane, two fold-up chairs drilled into one wall, a small fridge for refreshments humming quietly opposite it.

  I don’t bother telling Kenny that I know Stefan Elgort. Well, that I half-know him, anyway.

  He and my dad have been best friends for as long as I can remember. I know there’s some awkwardness between the two men, my dad’s judgment of Stefan’s line of work rising like acidic vitriol into the air on more than one occasion.

  “He chose the criminal life,” my dad sneered once, while drunk. “I chose the civilian life.”

  “But you’re still friends,” my mom chided. “You’ve known each other since you were children.”

  I shake my head, dislodging the memory.

  The main thing I need to hone my attention on is the task at hand. Soon, the private plane will be filled with Stefan, his men, and some Russians from Moscow, which is our destination. I’ll have to go out there and serve them drinks and refreshments and try like crazy not to be self-conscious in my snug air hostess’s outfit.

  It’s difficult, though, because it clings to all my curves. More than once, I’ve found myself smoothing my hands over it, as though with a magic touch I can grow the material.

  This morning, when I was standing in my bedroom in front of the full-length mirror, a brief fantasy swam into my mind, floating around, tempting and sillier than silly can get.

  I imagined Stefan’s eyebrow arching when he saw me in the tight-fitting outfit, his eyes roaming like darts of lust all over my body. I imagined his square jaws going tight and him making a deep rumbling noise from within his chest, an animal, carnal wanting.

  But I had to push that away, bundle it into a ball and fire it into a different frickin’ universe.

  Just because I used to crush hard on Stefan Elgort when he came to visit my dad, it doesn’t mean he even remembers who I am. The last time he saw me, I was probably in the kitchen with Mom, a dorky plus-size teenager playing chef.

  Or at the end of the garden, knees drawn to my chest as I stared with passion at my Kindle, praying to sink into it.

  He doesn’t know that fifteen year old me would often glance up from my Kindle to catch a glimpse of him.

  Jeez, now that’s a man, I’d think, taking in every solid inch of him with my eyes.

  He was so different to the boys at my high school, the ass-hats with their letterman jackets and their magnetic attraction to stick-thin blondes. As a curvy brunette, I had no chance…not that I ever wanted to enter that particular lottery, really. They were immature, silly, just so … so high school.

  I wanted a man.

  But not Stefan. I can’t let myself go there…even if it’s the only place I want to go.

  Heck, I really know how to let my mind gallop ahead of me at a million miles a second.

  I’m here to make money for culinary school, I remind myself. Dad wasn’t happy about getting me this job, but when he saw the pay, he couldn’t help but be persuaded by my and Mom’s pleading. In a few weeks I’ll be able to afford my first year, and then …

  I try not to let my mind gallivant even further, but it’s difficult when the flame of my ambitions just burns so blindingly bright.

  Then I can finally learn from the best, and become a chef, and one day – one day – be the head chef at a Michelin star restaurant.

  “Sophie,” Kenny barks, jolting me from the reverie with the force of whiplash.

  “Uh, yeah?”

  He bares his teeth in a sneer. Then, with a supercilious smirk on his punch-me face, he rocks back on his heels and folds his arms. “Wh
y do I feel like you’re not taking this job seriously?”

  “I am,” I say quickly. “I swear I am.”

  “So you agree with what I just said?”

  “Huh? About me taking the job seriously?”

  He lets his arms fall, bristling like a disturbed hedgehog. “No, what I said before that.”

  I delve into my memory, but I was lost in Zone-Out Town, I can’t remember. Kenny sure does know how to drone on and on and on and … yep, and on.

  “I think it’s fantastic,” I say, not wanting to give him the satisfaction he’ll undoubtedly enjoy when he realizes I wasn’t listening.

  “Oh, you do?” he beams. “That’s great. I didn’t think you would. So you don’t mind serving them their mid-flight meals while I take a break?”

  I gulp, fresh anxiety jabbing me. I was just supposed to do drinks for the first flight. Doing the meals means being out there for some time, remembering what everybody ordered, possibly talking to them.

  But I’m not going to let Killjoy Kenny see the tension humming through me.

  “Of course,” I say. “That sounds just fine.”

  Crap.

  What the heck have I gotten myself into?

  I grip the edges of the silver tray, wobbly on my feet despite the fact that the plane is gliding over the ocean smoothly, so I can’t even blame the way my body trembles on turbulence. Each dish is covered in a glittering silver lid, so shiny I can see my distorted reflection in it.

  Great.

  So I can look at my wide eyes, all skittish like a nervous deer’s.

  I warn myself that it’s time to calm down as I approach the door and knock it open with my hip. Of course, Kenny dropped into one of the fold-up chairs and let his head fall back, snoozing contentedly when he knew I’d be taking the reins.

  I walk down the short corridor and into the main area of the private plane.

  The floor is covered in plush fur rugs, rustling quietly under my feet. The walls are cushioned purple, and the table around which all of the men sit is carved of some kind of marble, sleek and looking out of place on an airplane.

  I keep my eyes low as I approach the table, but as I lay the platters down, I can’t help but glance up.

  There are around a dozen men in here, I think, but my eyes immediately leap to Stefan Elgort.

  He sits casually in his chair, a man in charge of the world.

  He has a billionaire’s aura as he lays his arm over the back of the chair, a golden watch catching the glinting sunlight that arches in through the window. His hair is pure steel and his face is clean-shaven, showing off his sharp jawline. His black suit hugs tightly to his solid form and his autumn-leaf-colored eyes are as hard and brutal as a Russian fall.

  I quickly look away, my lips dry.

  For a second there, I let my imagination do backflips again. I imagined that those dark eyes were roaming over me, liking the way the hostess’s uniform clung to me…whereas, truly, he probably finds it boring. He has no interest in a wide-eyed nineteen year old, no frickin’ way.

  A billionaire Bratva boss like Stefan Elgort probably has rake-thin models lined up for miles and miles to perform his every whim.

  I somehow manage to keep my hands steady as I hand out the meals, using the seating-plan arrangement Kenny handed to me before passing out for his nap.

  All talking has stopped, probably because they were discussing Russian mafia stuff.

  My heartbeat pounds like storm rain inside my skull, deafening me.

  I lick my lips, so dry I have to drag my tongue across them just to get some moisture.

  Finally, the tray is empty. I lift it from the table and turn away, walking back toward the hallway.

  Then one of the men clears his throat, a raspy smoker’s cough-cough.

  “She’s a little less broken-in than I normally like,” he says, voice heavy with a Russian accent. “But give me half a bottle of vodka and maybe I’d take her.”

  I stop walking, as shame stings my cheeks and no doubt turning them blood-red.

  Then I swallow the rising shame and let out a trembling sigh.

  Just like high school, some douche-king always has to find a place to insert his puerile comments.

  I just wish I didn’t feel tears trying to prick my eyes.

  I decide to just keep walking and ignore it, like I always do.

  There’s nothing I can do.

  “What did you say?” Stefan growls.

  I remember the voice from my childhood, deep and commanding, with the barest suggestion of a Russian accent. But he was American born and raised, so mostly it’s just a deep East-Coast tenor.

  “What?” the first man rasps. “I didn’t realize she was your slut, Stefan. I apologize—”

  Crack.

  I turn in shock, lifting my hands to my mouth as a gasp escapes my lips.

  Stefan stands over the man, the lid to one of the silver platters in his hand, heaving as his chest rises and falls with the fury.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Stefan

  It took all the control in my well-honed body not to leap at her like a savage when she carried the tray into the cabin.

  Sophia Carter was in braces the last time I saw her, a girl who was essentially invisible to me, a nerdy teenager with her nose pressed inches from her Kindle as her father and I shared a bottle of vodka in the gleaming sunshine of his backyard.

  Of course, Jack has placed a distance between us as time has gone by, thinking himself superior because he works in middle-management for some insurance company, as though withholding life insurance from desperate widows is any more morally superior to what I do.

  But his daughter…

  I threw my hand over the back of the chair and stared at her.

  Her curves are like a series of mountain ranges, each summit and decline a place I’d do bloody things to explore. Her dark hair falls majestically down to her shoulders, each curl a promise, begging me to run my hands through it and then fist it, guiding her to my enraged manhood.

  And those hips.

  All my life, I have been searching for a woman worthy of my empire, a queen to sit beside me and rule over my vast kingdoms, but at forty-two years, I was beginning to give up hope.

  But I immediately know, looking at the way that crisp uniform clings to those wide, nurturer’s hips, that I would slaughter entire armies to claim her. Line up a thousand warriors and I’ll fight them, one by one or at the same fucking time, to prove to her that she’s mine, and mine alone.

  As she leaned over to slide our plates onto the table, my gaze was a prisoner to her ample cleavage, breasts perfect for sucking, fucking, and for giving life to the children we’re going to have together. Her sexiness is evident in every gradation of her body, but so is her beauty, her maternal instinct.

  She’s the combination I’ve needed for so long, but I was starting to believe she didn’t exist.

  My best friend’s daughter is the sex-fueled angel I have been waiting to drift to earth.

  So when Egor made a comment about her, suggesting that she was anything other than abstract beauty bridled and made flesh, my insides turned into a riot of scorching wildfire and protective hate.

  Nobody – fucking nobody – talks about the future mother of my children like that.

  Before I knew it, I’d grabbed the platter lid and leaped at him, bringing it around in a wide arc to his jaw.

  I smashed his face as hard as I could, feeling the answering jolt move up my arm.

  Now, I stand over him, chest heaving.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see my princess watching me, her hands covering her mouth, her elbows resting on her body in such a way that her breasts are pushing together.

  I feel like a warrior, my blood surging throughout my body, flooding my manhood, so that all I want to do is finish this business and then drag Sophia into a private room where I can ravage every fertile inch of her.

  Egor glares up at me, rubbing his hand over his jaw as his
eyes weave side to side. He’s a big man, even slightly taller than me, his body bloated with the weight of all the steroids everybody in the Bratva knows that he and his Moscow men use.

  Pathetic.

  Around me, the Moscow men rise from their chairs, all seven of them with their medically-enhanced bodies pressing against their suits.

  Behind me, my second-in-command, Nik, stands slowly to his feet. I don’t have to turn around to know that the younger man has a frown on his bearded face. Nik was the one who suggested that we bring more of our men for the flight, but I told him it wouldn’t be necessary.

  I can take care of myself.

  “Are you just going to stand there?” I roar at the men, turning to them with my fists clenched. “Your employer just made a very fucking grave mistake. Do you truly think I’m going to let him insult Sophia? Well?”

  I leap back in a boxer’s stance when four of his men jump at me, their fists flying, intent on serious violence. I duck to the side and grab one man’s arm, smashing my fist into his elbow. There’s a loud snap noise as his entire arm folds in upon itself, and his screams rise like a wailing siren into the air.

  Another man pulls a knife, the coward, and starts lashing at the air. The blade makes whistling noises as it passes close to my face, hiss-hiss. I slide out of the way, my body responsive and alive to the danger.

  I grab his wrist and wrench him toward me. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to drive the knife into his throat, but I’m not a dishonorable cur like this piece of shit.

  These meetings are supposed to be places without murder. Fist fights are condoned, because men can’t be expected to withhold their more primal natures all the damn time.

  I snap his wrist by wrenching my hand upward, causing the knife to clatter to the floor.

  “Ah!” the man whines, falling backward.

  I wheel on the men, smashing my fist into my chest.

  “Anybody else?” I roar. “Well?”

  The men all back away, shaking their heads, exchanging glances as though they’ve just woken up to find themselves in a cage with an adrenaline-fueled bear. Some of these men are twenty five or younger, the supposed age of vitality, their prime, and yet I know that if they leapt at me now I’d take them apart piece by sniveling piece.