Love Like A Loaded Gun Series by Jenika Snow – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Love Like A Loaded Gun Series by Jenika Snow – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com Thu, 23 Apr 2026 23:09:27 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.ilovenovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Love Like A Loaded Gun Series by Jenika Snow – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com 32 32 The Death Dealer (Love Like A Loaded Gun #1) Read Online Jenika Snow http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-death-dealer-love-like-a-loaded-gun-1-read-online-jenika-snow Thu, 23 Apr 2026 23:09:27 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/the-death-dealer-love-like-a-loaded-gun-1-read-online-jenika-snow Genre: Alpha Male, Crime, Dark, Mafia Authors: Jenika Snow Series: Love Like A Loaded Gun Series by Jenika Snow
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Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)

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They call me The Death Dealer.

Fifty-five years old. Silver in my hair, violence in my eyes, and twenty-six years of vengeance carved into every scar.

I was paid five million to erase Markom Ivanov, the man who filmed my mother dying when I was seventeen.

I walked into his palace ready to paint the walls with his blood.

Then I saw her.

Anya.

His twenty-three-year-old daughter.

Icy-blue eyes, ivory skin, and a pulse that beat faster the closer I got.

One look and the death in my veins became useless.

I took her instead.

Now she’s naked and my captive. She was meant to be my revenge. She’s becoming the only thing I’ve ever been afraid to lose. But I’d never let her know. I’d never let her see that weakness.

I’ll hunt her if she runs. I’ll burn Moscow to ash if anyone tries to take her from me.

Because the monster hired to kill a king just stole his princess, and a man like me didn’t let go of the one thing that finally made him feel humanThey call me The Death Dealer.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter 1

Dmitry

Iwalked through the side door of the gutted cathedral at three in the morning and felt the Moscow wind slice straight through my coat.

Fifty-five winters in this frigid city had taught me the cold wasn’t an enemy anymore. It was the only thing that still felt honest.

Snow hissed against the broken rose window, against the saints whose faces had been shot out by drunks or soldiers or both. One candle burned on the cracked marble altar, throwing weak gold designs that didn’t reach the corners.

That was where Viktor Lebedev waited. He didn’t turn when my boots crunched over shattered glass. He wore a black cashmere coat, collar turned up, and had his gloved hands clasped behind his back like a saint who’d traded salvation for sin.

He finally turned and faced me. The scar that split his face from his right ear to the corner of his mouth caught the candlelight and looked even more distorted.

“Ty opozdal,” he said without looking. You’re late.

“Ya nikogda ne opazdyvayu,” I answered. I’m never late.

He laughed, low and harsh. Viktor was sixty-two years old and still hungry enough to kill for a bigger throne. He took two steps toward me and held out a photograph.

I looked at the man staring at the lens, face stoic, bloodlust in his eyes.

Andrey Ivanov.

Fifty-eight. Fat jowls, beady black eyes, and the same shark smile I’d memorized the year this man’s daughter was still in diapers.

“Pyat' millionov amerikanskikh. Polovina segodnya perevodom. Polovina kogda on perestanet dyshat',” Viktor said. Five million American. Half today by transfer. Half when he stops breathing.

I didn’t touch the picture. I’d carried that face behind my eyes for thirty-eight years. I knew every pore, every wrinkle. I knew the stench of rot that clung to him like cheap cologne. It was the same rot that had filled that basement all those years ago.

“Ya ne delayu tselyye tela,” I told him. “Ya delayu chasti. Vyberi chast’, kotoruyu khochesh’ v podarochnoy upakovke.” I don’t do whole bodies. I do pieces. Pick the part you want gift-wrapped.

Viktor’s scar twitched, but other than that, his expression remained still as stone. “Khorosho. Yazyk, togda. On lzhet slishkom mnogo.” Fine. The tongue, then. He lies too much.

I almost smiled.

They’d called me The Death Dealer since I walked out of a basement with five dead men’s fingers lined up in a cigar case.

Thirty-five years of taking souvenirs.

“Prezhde chem ya soglashus’,” I said, “ya khochu koe-chto.” Before I agree, I want something.

“Ty ne v polozhe—” You’re in no⁠—

“Ya vsegda v polozhenii, chtoby uyti.” I’m always in a position to walk.

Viktor’s eyes narrowed, calculating. Finally, he took the drive and pocketed it and the photograph. “Chё tebe nado?” What do you want?

“Ya ego zamochu za tebya, no informatsiya tol'ko u nego. Mne nado vytyanut' yeyo pered tem, kak ub'yu, tak chto mozhet zatyanut'sya dol'she tvoego dedlayna.” I'll kill him for you, but I need information that only he has. I have to get it out of him before I take him out, so this might take more time than your deadline.

The words came out flat. Just facts, like reciting a grocery list written in blood.

Viktor studied me for a long second before he responded. “Ladno. Glavnoe, chtoby delo bylo sdelano, delai s nim chto khochesh'.” Fine. As long as you get the job done, do with him what you want.

I nodded once. Viktor was old school and produced the contract. It was on thick cream paper, already signed in Viktor’s spidery Cyrillic. I took my knife and sliced the pad of my thumb, pressing it to the paper in a perfect, bloody print beside my name: Dmitry Myasnikov.

But to the world, I had no legal name. I was known to those unfortunate to have heard of my reputation as just The Death Dealer.

My cell buzzed with the first wire transfer. I’d get the rest once the job was done.

“Gala zavtra vecherom,” Viktor said. “Rublyovka dacha. Chornyy galstuk. Ya organizoval formu ofitsianta. Okhrana strozhe, chem pizda devstvennitsy, no ty proskochish’.” Gala tomorrow night. Rublyovka dacha, Andrey’s estate. Black tie. I arranged a waiter’s uniform. Security’s tighter than a virgin’s cunt, but you’ll ghost through.

I said nothing after his crude instructions, and turned to leave.

“Yeshchyo odno, Dima.” One more thing, Dima.

The nickname dug deep. I paused under the broken arch.

“U Andreya yest’ doch’. Zoya. Dvadtsat’ tri. Simpatichnaya shtuchka. Izbalovannaya. Esli ona vstanet u tebya na puti—” Andrey has a daughter. Zoya. Twenty-three. Pretty little thing. Spoiled. If she gets in your way⁠—

“Ya ne ubivayu zhenshchin.” I don’t kill women.

“Ya i ne prosil tebya,” he said, smiling thinly. “Prosto ne day yey sdelat’ tebya glupym. Krasivyye veshchi tak vliyayut na muzhchin tvoyego vozrasta.” I wasn’t asking you to. Just don’t let her make you stupid. Pretty things do that to men your age.

Fifty-five years old and the words still landed like a boot to the ribs. Pretty things. Just like my mother when they broke her on camera. I walked out without answering.

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Series Starter (Love Like A Loaded Gun #0.5) Read Online Jenika Snow http://www.ilovenovels.com/series-starter-love-like-a-loaded-gun-0-5-read-online-jenika-snow Thu, 23 Apr 2026 23:09:26 +0000 http://www.ilovenovels.com/series-starter-love-like-a-loaded-gun-0-5-read-online-jenika-snow Genre: Alpha Male, Crime, Dark, Mafia Authors: Jenika Snow Series: Love Like A Loaded Gun Series by Jenika Snow
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Total pages in book: 2
Estimated words: 1411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 7(@200wpm)___ 6(@250wpm)___ 5(@300wpm)

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Moscow belonged to the Bratva.

Behind the city’s glittering wealth lied a brutal empire built on loyalty, blood, and power. The men who ruled it were kings in the shadows, feared by their enemies, and obeyed by the soldiers who enforced their will.

But power inside the Bratva was shifting.
Old codes were breaking. New enemies were rising. And the contracts being written now would change everything.
Enter the dangerous world of Love Like a Loaded Gun, where loyalty was tested, power was taken in blood, and love was the most dangerous weapon of all.
The war was only beginning

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

The man had been begging for almost ten minutes when I finally told them to stop.

The warehouse fell silent except for the slow drip of water somewhere in the dark. A single light hung above the center of the room, casting a harsh circle over the concrete floor where the bound man knelt. Blood stained the front of his shirt, and his voice had turned hoarse from repeating the same promises.

He swore he would fix things, that the money would come, and that his mistake would never happen again.

I listened without expression.

At sixty-two, I’d heard every excuse a desperate man could offer. The jagged scar that ran from my ear to the corner of my mouth twisted slightly when I spoke, a permanent reminder of the knife fight decades ago that had nearly killed me.

“Enough,” I said quietly.

That was the cost of doing business in my world. Debts were honored, loyalty was enforced, and betrayal had consequences.

A single gunshot cracked through the warehouse, and his body slumped forward. I looked at the soldier who’d finished the job.

I rose from the metal folding chair and adjusted the cuff of my coat.

“Clean this up,” I said. “You know where to leave the body.”

Outside, the night air of Moscow was sharp and cold. The city stretched beyond the industrial district in a glittering skyline of glass towers and golden domes, beautiful enough to fool anyone who didn’t know what lived beneath it.

Because Moscow belonged to the Bratva.

Behind the wealth and power of the city ran a darker empire built on loyalty, blood, and secrets that could destroy governments. Politicians bowed to us behind closed doors. Judges forgot cases when asked. Police departments learned quickly which investigations were better left unfinished.

We weren’t a gang.

We were an empire.

And I was one of the men who ruled it.

The car waiting for me idled quietly along the curb. When I stepped inside, the driver pulled into traffic without a word, merging onto the empty road and weaving through the city.

Moscow at night was alive in ways most people never noticed. Restaurants overflowed while music pulsed through crowded nightclubs.

But beneath the surface, the city moved to another rhythm entirely.

Money was collected for illicit drugs, weapons, and favors. Crimes were discussed and deals made in the shadows. Political favors traded behind closed doors. Entire industries bending slowly under the influence of men who never appeared in public headlines.

The Bratva moved through the city like blood through veins, unseen but vital.

This was the part no one ever saw, the part that kept everything from collapsing.

Later that night, I sat at the head of a long table inside my private club. The room smelled like leather, vodka, and quiet violence.

The men seated around the table were the kind who ruled cities without ever appearing on a ballot. They’d earned their place by how much blood they’d spilled.

Each member at this table controlled territory and revenue streams that stretched far beyond Moscow.

And tonight the air between them was tight enough to snap.

I studied the men in front of me before speaking.

“Something rotten has crept into our house.” The words settled heavily over the table.

Across the room, a captain shifted in his chair while another stared down into the untouched vodka in front of him. They all knew what I meant, even if the name hadn’t yet been spoken.

Andrey Ivanov.

I had built my empire the old way. Through blood, loyalty, and a code that existed long before Moscow’s modern skyline rose above the city. When the Soviet Union collapsed and chaos swallowed the country whole. But power came with rules.

The Bratva had to remain disciplined if it wanted to survive. Violence was necessary, but it had to remain controlled and strategic. Quiet enough that the outside world never saw the machinery behind the city’s glittering facade.

Some lines were never meant to be crossed.

“You mean Ivanov,” one of the captains said carefully.

I lifted my gaze. “Yes.”

The name spread across the room like smoke. Ivanov was a creature of the post-Soviet chaos, a man who had grown rich exploiting the cracks left behind when the world fell apart.

Where I built influence through weapons shipments and political leverage, Ivanov built his empire on something far darker.

Trafficking.

Women stolen from broken towns and war zones. Girls promised modeling contracts or jobs overseas. Runaways who vanished from train stations and border crossings.

They disappeared into Ivanov’s world and were never seen again.

Private auctions, underground clubs, and wealthy buyers who treated human lives like luxury purchases to be used and discarded.

Flesh trafficking was dirty work, and it was tarnishing everything we’d built.

And if that wasn’t enough, Ivanov had another business whispered about in the darkest corners of the underworld.

Snuff films.

Only the truly sick and depraved admitted to watching them.

These were recordings of suffering, carefully staged horrors sold on encrypted networks to wealthy collectors across the globe. Every detail customized. Every victim disposable.

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