Bratva Beast – A Dark Romance Read Online B.B. Hamel

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
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Read Online Books/Novels:

Bratva Beast - A Dark Romance

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

B.B. Hamel

Language:
English
Book Information:

I sloppy made out with the mafia beast— And I liked it. Though in my defense, he was about to kill me and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Unfortunately, Mack Orlov doesn’t do half-measures.
He leaves me breathless and shaken and scared for my life. But most of all, I crave just one more touch.
I must be sick in the head, because that man’s a nightmare wrapped in an Armani suit. He’s a demon with a perfect jaw and fingers that make me— well, let’s just say he’s very talented.
I should put some serious distance between me and Mr. Gorgeous Killer.
Too bad his Bratva wants me dead, and Mack’s the only person that can stop them. Can we get over our wounded pasts and forge a better future together?
There’s only one want to find out: Give in to that Bratva Beast.
****Welcome back to the Morozov Bratva! Mack and Fiona’s story might be the most gut-wrenching I’ve written to date, with plenty of burning steam and just the right amount of action and intrigue. As always, it’s a standalone with no cheating, no cliffhanger, and a happily-ever-after guaranteed.
Books by Author:

B.B. Hamel



1

Mack

I was supposed to kill the bartender, but I wanted to sleep with her first.

It’d be a shame, letting a woman like that die. She deserved a little taste of pleasure before the end.

Normally, I was strict with myself, and rarely followed through on whatever bullshit came into my head—there were rules, procedures, steps, that sort of thing.

Obsessively following the guidelines kept me alive and out of jail. Sooner or later, any half-cocked wanna-be hitman ended up with his throat slit or thrown into the back of a police cruiser, and I didn’t plan on going out either way.

I was in this for the long haul.

But this girl, she was a problem. Dark hair, almost black, tipped with red, bangs cut straight across. It should’ve been too twee—but it worked on her. Pale skin, big, dark green eyes, ridiculously full lips, and a figure barely hidden by her drab black clothes. She seemed bored and angry, and I liked women that were bored and angry.

She looked like she’d rather kick me in the teeth than kiss me.

That sort of shit turned me on.

What can I say, I’m a little messed up.

On a normal night, on a normal hit, I would’ve watched her for a while, figured out her habits, then killed her quickly and efficiently.

No suffering, no witnesses, no mistakes.

Instead, I just kept staring at her from across the bar, and even caught her eye once or twice. She smiled uncertainly and I smiled back.

God damn, I was going to kill her, but for once I might not enjoy it.

Fiona Doyle didn’t deserve to die but then again, it wasn’t my place to decide. She was the daughter of Grady Doyle, second-in-command of the Doyle Crime Family.

The girl was pure-blood criminal, jaded and trouble.

My type of woman.

I hung around for a while, sipped a few drinks, chatted with some drunk local guy that spent half his life in the steelworker’s union before chopping off a finger and going on disability. His wife left him on account of him getting fat and cheating on her all the time, and his kids wouldn’t speak to him on account of him beating the shit out of them for half their lives, which he said he regretted. I said he probably deserved to lose them. He said he didn’t disagree. His name was Jim, and if anyone in that bar should’ve gotten a bullet to the head, it was probably him.

As it happened, I wasn’t there for asshole Jim.

The place was hazy and stank like whiskey and stale beer. The floors were vinyl and sticky, and the bar was slashed across with scuffs and dings. Half the bottles were covered in dust.

I didn’t know what a girl like Fiona was doing working in a dive like this. She belonged somewhere better.

Not that it mattered. I had to kill her.

Hours passed and the regulars finished their drinks at last call. I left a healthy tip for Fiona—not that she’d use it, since she was going to die soon, but it was polite—and she smiled uncertainly when I dropped it down in front of her.

Two hundred dollars for two drinks. I didn’t know why I drew attention to myself like that. Maybe I wanted to impress her.

Outside, the night was chilly, an unseasonably cool breeze coming up off the river. I waited nearby in the shadow of a couple of parked cars, leaning up against the front bumper of a beat-up Ford truck, until the bar emptied completely. The manager locked up while Fiona walked off alone, taking big fuck-off strides.

City girl, through and through.

I followed her. I knew where she was going, of course—I did my homework, after all. She cut down South Street then found her way to Passyunk and to a quiet little basement after-hours joint that was just on the right side of legal. She shouldered her big, black bag and headed inside, the sound of laughter and soft music spilling out the door.

For a second, I hesitated at the top of the steps. I could turn back and call it a night—I’d come far enough already. I could spend a few more evenings watching her before finally pulling the trigger, make sure everything was perfect.

Or I could head down there and make a mistake.

I was a controlled man. I kept myself on the straight and narrow, and in this case, the straight and narrow was the path that kept me killing as long as I wanted.

But this girl made me feel something, and that was new.

I craved something new.

Turned out, after years of blowing out brains, of begging victims, of last gasping breaths, I was actually kind of bored.

Gore only titillated for so long.

I wanted more.

So I went downstairs.

The place was called Six in the Morning though everyone just called it Six. The floor was concrete covered with all sorts of old, faded rugs. The walls were hung with thrift store paintings, and the tables and chairs were all mismatched. It had a serious hipster vibe, although I knew the owner wasn’t putting on a front—he genuinely couldn’t afford decent stuff, so he filled his bar with whatever was on hand. The staff looked tired but up-beat, and the drinks were plentiful and cheap.


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