Sleeping with the Mafia King Next Door (Silverfox Mafia’s Seduction #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Anna

"Damn it, couldn't those two have picked a brighter spot for their date?"

The bass thumped so hard that it made my chest go numb. I hoisted my mini camera—disguised as a power bank—a little higher, and my arm screamed from holding the pose for a solid twenty minutes.

The bar was a chaotic mess under the cover of night, and strobe lights flickered like a short-circuiting brain. The air reeked of booze, cheap perfume, and straight-up hormones, and every breath made my head spin harder.

The leather skirt that I had squeezed into tonight felt like a torture device.

Every inhale made my ribs ache like hell.

My smoky eye makeup was probably a smeared disaster by now because that dollar-store eyeliner from the corner bodega had run like a ghost. And the blonde wig on my head?

It was a total nightmare. Synthetic crap made it stiff and scratchy like a Brillo pad strapped to my skull.

I touched my hairline, and sweat had melted the glue, turning it all sticky and gross.

"Anna, you still with us?" Suge's lazy drawl crackled through my earpiece. "Your breathing sounds like you're about to pass out."

"Peachy," I whispered back, and I kept my voice low. "Just this skirt—if it gets any tighter, it'll land me in the ER."

I licked my parched lips, and I zeroed in on that VIP corner.

My targets—a has-been rock star and his forgettable model fling—were glued together like they were melting.

One kiss shot would cover my rent for the month.

Hell, it might even convince the editor to end my four-month internship purgatory.

"Alright, but you watch yourself. I don't wanna bail you out of jail for stalking."

"Relax, I've got this." I squinted, and I pretended to check the battery under the lights as I raised the camera. "Place like this? Sharks and minnows everywhere—no one's clocking some nobody and her fake charger."

But right as I held my breath and nailed the focus—

A shadow sliced through the crowd out of the corner of my eye.

I whipped my head around on instinct, and my breath hitched.

Holy shit.

He strolled in from the exit like a sleek panther who had wandered into a hyena den. The whole noisy hellhole went dead silent—at least in my world.

My lips parted without me meaning to.

"Focus, Anna. Rent! Rent!" I muttered to myself in my head, but my eyes were glued to him like magnets.

He dropped into the priciest booth up front, and an invisible force field kept everyone else at bay.

Folks around him were hollering, clinking glasses, and cracking up—but he just lounged back on that dark leather couch, all lazy like a fed cat.

His black button-down had sleeves rolled to his elbows, and it showed off those smooth, ripped forearms. And on his wrist?

A watch probably cost more than my yearly paycheck.

But what really pinned my stare was his face.

Sharp angles made it look like somebody had chiseled it with a blade. A straight nose defined it, tight thin lips completed it, and those eyes—hazel—glowed like amber in the dim light, wild and straight-up dangerous.

I had aimed the camera at the rock star at first, but somewhere along the line, the lens had locked onto him.

...Shit. Anna, what the hell are you doing?

But I did not pull away. Through the viewfinder, his face sharpened up even more. That straight nose stood out, the jawline looked like a razor edge, and the eyes brimmed with raw, predatory intensity.

The shutter snapped before I even registered it. It clicked once, then twice.

I stared at the camera in shock, like, did I just...? I had straight-up paparazzied some random dude? A guy who screamed "trouble" from a mile away!

And right as I fumbled to stuff the thing away—

The guy froze mid-sip.

Then, he turned his head slow as hell.

Those deep hazel eyes cut through the dim chaos, and they nailed me dead-on. Our gazes locked, and my lungs quit working.

Busted. He saw me.

He did not yell for security, and he showed no flash of anger. He just stared me down from across the room, and his mouth tugged into this faint, lazy curve.

It was not a smile—more like amusement. The kind a cat gives a mouse.

He murmured something to the dude next to him, who shot me a quick glance and nodded. Then he headed straight for me.

One step, then two. My heartbeat drowned out the thumping EDM.

Screwed. What could be worse than getting caught red-handed snapping pics of a dude who looked like bad news on legs?

Was he gonna dump me in the Hudson River for the fishes?

My palms went slick with sweat, and the camera nearly slipped. I ducked my head, and I hid behind my hair as I wrestled with my beat-up backpack.

Crap, the zipper jammed.

After a frantic tug-of-war, I finally jammed the camera in, I spun on my heel, and I bolted.

But three steps in—a hand landed on my shoulder.

It burned hot, right through the thin fabric. I felt the heat of his palm, and I felt the grip of his fingers—not hard, but enough to root me in place.

"Evening, miss."

His voice rolled in from behind, low and magnetic, like velvet wrapped around a switchblade. It cut through the pounding music, it slithered into my ear, and it sent shivers straight down my spine.

I froze for a beat, my legs turned to jelly, and then I twisted around.

—And I realized he was way too close. I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes. His tall shadow swallowed me up, and it was laced with that woody cologne, cigar smoke, and whiskey vibe—wrapping around me like a vice.

God...

Up close, he was even more stupidly hot. Thick black hair tousled like he had raked his fingers through it. Heavy brows framed deep-set eyes, a straight nose stood proud, and a hard jaw sharpened the look. And that mouth—thin lips quirked up now in this half-smirk that dripped sin.

Every gut instinct screamed he was trouble—back the hell off.

But my legs would not budge.

My throat scratched like sandpaper, my sweaty grip slipped on the backpack strap, and I stammered, "G-good evening."

His gaze dipped to my white-knuckled hold on the bag, and then it flicked back to my face. Those eyes sliced right through me—I felt naked, exposed.

Then he stepped closer. "In a rush to go somewhere?"

I flinched back on reflex, my spine smacked the wall, and the cold plaster bit through my top, raising goosebumps everywhere.

I played it cool—or I tried. "Sir, I don't know what you mean. I was just leaving."

I spun to bolt, but he threw an arm up, and he braced the wall beside me. I halted sharp, my nose brushed his sleeve, and that head-spinning scent hit harder. My breaths came fast and shallow.

We hung there, locked. I glanced up—he had his other hand jammed in his pocket, all casual dominance. He towered over me, too damn close; I could make out the flecks in those hazel eyes.

"What I mean is," he leaned in, and our faces hung inches apart—if he dipped another centimeter, he would be kissing me—"did you snap anything good?"

My heart hammered like a glitchy metronome.

"Wh-what? I don't—"

"Yeah?" He edged forward, he closed the gap till I was pinned, and I swear I saw my own freaked-out reflection in his pupils. "Rules around here don't cover 'snapping pics with a fake camera.'"

Done for. He knew.

I gaped, but nothing came out. His whole vibe—that grown-man aura—had me choking.

His eyes skimmed my quivering lips, and then they locked back on mine. "You're shaking."

Understatement. I was vibrating down to my bones. Every nerve yelled run, but some weird pull kept me stuck.

"Interesting." Out of nowhere, his fingers hooked under my chin.

My brain blanked.

His touch scorched, the rough pad grazed my skin—not too firm, but enough to hold me still. He tilted my face up, and he forced me to meet those eyes.

Hazel depths sized me up.

It was not sleazy—worse. He was appraising, he was pondering, and he was figuring out how to handle me. His gaze traced my eyes, my nose, and it lingered on my mouth.

My lips went desert-dry; I licked them on autopilot.

His eyes darkened.

"I-I'm a reporter," I forced out, and my voice wobbled but stayed steady-ish. "Just doing my job. Caught you by accident."

"By accident." He echoed it, and a chuckle threaded through. "How old?"

"Twenty-one."

"Twenty-one." His thumb brushed my chin, slow and too damn intimate—every nerve lit up like a live wire. "Still a kid."

"I'm not a kid!" Guts kicked in from somewhere; I shot back.

He arched a brow, and my pushback amused him. "Oh yeah? You know what happens when you sneak pics of strangers in a spot like this?"

He drawled "happens" low, like a secret in my ear. The word hung heavy, and it was laced with some flirty edge of threat.

My face flamed, heat crawled from my neck to my ears, and I felt my pulse thundering. I felt blood rushing hot—shit, something deep in my gut twisted with heat.

This was all wrong.

I should have been scared, I should have been sorry, and I should have been scheming an exit. But my body betrayed me—my heart raced, my breaths ragged, my knees buckled, and yeah, a weird warmth pooled low in my belly.

"I can delete the pics..." My whisper barely made it out.

"Delete?" He let go of my chin, and he fished a card from his slacks pocket. "That'd be a shame."

I blinked. "Huh?"

"I said," he pressed it into my palm, his fingers lingered a beat too long—scalding me till I almost yanked back—"send them to me."

I glanced down. Plain black cardstock held just a name and number—no firm, nothing fancy.

Alexander Volkov.

Russian?

"I..."

"Don't wanna?" His fingers ghosted my cheek, they trailed from cheekbone to jaw—agonizingly slow, feather-light, but electric. "Or you want me to make up for your wasted time... some other way?"

"Other way," and his eyes dropped—my lips, throat, collarbone, then lower, to my chest.

My knees nearly buckled.

"I'll send 'em!" It came out a yelp, and the pitch went way off.