Kostya
A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva)
Nicole Fox
Copyright © 2019 by Nicole Fox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Also by Nicole Fox
Heirs to the Bratva Empire
*Can be read in any order
Kostya
Aleksei (coming soon)
Maksim (coming soon)
Tsezar Bratva
Nightfall (Book 1)
Daybreak (Book 2)
Russian Crime Brotherhood
*Can be read in any order
Owned by the Mob Boss
Unprotected with the Mob Boss
Knocked Up by the Mob Boss
Sold to the Mob Boss
Stolen by the Mob Boss
Trapped with the Mob Boss
Volkov Bratva
Broken Vows (Book 1)
Broken Hope (Book 2)
Other Standalones
Vin: A Mafia Romance
Contents
Kostya
1. Kostya
2. Charlotte
3. Kostya
4. Charlotte
5. Charlotte
6. Kostya
7. Charlotte
8. Kostya
9. Charlotte
10. Charlotte
11. Charlotte
12. Kostya
13. Charlotte
14. Kostya
15. Charlotte
16. Kostya
17. Charlotte
18. Kostya
19. Charlotte
20. Kostya
21. Charlotte
22. Kostya
23. Charlotte
Sneak Preview of NIGHTFALL
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Kostya A Dark Mafia Romance (Zinon Bratva)
I can buy my secretary’s submission—or I can take it the hard way.
My ex-wife’s fatal car crash left me with a cruel gift:
A daughter I never knew I had.
I am a billionaire. A mob boss. A titan.
Not a babysitter.
I need a woman’s touch to help raise my daughter.
My secretary doesn’t know it yet, but her life is about to change.
Charlotte is gorgeous. Feisty.
And best of all…
Desperate.
So from now on, we’re going to do things my way.
It starts with five little words:
“Let me own you, kitten.”
KOSTYA is a standalone, single dad mafia billionaire romance.
1
Kostya
Yeblya vecherinki. Fucking parties.
I don’t mind what I do for a living—the weapons, the threats, the blood. I don’t mind business deals in crowded boardrooms or surreptitious beatings in back alleys.
What I hate is people. I hate parties. Fundraisers. Endless goddamn galas.
Each one is the same as the next. The inane small talk. The glad-handing. The smiling—the endless, fake, thousand-megawatt-grin-with-expensive-veneers-fucking smiling—until I want to pound my fist against anything in striking distance.
And yet here I am, in yet another ballroom, for yet another party, with candles lit on every table, clinking silverware against fine china plates, the chandeliers’ dim light casting shadows on the corners while a spotlight throbs in time to the music.
I’m here because this cause is my cause. One close to my heart.
And still … Yeblya vecherinki.
“Kostya!” A blonde, in a room full of them, wanders over with her manicured nails like claws closing in on my Armani-clad arm. She’s dressed in sequins and diamonds with hair piled on top of her head and shoes that add another four inches to her already impressive height. Her skin has the same fake, store-bought tan as every woman in the room, but her confidence gives her a glow of superiority absent in most of the others.
I can’t think of her name. Charlotte would know, if only I’d thought to bring her. My cock twinges at the thought of my curvy, sexy assistant. I’d rather be glad-handing her ass instead of the idiots surrounding me.
But instead of cursing my oversight or concentrating on the pang of lust in my nether regions, I smile at the blonde and wait for the requisite kiss of greeting on my cheek. American women always go for the cheek first.
As soon as her lips peck against my skin, I pull back and look down. She’s fortyish, slender, and dull. But she reeks of money, and since her checkbook is undoubtedly the reason she made the guest list, I suppose I can be accommodating.
“I heard a rumor,” she drawls conspiratorially. Her voice is soft, toned by years of good breeding and grooming on the Los Angeles social circuit. “I heard you are designing the neonatal wing.”
Once, I was an architect, a builder, a man who could take nothing and make it into something awe-inspiring. Now, as don of the Zinon Bratva, I do the opposite: I take those who oppose me and turn them into nothing.
Not that this expensively perfumed witch knows any of that. No one does. To her, I am merely Kostya Zinon, elusive financier and billionaire property developer. It’s best that way for all involved.
“Oh, darling”—I still can’t think of her name—“you shouldn’t listen to rumors.”
She leans in close, the smell of cranberry vodka on her breath repulsively strong. “Why don’t you meet me in my room? You can teach me the error of my ways.” She adds the last part in a whisper against my throat as her fingernail traces a line over my jaw.
I chuckle more at her audacity than at her offer. Her husband is across the dance floor, a senator working the guests—playing up his part in the improved relations of our countries—while his wife works her hand around my bicep. She’s all but screaming that she wants to be fucked.
To be fair, my cock is hard, and this woman is standing close enough to me that perhaps she notices it. The erection is not for her, though. I’ve been wrestling all night with the memory of Charlotte, bent over on hands and knees on the floor of my office this afternoon, picking up a cup of pens she clumsily knocked off my desk. The creamy white of her thighs beckoned to me as the black pencil skirt crept higher and higher and …
The witch takes my sigh as an agreeable moan and leans in to purr against my earlobe. “Room 306. In an hour.” She gives a tug to my sleeve, a slow wink, then sashays with heels clicking to where her husband is standing, oblivious to his wife’s adulterous scheming.
Stupid American. More money than sense.
I do not suffer such foolishness. If I let myself be the kind of man who took up offers like that, I would never have clothes on. I’d be too busy
