Jealous Italian (Jealous Psycho #7) Read Online Lena Little

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Jealous Psycho Series by Lena Little

Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29370 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)


I’m a man who knows what he wants and makes things happen.
I have ambition in spades. Taking my family to the next level is my goal.
As crazy as it sounds women have never interested me.
No woman ever excited me the way the underworld, making money, racing cars, beating the living daylights out of men as big or bigger than me, and most importantly learning the ropes so I can take over the family business, has.
Not until her.
She may not be Italian but she fits perfectly into our culture…and my life.
She lives with passion, takes risks, and isn’t afraid to fight.
My kind of woman and one that I’ve never encountered before because I didn’t know she existed.
She belongs to me. And I’m not taking no for an answer. No other man will have her but me. Mine.

Full Book:



“Reckless driving. Assault. Assault with a deadly weapon. Attempted murder. Murder. Racketeering. Extortion. And of course, to wash the gigantic sums of dirty money that come with it all…money laundering.”

My boss, Luciano Fontana who serves as managing editor at Milan’s biggest daily newspaper, Corriere della Sera, lets his eyes wander over the sleek, black Zimbabwean marble and bronze and Burmese teak wood at the bar where we sit at the Bulgari Hotel Milano.

My eyes narrow, looking through the floor-to-ceiling window as I take in the sight of the jet-set crowd sipping cocktails in the gorgeous gardens shaded by horse chestnuts and plane trees.

“And he sleeps in The Bulgari Rooftop Suite, with its own garden, instead of being contained in a concrete jail cell as he deserves,” a very annoyed member of our interview team, Tommaso Buscetta utters under his breath.

“Buon pomeriggio,” a woman begins as she comes to a stop before the three of us. She’s slender and beautiful in a well-heeled kind of way. Her ruby red dress hugs her curves like the numerous Ferraris I’ve already seen here in my first week in Milan hug the curbs. Noticing me, a foreigner, she seamlessly switches to English. “Mister Mancini welcomes you and invites you for an espresso in his suite.”

Mr. Fontana looks at me, trying to temper a smile that threatens to tug at the corner of his mouth before turning to the woman. “Yes. That would be wonderful.”

“Right this way, please.”

The woman extends her hand toward the lobby and then takes the lead in her death-defying stilettos.

My eyes drop to her perfectly sculpted calves and her perfect...everything for that matter, realizing I’m way out of my element here. This hotel, this city, these people…they’re clearly cut from a different cloth. They’re in a club I’m clearly not a part of, but have somehow managed to infiltrate for this one interview, the one we weren’t even sure we were going to get until the exquisite woman leading us toward the elevators greeted us seconds ago.

The sound of the woman’s heels on the marble flooring, and her distance from us as she treats our short walk like a sprint, allows Mr. Fontana a brief second to whisper to me. “It worked.”

Looking up at him he flashes me a triumphant smile, his hand forming into a fist which he pumps slightly. But that fist loosens the moment the elevator door opens and we go to step inside, pausing and pulling our feet back when we take in the sight of two absolutely gigantic men in black suits standing in each of the back corners of the elevators. They’re wearing fashionable sunglasses despite being not only indoors, but inside an elevator to boot, and sport visible earpieces.

The door goes to close but the woman extends her thin forearm and the doors fluidly glide back open.

“Please remember that Mr. Mancini will only be taking questions in regards to his company’s new line of olive oils. Nothing else. Nothing.” Her hand knifes back by her side, as she turns and disappears through a door, quickly followed by a clicking, locking sound.

I swallow so hard it’s clearly heard by everyone in the entire elevator.

Seconds later before I’ve even felt the motion of the elevator moving, the doors are opening and we’re stepping into what must be The Bulgari Rooftop Suite.

I freeze, taking in the sight of opulence as I’ve never seen before.

“Mary,” Mr. Fontana says after an indeterminate amount of time that I stand there trying to gather myself at the beauty of this suite. The sound of my name snaps me back to the present, as my boss steps out of the elevator, where we’re immediately intercepted by a third henchman. “My credentials,” Mr. Fontana says.

“I know who you are. All of you. Hold out your arms and spread your feet. Women too.”

One by one he waves a metal detector wand over us, so precisely he traces our outfits consistently within an inch of the fabric that covers our bodies, but never makes contact. His moves are practiced, and professional, and he doesn’t look at me in any lewd way whatsoever.