I Married a Mob Boss
Page 1
I Married a Mob Boss
Shandi Boyes
Edited by
Mountains Wanted Publishing
Contents
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Also by Shandi Boyes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
One Month Later. . .
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
BONUS SCENE
Also by Shandi Boyes
Copyright
© Shandi Boyes 2017
No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing: Mountains Wanted Publishing
10/01/19
Cover: SSB Designs
Photograph: Shutterstock Account
Some photo edits were made to the photograph
Want to stay in touch?
Facebook: facebook.com/authorshandi
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Email: authorshandi@gmail.com
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Reader’s Group: bit.ly/ShandiBookBabes
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Website: authorshandi.com
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Newsletter: https://www.subscribepage.com/AuthorShandi
Also by Shandi Boyes
Perception Series
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Saving Noah (Noah & Emily)
Fighting Jacob (Jacob & Lola)
Taming Nick (Nick & Jenni)
Redeeming Slater (Slater and Kylie)
Saving Emily (Noah & Emily - Novella)
Wrapped Up with Rise Up (Perception Novella - should be read after the Bound Series)
* * *
Enigma
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Enigma (Isaac & Isabelle #1)
Unraveling an Enigma (Isaac & Isabelle #2)
Enigma The Mystery Unmasked (Isaac & Isabelle #3)
Enigma: The Final Chapter (Isaac & Isabelle #4)
Beneath The Secrets (Hugo & Ava #1)
Beneath The Sheets(Hugo & Ava #2)
Spy Thy Neighbor (Hunter & Paige)
The Opposite Effect (Brax & Clara)
I Married a Mob Boss(Rico & Blaire)
Second Shot(Hawke & Gemma)
The Way We Are(Ryan & Savannah #1)
The Way We Were(Ryan & Savannah #2)
Sugar and Spice (Cormack & Harlow)
Lady In Waiting (Regan & Alex #1)
Man in Queue (Regan & Alex #2)
Couple on Hold(Regan & Alex #3)
Enigma: The Wedding (Isaac and Isabelle)
Silent Vigilante (Brandon and Melody #1)
Hushed Guardian (Brandon & Melody #2)
Quiet Protector (Brandon & Melody #3)
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Bound Series
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Chains (Marcus & Cleo #1)
Links(Marcus & Cleo #2)
Bound(Marcus & Cleo #3)
Restrain(Marcus & Cleo #4)
Psycho (Dexter & ??)
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Russian Mob Chronicles
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Nikolai: A Mafia Prince Romance (Nikolai & Justine #1)
Nikolai: Taking Back What’s Mine (Nikolai & Justine #2)
Nikolai: What’s Left of Me(Nikolai & Justine #3)
Nikolai: Mine to Protect(Nikolai & Justine #4)
Asher: My Russian Revenge (Asher & Zariah)
Nikolai: Through the Devil's Eyes(Nikolai & Justine #5)
Trey (Trey & K)
K: A Trey Sequel
The Italian Cartel
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Dimitri
Roxanne
Reign
Mafia Ties (Novella)
Maddox
Demi
Rocco
Clover
Smith
* * *
RomCom Standalones
Just Playin’ (Elvis & Willow)
Ain't Happenin' (Lorenzo & Skylar)
The Drop Zone (Colby & Jamie)
Very Unlikely (Brand New Couple)
* * *
Short Stories
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Christmas Trio (Wesley, Andrew & Mallory -- short story)
Falling For A Stranger (Short Story)
* * *
Coming Soon
Skitzo
Dedication
To Kelly,
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Thanks for your message of support.
I appreciate the craziness you instill in my life.
* * *
Shandi xx
Chapter 1
A ragged gasp escapes from my lips as I springboard into a half-seated position. While my hands dart up to rub the stabbing pain rocketing through my temples, I suck in large gulps of air, calming the panic scorching me from the inside out.
Goosebumps prickle my sweat-slicked skin when the coolness of air conditioning glides over my body. Pure agony. Gut-wrenching hell. I’d rather die than open my eyelids is how I feel right now.
Someone, please tell me why the National School Board would ever think holding their annual conference in Las Vegas was a good idea? I swear, I only had a couple of drinks, at the very most a few, but there's no way I drank enough to suffer the side effects of a tunnel hole digger drilling through my skull. I thought waking up the morning following my twenty-first birthday was wretched. This is ten times worse.
After giving myself a few minutes to calm the pounding of my head, I reluctantly open my drooping eyelids. My lips quirk. For a school district that can't afford to buy kindergarten students coloring pencils, the hotel they booked for me is extravagant. Monstrous vaulted ceilings, whitewood paneled walls, gorgeous dark wood furniture, and one of the largest beds I've ever seen is what confronts me.
As I slide across the pristinely crisp thousand thread count sheets, a new reality dawns on me. I'm naked. Not slightly nude. Naked-naked. Oh, lord, what did I do? I swing my eyes around the room as I struggle to gather my bearings. My heart is wildly beating, matching the thumping twinge between my legs.
The typical Vegas lifestyle reflects back at me. Casino chips line the highly varnished wooden floor; my clothing is strewn in a pattern from the door to the bed, and a pair of black polished dress shoes sits at the edge of a mattress that smells like hot, raunchy sex. Nothing out of the ordinary here. Wait, hold on a minute… Black polished dress shoes?
Scampering off the bed, I fall to my knees next to the shoes. I assess them carefully, like they are a time bomb set to detonate in 2.5 seconds. The soles are well-scuffed,
but the leather on the size thirteen shoes is so thoroughly polished I can see my disheveled appearance in them. I cringe.
I don’t remember using a spatula to apply my makeup last night.
Ignoring the fact I look like I've just returned from a moonlighting job, I continue inspecting the shoes, seeking any indication of who their owner may be.
“Like grown men write their name on the soles of their shoes, Blaire,” I mumble to myself.
Failing to find any signs of ownership, I stand from my kneeling position and drift my eyes around the vast space. A silent squeal ripples from my parched mouth when a door creaking open booms through my ears.
I dive for the bed, only just making it beneath the scrumptiously thick covers when a female with a heavily wrinkled face enters my room. Grumbling in a slurred accent, she retrieves my clothing from the floor and tosses it into a woven basket balancing on her ample hip.
“Oh. . . umm. . . excuse me. I didn’t order housekeeping,” I strangle out, my voice weak with embarrassment.
I sink deeper into the mattress when the elderly lady’s scorching gaze connects with my light green eyes. Her nearly black eyes are fierce, and they have my heart pumping.
“You no want me to clean your room?”
From the depth of her accent and her poor wording, it's easy for me to derive her first language isn't English. Peeking my head out of the sheet I’m clutching for dear life, I shake my head.
“You want to live like pig?” Her words are spat out of her mouth in a malicious slur, right alongside some real-life spit. I cringe and shift my gaze to the polished floor.
Now I need housekeeping.
Muttering in a language I’m not familiar with, the silver-haired female scuffles to the door.
I hold my hand into the air like my kindergarten students do when seeking my attention. “Umm. . . excuse me.” My voice is low, hindered by the pounding of my hungover head.
The elderly lady’s cotton skirt flares out when she spins around to face me. “Yes?”
The longer she stares at me, the more my heart palpitates.
“Umm. . . I’m going to need my clothes,” I mumble through my heart in my throat while pointing to my clothing she collected off the floor. “Unless you can get the concierge to bring up my suitcase?”
The elderly lady glares at me, nostrils flaring, veins protruding. “Concierge? You want concierge to bring your bag to your room?”
I arch my brow and nod. “Please?”
She smiles. It's a scary and life-threatening smile. “I’ll be sure to ask concierge to bring up your bag,” she says in a thick, heavily drawled accent.
“T-thank you.”
The crazy beat of my heart weakens when she places the basket onto an antique dresser sitting by the door. After issuing me a final reprimand solely using her eyes, she exits the room. The instant the latch on the door lock clicks into place, I slip out of bed and make a mad dash for the door. Since my bare feet are unable to grip the overly polished floor, I crash into the door with an almighty thud.
The winded rattle of my brutal blow bellows all the way up my heaving chest. After brushing an unruly blonde hair off my heated cheek, I secure the lock on the door, snag my clothing out of the basket, and make a beeline for the only other door in the room.
My quick speed slows to a snail’s pace when I walk into an extravagantly grand bathroom. Scanning my eyes around the room, I drink in the black marble countertops, artisan glass sinks, and a ginormous clawfoot tub. If I wasn't concerned about receiving another visit from the Wicked Witch of the West, I’d be tempted to drown away my hangover in that heavenly-looking tub.
Snubbing the pleas of my aching muscles, I make my way to the double vanity to splash some cold water on my inflamed face. Confusion muddles my brain when bright rays of sunshine bounce off my blonde locks. If the brightness beaming through the rooftop window is any indication, I only have mere hours before my scheduled flight home.
My first visit to Vegas was planned as a fly in and out in one night affair. My odds of winning Teacher of the Year were small, but the privilege of being nominated saw me cashing in my parents’ frequent flyer miles for a whirlwind weekend. From the swirling of my stomach and thumping of my head, whirlwind is an extremely adequate word to describe my once in a lifetime solo getaway.
Clutching the edge of the marble counter, I drag my heavy eyes over my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the vanity, eager to see what has caused my muscles to be taut with the odd combination of agony and pleasure. Deciding to start my avid assessment at a less risqué part of my body, I drop my eyes to my pastel yellow-painted toes. The fiery heat gifting my face with a pink hue has extended to the lower extremities of my body. Other than my legs being bronzed with the effects of a desert sun, the lower half of my body is in the same condition it was before I arrived in Vegas.
Munching on my bottom lip, I continue with my in-depth perusal. My avid scan stops mere inches from the lower half of my body when my eyes lock in on an accessory I didn’t have Friday night. Oh, sweet Jesus. What in the Lord's name is that?
Stumbling backward, I scrub my hand over the thick black ink scrawled across the curve of my right hip. My heart rate rockets into dangerous territory as I scrub, scratch, and scour my skin. Even with my hip on the verge of bleeding, nothing works. The four-letter word scrawled across my skin won't budge.
“Who the hell is Rico? And why is his name tattooed on my hip?” I mumble to my wide-eyed reflection.
I plant my backside on the edge of the black marble tub and bury my head in my hands. This is not me. I'm the safe friend. The good girl. I'm a kindergarten teacher for crying out loud! I don't go to Vegas and get a man's name tattooed on my hip. I grade papers, hunt garage sales every Sunday for low-cost books for my students, and I knit booties for the babies in the NICU at my local hospital. I don't get drunk, and I most definitely do not get tattoos!
Maybe I’m dreaming, and I haven’t arrived at Vegas yet? Maybe those sleeping tablets I guzzled down with a wine spritzer while squeezed between a man whose body odor smelled like a cat’s food bowl and the lady who had an extra toe are messing with my mind. Yes! That makes perfect sense. This is all just a big bad dream.
Ouch!!!
Nope, I’m not sleeping.
Rubbing my leg, I soothe the sting of my nasty pinch while I struggle to unscramble the confusion muddling my brain.
Minutes pass in silence with nothing but a sea of blackness greeting me. There's one thing my over-fried brain can decipher. I need to get out of here.
Yanking my knee-length floral skirt up my tense thighs, I fasten my cotton push up bra around my back. My movements are unsteady, inhibited by the thumping of my hungover head. After snagging my dusty pink cotton blouse off the vanity and slinging it around my shoulders, I run my fingers through my ratted hair. With the number of knots in my hair, my usually straight locks have a bolder, more risqué look to them.
“Ha! Who are you trying to kid? You look like you’ve just arrived home after starring in an 80’s music clip for Bruce Springsteen,” I mumble to my disheveled reflection.
Pretending I didn’t wear any panties yesterday, I make my way back into the main room of my suite. The elderly maid found my clothing easily as it was left where it fell, but my shoes are proving to be quite the challenge. After searching every inch of the floor space, I drop to my knees and crawl under the bed. I inwardly gag when I find a strip of condoms stuck to the satin bed ruffle. The pounding of my head reverts to a lower region of my body when I notice the three strip of bare-skinned condoms are empty. My heart rate kicks up a gear when the quickest flash of a memory filters through my brain.
Oh, lord! I ripped open one of those condoms with my teeth while…. while… Darn it! My memories have converted back to black.
Flicking the used condom packaging to the side, I outstretch my arm to my orthopedic sandal wedged in the furthermost corner. Don't judge. Have you ever walked the entire strip
of Vegas before? I did—for three hours solid! Comfortable shoes are not a recommendation. They are a necessity.
I freeze and suck in a large gulp of air. That was my first recollection of arriving at Vegas. Other than recalling portions of the plane ride over, my memories of my last twenty-four hours are best described as hazy.
After snatching my second sandal from its hiding spot in the middle of the ginormous bed, I fasten them to my feet and head for the door. Hazy memories, drunken mistakes, and googling how to have a tattoo removed without your parents finding out can wait until my feet are safely back on my home turf of Ravenshoe.
Exhaling a nerve-cleansing breath, I push down on the gold embossed handle and swing open the door. My brows hit my hairline. For how elegant this hotel is, they have a very laidback approach to security. None of the rooms have the swipe locks most hotel chains have, and not a peep hole can be seen. The more I take in the chandeliered hall, the more my heart restricts. This isn't a hotel, is it?