Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com Thu, 07 Dec 2017 13:57:33 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.ilovenovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com 32 32 Thief Read Online A. Zavarelli (Boston Underworld #5) http://www.ilovenovels.com/thief-5-read-online-a-zavarelli Thu, 07 Dec 2017 13:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/thief-5-read-online-a-zavarelli Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Crime, Dark, Romance, Suspense Authors: A. Zavarelli Series: Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
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Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Thief (Boston Underworld #5)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	A. Zavarelli
Language:	English
ISBN/ ASIN:	B079ZJH5QR
Book Information:
I’m a good girl. I live by a code that can’t be bent or broken. It is my duty to my family to stay innocent and pure. To marry an Italian man. The stars are already aligned. But Nikolai Kozlov re-writes my destiny with five simple words. You belong to me now. He's Russian mafiya. A thief. A skilled liar with no moral boundaries. He is everything I have been taught to hate. A man who stands for nothing. A man who takes what he wants without a second thought. And what he wanted was me. He thinks he controls my fate, but what he doesn’t know is, sometimes it’s the good girls you have to watch out for. I’m a dangerous man. I live by a code. The Vory code. It is my duty to my family to protect the brotherhood. To destroy anyone who threatens what we stand for, including her. She’s a dancer. A beautiful little doll. My prisoner, and my new favorite puppet. This mafia princess thinks she has me under her spell, but in the end, she is simply collateral. It’s a shame to destroy precious things. But this is what bad men do. Note: this book contains dark subject matter, please read at your own discretion. This is a full length standalone that can be read in any order within the series.
Books in Series:	Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
Books by Author:	A. Zavarelli Books

Let it ruin you. It’s the only way.

The words rush between my lips on a stolen breath, and in my mind, Vivi’s face is still as lucid as the day she uttered that direction. She was loud and unintentionally poetic. Silky locks of raven hair, red lipstick, and cat-shaped glasses. These were just a few of the threads that stitched together my mentor and my inspiration.

Every dancer at the Met tonight would sell their souls for a career like Vivi’s. I was one of the lucky disciples chosen to study under her, but I doubted it had anything to do with luck at all. She had an artist’s eye, always looking for something different. And in a flock of pale sheep, I was the lone umber wolf. Vivi liked that. From the beginning of our time together, she spoke of her plight to create cultural diversity in a world of dance that still upheld strict ancient standards.

My half-blooded Italian heritage and a dash of my mother’s ebony skin elected me as the poster child for her cause. But regardless of her reasoning, I didn’t let the opportunity go to waste. I was not under the delusion that I was special, and Vivi would be quick to remind me of it if I ever got the notion in my head. Every ballet student wanted to think she was special. That she was pure talent and natural grace. That she was the best. But every dancer’s best was only as good as the dancer next to her, waiting to steal her shine in the spotlight. Vivi provided that lesson when she allowed another dancer to do exactly that. Her practice was brutal but effective. More than structure and timing, she taught me how to live and breathe my art. And most importantly, she educated me on what happens when a dancer becomes complacent.

I remember her warmly whenever I’ve put my body through hell, and I know that she would be proud. If she was here to witness the mangled state of my feet, she would tell me that I had gone to war, and I had won.

Flexing my toes, my eyes sweep over the desolate landscape of my thighs as I swoop forward in a meditative stretch.

There is no such thing as pain. There is only discipline.

Tonight, I will take the stage as a soloist for the New York Ballet Company, performing as Ceres in Sylvia. It is a hard-won role. A role I have fought and bled for. The years of study have not been kind, but there is no such thing as mercy in ballet.

The shelf life of a dancer is short, and for me, it’s even shorter. I am fortunate that the ballet has always pleased my father because it is the one amusement he would not deny me. He told me as a child that a dancer embodies everything a woman should be. When he took me to my first ballet, I came to a quick agreement. The heavenly creatures floating across the stage in shades of pale pink and white were the most beautiful sight I had ever beheld. At the age of six, I resolved that I would be one of those dancers someday. My lofty aspirations brought amusement to my father’s otherwise brash face, and he declared that if I wanted to be a true ballerina, it would mean accepting nothing less than principle. When I asked why, he explained that in the days of old, only the best dancers could earn the accolade of ballerina.

From that day forward, I resolved that I would earn the right to be called a true ballerina. And eighteen years later, I am closer than ever to my dream. Also, closer than ever to having it snatched away.

A muted whisper jars me from stillness, and when I open my eyes, the calm before the storm dissolves.

The standing agreement between my father and the artistic director of NYBC is that I must always have my own room to dress, even if it’s only the size of a closet. My father likes to say that the guise of religion can buy you many things, but the truth is, his name is what affords such luxuries. The artistic director doesn’t blink twice at the guards who shadow my every move. Unfortunately for me, the other dancers do.

I am kept separate. Hidden away and forbidden from socializing. The circumstances of my situation haven’t bred the warmest reception from my peers, but I’m accustomed to the isolation. Which is why it is no small shock to discover that Gianni has infiltrated my improvised dressing room. I’m not even certain how he snuck in, and when I look at the door where my guard is waiting outside, a knot forms in my throat.

“What are you doing? My father will be here any—”

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Conor Read Online A. Zavarelli (Boston Underworld #6) http://www.ilovenovels.com/conor-6-read-online-a-zavarelli Sat, 14 Oct 2017 13:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/conor-6-read-online-a-zavarelli Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Dark, Romance Authors: A. Zavarelli Series: Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
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Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Conor (Boston Underworld #6)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	A. Zavarelli
Language:	English
Book Information:
When I stumbled into a mafia run club seeking a job, I was looking for protection. Little did I know I’d need protection from him. Conor O’ Callahan was exactly the kind of danger I was trying to avoid. He was gorgeous as sin with an accent hotter than Hades, but that’s where the charm ended. He was also cynical, cold, and downright cranky. So, you could imagine my surprise when he gave me a proposition. Marry him or lose my life. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’ve learned to do what’s necessary to survive in this world, and I guess that includes marrying a mobster. Regardless of what he might say, it’s only temporary. It’s not like I’m going to sleep with him. Or fall for him. Because that would be stupid, right?
Books in Series:	Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
Books by Author:	A. Zavarelli Books

There are two things my old man always told me were inevitable. Death and captivity. From the moment the hospital stamped my birth certificate, my years have been numbered. It’s in my DNA, true as the Irish blood running through my veins.

For as long as I could remember, Pop was in and out of the can. He never could live straight. He tried, a couple of times, but within a week or two of flipping burgers, he’d be back to planning his next big score. I suspect he always knew it would kill him. But when I asked him about it once, he told me he’d rather go down in a blaze of glory than choking on his Jell-O in the nursing home.

When I was a kid, I figured it’d be the same with me. What other choice did I have? I was raised with the notion that the only way to make a living was to jack trucks and rob banks. If you wanted something in this world, you had to take it.

So, standing here as I am, destined to go down in my own blaze of glory, it isn’t all that unexpected. Only difference is, it’s not a security guard or cop I’m squaring off with, but six members of the Lenox Hill crew.

Best case scenario is that I get one shot off before they do me in, and I have every intention of making that shot count. That greasy fucker with the slicked back hair and beady eyes will have a fat, hot piece of lead lodged in his face if it’s the last thing I ever do. Whatever happens after that will be worth it.

I rub the ink on my arm and meet his gaze. The drink in my system almost knocks me on my arse when I reach for my piece. When the adrenaline is high, everything seems faster and more amplified.

My heart is full of thunder and my palms are clammy. I’ve lived this moment a hundred times over in my mind, unwavering about the way it would go down. But reality is always different than our imaginations. When the piece of shite across the warehouse realizes what’s happening, it doesn’t bring me relief like I thought it would.

Doubt nags me. A bullet to the head is too quick, a kindness he doesn’t deserve. If I’m lucky, I’ll only get to enjoy his suffering for a second or two before my own skull is cracked open and splattered in pieces across the cement floor. But when it comes to options I’m all out. His crew is closing in on me as I raise my piece and look him in the eyes.

“For Brady.”

There’s a flurry of rapid movements as they all reach for their own weapons, and for a moment, I wonder if my Pop would say I’d done good. I could only ever do bad in his books, but I’d like to believe he’d tell me I’d done him proud for this one thing.

And Brady too.

But that fantasy is snatched away from me before I have a chance to make good on it. When gunfire erupts around me, there is only one last horrifying thought. I’ve fucked this up too because they got to me first.

Any second now, I’ll feel the shock of pain and fire when bullets pierce my flesh. One second passes, and then two, and I’m still standing. I haven’t fired a single shot, but when I look around me, the Lenox Hill crew are dodging for cover themselves.

I stagger over to the wall and duck behind a partition as I try to piece together what’s happening. There’s a lot of shouting. A few low moans from somewhere in the corner. I don’t know how long it goes on for, but when there’s a pause, I stumble out in a panic, seeking out my target. Instead, I’m met with the end of a cold barrel to the back of my head.

“Slow down there, lad,” the Irish interloper instructs me. “Where exactly do ye think ye’re off to so quickly?”

I try to shake him off as my eyes scour the warehouse for the blue shirt. I find it peeking out from the stack of boxes along the wall and my feet move in that direction before my mind can catch up to logic. I’m about a half a step closer to my goal before the man behind me grabs me again and tosses me to the floor.

“Just let me kill him,” I slur. “Then you can put a bullet in me head.”

The Irishman narrows his eyes and looks to his companion with the glasses. These guys aren’t part of some low life street gang. They’re clean cut and hard. The kind of blokes who wear clothes way too nice for this neighborhood. There’s no doubt about who and what they are. Given their accents similar to my own, they could only be part of the Irish syndicate.

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Reaper Read Online A. Zavarelli (Boston Underworld #2) http://www.ilovenovels.com/reaper-2-read-online-a-zavarelli Fri, 02 Sep 2016 01:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/reaper-2-read-online-a-zavarelli Genre: Action, Alpha Male, Angst, Bad Boy, Crime, Dark, New Adult, Romance, Suspense Authors: A. Zavarelli Series: Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
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Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Reaper (Boston Underworld #2)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	A. Zavarelli
Language:	English
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Sasha. He’s dark and mysterious. Quiet and lethal. An Irish mobster. Pure sin wrapped up in a beautiful package. But there’s also something off about him. He doesn’t feel anything. He shows no emotions. Sometimes I question his humanity. He hasn’t spoken to me in two years. Not a single word. But we share a secret, he and I. And if it ever comes out, I have no doubt in my mind… He won’t have a problem killing me too. Ronan. I’ve slain for her. I’ll do it again. When it comes to Sasha, there isn’t a line I won’t cross. I watch her. She doesn’t know it. She thinks I hate her. Sometimes, I think I might too. But I’m always there, lurking in the shadows. Craving her. Trying to keep the beast within at bay. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll slaughter anyone who tries to hurt her. The only thing I can’t do… is protect her from myself.
Books in Series:	Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
Books by Author:	A. Zavarelli Books

Prologue

Sasha

“I don’t like you going out with that guy,” Ma says.

I bend down to zip up my boots so she can’t see the expression on my face.

“It’s fine, Ma. I can handle him.”

“I just don’t understand, Sasha.” She launches into another one of her tirades. “I raised you to be a good girl. You were always such a good girl. You had the smartest, brightest future ahead of you. A real chance to get out of this neighborhood and do something with your life. Now you’re wrapped up with these guys…”

She glances at my sister Emily across the room as if the very mention of the word mafia might influence her too. The disappointment is plastered all over both their faces every time they see me with Blaine. They don’t know why I do what I do. They’ve got no idea, but it’s better that way.

Safer.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to blink away the pressure behind them. Five things, my father’s voice echoes inside my head. Find five things you can smell, hear, see, and touch. Ground yourself, Sasha.

So I do.

Nobody knows this about me. That I do this almost ten times a day. I’ve always been wound too tight. My Ma didn’t know how to handle it, like many other things, so she left it up to dad. His voice calmed me. The humble voice of a hardworking man who loved and provided for his family. If he were here right now, he’d know exactly what I should do. Exactly how to stop me from drowning.

But he isn’t here. He hasn’t been since I was twelve and he died from a heart attack on Emily’s birthday. Now it’s just the three of us, living like a house with no foundation.

Ma falls into another coughing fit, and my stress comes back full force.

“You need to go back to the doctor,” I bitch at her. “You’ve been hacking like that for weeks. I don’t like it. You smoke too much.”

She throws her hands up and curses at me in Portuguese. Although she moved from Brazil at a young age, she still uses her native tongue frequently when she gets hot headed. Which is pretty much all the time.

“I smoke too much because I’m always worried about the two of you.” She reaches up and tugs on her hair. “You give me all of these gray hairs. Make me look like an old woman.”

I laugh and shake my head, even though it’s really not funny. I’m worried about her. But she loves to blame us for her gray hairs.

“That could have something to do with all the cigarettes,” Emily chimes in.

Ma shrugs both of us off and pats my cheek with her hand.

“My beautiful daughter,” she says, her eyes shining with love. “I only want the best for you.”

“I know.” I reach up and clasp her hand with mine.

The moment is ruined when there’s a knock at the door. My gut churns, and Ma shuffles over to open it. Blaine’s inky black gaze settles on her while his lips curl up into a smile. To anyone else, it would appear polite and even charming, but to me that smile belies exactly what he only wants me to see. The evil swirling just below the surface, seeking any opportunity to leak out and obliterate his grand illusion.

“Mrs. Varela.” He bows his head and kisses Ma’s hand. “You look more beautiful every time I see you.”

Ma gives him a stiff but respectful smile, but I know Blaine can see the fear in her eyes. I see it too. He gets off on that fear. On knowing that there’s nothing me or Emily or even my Ma can do. Men like him always get what they want. The problem is, it’s never enough. I’ve been keeping his attentions occupied, but the more he comes around, the more his gaze wanders.

He’s looking at Emily again right now. The ever present panic in my chest flares as his eyes rake over her. It takes all of my willpower not to let him see it bothers me. She’s going to college next week. Just one more week, and then she’ll be safe. One more week, and he can’t hold her against me.

“Don’t be too late, Sasha.” Ma kisses me on the cheek, and I conjure up a smile for her.

“Stop worrying,” I tell her. “And call the doctor.”

She nods, and Blaine escorts me out to his car. He’s whistling as he walks, and it fills me with dread.

Once he’s in the driver’s seat, he twists to look at me. His fingers invade my space and pinch my chin in a bruising grip. I don’t recoil, but I have to work at hiding my repulsion.

“Your sister’s growing up quick, hey. Anyone taken her for a ride yet?”

“She has a boyfriend,” I lie.

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Ghost Read Online A. Zavarelli books (Boston Underworld #3) http://www.ilovenovels.com/ghost-3-read-online-a-zavarelli Thu, 01 Sep 2016 13:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/ghost-3-read-online-a-zavarelli Genre: Action, Alpha Male, Angst, Bad Boy, Crime, Dark, New Adult, Romance, Suspense Authors: A. Zavarelli Series: Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
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Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Ghost (Boston Underworld #3)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	A. Zavarelli
Language:	English
Book Information:
Talia. I have always been a bird. Caged by one prison or another when the only thing I ever wanted was to fly away. Sold. Beaten. Starved. Drugged. Nothing scares me anymore. Until him. He makes the numbness go away. He is hazardous to me. It has nothing to do with his mafia lifestyle, and everything to do with what he offers. A gilded prison. A retreat from everything that I once knew. The reality I have no desire to return to. He thinks he’s caged me, but soon… I’m going to fly. Alexei. I live by a code. The Vory code. In this mafiya world, there are traditions. Expectations. She does not care for these things. She does not care about anything. She thinks she has me fooled with her haunted eyes. What she can’t know is that I see her better than most. She wants to fly. But I’m going to clip her wings. And make her my wife.
Books in Series:	Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
Books by Author:	A. Zavarelli Books

Prologue

Talia

Hope is for suckers.

That’s what Mack and I always like to say.

So I guess I’m a sucker too.

Because when Dmitri asked me to go to Mexico with him, I couldn’t say no.

There was a part of me that wanted to. The part that keeps my shields up and my armor in place. We’ve only been dating for a month. Not enough time to vacation together.

Not that I would know. I’ve never even been on a vacation.

Mack and I have always done it tough. Growing up in foster care and then on the streets. Scraping by every day. When the majority of your life is consumed by the thought of your next meal or a safe place to sleep, places like Mexico might as well be on another planet.

But things are different now.

I’m twenty-two. And perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

Mack doesn’t agree.

And even though I’m here in paradise with this man who promises the world, I can’t stop thinking about her.

She’s like a sister to me. She’s the only family I’ve got. I hate that we argued before I left. We’re always arguing these days, it seems.

She hates my job. She hates all of my life decisions.

And it hurts. Because I miss her. She should be here with me, in this beautiful place, experiencing it with me. But instead, she’s back in Boston… completely oblivious to where I’m at. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about this vacation. I knew she would argue. I knew she would tell me that I was making another mistake.

She doesn’t like Dmitri, even though she’s never met him. Mack always sees the worst in everybody. It’s her way of protecting herself and me.

But sometimes, like right now, I just want to see the good.

Dmitri has done nothing but treat me well since I met him. And I have this crazy idea in my head that maybe someday Mack will meet him and understand that. That she’ll be able to see what I see when I look at him.

I want to call her right now. I want to tell her all about this place. How beautiful the weather and the drinks and the beach are. These last few days have been the best of my life, and I want to share that with her.

But my phone is up in the hotel room and Dmitri and I are down by the pool. So it will have to wait until tonight.

I’ll get the courage to call her tonight.

“Hey.” Dmitri reaches over and touches my face, turning my attention to him. “Why so sad, kitten?”

“I’m not,” I lie.

He smiles, and I do too.

“Good,” he answers in his Russian accent. “Because tonight, I am taking you somewhere you will never forget.”

My heart rate slows and some of the anxiety in my chest ebbs away. I feel like I could trust Dmitri. And I haven’t felt like that in a long time.

“Tell me, Talia,” he brushes his fingers down my arm and breaks away, watching me carefully. “Have you enjoyed our time together so far?”

“Yes,” I answer.

And that isn’t a lie. I feel like he’s different. Like he can read me better than most. I’ve told him things about my life that I’ve never told anyone. I’ve opened up to him. I’ve given him a piece of myself that nobody else has ever earned.

It isn’t just my body, but a part of my heart too.

“I’ve enjoyed our time together as well,” he says wistfully. “Very much.”

The expression on his face confuses me, but it vanishes quickly. A moment later, he’s checking his watch and taking me by the hand.

“Come,” he says. “The car is waiting out front.”

I follow him through the resort and into the back of the car. He gives instructions to the driver in his native language, which surprises me a little. I didn’t realize that he’d brought anyone else down here with him. But it is apparent that this man works for Dmitri.

Something nags at the back of my mind. A sinking feeling takes hold of me as we drive, and I can’t be sure what it is.

When I glance at Dmitri across the seat, he is lost in his own thoughts. And distant. He is never distant. It worries me. As does the landscape up ahead. Which is looking less like a tourist area by the moment.

Dmitri seems to sense my panic though as he always does.

“It’s okay,” he assures me.

He reaches out and takes my hand in his, and I try to focus on organizing my thoughts. I’m at war again. In my mind. Looking for demons in everyone the way that I always do. I told myself that I wasn’t going to do this anymore. I told myself that I was going to forget the past.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Dmitri asks.

I look up at him and give him a nervous smile. Half of me is screaming no while the other half nods on autopilot.

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Saint Read Online A. Zavarelli books (Boston Underworld #4) http://www.ilovenovels.com/saint-4-read-online-a-zavarelli Thu, 01 Sep 2016 01:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/saint-4-read-online-a-zavarelli Genre: Action, Alpha Male, Angst, Bad Boy, Crime, Dark, New Adult, Romance, Suspense Authors: A. Zavarelli Series: Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
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Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Saint (Boston Underworld #4)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	A. Zavarelli
Language:	English
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Scarlett- When going to war, there are three very simple rules one must abide by. 1. Know thy enemy 2. Be prepared to sacrifice. 3. Always wear good shoes After all, revenge is a dish best served in stilettos. I’ve got an eye for it, and nothing’s going to stand in my way. Not even Rory ‘The Saint’ Brodrick. He’s a fool if he thinks he can change me. By the time I’m through with him, I’ll make his mafia look like child’s play. Cross me, Mr. Brodrick? You better cross your heart and hope to die. Rory- I’m a fighter. A hustler. A mobster. I’ve seen a few things in my day. But I’ve never encountered anything like her. She's a beauty with a beast of a heart. The poison apple I just can't resist. And in her trail she leaves a wake of men crawling on their knees. What she doesn’t know is that I like my women wild. It only makes it that much more fun to tame them.
Books in Series:	Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
Books by Author:	A. Zavarelli Books

Prologue

Scarlett

Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

-Confucius

All the world’s a stage, and I’m just one of the many players, baby.

Like that douchebag over there, watching me eat this hot dog. What is it about men and phallic shaped objects? I can’t even pick out a cucumber at the market without their eyes on me. They imagine dirty things while their wives herd the children down the aisles in an orderly fashion and thirst for the vodka at home.

The men, though. They’ll go home, still thinking about that cucumber. And they’ll jerk off to it and then sit on the sofa and watch some inconsequential sports program and grunt out responses when their wives ask them a question.

The American dream.

Sigh.

This hot dog though. Legendary. There’s extra mustard and relish, of course, because… go big or go home. I’m going to eat this whole goddamned hot dog, and I’m not even going to feel a little bit bad about it.

Course, there isn’t a whole awful lot I feel bad about.

It’s important to find humor in the little things. Like the construction worker who trips over a pothole and nearly breaks his neck while he eye-fucks me.

I smile back at him and lean into the cold brick wall behind me. My stilettos are crossed at the ankles on the broken concrete below, and there isn’t a chance he could miss me in this dress.

I like it when they look at me. Because I know what comes next.

His friend catcalls me and asks how much.

“Five thousand,” I yell back with a mouth still half full of food. “To let me watch while you suck a bag of dicks.”

They exchange a dopey look and hurl some verbal insults my way. I flip them the bird before stuffing the last of the hot dog into my mouth and licking my fingers.

Boys. That’s what they are.

Silly little playthings.

On my stage, and in my show, the only players I allow have blue blooded pedigrees. Like the current toy waiting for me just inside the hotel room at my back. Twenty minutes have come and gone since I lured him back here. And being that my windows of time aren’t really an exact science, I need to stop fucking around.

I mentally press stop on the endless reel of chaos running through my head and take a deep breath.

There is nothing good or bad. Only thinking makes it so.

I step back into the room and stare at the heap of privilege and repugnance lying on the dank come-stained carpet.

His eyes are shuttered, his mouth slack as his face droops into his shoulder.

They never see it coming.

This prick didn’t either. Another day, another unconscious prick on a hotel floor. Only this one has purpose, I think. Maybe. He looks exactly like the type of grade A douchebag that would run in Alexander’s pack.

And that’s unfortunate for him.

I nudge him with my toe, confirming that the benzos I slipped into his drink have fully entered his bloodstream.

Every client is different. Some of them need more. Some less. But they always go down in the end.

This one is built like a fucking horse.

The bigger the man, the bigger the ego. Or is it the bigger the bank account, the bigger the ego?

In either case, it’s been my experience that the flashier the clothes, the smaller the cock. They are all compensating for something, and I’ve no doubt that when I get his clothes off, there will be no surprises. This one looks like a Ralph Lauren catalog threw up on him.

I yank his Burberry wallet from the back of his khaki trousers and dump the contents onto the bed. A part of me wishes for something shocking and unexpected.

But, alas, it’s always the same. Even with Teddy the III.

Country club memberships and credit cards with exorbitant limits. A Porsche keychain because clearly the car isn’t enough for this asshole. And a condom to fuck the whores with. Razzle fucking dazzle.

They can never be original. I swear the whole lot must be mass produced in a factory somewhere.

The WASP cookie cutter doesn’t break the mold. These Ken dolls are all assembled in the same fashion. Posh clothing and secret societies and Ivy League educations. Humble beginnings sold separately. They sail and have luncheons and charity benefits all while stuffing one skeleton into their closets after another. Never short on arrogance but long on pretentious diatribes and entitlement.

These guys think the world owes them. Whatever they want, they take. No fucks given.

It’s an epidemic in the upper crust.

And there’s only one antidote for such an affliction.

The little monster they created.

C’est moi.

Debutant turned deviant.

Captain shitforbrains here paid me for a good time, and I’m about to rock his fucking world.

First things first, I relieve him of anything of value and shove it into my purse. Watches, rings, cufflinks. They are always found in abundance on these name brand jackoffs.

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Crow Read Online A. Zavarelli (Boston Underworld #1) http://www.ilovenovels.com/crow-1-read-online-a-zavarelli Fri, 13 May 2016 01:57:33 +0000 http://www.test123.demo2.xyz/crow-1-read-online-a-zavarelli Genre: Alpha Male, Bad Boy, Contemporary, Crime, Dark, Erotic, New Adult, Romance, Suspense Authors: A. Zavarelli Series: Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
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Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 105065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)

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Read Online Books/Novels:	Crow (Boston Underworld #1)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	A. Zavarelli
Language:	English
Book Information:
An Irish mobster. A missing friend. Two loyalties, ripping me apart. I had a plan. Get in, get my information, and get out. Easy, right? Turns out, infiltrating the Irish mafia isn’t exactly what I thought it would be. I just wanted a soldier. Someone I could flirt with to get me in the door. That’s when Lachlan Crow noticed me. Problem was, he wasn’t a soldier. No, he was next in line for the throne of the Irish underworld. And he was determined to hate me from the outset. My sob story about needing a job? Yeah, he wasn’t buying that either. Too bad for him, I won’t let anyone get in the way of my mission. Who cares if we have some kind of crazy chemistry? He’s the worst kind of wrong- and I would never in a million years be with a guy like him. Because they took her from me, and I’m going to make them pay.
Books in Series:	Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli
Books by Author:	A. Zavarelli Books

Prologue

Mackenzie

I hate cops.

I really, really do. Especially around here. You never know whose payroll they’re actually on. Dealing with them over the last six months has done nothing to improve my image of them.

Fucking cops.

They won’t give me the time of day. When I filed the missing person’s report, they barely even glanced at the details. Follow ups? Nonexistent. Now every time they see me at the station they’re rolling their frigging eyes. They don’t give two shits about some missing woman with a questionable reputation. Just like thousands of others in this country, she’s been sucked into a black hole never to be seen or heard from again. Their families and friends are left at the mercy of a system that divvies up investigative hours based on who looks the prettiest on print or who shouts the loudest to the media. Talia has nobody shouting for her. Only me. And that means it’s up to me to find out what happened to her.

It was the same story with my dad. Forget that he was brutally murdered. He deserved it because he was a nobody boxer fighting in the underground. He associated with bad people, and therefore he got his just penance. That’s how the cops deal with things in this city. That’s how they dealt with my father’s death and the thirteen-year-old kid he left behind. Sweep it under the rug and file it away under cases that actually matter.

I was a kid then, so I had no say. But I’m all grown up now- at the ripe old age of twenty-two- and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this happen again. The last nine years have forged a woman with a heart of steel. I’m not backing down this time. Whatever it takes to find her, I will do it. This is more personal to me than it’ll ever be to any of these office monkeys.

Which is why I’m now sitting in said office of some poor schlep who works for the FBI. Really, all these robots are just overpaid cops too. Still, I feel bad for this lady sitting across from me. Agent Cameron is her name- as evidenced by the name plate and various other propaganda strewn across her desk. There are always clues about people’s inner workings if you look close enough. And what Ms. Cameron’s office tells me about her is that she wants to feel important. She’s probably dedicated her best years to the job. But she’s stuck in an office shuffling papers and that frigging nameplate is all she has to show for her career.

The lines of bitterness are etched into her overtired face. She doesn’t look like she’s had a day of fun in her whole life. But then again, have I? Maybe that’s what bothers me about her. I see a bit of myself reflected in her eyes. A desolate future of nothingness and only my cats to go home to at the end of the day.

I imagine this woman has plenty of them. Her lackluster red hair is still stuck in the style of the eighties, and her gray suit does absolutely nothing for her pale complexion. She pushes her glasses up the ridge of her nose and takes a sip from a mug that proclaims she’s been to Disneyland. At least she has that going for her, I guess.

“Look, uhm…” She glances down at the paperwork before her to find my name. The same name I’ve already told her twice.

“Mackenzie,” I repeat.

“Yes, Mackenzie.” She straightens her posture and sighs. “I understand your frustrations. Really, I do. I know it might not seem like it, but the investigation is still ongoing. I can promise you, it’s being handled.”

Anger boils inside of me like lava, threatening to spill over and destroy everything around me at any moment. I swear these assholes are pre-programmed to say the same thing on repeat. And I’m so sick of this same old song and dance. All my life they’ve been spoon-feeding me this bullshit. Foster carers, social workers, police, and everyone else telling me they know what’s best. I’ve been ping ponged around the system so much I barely have the energy to fight it anymore.

That’s what they want. They want me to go back home and give up. They assume that eventually, as the months roll by and turn into years, the pain will fade and I’ll just forget she ever existed. But that isn’t going to happen. I won’t give up on her, ever.

I take a deep breath and shove the worn photograph across the desk. A four-by-five snapshot of a rare candid moment. Talia is smiling and glancing over her shoulder with the purest eyes you’ve ever seen. She’s never been much of a smiler, honestly. Too many demons. But I caught this one on film, and it’s something I’ve always treasured. I want them to know she was a real person, with real feelings. Plus, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my research, it’s that the news outlets love to talk about the girls with a pretty smile.

“Just look at her face,” I plead. “Look at this girl. Not her file number, but her face. She’s not a street walker, or a call girl, or whatever the hell it is you think that makes her less important. She doesn’t do drugs, and she isn’t a criminal. Her name is Talia Parker.”

My lip trembles, but I go on. I’m not a crier. If my dad were here, he’d be telling me to get my shit together. Emotions are a luxury that Wilder’s can’t afford. That philosophy bled into our relationship too, staining or strengthening it, depending on how you look at it. He told me not to cry, so I didn’t. He told me not to care about anyone, so I didn’t. I squashed it all down and locked it up deep inside of me. Truthfully, I feel too much. But you wouldn’t know that about me. Nobody does.

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