Page 30 of Sexting My Bratva Boss

Two cell phones sit on the bedside table. My old, scratched up phone and the gleaming new one he gave me the night before.

Should I text him? Surely he’ll be at the Spire by now. Shouldn’tIbe there too, now that I’ve missed several days of work?

Anxiety makes me feel itchy, restless, and I jump when there’s a light knock on the doorframe.

“Miss Wolfe.”

A pretty older woman stands there, dressed in what is clearly a starched work uniform. There are several bags next to me that look out of place in the butter-colored hallway.

Because they’remybags.

A beat-up duffle bag with a loud, ochre-and-blue pattern and several suitcases I found in thrift stores: worn leather in varying stages of falling apart, teals and browns and a dark red.

“Mr. Martynov had your things packed and brought here. At least, for a few days, until you move in. There is a company waiting for your call today whenever you would like to do so. Can I make you breakfast?”

She looks at me inquiringly, as if it’s totally normal for a mafia boss to buy a house, furnish it, hire staff, fuck his mistress in it, and then… what? Expect her to live here?

“Sorry, he… wants me to move in?”

Her eyes narrow briefly, quickly. “Did he not clarify that last night, when he showed you the house?”

Oh, he did more than show me the house, but she can already guess that from the rumpled state of my clothes and the bed.

His words from the night before swim back to my memory:This is your home, Audrey.

The key.

It sits on the nightstand, beautifully intricate and heavy.

You’ll earn it.

My core throbs with the memory, and the promise of just what I’d have to do toearn it.Ugh, I shouldn’t be so turned on by this arrangement.

After all, I’m letting my boss fuck me until I’m pregnant. I’menjoying my mafia, murdering boss fucking me until I’m pregnant with his child.

It’s all too much, and my eyes well with tears. The woman, whose name I don’t know, takes a gentle step back.

“I’ll give you some privacy, miss. When you’re ready, I’ll be downstairs.”

She disappears, leaving my bags just outside the door and the start of tears rolling down my cheeks.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

When I finally pad downstairs, everything is like a dream.

There are vases of flowers—hydrangeas, baby’s breath, bluebells, something pink and layered I don’t recognize—on almost every surface.

“Those are camellias.”

Startled, I turn to find the woman watching me from the open archway that leads to the kitchen. She nods to the pink flowers that look more like small shrubs, thick and hearty.

“They symbolize longing,” she adds with a knowing glance before disappearing into the kitchen.

I follow. It’s homey, not too big, not too small. There’s a long butcher block island with seats on one side and windows that look out onto the wooded yard, now draped in gold and red for the fall.

“Um, I’m Audrey,” I introduce myself. “Do you work here… all the time?”

She hides a small smile, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Yes. I used to work for Mr. Martynov at another home, but he asked me to move here instead, full-time. My name is Kashmere. What would you like in your omlette, Miss Audrey?”