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

Gian sucked in a breath and I felt sweat break out on my arms. But Gian nodded and stood, and held out a hand to Dean.

“I’ve got your back,” he said.

Dean shook it. “Thanks, brother.” He forced a sad smile. “Wish it weren’t coming to this, but it had to sooner or later.” Dean nodded and walked back inside with Gian close behind.

I watched Danny play. The war would heat up soon and start to boil over. I didn’t know what that meant for my idyllic life—but I knew that no matter what happened, Gian would keep us safe.

He returned and crouched next to me. “I love you,” he whispered, and kissed me softly.

“I love you too,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Changes are coming. But sometimes, change is good.”

“Yeah?” I smiled a little.

He slipped something from his pocket and clenched it in his hand. He opened it, palm up, and an engagement ring sat glittering in the early evening light. I sucked in a breath, shocked, and let him slide it onto my finger.

“Marry me,” he said.

“Of course.” I kissed him and held him there for a long while, not speaking, not doing anything but feeling him breathe, his lips against mine.

I had my man, my baby, and soon I’d have a husband. The war was coming, darker and more devastating than before—

But I’d be safe in my own little world, protected by Gian. He’d keep the Healys from me, keep them from spilling over into our home.

Nothing would ever be the same. I’d take his name and become his mafia wife, and together we’d survive this.

And hopefully soon, I’d give him another baby.

It was all I could ever ask for.

If you want more steamy suspense, read the mafia books that started it all! Obsessed with His Bride begins the story of the Leone Crime Family. Dante meets his match in Aida, though she resists his intense charms at first. But when a war breaks out, Aida must give in to her desire or end up dead. I’ll kill to keep her. I’ll do much worse to make her my bride. >> Click Here to read it!

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Also by BB Hamel

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BONUS: Gian

Sunlight slanted through the street as I tugged Ash along behind me. She kept pace with a strange look on her face, half fear and half loathing as we stepped through the tall wrought-iron fence gate and into the farmers’ market.

“I thought you were joking,” she said as I led her past the tented stalls selling candles, deformed apples, stacks of squash, piles of mushrooms, fermented tea, cheap jewelry, beans and corn, handmade donuts, and jostling crowds of people pushing to get the best deals.

I ignored them all. The local salesmen hawking their wares held no power over me. I kept hold of Ash’s hand in case she decided to go running off to smell flowers or try artisanal cheese or something equally insane.

We were here for one reason, and one reason alone.

“I never joke about the farmers’ market,” I said, eyes narrowed, plowing through the crowds. “This is the highlight of my summer.”

“You must live a very sad life.”

I stopped suddenly and turned to her. She ran into my chest and I held her there, staring deep into her eyes, searching her soul for some sign that she understood me, that she could see beyond my tough exterior into the truth of me below.

She blinked up at me and squinted.

“This is important,” I said softly, brushing my fingers against her face, and a nearby woman in bright pink slacks and a hat like a peacock frowned at me like I was some crazy person.

If only she knew.

“I really can’t tell if you’re being serious,” she said.

“I’m very serious.” I kissed her softly on the corner of the mouth. “I’m not joking in the least. This is important to me.”

“All right,” she said. “Okay, fine. Let’s go do it then.”

“Thank you.”

I turned with a manic grin and led her past stall after stall until we reached my destination, my heaven, my Valhalla, my miracle, my home—the pickle stall.

Vast barrels of pickles were lined up behind a folding table. A guy with a scraggly gray beard, glasses, a massive beer belly, tiny jean shorts, and a scowl sat on a stool. His pickles floated like dead fish, glistening and perfect. I stood before him, hands on my hips, with Ash tentative behind me, and beamed.

“Hello, Marshal,” I said. “I want your best pickles, please.”

Marshal frowned at me. We did this song and dance every time I came to the market. He pretended not to know me, and I didn’t give a fuck what he thought.

“You sure you want the good ones?” he asked. “You strike me as a kosher dill sort of boy.”

“The good ones, sir,” I said. “Give me two, please. The lady would like a taste.”

“I don’t think she can handle the good pickles,” Marshal said.

“It’s a pickle,” Ash said, shaking her head. “What the hell are you two talking about?”

I exchanged a look with Marshal. I tried to let him know, via subtle facial expressions, how embarrassed I was of Ash’s behavior, and how much I wished he would forgive her for being so ignorant of his pickles, and that I still very much wanted said pickles if he was willing to be the bigger man.

“Three bucks,” Marshal grunted, and got up with some difficulty. He fished out two pickles from the back-left barrel, stuck them in a small paper bowl, and thrust them toward