Broken Bride: Blood Empire, #2

By Blake York

I'm a bride he doesn't want to claim. And I will do anything in my power to keep it that way.

They call me Gabriel's girl, but say it to my face and I will cut your heart out.

The Rossis are ruthless. They will crush anyone in their path to the top.

That happens to be me. But joke's on them—I'm far from whole and have nothing to lose. Some say that makes me dangerous too.

I won't be a pawn or a plaything.

Unfortunately, my heart didn't get the memo.

If arranged marriage and organized crime with dirty jerk alpha heroes is your thing, CLICK to read this book if you dare to open the door and look upon the darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blake York
• Release date: Feb 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215022153

Book preview

I’m a bride he doesn’t want to claim. And I will do anything in my power to keep it that way.

They call me Gabriel’s girl, but say it to my face and I will cut your heart out.

The Rossis are ruthless. They will crush anyone in their path to the top.

That happens to be me. But joke’s on them—I’m far from whole and have nothing to lose. Some say that makes me dangerous too.

I won’t be a pawn or a plaything.

Unfortunately, my heart didn’t get the memo.

Broken Bride

The Blood Empire Series Book 2

A picture containing dark, plant, flower Description automatically generated

Chapter I

Gabriel

March 14, a year ago

It’s Steak and Blow Job Day. That means I’ve got a 16 oz. medium rare ribeye in my stomach and a beautiful woman’s lips wrapped around my cock.

The steak was great—the girl not half bad.

She’s on her knees, peering up at me with big brown eyes. Her lashes are lush, and so are her tits spilling out of the bodice of her dress. One small pink nipple rides the edge of the cloth it’s shelfed on, and when she wiggles, she moans as it brushes the fabric.

I couldn’t give a fuck less about her pleasure, though, and honestly, she probably doesn’t either. She wants a piece of the Rossis. She’s going to get a thousand pieces—in the form of my sperm sliding down her throat.

I fist her hair and yank it to the side in order to watch my erection ease into her throat. I want to see her swallow hard and fast as I unload in her.

But then she changes the rhythm on me, and if I was close to coming, I’m not now.

What the fuck’s the matter with you? I demand.

With my cock still in her throat, she flicks her eyes sideways to the door.

I turn my head and see my old man standing there.

Christ, can’t a man even get a blow job without being interrupted? I yell at him.

Vincent Rossi isn’t a man to be moved. He’s seen it all, both on the streets and from his sons. There are five of us, and all of our names mean strength.

Pull up your pants, Gabriel. We’re having a family meeting. He walks out, leaving the door hanging open.

Fuck! I slam my palm into the wall it’s braced on.

The woman starts sucking again, but I yank my dick out of her mouth and step away. We’re done here, I grind out, not because I need to come and didn’t get my chance—I’m sick to death of my old man running my life.

But with the Rossi name comes a long list of demands and codes. I’m second in succession. If my older brother Anders falls, the empire falls to me.

The woman shifts to her petite feet clad in high heels and slips her tits farther from her bodice. With them cupped in her hands—on offer—she looks up at me. Later?

I slice a look at her that sends her running for the door, tits still out.

Taking my time, I shove my hard dick back in my black suit pants and zip the fly. By the time I walk out of the office and into the main part of the house, the slut’s gone.

Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, leading me by way of their glow to the dining room, where I hear voices. More voices than only the Rossis’. Maybe my old man has a few bastards he’s decided to claim.

When I step into the room, my father doesn’t even look up from his hand of cards.

I throw a look at my brother, Anders. Fuck. What now?

We all knew from a young age the minute you saw the old man holding a fan of cards, your life was about to change. A deal was on the table, and by the looks of it, between La eMe—the Mexican mafia—my old man, Vincent Rossi himself...and the German?

What the fuck’s Unger doing here? I blast out to Anders. I didn’t bother to check my voice, and the man who looks to have served the Nazi party glances my way, a cigar stub smoking from the corner of his lips.

My other brothers are gathered around the table, watching as if they have something to learn. Fact is, they all fucking do. A bunch of puppies who haven’t committed half the crimes I did by their age. If our mother was alive, they’d still be sucking on her tit.

Anders draws his own cigarette to his mouth and takes a long pull. Smoke curls from the corner, and he sucks that in too before exhaling all of it in a fog.

You’re not gonna answer me? I ask.

His black eyes carry a light that has me immediately on edge.

What’s on the line now? The West Side hotels? I’ve seen it before—turf wars came with ground exchanging hands. Whole neighborhoods, city blocks and apartment buildings were the most lucrative for drug deals. But lately, the dealers were killing it with hotels on the West Side, where cocaine and fentanyl are the vice of choice.

Anders grunts. This ain’t no Monopoly game, Gabriel.

The room’s silent. Tense. I have no goddamn idea what’s happening, but my gut instinct’s good, and it’s telling me shit’s going down.

I grab the cigarette from Anders’ hand, throw it down, and crush it into the Persian rug. The stench of burning wool rising up along with tobacco.

My brother looks as if he’s about to throw a punch at me or laugh his ass off.

Tell me what’s going on!

This time, the men at the table look up at me, and so does my father. He flicks his fingers like the goddamn Godfather, but like the little dog he believes me to be, I stride forward.

When I approach the long, heavy table, I see what’s in the pot aren’t addresses, just like Anders told me they weren’t.

They’re photos of women.

I see one that might have been the Hispanic who’d been sucking me off a few minutes ago. They all look the same to me, but I don’t think so.

Leveling a look at my father, I wait for him to get to the point.

What the fuck is this? I demand.

He shoots me a look that I’ve been getting since I figured out I despise him, like he’s willing to take any action to quell my disrespect.

You’ll see.

I can’t see the hand of cards he protects, but I’m willing to lay down my own bet that I’m involved.

My youngest brother, Warrick, snickers. The little punk ass is about to taste my fist and a few shattered teeth if he doesn’t stop laughing at my expense.

Bracing my hands on the table, I lean over and look my father dead in the eye as he makes his final play, the one that wins the game.

He throws down his cards. Unger and the Mexican groan.

Then the Mexican picks up the photo of the girl and tosses it at my old man. She’s yours. But you can’t claim her until she’s twenty-one. That’s my one condition.

That’s all? My father is amused, lips quirked and a glimmer in his eye. You’re not gonna tell us not to mistreat her?

The Mexican shoves back from the table. She’s a daughter. Not even mine now.

He turns and walks to the door but pauses and shoots me a look dead in the eyes. Good luck.

I glare in return.

The man disappears, shown out of the mansion by our men and probably tailed the entire way home.

I land my glare on my father. Before I can bellow the question burning in my throat, my father barks, Ungers, and the German tosses down his losing hand, rises and takes his leave too.

Alone, just us Rossis, my brothers take their usual seats at the table, leaving me to stand at my father’s right hand.

I shove away from the table and rake my fingers through my hair. Somebody better goddamn tell me what’s going on.

Anders reaches to the center of the table and with a fingertip pinning the photo to the surface, he drags it toward me. Meet your bride, Gabriel.

I stare at the woman’s face.

Goddammit. My father threatened to force each of us into an arranged marriage. He did it with Anders, and his wife is upstairs right now with that annoying pet bird of hers that never shuts up and the old man threatened to have roasted for Sunday dinner many a day.

Silence rings in my ears, deadened only by the thud of my pulse.

A fucking wife.

What the fuck am I gonna do with a fucking wife? I burst.

Warrick’s laughing