Chapter 103 Chapter 103 The Mafia Boss' Birthday
I have been ready for over an hour, and I am afraid to leave my room. The family estate is tucked deep in Naples, guarded just like Ivan’s house—multiple fences, security checkpoints, men with guns at every turn. It’s beautiful though. Lush, green, almost unreal. Massive trees stretch toward the sky, grass rolling endlessly, and the vineyard sits like something out of a painting. My room overlooks the gardens—perfectly manicured, 18th-century French style, symmetrical and elegant.
The room Illia Jr. brought me to—after picking Taylor and me up from the airport—is stunning. A queen-sized bed sits in the center, soft and inviting, layered in expensive linens. Beneath it, a Persian carpet spreads across polished hardwood floors. The walls are a soft crème color, warm and understated. There’s a wardrobe tucked into one corner, an antique armchair near the large windows, and a small table beside it. Dark brown shutters frame the windows, paired with sheer red curtains that glow when the light hits them just right. The attached bathroom is just as luxurious—white and burgundy, with a bathtub raised on a small podium and a vanity lit like something out of a movie.
I sit on the edge of the bed, legs dangling, staring down at my sparkly, strappy gold heels. I stop moving when I hear it—a faint knock on the door.
It startles me.
I slide off the bed and walk over, cracking the door open.
“Are you going to hide in here all night?” Illia Sr. asks, his voice smooth. “It’s my birthday.”
I smile and open the door wider. “Of course not.” I grab the small box from the table and hand it to him. “Happy birthday.”
He opens it immediately, eyes flicking over the cufflinks. They’re simple but bold—silver with “Boss” engraved, a small star-shaped diamond set into each one. He nods in approval.
“Help me put them on,” he says, holding out his wrists.
I step closer, fastening them carefully, my fingers brushing against his skin. He smells expensive—clean, sharp.
When I’m done, he offers me his elbow. “Shall we?”
I loop my arm through his, and he leads me out into the hallway.
“We’re fashionably late,” he says with a quick smile that disappears just as fast, replaced by his usual cold expression.
We walk the length of the fourth-floor corridor, then down and down again until we reach the first floor. The place is massive—palatial, honestly. Everything gleams with quiet wealth and power. As we walk, Illia Sr. talks about the estate—pool, tennis courts, basketball court, even a separate building for the guards.
I just nod along.
The double white French doors open, and we step into a massive ballroom.
Music fills the space. Round tables draped in black cloth surround a large dance floor. At the back, a towering cake—wedding-sized—commands attention. Bars sit in every corner, and buffet tables overflow with food. The room is packed.
Illia Sr. pats my hand gently. “Deep breath.”
Then he leads me straight onto the dance floor.
He spins me once before pulling me into a slow dance, one hand holding mine, the other resting high on my back.
“Don’t look right now,” he whispers, “but my table of ex-wives looks like they want to kill you.”
I smirk. “I bet they’re thinking, ‘Oh God, there goes number eleven.”
He teases. “Would you like to be number eleven?”
I burst out laughing, placing a hand on his chest. He’s solid—muscular. The flirting feels… strange. He used to be my father’s friend.
Then again, that never stopped anyone before.
“I bet you know how to treat a lady right,” I tease.
He spins me again, and my eyes land on Ivan across the room. He’s sitting with Vladimira and what looks like her family.
“I sure do,” Illia Sr. replies, placing my hand over his heart. Then he laughs—genuinely. “My sons are idiots, and I’m not the man I used to be. You’re far too spirited for me.”
He shifts us toward another table. Illia Jr. sits there with his family—his wife, stunning as always, son and two younger daughters beside him.
“My oldest grandson—Anton,” Illia Sr. says, placing Anton’s hand in mine before stepping away.
Anton moves smoothly into place, taking over the dance like it’s second nature. “It’s nice to meet you, Elena. You look… ethereal tonight.”
There’s something sharp in his dark eyes. He looks just like them—his father, his grandfather, Ivan.
And Ivan is staring. Hard.
I spin us so I don’t have to look at him.
“How old are you, Anton?” I ask.
“Twenty,” he says with a wide grin, flashing perfect teeth. His fingers brush my necklace. “This is unique.”
I slap his hand away. “Careful.”
“That’s a quick way to lose a hand, nephew,” Ivan’s voice cuts in, velvety. “Move.”
Anton steps back.
“I was going to introduce her to the moms,” he says lightly.
But Ivan doesn’t care. He grabs me—firm, possessive—and pulls me off the dance floor.
“What are you wearing?” he demands.
I arch a brow. “Why? Is it an ugly color?”
“No,” he says, voice dropping. “I’m about to bust out of my fucking pants.”
A slow grin spreads across his face.
“Sounds like Vladimira’s problem,” I snap.
He stops so abruptly I crash into him. His hand comes up, gripping my jaw, forcing me to look at him.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard tonight,” he says, low.
His fingers slide down from my jaw to my collarbone, then hook into my necklace, pulling the star away from my skin. The movement sends a rush of heat through me, sharp and immediate. My breath catches. My lips part—but I don’t make a sound.
Not in a room full of people.
“Cat got your tongue, little brat?” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear, sending goosebumps racing across my skin.
Then just like that, he takes my hand and pulls me toward the table of mothers.
I barely register it until I see Marta.
She stands the moment she spots me, arms open. I slip past Ivan and fall into her hug.
“Oh, baby girl,” she says warmly. “That dress… I don’t think I’ve ever seen Illia work harder to keep his eyes on someone’s face.”
I laugh softly.
She introduces me to each of the women at the table. One by one, they stand, hugging me, complimenting me. They’re all beautiful— confident, polished, dressed in revealing gowns. Perfect hair, skin, plump lips, fake tits.
Nadia—Dimitri’s mother—holds onto me a little longer than the others. It makes me wonder how much he’s told her.
Ivan’s mother, Christina, eyes my dress. “Do they make that in my size?”
We all laugh.
She waves Ivan off. “Go get her a drink.”
He doesn’t argue.
I sit with them, answering questions about cooking, about life, about everything. It’s normal. Comfortable, even.
My eyes keep scanning the room.
I don’t see Dimitri.
Nadia notices. She leans in slightly and points him out across the room.
Right as Ivan returns, handing me a drink.
I down it in one go.
The burn barely registers.
I stand.
I am absolutely going to give Dimitri a piece of my mind.