Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 87(@200wpm)___ 70(@250wpm)___ 58(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 87(@200wpm)___ 70(@250wpm)___ 58(@300wpm)
hot, made-man romances
ROMEO by Lena Little
Cold, calculating, and ruthless—until he falls for her.
Romeo
This is supposed to be an easy job. Get in, get information, get out.
But how long is it going to take these bloodhounds wearing expensive suits and painted-on smiles to sniff out the truth?
I’m not one of them.
Don’t belong in their den of depravity.
The enemy.
Long enough to make it through the night? Probably not. If that’s the case, putting my life on the line better be worth it.
I’m not walking out of here without something to show for it. Not for the Don, either. Something for me.
It might be her. The radiant beauty across the room with golden locks cascading down her shoulders and an innocent smile that stretches out for miles.
Jess Mayfair. My last pillar of light in this nightmarish pit.
Who am I kidding? It is her. Jess Mayfair. The daughter of the man I’m spying on.
And soon, she’ll be mine.
Jess
I wouldn’t guess it by the way he walks, talks, and acts. Fearless, vicious, and intense.
He’s a monster of ridiculous, exquisite proportions.
It’s hard to believe he’s human. That his skin can break, and his veins pump the same red goo as the rest of us.
So, I won’t.
Romeo Valesca will never be a man to me.
He will forever be my Beast of Burden. Carrying the weight of this world on his gigantic shoulders and making it burn with a snap of his fingers.
And God help the way I ache for him.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
ROMEO
“Don’t fuck this up, and you might get a seat at the table.” Dante Vitorri brings his car to a stop in front of Mayfair Manor.
Lightning cracks behind the monolithic construction and thunder rumbles the Earth beneath us. The car rattles violently against nature’s war cry. And yet—ill, foreboding signs and all—the Demon of Delta County smokes his cherry cigar, cool as a cucumber.
“Hard not to when you haven’t told me what I’m supposed to do,” I say and shift uneasily in my seat.
“Billy Mayfair’s hosting a get-together for wealthy pricks and low-down degenerates.” He ashes the tip of his cigar out of a crack in the window. “The Don wants you to get information out of them.”
“Simple enough.” Too simple. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. We’ve heard good things about you and want you on our side. Trouble is, there’s no telling the truth from horse shit without seeing you in action.” Dante lodges the stogie between his lips again. “So, a simple job to test the waters. Should be hard to fuck up. Don’t prove me wrong.”
“Then why not do it yourself? You’re risking a lot on the new guy.”
Don’t get me wrong, I want to join the Lion’s Den. The power, structure, and order of Salvatore Lione’s organization call to me. Doesn’t mean I won’t ask the hard questions and do what I’m told without question.
The juice has to be worth the squeeze, and being alive sure beats joining a family.
“The party’s invite-only and Mayfair forgot to mail the Don’s.” Dante speaks with calculated charm.“We found one anyway, but it might cause unnecessary problems if the Lion or his cubs pitch up. That’s why it’s you.”
“And if I get made?” I know the answer, but I still want to hear it.
“Then you proved me wrong.” Dante turns the key, and his engine roars to life.
Another bolt of lightning lights the night sky, and with it, the first drops of rain begin to fall.
I get out of the car. A kid no older than twenty waits for me outside it. He raises an umbrella over us and has to stand on his toes to get it over my head.
“Good evening, sir. May I see your—”
No need for questions. I was briefed on how to act with the staff—treat them as less than human.
I cut him off by holding a gold leaf-encrusted envelope in front of his face. Dante gave it to me on the drive. The front reads Jerome Whitaker. I wonder what the Don did to the guy to get this, but my pondering falls short when the kid hands it back.
“Right this way, Mr. Whitaker.” I’d like to think he’s smiling, but I can’t tell in the darkness.
Does it even matter?
We don’t speak again. Not that we’d be able to hear each other over the sound of gravel crunching underfoot and machine gunfire from heavy rain overhead deafening us.
Another guy waits at the front door. Different from the kid, he’s dressed in black with a pistol on his hip.
Armed guards. Great.
He takes the envelope from me and scans it intently before dropping it in a small wooden box holding hundreds more.
“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Whitaker.” He palms open the door, and an instant wall of noise rattles my brain around my skull.