Masked Bratva Daddy (Mafia Silver Foxes #2)

Chapter 1

Roxy

Rain slicks the street in ripples that reflect the amber street lamps and soak up the shadows.

The drizzle is soft, giving a sheen to Boston that almost makes it romantic.

Headlights shimmer across the dark glass of the limo’s back doors.

Beyond them, my sister stands with a smirk under an umbrella being held for her by a silent, hulking man.

The pearls at her throat catch the light, gleaming.

She looks perfectly at home in the chill, and the wealth, and the quiet menace of the evening.

Meanwhile, I sit in the back seat, heart thudding, watching her through the rain—like a lamb waiting to be led somewhere it shouldn’t go.

When I came home for the summer, I expected to be left alone to work on assignments.

Kat asked me only two days ago if I wanted to come to the masquerade tonight.

‘The Gilded Range’, sponsored in part by her husband’s accounting company and catering to the city's elite.

So…why is it in an old bank?

The building is nondescript, narrow, with carved lions pressing forth from worn beige stone. The windows are dark, and only two sconces on either side of the doors light the way.

With a sigh, Kat turns away and sashays toward the bank, calling over her shoulder, “Try not to trip on the way in, Roxy. These people notice everything.”

I scramble out of the car and duck under the umbrella of another waiting man, his face erased by shadows.

A shiver thrills down my spine at the feel of the rain grazing my skin.

What was I thinking?

It’s summer, but early yet, and the white satin dress I’m wearing is sleeveless. The fur at the shoulders is just for show, hinting at the creature I am tonight.

Not a lamb, but a hare.

Gathering the hem of my dress, I pick my way along the sidewalk and murmur, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Kat’s mouth twitches. “You should be grateful I even brought you. David’s firm had to pull strings for an extra ticket.”

That old familiar blend of dread and resentment creeps in.

And annoyance, because I knew it was a lie.

My mom had already whispered the truth to me earlier, explaining that David was too wrapped up in work to attend, and he and Kat had been arguing about that.

She wanted to go, but not alone, so here I was.

If I say I’m not grateful, I’m ungrateful. If I say thank you, I look small.

There’s no winning with Kat.

The limo pulls away behind us, and the evening air is sharp and damp. I breathe in the scent of wet pavement and Kat’s hairspray.

As the two men who flank us bend to open the doors, my heart thuds again, and I tug at the top of my dress. It suddenly feels far too tight. Does the low neckline show too much skin? Kat insisted I borrow it from her stylist, saying it would “elongate my shape.”

The mask doesn’t help. It’s creamy white lace, delicate pink nose, and tall white ears land somewhere between decadent and ridiculous.

I’d joked about being a raccoon, since I’m usually scrounging for dinner last-minute on campus. Kat hadn’t laughed.

Her arm links through mine, all performative sisterly affection, and she steers me inside. “Try to smile,” she murmurs. “You look terrified.”

“I am terrified,” I whisper back. “Of suffocating under all this self-importance.”

Her eyes through the fox mask are sharp and cutting. “Don’t embarrass me, Roxy. This is important. People here know me.”

The marble foyer is dimly lit by a chandelier. What I thought was the whole venue—the pretty little bank aboveground—is just a facade.

The real party is below.

A woman in black silk gloves greets us and gestures toward an open steel door in the wall.

The vault.

My brows raise as we step inside toward a huge marble slab in the room that is propped up among security deposit boxes and what can only be cases of cash. Amber light pools out of a hole in the ground.

Kat disappears down it, never hesitating.

I teeter at the top, unbalanced in my heels. At twenty-two, I’ve had absolutely no need to ever wear heels like this. At least if I snap an ankle, I’ll have the summer to recover.

The sound of strings filters up—slow, lush, indulgent. From the shadows below, Kat whispers: “Remember what I said. You’re representing me tonight.”

“Because nothing says ‘representation’ like a bunny mask,” I mutter, and struggle down one step at a time, already feeling sweat prickling at my lower back.

The fur at each shoulder tickles my chin as I finally reach the bottom and take in the masquerade.

The space opens into a world I could never have imagined: an underground ballroom carved from stone, transformed into something between a forest and a fever dream.

Golden vines wind up marble pillars. Moss glows faintly all along various surfaces—is it real? Beetles look like jewels climbing over the decadent green surfaces, protected by glass cases. The chandeliers look like cages dripping with light.

Guests prowl in silk and velvet, each masked as some animal of myth.

There are several other foxes (which Kat doesn’t look happy about), wolves, stags, a woman dressed in leopard print whose gown trails like smoke.

The scent of money and musk clings to the air.

“The Gilded Range,” Kat murmurs proudly. “It’s legendary.”

I don’t doubt it. It feels like the kind of place where legends are made—and sold.

Kat and I aren’t exactly close.

She has six years on me and got married right out of high school, only months after we learned Dad was sick.

We live completely separate lives, and that’s never been more apparent than in this moment.

We pass waiters carrying trays of champagne and delicate hors d’oeuvres shaped like tiny gold leaves. I reach for one automatically, something creamy and perfect balanced on a wafer.

But Kat’s hand shoots out.

“Careful,” she hisses. “They’re watching.”

I look up and meet the painted eyes of a weasel mask across the room.

The man wearing it is older, expensive-looking, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of posture that says, mine.

His gaze lingers a beat too long before sliding past me to Kat.

She smiles, that polished socialite smile she’s perfected since marrying David.

“He’s one of David’s clients,” she whispers. “And before you get any ideas, he’s way out of your league.”

“I wasn’t getting any ideas,” I say, popping the canapé in my mouth out of spite.

But now I’m wondering… was it really an issue that David wasn’t able to come?

Because now it’s Kat who looks like she’s on the prowl, and more than happy to have arrived without him.

My sister gives a tight laugh. “You’ll never change.”

Maybe not.

I’m still the younger sister she loves to fix—or, more accurately, prove superior to.

She finds ways to mention in casual conversation that despite never even considering college, she’s doing extremely well.

And I’m on my third breakout of the month, stressed out after last semester’s grades posted.

We weave through the crowd, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses echoing off the vault’s high ceiling.

I try to take it all in—the sparkle, the mystery, the surreal sense that this is happening underground, beneath a city that has no idea what kind of beasts are dancing below its streets.

Kat leans in close. “You should mingle. But don’t over-share. And for God’s sake, don’t talk about your job or your degree. It’ll just confuse people.”

“Because conservation is such a radical concept?”

“Because no one here cares about trees, Roxy.”

I laugh softly, shaking my head, but inside, I’m annoyed.

Kat’s derision is like a thorn pricking my thin skin.

I’ll never admit it, but it bothers me that people don’t care as much as I do. “I can’t tell if you’re serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

Of course she is.

I slip away from her, needing a moment to breathe.

The crowd swells and folds around me—laughter, perfume, velvet brushing silk.

A quartet plays from a raised platform, the music a seductive hum that seems to pulse through the floor.

A waiter offers me champagne. I take it, if only to have something to hold. The bubbles sting pleasantly on my tongue.

I’m halfway through my first glass of champagne when I feel it.

That prickling sense of being watched.

My eyes flick to the side.

A figure moves through the crowd—a man, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in dark brown and black.

His mask is rougher than the others, carved like the face of a bear.

The golden light glints off it, making it look alive.

For a moment, I think he’s looking right at me.

Then he’s gone, swallowed by the sea of glittering bodies.

My pulse stutters. Get it together, Roxy. It’s just a man at a party.

I set down the empty flute and reach for another canapé, something flaky with caviar on top. I’ve never had caviar before. This will be a first and a last, I’m sure. My stomach growls; I skipped lunch to squeeze into this dress.

“Still eating, I see,” Kat’s voice comes from behind me, dripping honey and venom. A woman at her elbow turns away, stifling a chuckle before slipping off into the crowd.

I turn slowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She’s smiling, but her eyes are sharp. “Nothing. It’s just… you wonder why Eric left, and then you show up to an event like this inhaling everything in sight.”

My face goes hot. “Excuse me?” It’s been two months, but that still stings.

Her tone stays light and conversational. “He told me last Christmas that he wished you’d take better care of yourself. That he worried about you. I guess now I see what he meant.”

It’s a slap without the sound.

I stare at her, throat tight. “You really couldn’t wait five minutes to humiliate me?”

Kat blinks, feigning innocence. “I’m trying to help you. Don’t overreact.”

Overreact. That’s her favorite word.

The sting builds behind my eyes, but I refuse to let her see me cry.

And that’s when I feel it.

Strong hands grip my hips from behind.

My whole body freezes.

The touch is firm and possessive.

Firm fingers splay against the satin of my dress and burn through the thin fabric.

My heart kicks hard in my chest.

I spin, ready to tell someone off, but the words die in my throat when my eyes meet his.