Falling for the Killer: A Dark Possessive Mafia Romance, B.B Hamel [good story books to read .TXT] 📗

“I met your sister at a retirement party a few weeks back,” I said. “She has something of mine, and I want it back.”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you’re thinking—”

“Go get Ash,” I said and stepped closer. “Believe me, she’ll want to talk.”

“She’s busy,” he said through clenched teeth. He didn’t back down, which was impressive. I was bigger than him, broader and more muscular, and I could see a tinge of fear in his expression, but he held his ground. Good man.

“I thought you said she wasn’t here?” I sneered and was tempted to shove him inside. I could break in here without a problem, but these people weren’t to be fucked with if I could avoid it.

“As far as you’re concerned, assume she’s never home,” Jack said, and went to shove the door.

But I reached out and stopped it. “Ash!” I called over his shoulder. I heard my voice echo off marble floors and I could only guess at the incredible wealth locked deeper inside that mansion.

“Marcia,” Jack said, “call the police. They’ll take care of this for us.”

Marcia said something in Spanish and ran off. I let out a frustrated growl but Jack didn’t step aside.

The moment hung suspended between us. I knew I was overstepping and making a mistake. Jack was her brother, and if I wanted to win her over, I should probably consider trying to win over her family, too. I’d never convince her parents to like me, but her brother might be possible.

Then again, these people would never accept a man like me, and her brother looked like he was already too far down their rich yuppie rabbit hole to ever let his sister be with a mobster. No, he wouldn’t be any help, but he didn’t need to be an enemy, either.

Still, she was in there. I had to get inside and talk to her before she told her family and made things harder. Jack’s face tensed as I prepared myself—

Then heard a scream from inside.

It was shrill, angry, and scared.

And it was Ash.

“What the fuck,” Jack said, turning.

I shoved him hard. He stumbled inside, slammed against the wall, and let out a gasp of pain as I barreled into the house and ran toward the source of the scream.

5

Ash

I sat in front of my vanity, surrounded by face creams, moisturizers, hair products, makeup, old notes from friends, a couple love letters from summer camp boys, a little trophy from an equestrian competition, two swimming trophies, framed pictures of me and my friends in the band, and other small trinkets from my life. I stared into my own eyes as intently as I could.

I looked tired and scared.

God, so scared.

“You’re going to tell them,” I whispered, and hoped that by saying it out loud, I’d somehow make it come true.

But that didn’t help.

I stood and paced across my room. It was a mess and I felt like I was just now noticing all the little details: stuffed animals from my childhood, CDs I hadn’t listened to in years, clothes piled up in the corner, my old pillow and comforter. I felt like a prisoner on death row waiting for the warden to come drag me off to the electric chair. I wanted to savor everything before my parents either murdered me or cast me out of the family or did something worse—like tried to make me get rid of this baby.

I wouldn’t do it, if it came to that. I’d rather live on my own than give up my child.

I didn’t know where this feeling came from. It bubbled up through me and suffused my blood and bones with complete and utter certainty. I couldn’t turn my back on my child any more than I could take my own life. This baby was a part of me now, and although I hadn’t planned it, I’d still step up and make sure this child was happy and loved and everything I’d want from a parent.

I wanted to raise my baby like my parents never raised me.

My hands trembled as I left my room and padded down the long hallway. The Adamson Manor was a massive structure with fifteen bedrooms and too many bathrooms to count. I was tucked away in the east wing, away from the main bustle of the house. I took the back stairs down to the first floor and stepped into the kitchen. Gleaming granite, lots of glass and beautiful silverware, and at least one priceless painting hung on the wall. Nobody used the stove or the oven except for staff. The place was immaculate, cleaned every morning and evening, even when it didn’t need to be. The kitchen opened into a dining room and a sitting room beyond that, where I found my mother lounging at a small cafe table recessed into a large bay window. She sipped tea and read the paper, and little wispy blonde hairs fell down around her wrinkled and neutral face. She looked up, but she didn’t seem happy to see me.

She never did.

“Hello, darling,” she said, her tone sounding bored. “When did you get home?”

“Recently,” I said and didn’t go into details. My parents barely bothered with me. So long as I kept doing what I was supposed to do, I could come and go as I pleased. The house was too big for them to track me, and besides, father was barely here, and Marcia was the one that really kept things going.

“Lovely,” mother said and went back to her paper.

I stepped closer and opened my mouth. I wanted to blurt it out: Mom, I’m pregnant, I got knocked up by some mafia guy and now I’m scared, but I won’t give up my baby, but I couldn’t make my tongue work. It felt frozen to the roof of my mouth.

I tried to imagine my mother making this kind of mistake and it seemed impossible. Evie Adamson was the perfectly bred aristocratic wife. She threw parties,