Page 31 of Ruthless Mafia Boss 3: Vino and Claire

His blond brows lifted. “Does that mean you’ll actually be my girlfriend?”

I chuckled. “No. I’m not interested in a real relationship. But we’re cool.”

He smirked, cocky yet amused, and I took that as confirmation he understood.

We studied together and even went to junior prom together.

Pretending to be Ivan’s girlfriend was easy, effortless. The other boys backed off. But then, everything shifted.

Ivan appeared at my side, grinning. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

I beamed. “Thank you.”

Then, without warning, his lips claimed mine in a kiss I’d never forget. His breath was warm against my ear as he whispered, “I love you, Claire. I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.”

My heart pounded. I liked him too more than I wanted to admit, but I’d always pushed him away, too focused on my future to let anything derail me. But this time, I didn’t. This time, I said yes.

For months, we explored each other in ways that left us breathless. Then, on prom night, we had sex for the first time. I was on birth control, so we agreed we wouldn’t use condoms. He promised I didn’t have to worry about other girls—he only wanted me. And I believed him.

I was thrilled to go to college far from my life in South Carolina. The University of California, Berkeley offered a refreshing change of scenery. Ivan was at Stanford, so we got to spend a lot of time together. Our relationship was so ideal that my friends were envious, often telling me how fortunate I was to have such an amazing guy.

Ivan started to change during our senior year of college. His father had made it clear after graduation, Ivan was expected to return to Russia and run the family business. He confessed that he’d known about this for a while, but had hoped he could find a way out. Now, it was obvious there was no escaping it.

He wasn’t the same man I had known since I was sixteen. The warmth in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by something darker, something angrier. He picked fights over nothing. His possessiveness turned suffocating. If a guy so much as looked at me too long, he’d start a fight. If my skirt was too short, he’d demand I change.

Then one night, he showed up at my dorm, drunk, reeking of alcohol, his eyes wild. He declared with a chilling intensity that we could never be apart. He sounded deranged, like a madman. His words sent a chill down my spine. Ivan pressed soft but insistent kisses on my neck.

“I love you, Claire,” he murmured with a fervor that bordered on desperation.

I smiled, trying to ignore the unease creeping into my chest. “I love you too.”

We tore each other’s clothes off and fell into bed, the heat between us momentarily washing away my worries. But then, as he hovered over me, his lips at my ear, he whispered, “You have to move to Russia with me. It’s just for three years. Then we can come back to the States.”

“Ivan, no,” I said gently. “My life is here, you know that. But I’ll be here when you return. I can visit.” I traced soothing circles on his back, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, hoping to calm him.

His expression darkened. In an instant, his hands wrapped around my neck, fingers tightening.

“You think I’d leave you here so you could fuck some other guy?”

I gasped, my hands flying to his wrists, struggling to breathe.

He fucked me hard, his grip relentless, and as darkness edged my vision, my body teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. Finally, his hands loosened, releasing my throat.

His eyes widened in horror. “Claire, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I shoved at his chest, my breath ragged. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

His blue eyes, once icy, softened like melting snow. “I’m your man,” he murmured, pulling me into his embrace with a grip that promised safety.

After that night, Russia ceased to be a topic of conversation.

We barely saw each other over the next two weeks. Then, out of nowhere, he showed up, took me to dinner, and we spent the weekend at his place. I dared to hope things were returning to the way they were.

Then the vicious cycle started again. Ivan barely texted. He didn’t call. Days passed in silence. What the fuck was going on with him?

I’d reached my breaking point. If we were done, it was time to end it. I couldn’t live in this limbo anymore.

I drove to his condo across from Stanford. Egor, one of his ever-present bodyguards, stood sentinel at the door.

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