Page 5 of Sexting My Bratva Boss (Mafia Silver Foxes #1)

Audrey

F riday.

Friday comes and I… haven’t.

I’ve been too scared to do what Konstantin told me to do—to touch myself and think of him, of the things he did to me in that room with everyone right down the hall.

Scared because of how much I liked it.

Scared because it was the best almost-sex I’ve ever had.

And because the man who got me so wet they’ll probably have to reupholster that chair is my boss and no less than a murderer.

There’s a thud out in the hallway, as if I summoned the man himself.

I jump, hand to my chest, and stare at the double bolted lock.

What are the chances Konstantin decided he’s sick of me?

That it would be easier to dispose of me than have me carry his child, a surrogate slave to be used as he sees fit?

Cautiously, I walk over, barefoot. Peering through the peephole doesn’t make me feel any more relieved when I see who it is.

Sal.

Damn. I’ve been avoiding him all week, but there was no escaping this. I’d had to tell him what happened, and that meant admitting that Konstantin Martynov found the missing money.

“Oh, God, it’s just you.”

“Just me. Just me. We know who you thought it was, right? Who you’re afraid of? You think he’s going to send someone to pick you off?”

I bite my lip, not wanting to admit that I was scared of that. It wouldn’t be hard for Martynov’s men to overpower me and make it look like an accident, or a suicide.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Sal hisses, pacing my small apartment as I bolt the lock again.

I hate that he’s here, but after avoiding him all week, I couldn’t exactly tell him no.

No one tells Sal Imperi no; at least, that’s what he tells me every time he pulls his hand back and threatens to leave me black and blue.

He wouldn’t do it… or… I don’t think he’d do it. Too many people would notice, especially Mr. Martynov, now that I have his attention, and Sal doesn’t like that.

Sal’s scared—probably more scared than I am.

“He’s watching you now, you know that? How the hell am I supposed to get what I need from you if Konstantin Martynov is watching you?”

He stops at the window, peeking down at the street below as if Martynov’s men are down there right now. They aren’t…

Right?

“It’s fine,” I say, trying to lean casually against my kitchen counter and appease him. I just want something solid between us, because Sal is pissed.

“It’s fine!? It’s fine!? You understand that if he’s watching you, it means you can’t get into the operations room?”

“He thinks it’s an accounting error, Sal. That I’m an idiot, that’s all.”

I can see the war happening behind his eyes— he wants nothing more than to believe I’m an idiot, but he knows better. That’s why he picked me. That’s why he chose me to infiltrate Martynov’s Obsidian Spire.

“Maybe if you hadn’t had me steal all that money, he wouldn’t have caught on!”

I can’t help the burst of angry words; I’ve been pent up all week, afraid to touch myself and dying to all at the same time. Turns out being incredibly horny can also make you a real bitch, even if your gangster boyfriend walks around with a Glock on his hip.

Sal marches across the room, knocking over a vase of flowers that I bought myself as he goes. The way it shatters should make me flinch, but this is the fourth vase I’ve bought, and it came from the thrift store. I learned my lesson a few months ago.

“You wouldn’t have had to steal the money if you hadn’t borrowed it in the first place, would you?”

A shiver goes up my spine, but nothing like the shiver that Konstantin gives me. It isn’t a thrill I feel when Sal threatens me. It’s disgust. He sounds like a hyena, voice higher the angrier he gets.

I hate him.

I might hate him more than I hate Konstantin Martynov.

If I hadn’t met Sal, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

If I hadn’t had to pay for Nana’s home hospice care…

“I can get it,” I choke out as he leans over the counter. I’ll say anything to get him to leave. “If he’s keeping me there it’s because I’m important, right? Because I’m…worth something.”

His eyes narrow, and I quickly correct myself: “Because he knows I’m good at what I do—hiding his money.”

Sal turns away, running a hand through his thick hair.

He’s pretty; a classic Italian boy, well-muscled around the shoulders but you can tell he likes food too much. His trousers are pressed, and his button-down shirt is open, flapping against an undershirt stained with sweat despite the autumn weather.

“Sal, I… I can’t keep skimming money.”

His arm sweeps over the counter, sending a water glass, jar of kitchen utensils, and spice rack over. They crash to the floor. I press myself back against the refrigerator, praying for this storm to end.

“I need that money, Audrey,” he hisses, stalking toward me. He reached out and, despite being the same height as I am, wraps a hand around my throat.

Tight.

So tight I immediately can’t get a breath in, and my own hand locks over his wrist.

“Sa—”

I can’t say his name, the air leaving my windpipe in a short burst. “Saa?—”

“ I need that money, Audrey. You fucked me over with this. You fucked up.”

He brings his other hand up.

Wraps it around my throat and squeezes.

Something grinds, something that feels like bone.

I let out a hiss of a whimper and my leg kicks, uncontrolled, knocking into the garbage that goes sideways. It immediately smells like trash in the small apartment. Sal curses, stepping away quickly to avoid dirtying his shoes.

It’s enough of an imbalance for me to stumble out of his grip.

I make it to the door, but he slams me against it hard. One of my fingers is crushed awkwardly on my left hand and I cry out.

Sal is pressed against me, his body sweaty and smelling of garlic and car leather and cigarettes. I cry out again, desperate, and sure that this is it.

Only minutes ago, I was afraid that Konstantin Martynov was sending someone to end me, but that… that would be more merciful than this, I’m sure.

Sal presses my head hard against the door, but he takes too much pleasure in my pain. I manage to get the lock undone and pull back hard, almost opening the door.

It slams shut loudly when he shoves forward again.

“You bitch!”

“Miss Wolfe?”

The voice is recognizable, but I’m dizzy and can’t place it. My finger throbs, as do the toes of one foot; Sal must’ve trampled on them at some point, or maybe I stubbed my foot against the door. He’s pulling my head back by my hair when I cry out again.

“Miss Wolfe!”

Someone pushes on the other side of the door. It catches Sal off guard and we both stumble back, the door opening to reveal one of my neighbors—a man named Bill who lives two doors down.

There are grocery bags spilled open in the hallway. He looks brave and scared and horrified all at once, glasses askew as he takes in the sight of Sal holding me up by my hair and a scrape on my face bleeding.

“I’m calling the police.”

Sal releases me, suddenly all appeasement as Bill pulls out his phone and quickly dials.

“Woah, woah, man, no need to do that. My girl and I were just having an argument. She disobeyed me—you know how it?—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Bill, who stands a good six inches over both of us, glares into the apartment at Sal as I cradle my arms around myself and try to hide. Anywhere, just away from Sal’s wild gaze.

“Yes, I’d like to report domestic abuse. No… no, the victim lives here, but I don’t think the perpetrator does. Yes. We’re at 147 Magnolia, fourth floor. I can try to hold him if?—”

Before he can finish, Sal is out the door, slipping by Bill like it’s nothing. Bill shouts after him and I hear the thud of Sal’s heavy boots down the hallway but, sinking to the ground, I’m dizzy all over again.

“Hey.”

Bill is kneeling next to me.

“Hey, Miss Wolfe. Audrey, sorry. Are you okay? They’re asking if you need an ambulance?—”

I shake my head, finding my voice, although it’s hoarse. “No… no thank you. Sorry, please no. Just let him go. He won’t come back.”

I promise that a few times, though I’m not sure if it’s true. Bill gives in eventually and opts to go meet the cops outside when they arrive, their lights flashing down on the street and lighting up the apartment ceiling.

I lock both bolts again, slide down onto the floor, try to catch my breath.

My throat is raw.

Everything feels raw.

What the hell am I doing?

Eyes closed, I see Nana’s face?—

And it’s disapproving.

Thank God she never met Sal. When I started seeing him, he knew about Nana. He’s the one who offered me the money for her home hospice care, so she wouldn’t have to leave the house.

The house that I lost soon after she passed.

The money that he never explained was a debt, not a gift.

I still owe him thirty grand. And the interest—information from Obsidian Spire, specifically the Operations room.

Tears well out of the corners of my eyes despite how tightly they’re shut. How did I get here? I was happy once. I felt safe, and carefree.

My phone buzzes.

I don’t want to look at it, but I’ve been ignoring Sal’s texts all week. After this… there’s no more ignoring him.

Dumb whore , flashes across the screen, followed quickly by another message: He owns you now. And I’ll take you both down. Your debt is doubled.

The tears come harder, faster. This all feels like a pit I can’t get out of—Sal threw me into it, but Konstantin Martynov pulled me down with him.

Down to the very bottom.

Sal’s right; I’m his now.

Standing on weak legs, I manage to get to the bathroom, down some Tylenol, and clean up the scrape on my face.

It’s not as bad as it looks. My scalp pulses with pain and the toes on my right foot are raw.

My finger, too, is badly swollen already.

Hopefully, it isn’t broken; I can’t venture out of the apartment, not tonight, so I opt instead for taping it to my middle finger and hoping for the best.

A knock on the door comes just minutes after I manage to look a bit presentable…

for a woman who just got beat up. It’s a pair of cops, and they ask about Sal—his name, what happened, if I want to press charges.

I can feel Bill lingering down the hall, watching incredulously as I tell them that everything’s fine. It was just a misunderstanding.

By the time I manage to struggle into pajamas, wash my face, and check the doors again, my phone lights up once more.

My chest aches. I want so badly to ignore it.

I want all of this to disappear. Crazy to think that just this morning, I was feeling so euphoric, lost to pleasure.

I tap the screen, fully expecting to see more abuse from Sal.

Instead, the text reads only: Tomorrow night. A car will pick you up at 7 p.m. Come ready .

The name of the contact: Last Resort.

Climbing into bed, I realize that the text doesn’t make me scared or exhausted or even angry.

I’m… curious.

And maybe a bit excited.

And maybe… just a little bit… I feel safe.

Because if Sal is right, and Konstantin Martynov owns me, then everyone knows that he doesn’t let others take what he wants.

Despite the dangers I might have to dodge, the best choice might be to give in.

To become his, entirely.