OWNED BY THE REAPER: A Ruthless Mafia Romance

POV BRIELLE The metallic tang of blood in my mouth was the only thing keeping me grounded. It tasted like copper and failure. I spat a crimson glob onto the Persian rug—a hand-knotted antique that probably cost more than my life was worth at this very moment—and stared up at the man who had just dismantled my world in under six minutes. Roman Volkov didn't look like a monster. That was the problem. Monsters should have horns, or at least a visible sneer. Instead, Roman was a masterpiece of cold, calculated symmetry. His suit was charcoal, tailored so sharply it looked like it could draw blood, and his hair was the color of a winter sky just before a storm hits. He sat in the oversized leather chair of my father’s study, looking less like an intruder and more like a king who had finally come to claim a throne he’d forgotten he owned. "You’re bleeding on the silk, Brielle," he said. His voice was a low, melodic vibration that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. "My cleaners hate silk. It’s a b***h to get the iron out." "Then you shouldn't have hit me," I snapped, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to sound like the woman my father had raised me to be. Roman tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "I didn't hit you. My associate did. If I had hit you, we wouldn't be having this conversation because your jaw would be in pieces on the floor. Precision, Brielle. Learn the difference." I looked at the associate—a wall of a man named Viktor standing by the door—and then back to Roman. My hands were shaking in my lap, so I tucked them under my thighs. I was twenty-two years old, and until tonight, I thought I was the daughter of a successful, if slightly shady, private accountant. I knew about the offshore accounts. I knew about the late-night calls in Russian. But I didn't know about the forty million dollars. And I certainly didn't know my father had the balls to steal it from the Volkov Bratva. "He isn't here, Roman," I said, trying to steady my breathing. "He left three days ago. He told me he was going to a conference in Geneva. He hasn't called." Roman stood up. The movement was fluid, like a predator uncoiling. He walked toward me, each footfall silent on the rug. He stopped just inches away, the scent of expensive sandalwood and something sharp—gun oil—filling my senses. He reached down, and for a second, I flinched, expecting another blow. Instead, he hooked a finger under my chin and forced me to look up. His eyes weren't just blue; they were the color of deep-sea ice, devoid of any warmth. "Geneva is for people with passports that aren't flagged by Interpol," Roman whispered. "Your father is a rat, Brielle. And rats don't go to Switzerland. They go into holes. But he left his most precious prize behind. Did he think I was a gentleman? Did he think I wouldn't come for the only thing he actually loves?" "He doesn't love me," I hissed, the truth of it stinging worse than my split lip. "If he loved me, he wouldn't have left me for you to find." Roman’s thumb brushed over my lower lip, smearing the drying blood across my skin. The intimacy of the gesture was terrifying. It wasn't s****l—not yet—but it was a claim. He was marking me. "Maybe," Roman mused. "Or maybe he thought I was soft. He’s seen me grow up. He’s seen me show mercy once or twice in the last decade. He made a fatal miscalculation. He forgot that forty million dollars can turn even a saint into a butcher." He let go of my chin and turned his back on me, walking toward the window that overlooked the rainy streets of Chicago. I saw my chance. It was stupid. It was suicidal. But the small, silver Derringer was tucked into the waistband of my jeans, hidden by my oversized sweater. My father had given it to me on my eighteenth birthday. For emergencies only, he’d said. I didn't think about the consequences. I didn't think about Viktor at the door or the dozens of men likely stationed in the hallway. I just thought about the way Roman looked at me—like I was a piece of furniture he was deciding whether to keep or burn. I pulled the gun. The weight of it felt wrong in my hand, too light to be an equalizer against a man like him. I scrambled to my feet, my chair clattering backward. "Don't move," I gasped, leveling the barrel at the center of his broad shoulders. Viktor moved at the door, his hand reaching for his holster, but Roman raised a hand, stopping him without even looking back. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Roman turned around. He didn't look scared. He looked... bored. No, not bored. Disappointed. He began to walk toward me again, ignoring the weapon pointed at his heart. "Stop!" I screamed. "I'll do it, Roman! I swear to God, I’ll pull the trigger!" "Then do it," he challenged, his voice dropping an octave. "Pull the trigger, Brielle. End the debt right here. Kill the only man who can keep the rest of the council from tearing you apart the second I walk out that door. Go on. Let’s see if you have the ghost of your father’s treachery in your blood." I gripped the gun with both hands, my knuckles white. He was five feet away. Four. Three. He didn't stop until the barrel of the Derringer was pressed firmly against the silk of his vest, right over his steady, rhythmic heartbeat. My heart was thudding like a trapped bird against my ribs. My vision was blurring with tears I refused to shed. I could smell him. I could feel the heat radiating off his body. He was so much bigger than me, so much more dangerous, and yet he was letting me hold his life in my trembling fingers. "You're shaking," he whispered, stepping even closer, forcing me to take a half-step back until my spine hit the mahogany desk. He didn't grab the gun. He didn't try to disarm me. Instead, he reached around my waist, his large hand splaying across the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure, unadulterated fear mixed with a shameful spike of adrenaline. He leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear. I could feel the stubble on his jaw. "You have five seconds to decide who you are, Brielle," he breathed into my ear. "Are you the victim of this story? Or are you the girl who’s going to help me burn your father alive?" My finger tightened on the trigger. I looked into his eyes, searching for a flicker of doubt, a hint of humanity. There was nothing but a cold, dark invitation to ruin. "I'm the girl who's going to survive you," I whispered back. Roman laughed, a low, dark sound that vibrated through my chest. He reached up, his fingers curling around my hand—the one holding the gun—and he didn't pull it away. He pressed it harder against his chest, leaning his forehead against mine. "Good," he murmured, his eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying intensity. "Because I’m not taking you to a jail, and I’m certainly not taking you to the police." He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my mouth, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to my eyes. "So, Brielle, tell me before we leave this room. Are you going to shoot me now, or are you going to enjoy the ride to the place where I keep the things I own?"