UNORTHODOX , a blood soaked, crime drenched romance by Author K.V. Rose, is now LIVE and FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
Max Bennett is worse than the devil.
At least you know Satan is going to eat you alive.
With Max, he’ll make you beg for it first.
Make you think he’s doing you a favor as he rips your heart right out of your chest.
Addison London is payment for a job gone wrong.
Her life was never her own.
Born into crime and raised by monsters, she thinks she knows what she’s getting into with Max.
But Max is a master at mind games.
A crime boss without conscience, he enjoys playing with his prey.
And Addison never could pass up a deal with the devil.
Their ensuing relationship is unorthodox at best, downright dangerous at worst.
Max doesn’t bend.
Addison refuses to break.
But someone’s going to take it too far.
And in a world like theirs, they were already doomed from the start.
* Full review still to come! *
I see Christopher London before he sees me.
He’s standing at the trunk of his black Mercedes, hands in his pockets, trying to pretend the unmarked cop car with the officer inside, parked just across from him in the nearly empty garage, isn’t on his payroll.
The officer, in turn, is trying to pretend he doesn’t have his gun resting against his thigh, finger on the trigger.
I know better.
One of my guys has the cop’s head in his sights. I imagine the inside of the officer’s brains will splatter that pristine windshield before this meeting is over.
At least, I hope that’s how this will go.
Then again, killing cops is messy. The coverup costs a lot more than I’d like to spend.
I’m unarmed when I exit the stairwell, strolling toward Christopher with a smile on my face, Dante at my back.
Dante is armed, a rifle strapped across his chest, but Christopher knew how this would go.
He fucked up, I get to bring the guns.
If I had fucked up—which I never do—he could’ve brought the fun.
Unfortunately for him and his daughter, who is nowhere to be seen, that’s not quite how this is going to go.
When I’m close enough to make eye contact and he’s close enough to feel threatened, he pushes off the back of his car and extends his hand, like I’m actually going to shake it.
I don’t. I don’t shake his hand, and I don’t say anything at all.
I will never understand why people waste perfectly good words when silence and a look can convey most everything.
Christopher’s blue eyes narrow and he drops his hand, smoothing down his black blazer. It’s the same as mine, except I can almost guarantee mine costs more money.
“Look, Max, I thought we could talk this over.”
I slip my hands into my pockets, clutch the matte black playing card inside my left one. The card is a reminder that it’s no fun to lose your shit too early in a confrontation. Then your opponent just dies, and you don’t even get to watch them bleed.
That’s exactly the kind of sloppy I want to avoid.
Not saying a word, I shrug and glance at the cop, who is still looking down, like he’s fucking invisible. I turn back to Christopher, stare at him for a few seconds before I ask, “Where’s your daughter?”
I’ve seen pictures of Addison London. Thankfully, she looks nothing like her father. Which is great. None of my clients would be interested in fucking a female version of this asshole.
Christopher bites his tongue, glances down at the pavement beneath us on the second floor of the parking garage. It’s hot here, as it always is in North Carolina. I drove all the way here from Athena, South Carolina, to pick up my merchandise.
And now Christopher London wants to play games.
I squeeze the playing card tighter, feeling it flex beneath my fingers. It’s worn in places, frayed around the edges. But I need it to last a little while longer before I move on to another king. I’ve already gone through four aces, trying to keep my shit together for nearly two decades, since I was fourteen and started using these things.
At thirty-two, you’d think I’d be better at it by now.
My trigger finger is feeling twitchy just looking at this pathetic excuse for a man. Men do as they say they will, no matter what.
But Addison isn’t here.
Christopher is wasting my time.
When I feel like I might lose my patience, he finally looks up at me and his shoulders sag.
I feel a twinge of something like unease with that motion.
Christopher London operates businesses just like mine. And just like me, he knows how to manipulate people. But I know how to read them. It was a necessity growing up with a father like I had. Back in Pretoria, South Africa, not reading my father’s moods could, quite literally, get me or my brother killed.
So I know Christopher isn’t fucking around when he says, “She ran.”
I hear Dante shift on his feet at my back. He’s also got an itchy trigger finger, but his patience is better than mine. Just barely.
I glance for a second at the cop, and find the fucker is finally paying attention to us now. He must know this isn’t going to go so well.
“She ran?” I repeat, weighing my options as Christopher works out how best to explain this shit to me. Did she run, or did he tell her to leave?
Christopher nods once. “She ran,” he says again. “Last night.”
“Did she know I was coming for her?”
Another nod. “Of course. I wasn’t going to throw my own daughter in the trunk of my car without an explanation.” For some reason, I don’t quite believe that.
I smile at him, running my tongue over my teeth. That playing card is going to break apart in my fucking fingers if this dipshit doesn’t say something that isn’t completely stupid at some point in this conversation. I don’t say a word, waiting for him to do just that.
“I wasn’t thinking.” His voice is calm. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t ball his hands into fists. Doesn’t twitch.
But it’s in his eyes.
That’s where it always is.
The eyes can’t fucking hide the truth. And the truth is? Everyone is at least a little bit afraid of me.
In Christopher’s case, and now Addison’s, by extension, they have fucking reason to be.
I nod my head, looking down at my shoes, thinking about all the places this girl could be. She’s the daughter of a crime boss, and obviously, if Christopher is telling the truth about her being a runner, she’s not stupid.
But the last thing on earth I have time for is chasing after a teenage girl who will become nothing more than a whore to grovel at the feet of powerful men.
“Give me something,” I warn Christopher, meeting his gaze once more. “Give me an idea of where she might be. Because if you don’t, when I find her, I won’t keep her.” Not that I ever planned to do that. A blonde American could fetch a fucking fortune. If she’s still intact, even more. “I’ll fucking kill her.”
Christopher’s eyes widen, and he swallows, his throat bobbing. He knows my threat is real.
“She’s with my son,” he finally whispers, and the way he says it, I know he just gave her up. Interesting, how men will turn against their own children in the interest of saving themselves a little pain.
There is no moral code in my world.
Christopher London is a walking, talking example of that.
And so am I.
“Danik?” I ask him.
Christopher’s face goes pale. There may not be a moral code in organized crime, but if there was something close to, it’d be that sons are far more important than daughters will ever be. I’d personally never risk what Christopher is going through right now.
I will never fucking have kids. They’re only pawns to be used against you.
I’ve spent a long, long time half-hoping my brother never turns up, for that reason alone. He could be leverage.
Pushing thoughts of Oliver aside, I focus on the fuck in front of me. “I know where your son lives. Off the coast?” I smile at Christopher, then turn my back on him, head to the driver’s side of my black Maserati, parked two spots down from his Mercedes. “I’ll pay Danik a visit.”
I get into the car, start it up and roll down my window. Dante still stands at the hood of the car, hands on the rifle slung across his chest.
“If he’s not there, and she’s not there, I’ll still find them. And I promise you, Christopher, when I do, I’ll put a bullet in their brains.” I give him a smile, watching his face turn beet red, vein bulging in his temple. “Tell your wife I said hello.”
His wife is fucking dead.
I grab my handgun from the center console, have it out the window before Christopher can blink.
The gunshot makes my ears ring, echoing in the parking lot as he drops to his knee. More, louder shots reverberate in the garage, and glass shatters as Dante takes care of the cop.
In the silence that follows, Christopher London screams, because he went down on the wrong leg after I decided to let him live.
He’s only got one good kneecap now.
He’ll need to figure out how the fuck to kneel correctly.
About the Author
KV is an author of dark romance. She’s a little depraved and hates writing about herself in third person and will stop immediately.
I enjoy copious amounts of coffee, long walks through cemeteries, and listening to music every waking hour. I believe in ghosts, being as weird as humanly possible, and getting possessed by my own characters.