Cruel Tyrant Read Online B.B. Hamel

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Mafia, Suspense Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
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“You want to make a deal?” I lean back, surprised but interested. “Alright, baby, what do you want?”

Her jaw works. “First, stop calling me baby. I’m not your baby. I’m not your anything. If we do this, it’s going to be all business.”

As if I harbored any secret desire to fall in love with this girl. I’m not even sure I’m capable of an emotion like that. “Fine with me. What else?”

“We stay in Philadelphia.”

“Unacceptable. We can spend the summer here if you insist on it, but no more.”

“Six months here. Six months in Chicago.”

I cock my head. “I’m not negotiating. We’ll spend July and August in Philadelphia, and the rest of the year at my home. What else do you want?”

That pisses her off but I’m not going to bend on this point. She’s no use to my family if she refuses to be seen with us for six months at a time.

“No children.”

I rub my temple and shake my head. “Baby, please, you’re having as many children as you can squeeze out from between those beautiful thighs of yours.”

“Absolutely not.” She crosses her arms. “You can have me, but you won’t have my kids.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “You’re a mob wife, Stefania. There are certain expectations. You think I want to be a father?” The idea almost makes me laugh. My own father is a good man, one of the best men I’ve ever known, and I’d never be even half the parent he’s been to me. I lost that part of me a long time ago, had it snuffed out and burned away.

“Give me something,” she whispers as she stares down at her lap. “I don’t want to do this, but what you said last night—” She chews her lip and I can tell she’s fighting back tears.

A spark lights deep inside my chest. It’s primal, ancient, an emotion I’ve never felt before. I want to walk over to her and wrap my arms around her body and make sure that nothing can ever fucking hurt her again. It’s protective, it’s instinctual, and I get to my feet and walk over to a small bar cart as my heart races in my chest and sweat breaks down my back.

What the hell is happening to me? I’ve never cared about crying girls before. I’m the vicious brother, the brutal and violent brother, the Capo my father calls upon when he needs to send our enemies a message, and I obey his bloody orders with glee. I don’t protect the harmless and I don’t hold crying women; I cut throats and blow up cars.

I pour some whiskey and take a sip. My left hand trembles and I have to hide it behind my back so she won’t notice.

“We’ll wait to have children,” I say, not looking at her. “We can delay it for a while until you’re more comfortable with your situation. I won’t say never, but I’ll give you time.”

Why? Why the fuck do I care what she wants? Except some part of me does and wants to make her feel better.

Some forgotten part of me I thought had been lost a long time ago.

“Okay, I can live with that,” she says, taking a deep breath and blowing it out. “I know you probably don’t want any of this either. I’m aware we’re both in this shitty situation together. It’s just that, I’ve been trying so hard to have my own life, and I was starting to think that maybe I’d gotten away from all this madness, and now⁠—”

She lets the rest hang in the air. And now she’s trapped again, but even worse than before.

“You’ll survive,” I say, not looking at her, because I don’t trust myself not to feel something for her right now, and I don’t know how to handle real emotions anymore. I thought this kind of human empathy had been seared from my flesh when I was twelve years old.

Her tone hardens. “Yeah, you’re right, I guess I’ll survive. What do we do now?”

“Tell Renzo I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll sign the papers. You should go home and pack up.”

“That’s it?” Desperation slips into her tone. “There’s nothing else?”

“If you want a ring, I’ll get you a ring.” And I’ll love slipping it onto her finger and kissing her wrist as I do it. What the fuck is wrong with me? “If you want a wedding, we’ll walk down the aisle. If you don’t care about any of that, get packed, because marriage isn’t much more than paperwork.”

Her laugh is ugly and angry. “What a terrible way to talk about our future life together.”

“Sorry, baby, but if you’re looking for someone kind and gentle, you’re going to be disappointed.” Except for one brief moment that first night we met, I wanted to be that man—I wanted to dry her off and make her comfortable again, and later, when she’d said those words and I’d shoved her panties in her mouth, I wanted to make her feel good. Not for some selfish self-gratification, but because I wanted to see her lose herself in bliss.


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