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An Irish mobster with a brutal grudge.
An Italian mafia princess with a dark secret.
Brutal Vows, an all-new steamy and powerful dark enemies-to-lovers mafia standalone romance from international bestselling author J.T. Gessinger is available now!
An Irish mobster with a brutal
grudge.
An Italian mafia princess with a dark secret.
Two enemy empires joined in sacred marriage vows.
Let the hating games begin.
Spider
I get only a glimpse of the woman in
the window before the curtains fall back into place and she disappears, but the
image of her is seared onto my retinas.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
And eyes that glittered silver in the
afternoon sun like the flash of coins at the bottom of a wishing well.
She can’t be Liliana, the lass I’m
here to meet. I’ve seen pictures of her. She has a sweet, innocent face. A shy,
lovely smile.
The woman in the window looks like
she’d only smile if she were slitting your throat.
Mindful of the armed guards, I say in
Gaelic to Kieran, “I thought the lass’s mother died?”
Standing beside me, he follows my
gaze and looks up at the blank window.
“Aye. Why?”
“Who else lives here?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. From the size of
the bloody place, probably a thousand people.”
She’s not a servant, that much I
know. There wasn’t a hint of servitude in those flashing eyes.
She looked more like a warlord about
to lead an army of soldiers into battle.
“This way,” says the guard nearest to
me. He nods toward an arched opening in the brick wall that leads from the
circular driveway into an interior courtyard.
Dismissing the thought of the mystery
woman, I button my suit jacket and follow behind the guard as he leads Kieran
and me away from the car. The other guard walks behind us. We’re led through
the lushly landscaped courtyard to a set of enormous carved oak doors, flanked
on either side by towering marble columns.
The main house looms over us, three
sprawling stories of beige limestone with elaborate balustrades and scrolled
iron balconies, topped by a line of Roman centurion statues gazing down at us
from a ledge on the red-tiled roof.
Inside the main foyer, the décor
becomes even more ostentatious.
Naked cherubs frolic with hairy
satyrs and woodland nymphs in colorful frescoes on the walls. Instead of one
drop-crystal chandelier overhead, there are three. The floor is black marble,
the carved mahogany furniture is edged in gilt, and my eyes are starting to
water from the kaleidoscope glare of stained-glass windows.
Under his breath, Kieran says,
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Looks like Liberace hurled his lunch all over the
bloody place.”
He’s right. It’s fucking awful.
I have to force myself not to turn
around and walk out.
“Ah, Mr. Quinn!”
I turn to my right. A man approaches
with his hands spread open in greeting.
He’s fit, of average height, and
somewhere around forty. His dark hair is slicked back with pomade. Wearing a
navy blue pinstripe suit I can tell is custom made, a powder blue tie with a
diamond tie pin, a chunky diamond watch, and a gold pinky ring on each hand, he
oozes wealth, privilege, and power.
His cologne reaches me before he
does.
His smile is blinding.
I hate him on sight.
“Mr. Caruso, I presume.”
He grabs one of my hands in both of
his and pumps it up and down like he’s a political candidate campaigning for my
vote.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.
Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet
you as well.”
He hasn’t stopped grinning or shaking
my hand.
Ten more seconds of this shite, and
I’ll break those Chiclet teeth of his.
“This is my associate, Mr. Byrne.” I
extract my hand from Caruso’s death grip and gesture to Kieran, who inclines
his head respectfully.
“Sir.”
“Mr. Byrne, welcome. And please, both
of you, call me Gianni. I prefer if we’re all on a first name basis, don’t
you?”
I’d rather blind myself with acid, you wanker.
Kieran politely offers his name. I
offer nothing. There’s an awkward pause while Caruso waits, but he gets the
hint and suggests we retire to his study to speak in private.
After what feels like a death march
through miles of echoing corridors, we arrive at the study. It’s probably
larger than the law library at Notre Dame. We sit across from Caruso in a pair
of leather chairs so uncomfortable, they had to be designed by sadists.
I haven’t been here ten minutes, and
I’m already regretting the fuck out of this.
Until she walks in the door.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
Not only cleavage, but long legs and
an hourglass figure that would make any man stupid with lust.
If he wasn’t too busy being turned to
stone by the ice in her eyes, that is. I’ve never seen an attractive serial
killer, but I bet this is exactly what she’d look like.
J.T. Geissinger is a #1
internationally bestselling author of twenty-seven novels. Ranging from funny,
feisty rom coms to intense, edgy suspense, her books have sold over five
million copies and been translated into more than a dozen languages.
She is a three-time nominee
in both contemporary and paranormal romance for the RITA® Award, the highest
distinction in romance fiction from the Romance Writers of America®. She is
also a recipient of the Prism Award for Best First Book and the Golden Quill
Award for Best Paranormal/Urban Fantasy.
She’s a Southern California native currently living in Nevada with her husband and rescue kitty, Zoe.
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