Hit and Run: A Mafia Hitman Romance

by Natasha Tanner

  HIT AND RUN

  A BAD BOY MAFIA ROMANCE

  By Natasha Tanner and Vesper Vaughn

  © 2016 Natasha Tanner, Vesper Vaughn

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher 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.

  Kindle Edition

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  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ABOUT NATASHA TANNER

  ALSO BY NATASHA TANNER

  ABOUT VESPER VAUGHN

  TEMPTING ME BY NATASHA TANNER AND ROXY SINCLAIR

  SHOTGUN WEDDING: A BAD BOY MAFIA ROMANCE BY NATASHA TANNER AND ALI PIEDMONT

  BAD PATIENT: A BAD BOY ROMANCE BY NATASHA TANNER AND JB DUVANE

  SOUNDTRACK FOR HIT AND RUN

  CHAPTER ONE

  ELIZABETH

  I smack and pop my gum, trying to blow bubbles through the thin, minty material.

  “That’s not bubblegum, Lizzy, so if you’re trying to blow bubbles you’re out of luck,” Tina says to me. “And spit it out.” She holds out her hand, a stern look on her fake-tanned face.

  “Ew,” I say. “I am not spitting my gum out into your hand.”

  She bends down and picks up the small trashcan that rests in the hollow space of the hostess podium. “Fine, in here.”

  I spit it out and sigh.

  “And here’s a pile of menus for you to wipe down. They’re filthy.”

  I take the stack from her hands but I’m not happy about it.

  “Your father mentioned wanting to talk to you alone tonight,” Tina says.

  I roll my eyes. “Ugh.”

  “Put a smile on that pretty mouth of yours. Your scowl is scaring away the customers.”

  “We have no customers,” I retort.

  “Exactly,” Tina says, walking away in her miniskirt that is entirely too short for someone of her age.

  I grab a rag and cleaning spray and set to work de-gunking the menus. I feel like my brain is dissolving into a puddle of mush as I do it. I’m bored and entirely under stimulated. I’m almost praying for a bomb to go off in front of me just to wake me up from the monotony of my existence.

  The front door opens and the bells chime, bringing with it a gust of icy winter wind that sends goosebumps down my bare arms. I don’t even bother glancing up. I know it’ll be my father and his associates. They’re the only people who come into this restaurant as it is. And that’s because it’s not exactly a restaurant, or at least it’s not a restaurant interested in turning a profit.

  “Table for one, please,” says a deep, sexy voice that I wasn’t expecting.

  I look up from my wiping and nearly fall backwards. The man standing in front of me is tall. And muscular. And covered in tattoos, or at least the part of his arms I can see peeking out of his shirtsleeves are. He has dark eyes and dark hair that’s gelled back perfectly. I have this urge to run my hands through it.

  “Hi,” I say like a fool.

  He smiles and that’s when I realize I should have saved my weak-in-the-knees moment a little while longer. Because. God. That smile. It’s white and perfect and there’s even a dimple indenting his left cheek a little bit.

  I resist the urge to twirl my hair and giggle.

  “Table for one,” he says again. “Unless you want to join me.”

  That’s when I giggle. It just slips out and it’s a real, pure, unabashed giggle. What is wrong with me? “I’m working. I can’t,” I say.

  Mr. Handsome looks around the restaurant pointedly. “Yeah, seems like you’ve really got a long line of customers to attend to.”

  I don’t really know how to respond to that. “Right this way, Mister-“

  “Cain. You can call me Cain,” he says, still wearing that beautiful smile.

  “Alright. Cain, right this way.” My hands are shaking as I hand him a menu.

  He takes a seat and doesn’t stop staring at me. “You’re beautiful,” he says.

  Okay. Now he’s doing the flirtatious thing, which strangely turns me off. I like being the chaser, not being the one chased. “Order the meatballs. It’s the only thing our shitty chef knows how to cook.”

  Cain laughs. It’s deep and vibrates through the air. I try not to think about what else of mine he could vibrate with those lips and fail miserably. I bet this guy has a different woman in his bed every single night. “I’m guessing you don’t suggest meatballs to all the customers.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He leans in conspiratorially. “Because if you did, and they’re actually good, this place might actually have paying customers in it.”

  I laugh darkly. “Yeah, well. The owners aren’t too concerned about customers.”

  I’ve said too much.

  Cain leans back. “Why is that?”

  I blush and shake my head, gathering up his menu. “This place is just a hobby for my dad, really.”

  “Your dad?” His face has gone dark for some reason that I can’t fathom. “Your dad owns this place?”

  The front door opens, and in blows my father and his associates. “Elizabeth! Get us a round of bellinis.”

  I shuffle away from Cain back towards the bar. I count heads. There’s nine of them today. They take their booth in the back corner of the restaurant, where my dad will hold court for the next few hours like he always does.

  I emerge from the bar ten minutes later with a tray full of the sweet drinks. In one glass identical to the rest, I’ve put fizzy water. My father is an alcoholic. A recover
ing alcoholic, but an alcoholic all the same. “Here you go, Daddy,” I say. He looks annoyed at the lack of alcohol in his glass, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “Give me a kiss, Lizzy,” he says.

  I bend down and kiss him on the cheek.

  He rubs my shoulder affectionately. “I don’t know what I did to get such a wonderful daughter, but I’m not complaining.”

  “How about a kiss for me?” grunts Vinny, one of my father’s cohorts. I’m not particularly fond of any of my father’s business partners, but Vinny takes the cake for my hatred.

  I ignore him and walk past his chair at the open edge of the booth. Vinny puts his hand on my ass for what must be the dozenth time in as many days.

  That’s why I hate him.

  I have to just take it. My father doesn’t want to think badly of any of his men. And I’m not going to be the one to tell him. Sometimes I fantasize about taking one of the multitude of loaded guns out from under the bar top and just unloading into his head.

  That’s really dark.

  But that’s how much I hate Vinny.

  I wander back to the kitchen. Our chef, Gino, is smoking a cigarette. I rush over, my heels clicking, and snap the cigarette from between his lips. “You could at least pretend this place is a restaurant, Gino,” I say with an attitude.

  “Eh, you sound like Tina,” Gino says. I put out the cigarette before he can bat his ham hands at me and take it back. “Lighten up.”

  “Sometimes I think I’m the only person who wants this place to look legit.” I put my hand on my waist. “We’ve got a customer.”

  Gino laughs. “Right, you’re funny.”

  “No, we really have a paying customer. I told him to order the meatballs. You made them fresh this morning, right?”

  He nods. “Like always.”

  I rap the counter with my knuckles. “Then I need those ASAP.”

  Gino heaves his heavy body up out of the chair and wipes his hands on his pristine chef’s jacket. It’s only clean because the only cooking he does all day is the dinner he makes for my dad and his goons. It’s meatballs every single night. Sometimes I wonder if they get tired of them. I mean, the meatballs are good, but they’re not that good.

  My father is so set in his ways he’s eaten the same breakfast for the last forty years of his life, maybe longer. A hunk of cheddar cheese, a lightly toasted English muffin, and a glass of orange juice. His routine never varies. Ever.

  I should know.

  I’m the one who makes it for him.

  “And Dad and the crew are here,” I yell at Gino. “So get ready to make your usual boatload.”

  Gino waves me away. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get out of here so I can cook. I can’t think with you yelling at me.”

  I wander into the restaurant where my father waves me over once more. I cringe at the thought of walking past Vinny again. “Yes, Daddy?” I ask, steering clear of Vinny’s hands.

  My dad points at Cain. “Who’s that?”

  I look over. “A customer. An actual customer.”

  He shakes his head. “Bring him over here,” he says. “I want to talk to him.”

  I groan inwardly. As if I needed yet another thing to make me feel embarrassed today. I walk over to Cain. “My father wants to talk to you.”

  Cain smiles. “Of course. No problem.” He stands up and brushes past me, which is totally unnecessary. There’s plenty of room in this restaurant for him to not bump into me. But he does.

  And God help me, I shiver. He smells good. Like…vetiver and a hint of bergamot. The smell makes me dizzy.

  I watch from the podium as Cain shakes my father’s hand. They clearly have come to some sort of understanding or dawning of recognition, because Cain ends up joining my dad at his table.

  I bite my fingernails nervously. I wonder what on Earth my dad has to talk to me about.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CAIN

  So she’s fucking hot.

  Her. Elizabeth.

  And of course she is.

  Why wouldn’t she be?

  It’s always the woman I can’t touch who ends up being this juicy fucking forbidden fruit. Her ass, tits, hell, even her hair is more than I can possibly handle. She has curves for days and is working that black miniskirt for all it’s worth.

  I’d like to rip apart her black tights and get inside to the good stuff.

  I’m good at the good stuff.

  I’m actually fucking great at the good stuff.

  I try to sneak as many glances as I can of her when Tony, her dad, isn’t looking. I can’t possibly let him catch me perusing the wares. I’ve been after the boss’s daughter one too many times in my life. It’s one reason why my nose looks the way it does: it’s been broken more times than I can possibly count.

  Tony gets up from the table and waves Elizabeth over. They disappear into a back room together.

  “So, you good for tonight’s fight?” The dark-haired, middle-aged guy who tried to get friendly with Elizabeth asks the question. I think his name is Vinny. He sure looks like a Vinny, all slicked-back greasy hair and gold chains.

  Yeah, I saw him cop a feel. And I saw the look on Elizabeth’s face when he did it. I’d like to take a swing at him. That would make me feel fucking good.

  “I’m good,” I say to him. “I’m the best. That’s why I’m here.”

  He nods and tosses back his drink. The table is littered with empty glasses but nobody seems to mind. “Where’s that little bitch?” Vinny asks.

  I nearly crush my glass with my hand. But I’ve gotta keep my temper. “Hey, maybe use her name?”

  Vinny laughs. “That’s funny. You’re a real funny guy. I hope you don’t take the ring as lightly as you take everything else.”

  “Trust me. I’m serious when I get behind the ropes,” I say.

  The conversation turns to some other topic that bores me to death. I let my mind wander back to Elizabeth, to ripping off her tights and moving her panties to the side so I can get into the tight spots with my tongue.

  She’s the boss’ daughter. But I’m thinking she’s worth another broken nose for me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ELIZABETH

  “What’s up?” I ask my dad, hopping up on a closed crate of fresh tomatoes.

  My dad furrows his greying, bushy eyebrows. “How are you doing here at the restaurant?”

  I have two answers to this: the truth and the lie. I go with the lie. “Fine, Daddy. Everything is fine here.”

  He nods. “I think you’re doing too well, Elizabeth. You’re too comfortable here. I want to change that.” He paces back and forth. “You’re a beautiful, energetic young woman. And I don’t think a restaurant is any place for you anymore. You need to grow up and be allowed to live life outside these walls. As hard as that is for me to admit, it’s the truth.”

  I feel a surge of excitement. Surely this isn’t happening, though. I’ve wanted to go to college for years, but my dad has always insisted I say close, safe, and bored to tears every day. “I’d love to, Daddy,” I say.

  He looks surprised. “Really? Well, I’m sure glad to hear that, Lizzy.” He opens his arms and we hug each other. I hear the clanging of the kitchen bell that signals food is in the window and ready to come out. “Now get out there and get the meatballs to the table before Gino has another coronary. Oh, and Lizzy?”

  “Yeah, Daddy?”

  “I want you to come to the fight tonight, alright?”

  I gape at him. I’ve never been allowed to a fight before. “Are you serious?”

  He laughs. “This is a big day, Lizzy. I want you to see everything.”

  I laugh and nearly skip to the kitchen. I can’t believe I’m finally going to be free of this place.

  ***

  I change into jeans and a black t-shirt in honor of the fight. I check my ass in the mirror. It looks good.

  “Lizzy Venetia Romano,” my dad calls.

  That’s never a good sign when he uses all th
ree of my names, I know that much. “Coming!”

  I rush out into the living room and grab my puffy, black coat. “Ready.”

  He nods. “Good, the driver’s here.” He’s deep into his emails on his phone. I’ve never seen a man over sixty so obsessed with his phone. He’s like a teenaged girl.

  We step out of our New York brownstone and out into the bitter mid-December wind. Colorful Christmas-light-covered trees glint out of windows, the curtains thrown uncharacteristically open to show off the brilliant décor within the walls.

  I love December in New York. On the ride to the fight, I wonder if my dad will let me go ice skating at Rockefeller Plaza this year. Usually he says it’s too dangerous. I glance up at the front seat where my dad’s bodyguard sits pensively. He’s nearly four hundred pounds of pure muscle, but don’t let that fool you. Ed babysat me once and cried like a baby during Toy Story 2.

  “Can we go ice skating this year?”

  My dad doesn’t look up from his phone. In fact, he puts it to his ear and starts yelling in Italian.

  I sigh and lean back in my seat. Maybe not everything has changed.

  We pull up to a gritty building with black-painted plywood covering the exterior. There’s a bouncer at the door. He opens it for me, my dad, and Ed.

  “Mr. Romano,” the bouncer says.

  We’re shunted into a small landing that immediately turns into a narrow staircase. I can hear people yelling below us. The air is thick with sweat and something else I can’t put my finger on.

  When we reach the crowded room below, I realize the rusty scent is blood.

  I glance up at the ring and see that it’s empty. All around us, people are passing around stacks of money, worn pencil nubs slipped behind the ears of bookies. People are yelling and I feel a surge of adrenaline.

  It’s been ages since I’ve been in a crowd like this. I feel like I’m standing on the pulse of the city right now. It’s exhilarating.

  My dad grabs my elbow and pulls me to a VIP area. It’s separated by a velvet rope, black leather sofas sitting behind it. “You wander off, take Ed with you, alright? Don’t go anywhere else. You understand?”