Thief Read Online A. Zavarelli (Boston Underworld #5)

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Crime, Dark, Romance, Suspense Tags Authors: Series: Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli

Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

Thief (Boston Underworld #5)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

A. Zavarelli

Book Information:

I’m a good girl. I live by a code that can’t be bent or broken. It is my duty to my family to stay innocent and pure. To marry an Italian man. The stars are already aligned.
But Nikolai Kozlov re-writes my destiny with five simple words. You belong to me now.
He's Russian mafiya. A thief. A skilled liar with no moral boundaries. He is everything I have been taught to hate. A man who stands for nothing. A man who takes what he wants without a second thought.
And what he wanted was me. He thinks he controls my fate, but what he doesn’t know is, sometimes it’s the good girls you have to watch out for. I’m a dangerous man.
I live by a code. The Vory code. It is my duty to my family to protect the brotherhood. To destroy anyone who threatens what we stand for, including her.
She’s a dancer. A beautiful little doll. My prisoner, and my new favorite puppet. This mafia princess thinks she has me under her spell, but in the end, she is simply collateral.
It’s a shame to destroy precious things. But this is what bad men do.
Note: this book contains dark subject matter, please read at your own discretion. This is a full length standalone that can be read in any order within the series.
Books in Series:

Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli

Books by Author:

A. Zavarelli Books

Let it ruin you. It’s the only way.

The words rush between my lips on a stolen breath, and in my mind, Vivi’s face is still as lucid as the day she uttered that direction. She was loud and unintentionally poetic. Silky locks of raven hair, red lipstick, and cat-shaped glasses. These were just a few of the threads that stitched together my mentor and my inspiration.

Every dancer at the Met tonight would sell their souls for a career like Vivi’s. I was one of the lucky disciples chosen to study under her, but I doubted it had anything to do with luck at all. She had an artist’s eye, always looking for something different. And in a flock of pale sheep, I was the lone umber wolf. Vivi liked that. From the beginning of our time together, she spoke of her plight to create cultural diversity in a world of dance that still upheld strict ancient standards.

My half-blooded Italian heritage and a dash of my mother’s ebony skin elected me as the poster child for her cause. But regardless of her reasoning, I didn’t let the opportunity go to waste. I was not under the delusion that I was special, and Vivi would be quick to remind me of it if I ever got the notion in my head. Every ballet student wanted to think she was special. That she was pure talent and natural grace. That she was the best. But every dancer’s best was only as good as the dancer next to her, waiting to steal her shine in the spotlight. Vivi provided that lesson when she allowed another dancer to do exactly that. Her practice was brutal but effective. More than structure and timing, she taught me how to live and breathe my art. And most importantly, she educated me on what happens when a dancer becomes complacent.

I remember her warmly whenever I’ve put my body through hell, and I know that she would be proud. If she was here to witness the mangled state of my feet, she would tell me that I had gone to war, and I had won.

Flexing my toes, my eyes sweep over the desolate landscape of my thighs as I swoop forward in a meditative stretch.

There is no such thing as pain. There is only discipline.

Tonight, I will take the stage as a soloist for the New York Ballet Company, performing as Ceres in Sylvia. It is a hard-won role. A role I have fought and bled for. The years of study have not been kind, but there is no such thing as mercy in ballet.

The shelf life of a dancer is short, and for me, it’s even shorter. I am fortunate that the ballet has always pleased my father because it is the one amusement he would not deny me. He told me as a child that a dancer embodies everything a woman should be. When he took me to my first ballet, I came to a quick agreement. The heavenly creatures floating across the stage in shades of pale pink and white were the most beautiful sight I had ever beheld. At the age of six, I resolved that I would be one of those dancers someday. My lofty aspirations brought amusement to my father’s otherwise brash face, and he declared that if I wanted to be a true ballerina, it would mean accepting nothing less than principle. When I asked why, he explained that in the days of old, only the best dancers could earn the accolade of ballerina.

From that day forward, I resolved that I would earn the right to be called a true ballerina. And eighteen years later, I am closer than ever to my dream. Also, closer than ever to having it snatched away.

A muted whisper jars me from stillness, and when I open my eyes, the calm before the storm dissolves.

The standing agreement between my father and the artistic director of NYBC is that I must always have my own room to dress, even if it’s only the size of a closet. My father likes to say that the guise of religion can buy you many things, but the truth is, his name is what affords such luxuries. The artistic director doesn’t blink twice at the guards who shadow my every move. Unfortunately for me, the other dancers do.

I am kept separate. Hidden away and forbidden from socializing. The circumstances of my situation haven’t bred the warmest reception from my peers, but I’m accustomed to the isolation. Which is why it is no small shock to discover that Gianni has infiltrated my improvised dressing room. I’m not even certain how he snuck in, and when I look at the door where my guard is waiting outside, a knot forms in my throat.

“What are you doing? My father will be here any—”