Tainted Love
Tabatha Drake
Contents
Reading Order
Prologue
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
Books by Tabatha Drake
About the Author
Copyright
Reading Order
While the Killer Love saga follows multiple couples, the books should not be considered stand-alone and are meant to be read in order of release.
Reading Order
1. Killer Love
2. Secret Love
3. Tainted Love
Coming Soon…
4. Broken Love
5. Mad Love
6. Cruel Love
7. Endless Love
Prologue
Lucy
Come on, Lucy Vaughn.
Show some strength.
My vision blurs from my spot on the floor. I try and look around the casino, or what's left of it. The tables are knocked over. There's a large hole in the entrance. My ears ring from the explosion. I smell smoke, but I don't see fire.
Please, god, don't let there be fire.
I look for the others. Luka is unconscious, his face covered in blood. Sofia shifts onto her back, her hands clenching her stomach. Two men in black enter through the hole and bound in our direction. They have rifles and black masks. One turns and points his gun at Dani. He shouts at her, ordering her onto her knees.
Yield. Submit. Do as you're told.
Not my style.
I push off the floor, briefly tripping on the heavy train of my white dress. My knee aches, but I ignore it as I rise. I roll my hands into fists. I plant my feet on the floor, distributing my weight to give myself the advantage. I take a deep breath as Dante's voice fills my head.
Winning requires control. Control over your opponent as well as yourself.
The second you lose either one, the fight is over.
And if you do, there's no shame in running away.
He'd want me to run. He'd look at me and the men with guns and he'd tell me to run and save myself.
Sorry, lover.
Not today.
The other man raises his gun and points it at me. "Stand down!" he says, noticing my movement.
I lunge forward, throwing my entire weight into the punch. It connects with his jaw and he topples backward in surprise. I take advantage of the opening, raising my throbbing knee and striking him in the gut to knock him even more off-balance.
Someone grabs me from behind. Thick arms tighten around mine, smothering my hope to hit them with a backward punch. They easily lift me off the floor as if I weighed nothing at all and walk me toward the bar.
I scream and kick. Their grip loosens in annoyance. I try to wiggle free, but the agent shifts his arm and wraps it tightly around my neck instead.
No.
Not again.
Within seconds, I can't breathe. I dig my nails into his arm, but it does nothing. Each moment is weaker than the last.
I give up. I sink deeper into his arms as the world fades away.
Dante was right, as usual.
I should have run.
Chapter 1
Lucy
“You did what?”
My father jolts but not out of surprise. He knew exactly how I’d react to this. I could tell he had something massively stupid to say the second he walked into the rehearsal room. Head down. Eyes barely open to hide his shame. That’s the great Terrance Vaughn for you. The epitome of cowardice.
“Lucy, calm down—”
“Are you fucking insane?!”
My voice echoes through the hall. The other dancers pause mid-plié, gawking at me through the mirrored walls as if something exploded. I ignore them.
“Keep your voice down. He’s down the hall—”
“I don’t care where he is! I’m not going!”
My father snatches my arm and pulls me away from the balance beam. I let him tug me along until we enter the dressing room then I slide from his grasp and cross my arms.
“Lucy, I’m begging you,” he says, whispering with bite. “Just go out with the guy for one night.”
“Why the hell would I do that?” I ask.
He hesitates. “I owe some money to… some bad people.”
I roll my eyes. “Big freakin’ surprise. Not my problem.”
His face fills with overt fear. “If you don’t go tonight, he’ll kill me.”
I snort. It’s not the first time I’ve heard him say this. His paranoia has gotten old. “How unfortunate.”
“This entire company will crumble, Lucy,” he claims, desperation straining his words. “You might not care about me, but you don’t want that, do you?”
I sigh. “No, I don’t want that.”
“I’m sorry, Lucy, but…” His eyes wither in his head.
“What?”
He leans in closer. “You’re probably going to have to… sleep with him.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that.”
“He promised not to hurt you.”
“Because gangsters are totally known for their honesty and integrity.”
“Please, just do whatever he wants, and I’ll never ask anything of you ever again.”
I scoff. “Yeah, I believe in an honest gangster more than I believe that.”
“Lucy, please. He asked for you specifically.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”
“He saw your photo in my office. I think he likes you.”
Bile rises in my throat. “Ugh…”
“Just go with him, show him a good time. And for god’s sake, don’t mouth off to him. Mind your damn manners for once.”
“I’m supposed to thank him for the privilege of sucking his dick?”
“Yes, sir. Please, sir. Thank you, sir. That’s all you gotta say. It all goes well, I’ll make sure you get Black Swan next season.”
“No, thank you, sir,” I bite. “I’ll earn that myself. I don’t need your help.”
He shakes his head with supreme annoyance. It’s all part of our own special father-daughter routine. He does something stupid. I bend over backward (sometimes literally) to get him out of it. He claims he’ll never fuck up again, promises me the world, and I reset the days-since-the-last-accident counter back to zero.
“You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so damn talented, I’d have dumped you out on the street already.”
He doesn’t mean a word of it, of course. He’s just angry. Not at me, at himself.
“Such lovely words for the daughter you’re asking a huge favor of,” I argue, holding my rage at bay. “I think I’ll take in a movie tonight instead. That new Bruckberg flick is playing downtown.”
His eyes droop. “Lucy…”
<
br /> “Calm down, Dad.” I tilt my neck until it pops. “I’ll go with him.”
“Thank you,” he says slowly, heaving a thin, regretful sigh. “It’s just one night.”
“Just one night.” I turn to my locker. “Let me put on some pants first.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
He spins around and walks out. Head down. Eyes barely open to hide his shame.
Fucking hell, Dad. He owes money to some “bad people.” Again. If I know my father, it’s all gambling debt. Mafia gambling debt. Every damn penny of it. He’s got a knack for losing at poker. And blackjack. And horse racing. If you can lose even a single penny at it, you can bet your sorry ass my father has chanced it and failed.
I never understood why my mother spoke so harshly about him when I was a child. Back then, he was Terrance Vaughn. The Terrance Vaughn. Chicago’s very own dancing sensation until about fifteen years ago when he busted his ankle and hung up his dancing shoes for good. He started the Vaughn Company after that to train the next generation of ballet dancers to take on the world and I’ve basically lived here ever since.
It would have been a happily ever after for all of us if the damn Italian mafia didn’t own the neighborhood it sat on.
I was thirteen years old when I discovered my father’s gambling problem. My parents did a decent job of keeping it quiet until the day my mother walked out on us. Apparently, he drained her entire savings and blew it all on one hand of five-card stud.
Full house. Aces over kings.
I haven’t seen her since. I get a phone call here and there on birthdays and major holidays. It used to hurt. A lot. Why didn’t she take me with her if my father was so horrible and irresponsible? Then, I realized the obvious…
Because she was worse.
My father is a world-class fuck-up, but he’s never abandoned me. I’m not about to abandon him either.
I strip off my leotard and tights and slip into a pair of jeans and a black blouse I find stashed in the back of my locker. No sense in getting all dolled up if it’s just going to be on the floor of some weirdo’s dirty bedroom in an hour. I cringe at the thought.
I run a brush through my hair and slam the locker closed before going outside to meet my father in the hall.
“Smile,” he whispers as he leads me toward his office.
I lick my lips to loosen them and throw on the most adorable face I can while flipping him the bird.
He sighs and pushes his office door open. I hesitate for a moment before stepping inside, preparing myself for the worst. I picture a mighty, ugly man with proud scars all over his face and blubber about his waist. Yet another one of those sour Chicago gangsters who loves mama’s spaghetti just a bit too much.
My eyes fall on him and I pause. He stands up from the chair in front of my father’s desk, casually sliding his cell phone into his breast pocket as he moves. His gaze travels the length of me as mine bounces down his. He’s younger than I thought he’d be, probably not a day over thirty. Tall with short, ash brown hair, tanned skin, and a clear face — not a scratch on it meaning he’s either very new or very, very good at his job.
“Hello, Ms. Vaughn,” he greets me. His voice is dark, low, and fiercely American. He wasn’t born in old Italy and imported later, that’s for sure.
“Hello,” I say. My father nudges my back. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
He steps forward and extends his hand. “My name is Dante Hart.”
I fix my eyes in my skull to stop them from rolling back into oblivion.
Dante? Hart? Is this guy for real?
I throw on a pleasant smile and lay my fingers in his. I half expect him to lean over and kiss them like the schmuck he is, but he shakes my hand instead. I squeeze his knuckles tighter than he squeezes mine and his eyebrow twitches.
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Hart.”
“Dante is fine,” he says.
I rest my hand at my side, keeping my eyes on his. They’re a startling shade of blue, like the sky just before a thunderstorm. Not the kind I’d expect to see in the head of a psychotic mobster.
He smiles at me and a shiver trails my back. “You’re just as beautiful as your portrait.”
“Oh.” I glance over his shoulder at the photo on my father’s shelf and red blushes my cheekbones. “Thank you, sir.”
Dante looks at my father. “Mr. Vaughn, if you don’t mind, may Ms. Vaughn and I have a moment alone, please?”
“Of course,” he answers, laying one last pinch of warning on my elbow. “I’ll be right outside.”
“Thank you.”
The door opens and closes behind me. Dante shifts toward my father’s desk and leans back to sit against it. He checks me out again with a single smooth glance from my head to my toes.
I swallow the bile back down. “So, my father owes you money?”
“He owes my employer money.”
“And you’re here to collect it?”
“No.”
I wait for him to explain but he says nothing more. “Okay…” I force my smile a little wider. “So, what—”
“Relax.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Relax,” he says again. “You’re tense.”
His eyes charge down my body again and I bite my cheek. Really wish he’d stop that.
“I’m not tense,” I say. “This is just how I stand.”
He pushes off the desk and circles behind my back. His cologne strikes me as he draws closer. It’s light and fresh, not at all too strong or repugnant like I expected. He lays his hands on my shoulders and puts the slightest of pressure on my muscles. They bend to his will, smoothing out beneath his touch, alerting me to how tense I actually am.
Motherfucker.
“Relax,” he whispers. His breath runs across the back of my neck, tickling me softly.
I take a quick breath and exhale it out slowly to loosen my body. “Sorry,” I say.
He drops his hands and steps around to face me. “Don’t be. You don’t have to be nervous, Ms. Vaughn. I’m not going to hurt you unless you want me to.”
“Unless I what?”
“Your father has expressed some concerns,” he continues, ignoring my question. “I would like to spend the evening with you, but he seems to think you’d object to the idea. Is this true?”
I search his eyes, but I can’t find a single bit of malice in them, nothing that indicates a need for me to lie.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Why do you object?”
“Because I am not an object.”
He chuckles, showing off his perfect, white teeth and almost boyish charm. “That’s clever. I like that.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hart—”
“Dante.”
I ignore it. “Mr. Hart, I was under the impression I had no choice in this.”
“You don’t. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
I blink. “You’re holding a gun to my father’s head.”
“But not yours.”
“Yet.”
He laughs. “You aren’t at all what I pictured you’d be.”
“Funny. You’re exactly what I pictured you’d be.”
“How’s that?”
“Just another two-bit Chicago thug with a gun to replace his balls.”
His smile remains. “I pictured you, well, like that.” He points to the photo over his shoulder. “Graceful. Elegant. Poised.”
“I’m all of the above.”
“Polite.”
“Have I not been polite?”
“You have… but I get the feeling you’re holding back that tongue of yours.” He cants his head. “Am I right?”
I look at the floor. “Maybe.”
He stands up. “Well, go ahead, Ms. Vaughn. Tell me what you really think of tonight’s arrangement.”
I chew on my lip while he stares me down with amused eyes. “I think it’s fucking
pathetic,” I say.
“Pathetic?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“What else would you call a gangster who’d dangle a man’s gambling debts over his head just to fuck his daughter?”
“Efficient.”
I scoff. “Oh, please.”
“You disagree?”
“Of course.”
He steps closer and his cologne brushes my nose again. “How about this?” he whispers. “What if I told you that I won’t fuck you tonight?”
“Then, what’s the point of all of this?”
“I won’t lay a finger on you, Ms. Vaughn,” he says. “Not unless you touch me first.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“All I have to do is spend the evening with you?”
“That’s right.”
“No sex?”
“Not even first base.”
“And you wipe out my father’s debt?”
“I’ll transfer your father’s debt. He’ll be indebted to me, but you will have played your part.”
I stare at him, taking in the subtle features of his face. Little dimples on his chin. Thin, barely noticeable lines at the edges of his eyes. A thick shadow of dark hair beneath his shaved cheeks.
“I don’t have to sleep with you?” I ask.
“As long as you keep your hands to yourself. If you touch me at all, your body is forfeit.”
I laugh. What a fucking joke.
“Deal.”
He extends his hand and I regard it with crooked eyes. “This doesn’t count,” he says, his lips curling. “It’s just a courtesy.”
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