Maid for the Hitman: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance
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CONTENTS
Maid for the Hitman
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 HITMAN
AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE
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A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 238
FLORA FERRARI
Copyright © 2021 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 HITMAN
Ryland
I work as a gun for hire, but I never hurt women or children.
Then one of the most dangerous men in the city hires me… and the target is a woman. If I refuse, he’ll send somebody else to kill her.
I can’t let anyone hurt her. The second I saw her, I knew I needed her. I had to claim her. It was just a photo, but it drove me wild.
Rosie is half my age, twenty-one, and so naïve and inexperienced. She’s my perfect, curvy virgin, and I’d die and kill before I let anything happen to her.
Possessive doesn’t even come close to describing how I feel about my woman.
Rosie
I didn’t know the trouble I was getting into when I stood up to a mob boss. Vito Franzese has put a hit out on my life.
I have nowhere to run. Our beat-up old car is out of gas and we haven’t got any money. I had to drop out of college to help with Mom’s hospital bills.
Life is looking pretty bleak…
But then Ryland Radley appears at my door one evening, six and a half foot with silver swept hair, intense blue eyes, and a smoldering, deadly aura.
“Come with me,” he growls. “You’re my maid now. Do what you’re told and maybe you’ll live.”
I’m not sure if I should go with this man.
But what other choice do I have?
*Maid for the Hitman is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.
NEWSLETTER
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CHAPTER ONE
Rosie
I sit at the edge of the bed, folding the damp towel and laying it across Mom’s forehead. I can feel the heat of her skin burning through the towel, and for a crazy second I think it’s going to instantly dry and I’ll have to get another one.
I’ve opened the window to let in some fresh spring air to cool her down, but the vomiting always makes her burn up, sweat sliding over her cheeks and her head.
Something breaks in my chest when I look down at my mother.
A year ago, Jackie Smithson was as curvy as me, with a beautiful head of gray hair falling all the way down to her hips. She looked like a hippy in her billowing dresses and her thick silver and jeweled rings. But now her fingers are too thin for the rings and her body is too wasted away for the dresses.
“Mom, do you want anything?” I murmur.
She glances up at me, her lips tight.
“You need to eat,” I tell her.
“Not enough… money,” she sighs.
Anger flares alive inside of me, vicious and twisting and hate-filled.
“Of course we have enough money for food,” I snap, even if her words slam into me with the authenticity of truth. “Whatever you want, I’ll bring it to you, okay? Anything to help you feel better.”
“You should be at college,” she murmurs, turning her face away from me.
I stroke my hand tenderly up her shoulder. “Mom, we’ve talked about this. I’m going back when you’re better.”
She sighs heavily. I know what she wants to say. I can almost hear the words shimmering in the air, dancing and taunting me.
She wants to say, I’m not going to get better.
But the last time she said something like that, I really freaked out.
“What about some lemonade?” I say. “I’ll run down to the store real quick.”
She turns back to me, tears glistening in her eyes. Jackie Smithson is a strong woman and she doesn’t sob easily. She’s raised me on her own all my life and I’ve never seen her back down, not once, even when the world tried to tell her she was too poor and too uneducated to deserve respect.
“Yeah,” she murmurs, “that’d be nice.”
I smile down at her. Her glistening green eyes haven’t been affected by the breast cancer. They’re just as bright and charismatic as they were a year ago, flooded with so much life I almost weep just gazing at her.
“Go on,” she says, giving me a too-soft shove with her hand. “Before we both start blubbering.”
“I won’t be long,” I tell her.
“Meet a nice man while you’re out there,” she teases. “And, if he’s nice enough, don’t come back. Go somewhere bright and happy where you don’t have to think about your depressing old mother.”
I sigh again, shaking my head. My mom is sixty-two years old. She had me when she was forty.
An unexpected gift, she always calls me, and I love her for it.
But I feel like something is wrenching my gut when she calls herself old. Age is a huge determining factor with cancer, and I don’t want to think about what happens if she loses her battle.
No, no, no…
Calling it a battle isn’t fair.
If she—if the worst happens, it’s not because she didn’t fight hard enough.
“Yeah, yeah,” I laugh, turning away to hide the heartache that must streak across my features. “And maybe they’ll be a flying unicorn out there, too.”
I walk across our small two bedroom apartment, the rental we’ve been in for four years now. Mom and I have moved homes a lot over the years, owing it to the fact that Mom never seems to have enough money.
She’s a painter who never developed any real-world working skills, and so she’s been forced to work a series of odd jobs just to make ends meet.
I wanted to change that with college.
Fine, it was community college.
Fine, it wasn’t Harvard or Yale or Princeton.
But I was still eager to make a change.
Maybe I still can
.
Once she gets better.
As I pull on my shoes, I smile wryly at that phrase ricocheting around my mind.
Once she gets better has become like a spell in my mind, something I scream again and again in an effort to convince myself it’s real. It’s going to happen.
“She’s going to recover,” I murmur now, heading for the door.
I ignore the table that sits next to the door, the aqua-blue paint chipped. I ignore it first because the memory makes me want to cry all over again. I remember how thrilled Mom was when we found it at Goodwill, how determined she was to paint it in elaborate patterns.
That was the day before we got the news.
But just as knife-sharp, stabbing me right to my emotional core, is the unopened pile of bills and warnings that glare at me like accusations. I know that we haven’t got long before we get evicted.
I’m trying my best with my waitressing job, but there are only so many hours I can work. And I have to be around to take care of mom, too.
I sigh, forcing a smile to my face as I open the door and walk down the hallway.
Smile your troubles away, mom was fond of saying before her illness struck. Everything will work out in the end.
I just wish I could believe her.
The day is incongruously bright, the afternoon sun blaring down at me. I was supposed to be at the restaurant for the day, but at the last minute, my boss called and told me that I wasn’t needed.
That’s the sort of thing bosses get away with when they have too many staff and all the options in the world.
I shake my head, making my smile purposefully wider as I walk down the city street. It’s as loud and vibrant as it usually is, with cars honking and music blaring from apartment windows.
I keep my head down as I walk past the notorious drug dealer corner.
The men – and boys – who stand here have never bothered me before. They’ve never catcalled me or made me feel uncomfortable, but I think that has something to do with how quickly I walk by, eyes ducked, letting them silently know that I mean no harm.
Finally, I make it to the convenience store. The glass door is cracked from where somebody tried to break in a few days ago. Mr. Pham has experienced the problem before, and so paid extra to have reinforced glass installed.
“Afternoon, Rosie,” he says as I walk down the aisle.
“Hey, Mr. Pham,” I respond.
The store is empty and immensely clean. Despite the area we live in, Mr. Pham takes pride in keeping the place spotless. With the sun beaming through the window combining with the electric lights, it sparkles.
“Your mother is doing better, I hope?”
“Getting there,” I tell him. “You know how it is.”
“Yes, it’s very sad,” he says, nodding solemnly. “My father…” He clasps his hand to his chest. “It’s very sad.”
I pick up the bottle of lemonade and carry it over to the counter.
“She’ll get better,” I tell him firmly.
“I know, I know,” he says, nodding fiercely.
He taps a few buttons on the checkout and then tells me the price. I reach into my purse, rooting around for change. I feel like the biggest failure in the universe as I count out the pennies, and then stare at the checkout’s readout and see that I’m three pennies short.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, grabbing the lemonade bottle. “I’ll take it back.”
Mr. Pham darts his hand forward, shaking his head just as vigorously as he was nodding a few moments ago. He grabs the bottle and pulls it over to him, slipping it into a bag before I can argue.
“No, Rosie,” he says. “Take it. Take care of your mother.”
I smile and blink away budding tears, hating how easily they rise in my eyes these days, like I’m spending every second of the day on the verge of an eruption.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “Thank you so much.”
I leave the store and make my way back up the street.
As I’m passing by the alleyway between the store and the apartment blocks, a noise comes to me, sort of muffled. I know I should ignore it, but I can hear words in the muffled hard-to-hear noise.
“Help,” somebody is wheezing. “Please, please, help.”
A voice screams in my head to walk away. The last thing I need to do is play the Good Samaritan, especially in this neighborhood.
I feel like I’m on autopilot as I walk over to the trash can.
The voice is coming from inside.
I reach over to the lid instinctively, try to lift it, but somebody has secured a padlock onto it and it doesn’t budge. It just rattles.
“Yes, please,” the man inside gasps. “Before they come back.”
“Before who comes back?” I ask.
“Vito,” the man whines. “Vito Franzese.”
Suddenly, all the blood in my body freezes in my veins.
Vito Franzese has been all over the news lately.
He’s the acting boss of one of the city’s biggest crime families, currently at war with another family because his dad is in jail.
“Please,” the man whimpers. “Help me.”
I should run. I know I should run. This has nothing to do with me.
“What did you do?” I demand. “Why are you in there?”
“Nothing, nothing,” the man gasps.
I slam my hand against the metal of the bin, hate rising in me that this man’s putting me in such a terrible position. I either have to get involved in organized crime or leave a man to die in a trashcan.
It’s disgusting.
“What did you do?” I hiss.
“Vito raped a woman,” the man pants. “I told the cops. I told them other stuff. He found me. He stabbed me. I’m bleeding out, miss. It’s really bad.”
“It’s locked,” I say. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“Find a rock or something. You have to try. Please.”
I lay my lemonade on the ground, already cursing myself for getting involved in this messy madness. I should be back at the apartment with mom, changing her towel if it needs changing, helping her to sit up so she can take a few sips of the lemonade.
I turn and scan the surrounding area, praying for a cop or another pedestrian to come and take control of the situation.
But there’s nobody around except me.
“There’s nothing,” I say, turning back to the bin. “And even if there was, I wouldn’t be able to break the lock. Give me a second. I’ll go and see if Mr. Pham has a hammer or some bolt cutters or something.”
“God bless you,” the man whines. “Please hurry. They could come back at any second.”
I turn, breathless, and then my heart tries to explode out of my mouth and my whole body feels like it’s going to seize up.
I’ve only ever seen him on the news before, never in the flesh. He seems taller in real life, his shoulders broader. His hair is jet-black and slicked back, and a gold watch glints at his wrist. His eyes are narrowed and cold, but his smile seems almost happy like he’s enjoying this new development.
Five men crowd behind him, all of them Mafia-looking, with suits and watches and the same haircuts.
“Look what we have here,” Vito Franzese smirks. “A motherfucking do-gooder.”
I back away slowly, feeling like the world is tipping and I’m going to fall flat on my ass at any second.
“Not a good idea,” Vito says, still grinning as he moves forward. “Unless you wanna end up like your new friend here, I suggest you stay right where you are.”
CHAPTER TWO
Ryland
I sit on the back porch with my muscles throbbing from the workout, sweat dripping down my bare chest and pooling on the stone beneath me. The sun rises over my estate, glistening down, and I feel myself almost smiling.
I can’t remember the last time I outright smiled.
When I was a kid, maybe, but even then I had more important things to think about than my need to smile and be happy.
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Chopper walks around the garden, tail perked and nose down, sniffing and making the loud rumbling noises I named him for. The dog sounds like a helicopter, and that’s how he got the name.
He must feel me watching him because he turns and tilts his head as if asking me if he can keep growling and sniffing.
“Have at it, boy,” I say, waving a hand.
I reach across the table and grab my ice water, taking a cool sip as my breathing returns to normal.
I’ve just completed a two-hour grueling workout and my body is pulsing nicely. It feels like the only time I can think clearly is after I’ve put my body through the wringer.
Just as I place my glass down, my cell phone rings.
I sigh and flip it over, glancing at the number to see if I can recognize it.
Forty-two years old may be young to retire in any normal career, but after the two and a half decades I’ve had, I’m ready to put all this shit behind me.
Bloody work starts to weigh on a man if he keeps at it for too long.
I don’t recognize the number, but that’s nothing new.
A lot of my contacts change their phones every other week.
I answer and hold the phone to my ear without talking, letting my eyes flit over Chopper and the long greenery of my estate. Maybe bloody work has weighed on me, but at least it’s bought me this, a place I can hide away with my dog and forget about the past.
“Hello?” a voice says.
“It’s a bright morning,” I murmur when I don’t recognize the voice.
“Yeah, it’s lovely.”
I grunt out a laugh as I hang up.
Yeah, it’s lovely, is not the right fucking response.
If he’d said, But it’s gonna rain later, then I’d know he was worth dealing with. That’s this week’s passcode, proving that he’s been suggested by the right people and he’s not working with the cops or the Feds.
I sigh as I take apart my phone, snapping each part and leaving the ruined remnants on the table.
Chopper runs over and sits at my feet, gazing up at the phone with his head tilted.
I lean down and stroke him behind the ear.
“What do you think, boy?” I say. “Time to call it a day? I’ve got money. I’ve got security. I’ve got you. Maybe that’s all I need.”