Dark Mafia Romance By Alexis Lee Facebook ad: “Owned by the Bratva Christmas Devil:FREE in Kindle…”

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The day before Christmas was also the six-month anniversary of when Igor and I first met. Sunlight streamed through the cheap blinds, casting mottled shadows across the room. Igor had left early that morning, saying he'd be swamped but promising to return for our celebration. I chose to trust him. I'd been preparing for this milestone for weeks. I snagged some high-quality cowhide from a thrift market and spent several weekends hand-stitching him a wallet. My skills weren't expert-level—my fingertips got pricked bloody by the needle more than once—but every stitch was infused with my affection. In the bottom right corner, I branded his initials with a hot copper stamp: I.V. I nestled it into a carefully wrapped gift box, tied with a deep blue ribbon in a perfect bow. I imagined his expression when he opened it. Would he like it? A man accustomed to every luxury. I shook off the insecurities. I'd even finagled two hours off from the hotel manager so I could leave early and prepare a lavish dinner for him. That afternoon, in the staff locker room as I changed into my uniform, my coworker Susan sidled up, brimming with secrecy. ""Elena, have you heard?"" she whispered, her eyes gleaming with gossip. ""Heard what?"" I replied, pulling on my uniform while my mind wandered to the evening's menu for Igor. ""Tomorrow night, the Royal Hotel is throwing this enormous private party. They've booked the entire ballroom floor and all the presidential suites!"" Her voice rose with excitement, drawing curious glances from the other staff. ""Really? What kind of party warrants that?"" I asked casually, adjusting my tie. ""It's prep for some Russian family's engagement bash!"" Susan said, her tone dripping with envy. ""Can you imagine? All of New York's elite might show up! My friend who works there says the security is insane—tighter than a presidential visit!"" Russian family... The words struck like a hammer to my chest. An inexplicable unease gripped me, Igor's chiseled face flashing into my mind uninvited. ""And,"" Susan continued, oblivious to my reaction, lost in her enthusiasm. ""The groom's from the Vorontsov family—their heir. He's really invested in this. My friend said they ordered five hundred bottles of Ace of Spades champagne! God, the expense!"" Vorontsov. The name didn't ring a bell, so I let out a breath, chiding myself for being paranoid. New York was full of Russian moguls; it couldn't be that coincidental. The nagging thoughts dissipated. I pulled out my phone to check if Igor had replied to my morning message. The screen lit up with his text: [I'll pick you up at the hotel by 8. We'll celebrate back at the apartment.] My suspended heart settled back into place. I replied immediately: [Okay, I'll be waiting!] Another vibration—a WhatsApp message. I opened it to the familiar avatar—an endless field of Tuscan sunflowers. Marco Bernardi. Marco: [Elena, Christmas is coming up. How have you been lately?] Marco was the boy I'd grown up with in the slums, like a brother to me. A few years older, he'd always looked out for me, my steadfast support through my turbulent teens. He'd gone to Italy for medical school, and we hadn't seen each other in years, keeping in touch only sporadically online. I smiled and typed: [I'm doing well. How about you? Everything going smoothly in Italy?] Marco: [All good here. I'll be back in New York this Christmas to visit my grandma. Want to grab dinner?] Me: [Absolutely, just let me know when!] Chatting with Marco always felt light and nostalgic, like stepping back into those carefree childhood days. I pocketed my phone and threw myself into work. The thought of celebrating with Igor gave me a burst of energy that carried me through the shift. At seven, his text came in and shattered all my anticipation. He had an emergency meeting; I should head home alone, and he'd finish up as soon as possible to meet me at the apartment. Disappointment hit hard, but I convinced myself to be understanding. His world was so complex; he had obligations he couldn't escape. I left work early, returned to the apartment, tied on an apron, and got busy in the kitchen. I started with the steaks. Butter sizzled in the pan as soon as it hit, and I added the meat, the savory aroma quickly filling the space. Once they were done, I plated them elegantly, mimicking tutorial videos with Italian-style garnishes and fresh greens, aiming for that high-end restaurant feel. I lit scented candles and decanted his favorite Burgundy wine. Everything ready, I slipped into the black silk gown he'd given me, applied a flawless makeup look, and sat at the table, heart full of eager anticipation for his arrival. But the minutes dragged on. Eight o'clock, nine, ten... The steaks had gone completely cold, a greasy film congealing on the surface, no longer appealing. The candles had burned down to nothing but waxy stubs. My messages to Igor vanished into the void, unanswered. My calls rang straight to voicemail, the mechanical female voice repeating monotonously. The apartment was eerily silent, the ticking of the wall clock mocking my endless wait. Just before midnight, the doorbell finally rang. I sprang from the chair, rushing to open it. A rush of overwhelming joy and grief flooded me; I'd even rehearsed how I'd throw myself into his arms and complain about how late he was. But it wasn't Igor standing there. A stranger in a black suit loomed in the doorway, his face impassive. Tall and stony, he was clearly one of Igor's associates. ""Ms. Jensen?"" he asked in heavily accented English. ""...Yes, that's me."" My heart plummeted, my voice sounding alien even to myself. ""Where's Igor?"" ""I'm the boss's assistant. He's handling urgent matters and can't get away."" The response was rote and emotionless. He handed me an elegantly wrapped gift bag. ""This is the anniversary gift he asked me to deliver."" I accepted it numbly, my hand lingering in the air for a moment. ""Did he... have any message for me?"" I asked, clinging to one last thread of hope. ""No."" He gave a slight bow and turned to leave. I closed the door and mechanically unpacked the bag. Inside was a box from a top luxury brand. I opened it: a pair of earrings encrusted with rubies, nestled on velvet, sparkling brilliantly. They were stunning, exorbitantly expensive—worth more than several years of my salary combined. But I didn't have pierced ears. What was more pathetic: that my boyfriend was too busy to select a suitable gift himself, relying on an assistant, or that he'd forgotten such a basic detail about me? The wallet with his branded initials still sat on the table. Looking at it now, I couldn't muster the courage to give it to him. That night, I had a nightmare. I dreamed I was in a grand Gothic church, stained-glass windows casting eerie, colorful shadows. I sat among faceless guests. Igor stood at the altar in a sharp black suit, his features etched starkly in the light. But he wasn't there for me. Beside him was a bride in a pristine white gown, her long veil obscuring her face. I couldn't make out her features, only the intimate way she looped her arm through his, sending sharp pangs through my heart. The priest intoned the vows, the sacred words twisting into malicious curses in my ears, making my head reel and the world spin. ""Igor, do you take this woman to be your wife?"" He nodded without a hint of hesitation. ""I do."" His voice was as low as in our most intimate moments, but laced with a resolve I'd never heard before. I wanted to surge forward, to confront him, to yank off her veil and see who had taken my place. But my feet were rooted like lead, immovable. I was trapped in my seat, forced to watch as they exchanged rings, as Igor slowly, tenderly lifted the veil. Just as it was about to reveal her fully, I jolted awake, sitting up abruptly and gasping for air. Cold sweat drenched my nightgown, sticking clammily to my skin. The room was pitch-black. I reached out, feeling the other side of the bed. It was empty and cold. Igor still hadn't come back. Was it a cruel coincidence, or a truth she’d been blind to for six months? ""FREE in Kindle Unlimited! Ranked #9 in Mafia Romance. Click to read this dark holiday romance now!""

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