Home > Havok_ A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

Havok_ A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Author: Riley Rollins


 

His love is a death sentence.

HAVOK

I'm a hitman for the Russian mafia, a savage killer. I stalk my targets with bloodlust in my heart, while my family rots away in the wet Moscow soil. I've got nothing. No one.

Then I met her. Such a sweet little thing, her body driving me wild up on that stage. But there's so much torment in those baby blues. She's too good for this life, too good for a murderer like me.

My mission was just a side job. Kidnap her, cash her out for a cool hundred grand.

F*ck that. Not with those killer curves and those submissive eyes that beg for my domination. I'm gonna take her and protect her until the bitter end, even if it means slaughtering every last son of a b*tch in this city.

I just can't protect her from myself.

This is a standalone, full-length mafia romance with a filthy-mouthed, possessive bad boy. Dark mafia themes throughout. Guaranteed HEA.

 

 

1

 

 

Penny

 

 

"Only a hundred bucks? Useless bitch."

Brock's palm claps against my cheek and my face flares with pain. He hits with the entire weight of his heavyset frame, his fatty arm jiggling as he strikes me. I was hoping he wouldn't beat me today, but it barely fazes me anymore. As my head snaps to the side and I land on the floor, I catch a glimpse of the kitchen table. A sad little stack of five- and one-dollar-bills sits on the corner, amidst mountains of dirty dishes and stained cardboard boxes.

It's my take-home pay from last night at Fascinations, West Ark's most popular strip club. My earnings for a six-hour shift of shaking my tits for the seedy, dirty men of the city. The only source of income for my hellish life here with Brock, my supposed boyfriend.

When he wakes up, the first thing he does is hit the bottle. Then, he counts the stack of bills I dutifully leave on the kitchen table after each night's shift. Whether it's enough to please him depends on his mood, blood alcohol level, and sheer luck.

Today, it wasn't enough.

"Please," I say, scooting backwards on the floor. "The club was really empty last night and—"

Towering over me, he lunges and belts me with the back of his hand. My teeth clink together hard, and my face burns with shame and pain.

"How the fuck we gonna make rent now?" he snarls. "My tits are worth more than this."

I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to pull my hair out in anger and frustration. The son of a bitch hasn't done an honest day's work his whole life. He's an unemployed parasite who mooches off my backbreaking and humiliating work. But for some god-awful reason, I can't bring myself to leave him.

Well… I know the reason. It's because I've gotten so hooked on these fucking pills, these opiates that numb my pain and destroy my resolve to repair my broken life.

Once upon a time, I was a bright-eyed pre-med student with dreams of running my own practice. Back then, I woke up excited for class each morning. Life was a series of ever-brighter horizons.

But then my dad died in the crash, almost five years ago to this day, and everything started going wrong for me. First, the pills. Then, stripping to pay for the pills. Then… Brock.

Now I'm so deep in this hole I can barely see out. Sometimes I lie awake at night, staring at the cracked, asbestos-coated ceilings, wondering if there's anything else left for me.

Brock shakes his head in disgust as I rise to my feet, rubbing my sore face. He scoops up the stack of bills and pockets them, then exits through the front door of the studio apartment without another word.

It used to make me sick with worry and jealousy, wondering where he was going, who he was seeing. But I don't care anymore. Now, it's pure relief when he leaves.

I shuffle toward the bathroom in a daze of pain and sorrow. The matted, dirty carpet feels foreign against the soles of my feet, the yellow cigarette-smoke stained walls closing in against me like prison bars. The mid-morning sun is bright outside, but it barely filters into this filthy apartment. This may be a house but it's not a home. Not my home at least. I haven't had a real home since Dad died and I fell into this lifestyle.

So now, with my dreams fading away into the past, I sleep when the sun rises and wake to the moonlight. And all I've got to look forward to are old men stuffing dirty bills into my g-string.

Stumbling into the bathroom, my hand searches for the light switch. The walls are dirty, fuzzy almost. I hate this bathroom. Every time I come here to clean myself after a shift, I leave feeling even dirtier than before. The faucet handles are covered in toothpaste grime and soap scum, and the moldy shower curtains constantly stick to my legs in the shower like tendrils.

Sometimes I think of cleaning this bathroom, but I never do. There's no point. It wouldn't change a damn thing.

When I click on the light switch, I see the damage to my face. It's a mess, but it's nothing I haven't been through before. My next shift doesn't start until 10 p.m. tonight. A good eight hours of sleep, a healthy application of foundation, and I'll be fine. Then I'll go in to the club and start the cycle all over again.

But there's one thing I have to look forward to. One thing that carries me through the darkness, and keeps me from giving up.

Vladimir. Or, as they call him at the club, Havok. He works security for the club. That gorgeous, rippling, tattooed hunk of man. Always lurking in the shadows of the club, protecting me and the other dancers, his eyes burning through the darkness like a cat's.

The other bouncers try to grope me, fuck me, buy me with drugs, take advantage of me. The customers treat me even worse, like meat. But not Havok. Not ever. He appears by my side in a flash whenever I need him. Uses his thick, corded muscles and brick body to shield me from any threat. He keeps me safe, always.

But whenever I try to thank him, he avoids my gaze. Slips away back into the darkness. Never tries to get closer to me. Not even a little bit.

I want Havok to rescue me. To claim me as his, and take me away from this life of chaos with Brock. His strength could heal me.

But he hasn't rescued me. And I don't think he ever will. So it doesn't matter that his body is cut from marble, his jaw all hard, sharp, dark lines. It doesn't matter that he affects me in a way that I've never felt before. It doesn't matter how he grounds me, makes me feel safe. It's all a fantasy, and my real life is here in this filthy apartment with Brock.

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