Booze and Bullets (Brooklyn Brothers #3)

by Melanie Munton

  Booze & Bullets

  Brooklyn Brothers Book Three

  Melanie Munton

  Copyright © 2020 Melanie Munton

  By

  Melanie Munton

  Booze and Bullets

  Brooklyn Brothers Book Three

  Copyright © 2020 Melanie Munton

  All rights reserved

  Cover Design by L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations

  www.mayhemcovercreations.com

  eBook Edition

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people except when loaned out per Amazon’s lending program. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then it was pirated illegally, and you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  This is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Epilogue

  Also by Melanie Munton

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Melanie Munton:

  Southern Hearts Club:

  The Divorce Attorney

  The Six Month Lease

  Brooklyn Brothers:

  Lace & Lies

  Scars & Sins

  Sultry Nights:

  Salsa (Sultry Nights 1)

  Tango (Sultry Nights 2)

  Rumba (Sultry Nights 3)

  Samba (Sultry Nights 4)

  Mambo (Sultry Nights 5)

  Standalone romance:

  King of the Court

  The Unforgettable Kind

  Slow Seductions series:

  Casual Affair (Slow Seductions #1)

  Sweet Attraction (Slow Seductions #2)

  Cruz Brothers series:

  Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers #1)

  The Art of Sage (Cruz Brothers #2)

  Always Mickie (Cruz Brothers #3)

  Timid Souls novellas:

  Stubborn Hearts

  Unexpected Love

  Possession and Politics Trilogy:

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Who the hell was Nico Rossetti anymore?

  To my family, I was the flighty smartass who was rarely taken seriously. To my business associates, I was the ruthless negotiator who pursued every acquisition with stubborn vigor. To the trail of women I’d left in my wake over the years, I was the charming one-night-stand who could easily be counted on for pleasure but never permanence.

  To myself? I was the guy who had no axis. No balance.

  A man who had always done whatever he wanted, which had yielded him nothing that he actually needed.

  The problem with that was, knowing what you wanted was so much easier to figure out than what you needed. I had traveled to over twenty different countries, had more wealth than my parents had ever imagined seeing in their lifetimes, and I had never hurt for feminine attention. Yet at thirty-three years old, acquiring what I truly needed out of life was the last frontier, so to speak.

  Because whoever would have thought that what I needed to make it all worth having…was a woman.

  And not just any woman. Not just one woman at a time.

  One. Specific. Woman.

  Sure as hell not me. I’d had to go all the way to Russia to find her when I hadn’t even been looking for her. And ever since I met her, something had been making itself more and more apparent. A glaring realization had shone through all my internal denial.

  What I truly needed—not wanted—in life…was to be hers.

  What I’d been feeling for her wasn’t just emotional. It boiled down to a physiological need to keep this woman close to me. Otherwise, I couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t form rational thought, couldn’t even function normally if I didn’t have her nearby to ground me.

  She had become my axis.

  My fulcrum on which my entire world pivoted.

  My world had begun to rotate around her. Balance itself on her.

  So, who the hell is Nico Rossetti?

  Apparently, I had become the guy who put others’ needs before his own. A man who had started to accept his own regrets and planned to make amends for his past misdeeds. Someone who had suddenly found direction after years and years of wandering the earth aimlessly.

  And judging from my most recent actions, I had become a man who ran into burning buildings to save the woman he needed.

  Because everything that had changed inside me began and ended with her.

  I had become a man who was willing to die—willing to burn from the inside out—for the woman he loved.

  Who the fuck ever saw that one coming?

  Seven weeks earlier

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

  Where the bloody hell is the hidden camera? Because this was so obviously a sick prank of some kind.

  I stared at the priest in utter disbelief—not at the man standing next to me—as he delivered those jarring, life-altering words in such a matter-of-fact, no-nonsense voice. Such impactful phrases should be accompanied by a crack of thunder or ominous dark clouds rolling in to settle over my head. Or pronounced in a booming voice just before mass destruction claimed the earth, wiping out all life forms in its path. In my case, they were the very words that would
surely damn me to Hell.

  Wedding day? More like Judgment Day.

  Because I was marrying a man I didn’t even know.

  Well, I guess married was the more appropriate tense because it was already done. I now had a husband. I was a wife. There was no ring on my finger, but I still felt the weight of it there, anchoring me like a tiny, fifty-pound collar wrapped around it. My…husband apparently hadn’t been any more prepared for these surprise nuptials than I had been. All I had to show for my new relationship status was a nauseating knot in my stomach and a tingly spot on my cheek where he laid a chaste kiss to seal the deal.

  Smart on his part.

  Husband or not, if he had tried to kiss me on the mouth, I probably would have introduced his American balls to my Russian foot.

  American, for God’s sake.

  On top of being forced to marry a virtual stranger, the man had to be an arrogant, seemingly rich, businessman from across the pond. Insult to injury right there.

  And the fact that he had to be stupidly handsome only poured salt into the wound.

  Nico Rossetti. Hailed from Brooklyn, New York. Thirty-three-years-old. Owned a large alcohol distribution company in the United States, and was visiting Russia on a business trip. Business with my father, apparently. Also rumored to have connections, or former connections, to the Italian-American mafia. Or, as my father had always referred to them, the New York Firm.

  Which means we have at least one thing in common.

  Probably the only thing.

  That was all I knew about the man I’d just unwillingly—what was the American phrase?—hitched my wagon to.

  His short beard was surprisingly soft when it grazed my cheek as he leaned in for that kiss. It didn’t scratch or chafe my skin, which somehow left me feeling even more annoyed. The fact that he actually had the nerve to look rugged, yet well-groomed, in his smoky three-piece Italian suit was maddening. That his hands were calloused, yet his nails were neatly trimmed. That his light brown hair was carelessly pulled back into a low man bun, yet it was obviously freshly-washed. Not to mention, his whiskey-colored eyes were sharp and intelligent, yet they gleamed with an insufferable brand of cockiness that I’m sure had been manufactured over years of practice.

  These confusing contrasts were not going to work for me.

  My husband—Nico—looked at me with unabashed satisfaction after the priest finished offering his blessings and left the room. “That wasn’t too painful, now, was it?”

  That was literally only the third time he’d spoken to me since we met twelve hours before. “Speak for yourself.”

  His admittedly beguiling eyes crinkled in the corners. “Aw, come on. I’m sure you could do worse.”

  I glared. “I wouldn’t put money on it if I were you.”

  His mouth tugged up in a half-grin. “She’s got teeth, does she? Good. It would have been disappointing if you were nothing more than a pretty face.”

  My head reared back at his audacity to speak to me that way. No one who knew who my father was would ever dare to. Especially in his own house. But strangely, it didn’t bother me. I wasn’t offended. I’d never asked or expected anyone to walk on eggshells around me. In fact, all I’d ever wanted was for others to treat me just like everyone else. Not to mince words or hide the truth or handle me with kid gloves.

  So, even though he was being an outright mudak—asshole—at least he was being forthright.

  “What a shame,” I retorted. “That’s all you appear to be.”

  He nodded once. “Nice to know you think I’m pretty. It will make everything that follows much more tolerable.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “If you think there’s even the slightest possibility of this marriage being consummated in any way, you’re obviously thinking with the wrong head.”

  There was a microscopic tick in his eyebrow, as if I’d surprised him, before he schooled his expression back into one of indifference, with a hint of boredom. It looked for a moment like he might have actually been impressed with my bold words.

  “Yet the fact that you just mentioned my other head indicates that you’ve already thought about it,” he pointed out. “Possibly even pictured it. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Many women have succumbed to those same urges.”

  My mouth tightened as my nails dug into my palms. How many of those women had slapped him? “Don’t make the mistake of assuming I’m anything like the horde of women who’ve been desperate enough to sleep with you.” I huffed in dry laughter. “Actually, on second thought, go ahead and think that. It’ll make every time I reject you that much more satisfying.”

  His gaze brazenly raked over me in a lazy, head-to-toe perusal. “Trust me, legs. You know nothing of satisfaction. Not until you’ve been in my bed.”

  Okay, one, I hated his new nickname for me. But only because it came from his mouth and because he thought of it. Two, men like him drove me mad. Nothing annoyed me more than guys with little man complexes who talked a much bigger game than they’d ever be capable of delivering on. Men who only used their mouths to get women into bed, but didn’t have the follow through to actually keep them there.

  All talk and no walk.

  Although, Nico certainly didn’t strike me as the type to have a little man complex. Mainly because he was by no means a little man. At five-foot-nine, I was a taller than average woman, and I was wearing heeled boots. For him to tower over me by half a foot put him at six-and-a-half feet, minimum. And he was built like most of the byki—guards—that patrolled my father’s estate. Even through his suit, his pectorals were clearly defined and compact. His arms filled out every inch of his jacket, with no loose material to spare. Same with the way his slacks molded to his thigh muscles. I could see the way they tightened and rippled with every step he took.

  Not that I was looking. Not at all.

  I was merely commenting on his tailor’s skills.

  “Trust me, pretty boy,” I snapped. His eyes reflected amusement at my returning the nickname favor. “Your bed is the last place I’ll ever find myself.”

  The realization that he thought us having sex was a foregone conclusion just because I’d gotten backed into a corner and pressured into a semi-arranged marriage really grated on my last nerve. I was on the brink of losing my shit over pushy men who thought they could muscle me around like I was some kind of strategy tactic instead of a real person.

  And one of those men was my own father.

  Well, adopted father, but he was the closest and only thing I’d ever had to a parent. To me, he’d always been my real father, just like I’d always been his only child.

  “I’m going to have a hell of a good time proving you wrong,” Nico chortled. “You’ll be amazed by how quickly your ice will melt.”

  I shook my head in astonishment. “Are all the women you sleep with usually drunk when you get them into bed? Or are they just that easy? Because I can’t believe anyone would actually fall for your bullshit.”

  He chuckled as he straightened his cufflinks. “That’s because the only place you’ve felt my mouth is on your cheek.”

  I felt my face flush. But I couldn’t tell if it was from my rising temper or from the fact that I was talking about very intimate things with a man I didn’t know. Which wasn’t usually my style. Nico was already getting under my skin in the worst way.

  “You can stop prattling on about how good you are in bed,” I said. “In my experience, the men who puff out their chests the most do it to make something else look bigger.”

  His eyes shot to mine, his jaw clenching. The anger I saw briefly flicker to life was quickly snuffed out. “I’m sorry you have such a piss-poor sexual history,” he murmured, feigning sympathy. “No wonder you’re so prickly. I suppose a string of disappointingly small dicks will do that to a woman. Lucky for you, mine is anything but disappointing.”

  Okay, now I knew it was anger that had heat suffusing my cheeks. “How dare you—”

  He took an abrupt step closer,
shoving his face into mine. “And in my country, men who brag the most are usually the ones who have reason to brag. Think about that while you’re packing your bags, wife.”

  With a sharp turn on his Italian loafer, Nico strutted out of my father’s study and never looked back.

  Thus concluded my wedding ceremony.

  Pretty sure we just made William Shakespeare roll over in his grave.

  Holy Christ, she was absolutely the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen in my entire life.

  Which was saying something, considering I’d stuck my dick into so many beautiful, nameless faces over the years, there had never been a point in trying to keep count.

  But this one happened to be my new wife.

  Wife.

  I, Nico Rossetti, was a husband.

  Jesus, every married individual in the world should have been offended. We just made a sham—a complete mockery—of the whole institution. Which was one of the many reasons why I’d steadfastly vowed to never bind myself to such subjugation as marriage. Everything was so much damn easier when you didn’t have those shackles around your ankles. When you weren’t responsible for another human being. When you weren’t accountable to anyone else except yourself.

  As a single man, shit in my life ran smoothly. Seamlessly. I could do whatever I wanted because I didn’t have anyone else to answer to, and that’s the way I’d always wanted it to be. Always planned for it to be.

  Until today.

  Until my new father-in-law made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

  And now I’m speaking in fucking movie clichés.

  Mafia-related ones, no less. Perfect.

  Storming inside the guest suite at the enormous Russian compound I’d been staying in for the last twenty-four hours, I beelined for the antique credenza along the wall where two glass decanters sat. Knowing what the clear liquor inside the first one was, I swiped up the one filled to the brim with a beautiful amber liquid and sloshed a healthy amount into the closest tumbler glass. Lifting it to my lips, I knocked half of it back in one gulp. Normally, I’d savor good whiskey. It was a travesty to swallow it down without giving your taste buds the opportunity to appreciate the rich, smoky flavor—