Vengeance is Mine (Mafia Brides #2) Read Online Lee Savino

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Mafia, Suspense Tags Authors: Series: Mafia Brides Series by Lee Savino

Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)

“They said I could choose my reward. I choose you.”

It was a simple go to a wedding. Execute the groom.

Then I saw the bride, wearing a mountain of white satin, her lacy veil now spattered with blood.

Instead of running away screaming like the rest of the wedding party, she raised her chin and stared at me, a challenge in her dark eyes. I felt a flicker of feeling in my cold, dark heart...

Then she shot me. And I knew...

I had to make her mine.

Vengeance is Mine is a stand alone dark romance with adult themes, starring an obsessed hitman, a heroine bent on vengeance, and an HEA (happily ever after).

“OMG!!! Victor and Lula are the hottest couple ever! And I read a lot of books but this one. Wow! I couldn’t put it down it just called to me on a primal level. I’ve always loved Lee Savino’s stories but this one is exceptional!”

“Hot and punishing as well as digging deep into the soul. I loved it.”

“Holy yowza, this grabs you by the throat right in the beginning and doesn’t let go! (You’ll get it when you read it 😉). And read it you must!! This was dark & smoldering, dangerous all around!! Lula is intelligent and lethal. And Victor, wow, he’s vicious in many ways. Controlling. And HOT. But you also get the other side of him with Lula. And it’s everything!”

“Victor takes what he wants and he wants Lula.”

“It comes with a paragraph of trigger warnings. Mind. Them. She’s not kidding.”

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



The air at the altar of the church is thick and heavy, compressed from decades of Sunday sermons. It smells like pompous preaching and unanswered prayers, with an aftertaste of stale lemony furniture polish. The only sounds are the occasional coughs and creaks from guests shifting in the wooden pews.

Under the crime against fashion that is my wedding gown, I shift from foot to foot. Tacky white satin heels pinch my feet, and the once rich red carpet I’m standing on has faded to an anemic pink, too thin to cushion anything. My head is completely shrouded by the traditional veil, so no one can see my resting bitch face.

My groom, David, stands at my side. A snowfall of dandruff dusts the shoulders of his dark suit, and his nostrils are dusted white from the cocaine habit he’s hoping to hide. Every few seconds, his eyes slide towards me, checking to make sure I’m still beside him. When he sees that I am, he blinks, and his dull brown eyes brighten like he can’t believe his luck. As far as he’s concerned, I’m a dream girl he conjured from his fantasies, sleek and elegant and soft-spoken. . . and way, way out of his league. Yet willing, nay insisting, we marry. A mythical creature, like a unicorn. Blink, and I’ll disappear.

If I’m lucky, all the guests will be wondering how he snared me, and not how whirlwind our courtship was or why the bride’s side of the church is completely empty.

The organ notes die with a sound like an accordion falling down the stairs. The minister clears his throat.

“Dearly beloved,” he intones. I can smell his halitosis from here.

David’s great aunt Eunice, his only living relative, booked this venue. In the interest of speed, I let her plan everything except my dress. She dug the veil I’m wearing out of storage and ordered the peonies in my bouquet. I told her I was allergic to peonies. She either didn’t care or did it on purpose. She thinks there’s something off about me, about this whole wedding.

For a fossil, Eunice is pretty sharp. She senses a con, but her grand nephew is properly fooled. As far as he’s concerned, I’m his true love. I’ve sold the image of a soft-spoken, smitten virgin so well, I’m impressed with myself. I deserve an acting reward for how well I’ve pretended his touch doesn’t make my skin crawl.

Eunice glares at me from the front pew, and I freeze my fidgeting until I resemble a mannequin in a bridal shop window, stiff and swathed in white. I chose my dress. It’s huge and puffy with yards of itchy crinoline and lace. Perfect for my plan.

The minister is droning on about love and commitment and all the things that don’t apply to this marriage. I want to tell him to hurry up. The sooner I’m married, the sooner I can roofie my groom and go hunting for the quarry I really want. Stephanos.

We’re halfway through the most boring ceremony in the world when the bang of doors opening echoes from the foyer to the altar. The minister coughs and falls silent, fumbling in his train of thought. The pews creak as curious guests turn as one to investigate.

A late arrival? I remain staring at the minister, ignoring the interruption. It’s only when David turns and frowns, his pasty skin blanching further, that I turn, too.