Detroit Mafia Box Set Books 1-3 (Detroit Mafia Romance)

  DETROIT MAFIA SERIES

  Books 1 - 3

  Tami Lund

  DETROIT MAFIA SERIES

  Books 1- 3

  by

  Tami Lund

  Cover Artist: Rebekah Ganiere

  Editor: Julie Sturgeon

  Published by: Tami Lund

  Detroit Mafia Box Set Copyright: 2021 by Tami Lund

  Paid by the Mob Copyright: 2020 by Tami Lund

  Trapped by the Mob Copyright: 2019 by Tami Lund

  Freed from the Mob Copyright: 2019 by Tami Lund

  License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer.

  Thank you for your support.

  All entities, locations, businesses, etc. in this book are strictly figments of the author’s overactive imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Questions, comments, or desires to seek permission to use any part of this book for your own purposes should be directed to authortamilund@gmail.com.

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  PAID BY THE MOB, BOOK 1

  1. Just Mindin’ My Own Business…

  2. Contractor, You Say?

  3. Are You Hitting On Me?

  4. Totally Not A Date

  5. Make All My Dreams Come True

  6. Are You Breaking Up With Me?

  7. You Can’t Handle The Truth

  8. Wecome To Crazy Town – And It’s On Fire

  9. It’s My Life And I’ll Choose It If I Want To

  TRAPPED BY THE MOB BOOK 2

  1. The Good Samaritan

  2. This Ain’t Kansas, Toto

  3. Not Part Of The Plan

  4. Girl Meets Boy

  5. So Not Cut Out For This Kind Of Work

  6. Hopin’ To Get Lucky

  7. Can’t Stop That Feelin’

  8. Good Luck Girl

  9. I Should Let You Go, But…

  10. And It All Comes Crashing Down

  11. When The Cards Are On The Table…

  12. Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

  13. All Plans Go Awry…

  14. Change Of Plans

  FREED FROM THE MOB BOOK 3

  1. Kids Will Be Kids

  2. He’s Just A Cop

  3. Back In The Saddle

  4. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

  5. Meet The Karneys

  6. All Good Things Must Come To An End

  7. Talk About Conflicted

  8. Run, Rabbit, Run

  9. Gotta Save The Girl

  10. Six Months Later

  BORN INTO THE MOB, BOOK 4

  1. Closure, You Say?

  Contemporary Romance by Tami Lund ~

  Paranormal Romance by Tami Lund ~

  PAID BY THE MOB, BOOK 1

  Detroit Mafia Series

  Book 1

  Samuele Adelmo’s job is to do whatever mafia kingpin Gino Sarvilli pays him to do. No questions asked, no emotional involvement. It’s just a job.

  When he meets Lola Pennington, a sweet and beautiful woman who always sees the glass as half full, he starts to care about how his chosen career affects other people.

  Problem is, when you’re paid by the mob, there’s no retirement plan.

  1

  Just Mindin’ My Own Business…

  Samuele pounded the pavement, the burning muscles in his legs steadily propelling him down a path he’d taken so many times he could close his eyes and probably still stay on the trail, so long as he didn’t have to dodge oncoming bikers, dog walkers, and other runners.

  It was an old railroad track, converted into a link of trails meant to encourage the local community to get out and get healthy. Hey, Samuele was doing his part.

  His brain was exercising, too, thinking through the latest complication in his life. He wasn’t a fan of complications. He preferred that his life stay even keel, at least when he wasn’t working.

  When he was working, he never expected even keel. Which was at least partially why he was so good at his job. The other part was probably his heritage. Italians had a history of figuring out how to get shit done, by any means necessary.

  So, yeah, this latest complication. It was annoying as fuck, to say the least. He was content with the way things were. Why did Gino Sarvilli have to throw a kink into their arrangement?

  How fucking complicated did it need to be? Gino needed a job done, Samuele did it, Gino paid him a lot of cash, and everybody was happy.

  Everybody who mattered.

  Even Gino’s brother Antonio, who handled the books and otherwise liked to pretend that he wasn’t related to the mob, thought Gino was stupid for his most recent suggestion. Antonio didn’t say as much, of course, because if anybody called Gino stupid, even his own brother, they’d end up wearing cement shoes at the bottom of the Detroit River. But Samuele could tell during their meeting that Antonio agreed with him; they should not rock this boat. It had been awfully smooth sailing up to this point.

  So how the fuck did he tell Gino as much without insulting the guy and potentially putting a bull’s-eye on his own back?

  Or did he just suck it up and do as Gino suggested? Would that really be so bad? He’d have to give up his other clients, but if he were being honest with himself, Gino’s jobs were already 95 percent of his income.

  And, seriously, the raise Gino proposed was tempting as fuck. Samuele wasn’t stupid; he didn’t want to be a mob hitman forever. He’d been steadily socking money away into offshore accounts for years. When he was ready, he planned to bail, to disappear off the radar and enjoy whatever was left of his life.

  With the pay scale of this new complication, he needed to put in only another five years and he’d be golden. He’d be retired at thirty-five. How many professions allowed one to enjoy retirement for fifty or sixty years?

  Movement caught his eye, and Samuele went from introspective to high alert over the course of a single heartbeat. He even started to lean forward, ready to grab the Beretta Nano strapped to his ankle.

  But it registered that the movement came from a pile of fluff that had curled up in the middle of the jogging path, and he was reasonably certain this little guy meant him no harm, so Samuele did his damndest to avoid stepping on the animal, whatever it may be.

  This resulted in him twisting to the left, which still likely would have been okay, except when his foot hit the path a few inches away from the animal’s body, his running shoe sank into something soft, squishy, warm, and smelly.

  “Fuck me,” he growled. He’d just stepped in shit. Without thinking it through—unusual for him—he twisted again, which in retrospect was stupid because his shoe was already coated in some sort of feces.

  This resulted in his foot going one way while his knee went the other, and then a shooting pain hit his ankle and he went down like a sack of potatoes.

  Thank Christ he didn’t land in the pile of shit that started this whole mess.

  “Ohmigod,” he heard a high-pitched voice cry out, and then something warm and faintly abrasive was sliding across his face, and it took him way longer than it should have to realize the animal he’d been trying to avoid was a dog�
��a puppy, actually, that might be a golden retriever—and it was now licking his face.

  He pushed the muzzle away. “Okay, okay, I’m alive, leave me alone.”

  “But are you okay?” that same feminine voice said, and Samuele turned away from the overly enthusiastic pup to look up into the very concerned looking face of an angel.

  That was maybe a bit of an exaggeration. But, fuck him, she was beautiful. Vibrant red hair pulled back into a ponytail. A mass of curls draped over her shoulder. Big, bright blue eyes. High cheekbones. Full, rosy lips. A narrow neck that curved down to a smooth chest and breasts that weren’t too big or too small.

  He kept up his perusal, because why the hell not?

  Below those tempting breasts was a narrow waist that flared into hips that were so perfect for grabbing during sex that his cock began to swell, which was problematic since he was wearing a pair of running shorts and not much else.

  “Uh…” He finally checked himself because Jesus, Samuele, you aren’t in a fucking strip club. This particular neighborhood was one that pretended it didn’t cater to his kind, even though a fair number of the residents were likely connected to Gino Sarvilli in one way or another.

  Samuele cleared his throat. “I stepped in dog shit.”

  Classy, real classy. What the fuck was he thinking?

  The woman’s gaze flew up past his head, and she scrambled to her feet. Yeah, he tried to grab a peek up the leg of her shorts as she hurried past him. Then she bent over, and all sorts of far-less-than-appropriate thoughts hit him at once, and if his dick wasn’t swollen yet, it would be in about five seconds flat.

  When she straightened, she had the fluffball in her arms, holding it close to her chest, and he really wished he and that dog could trade places.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “I just adopted him and I don’t have a fence and I only turned my back for a moment and… I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Like he could hold that against her. Like he could hold anything against her, except maybe his own body. Which was stupid of him to even think because houses in this neighborhood didn’t go for less than half a mill, and a woman her age didn’t live here unless she was part of a dual income household.

  Translation: she was married.

  Not that Samuele hadn’t ever had an affair with a married woman before. To be honest, some of his craziest fucking experiences had occurred while he was banging married women.

  And yeah, if this woman was married and still wanted to go a round, he’d not turn her down. She was fucking hot, after all. If she was married, she probably wouldn’t have her eye out for a fuck buddy. There was something pure about her, something innocent. No, naïve was a better word. Her guy might fuck around on her, but she’d never betray him like that.

  Had he mentioned that he was good at reading people? Another aspect of his personality that made him damn good at his job.

  He tried to stand and grimaced and dropped to one knee when his ankle gave out. “Fuck. Sorry.”

  She shook her head. “It’s okay. I swear on occasion too. Especially when I’m frustrated.”

  He tried again and she scurried over to his side, like she thought she could help support two hundred pounds of solid muscle. Oh yeah, while she was cradling a puppy in her arms to boot.

  “I got it,” he said, waving her away while gritting his teeth and trying not to let it show on his face how fucking much his ankle hurt right now.

  “Okay, stop.” She pressed on his shoulder, pushing him back to the ground. He lifted his gaze to give her a solid glare, and she said, “Stay here. Let me put him in the house and I’ll come back to help you.”

  Seriously, what did the woman think she could do for him? He had no damn idea, although watching her jog across the expanse of lawn toward a massive mansion in the distance definitely helped him to momentarily forget about the pain.

  And then she was jogging back to him, her boobs bouncing in what was clearly not a sports bra, until she was once again bending over, trying to help him, this time pulling his arm across her shoulders.

  “This isn’t going to work,” he complained. “I’m going to squish you.”

  “I’m sturdier than I look,” she retorted, and lo and behold, she was right. She managed to get his arm wrapped around her shoulders, and then he was leaning heavily against her as they made their way excruciatingly slowly toward a crumbling patio attached to a mansion with peeling paint, broken gutters, and cracked windows.

  “You live here?” he asked when she helped him into a chair with stuffing sticking out of a hole in the middle of the cushion.

  “At the moment.”

  He eyed the splintered bannister. The neighbors must loathe that this piece of crap sullied their neighborhood. “I’m guessing it’s not what I was initially thinking.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’re married to a man twice your age. Or possibly divorced from him.”

  She chuckled. “Nope. Not even close. Now give me your shoe so I can use the hose to rinse off the dog poop. Oh, and let me grab an ice pack too.”

  She hurried away, and he barely had time to digest what she said before she was back again with his shoe, now free of dog shit, and a plastic bag filled with crushed ice and wrapped with a kitchen towel.

  While she lifted his ankle onto another chair and then gently placed the homemade icepack on his injury, he asked, “So if it’s not one of those options, what is it?”

  She gave him a quick smile and said, “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Are you offering water or booze?” He should drink water, but if she suggested an icy cold beer, he wouldn’t turn her down.

  “I have water, obviously. Or I have a lovely rosé I’m happy to share.”

  “What the fuck is rosé?”

  She laughed. “Wine. Cool, refreshing. Not too sweet, not too dry. Perfect summer beverage. Besides water, of course.”

  He swiped his hand over his face. What a fucking dumbass. He knew what a rosé was. He was just off his game, that was all.

  “Yeah, wine’s good. Thanks.”

  She hurried away again, giving him yet another eyeful of a seriously perfect ass. Not that he expected to have the opportunity, but if she did let him tap that, he’d sure as hell bite that fleshy bit of skin. A couple times. Leave his mark, like he was an alpha wolf or some shit.

  She returned carrying two wineglasses and a bottle in a ceramic container designed to keep it cool even in warm weather like this. And then she poured the wine and offered one to him.

  This was, by far, the most surreal experience of his fucking life.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked, unable to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

  She sipped at her wine. “My dog could have broken your ankle. And then you might have sued me, and I can’t really afford to be sued right now.”

  He could tell, based on the condition of her house. Still, he arched his brows. “Is there a good time to be sued?”

  She laughed. “No, I suppose not, but right now is really not good for me.”

  He leaned back in his chair, watching her while he let the ice soothe his ankle and the wine cool his insides. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  She laughed again. “I don’t even know your name.”

  Stretching out his arm, he said, “Samuele Adelmo. Nice to meet you.”

  “Italian,” she said, shaking his hand but not offering her name.

  He nodded.

  She blew out a deep breath. “I hate Italian men.”

  2

  Contractor, You Say?

  Lola cringed as soon as she said it. Okay, that had been harsh. She didn’t know this guy from Adam, and not all Italian men were assholes.

  Right?

  Cripes, she had no personal experience to back that up. One of the most harrowing and scariest periods of her life pointed to one fact: Italian men were assholes.

  But hey, this guy hadn�
�t stepped on poor Tippy, had twisted his own ankle to keep from hurting her dog, and that had to mean something, right? Her last boyfriend had run over her fifteen-year-old deaf and blind dog, and he hadn’t even managed a sincere apology afterward.

  Samuele chuckled. “Sounds like you’re quite familiar with guys like me.”

  She winced. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

  He waved at three stories of crumbling sandstone. “How did you end up with this rickety pile of rock if you aren’t married and aren’t divorced and can’t afford to be sued?”

  When she didn’t say anything, he arched heavy black brows. Damn, the man was gorgeous. All that thick dark hair, those piercing brown eyes, that chiseled jawline, and, for God’s sake, why couldn’t he run while wearing a damn shirt?

  She was supposed to hate Italian men, even if they were gorgeous.

  “Do you want me to guess? Are you going to give me a hint?”

  “Like what?” she asked, although why the hell was she even interacting? Tippy had damn near taken the guy out, so she needed to make some sort of retribution, but wasn’t ice and wine enough? Flirting was definitely not a good idea.