The Mobster's Property: An Age Gap Romance

By Isla Chiu

A hand that's just as cold as his voice covers my mouth.

"Don't bother screaming for help," the mobster says.

Impulsively, I bite his palm.

He asks, amused, "Was that intended to hurt me or arouse me?"

My blood turns icy with fear when he traces a pattern on my lips.

"Don't bite me again unless I tell you to," he says.

WORD COUNT: 8,500

A sexy short story about a young woman and a handsome mobster!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Isla Chiu
• Release date: Apr 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215566527

Isla Chiu

When I manage to tear myself away from taking Buzzfeed quizzes and watching unhealthy amounts of TV, I write romance and smut. My works feature alpha males, sexy times, and/or my sarcastic sense of humor. I hail from Cleveland, aka the best freaking city in the world, and believe LeBron James is the perfect human being. Despite all of my efforts, I have never truly been able to quit caffeine. My favorites include Taylor Swift, Florence + the Machine, and SHINee. I love to hate/hate to love k-dramas. If I say I’m on a diet, I’m just lying to you and myself. One of these days, I'm going to get hypertension from an excess of salt, both literal and figurative. If I'm awkward around you, I probably don't know what to say to you and/or I think you're hot. And despite what anyone says, Forrest Gump so deserved that Oscar over Pulp Fiction.

Book preview

The Mobster's Property

I STEP INTO THE OLD building. The place is warm. Well, warm-ish anyway. And it's dry. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a little puddle by the wall. Well, mostly dry.

Sighing, I pull my sweatshirts out of my backpack and lay them on the ground as makeshift bedding. The floor isn't exactly spotless but neither have my clothes been recently laundered.

I lie on my sweatshirts and look up at the ceiling. Last night, I was looking up at the stars because I was sleeping at the park. What a mistake that was. I was 3 hours into a not-so-restful sleep when a psychotic Canadian goose came charging at me. Luckily, I managed to gather my things and run away before the bird could peck me into an early grave.

Another sigh escapes me. I used to complain about my small lumpy twin-size bed back home, but I would give anything to sleep on it tonight.

Well, almost anything.

I could go back home and live under my father's roof again. But that would require me to apologize to him for calling him an asshole. And I would rather quite literally be homeless than apologize to him.

Because you see, I only told the truth. My dad is a fucking asshole because only an asshole would cheat on his wife while she was going through cancer. Not only cancer but terminal ovarian cancer.

My heart twists as I think of Mom. She passed away a year ago, but the pain of losing her is still so raw, as if it happened yesterday.

And the pain is made worse when I think of the text messages I found on my father's phone. Things that no girl should discover her dad has written. Things that were addressed to a woman who was not my mom and who has been having an affair with my dad for the last 3 years.

You don't know what it's like for a man to see his wife go through terminal cancer, Dad had the audacity to say to me when I confronted him.

I shouted, "Oh, boo hoo, do you know what it's like for a woman to go through terminal cancer, you fucking asshole?"

That was when Dad told me to get the hell out of his house and to not bother coming back until I’ve learned some manners and apologized for being so disrespectful.

Since I plan to say sorry to him over my cold corpse, I’m never coming back.

Just as I close my eyes, hoping for a more restful