Cruel Tyrant Read Online B.B. Hamel

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Mafia, Suspense Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)

A standalone steamy arranged marriage mafia romance with a scarred hero and a strong and hilarious heroine.

He spilled a drink on my dress. I dumped my wine in his lap.
Which is why I invite the dark-and-brooding beast to clean me up.
Only it turns out, he’s not a stranger at all.

The first night I met my future husband, he left the club with my underwear in his pocket.

Turns out, the cruel, mysterious man that drove me wild in a club bathroom is the terrifying Davide Bianco, a powerful member of the Bianco Crime Family,

And he’s my new arranged fiancé.

He’s controlling and viciously scarred, and I’m terrified I won’t be able to start over with this monster watching my every move.

I need space to heal my wounds, while the darkness lurking inside him craves a way out.

We can help each other if I learn to embrace my role as his new favorite plaything.

I’m afraid I’m going to find out how it feels to fall for a killer before this sham is over.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter 1


The enormous man looming over me at the bar has a dark stain spreading across his crotch and he’s looking at me like he wants to strangle me to death.

And I can’t blame him, because I just spilled an entire glass of wine right onto his dick.

I hate clubs. I especially hate how loud and crowded they are. But my work wife, Giorgia, convinced me to come out with her tonight. Since it’s Saturday and I have no other plans basically ever, I figured I can skip wearing my Snuggie on the couch for one evening to put on something nice.

Now it’s an hour into my night, my feet ache, I’m teetering around like I’m the newest member of a stilt-walking class, and this monster of a human is staring at me like he’s going to squeeze my skull into paste with his thumb and forefinger.

And I’ll deserve it.

Well, mostly. I was walking along trying to convince myself that actually I’m having a lot of fun and I love going out when I bumped right into this redwood of a human and he spilled the entire freezing-cold contents of his drink right down the front of my dress.

Since I’m an absolute psychopath, instead of handling it like a grown-ass adult with, like, rent and health insurance and a modicum of impulse control, I immediately decided to go ahead and spill my own drink in the guy’s lap as a form of petty revenge.

It was a knee-jerk reaction. Someone spilled on me so I spilled on them. I’m not proud of myself, but there it is.

We’re both soaked through, and I’m completely at fault.

“I am so, so sorry,” I say, waving my hands in front of him as if I’m trying to fan his pants dry. I’m definitely making things worse because now people are looking and I’m waving at some stranger’s private area. Giorgia’s somewhere in line getting herself a refill, which leaves me without backup, and I’m pretty sure I’m in a whole ton of trouble.

The man steps forward. We’re lost in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by strangers who are too drunk or too busy partying to care about what’s happening. He’s enormous and muscular, and wearing a dark button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off a pair of gloriously veined forearms. I am a huge sucker for forearms, and this guy has a set like he was sculpted from my most twisted fantasies. His dark, wavy hair is pushed back haphazardly like he rolled out of bed ten minutes ago in that unkempt-but-sexy sort of way, and his deep brown eyes stare pure hate at me as his gaze rakes up and down my body. I’d say he’s handsome, except it’s hard to think a guy’s hot when he’s a few steps from pulverizing me into bloody goo.

“Stop doing that,” he says, grabbing my wrist so I can’t fan at his junk anymore. He pulls me close and my brain short-circuits for a few seconds because I’m busy staring at the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life—even the freaking stubble on his cheeks is somehow model-perfect like a whole team of groomers spent the afternoon trimming each strand.

Then my brain catches up with the situation and I am one-hundred percent in the wrong here. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that! You spilled on me, so I spilled on you, and that was totally stupid.”

“You’re right.” His breath smells like mint and whiskey. “My spill was an accident. Yours was on purpose. Now we’re both soaking wet, and only one of us made a very poor choice.”

I don’t like the way he’s talking to me, even if it’s completely justified, and my stupid stubborn streak rears its ugly gremlin head again. “Maybe if you weren’t so huge and taking up all this space—” I start but manage to stop myself. Real mature, Stefania, victim blaming the poor guy.