Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Too late for apologies, my man,” I say, my temper rising. “You disrespected a woman.”
I follow few laws, but never disrespect a woman is one of them.
As we head toward the exit, I can hear the table of giggling bachelorettes.
“Oh my god, he’s like one of the book guys.”
“Did you see those muscles?”
“He looks like the video mafia queen posted!”
Mafia… what? I catch a glimpse at the screen. What the fuck is that? I try to take another look, but my friend, the predator, tries to use my distraction to his advantage and wheedle out of my grip.
Nah.
I wrap my hands around the back of his neck and help him focus on doing what the fuck I say. The neon Exit sign flashes in the center of the doorway above a dark hall.
“This is what you’re gonna do,” I tell him as we near the door. “You’re gonna get the fuck out of here and pretend tonight never happened. You’ll pretend we never talked, that you never tried to push yourself on a woman who said no.”
Blood thrums in my veins, molten lava teeming with destruction.
“You can’t—”
I lean in close. He’s half a breath away from meeting my fist. “I have a knife in my pocket and a gun in a holster at my back. I can and will.” I hold him in my right hand so I can discreetly flash the sign of the Bratva, a universal tat that every man of our family gets when he’s sixteen years old.
I watch his eyes widen in recognition. Good. I kick open the door. “Good riddance,” I mutter as I shove him out and slam the door behind him.
The bartender catches my attention and gives me a thumbs-up. The women giggle and wave at me, but I only jerk my head and sit back down at the other end of the bar. I shoot my younger cousin and best friend Matvei a text.
Dude, you see these mafia posts these girls online are raving about? Tf? I just scared away some guy that wouldn’t leave them alone and they were GIGGLING. I heard something about mafia books.
The response comes immediately.
Matvei
Got your head up your ass again? You that clueless what these romance girls are reading these days? Serial killers, masked men, stalkers… I got fucking tagged in a post. This is amazing
I snort and shake my head. I don’t know if I’d say it’s amazing, but it’s amusing, definitely.
I tap the screen as I sit back at the bar and drink. He sends a group text.
Jesus, Matvei. Leave Raf out of it. We leave him out of anything remotely fun.
Matvei
You guys see this shit online?
I roll my eyes and play dumb.
I’m swimming in shitbags in California. My brain is fried. Maybe I need to find one of those oxygen bars they have or something. The fuck are you talking about?
Matvei
All those girls online are drooling over mafia men.
Ice hits my teeth, and I shove the glass back on the bar while I glance at the girls who are whispering to each other and casting discreet glances my way.
Semyon
What the fuck are you going on about now?
Matvei
Social media, dumbass. Apparently they’re drooling over dangerous, tattooed men who do dirty things to them and wife them up.
I pop an ice cube in my mouth like I’m eating a bowl of popcorn. This is entertaining, but I need real food that’s not in the form of liquid and ninety proof. My gaze falls on the table of scantily clad, giggling women.
This time, I take a closer look.
It’s some video with a masked man holding an ax. He’s swinging it with force, cutting wood in the dead of winter. Bare-chested. Fuck. Who does that? Wear a coat, fuckwit. Even my nips ache just thinking about that frozen hellscape.
Americans romanticize the strangest shit.
My phone buzzes again, and I consider flushing it in the nearest bathroom when a video pops up from Matvei.
I click the triangle. I have to download a fucking app just to see the damn thing and immediately have to turn the volume down on my phone when some stupid dance music blares on the screen.
It’s a girl—no, a woman—talking about her fantasies of dark, possessive mafia men. It should be absurd, laughable. But there’s something about the way she says it, her tone laced with teasing vulnerability. Like she wants to be swept away but can’t trust anyone enough to let it happen.
And she’s… crying. I know it’s staged. I know it’s just for show, but something in me cracks at the sight of a woman in tears. My hands clench into fists.
Who do I need to punish?
Her caption reads: “Who else dreams of being kidnapped and ‘tortured’ by a hot, billionaire, masked mafia man? Asking for a friend.”
My lips curve into a smirk. No tall order, lady. Though… I mean… I tick off all those boxes.