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

frowned slightly toward the bar against the far wall. “Looks like our boy’s not coming back. Let’s go get a drink.”

I opened my mouth to politely decline but he already walked off. I watched him go, then looked around for my mother, or my father or brother, but didn’t see anyone I knew. I could go looking for them, but the thought of listening to my mother make horrible small talk all night, or hearing my father drone on about business made me want to be sick.

Besides, Gian was the most interesting person I’d met in a long time, and he scared the crap out of Stuart. For that, I was grateful. And one drink wouldn’t matter.

I joined him at the far end of the bar. We were tucked away in a little corner, behind a stack of cups and olives. The bartender brought him a whiskey and another glass of wine for me, and he did a little cheers.

“So what’s the deal with you and that guy?” Gian asked.

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“Is he usually such an asshole?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “Fortunately I haven’t dealt with him much.” And my smile slowly faded when I remembered that would change very soon.

“What’s going on there then?” Gian asked.

“You ask a lot of questions,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “It’s not polite, you know.”

“I’m not a very polite man,” Gian said, shrugging. He sipped his drink and watched me, his eyes on mine, his entire attention drilled down and hyper-focused on me. It was strange and intoxicating. I’m used to men in a certain social sphere that don’t give a damn about women, and are mostly waiting for them to stop talking so they can make some aggressive sexual move, or so they can go on about Bitcoin or cryptocurrency or whatever.

Gian seemed genuinely interested, and I figured I’d never see him again, so I told him the truth about my family and about my weird engagement to Stuart. When I finished, he stroked his chin and leaned back against the wall behind him.

“I’ve heard of things like that before,” he said. “Marriages between families. You don’t seem excited about it though.”

“Stuart’s not my type,” I admitted.

“What is your type then?” he asked with a little smirk.

I blushed and stared down at my wine. It was shockingly half gone. I felt the urge to say, you are, but swallowed that down. Instead, I only shook my head.

He laughed at my reaction. “Lighten up,” he said. “I’m only teasing. Look, if you don’t want to marry the guy, there’s got to be a way out, right?”

“You don’t understand,” I said, trying my best to smile. “The family comes first.”

“I do understand,” he said, eyes blazing again. “Better than you’d think. But if the family were worth that kind of devotion, they’d never force you into something.”

I shrugged a little and ran my finger around the rim of the glass. He was right, of course—if my family were decent people and worth my undying loyalty, they’d never make me marry Stuart to begin with. But unfortunately, they were a bunch of selfish bastards, and I was expected to do the right thing whether I liked it or not.

And I knew I would. As much as I’d fight and complain and make comments, in the end I’d fall in line and marry Stuart. Maybe I was a coward, or maybe I just loved my family, or maybe something in between. I didn’t know for sure, but I was born with this and I knew I’d never escape it.

“Let’s get out of here,” Gian said suddenly.

I blinked at him then shook my head. “I can’t do that,” I said. “My parents are both here and I’m supposed to make an appearance. I think they want to tell people about this thing with Stuart and—”

He shook his head and leaned closer to me, and I stopped talking when I smelled his cologne, musky and subtle. “You’ll have your whole life to do whatever the fuck your family says,” he whispered, and moved nearer, his lips brushing past my cheek. I sat frozen, unable to do much more than blink and breathe as my heart felt like it might burst up my throat. “Let’s get out of here for a little while. Live while you can.”

I reached up and put my hand on his chest to push him away, like I had with Stuart. Instead of shoving, I left my palm against his muscles. He didn’t try to grab my wrist, and I didn’t pull away.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was my anger toward Stuart. Or maybe it was the whole situation, my entire life prescribed and planned and scheduled down to every single little detail including the man that I’d marry. I could see it already: how many children I’d have, what I’d name them, their schools, their friends, my future. It was already written for me, and all I had to do was keep moving forward, and it would all come true. I’d barely live, and then I’d die.

Maybe it was that this might be my last chance for freedom before I gave in and did what my family wanted.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

He pulled away, smiling, and offered me his hand. There was a question in his eye, like it was up to me, like he wouldn’t force this. I reached out and his rough, callused fingers closed around mine, and he pulled me from the bar.

I floated like in a dream. I didn’t care who saw me slip through a side door with this total stranger. He took me down a back hall, past waiters and waitresses in black shirts and pants, some typing on their phones, all of them ignoring us. We reached an elevator and took it up, and I stood close to him, and when he tipped my chin closer to kiss me, I didn’t pull away.

He tasted like whiskey and smoke and fallen leaves. His