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Dad’s Russian Mafia Friend

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Flora Ferrari

Book Information:

Your dad asked me to do what he can’t…protect you.

But one look at you and I know I won’t be able to protect myself from all the bad things I want to do to you, you naughty little girl.

You’re too young, too innocent, and too perfect not to claim as mine.

Once I get a taste of you, and you get a taste of the fantasies filling my head that I’m saving just for you and only you…neither one of us will ever let go.

You’re mine now…forever.

Books by Author:

Flora Ferrari Books



“He’s not really my friend, Daniela. He’s just a guy from my recreational hockey league,” my dad admits out of nowhere.

“This morning you said he was your friend,” my mom’s voice rising to punctuate the end of her not so subtle reminder, as my parents argue underneath the light at our dinner table.

My father cowers in his seat, saying nothing.

“Now you mean to tell me you invited some…some…beast who you think might be part of the Russian mafia into our home, without even knowing him?”

“What other option do we have?”

My mom purses her lips and shakes her head.

“Exactly. None,” my dad says.

My mom raises a finger and just as her mouth opens the loud hum of a motorcycle engine rattles our front windows.

It’s too late now.

I run to the living room, flipping the light switch off just before I open the curtains ever so slightly, peering through as I watch a giant of a man throw one leg over his sleek motorcycle.

He surveys the front of our home as his hand reaches back, turning the key in his bike before removing it. Then jamming it into his pocket.

My eyes follow his hands and see he isn’t grasping a helmet in either. It’s not required in Florida if you’re over twenty-one years old and carry at least ten thousand in medical insurance, but even still it’s rare to see anyone riding without head protection these days.

Then again it’s very clear to see he’s about as far from anyone, as someone can be.

He takes long strides up the driveway as if he owns the place, as if he’s come home from a day of breaking bones and causing chaos like it’s all in a day’s work. And like this is his place, not ours.

I move my body, trying not to cause the curtains to sway despite my white-knuckle grip on them, as he arrives at our front door.

His eyes are straight ahead, not even looking at the big red doorbell button that you can see from a mile away.

The sound of his thick knuckles rapping against the reinforced steel door cause me to jump, my arms pulling into my body as my shoulders dart upward.

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest and I exhale, not even realizing I was holding my breath.

My view gets blurry and I realize I’ve exhaled too hard against the glass. His neck slowly bends, his head trailing behind it and I yank the curtains shut, stepping away from the window.

My feet get tied up and I fall right on my butt. My feet press down hard against the floor, my primal instincts pushing my body away from the window, away from this man, before I reach for the arm of the couch, helping myself back up to my feet.

Common sense tells me to crawl under the couch and call the police, admitting my father made a bad mistake and begging for professional help before things get too far out of hand.

But my mind is far from working right now. I’m overrun with feelings, and like a moth to a flame I move towards the edge of the doorway separating the living room.

My mom’s body is tight, her arms folded across her chest and the inside of her legs touching. It’s primal. She’s protecting her vital organs, as you should when a deadly predator is near. Whether hundreds of years ago across the savannas of Africa, or here and now in the suburbs of South Florida, we’re still animals. And right now we’re prey for the beast that’s entered the territory we thought was safe…the territory we wrongfully thought was our own.

Three more booming knocks echo through the door and my body jerks in response again, my cheek hitting the side of the doorframe.

My mom motions toward the door with her head and eyebrows and I hear the bottom of my dad’s chair slide across the linoleum just before he stands, takes a deep breath and moves toward the door.

His eyes sweep toward the doorway and he catches me staring with rapt attention. “Go to your room, Dakota.”

I throw my body around the corner and jet up the stairs. Moving through the hallway I open my door and audibly shut it, the cue I’m guessing my dad is looking for to let him know his daughter is as safe as she’s going to get at this point.

As the door creaks open, I quickly get down on my stomach, sliding across the carpet of the hallway to the edge where I can see into the lower level of our home.

“Dimitry,” my dad says, trying to make his voice sound lower than it usually is.

Dimitry says nothing, just stares at my father, burning holes through him with his eyes as if he’s asking him why he’s wasting his time, without needing to say the words.