Dads russian mafia frien.., p.1
Dad's Russian Mafia Friend, page 1
part #97 of A Man Who Knows What He Wants Series
DAD’S RUSSIAN MAFIA FRIEND
AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE
_______________________
A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 97
FLORA FERRARI
CONTENTS
Copyright
A Man Who Knows What He Wants Series
Dad's Russian Mafia Friend
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Series
Newsletter
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2019 by Flora Ferrari.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS
Book 1: Baby Lust
Book 2: Veteran
Book 3: Built
Book 4: Bambino
Book 5: Rescued
Book 6: Leader
Book 7: Professor
Book 8: Burned
Book 9: Worldly
Book 10: Pistol
Book 11: Policed
Book 12: Driven
Book 13: Lucky 13
Book 14: Lumberjacked
Book 15: Protector
Book 16: Carpenter
Book 17: Italian Stallion
Book 18: Gardener
Book 19: Budapest Billionaire’s Virgin
Book 20: Billionaire’s Babysitter
Book 21: Cocky CFO
Book 22: Fireman’s Filthy 4th
Book 23: Mechanic
Book 24: SEAL’s Secret
Book 25: Police, Pooch, and Smooch
Book 26: Fireman’s Fake Fiancée
Book 27: Billionaire’s Virgin Ballerina
Book 28: Bitcoin Billionaire’s Babysitter
Book 29: Veterans Day Daddy
Book 30: Cowboy’s Christmas Carol
Book 31: Police Officer’s Princess
Book 32: Statham
Book 33: Bodyguard
Book 34: Greek God
Book 35: Billionaire Single Dad's Babysitter
Book 36: Mountain Man
Book 37: SEAL’s Justice
Book 38: Royal Romance
Book 39: Doctor Mountain Man’s Special Delivery
Book 40: Crocodile Dan D
Book 41: Mountain Man’s Secret Baby
Book 42: Doctor Bad Boy’s Secret Baby
Book 43: Cop’s Babysitter
Book 44: Nanny for the Cop Next Door
Book 45: Small Town SEAL’s Saving Grace
Book 46: Cop’s Fake Fiancée
Book 47: Billionaire’s Nanny
Book 48: Cowboy’s Babysitter
Book 49: Steamy
Book 50: Brother’s Best Friend
Book 51: Possessive Professor
Book 52: Firefighter’s Babysitter
Book 53: Soldier’s Secret Baby
Book 54: Ward’s Independence Day
Book 55: Doctor Next Door
Book 56: Possessive Policeman
Book 57: Coached by the MMA Fighter
Book 58: Boss’s Babysitter
Book 59: Virgin in New York
Book 60: Rock Star’s Baby
Book 61: Possessive Protector
Book 62: Possessive Australian
Book 63: Best Friend’s Brother
Book 64: Possessive Cowboy
Book 65: Summer Romanced
Book 66: Possessive Prince
Book 67: Lovers’s Enemy
Book 68: Cop’s Best Friend
Book 69: Possessive Firefighter
Book 70: Football Next Door
Book 71: Doctor December
Book 72: Possessive Canadian
Book 73: Blue Collar Billionaire
Book 74: Possessive K-9 Cop
Book 75: Possessive Brazilian
Book 76: Hockey Obsession
Book 77: Possessive Boston Irish American MMA Fighter
Book 78: Halloween Next Door
Book 79: Possessive Russian
Book 80: Baseball Mine
Book 81: Cop’s Caribbean Captive
Book 82: Instalove Island
Book 83: Dad’s Best Friend
Book 84: Thanksgiving with Dad’s Boss
Book 85: Possessive Italian Neighbor
Book 86: Possessive Portuguese
Book 87: Possessive Christmas Cop
Book 88: Russian’s Obsession
Book 89: Possessive Doctor’s Christmas
Book 90: Possessive Parisian Pilot
Book 91: U.K. Boxing Day
Book 92: Jealous Russian Stalker
Book 93: Italian Mountain Man
Book 94: Aggressive Russian
Book 95: Possessive Valentine
Book 96: Possessive Hunter
Book 97: Dad’s Russian Mafia Friend
DAD’S RUSSIAN MAFIA FRIEND
Your dad asked me to do what he can’t…protect you.
But one look at you and I know I won’t be able to protect myself from all the bad things I want to do to you, you naughty little girl.
You’re too young, too innocent, and too perfect not to claim as mine.
Once I get a taste of you, and you get a taste of the fantasies filling my head that I’m saving just for you and only you…neither one of us will ever let go.
You’re mine now…forever.
*Dad’s Russian Mafia Friend is a “mafia lite” insta-everything standalone instalove romance with an HEA, no cheating, no ow, no dubcon, and no cliffhanger.
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CHAPTER 1
Dakota
“He’s not really my friend, Daniela. He’s just a guy from my recreational hockey league,” my dad admits out of nowhere.
“This morning you said he was your friend,” my mom’s voice rising to punctuate the end of her not so subtle reminder, as my parents argue underneath the light at our dinner table.
My father cowers in his seat, saying nothing.
“Now you mean to tell me you invited some…some…beast who you think might be part of the Russian mafia into our home, without even knowing him?”
“What other option do we have?”
My mom purses her lips and shakes her head.
“Exactly. None,” my dad says.
My mom raises a finger and just as her mouth opens the loud hum of a motorcycle engine rattles our front windows.
It’s too late now.
I run to the living room, flipping the light switch off just before I open the curtains ever so slightly, peering through as I watch a giant of a man throw one leg over his sleek motorcycle.
He surveys the front of our home as his hand reaches back, turning the key in his bike before removing it. Then jamming it into his pocket.
My eyes follow his hands and see he isn’t grasping a helmet in either. It’s not required in Florida if you’re over twenty-one years old and carry at least ten thousand in medical insurance, but even still it’s rare to see anyone riding without head protection these days.
Then again it’s very clear to see he’s about as far from anyone, as someone can be.
He takes long strides up the driveway as if he owns the place, as if he’s come home from a day of breaking bones and causing chaos like it’s all in a day’s work. And like this is his place, not ours.
I move my body, trying not to cause the curtains to sway despite my white-knuckle grip on them, as he arrives at our front door.
His eyes are straight ahead, not even looking at the big red doorbell button that you can see from a mile away.
The sound of his thick knuckles rapping against the reinforced steel door cause me to jump, my arms pulling into my body as my shoulders dart upward.
I can feel my heart pounding in my chest and I exhale, not even realizing I was holding my breath.
My view gets blurry and I realize I’ve exhaled too hard against the glass. His neck slowly bends, his head trailing behind it and I yank the curtains shut, stepping away from the window.
My feet get tied up and I fall right on my butt. My feet press down hard against the floor, my primal instincts pushing my body away from the window, away from thi
Common sense tells me to crawl under the couch and call the police, admitting my father made a bad mistake and begging for professional help before things get too far out of hand.
But my mind is far from working right now. I’m overrun with feelings, and like a moth to a flame I move towards the edge of the doorway separating the living room.
My mom’s body is tight, her arms folded across her chest and the inside of her legs touching. It’s primal. She’s protecting her vital organs, as you should when a deadly predator is near. Whether hundreds of years ago across the savannas of Africa, or here and now in the suburbs of South Florida, we’re still animals. And right now we’re prey for the beast that’s entered the territory we thought was safe…the territory we wrongfully thought was our own.
Three more booming knocks echo through the door and my body jerks in response again, my cheek hitting the side of the doorframe.
My mom motions toward the door with her head and eyebrows and I hear the bottom of my dad’s chair slide across the linoleum just before he stands, takes a deep breath and moves toward the door.
His eyes sweep toward the doorway and he catches me staring with rapt attention. “Go to your room, Dakota.”
I throw my body around the corner and jet up the stairs. Moving through the hallway I open my door and audibly shut it, the cue I’m guessing my dad is looking for to let him know his daughter is as safe as she’s going to get at this point.
As the door creaks open, I quickly get down on my stomach, sliding across the carpet of the hallway to the edge where I can see into the lower level of our home.
“Dimitry,” my dad says, trying to make his voice sound lower than it usually is.
Dimitry says nothing, just stares at my father, burning holes through him with his eyes as if he’s asking him why he’s wasting his time, without needing to say the words.
“Come in,” my dad says.
“Can I get you something to drink, Mister…” my mom says.
“Vodka.” The two syllables, snapping from his tongue and cutting through the air.
“Absolutely, let me see what we have,” my mom says, skittishly moving toward the kitchen cabinets.
“Please have a seat,” my dad says, pulling out the chair at the table where he always sits, and never lets anyone else.
Dimitry takes one step forward, throws his leg over the back of the chair, not even touching it with his hands until the back of his black denim jeans finds the seat. He leans back, the front two legs coming more than a few inches off the ground.
I stare, watching him defy the laws of physics. How can the chair support his weight? How can he lean back so far without it tipping over? He has the confidence of Tony Soprano, but far younger, much better looking, and in peak physical condition. He calmly surveys the top cabinet where my parents keep the good stuff. He’s not exactly young though. I’d guess he’s mid-thirties and probably two hundred and fifty pounds. He’s solid, with wide shoulders underneath that midnight black T-shirt he has on. It goes with his pants and riding boots, which are scuffed. I can’t help but wonder if it’s from objects being kicked up from the street when he rides, or from him kicking in teeth when he doesn’t.
My eyes continue to rake over his profile, as he’s sitting at the end of the table. It’s the king’s chair, as my dad always says. But if he’s conceded it this quickly what does it really say about him.
“That one,” Dimitry demands. My eyes move toward the cabinet and I see my mom’s hand backtrack to the bottle of Russian Standard.
“We also have Belvedere and Ciroc,” my mom offers.
“There is no such thing as vodka from Poland or France,” Dimitry corrects, and my mom doesn’t seem ready to disprove his words despite the glaring visual evidence.
Dimitry’s far hand rests on his knee while his other arm is lying flat across the table. He takes up nearly half of it, making it look more like how a little girl’s toy set would look, than a place where three adults would actually dine each evening.
His fingers raise in succession, the tip of each digit slamming down into the wood as he impatiently waits for his drink.
Something in my mind clicks and it occurs to me how irresponsible he must be if he’s going to drink vodka and then ride that bike, then again I’m not sure if responsible, at least when it comes to rules, regulations, and laws, is something a man like Dimitry bothers with…ever.
I think back to that little sheet of paper you get with your vehicle registration, the one that tells you when you’re impaired. At Dimitry’s size and weight he could probably down half the bottle and be no more loopy than if someone my size had a few too many spoonfuls of cough medicine.
My mom reaches for the glasses, but before she can remove them he says, “Shot glasses. Two,” his words lacerating, as my mom’s back arches and I see her eyes close from the side.
“Right,” she says.
The shot glasses rattle in her hand as she pulls them from the cabinet, her hand visibly shaking as she pours two and sets them on the table.
“I hope it’s okay for you,” she says to Dimitry as she places one in front of him on the table and the other a foot and a half away, not in front of my dad but just in limbo as if it needs to be there, but not exactly intended for anyone in particular. The hurried confusion makes sense as I’ve never seen my dad take a shot of alcohol, and both my parents are clearly on edge, not sure what to do.
He says nothing, his eyes moving to my father, who looks like he’s frozen stiff.
“Yes, of course,” my dad says, the silence in the air creating a tension that my father is desperate to release as he nervously answers for Dimitry. My dad quickly takes the other shot glass, part of its contents spilling over the top.
I look at Dimitry, just in time to see him cringe ever so slightly at the minuscule loss of his national drink to our tabletop. My imagination runs wild, wondering if his real thought is to grab my father by the back of his head and force his face into the table, making him lick up what he spilled as if it’s the only way to right his sacrilegious error. Dimitry’s body language tells me it might not be my imagination at all.
My dad brings the shot glass up to his lips, his hand shaking just as feverishly as my mother’s, before he stops, holding it out in front of his face. “Nostrovia!” he says.
He looks at Dimitry for approval, but Dimitry looks at my mother and then back at my clueless dad.
I’ve watched enough mafia movies to know what he’s saying without saying a word. I want to yell it to my dad, but there’s no way I’m letting him, or Dimitry, know I’m watching this whole thing unfold.
Even as tense as I am, I know my dad’s even more on edge. There’s no way he’s thinking straight and it’s clear he’s absolutely not in control of anything that’s happening in his own home. I feel bad for him, but I also can’t deny what I’m feeling either.
My nipples are hard as rocks. I feel them painfully pressing into the fabric of my bra. I carefully raise up slightly on my forearms.
“Man never ask woman to listen to business matters,” Dimitry clues my dad in.
“Sorry,” my mom says, scurrying out of the dining room and into the living room.
“Na Zdorovie,” Dimitry says, raising his shot glass, or at least I assume so. His hand is off the table, but it’s so big the shot glass practically disappears even though the position of his thick wrist makes it appear as though he does have it in-between his thumb and index finger.
