Promised to the Killer – A Dark Mafia Romance Read Online B.B. Hamel

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Mafia, Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 96417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
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Read Online Books/Novels:

Promised to the Killer - A Dark Mafia Romance

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

B.B. Hamel

Language:
English
Book Information:

Her family thinks she’s trash. But she’s my shining treasure and I’ll kill to make her mine.
Siena Bastone is going to die. She’s the cast-off traitorous daughter of a minor mafia family with deliciously pouty lips and a wicked tongue.
But after we spend one unforgettable night of sin in a hotel room, I can’t walk away.
I pull her from her family’s clutches and make her my own. I save her from punishment and torture—and drag her into my world. She’s my toy. My plaything. Nothing more. Never more.
I’m too wrecked and twisted to ever let myself get too close to a woman—especially a woman like Siena.
Until I get a peek beneath her ice-cold surface and taste the heat bubbling up from her core.
My father will never approve of this arrangement. He’ll cut my throat before he lets me take a traitor as my bride.
But I can’t get enough, and I might tear apart my family in the process.
Welcome to the first steamy book in the Novalov Bratva series! You’re going to fall in love with Maxim and Siena’s gut-wrenching story, just like I did. It’s a bit dark and very hot, so read that trigger warning and enjoy!!
Books by Author:

B.B. Hamel



Chapter 1

Siena

They’re going to kill me when I get home. Tonight, I’ll make sure I don’t die a virgin.

Only problem is, I have no clue what I’m doing.

I’ve never gone out before. I mean, I had some friends growing up and we did the usual kid stuff—pizza, movies, shopping, that sort of thing—but always chaperoned by my father’s guards.

There was always a dark shadow drifting in my wake.

This is different. There’s no safety net. I’m alone, and nobody’s going to save me if this goes wrong. Not that it matters, since I’m dead already, but still.

The bar’s an upscale spot tucked into the base of a professional high-rise right in downtown Dallas. I chose it because my father and his goons would never be caught dead in this part of town. The floor is covered in fake wood and the lights are dim and it feels like the kind of place old school movie stars would take their mistress.

I sit at the far end of the bar and order a martini. I’m not much of a drinker and I feel like the bartender can tell. He places the glass down with a flourish and smiles from behind his thick, scraggly beard. “Anything else?”

“That’s it.” I put my father’s Amex Black down. “Leave it open.”

He grins, snatches it up, and stalks off. He probably thinks I have a lot of money or that he’s going to get a good tip.

He’s right on both counts. Except the money’s not mine, and I don’t have permission to spend it.

Fortunately, I won’t be around tomorrow to deal with the fallout.

I cross my legs and sip my drink. I try to suppress a cough. It’s stupidly strong. What the heck is in a martini, anyway? Just straight vodka apparently. I regret it immediately, but the alcohol manages to loosen the thick, nervous brick in my guts, and lets me scan the room without feeling like I might pass out at any moment.

I don’t know what I’m doing. My hands tremble as I smooth out the skirt of my short, low-cut dress. It’s tight and hugs my hips, and I bought it in a fit of madness as an old friend of mine from high school giggled and pressured me into keeping it. I look good, or at least I look like I’m starving for attention, and that’s the whole point: I want to draw as many hungry eyes as possible.

I still feel so uncomfortable. My father would kill me if he knew I was owned this dress, much less that I was wearing it. That gives me a brief surge of satisfaction. Let him be angry. None of that matters anymore.

I notice a few men lurking around. Most sit with groups of two and three, some of them already with girls. The majority are dressed like they just got off work—suits, ties, business casual, that sort of thing. I run my finger around the rim of my glass and try not to look too obvious as I watch three guys laughing loudly at a table nearby, and one of them catches my eye. He’s not too bad—clean-shaven, dark brown hair, decent navy suit. He looks like a hedge fund manager or a rich accountant. He’s the polar opposite of the men I grew up around, and maybe that’s what I need tonight.

I look away and down at my hands. They’re shaking and I don’t know how to make them stop. I take another long sip of my drink and place it down as a large shadow slides into the stool next to mine and leans forward over the bar.

My stomach drops. I notice the tattoos, and before they resolve into actual shapes, I panic. It’s got to be them already, my father’s boys, come to drag me back home. They caught me, followed me, found me somehow, and now? They’ll punish me. I’ll spend my last night on Earth bruised and battered.

But then I hear his voice. Deep and rumbling. “Vodka and rocks.” It’s not a voice I recognize. I study his hands and stare at the stars tattooed on his knuckles and the other vague shapes that disappear into the sleeve of his shirt. The tattoos are familiar, but I can’t place them, and I’m frowning as he shifts toward me and tilts his head to the side.

“See something you’re interested in?”

I start and nearly jump from my chair. I blink and meet his eyes: ice-blue, like permafrost. His full lips tug upward, and his dark hair is slicked back casually with a slight wave. More tattoos poke out from the collar of his expensive suit, black and curling up his throat. A sunburst with a long bullet decorates the side of his neck. On the other side, another sunburst, but this one has a cross in the center.


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