Feel the Reaper: Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novella (Book 1) (Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novella (A Crime Family Novella)) Read online

  FEEL THE REAPER

  A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novella - Book 1

  ~

  ASHER SCOTT

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2016 by Asher Scott. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission request, email to [email protected].

  http://www.asherscott.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely incidental.

  ____

  Edited by: Sara Long, Write Way Creative LLC, http://www.linkedin.com/in/saralong

  Cover Design: Asher Scott

  OPPORTUNITIES

  If you’d like to be contacted about BOOK RELEASES as well as other promotions including EXCLUSIVE SNEAK PEEKS, book announcements, and book promotions, sign up for my newsletter here. www.asherscott.com/newsletter-sign-up/

  If you’d be interested in getting my latest books for FREE (and before release) in exchange for an honest review, you can also sign up for my Advance Review Copy Team mailing list here. www.asherscott.com/arc-sign-up/

  I’d love to hear from you via email as well! [email protected].

  Table of Contents

  Contact Me

  1. Luca

  2. Abby

  3. Luca

  4. Abby

  5. Luca

  6. Abby

  7. Luca

  8. Abby

  9. Luca

  10. Abby

  11. Abby

  12. Luca

  13. Abby

  14. Luca

  15. Abby

  16. Luca

  17. Abby

  18. Luca

  19. Abby

  20. Luca

  21. Luca

  22. Abby

  23. Luca

  24. Abby

  25. Luca

  26. Abby

  27. Luca

  28. Abby

  29. Luca

  Contact Me

  FEEL THE REAPER TEASER

  Luca

  I’m a wanted man. Am I the hunter or the hunted? Not sure.

  I skipped town with a million dollars, leaving a life of violence and death behind. I’m sick of that sh*t, and I want out.

  But then I met Abby. She stopped me dead in my tracks. She’s so f*cking beautiful, I get hard just thinking about her. She’s mine now.

  I thought I’d left the killing behind, but then things got complicated. Abby was caught in the middle. I’m not a man to leave my woman. Not Abby. I’ll do whatever it takes to get her back. Even if I have to kill every last f*cker, including Tonio Tavollaci himself.

  It’s kill or be killed. I do it for love. I do it for freedom. I do it for Abby.

  Abby

  I know Luca’s dangerous, but I can’t resist him. There is power behind him, and I am drawn closer to him with every breath.

  Logic tells me to run the other way, but I will not abandon him. My feelings are too strong. The way he touches me… I feel so alive.

  Luca’s strong both inside and out, and those rippling muscles make my heart skip a beat. But there’s more to him. Much more. He’s all man. I’m all his. Always.

  Feel the Reaper is a standalone, mafia romance novella with a filthy-mouthed bad boy. It’s the first book in a series that will include at least five books. Dark mafia themes throughout. Guaranteed happy ending.

  Chapter 1

  Luca

  Down in the dark, dirty streets of the Bronx, I make my way along despite everything being stacked up against me like a pile of boulders on a dying man’s chest. Born into this shithole, I don’t know any other way but what I’ve always known. Fight for what you want because no one is going to give you anything. Be strong or die.

  The sun never shines in this cesspool of crime, corruption, and greed that drives men’s souls to do the dirty work of a bunch of caged animals, fighting it out to be head of the pride.

  I’d learned quickly to keep a handful of loyal friends who were strong and would die to help me if it came down to it. I’d do the same for them. We were brothers without sharing blood, although the blood always flowed thick and fast through the gutters in our section of town.

  That’s the way it went for me throughout my childhood, if you can call it that. It was simple, really. We didn’t have real families to speak of. Just a mish-mosh of fucked-up people, all making their way and trying to survive. We lived by the code of the streets, and died by it, too.

  A few made it out, but the streets never leave you, really. They cast a pale shadow over everything that happens next in your life. The memories hold on like an icy hand dragging you back down into the murky depths of where you know you will always belong.

  A guy can dream, though. He can dream about making it out. There has to be more to life than this world of constant violence and always looking over your shoulder to see who’s getting ready to stick a knife into you.

  Tonio Tavollaci, a guy who gives me work sometimes, is a bad cat. The devil reincarnated, I think. He orders me to take out Ralphie Cardillo. I’ve always hated that mouse-faced fucker, ever since we were kids. I don’t ask Tonio why, I know Ralphie is a bad fuck. He once ratted me out to Father Francis, the only man I ever had respect for. A man who took me under his care when no one else gave a shit about what happened to me. It wasn’t me who robbed the church of their collections. It was Tony Mustafa, and I’d already strung him up by his balls before I barely had hair on mine.

  Now, Cardillo would pay. He had done alright for himself, mostly through minor rackets, and had a brownstone in Bed Stuy, Brooklyn. Like I said, no one every truly gets out.

  The front door is unlocked. Idiot. He should know better. All is quiet. Too quiet. For one, Cardillo never shuts the fuck up. He has this habit of talking to himself when no one else was around and it always annoyed the shit out of me. He would walk down the street having full-on conversations with himself. It was like there was some other dark person wedged deep inside who wouldn’t let him go, always tormenting him.

  Don’t worry, Ralphie Boy. After today, you won’t have to be tormented anymore. I am the last thing you will ever see, think, or hear. You will die knowing it was me. I’ll make sure of that.

  Pulling my cold steel from my pocket, wanting nothing more than for this one to be up close and personal. I want to smell his rat breath as he takes his last breath. It’s quiet, though… too quiet.

  As silent as my boots allow, I make my way down the long, narrow hallway to the living area beyond. Here it opens up to the kitchen straight ahead, and the living room is to my right.

  The rapid movement and quick reflection I see in his eighty-inch flatscreen was all I needed to unleash all of my instincts, all of my fury, all of it, to let it fly like a fucking massive and unstoppable tidal wave. Sidestepping the large battle axe aimed right at my skull, I hit the floor rolling, and stick the steel right into his side, then slowly r
ise as I hold him up, the knife plunging into his flesh deeper with the bulk of his dying weight.

  Staring him straight in his eyes, the look he returns is terrified and angry, as he mumbles to himself, talking to his inner demons one last time in some inaudible mumbo-jumbo. Six inches from his narrow face now, “This is for being a fucking rat.” I twist, feeling the telltale shredding of flesh and organs, loving the power of taking some poor fucker’s life.

  The hot sticky blood that gushes from his side runs through my gloved fingers, leaving a growing puddle on the expensive oriental carpet. Only when I pull the blade out of him by pushing his body backwards, does he fall to the ground in a lifeless heap.

  Getting attacked by a maniac with a large medieval battle axe and coming out on top is something I can add to my already impressive resume. Kill or be killed, I say. It could just as easily be me lying dead on the fancy carpet with a fractured skull and an axe sticking out of it. I was better than him this day.

  As I am getting the fuck out of Dodge, I notice a large, black, soft leather suitcase sitting on the coffee table. It seems out of place, and my instinct tells me to go take a closer look. Shedding the bloodied glove and leaving it on the floor, I unzip the bag to reveal a fucking huge bundle of cash. On the other side of the bag lay a few stacks of bills, and I can see he was in the process of counting it when I showed up uninvited. I’m not talking hundreds or thousands; there must be at least a fucking million large in there.

  Should I take it?

  Tavollaci would sure want his grimy hands on it and probably keep it for himself. Fuck that. This is the ticket out I’ve always wanted.

  ____

  I’ve always wanted a Plymouth Barra-fuckin-cuda. The guy was asking fifteen G’s and I gladly handed it over. She was canary yellow with a black racing stripe and I got her off a dude named Mario up in Washington Heights. Tough and fast with an unpredictable temperament, she was the car-version of me. I had gotten off the train there, bag in hand, determined to make my way north. They’d be looking for me locally at first, but then likely spread out south to Jersey before they ever looked for me up in Bumfuckville north of here. That’s where I was headed, and I was going in style, motherfuckers.

  I’d found my ticket out, at least for now, and I was never going back. Sure, many fuckers before me had tried and ended up back there or in a coffin. I was the exception, and if I fail, then at least I died trying.

  Damn, she hums. There’s nothing like American muscle to remind me that cars once had soul. Those days are gone, but at least some gems are still around and can be had if you have the cash. I do now.

  The Saw Mill Parkway north to the Taconic Parkway north should get me where I’m going fast. But I’m fucking starving, so I better get some chow before I hit the road again. While I’m at it, a pull or two on something brown would hit the spot right now, too. I spot a red-neon sign flashing Gino’s just off the highway in Elmsford, and decide that will do. I’ll be in and out quick. I need to be out quick. There will be some bloodhounds on my ass before too long.

  I park the Cuda along a fence, and make my way in. Look at these people. A bunch of fucking cronies all working for the man. With their nice clothes, their mistresses, and their white fucking picket fences, a dog, and maybe some fucking cats, or gerbils or some shit. It’s a typical bar with cheap wood paneling, dark corners, a bunch of tables, and then the center square bar where most of the action is going on.

  There’s definitely some ass in here tonight that looks ripe for the plucking, but that’s not what I’m here for. As I catch a whiff of the greasy steaks and overloaded burgers coming out on trays from the kitchen, I’m reminded men were once cavemen and big hunks of meat were the standard grub. My stomach is sure growling for something.

  I walk across the bar to a table in the corner where I can sit down and be left the fuck alone. The money is stashed in the car, and I realize it’s pretty fucking stupid to leave close to a million dollars in my car, but that Cuda’s alarmed, so the second I hear that shit going off, I’d be out there and on top of them bashing someone’s face off the curb before they could shit their pants. Or I’d do worse.

  Doing worse is my job. Or it was my job; let’s see how everything plays out. Having a shitload of cash has definitely opened up my options. It’s good to have options in this life. Fuck if I’ve ever had them before now.

  Where the fuck is my waitress? I caught sight of a few of them on the way in so I know they’re here. With tight-ass jean shorts and sleeveless tees that have a Gino’s logo plastered right around tit level, they’re definitely hired for their looks. I’m not saying they’re not good at their jobs, but if you don’t have the tits, or the ass, Gino says you can go work someplace else.

  That’s one of the reasons this place is a sausage factory. Guys are big spenders at bars, and owners know it. They’ll throw down half a paycheck in one night alone. Trust me, I know.

  Even though there’s only maybe five chicks in here, they’ll take their shots with most of them going home limp-dicked. I never went home that way, not if I wanted some company that night.

  Fuck. I need a drink. That must be my waitress over there staring at me like a frightened bunny not wanting to come over. Wow, she’s fucking hot.

  Chapter 2

  Abby

  This guy has trouble written all over him. I’ve seen his type down in the city and know to steer clear. Please don’t sit in my section, please don’t, please don’t. He walks straight toward me and, of course, before I know it, he’s sitting in my section.

  His strong forearms grip the table, tattoos rippling with every move, tense over something. You work in a bar for as long as I have and you start to read people based on body language, posture and just about anything else. There was something unique about this guy that I couldn’t put my finger on. My initial feeling was that he looks like he owns the place. There are plenty of guys who come in like they own the room, but this guy actually does.

  He stares right into me as I approach the table, making me feel vulnerable and exposed. Even though the breath feels like it’s being sucked out of me and my mouth is dry, my lips sticking together, I manage to speak. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  His lips are pursed together, his strong chin jutting out, when finally his lips part. “You know you can, honey. Jack straight, make it two.” Without moving his arm or taking his eyes off of mine, he lifts two fingers. His voice is husky, with a bit of sandpaper and grit mixed in, and he’s probably been smoking for years. His thick Bronx accent, straight out of Good Fellas, is all man and just adds to his intrigue.

  “Coming right up, and I do have a name. It’s Abby.” His gaze shifts down my body, checking out every curve, not trying to hide what he’s doing, and then it slowly rises back up, pausing on my chest before returning to lock on my eyes. “Alright, Abby. Do you have a menu? I’m so hungry, I can eat an ox.”

  I hand him the menu from my back pocket, taking notice of just how broad his shoulders are, his white t-shirt hugging him closely, not leaving much for my imagination. This guy is an absolute Adonis. He looks like one of those Greek God statues I’ve seen at the Met. I find my mind wandering to impure thoughts, of touching his body, tracing every ridge and angle, but I snap back to reality quickly enough to keep my composure.

  “I’ll be back in a minute with those drinks.” His eyes are burning into the back of me as I walk away exhaling, trying to keep it together. I can’t explain the feeling I have when around him. Drawn to him like a moth to a flame, I know what they must feel like, knowing the danger, knowing they can die, but still the flame is there, and they must go to it.

  Jacoby mixes the guy’s drinks, and rather than take a tray, I grip the two glasses of Jack and head off to deliver them to the dark table in the back, taking in deep breaths and steadying my wobbly legs as I go. I feel like I’m about to give a speech in front of a giant auditorium, my nerves a tangled mess, my stomach churning.r />
  I can’t quite place this nervousness, as I’ve never felt like this before. More than just being frazzled, it’s a sense of foreboding… and complicated, too… mixed-up feelings, stirred in with a deeply absurd attraction that is based on nothing other than his commanding physical presence. Or is there something else about it, something more?

  “Here you are, two Jacks straight. Do you know what you want to eat?”

  A small smile crosses his face, and I find myself self-aware that his thoughts are not on food. They are on me. “What I want is not on the menu, Abby.” His quick glance down the length of my body confirms all I need to know. The hairs on my neck stand up, and I feel a tinge of something deep within.

  He pauses, then continues. “Of course, you’re talking about food, am I right, Abby?” I nod dumbly, just loving the way he says my name. “In that case, I’ll have a steak, well-done, no pink, with some mashed potatoes, and a salad with oil and vinegar.”

  Trying to keep my eyes on his, I fail, focusing out and notice the ripple of his bicep as he closes the menu and hands it back to me.

  “I’m Luca.” Eyes on mine the whole time, he takes a pull from his glass, drinking more than half in one large gulp without wincing the slightest bit. Licking his lower lip slightly to catch the last bit of whiskey, I envision my tongue bursting into his mouth and invading his space, savoring the whiskey and whatever other manly tastes live within.

  “Are you going to put my order in? We’ll have time to get friendly later.”

  I am done and I know it. He can have me any which way he chooses, and by the looks of him, he knows many ways. Luca is hard, and rough, and at the same time, sexy and irresistible. His thin stubble moves with his smile, as I turn and glide away, not even aware how my body is moving, feeling more like I’m floating than anything else. A wave of excitement hits me deep in my core as I clench inside, anticipating what I know will come.