Title: Screwing the Mob
Author: Kristen Luciani
Genre: Mafia Romance
Publication Date: June 12th, 2018
Cover Designer: Dark City Designs Hosted by: Lady Amberâs PR
Kristen Luciani is a USA Today bestselling author and momtrepreneur with a penchant for stilettos, Silicon Valley, plunging necklines and grapefruit martinis. As a deep-rooted romantic who prefers juicy drama to fill the lives of anyone other than her, she tried her hand at creating a world of enchantment, sensuality, and intrigue, finally uncovering her true passion. No pun intendedâ¦
Books2Read - http://bit.ly/2HgVbfH
A shiver runs through me despite the blast of heat from the hallway floor vent that toasts my quivering legs. I reach out, my fist about half an inch from the bedroom door, poised to knock. Wait, why? He knows Iâm coming. He left the front door unlocked for me. Jesus, I canât even think straight anymore. Memories pop between my ears like bullets. Me sitting on Nicoâs bed, watching a video on his iPad, Nicoâs hand skimming my bare arm, Nicoâs lips on mine, Nicoâs tongueâ¦
What the hell is wrong with me? His grandfather just died, and all I can do is think about that nightâ¦the one that never should have happened, the one I continue to dream about, the one I relive every time I close my eyes.
Forget the fact that I hadnât heard from him since.
And that heâs my brotherâs best friend.
And that he has 1-800-Hoebags on speed dial.
Nico Salesi will never be mine, and Iâve come to terms with that. Kind of.
Iâd hoped to accept it once I got to college, but that didnât happen. None of the guys Iâd met could hold a candle to Nico. I couldnât find the same pools of the darkest chocolate brown that begged me to drown in them, the ones that sparkled with excitement over the release of a new Marvel super hero movie, ones that deepened with lust when they gazed at me. And I definitely couldnât find a pair of lips as bitable, ones that tasted like a wide variety of Jolly Rancher flavors, ones I wanted plastered against my ownâ¦and then on other areasâ
I grasp the cool brass doorknob in my shaking hand and twist it. The door creaks open, and I squint in the dimly lit room. His bed is in the back corner of the expansive space, and heâs sprawled out on his back, tossing a football up and down. He doesnât look up, and that should be my first clue that he doesnât give a flying fuck about me. I clench my fists, trying to control my disappointment.
He never called, never texted, never emailed. Not until today, and of course, I come running the second he asks. I never fail to make the wrong choices.
He doesnât care about anything except his business dealings. Heâd never let anything compromise his place in life, least of all me.
It was a kiss. I have to forget about it. Itâs not why Iâm here. Iâm here for Grandpa Vito, not for Nico.
Maybe if I keep repeating those bullshit lies, Iâll finally convince my heart that theyâre true.
I inch toward the bed, my heart thudding against my ribcage. I can feel beads of perspiration pop up along the back of my neck, a typical reaction to his presence. My stomach is twisted like a Bavarian pretzel. Good God, will I ever be able to get over this guy?
And why doesnât he stop throwing the fucking football? Heâs the one who called me.
And just like that, he makes one final catch and sits up. His eyes arenât sparkling. Theyâre dark, lost, empty. Soulless. The vacant stare makes my chest tighten and I stop, uncertain about my next steps.
He slides off the bed and creeps toward me. His dark hair is tousled, like heâd just woken up from a fitful sleep. There are bags under his eyes, and his normally rosy cheeks are all but drained of color.
Tears sting my eyes when his hands grasp my shoulders. âShaye,â he murmurs in his deep, gravelly voice.
âIâm so sorry,â I whisper. âHe was such a good man, and I feel terrible for you all.â
His hands move to my hair, twisting a hot pink tendril of hair around his index finger. âYou dyed your hair.â
My hand flies to the chunky streaks Iâd just had added to the ends of my blonde hair. âYeahâ¦â I breathe him in, immediately tipsy on the scent of watermelon Jolly Ranchers.
âI like it.â
âThanks,â I whisper.
He nods over to his desk. âHe bought that for you for Christmas. Itâs the collectorâs edition.â
A sob rises in my throat when my eyes fall to the gift, memories of our marathon Scrabble sessions wallpapering my mind. It felt like a lifetime ago, when things were so simple and the biggest dilemma I had was to decide which word would yield me the most points during our cutthroat games. âI love it. Iâll always treasure it.â
âHe missed you at Christmas. Made me promise to get it to you before you went back to school.â
âI should have gone to see him. Iâll never forgive myself for not saying goodbye.â
âDonât beat yourself up over it. He knew the deal, Shaye.â
âI hate that it kept me away.â
âBut youâre here now.â
âYeahâ¦â My heart is pounding like a jackhammer, drowning out all sound, and I almost miss his reply. A lump the size of a golf ball has taken up residence in my throat and squeezing out a response is near impossible.
But, as it happens, talk is overrated.
He pulls me close, bending down to press his swollen lips to mine â hot, intense, and hungry for any crumb Iâm willing to drop. His strong hands fist my long hair, his kiss deepening with need. I wrap my arms around his tall, muscular frame, melting into his warmth.
My mind is screaming at me to pull away, to stop this craziness. This behavior is so unlike Nico. He never loses control or shows his hand. Itâs why heâs such a valuable asset to the family.
He doesnât really want me.
Or does he?