Coming to Kindle Unlimited on April 30th.
She’d better run…
When I fell for Dario Volpe, I thought he was Prince Charming, and I was the luckiest girl alive. He didn’t care about my past. The talk. The stain on my family’s reputation.
Then he saw something I never wanted anyone to see.
He cares now.
This isn’t a breakup, it’s a warning shot, and if I want to get out of this bad romance alive, I have to run and never look back.
Dario Volpe is no storybook hero. He’s a psychopath, and he can’t decide—kiss me? Or kill me?
I’m the man behind the curtain, the power behind the throne. I could have killed her, and no one would have blinked an eye. Posy Santoro isn’t exactly a mafia princess.
No one sees her as clearly as I can—the perfect mind hidden by that knockout body in the tight dress.
I made a mistake, running her off, but now I get to play one of my favorite games.
Posy can run, but she isn’t made to be free. She’s made for me. And when I catch her? Game over.
Run Posy Run is a standalone mafia romance with dark elements. Intended for adult readers.
EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 1
Today is a great day. It’s finally stopped raining, the daffodils are blooming, and Dario’s car is in the drive. Butterflies swoop to life in my belly.
I guess his meeting didn’t last as long as he thought it would. I’m gonna make him steaks for dinner. I’ll light a few candles. Wear the red dress with the slit up the side. Maybe he’ll take out the pale blue box I found in his sock drawer last night when I was rummaging for a pair of wool socks to thaw my frozen toes.
Is he going to get down on one knee? I can’t imagine Dario Volpe ever doing that, even to propose. He probably won’t ask at all.
Marry me. It’ll be a dictate, not a question. Tingles skate over my skin. Dario’s a throwback, but damn, he does it for me.
I can’t wipe away my cheesy grin. I skip up the polished marble stairs, swinging my shopping bags, and magically, exactly when I reach the top, Ray flings open the front door.
“Perfect timing,” I sing, sailing past him.
I want to get a shower before I find my man and ask him about the steaks. My hair’s in a messy bun, and I’m not wearing my face. Dario’s second generation, but he thinks like my grandparents did. You don’t leave the house looking less than your best.
I’m a few steps past Ray when his hand wrap around my upper arm in a punishing grip, jerking me to a halt. I raise my eyebrows at my boyfriend’s driver. That’s Ray’s official job. He doesn’t spend a lot of time driving, though. I don’t question it. I was raised in a connected family. My lack of curiosity is genetic.
“He wants you in his office,” Ray says, his craggy face blank, his tone severe. Ray’s never friendly, but this is different. Not good.
My stomach plummets.
“What’s wrong? Is Dario okay?”
Has he been hurt? It’s always a possibility. Dario’s a money man, but even money men get shot.
“He’s fine. Come on.” Ray’s already propelling me through the cavernous front hall.
“Are you sure?” He’s scaring me. His grasp is too tight. It hurts.
“Don’t worry about Dario.” Ray won’t look at me, and the way he says it implies that I should be worried. Maybe for myself. I didn’t do anything, though.
I am not the kind of Catholic with the guilt and shame. My dad’s side of the family tried their best to convince me I’m a sinner, but Mom always tried to break away from the housewife mold, and she was having none of it. She snuck me a copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves when I was thirteen, and when we were supposed to be going to confession, she’d take me for ice cream.
My heart twinges. I miss my mom every day. Dad, not so much. Life got easier when he was gone.
These are bleak thoughts. I try to shake them off as we get to the imposing oak door to Dario’s office. He mostly works from home, so he spends a lot of time in this room. It’s more like a library. Tons of bookshelves and a work station for his assistant Miles in addition to his own desk.
We’ve had many fun times on that desk.
I gulp down a calming breath. This is Dario. I didn’t do anything wrong. He loves me. I don’t need to worry.
Coming from a mob family, dating a made man, I know that’s not entirely true. But it soothes me enough that I’m able to smile brightly when Ray hustles me in and deposits me in front of Dario’s desk. Ray disappears, and I hear the soft snick of a door shutting. My nerves jangle.
Dario doesn’t look right. He’s rumpled. His jet-black hair is always combed back neatly, but it’s tousled, as if he’s been running his fingers through it. His tie is loose, and two buttons on his blue collared shirt are undone, one more than usual. My wariness surges.
“Is everything okay?” I blurt.
He stares at me, his brown eyes a muddy pool. Dario is always inscrutable. He’s not an easygoing guy. That’s what I bring to the relationship. But this glare is different than his usual intensity. Smoldering. Angry.
Fear trickles down my spine. My palms grow damp.
He doesn’t answer me right away. I squirm in my flip-flops. I wish I’d been able to change before he saw me. He hates me in T-shirts and yoga pants. Whenever he catches me wearing them, he asks if I need him to up my allowance.
I hate that he calls it my allowance. I do plenty around this house, and I’d still be working if he let me.
Finally, he exhales a small sigh. His angular jaw twitches.
“Come. Sit.” He pats his lap. The gesture’s affectionate, but it doesn’t match his eyes or the tension radiating from his stiff body.
My mouth goes dry. Something’s very wrong.
But this is Dario. He’s a dangerous man, but not to me. I’ve dated bad men before. Too many. Dario isn’t like that. He’s hard, but he’s never unfair. Never selfish or cruel.
I ease around the desk and hesitantly perch on his knees. He drags me back until I’m pressed to his chest, his arm firm around my waist. I inhale the spice of his aftershave and the musk that is naturally his, and some of the worry seeps from me. This is my man. I’m where I belong. I snuggle back, letting my legs dangle and rest against his.
“You love me, don’t you, Posy?” he murmurs, his breath hot on my ear.
“Yes, baby. Of course I do.”
“And you’d never betray me.” His voice lowers, and his hold tightens, pressing uncomfortably on my lowest ribs. I shift, try to give myself some breathing room. It doesn’t hurt—quite. But it’s not pleasant.
He pinches my chin in two fingers and swivels my head so he can reach my lips, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. He closes his eyes, something like grief contorting his features, the expression there for the briefest second and then gone.
He shushes me. “I want you to watch something with me.”
His lap top is in front of us. He taps the mouse, the screen comes to life, and my heart drops, the air whooshing from my lungs.