Page 111 of Possessive Mafia Bodyguard

“This is not about my pride. This is about putting Xander Amory in his place.”

He shakes his head. “In my day, this would have already been resolved. And do you know why?”

I can take a pretty good guess, but I keep quiet.

“Because I had a family to protect. Family comes first. Always.” He inhales deeply. “I have chosen a bride for you. Maybe once you have a family to protect, you will stop moving pawns around a chess board and start acting like the leader I thought you were.”

I refill my glass and swallow the icy liquid in one gulp. The burn doesn’t even touch the sides. “I will choose my own bride when the time is right.”

He dismisses my comment with a wave of his hand. “This is a suitable match. One that I should have considered long ago. The daughter of a powerful ally. It will strengthen our position, and then—” he makes an explosive gesture with his hands “—you will be ready to go to war.”

“I am already at war, father. An Ivanov does not turn his back on his enemy and depend on his wife’s family to back him up.”

“Please, Leonid.” My mother’s voice is little more than a whisper. “Listen to your father. In time, you may grow to love your wife.”

“Like you did with father?” The words slice through the air before I can think about what I’m saying. And right on cue, her face crumples.

Before I can apologize, my father’s fist thumps the table. “Your mother and I have always loved each other. It is a shame that you are too stubborn to see that.”

I glare at him. “Oh, I see it. Why do you think that I’m attacking Xander through his wife and her family? Melissa is his Achilles heel. His weakness. His blind spot. I prefer to remain stubborn and alive.”

I stand, my chair scraping across the polished wooden floor. Tamara stands too, shooting an apologetic glance in my mother’s direction.

“I wish that you would talk about Elena.” My mother has an almost angelic look about her, but she always knows how to stick the knife in and twist until it bleeds. And fuck that name still hurts.

“There is nothing to talk about.” I dig my nails into the palms of my hands. “It was over years ago.”

“But you still feel it in here.” My mother places a hand above her heart. “I worry about you, Leonid.”

I circle the table and lean over my mother to give her a hug. “You have nothing to worry about. I am fine.”

But she clings to my hand, forcing me to look her in the eye. “Never forget that love can also be a strength. It can give you something—or someone—worth fighting for.”

I have never yet met a woman worth fighting for. Not since Elena. And she proved herself unworthy of that honor.

“I will bear it in mind, mother, but I doubt that person will be the daughter of a powerful ally, and I can guarantee that I will win this war without her assistance.” I straighten and make for the door. “Goodnight, Papa.”

He doesn’t try to stop me.

Behind me, I hear Tamara saying goodbye. I imagine my mother embracing the younger woman and whispering in her ear to try talking some sense into me, knowing this is one that she will never win.

Gianna

I pace the room wearing the white dress my captor provided for me. I don’t need to see the price tag to know that it’s expensive. It feels different against my skin, like the designer wanted the wearer to feel caressed when she wore it. It’s not quite the vintage clothes I like to root around the thrift shops for. I’ve always loved the thought of wearing a dress that might once have been worn and discarded by Marilyn Monroe, or Vivienne Westwood, or Judy Garland. It’s like, wow, they don’t make clothes like this anymore.

But I have to admit that this feels good.

It’s just a shame it’s going to be wasted on an asshole I haven’t met yet because the loser sent a woman to do his dirty work.

I wander back into the bathroom and check out my reflection in the mirror. The fabric clings to my breasts and hips in a way that jeans and sweaters rarely do. So, my captor is a perv who wants to undress me with his eyes while he figures out how to dispose of me without spilling too much blood on the fancy carpet. Well, I’ve got news for him. I bleed plenty when I’m cut.

I go back to the bedroom and pace some more.

I should maybe think about what I’m going to say to the asshole when he finally shows his face, but it’s hard to concentrate when I’m stopping every few steps to listen for sounds of movement outside the door.

Instead, I recite in my head the names of the women I met in the refuge. Maria. Evangeline. Hope.

Hope was one of the worst cases we saw. Her husband broke both her legs when she tried to leave him and then buried her alive on a construction site. She was filthy when she was discovered by the emergency services and taken to the hospital where she spent months healing her broken bones. But that’s the thing with hospitals: they can fix broken bones, but they can’t fix broken spirits.