Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I shouldn’t snoop, but his door is wide open.
Now I’m standing in his living room with a pile of cash in one hand and his underwear in the other.
And he’s pointing a gun at my head.
I’m mortified. Also, I’m trespassing. I never should’ve gone anywhere near my hot neighbor’s place.
But instead of ending up murdered or arrested, I have one of the steamiest nights of my life with a mysterious man that looks like heaven and tastes like sin.
I figure the story’s over there, at least until a pregnancy test comes back positive.
Turns out that my hot neighbor is Arsen Sarkissian, head of the Brotherhood crime syndicate.
He’s chiseled from granite, burning to the touch, and scarily obsessed when it comes to family.
So he offers me a become his wife, give him the baby, and he’ll take care of my sick mother forever.
Now I’m on the wedding altar saying vows I don’t mean, all because the dangerous, beautiful killer’s making promises I’m not sure he can keep.
Midnight Wedding is the first in a new series of stand alone mafia romances. It’s a full-length story with no cliff-hanger and a guaranteed happily-ever-after
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Lena
My hot neighbor’s apartment door is wide open.
Which is unusual. I barely see Hot Neighbor around the building, but when I do, he’s always hurrying around, slamming himself down the stairs like he’s late for something, and never bothers to respond when people say good morning.
He strikes me as overly private and kind of an asshole.
Definitely not the open-door type.
It’s late at night, a little after two in the morning, and I’m just getting home from working a long, exhausting shift. My feet hurt, my back aches, my head’s a knot of pressure from the loud club music, and all I want is sleep.
A normal person would shout in and see if everything’s okay before moving on. Maybe they might even call the cops or something.
Unfortunately, that’s not me.
This wide-open door drives me absolutely insane.
It hits all my buttons with a freaking sledgehammer: a place I shouldn’t enter and an unanswered question mixed with a horribly attractive and aloof man.
This stupid door was practically left here to test me.
And I’m going to fail.
When I was little, my mom says I used to get in things all the time. Like I’d crawl into the pantry and start pulling down the flour or I’d dig my way into a full hamper just to see what was at the bottom. I mapped and explored every inch of our ratty apartment by the time I was two-and-a-half.
One afternoon, I got lost in the park because I had to see the inside of a bush and then couldn’t find my way back out. I was three years old. I got kicked out of a Target at six when I went rooting around in the back, just to see what it was like. I broke my wrist at thirteen falling off a fire escape trying to climb into an abandoned warehouse because I saw a bit of graffiti I thought looked cool through a window.
Mom always says I was the most curious little kid she’s ever met.
And she doesn’t mean that in a good way.
It’s only gotten worse over the years, and Baltimore has no end of nooks, crannies, and stupidly dangerous places to explore.
It’s a disease, really.
The disease of curiosity.
Which is why that door is a nightmare for a girl like me.
“Just go home, Lena,” I whisper to myself as I cautiously approach. “Don’t be stupid. Just take one little peek, then go home.” I clear my throat on the threshold. “Hello?” I call out.
The entryway is cluttered with shoes and a table that looks like it was thrown onto its side. Glass glitters on the hardwood.
My heart quickens. Something bad happened here.
This is when a sane person would turn and walk right out. Except instead of fear, excitement and a deep obsessive yearning to keep going fills my body like a lightning storm.
“Hello?” I call again, and there’s still no answer.
I step forward into the apartment. My heels crunch on the glass and I teeter slightly. I’m definitely not dressed for exploration right now, but that’s never stopped me before. I tug my jacket tighter, trying to cover my obscenely short skirt and my see-through mesh top over a very unsubtle lacy bra.
Bottle girls at Club Shade work for tips, and drunk guys tip better when I look like I’m for sale.
“Hello? Anyone? If you’re a robber, please let me know. I’m just an innocent bystander, nothing to worry about. If you’re dying and bleeding out, just groan a little so I can find you.”
Nothing, still quiet. Just the sound of my heels crunching over the remains of a shattered mirror and my heart hammering in my ears.
“Screw it,” I mutter and go deeper into the apartment.
It’s just like ours. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, living room, kitchen. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. Except my home is decorated. Mom’s obsessed with junk shops and thrift stores—at least, she was before she got sick—and our place is filled with all her little treasures.
Hot Neighbor’s place is barren. Like, serial-killer empty. And what’s around is utterly destroyed.
The couch looks like someone went at it with a knife. Plates are smashed on the kitchen floor. There’s debris everywhere. A dying plant wrecked in the corner. Movies ripped from their plastic boxes. The TV is shattered and lying at an angle.
But nothing on the walls. No photographs, no personality. Some books, mostly thrillers, a few grocery store romances, stuff like that, but nothing personal.
It feels like this place was staged by a realtor or something.
The refrigerator is empty. Totally barren. The only food is a box of cereal smashed in the sink.
As I move toward the back hallway, something catches my eye. It’s black and metal. I reach inside an upturned drawer, biting my tongue, and pull it out.
It’s a gun.
I stare at the weapon. I keep thinking it’s not real, but the thing’s heavy. Like it’s made from actual metal.