Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Riley Rollins
Contents
Copyright
Author’s Note
Mailing List & Facebook
Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Description
1. Penny
2. Havok
3. Penny
4. Havok
5. Penny
6. Havok
7. Penny
8. Havok
9. Penny
10. Havok
11. Penny
12. Havok
13. Penny
14. Havok
15. Penny
16. Havok
17. Penny
18. Havok
19. Penny
20. Havok
21. Penny
22. Havok
23. Penny
24. Havok
25. Penny
26. Havok
27. Penny
28. Havok
29. Penny
30. Havok
31. Penny
32. Havok
33. Penny
34. Havok
35. Penny
36. Havok
37. Penny
38. Havok
39. Penny
40. Havok
41. Penny
42. Havok
43. Penny
44. Havok
45. Penny
46. Havok
47. Penny
48. Havok
49. Penny
50. Havok
51. Penny
Thank You & Extended Epilogue
Axl: Sons of Chaos MC
Description
1. Axl
2. Holly
3. Axl
4. Holly
5. Axl
6. Holly
7. Axl
8. Holly
9. Axl
10. Holly
11. Axl
12. Holly
13. Axl
14. Holly
15. Axl
16. Holly
17. Axl
18. Holly
19. Axl
20. Holly
21. Axl
22. Holly
23. Axl
24. Holly
25. Axl
26. Holly
27. Axl
28. Holly
29. Axl
30. Holly
31. Axl
32. Holly
33. Axl
34. Holly
35. Axl
36. Holly
37. Axl
38. Holly
39. Axl
40. Holly
41. Axl
42. Holly
43. Axl
Thank You!
Also by Riley Rollins
Copyright © 2016 by Riley Rollins
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real life is purely coincidental.
Havok is a full-length novel. You can expect it to end around 53% on your Kindle.
After Havok is a bonus book, Axl: Sons of Chaos MC.
Thank you for reading. Enjoy!
Mailing List & Facebook
Love bad boy romances? Sign up for my no-spam mailing list to receive news on new releases, free giveaways, and more!
You can also join the advanced review team. I'm very much in need of people who are willing to read my books early and leave reviews upon release.
http://eepurl.com/bYD3Rv
Want to connect with other bad boy fans and authors? Join my Facebook group, Begging for Bad Boys!
https://goo.gl/Q03p8T
Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Description
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.<
br />
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.
Still, I just know that if I were Havok's woman, he'd protect me. And he'd do it ferociously.
I feel like I've known him for a lifetime.
2
Havok
I stand in the back of the club, silent and watchful. My arms are crossed, my body hard and alert. Heavy, grinding industrial music blares through the club's P.A. system, loud in the low-ceilinged, neon-lit room. My eyes scan back and forth, and I keep mental tabs on who's here tonight and who's with whom. Situational awareness. That's what keeps you alive in this world.
My real name is Vladimir Vladimirovich Ivanov. Some call me Vlady for short.
Others call me Havok.
By day, I'm a hitman for the West Ark branch of the Russian mafia, the Bratva. By night, I moonlight as a bouncer at Fascinations, the hottest strip club this side of New York City.
I'm not working a second job for the money. I don't need more of that. My targets have made me filthy fucking rich over the years, ever since I came to the United States from Russia to work in West Ark. I don't need the pitiful thirty dollars an hour I take home from this gig.
I'm here for one reason and one reason only.
Connections with the underworld.
To your average Josef, the strip club is just a seedy place to take the boys for a few beers. To get away from the office, away from the wife and kids. But in reality it's much more than that. It's a gathering place for men of the dark. Ambitious men, to whom money and success are everything. The kind of men who stop at nothing to make their dreams come true. Men like me.
This job lets me keep my finger on the pulse of West Ark. Meets me new clients, finds me new Bratva business partners. Lets me keep my enemies close.
I believe they call it "networking."
Because all I've really got left is ruthless ambition. An insatiable hunger for money, for power, for control. I've got no family. No parents. No one who loves me, no one to soften my sharp edges and keep me more human than machine. Not anymore. I haven't touched a woman since Irina, my ex-fiancée, got fucking raped and murdered back in Moscow. God, the memory enrages me. I thought I was keeping her safe, but…
I failed her.
So now, when I'm on a hit late at night, my arms covered in my target's blood up to my elbows, my mind sometimes starts to wander, and I question whether I'm in control or if the darkness has finally taken over. But then I get my bounty, and I get that rush of power and satisfaction that doesn't come any other way, and I keep returning to the darkness again and again. It's all I know. So I chase it. And one day, I'll catch it.
Or it'll catch me.
The door to the front lobby swings open. New customers. My head automatically swivels to survey the scene, by pure reflex. A welcome distraction, to be honest.
My instincts immediately tell me something's wrong with this picture. The four men entering the room are brawny, menacing figures, two of whom have shaved heads. They look like roided-up jerk-offs, not the kind of clientele we let in this club.
My suspicions are confirmed when Oscar, the well-dressed but skinny doorman, bursts through the door after the men.
"Hey," he protests shrilly, "You need to pay up!"
Before Oscar's lips stop flapping, I'm taking action, my feet moving under me. The customers who barge in without paying are almost always college kids too wasted off their asses on Jäger and Red Bull to know they're doing anything wrong. Fucking stupid, but harmless. But my gut says these guys are bad fucking news, and for that I have no tolerance. We can't afford flare-ups or incidents at the club, and that means no riffraff allowed. Keeping up appearances is key to avoiding heat from the pigs.
Most men would be intimidated by a group of juiced-up thugs like them, but not me. I've seen it all before. Slaughtered criminals who could've made these idiots cry like babies.
I move across the club floor swiftly. Up on stage, Violet and Mackenzie, two long-time dancers, are doing a two-girl pole routine. Years ago, I'd have struggled to focus while naked women danced in front of me. But I'm jaded these days. Tits and ass are all the same. They make me feel nothing, not anymore. But every fight is new and different.
I cross the room in five or six strides and come face-to-face with the men.
"Oi," I say curtly in my thick Russian accent, "Get the fuck out of my club."
The biggest man among them, one of the two with a shaved head, stares into my eyes. He's nearly 6'5", my height. Most men would tremble before him, and I sense his aggravation that I don't. If it weren't for the bass thudding through the speakers, I have no doubt I'd hear his teeth grinding together. His jaw is tense and his hands are balled up into fists. Body language reveals everything, and his is telling me we're doing this the hard way.
"Listen, comrade," he growls, "Beat it, pretty boy, and open some beers for us."
Behind him, his three buddies snicker, watching from a safe distance.
I give him a hard gaze, cocking my head, my lips parting in a slight smile. He thinks he's challenging a bouncer. The poor asshole has no idea he's fucking with a Bratva hitman. "You have ten seconds," I say.
He steps toward me, grabbing the lapel of my jacket with a meaty fist.
That's all I needed. Whenever a customer puts their hands on me, all bets are off. Even the fucking pigs don't question a bouncer acting in self-defense.
My hand shoots up to his neck, my fingers latching around his throat, crushing his windpipe. Shocked, he releases my jacket lapel and clasps his hands around mine, trying to peel my fingers off his throat. But despite his size, his strength is no match for mine. Hours in the gym didn't make him as hard as the Russian streets made me.
Around us, a few customers turn their heads, noticing the disturbance. Some of them look nervous. Personally, I'd fucking enjoy escalating this, but I'm on the clock right now, which means I need to put an end to it, fast. I slam him down, forcing him hard onto his knees. He gags, sending flecks of spittle onto my wrist and jacket sleeve. He looks up at me, his eyes bulging, silently pleading for me to let go of him.
He's like a repentant little child, begging for forgiveness after he's been naughty. Except he's not a child, he's a grown-ass man who can dish it out but not take it.
Fucking pathetic.
Instead of releasing him, I squeeze his neck even harder, watching his face turn from red to purple. Weakness brings out my killer instinct. I just can't help myself.
One of his three buddies steps toward me, but he stops short when I raise my left palm in warning. "Back off, cockhead," I growl. Fear flashes through his eyes. He's nothing without the leader of his group.
Before the situation escalates further, two more bouncers and the burly club manager, Igor, rush toward us and encircle the men. I loosen my grip around the man's neck, finally letting him stand as he gasps for air.
I hate letting him go, because mercy isn't in my fucking playbook. Any other time or place, he'd be dead.
I lean in close to him. "Get out," I whisper. "You come back, you die."
He turns away without speaking as he rubs his neck, trying to salvage his dignity. His posse follows him, making rude gestures at the bouncers accompanying them. But they leave without further drama, like the obedient little boys they are.
Igor hangs back by me. He's big, wide, and thick, almost a cube of a man, with curly mop-like hair that he gels to fucking hell. Like me, Igor works for the Bratva. But managing this place is his main gig, not a side job like it is for me. Truth is, this club brings in a hefty income for us.
Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 1
