Page 3 of Sexting My Bratva Boss (Mafia Silver Foxes #1)

Audrey

“ A re you up for going to Sottovoce? I could use something to take the edge off.”

Chrissy pauses on the sidewalk, a look of surprise on her face. “Really? You never want to go out after work.”

“Well, that’s because I don’t exactly enjoy talking about Excel spreadsheets with Jeanette, Grace, and Duscha.”

She gives me an apologetic smile and steps up to the curb to flag a taxi. Mr. Martynov isn’t an idiot; his stronghold is located on the far side of the city, away from the Italian section and Sottovoce—the bar I met Sal at.

“Do you really think Duscha had something to do with getting you in trouble?”

“Where to?” the driver interrupts as we slide into the backseat of the cab. Chrissy gives him a curt response, just enough time for me to process how to respond. She knows that Mr. Martynov was not happy with me, but I couldn’t tell her why.

Chrissy’s been my best friend since I started as a head accountant for Martynov Global Holdings a year ago.

Before that, I was the accountant for one of Mr. Martynov’s construction offshoots—a grimy job that Sal got me not too long after my grandmother died, when I was unmoored and scared I’d lose her house.

Turns out I did anyway.

Forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window, I stare up at the Obsidian Spire—Martynov’s NYC headquarters and the place we work, all the way up on the 28th floor.

Chrissy nudges me with concern.

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I think so, yeah. I… made an error in an account, and Duscha must have caught it and told him. She gave me such a shit-eating smirk when I came out of his office.”

I wrap my arms around myself, remembering the fear and desire coursing through me as I walked stiffly back to my desk. My ankle still pulsed with a bruise from tripping, and then the strain of kneeling before him.

Submitting.

“She’s always been a bitch,” Chrissy mutters. “Although I have no idea why she’s snooping in your assignments. I wonder if she’s been in the rest of ours, too.”

The cab cuts through the back streets as Chris continues to chat, mostly complaining about the complexity of handling the Eastern European accounts and the headaches she’s been getting at night.

This is what I like most about her; Chrissy lets me just…

exist. It was exactly what I needed after Nana passed, and it was part of what made me give in to Sal’s pursuit as well.

It was so easy to give up control then when I was grieving.

So easy to let someone tell me what to do, or to let them talk about their day mindlessly as I floated in the foggy loss.

But Nana has been gone for a long time now.

And it’s hitting me just how dangerous what Sal has me doing is; just how close I’ve come to burning up like a moth in a flame.

The only thing keeping me safe is the fact that Mr. Martynov wants to toy with me.

And that he wants an answer as to why I would steal close to $50K. The thing is, he’s right; normally I’m not that stupid. I did it because I have to.

The ping of Chrissy paying our fare rouses me, and I follow her out of the cab and onto the street. It’s early fall and even though the trees aren’t changing color yet, it’s darker earlier. A chilly breeze makes me shiver as we hurry into Sottovoce.

Inside isn’t much better; Sottovoce is dimly lit, a classy wine bar of leather and velvet, whispers, and trysts.

The first time Sal brought me here I found it exciting and took Chrissy here a few times after work…

before I realized that this is actually a front for Giuseppe Sartorre, Mr. Martynov’s competition, and leader of the Italian mob.

“Miss Wolfe,” the bartender greets us, “Miss Lin.”

He gives Chrissy those Italian stallion bedroom eyes, and I almost roll mine, then hope to God she isn’t actually falling for it.

The last thing I need is for her to get mixed up between crime syndicates, too, since I can barely keep myself safe.

“Two glasses of white, please,” I snap, and he eyes me up darkly.

“Mr. Imperi isn’t here tonight, Miss Wolfe. But I can let him know you stopped by.”

His words are cold.

They make my heart stutter.

I don’t want to see Sal tonight, not just because I’m pissed at the danger he’s put me in.

I’m also… scared of him.

And I hate that.

Chrissy glances at me over the rim of her glass. When the bartender moves away just a bit, she asks, “Want to grab a booth? A bit more privacy?”

I nod, carefully pick up the stem glass, and the two of us wind our way across the bar to a corner booth. Sinking into the seat, the scent stirs something in me… the smell of leather.

Mr. Martynov’s belt in his hand.

The way he bent me over the desk, lingered behind me like a predator.

I take a shaky sip, and then another. “I really, really don’t want to see Sal tonight. Sorry—is it okay if we make this quick?”

“Yeah, of course. But Audrey… it seems like things haven’t been going great between you two. Maybe it’s time to break it off?”

The wine buzzes on my tongue as I let it warm in my mouth, shaking my head. “Mm. Trust me. That would be more disastrous than just avoiding him.”

Chrissy snorts. “He can’t be that good in bed, Aud, even if he is pretty.”

That makes me laugh. “You’re right. Actually, Sal is kind of… um, selfish is the nice way to put it, I guess. Or focused. But only on himself.”

“Aren’t they all,” Chrissy mutters, and we both giggle into our glasses.

“I don’t know,” I sigh, leaning back. “It might be a bit complicated to end things with him now when everything at work is getting messy. I need Mr. Martynov to trust me again and not fire me.”

“He would never, Aud. There’s a reason you were promoted, you know.”

“Yeah, well, if Duscha can keep her job with that sour look she always has on her face, maybe I have a chance.”

“I don’t know why she has it out for you. Have you ever said anything bad about her? To Mr. Martynov?”

“No, never. Trust me, we barely talk when I’m in that office. Or at least he barely talks. I run through the report, keep my eyes on the papers, and then he gestures for me to leave. That’s it.”

Chrissy smirks.

I know what’s coming even before she says it, because Chrissy has had this theory for so long.

“I think he went easy on you because he’s got a thing for you, Audrey. You know—a little forbidden office romance on the mind.”

I can’t help smiling, it’s such a ridiculous idea.

“You’re reading too many of those books. Trust me, a man like Konstantin Martynov isn’t at all interested in romance.”

“Okay. That’s still not a problem though, right? I mean, if you just have to fuck your way out of this problem, there are worse things.”

“Chris!”

I lunge across the booth, tipsily moving to cover her mouth with my hand as she cackles. We’re drawing attention from the bartender as well as the patrons that have started to settle into nooks and tables.

The wine caught up to me faster than I realized. For starters, I’m terrified that the bartender really might’ve let Sal know I’m here, and that he’ll appear at any moment and hear Chrissy talking about me fucking my boss.

That would not go over well. Sal has been… volatile lately. And while it hasn’t escalated to physical fights yet, the last time he was over he smashed one of my Nana’s Roseville Dogwood vases. It was priceless, both in terms of actual money and nostalgia. I cried for days.

“Okay, I think we’re done here,” I chastise, but give her a smile so she knows I’m not actually mad.

More than anything I’m distracted.

By thoughts of my boss… because what are the chances that Chris is right? What else would explain why he let me walk out of his office today, knowing I’ve stolen from him?

No one steals from Konstantin Martynov.

Which means he’s brainstorming a new level of punishment for me, or Chris is right, and he has a soft spot for me.

Forty-five minutes later, I step into my apartment and wobble a bit.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, kicking off the heels that betrayed me this morning.

My apartment is small and dark except for a little lamp throwing amber light across the living room. I love how homey and calm it makes me feel immediately and start to undo the zipper of my pencil skirt, which it now feels like I’m going to burst out of.

Just in crossing the room I manage to peel off most of my clothes, leaving me in only the silk panties and matching bra I slipped into this morning. Going into the kitchen, I rummage around for girl dinner—pretty much whatever I can find, since it’s already after 7 p.m.

Leaning against the kitchen counter to eat cold cuts and crackers, I’m reminded once again of Konstantin bending me over his desk.

Mr. Martynov.

Ugh, I can’t start thinking of him by his first name—I’m pretty sure if I slip and call him “Konstantin” to his face it’ll be just as bad as the missing $50K.

Only that money isn’t missing.

It’s Sal’s now.

With a groan, I drop my head onto the counter. “What am I going to do?” I whisper.

Somehow, I’ve found myself stuck between two criminal organizations. It’s so ridiculous that I laugh, and then immediately tear up, because if Nana could see me now—I can already imagine the disappointment on her face.

I did it for you. I just wanted you to be comfortable in those last few months.

Banishing the guilt, I open the refrigerator again and find an old bottle of Riesling. Old enough that when I take a swig, it’s sour-vinegary and overpowering. But tonight, I don’t want to think about Nana and how she struggled at the end.

I don’t want to think about the possibility of my own ending, possibly at the hands of my murderous boss.

Frustrated, tipsy, and angry at the world, I march over to my purse and dig around for my cellphone.

This is a bad decision.

Snorting, I ignore the voice of reason in the back of my head and scroll down to a number I’ve never texted before. The contact’s name is: Last Resort.

A warning.

This is Konstantin Martynov’s direct number, only to be used if we are ever caught by his rivals. Threatened. Tortured.

A way to let him know they’re coming for him.

The funny thing is, most people in Martynov’s organization have this number.

But every single one of them are too afraid to use it for anything other than… a last resort.

Finger hovering over Last Resort, I lick my lips. It feels like my body is a kettle that’s been boiling all day, and I need to blow off steam.

Before I can open a new text message, a notification flashes at the top of the screen.

It’s a message from Sal.

What the hell did you do, piccolo idiota?

Little idiot. That’s his newest nickname for me.

Refusing to respond, I instead tap on Last Resort and type out a quick, angry message, fueled by wine, anger, fear—and the warmth that’s still pooling between my thighs at the thought of Konstantin standing over me.

If you’re going to threaten to debauch me, the least you could do is follow through. Maybe you’re too busy running a global empire to satisfy a woman.

My nipples pebble in the cool air of the apartment as I hit send, and then grow bolder:

I guess I’ll just have to take care of it myself.

Sliding the phone across the counter, I slip my hand beneath the silk panties and find my throbbing clit easily. As soon as my fingers graze it, I whimper; a sound mirroring the one I made in Konstantin’s office with his erection pressed against my ass.

Eyes closed, I let the fantasy play out beyond the guard’s interruption:

‘I’m going to make you pay me back, one way or another.’

What would he have done next? Yanked up my skirt and spanked me until my skin was red and raw?

Undone his zipper and fisted himself, rubbing his hard length between my folds?

‘You’ll tell me who made you do this.‘

Trying to mimic the way I want him to touch me, I let out another frustrated whimper; my slim fingers are no match for Konstantin Martynov’s large hands and rough touch. But after a day of feeling on edge, turned on, and in danger, the wine is all I need to loosen up just enough…

‘Whether I have to get it out of you in a scream or a moan.’

The orgasm washes over me hard, a ripple from my center to the hard peaks of my nipples, shudders running through me with my legs spread and the sloppy sounds of my desire filling the little apartment as I ride it out on my fingers.

It takes a moment to catch my breath.

Across the counter, my phone lights up.

Sal has probably heard from someone about the incident in the Spire. I know he has a mole inside, someone other than me, but I haven’t been able to figure out why. Either way, he’ll be pissed that I’m on Martynov’s radar now.

Sighing, I tap the screen.

The notification is from Chrissy asking if I got back okay, since we took separate cabs. I start to type back, but then see the three little dots on another text thread?—

The message to Last Resort.

The dirty, pushy, snappy challenge I sent to my boss only minutes ago. I brace myself for his response, but there isn’t one.

The three little dots disappear.

Under my message is the small phrase Read 7:45 p.m.

Fuck.

With a man like Konstantin Martynov, silence is a death sentence.