Her Protection: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Omerta Series Book 2) Read online

  Her Protection

  A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

  Roxy Sinclaire

  Edited by

  Teresa Banschbach

  Illustrated by

  Resplendent Media

  Contents

  Mailing List

  1. Appeal

  2. Fight

  3. I Like Danger

  4. Her Future

  5. Reckless

  6. Trusting Him

  7. Owe Me

  8. Doll

  9. Sharpshooter

  10. Evidence

  11. Bullet On The Doorstep

  12. Shower With Me

  13. Attached

  14. Priorities

  15. Pretty Like Her Mom

  16. Loyalty And Justice

  17. Red Tape

  18. Open Her Up

  19. Betrayal

  20. Self-Destruct

  21. Self-Defense

  22. She’s In Trouble

  23. Dead Meat

  24. Murder

  25. Payback

  26. Last Will And Testament

  27. Viper

  28. Backup

  29. Winning

  30. Conning Tilucci

  31. Ultimatum

  32. Who To Protect?

  33. Recovery

  Epilogue-Our Future

  Roxy Sinclaire

  Lethal Seduction

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  About Roxy Sinclaire

  Also by Roxy Sinclaire

  Excerpt From Dirty Indiscretions

  Excerpt From Touchdown

  Excerpt From Tempting Me

  Copyright © 2017 by Roxy Sinclaire

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design © 2017 by Resplendent Media

  Edited by Teresa Banschbach

  Email: [email protected]

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the authors’ imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

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  Appeal

  Jane

  “Good morning, Jane,” the doorman greeted me on my way into the building.

  “Hi, Charlie,” I said quickly. “I can’t talk today, I’m running a bit late.”

  “I can see that,” he said in his kind, gravelly voice as he looked at his watch. The elderly man was sort of like a grandfather figure to me. He helped to show me around on my first day at the station when I was lost and nervous. So as a way to thank him for all his help, I brought him a coffee and a donut the following Monday. Ever since then, I’ve spent a few extra minutes in the morning catching up with him.

  There was no time for that on this particularly rotten Monday. I had gotten to a slow start after hitting the snooze button one too many times. Sleep was the greatest luxury of the civilian world, but it had become my vice. Time and time again, I promised myself I’d get back into my old routine of early morning workouts, but my soft bed urged me to stay, just for ten more minutes.

  I quickly crept toward my desk, hoping that my editor wouldn’t see me. Pat ran a tight ship around here, and I didn’t want to earn his disapproval. I set my purse on the floor and slid into my chair without a sound. I breathed a small sigh of relief. I was as stealthy as ever.

  “Jane,” Pat called from his office across the room, “Would you please join me?”

  I knew Pat wouldn’t yell at me for being late, but his sad look of disappointment was so much worse. I could handle getting screamed at, no problem. I hated to look into his puppy dog eyes, just knowing that I had displeased him.

  “Did you have a good weekend?” I asked casually, trying to butter him up.

  “Yeah, fairly good,” he replied. “My wife and I went to visit my youngest at college.”

  “Is he studying journalism?”

  “He is indeed, despite my efforts to talk him out of it,” he chuckled. “It could be worse, I suppose. He could have joined the service.”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled, not really feeling like having that discussion. “Sorry I’m late,” I said, changing the topic.

  “It’s fine,” he said, waving his hand in the air. “If we based our jobs on our attendance, you’d probably be running the network. I mean, I’m sure they’d try to get you to run the network one day.”

  I scoffed. “Sounds terrible.”

  “I don’t know. Some days, I think it would be nice. I’d just sit in my office on the top floor, and make the big decisions. I’d never have to read details of a grisly murder or flip through pictures of a fatal car crash again. It just sort of wears on you, you know?” he asked wearily.

  I knew. But, I also loved the rush I got whenever I discovered a new lead or pieced information together. Being a journalist was like being a detective, except for the fact that there were no politics involved. I worked for a network, but they left me alone to do my work. Pat gave me the guidance I needed but never told me how to do my job. I don’t think he could control me in that regard, anyway.

  While some of my colleagues were fine working on human interest pieces and lighthearted news, I thrived on the grittier side of reporting. I like to dig into the stories no one else wanted to touch. The danger was no deterrent to me—I loved the excitement of being in a bad place with nothing but my intellect and muscle to get me out. I’d only been on the job for a few years, but I knew that I was really going places.

  “I should just tell you why I called you in here,” Pat said, wringing his hands. “Tilucci’s case is up for appeal.”

  “What?” I choked. “He’s been in prison for a while now. How is it possible that he’s got an appeal now?”

  “Beats me. The guy is as guilty as it gets. You absolutely proved that. Anyone with even a shred of common sense can connect the dots.”

  I felt lightheaded. I was certain when I wrote my report, he would spend the rest of his life in prison. His rap sheet was a mile long and included charges of assault, human trafficking, money laundering, and murder.

  “His attorney made note of the lack of witnesses in his trial.”

  “Of course, there were no witnesses volunteering to take the stand,” I said. “When the guy has half the city on his payroll and a penchant for getting revenge, you don’t testify against him. The judge should realize that there are few people willing to get tangled up with him. Ask any of the people he buried: you don’t piss Tommy Tilucci off.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a contact on the inside helping him out, too. And remember,
he was only convicted of tax fraud. The other stuff was never actually upheld in a court of law.”

  “It should have been,” I grumbled.

  “I know that,” he said. “I think the thing that really helped his case was this Bryce that was mentioned in the court transcripts.”

  “Stricken from the transcripts,” I corrected, rubbing my forehead. I had read over the case so many times that I nearly had it memorized. The state prosecutor asked Tilucci about Bryce’s role in the crime, but the question was thrown out for some reason. Besides Pat and I, no one seemed to even question the mention of this mysterious witness.

  “I’m only telling you this because I want you to be careful. If for some ungodly reason, he gets out, you’ll probably be in trouble. I can easily find someone else to finish the stories you’re working on. You can take a nice little leave of absence. Think of it as a station sponsored vacation. Lie low for a few weeks and come back when the coast is clear. Of course,” he added hastily, “that’s if he gets out, not when.”

  I involuntarily rolled my eyes. “I’m not leaving,” I said, “regardless of what happens.”

  “You had a large role in his arrest and conviction,” he said. “If I had to make a list of people he’d personally come after if he were released, your name would be at the top. You saw how he was at his trial. He’s a scary man, Jane.”

  “Yeah, the guy’s a monster, but I refuse to be afraid of a man of his caliber. He acts tough, but he’s a bit of a coward, right? He lets his hitmen do all the dirty work, then they go down for the murders. Most of the time, when these people are killed or tortured, he’s at home tucked into bed.”

  “Most of the time,” Pat repeated. “We both know that he’s taken part in his fair share of horrors, especially when it’s personal.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I know you can. I can’t help but feel concerned, though, especially as your boss.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Pat was a good guy and it did feel good to have someone care about me. He had taught me everything I knew about being a good journalist, and I owed my career to him. He was one of the few ethical editors I knew, making sure our stories were factually accurate and without bias.

  There were few people in this world that I respected and trusted, and Pat was one of them. I wasn’t always an easy person to get along with, but he understood and accepted me. We had quite a bit in common and he knew what things I wanted to talk about and what things I never wanted to discuss. He was my superior, but I also considered him to be a friend.

  “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?” I asked. “Or did you just call me in here to tell me to watch my back?”

  He smiled. “I also wanted to remind you that I need your story on the prison on my desk, first thing Thursday morning.”

  I gritted my teeth. “How about Friday? I have a few more people I wanted to talk to.”

  He shook his head but kept his smile. “I should have just forced you to take that anchor job.”

  “And I would have quit,” I said. “You know that I would never be interested in that sort of thing.”

  “I know. You’ll give me the draft on Thursday at noon. No exceptions.”

  “Yes, sir,” I responded, walking out of his office and returning to my desk across the room.

  Despite what he said about my offer to work as an anchor, I knew that he enjoyed our working relationship as it was now. I delivered him the hard-hitting stuff, and in return, he helped me refine the work that helped us receive so much praise from the station. We both felt like we were making a difference in the world, and the ratings kept the people in charge happy.

  I couldn’t imagine working as a lead anchor. They got the most recognition and the biggest paychecks, but there was so much more to this job than looking pretty on camera and reading other people’s words.

  After I broke the story on Tilucci, I felt like I was on top of the world. I won a few awards and was recognized by our parent station for excellence in journalism. Instead of taking the promotion, I managed to get a tiny raise, just to stay exactly where I was. I liked what I did; it didn’t seem like a promotion if I had to do something I didn’t want to do. There was no excitement on that studio stage. The fun was on the streets, searching for the big story.

  I could see into his office from my desk. He was no longer smiling, but looking concerned, running his hand through his thick salt and pepper hair. I often thought that he was a little young to look so tired, but considering everything that he’d experienced, I could make some sense of it. He’d done enough worrying in his life—I didn’t want to cause any more of it.

  Instead of working on the story that was due in a couple of days, I got onto my computer and started researching Tilucci’s case again. This was a dangerous man that had no business being back on the streets with the general population. After my first story on him and his gang, I had no doubt in my mind that he should be in solitary confinement.

  If there was any chance that he was going to get out, I could be sure that he’d be back to his regular life. People like him didn’t just quit because they got caught. He was a crazy, violent person that I didn’t believe could be rehabilitated, even if the prison he was in tried to rehabilitate him.

  No, his story was sure to continue and I was going to be there for all of it. Like a best-selling author gearing up for their sequel, I was a little nervous but extremely excited. Another story like this would propel my career even higher than I thought possible. I’d be able to go anywhere, to report on any story I wanted to.

  More importantly, I needed that thrill of the chase. After my last story, I was chasing a high that I could never quite reach. I would find a scandal somewhere and break the news, but it was never quite as sweet as my first big story. I was sitting around, digging through someone’s leaked emails or listening to inside sources spill the beans about their unlawful employers. It all felt too safe.

  I flipped through the court documents again, searching for something I might have missed the first time. I knew Tilucci’s whole life story and how he became the leader of his organization. I knew where he lived and places he frequented. I had police reports for every crime he had a part in. I knew the names of all his accomplices behind bars and on the streets—except for one.

  There was someone named Bryce responsible for some of Tilucci’s atrocities. Like most of the other henchmen, he was probably a hitman. These guys were dispensable to Tilucci’s family; once one was arrested or killed, another would rise through the ranks and take his place.

  At the time, I had started to do a little research on this Bryce, but after Tilucci was put away, there wasn’t really a need to find him. Pat had other stories he needed me to work on, so I sort of forgot about him. Now that Tilucci was up for an appeal, I had reason to dig back into my research.

  I clicked open an encrypted file on my computer. Bryce Baron, 28 years old, lived just a few blocks away from the Tilucci family restaurant. He worked full time as a mechanic. He had some ties to Tommy Tilucci, but I wasn’t exactly sure how they knew each other. If I had to guess, I would say that Bryce probably owed Tilucci money that he didn’t have or wanted a job that paid well and didn’t require a lot of qualifications. That was all the information that I managed to collect before I had to give up on him.

  But now, I had more than enough reason to contact Bryce Baron. I was so eager to get on this story, that I was ready to go out into the field before Tilucci was even released. Hands shaking with anticipation, I picked up my phone to call one of my old contacts in the area. I was going to figure out Bryce’s deal, once and for all.

  Fight

  Bryce

  My eyes stung with sweat as the bright lights shone down on my face. I wiped my brow with the back of my hand, a mixture of sweat and blood dripped down to my forearm.

  My opponent danced around the ring, trying to psych me out with his quick, erratic motions. I held steady, wait
ing for him to tire himself out before approaching him. He took a wild swing at me and I dodged it, simply shifting my weight onto my back foot. He retreated and approached in the same manner, this time, swinging hard at my head.

  I ducked, causing him to miss and fall off balance. Now was my time. I delivered a quick jab to his body, pushing him further back into the ring. His fist collided with my head, but then I delivered a kick to his body that knocked him onto the ground.

  The wiry young fighter took a second to get up, but once he did, he charged me. His eyes were black like he was possessed. To him, it was personal now. He was the favorite to win and I had nearly knocked him out. His knuckles hit my cheekbone, rattling my brain inside my skull. I shook off the pain and waited as he danced around me.

  Finally, I went on the offensive, making contact with his jaw. The guy dropped to the ground, moaning in pain.

  I waited back on the cage for him to come after me again, but he only managed to roll back over on his front. After the referee went to check on his condition, the bell sounded. I was victorious.

  The small crowd erupted in a mixture of cheers and boos. I was the underdog in this fight, so the few people that bet on me made a fair amount of money. However, that meant that most the crowd was pissed that I won. There was probably not a soul in attendance that was there just for the entertainment. Everyone in the building was a degenerate gambler, except for me. I had done enough gambling in my life.

  After shaking hands with my opponent, I walked into my dingy locker room. The building had once been a garment factory, but after production left for some cheaper overseas venue, it was left vacant. The Tilucci family bought the joint and used it as their own personal gambling den. They built a fighting ring underground and outfitted it with the bare minimum. No self-respecting person would be caught dead in the place, it was not like I was a self-respecting person anyway.