Page 10 of Sexting My Bratva Boss

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 myownending, 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: