Maid For The Mafia Informant: An Instalove Possessive Alpha Romance

by Flora Ferrari

  Contents

  Maid for the Mafia Informant

  NEWSLETTER

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  Collaborations

  About the Author

  Maid for the Mafia Informant

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 213

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2020 by Flora Ferrari

  All rights reserved.

  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. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  Maid for the Mafia Informant

  SOPHIE

  Another job application, another rejection. If I don’t come up with something fast, I’ll be begging to have my old room at home back within a week.

  No.

  I can’t. I won’t do that.

  To make matters worse my secret, lifelong never gonna happen crush, controversial mob lawyer Ben Slade is missing, presumed dead.

  A chance meeting. A job offer.

  Just ask no questions and it’ll pay a cash check, enough to get me out of this slump.

  Just be a maid for a day, how hard can it be?

  As soon as I see him, as soon as I know who I’m cleaning for, I know for a fact his sheets are gonna need turning down more than once a week.

  Starting right. Freaking. Now.

  I don’t know what’s come over me. I never even think like this let alone want to act on it, but if an older guy could ever go for a younger girl?

  I pray Ben Slade is that older man and that the younger girl is yours truly.

  BEN

  Funny thing about psycho killer crime families, they want you to keep them out of jail, but they never want to pay.

  I woke up recently, and after asking for payment from the leading crime family in the state, I had a price on my head instead.

  Deciding to play Fuck You instead was an easy decision. I’ve got so much dirt on these people I could bury them all and still have enough to build an island.

  The feds have me holed up, safe. Giving me time and space to work on my own case, my own testimony, and evidence.

  What they didn’t tell me is they hired an angel from heaven to come do the dirty work.

  From the minute I see her, I know she’ll never clean anything, never want for anything.

  But soon, I discover that enemies are catching, and kissing the hired help is the best way to spread that disease.

  *Maid for the Mafia Informant is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  Chapter One

  Sophie

  “You just aren’t what they’re looking for, Sophie. I don’t think I can be much clearer than that.” Cheryl sighs. She closes my prospective job applicant list and pushes it out in front of her like it’s something nasty.

  I raise a brow, wanting to screw my face up, to make a judgment call on their inequality, but I also know it’s no use.

  My employment agent, Cheryl has got me jobs in the past and when they say I’m ‘not suitable’ I know what they mean.

  They mean they want someone thinner. Lighter, petite. All the words I can’t even think, let alone tell myself I might be one day.

  I’m only going for private cleaner’s positions, what more do they want? I have experience. But it’s not enough. I know the look.

  “Hey?” Cheryl says, calling after me as I look back before turning away, head bowed and shoulders slumped for the fifth time this week.

  “We’ll find you something, Soph. I promise,” she adds, smiling like she means it. A strange smile on her face, like she wants to tell me more.

  I walk out of the office, my head down, looking at the pavement, wondering how long it’ll be before I call it home.

  If I don’t make rent this week, I’m out on the street. I’m already three weeks behind as it is.

  I can’t go back home to Dad, I won’t. I’ll never hear the end of it if I do.

  Being the only daughter of the local police superintendent isn’t easy, and not something I want to advertise, and sadly neither does my dad.

  I feel my lip sting from chewing on it so hard lately, trying not to worry is always the best way for me to worry even more.

  The last thing I need is to be reminded of the other bad news, but the newsstand down the street is plastered with the latest big story.

  The story has been headline news all week, breaking my heart.

  Benjamin Slade, controversial mob lawyer – missing presumed dead.

  The glossy close up of his face on magazines, the sultry eyes that are more a question than an answer on the front of the newspapers.

  I’ve never met the man, but have had nothing short of the biggest crush on him since I can remember.

  He was that tough guy lawyer who always represented the mob kingpins in court. Always got them off and made a name for himself by winning class-action suits against the city for harassment of his clients and their families.

  It was dark, murky stuff. And if it was anyone else doing the work it would make the public sick, make me sick.

  But Ben Slade… The very thought of him, still makes me stop on the sidewalk and take a moment. Waiting to feel my legs again I relive every nighttime fantasy I’ve ever had of him.

  He’s not dead. He can’t be.

  I don’t believe-

  “Ms. Moore?” A deep voice says from behind me, a sudden lurching of my heart has me expecting to see Ben Slade himself when I turn around.

  But it’s not him.

  Instead, it’s someone trying hard not to look like a cop, in a suit. My heart leaping against my ribs is replaced with a stomach churning realization I haven’t lodged taxes in a while.

  He must be IRS.

  “Come with me, please. I’ll explain all on the way,” The man says, stepping to one side and revealing a long, dark car with its back door open. Another guy in a suit and sunglasses holding a finger to his ear.

  I open my mouth to say something, to protest, maybe e
ven cry out for help, but there’s an edge of total authority in his voice.

  “Let’s not make this difficult than it already is, Ms. Moore,” he adds, sighing with impatience, holding a hand toward the waiting car.

  Nobody even notices anyway, and I’m sure if I did scream, nobody would care either.

  Nobody ever notices me.

  Not for the right reasons anyway.

  The man’s short, balding, and a little heavy. I can relate to two out of three of his traits, and once he creases a frowning smile, and I see the butt of his gun and a badge as his jacket moves I guess he is a cop after all.

  But what sort of cop?

  I haven’t done anything wrong.

  “Thank you,” he murmurs, straining another half-smile as he shuts the car door in my face, letting himself in the front passenger side.

  I turn to look at the other guy in the back seat, skinny, young, in a suit. Same demeanor, but he looks out the window like he’s checking for something.

  Or someone.

  I notice a huge stack of papers and magazines next to him, all with the same face that makes me swoon every time I see it or even think about it.

  Some have red ink circling words and phrases. Others just have that same handsome face, smiling back at me, making me bite my lip again.

  This must have something to do with Ben Slade’s disappearance, but what have I got to do with that?

  The driver only glances back before pulling out quickly, so here I am, practically abducted by what I believe to be the police in broad daylight by three, very average looking men. The driver has a slight skeletal appearance, his dark shades hovering over his bony cheeks.

  Leaning his arm over the bench seat, I’m formally introduced.

  “I’m special agent Partridge, and these… well. These are special agents too, Ms. Moore. The less we tell you about certain things right now the better.”

  He tosses a manila folder into my lap.

  “Read and sign this, and I’ll give you this,” he says, holding up what looks like a check.

  “It’s a cash check for fifteen hundred dollars, all you have to do is some cleaning, make a bed and keep your mouth shut.”

  The check has my attention, but the glossy photos of Ben Slade spilling out of the folder arrest my eyes, and certain other parts of my anatomy even more.

  Different photos, photos of Ben Slade without his shirt on.

  I make an involuntary sound, suddenly feeling like I need to pee, but it’s something else.

  I press my legs together hard, flushed at the effect the man’s photographs have on me alone.

  “Ah. Shit,” Partridge grumbles. “Gimme, that,” he says gruffly, leaning over to snatch the file.

  “This is your employment contract. I understand you need some work, having a hard time of it lately? Well, Uncle Sam has a job for you, Ms. Moore. All you have to do is follow some simple instructions.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Ben Slade?” I ask, not meaning to sound like a schoolgirl with a damp crush, but failing.

  Partridge rolls his eyes, then chuckles to himself, realizing his own mistake with the files.

  “You should maybe apply at the agency, Ms. Moore. You have an eye for details,” he says before turning himself to face the front.

  “Rule number one: Don’t ask any questions. Rule number two: Don’t tell anyone anything. Got it?” he says

  I flip the pages of the employment contract through my fingers, then notice the check he’s holding up again from the front seat so I can see it.

  If this has anything to do with Ben Slade if it means I could maybe even get to meet him or even see him up close I’m in.

  “Where do I sign?” I ask dryly, not even thinking about the contract anymore, my eyes hover down next to me, looking at the pictures of Ben staring back up at me, seeming to urge me on.

  “You already did,” Partridge replies dryly, and I can see a genuine smile on his face in the rearview mirror.

  More of a smirk as his eyes meet mine.

  “You signed an agreement at the agency that you’d accept any reasonable offer of work that paid above the going rate?” he asks, and I feel my head pumping in agreement.

  The agent next to me slips the papers and magazines into a neat bundle, turning them over so I can’t see Ben anymore, and Partridge himself leans back over, helping himself to the file with my contract, but not showing me the check anymore.

  “You’ll get paid once you’ve done the work,” he says, a matter of fact.

  Sucking air through his teeth he mumbles something to the driver, and I feel the car pick up speed, the tires almost squealing as we make a few hard turns.

  After about an hour of doing what I instinctively feel are circles around the city, we arrive at a high rise building with an exterior of smoked glass.

  It could be condos, or it could be offices. I can’t tell. It blends in, almost like a shadow, wedged between two other mirrored glass buildings, which I can’t look at directly. The sun’s reflecting so hard off both.

  “We’re here,” Partridge announces, the other agent puffs his cheeks and blows out air, looking bored by now.

  The driver’s eyes stay dead ahead behind his shades and I notice Partridge raising his brows in suggestion. Time to get out of the car.

  But there’s another set of eyes on me, I can feel it.

  Looking up into the strange smoked glass high above, I shiver.

  I know instantly that someone’s watching me, someone, dangerous.

  I just hope to hell it’s Ben Slade

  Chapter Two

  Ben

  They’ve told me to stay away from the windows, but it’s been a week of me cooped up in this place, I can’t open a damned window but looking out one makes me feel like there’s still a world outside.

  Plus, something’s drawn me to it. Like I sense something or someone coming.

  Not in my usual way of sensing trouble, something I’m more than capable enough of getting myself into.

  This is different, something I haven’t felt before.

  Partridge finally agreed to get a maid to clean the place up. Promised me some fresh clothes too.

  A safe house from the mob is one thing, but would it kill them to have it cleaned, even get me some fresh shirts at least?

  I was supposed to be here for two days, tops. Then I saw my face all over the news. Missing presumed dead.

  I don’t know what Partridge is trying to pull, but I don’t like it.

  And I don’t like him calling the shots now either.

  My own case against the De Falco family was what brought me here. I should be allowed to have more of a say in what’s happening.

  Without my evidence, there is no case.

  Nada.

  Nothing.

  I decided it was time for me to retire, to hang up my goodwill for all crooked men, and step away from law altogether.

  I asked De Falco, and a few other families I’ve saved over the years for my dues. To cash out so I could slip off quietly into the sunset and live the rest of my days in comfort.

  Maybe even find that woman I’ve been dreaming of. Finally, settle down.

  I’m forty, not sixty. I look after myself and I’ve still got time.

  So I told myself.

  First up, De Falco politely told me to go fuck myself when I asked for what he owed, this was followed by another six families sending me the same message then I learned they’d all put a price on my head.

  A lot cheaper than paying me what I’m owed.

  So I decided to return the favor, in a legal sense. I somehow found a lot of missing or destroyed evidence. I suddenly recalled a lot more information and since being holed up here, even without a secretary or the materials I need I still have a watertight case against every major crime family in the state.

  The state’s willing to settle an undisclosed amount for my services and I’ve been assured personal safety at all times.

  E
ven though I know once they find out, my life’s never gonna be the same again, let alone safe. Not until all of them are locked up.

  But looking down into the street, all that seems to vanish in a moment.

  I see a familiar car, Partridge, and his dipshit sidekick.

  But there’s something else.

  Someone else.

  It could be the district attorney, hard to tell at this distance, but as soon as she steps away from the car and looks up, I know it’s not the DA.

  I make an involuntary sound, my hand up against the glass as I trace the outline of her curves from above with a finger.

  I feel a rush of heat to my groin, my dick getting thicker with each pounding beat of my heart against my ribs.

  Even from this height, I can tell she’s perfect. I can see her blond hair, heavy chest, and thick body.

  The kind of body I never knew could make me sweat so easily.

  Letting out a low groan, I hope and pray she’s coming up here, and not some other witness they’ve brought in.

  What if she is coming up here though?

  I feel suddenly and unusually self-conscious.

  I haven’t showered in two days, and the place is a mess. There’s take out containers and files everywhere, stinking the place up.

  I hurriedly wipe away the condensation from my breath from the glass, snarling once she moves out of sight, and then another, different sound escapes my lips once I see her again.