by Alexa Hart
Dax
Mob Daddies Book 4
Alexa Hart
I’ve made billions, but the filthy streets of Boston made me.
Once a bad boy – always a bad boy.
One night with little miss good girl and we’re both knee deep in sh*t.
Getting her pregnant was never in the plans.
But I’ll protect Hannah no matter what it takes.
I did what it took to claw my way out of the gutter.
No matter the cost.
But I’m nobody’s savior.
That is until Hannah came along.
One night with her and she’s become all that I crave,
The one thing that can make my life whole again.
This is a f*cking problem.
She is a f*cking problem.
There’s no room in my life for another liability.
An innocent girl like her doesn’t belong in a world like mine.
But I put her in danger,
Now I have no choice but to protect her.
Being with me means Hannah’s life is on the line,
But I’m also the only one who can keep her safe.
Copyright © 2020 Alexa Hart
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, including photocopying, recording or other
electronic or mechanical methods, without the
prior written permission of the publisher, except
in the case of brief quotations embodied in
critical reviews and certain other noncommercial
uses permitted by copyright law.
For permission requests, foreign and subsidiary
rights, contact the author or her representative
via [email protected]
Passion Pique Publishing
United States
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are
sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or
locales are completely coincidental.
Digital Edition
Contents
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
Epilogue
MARCELLO SNEAK PEEK
Chapter 1
CHECK OUT KANE!
Also by Alexa Hart
About the Author
This book is dedicated to all the hopeless romantics. To the beautiful lovers out there who just want love, plain and simple. Love… wrapped in a delicious, hard as nails, muscle-clad package that will make you forget your own name… plain and simple.
-ALEXA HART
Chapter 1
Hannah
I’m running late. These days it seems I am always running late. My shift starts in five minutes, but I’m sprinting down the still unfamiliar streets of Boston reciting mixed drink recipes in my head and praying that my bulldog Samson doesn’t destroy any more furniture while I’m gone. I don’t know why Joey, the manager of The Spotted Owl, is letting me come back for a second shift after how badly I did my first night, but I guess he feels sorry for me. Or maybe it’s just entertaining to watch a classically trained, former ballerina try to make a Rusty Nail for a bunch of grizzly, old men who talk like Boston goodfellas without looking up the drink recipe on Google.
I’m nearly across the street from the bar when I hear Samson barking behind me. I freeze. Dammit. That little wrinkly, smooshed-nose monster is unbelievable! Ever since I quit dancing and Samson and I moved into our new (not so nice) place, he’s had some serious separation anxiety. Couple that with the not particularly sturdy front door and broken deadbolt on my basement apartment, and he’s managed to escape like Houdini a couple of times and come to hunt me down. Despite my numerous requests, it looks like my landlord still hasn’t fixed my door because as I turn around, I see Samson trotting after me, his little pink tongue lolling out as he hurries to catch up. He’s old and lazy so as soon as he sees me and knows that I am going to come back for him, he plops down to take a moment to rest right in the middle of the narrow street he’d been in the middle of crossing.
I’m hurriedly shuffling towards Samson and cursing under my breath when I first see the man on the motorcycle approaching the intersection. The motorcycle is coming down the narrow side street, going way too fast and barreling right toward my short-legged, slow-moving, fur baby.
“Samson!” I cry out.
Without thinking, I rush toward my aging rascal of a dog and scoop him up in my arms. With him in my grasp and the motorcycle speeding right at us, I crouch, squeezing my eyes shut and half turning away from the bike, bracing myself for impact. At that moment, my whole life flashes before me, a quick whirl of images involving an obscene number of ballet lessons and life with my mother before she passed away. I close my eyes and even Samson whimpers at the impending doom barreling straight at us in the guise of a Harley Davidson. I hear a loud screech and slowly peel my eyes open to find that the motorcycle has spun to the side and squealed to a halt, only a few inches from my face. I can feel the heat of the engine on my leg, and I can smell the burning of the tires from how fast it torqued to avoid crushing me into a bloody pulp. The motorcyclist tears off his helmet and glares at me with pure murder in his very dark, and I hate to admit it, very handsome eyes.
“What the hell were you doing?” He asks. He doesn’t yell, but his voice, somehow strangely calm and icy cold, is even more frightening than if he had. He climbs off the motorcycle and glares at me. “That stupid stunt almost got us both killed.”
I look down at Samson and he licks my cheek, completely unaware of the trouble he’s caused (as usual). I feel incredibly shaky and it doesn’t help that the man glaring down at me is gorgeous and masculine in a way that my whole body seems to register despite the frighteningly, near death circumstances. He is easily over six feet, muscular and unmistakably dangerous. He has dark, almost black eyes, thick black hair and a thin shadow of dark stubble on his face. He’s wearing jeans and a tight t-shirt; his strong arms roped with tattoos.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I mean, pedestrians have the right of way and you were going….really fast.”
He laughs, but there is no warmth in it. “Are you suggesting that this was my fault?”
“No.” I stand up, a bit wobbly. He makes no move to help me and I find him even more intimidating now that we are face to face, or more accurately, face to muscle bulging chest. I gulp. “No, of course not. Samson and I were totally to blame. Should I pay for the bike? I mean not the whole bike... I’m pretty strapped for cash at the moment... but whatever…. a new tire? Let me give you my contact info….”
I start scrounging through my purse searching for a pen and a scrap of paper to write down my name and number, but my hands are still shaky from the rush of adrenaline. As I clumsily rummage through my purse I manage to drop my wallet, lipstick, and much to my horror, a dried pig’s ea
r I carry with me to keep Samson occupied. The man leans down and picks up the pig’s ear, turning it over in his hand and studying it.
“Unusual,” he says.
I swipe it from him.
“Samson is very particular about his treats,” I bite out, my face flushed from the pure humiliation of the moment.
“Lucky dog,” the man says. He looks me up and down and I feel very self-conscious in my tight jeans and outrageously low-cut Spotted Owl tank top. Way, way too low-cut for my taste, but apparently completely necessary if you want to get decent tips. Years of dance have kept me lean and toned. I see his eyes linger on my chest and I blush, adjusting the strap on the tank top.
“You work at The Spotted Owl?” He asks.
I snort. “Barely,” I say.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I suck at bartending, I’m late, and apparently it’s ‘take your dog to work’ day. So, I’ll probably be fired by say... 8 p.m.”
“Maybe the boss will understand,” the man shrugs.
I shake my head. “No way. The manager told me the guy that owns the place is some super rich asshole and doesn’t tolerate, well, much of anything. And he’s, like, terrifying.”
“Is that so?” The man says. For the first time since he nearly ran me down with his motorcycle, he looks legitimately amused.
“Apparently he’s some bigshot, billionaire developer now, so he never slums it back home. Him not finding out how terrible I am at bartending is pretty much the only chance I have of keeping my job. He’s too good for the place now. That’s what the manager says, anyway. But in my very limited experience with rich, arrogant assholes, I’d say they don’t tend to be lovers of stray dogs and poorly mixed drinks.”
“You’re probably right,” he pauses thoughtfully. “I bet you don’t make it until 7:30.”
I laugh. “I mean, you don’t have to be so sure I’ll tank tonight.” We lock eyes and I feel an electric, scary, delicious heat pulse down my body. This man is pure man. I am not usually forward with the opposite sex, ever, but I can’t seem to let this moment go. The adrenaline from the near-death experience must be egging me on. “You could come in and I could treat you to a drink if you’d like.”
“You just told me you’re terrible at making drinks,” he smiles.
“I mean, I know how to pour a beer!” I say. “Or whiskey. Anything with one ingredient.”
The man’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his front pocket, frowning at a text message. As he looks at his phone, I notice one of the tattoos on his muscular arm, a black rose with a tangle of vines stretching up toward his shoulder. I feel my heart thud against my chest. My friend Kiki grew up in this neighborhood and she warned me that anyone with a black rose tattoo is dangerous as hell and should be avoided at all costs. I didn’t take her seriously at first, but she made me swear that even if I ignored every bit of advice she’d ever given me, I would listen to this. My legs feel a little too jelly-like for running, but I take a step back. If the man notices my sudden about-face, he doesn’t say anything.
“Anyway,” I say. “I have to go.”
“What about my drink?” He looks up from his phone, distracted but surprised by my sudden change in demeanor.
I take another step backward. “Like you said, I’m terrible at bartending. You dodged a bullet. Anyway, thanks again,” I say. “For not killing me. Now or in the future.”
And before he can respond I sprint away with Samson tucked under my arm and grateful that the odds of me ever seeing him again are so slim that I don’t need to worry about how insane I just acted, and how much I regret taking Kiki’s advice.
Chapter 2
Dax
“Dax, I don’t understand. You want me to what?” Joey asks incredulously. “Did you hit your head recently or something?”
“Don’t fire the girl with the dog,” I say into the phone as I straddle my motorcycle and gaze across the alley toward the entrance of The Spotted Owl.
“What girl with what dog…?” Joey asks.
I watch the girl with the stunning body and big brown eyes hurry into the bar with her ridiculous dog still tucked under her arm and hear Joey swear under his breath. “Ah, Hannah. She’s the worst fucking bartender we’ve ever had.”
“Why’d you hire her then?” I ask.
“She’s a friend of Kiki’s. They danced in some show together. You know I can’t say no to Kiki,” Joey sighs.
“Are you telling me that girl’s a stripper?” I ask, shocked. She gave off the most innocent, doe-eyed, deer in the headlights vibe I’ve seen in a long time. It was fucking adorable. Sexy as hell.
“No way,” Joey snorts. “She’s a ballerina or some crazy shit like that. Where the hell are you anyway? When did you run into her?” He asks.
“That’s not important. What is important is that she told me you said the owner was an arrogant asshole,” I bite out.
“I...uh…” Joey curses under his breath. “I mean you did break my nose once. What are you doing slumming in this part of town anyway?”
“Running an errand,” I say.
“Do the boys know you’re here?” Joey asks.
“No. And I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I’m not planning on saying anything about it,” Joey says. I hear the dog bark in the background and a glass break. “Fuck!” Joey shouts. “I’ve gotta go. You going to stop in later and assess the damage?”
I think about the girl, Hannah. Her huge brown eyes looking up at me and her whole body helpless and shaking like a leaf. She wasn’t like the women I messed around with growing up in this neighborhood, but if she’s working at The Spotted Owl then she also isn’t like the women I date these days either. And even if it was refreshing to meet someone who didn’t immediately know who I was and what they wanted to get from me, she’s the last thing I need in my life right now. I frown. I’ve got too many other things to worry about, I don’t need a distraction.
“Not this time,” I say. “And if she breaks another glass, fire her.”
“But you just said….”
“Fuck what I said,” I end the call before Joey can respond. I stick my phone back in my pocket and rev the motorcycle engine, easing it back onto the street. I shouldn’t be here at all. I’ve got a fucking mountain of paperwork and calls to make to prepare for next week’s takeover of Systems Industries. I’ve got a few stops to make in South Boston, some loose ends to tie up and then I’ll swing back by the garage to check on Bennie. His text message was cryptic, but it’ll have to wait for now. I have more pressing matters to attend to.
I may live in the richest part of the city these days, but the hell that is South Boston is still always calling me back, reminding me how I learned to be a ruthless, arrogant asshole in the first place.
Chapter 3
Hannah
I really can’t believe Joey didn’t fire me the minute I walked through the door. He must really, really like Kiki. He didn’t even yell at me for being late, again, and when I explained how I was almost flattened to the road by a motorcycle he just nodded and said, “that explains so much,”. I have no idea what that was supposed to mean, but hey, as long as I can keep my job, I’m happy. He’s even letting Samson sleep behind the bar on an old coat from the lost and found that I guess is now definitely lost. He did mumble something about how I’d better not break another glass or my good luck will run out, but so far the few regulars in the bar are ordering beer and whiskey, so I’m managing to hold my own.
You’d think being a ballet dancer, who practiced balance and poise for pretty much my whole life, would have made me more graceful around a bar, but apparently the skills don’t translate very well. Even with the simple drink orders, bartending takes nearly all of my mental focus. Nearly. I still find myself annoyingly distracted by the thoughts of my run in with the motorcycle hottie. I know his tattoo was supposed to scare me off, but there was something so magnetic about him. Something electric. Something t
hat made me want to get closer. I’ve never felt the urge to touch a complete stranger so badly. I’m not a prude, per se, but I’m definitely a serial monogamist, without much experience even there. But with him, I’d wanted something I’ve never wanted before.
I worry that my lustful thoughts may have melted every ice cube in the bar, but luckily nobody seems to be able to tell my daydreaming apart from my general ineptitude at bartending. Either way, I desperately need to get my revved-up imagination under control and focus on what I’m doing. A motorcycle riding, bad boy is the last thing I need right now. What I need is to get myself together, pay off the mountain of debt I racked up while I was caring for my mom, and figure out what to do with the rest of my life. And that means I need to keep my job.
Two haggard, older men sit down at the bar and engage in a heated debate over some Bruins player while I refill their whiskeys. It’s only my second shift, but I’ve noticed that the small, loyal crowd seems to enjoy two main topics of conversation, Boston sports and Boston’s most eligible bachelor, and the owner of the bar, Dax Hardin. Admittedly, I tune out most of the sports debates, but listening to folks discuss Dax is more like hearing people tell a myth. He’s like Hercules to them. The one that got out and made good.
