When in Roma: A Mafia Hitman Bad Boy Romance

By Nikki Steele

As they say, when in Rome…

Yeah, yeah, I've seen the sex tape.
So what if Luca Androtti has the hottest ass I've ever seen.
Even low level mafia are out of bounds.
Besides, I'm a rookie cop who's never left the office.

But some bright spark at Interpol just sent me to Italy.
And now I'm pretending to be a high-class escort.
Slinky red dress. Kick ass heels. You get the picture.

Luca and I end up on the run. People start shooting.
Suddenly, things are a lot more real
And I'm convinced this mysterious, smoking hot Italian
Is more important than he says he is.
But then, we all have secrets.

He'll bring the mafia to its knees.
Me, too. If I'm not careful…

This is a standalone romance with a happy ending.

It is a gritty, sexy Steamy Romance between a bad boy mafia hitman and a beautiful Interpol agent. It contains some violence and a whole lotta SMOKING HOT scenes including a M/F relationship and a MFF encounter that'll have you fanning yourself with your ereader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nikki Steele
• Release date: Apr 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386230359

Book preview

01: Paige

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A shadow fell over my desk. Paige, I need you to look at a sex tape for me.

I almost spat out my coffee—which would have been bad, because spraying the Vice Director of Interpol was never a good look when you were new. I set my paper cup down carefully and swallowed, fighting the urge to adjust my knitted beige top. That’s... ah, an unusual request.

Vice Director Stephens closed the door to my office, then waddled with the aid of a cane to sit in a chair too small for his bulk. He pulled my monitor sideways so we could both see it, then called up a video on his portable tablet and transferred it to the larger screen.

Though he’d warned me, I still jumped as my keyboard turned pink in the surreal, frozen reflection of the most magnificent pair of buttocks I’d ever seen.

He chuckled, enjoying my reaction. Don’t worry, they’re not mine.

My paper cup sloshed when I tried to pick it up. I put it back down without taking a sip. That’s good to know, sir, I said, attempting and failing to act as if buttocks on my screen were an everyday occurrence.

Mario Luca Androtti. Or rather, his ass. Tell me what we know.

I frowned. He wanted me to analyze a pair of buttocks? I’d been told Interpol’s European office was a bit... full-on, but, Are you sure, sir?

He fixed me with a stare. I’m not in the habit of second guessing myself, Ms. Sullivan.

Yikes! I turned my attention to the screen. I had limited experience with naked men, but the buttocks did seem rather nice—perfectly shaped, and masculine. A single bead of sweat glistened, paused in frozen glory at the top of one cheek, itching to roll downward.

Was this a test? Hazing the new girl? Vice Director Stephens didn’t seem the sort to encourage college pranks, and technically, I wasn’t really new— just on transfer from America’s Data Analysis Division. I’d thought moving to England would make life more interesting. I’d forgotten that spreadsheets looked the same wherever you worked in the world. 

Those buttocks were something different, though. They stared at me, taunting me. And my boss was still waiting for an answer. They’re good sir, I ventured. When in doubt, fall back into analysis mode. "I’m not an authority on the matter, but I’d say whoever this Androtti person is works out. Slight indents on the side speak of a broad stance and heavily muscled body. The sweat suggests recent exertion."

The Vice Director’s bulk shifted, the chair beneath him groaning in protest. He cleared his throat. I was hoping to get specifics about the man himself, Ms. Sullivan. Perhaps you could pull up his file?

Oh, I said, my cheeks hot. I was such an idiot. Yes sir, of course.

I squeezed my eyes shut briefly, centering myself—those buttocks really were distracting—then brought up Interpol’s records on a second screen. Mario Luca Androtti, I said. Shall I summarize, sir?

He nodded. Please.

I scanned the notes. There were surprisingly few entries in his file. Records show a brief incarceration five years ago. I frowned. "For littering, of all things. But there’s a note here that says he might have low level connections with la Famiglia Romano?"

Vice Director Stephens nodded. Correct. Italy’s largest Mafia organization, headed by Ricardo Romano. Unlike this Androtti character, Romano is a top priority—we’ve never had anything on him.

I glanced at the buttocks again. A mistake, because now I had visions of that bead of perspiration running in a slow trail down his high-definition flesh. Um...

The Vice Director raised an eyebrow. Never seen an arse before, Ms. Sullivan?

No, sir. I’m practically a virgin, sir. Just wondering how the buttocks—I mean, Mario Androtti—relate, sir.

The Vice Director pressed play on his tablet. Watch and learn.

The screen before me came to life, but the perspiration didn’t slide down slowly, as I’d imagined. Instead, muscles flexed, divots appeared in Mario Androtti’s cheeks and the bead of sweat flew toward the sky as the entire body jerked upward. Long, shapely legs fell into view—not Androtti’s legs, I realized after a moment’s confusion—but someone else’s, wrapped around his torso. There was no sound.

I frowned, unsure what was happening.

The buttocks moved away from the camera. Now I could see Androtti’s thighs, tensed. Above the buttocks was a muscled back crisscrossed by long, feminine legs. The buttocks clenched again. The legs jerked up and down, and a hand with red painted nails clawed across his back. Blonde hair and wide eyes appeared briefly over one shoulder.

Holy cow. My jaw dropped. I was watching two people have sex.

The blonde’s head appeared again at the apex of a hard thrust, her eyes wide, her mouth open in silent pleasure. She disappeared, then reappeared a third time, then a fourth, then a fifth, before they moved away from the hidden camera to crash against a wall. Hips ground together. Her hands raked through his hair, then down his back.

He grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head. Her eyes rolled up in pleasure. And he just kept going and going and going.

I swallowed, glancing across to the Vice Director. His attention was fixed on the screen.

The dirty pervert: I bet this was turning him on.

Not me. Just because this Androtti character had the finest butt I’d ever seen, and his stamina was already greater than both my previous experiences combined, I wasn’t getting all hot and sweaty and...

I crossed my legs with another swallow. Well, it was natural to be turned on, wasn’t it? The woman had an expression on her face I hadn’t known was humanly possible.

He only let her down when she collapsed upon his shoulder in spent bliss. I felt like slumping too—that feeling between my legs... maybe I wouldn’t uncross them quite yet.

I could only see Androtti’s back. He was leaning with one hand against the wall. But the woman? She was beautiful. And naked. Flowing blonde hair whipped as she shook it back, her luscious red lips parting. Perfect breasts flashed as she leaned into him. Her nipples were a shade lighter than her mouth.

She whispered something in his ear. He nodded, then she dropped to her knees.

My eyes went wide. Holy cow. She’s going to... she’s going to... I couldn’t bring myself to think the words, my mind blanking in excited terror. My hands slipped to my lap. My thighs pressed tighter.

She looked up at him again, saying something with a smile, then turned away and reached for a box of tissues.

My brain—which until now was far too focused on a cute butt and a back knotted with muscle—thumped back into gear. Because as soon as the woman turned from Androtti, his shoulders slumped. It was so at odds with everything else that it niggled—especially as I watched his shoulders straighten again when she returned to face him, as if he didn’t want her to see. I leaned toward the playback controls and hit rewind to watch the scene again, my face only inches from the screen. There it was again, the slump. Odd.

I puzzled over the reaction as Androtti held up a hand, commanded the woman to wait, and then walked off-screen. He returned close to the camera, only his hard, ridged abs visible, to write on a notepad which he left within view. I tried to read it but autofocus tracked moving objects—in this case Androtti, returning to re-position himself before his lover.

I sucked in a breath as I glimpsed his side profile for the first time. Holy-cow-that-can’t-be-real. He was huge—her hand barely fit around him.

My lips parted as I leaned forward. The woman on the screen did the same. Her mouth stretched wide. I held my breath as she brought him to her lips.

The Vice Director cleared his throat. Yes, well I’m sure you can guess what came next, he said, hitting the fast-forward button. He smirked. It goes on for quite a while, trust me.

I sat up straight, my cheeks hot and my heart pounding—I’d almost forgotten he was in the room. Slowly, discretely, I withdrew my hand from between my legs.

The video continued to fast forward. Little flashes pushed into my brain—stills grabbed from the speeding video by a wondering mind. Her cheeks, puckered. His back arched. Her hand between her own legs.

When the Vice Director pressed play once more the scene had ended. The woman in the video stood. He handed her a wad of cash.

I sucked in a breath. A prostitute?

The Vice Director shifted, his jowls wobbling. Here we are. This is what we want to see.

Oh no it’s not. You skipped that bit.

With a struggle, I pushed the thought from my mind. I was working, not fantasizing. And I wasn’t the sort of girl who wished to see what had been fast forwarded. Not at all.

On screen, the woman put on a slinky red dress and left. Androtti followed soon after.

With no other movement, the camera’s focus returned to the closest object to it—a forgotten notepad, the one I’d barely registered, earlier. On it was a scrawled message.

I have evidence on Romano. Send an agent to collect, not a local.

The video froze on the notepad. The Vice Director turned to face me.

He knew he was being filmed, I whispered. My clenched muscles relaxed, carnal desires for the moment forgotten.

He nodded. We were performing random surveillance hoping to catch something that would lead to Romano. It seems we did. The huge, overweight man paced my office, using his walking cane for support. It’s unlikely, but there is a chance Mr. Androtti has incriminating evidence against la Famiglia Romano.

A chance, sir? I asked, looking at that notepad once again.

He stopped his pacing to turn to me. Ms. Sullivan, Androtti is a low level operative so obscure we barely know his name—a soldier, the mafia term for those at the wrong end of the food chain. The chance that he has anything decent is remote, but if he does, it’s important—we need to keep this off the record until we know for sure.

He fixed me with a stare. Do you understand? This came straight to me, I came straight to you. I’d like to investigate further before I involve anyone else.

So it was a cataloguing job, then. Not quite data and analysis, but still within my jurisdiction. I sighed—for a moment there, I’d hoped...

But no. They’d never send someone like me into the field. Field agents were trained in seduction, espionage and self-defense. They won every fight they started because they were trained to kill. I’d never been in a fight; I couldn’t even hurt a fly—literally, I was so against violence that I preferred opening a window and shooing them out rather than swatting at the poor creatures. The office was where I belonged.

The Vice Director was still talking—explaining, I assumed, why he wanted me to process the video and not someone else. With la Famiglia Romano aware of our field agents, we’re left with making less than perfect choices—an operative from the office, who has never worked in Europe before...

Mario Androtti knew we were filming him. He’d made a choice to not just leave a notepad, but to put on a show. Who did that? How confident—how cocky did you have to be to perform so well under pressure?

Images flashed again through my mind. Androtti’s perfect buttocks tensing with each thrust; the woman on her knees, his hands in her hair.

...agent with the physical characteristics that fit the profile he will best respond to—female, brunette, non-threatening....

Mario Androtti knew we were filming him. And I’d watched it, open-mouthed—turned on with not a shred of professional detachment. What did that make me? I should feel dirty. I should be ashamed.

Paige? Paige, are you listening?

I’m sorry, I said, Yes, of course.

Good. Because you leave this evening.

"I... what?"

The Vice Director handed me a thin folder. I said, you leave for Rome this evening. I suggest you get packing.

02: Mario

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The ancient Roman Forum disappeared as I closed my eyes, enjoying the bitter scent of my coffee—breathing it in; delighting in the way the warm, rich aroma brought my senses alive as I held the tiny cup a hairsbreadth from my lips.

When Ricordo and I were young he’d often argued that America’s greatest crime was the Atomic Bomb. I’d disagreed, insisting it was how they treated an espresso.

Tourists, they took it like a shot—one gulp, straight down and wasted. They didn’t understand the beauty of the pause—the deep breath of anticipation; the sip that electrified the palate.

I touched the cardboard cup to my lips, tilting it, the liquid rolling over my tongue. Tourists didn’t understand the-

My face screwed up. I spat to the side, tipping the remainder onto worn marble paving. Bah. That’d teach me to order from a tourist vendor.

Scanning the crowd for my Interpol contact, the scabs on my knuckles cracked as I crushed the espresso cup into a ball. The Roman Forum had seemed such a good idea for a meeting place—public everywhere, a million exits, and no vehicle access. If it came to a gunfight there was plenty of cover.

If only I’d stopped to consider the coffee.

I threw the crumpled cup to one side. Interpol would be here soon. The coffee could wait.

I wanted out of this business. I was sick of the violence. Sick of the killing. Sick of the stain it left on my soul. Meeting with Interpol today was the first step along a path that I hoped would one day set me free.

I scanned the ruins from beneath the shadows of huge, imposing columns, this time picking out my contact as she entered the Forum. From the prim beige blouse that said business, not tourist, to the absence of a camera, backpack or guidebook, I knew who she was immediately.

And she kept touching her blouse at her neck—I’d bet my next espresso that she wore a wire.

My lips drew into a thin, unimpressed line as she bumped into a tourist and jumped backward. Even from this distance I could tell she didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t blend in, she wasn’t being careful, she wasn’t looking to see if she was being followed—she was too busy staring around herself in wonder.

This was the best they could do? Interpol didn’t know my real role within la Famiglia, but still!

I almost walked away. My instincts told me to shift deeper into the shadows and disappear. They’d never find me again. It was only with my help they’d found me in the first place.

Something stopped me, though. I traced a finger along the scar on my jaw line, trying to work out what it was. Something about this woman made me want to stay—not how she dressed, which was cute, even if it was inappropriate. Not her hips either, which swayed as she bumped between tourists and had me salivating—I was stronger than that. I watched her for several minutes, trying to pinpoint what it was.

The wonder, I realized. It was that sense of wonder. She looked around herself as if she’d never been outside before. Everything was new, and fresh, and remarkable.

I’d had that look once, before la Famiglia. It was a look born of innocence that couldn’t be faked. Once it was lost, you never got it back.

She’d even stopped! On her way to a meeting that would change her life, she’d stopped in the winter sun and now looked in awe at ancient stone arches. It should have made me impatient. But instead it made me smile. Let her enjoy herself. Let her forget, for a moment, why she was here—it wasn’t a luxury I’d enjoyed myself since Ricardo and I were 18. Not since he’d handed me a bloodied, golden gun.

I folded my arms, leaning against the pillar as my small smile grew larger. More details appeared as she got closer—the sensible shoes that were great for an office but were oh-so-inappropriate on the grass infused cobblestones. The tight bun that did her hair such an injustice. The figure that she couldn’t quite hide as the winter sun made her pause and remove a long, warm coat.

Was the look on purpose? She could be ravishing if she wanted. Perhaps this was Interpol’s plan—to show me that they didn’t play games: that fake women and honey-trapped victims weren’t their style.

I shifted from the shadows as she passed, clearing my throat. "Buongiorno, signora."

She started, her hand going to her collarbone again. Her eyes grew wide in recognition.

"Mi scusi, I said, unable to hide my grin at her reaction. I didn’t mean to scare you."

She looked left and right, as if she was in an old spy movie. I ah, I’m here to-

I know why you’re here.

I, um... should I have a code word, or something?

I chuckled. Would you like to have one? It could be anything you want. My eyes lingered over her curves. "Sei incantevole, perhaps, I said, eyes meeting hers, or, belissima."

Her eyes went wide, arms crossing subconsciously over her chest—a rabbit before a hawk.

I laughed, taking pity on her, and shook my head. No code word signora, just business.

It’s Paige.

"Scusa?"

My name is Paige. She had a northwest American accent—neutral vowels, sweet and soothing—though she was trying hard to sound fierce.

Paige. I rolled the name on my tongue, conscious of my own accent. Pay-je. "Molto lieto di conoscerla. Very pleased to meet you."

You said you had something for us.

Straight to the point. Well, we meet in public, but maybe we talk in private, yes?

I came alone. You’ve got nothing to fear.

So innocent. She thought I was worried about Interpol. "Perhaps we just say then that I need a decent espresso. You have tried Italian coffee, yes?"

She shook her head.

"Non è possible!" I said. We must fix this right now! May I take your arm? I asked, motioning toward the exit.

I’m... I’m not sure that would be appropriate.

Perfect then, I said, taking her arm through mine. I am Italian. I’m never appropriate. We walked arm in arm toward the exit.

I glanced behind us as we left. As I’d suspected, five Italian tourists, each previously spread out across the ruins, had turned, converged, and were following.

03: Paige

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Shivers ran in an arc up and down my spine, making my heart thump and my skin tingle where we touched.

Mario Androtti. The criminal. The lover. When he’d appeared from the shadows all I’d been able to think, in those first few moments, was that I’d seen him naked, and he was much more handsome in real life. Half a foot taller than me, his broad, muscular shoulders filled a v-neck t-shirt with just the right amount of tight—snug across the chest, but loose at the navel. A sports jacket was slung casually over one arm.

There were other things I hadn’t noticed in the video: a small scar, almost invisible, that ran two inches down his right jaw line. A slightly offset nose. And an intensity to his olive eyes that, if our gaze met at two hundred yards could have pierced and held me even then.

I shivered again at the touch of biceps I remembered all too well from my dreams last night. He had a... physicality to him that didn’t translate from the video. Here, in the flesh, there was something magnetic that drew me closer—not just his looks, or the bulge of his muscles, but a charm that I hadn’t expected. When those eyes crinkled as he smiled at me, it made my skin tingle. I’d never imagined I’d feel this way when we actually met.

He talked as we walked—polite conversation about the ruins we passed through; questions about my flight. My answers were short and awkward. I didn’t trust myself with anything longer.

We stopped two streets from the Agora, at the tiniest café I’d ever seen—two battered wooden stools at a small round table, and an ancient man at an even older coffee machine. The old man called out in greeting as Androtti and I approached—something in Italian that was energetic and affectionate. He made a great display of dusting non-existent dirt from the stools.

Then