Marco Blanchi has always been the muscle. He’s the enforcer of the Blanchi family. A role he revels in the brutality of.
Ivy Hope is just trying to get by. On a good day, her family barely has enough to eat, and now that her brother is ill, they don’t even have that. That’s how Ivy finds herself begging to dance at Red’s, a high-end club in Manhattan. Ivy thinks dancing is her chance to finally get her family out of debt, but before she can take the stage, she finds herself in the wrong place at the worst time and becomes the only witness to a murder that could put Marco Blanchi in prison for good.
Now, Marco must figure out a way to keep Ivy from talking, and she must keep herself alive long enough to figure out what her silence is worth to this mafia prince.
Mafia Prince is the second book in the Crowned Criminals series. While it is not necessary to read, Mafia Princess first, situations and characters will be referenced in this story. Please note that this is a dark romance not suitable for those under eighteen.
Kennedy Slope has always had a wandering mind. She’s written a million romances in her head, but “The Duke’s Contract,” is the first one she’s decided to share with the world. In her past lives, she has been a teacher, a waitress, and for a brief moment, she sold copiers. Currently, she resides in Virginia with her husband where she enjoys drinking too much coffee and binge-watching HGTV.
Carter Roy, the man that attracts all the ladies, but never gets them. He’s sexy and charming, but hasn’t found the woman that can keep his attention.
Abby I just moved to this town six months ago, but I’m already loving it! Granted, I get lost a lot and I tend to stick out like a sore thumb. And then there’s the deputy-sheriff. He’s hot, but fighting this attraction every step of the way. I just have to find a way to make him see me through my six cats, crazy outfits, and my propensity to get into car accidents.
“Who is she?” Jack asked, bringing me out of my inner-musings.
“Who?”
“The woman you’re going all googly-eyed over.”
I waved him off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not googly-eyed over anyone.”
“Right, you just got this far off look in your eyes that I only see when you’re dating someone new.”
“Well, then you’re wrong, because I’m not dating anyone.”
“You don’t have to be to appear that way. So, it’s someone you’ve met, but you’re not with,” he nodded to himself as he started walking around the room. “And it can’t be someone you’ve already dated, so that knocks out half the town.”
I rolled my eyes at him. He placed his hand against his chin, scratching at his jaw as he thought.
“And it can’t be someone from out of town, at least, not that far out of town, because you hardly ever leave town.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“You were just at the hospital. It’s possible you met someone there.”
I held my breath, wondering if he would guess who it was.
“But you’re not the type to fall for a damsel in distress. You’ve always liked women that could watch after themselves. Like Anna,” he grinned.
He would definitely never guess Abby then. She was the opposite of Anna in every way.
“So, it’s got to be someone new to the area, someone that you’re interested in, but since you haven’t actually asked her out, there has to be something holding you back.”
He stopped his pacing, snapping his fingers at me. “That new chick.” He snapped his fingers as he tried to come up with a name. “Abigail. Yes, that woman you hugged in the middle of the street. That’s who it is, isn’t it?”
Crap, I was so screwed. “Why would you think it’s her?”
“Oh, come on! You were hugging a woman!”
“Yeah, because she was upset.”
“And you don’t like to comfort women. That’s not your MO at all.”
“Exactly,” I said, hoping he would disprove his own theory.
“And that’s what it is about her. She’s good looking, and despite the fact that you don’t like weak women, you like her.”
“She’s not weak,” I argued, giving myself away. I closed my eyes, shaking my head as he laughed.
“Holy shit. So, what is it about her?”
“Nothing. There’s absolutely nothing about her. It’s not her.”
“It’s gotta be the whole damsel thing. The question is, what makes her different?”
“I just said it’s not her.”
“Right, which means it is.”
He rushed over to his computer and started typing.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking her background.”
“Why?” I asked, rushing over to his side.
“Because I want to know more about her.” He pulled up her name in the system, laughing at what he found. I sighed, rubbing at my eyes. “So, not only is she a damsel in distress, but she’s a very chaotic damsel, and that’s what you like about her.”
“I never said I liked her!”
“I should have known it. The moment I saw the footage of you holding her in the street, I should have known you were going to fall for her. Of course, I’m surprised it took this long. But now that I think about it, whenever we go out—”
“The people always shout,” I interrupted, hoping to throw him off, but he kept going.
“—you’re always looking around, like you’re watching for someone.”
“Bullshit. You’re seeing what you want to see.”
“No, I’m finally paying attention. So, tell me about her.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I argued. “I don’t know anything about her.”
“You must know something,” he laughed, “otherwise you wouldn’t be so wrapped up in her.”
I walked away from him, sitting down at my desk with a huff. “I’m not wrapped up in anyone. I don’t like her. I don’t know her, and I definitely am not the man for her.”
“So you do know something about her. Because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t know if you were the right man for her or not,” he said, jabbing a finger in my direction.
“Fine, you want to know about her? She’s some kind of hippie. She has a living room filled with fluffy pillows, no furniture, and weird tea.”
He nodded, grinning at me the whole time. “Did you drink the tea?” “Fuck off,” I said, storming out of the station, his laughter floating behind me.
I’m a stay at home mom that loves to read. Some of my favorite titles are Pride and Prejudice, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Horatio Hornblower. I started writing when I was trying to come up with suggestions on ways I could help bring in some extra money. I came up with the idea that I could donate plasma because you could earn an extra $500/month. My husband responded with, “No. Find something else. Write a blog. Write a book.” I didn’t think I had anything to share on blog that a thousand other mothers hadn’t already thought of. I decided to take his challenge seriously and sat down to write my first book, Jack. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed writing. From there, the stories continued to flow and I haven’t been able to stop. I hope my readers enjoy my books as much as I enjoy writing them. Between reading, writing, and taking care of three small kids, my days are quite full.
Or, as we say in Scotland, I dinna understand ye eedjits
And I definitely dinna understand the crazy mother-in-law of my cousin Declan. Who in their right mind names a wee dog Chuffy?
I’m stuck in New York after ma agent makes a bloody mess of an otherwise good endorsement contract for a sports towel company, and this crazy American holiday–Thanksgiving–is in two days.
The invitation to spend it in Mendon, Massachusetts, with the Jacoby family is about as appealing as rotten haggis. As far as I can tell, Thanksgiving is about stuffing yerself silly, watching pathetic American “football,” while fighting with relatives ye only see once a year.
If I wanted that last one, I’d head back to Scotland, where we dinna need a holiday to be salty to each other.
Ma firm answer is nae.
Until I remember Amy is part of the family.
Suddenly, I’m available.
Eager, even. Perhaps she’ll pull ma wishbone. I hear that’s part of the Turkey Day festivities, aye?
What I canna admit, though, is how she pulls ma heartstrings, too.
Which shouldna feel better than the wishbone, but it does.
And here comes Amy’s mother with another holiday tradition, this one a bit early.
A sprig o’ mistletoe, dangling right above Amy’s bonnie head.
He’s been in his birthday suit on sports magazine covers. Done endorsements for regional breweries and energy bars. I know from Declan that he’s close to making it big.
He’s already big.
My eyes dart to his feet.
How big is he?
Heat fills me at the thought, a combination of self-loathing and desire. Which is nothing new for me when it comes to Hamish McCormick.
Why did he have to be here? Now? Of all times, when Mom has a broken leg, Declan’s brother Terry is filling in for her as yoga instructor, and we’re already in disarray? I’m finally finishing my MBA, working another co-op at a venture capital firm. My last one was disrupted by scandal after the high-profile associate gunning for partner turned out to be married to a massive conman. I think I might have gotten my new co-op just for my potential gossip supply.
But my life is smoothing out now. It took me eight years to earn my bachelor’s, but with Declan’s help, the MBA has been full time, which is so much easier. I’ve told him straight out I don’t want any favors, and I refuse to work for Grind It Fresh! Or Anterdec. No nepotism.
Though I’ll certainly network and accept help making connections.
I’m on the cusp of a new life, moving into adulthood at last. I finished a major project yesterday, excited for the Thanksgiving break. I was at the gym, fresh off submitting my group work to our professor, when Dad called about the –
Well. You know.
And now Mom and Dad broke her leg and half their bedroom, my sisters and I have to manage Thanksgiving dinner from scratch, and I can’t stop ogling Hamish’s backside.
That’s too much input.
“Let go of troubling thoughts,” Terry says in soothing, deep dulcet tones as we do triangle pose, our breathing syncing with slow movement. Hamish’s arms stretch out and down. He has muscles on top of muscles, with fine ginger hair all over his arms, darkening as it tapers to his wrists. When we all go into a partial squat, his hamstrings pop like cello strings under his skin, each tiny muscle and tendon in stark relief across a body I could watch forever.
Too bad he has the emotional maturity of a hedgehog.
And that might be giving him too much credit.
“Fine form,” Hamish whispers to Shannon, who blinks fast.
“Thanks. I’ve been doing yoga on my lunch breaks. Even fifteen minutes makes a difference.”
“Aye. People think it’s about doing long workouts but smaller amounts of time really do add up.”
Insane–they’re driving me insane. How can they just idly chat like that while every inch of my skin is on fire? Every breath turns into a proto-orgasm as I watch him stealthily.
Or maybe not stealthily enough. He turns around, catches me watching, and winks.
I hate this. I hate reacting to him like this. I hate that he knows he’s doing this to me, and he revels in it. I hate that he’s so smarmy and overconfident and…
Tantalizing.
I’m going to assume that when all the blood in my body rushes to the surface of my skin and between my legs, it means my IQ drops a bit; lack of oxygen to the brain is the only explanation I have for finding him so attractive. This is a purely physiological response, driven entirely by evolution.
This is not my fault.
He’s big and strong, and his physicality signals virility and protection. Biology is an amazing science, its processes optimized to drive us to reproduce.
My blushing, my throbbing, the zings running across my arms and legs–it’s just electrical impulses, a response shaped over hundreds of thousands of years to produce the right outcome: hot, sweaty, reproductive activity to repopulate the earth.
It’s really just that simple.
I don’t emotionally desire this guy. Not one little bit. My heart isn’t attracted to Hamish McCormick.
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men’s room toilet (and he isn’t a billionaire). She lives in New England with her husband and three sons in a household where the toilet seat is never, ever, down.
