Vendetta: A Dark Mafia Assassin Romance

By Lara Norman

Creed Cruz is an expert hitman who lives by one rule: obey orders without question. But when his boss assigns him a chilling task—abduct his oldest friend's daughter and hold her hostage—he finds himself torn between duty and his own desires.

 

As Creed infiltrates Nova Arden's life, blending in with her family and even winning over their loyal pet, he doesn't expect to be so captivated by his target. Nova refuses to surrender without a fight, igniting a dangerous game of cat and mouse between them. The more she resists, the more Creed's forbidden lust for her intensifies, pushing the boundaries of his devotion to the job.

 

With the ransom deadline looming, Creed faces an impossible decision. Will he find redemption through the woman he was sent to destroy, or will he succumb to the sinister forces that threaten to tear them apart forever?

 

This book was previously published in the Corrupt Intentions anthology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LPN Publishing
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224487165

Lara Norman

Lara used to scribble her fictional characters down on legal pads in high school, and then not show them to anyone. In recent years, she started posting her work in public forums for feedback, which gave her the courage to publish professionally.  She needs copious amounts of coffee and chocolate to survive. She enjoys eavesdropping on the character conversations in her head, which she has been assured doesn’t make her crazy. She always gets the best ideas while in the shower, driving, or about to fall asleep. Though she’s a Florida girl at heart, Lara currently resides in the Blue Ridge Mountains with her husband of twenty years and their three children, where she is living out her own happily ever after with the boy she met at age fifteen.

Book preview

Prologue

Creed

Exhaling silently, I eased my finger over the trigger and tugged it gently, treating it more like a lover than a means to an end. I barely took the time to witness the destruction my bullet caused, grabbing my rifle and its stand in a smooth motion before plucking my spent brass off the rooftop and hightailing it out of there.

The death of the man bleeding out below didn’t faze me in the slightest. All I wanted now was a cigarette and a healthy three fingers of Glenfiddich to finish out my day. Though I wouldn't say no to a good, hard fuck, there was no one I could call at the last minute to fulfill my needs in that department.

Metal clanged against metal as I descended the fire escape, checking the ground below me the instant before I made the final jump. My shins protested the extra few feet as I landed, sprinting for the corner and the waiting car. Since I didn’t trust anybody, I didn’t have a getaway driver idling that shit for me. Too bad for me because the early spring evening had decided to be a coldhearted bitch, and I shivered in my leather jacket. Tossing all my gear into the backseat, I hurried to jump in the front so I could get the fuck out of there.

Shoving the key in the ignition, I peeled out to the tune of wailing sirens. Apparently, the jackhole had friends and family who gave enough of a fuck to call the authorities.

They couldn't do anything for him now. If he hadn't met the devil the instant my bullet pierced his frontal lobe, he was certainly dead by now. Maybe the grieving widow could put him on life support and pretend to herself he’d make a full recovery one day if only she believed it hard enough.

Snorting, I fished a cigarette out of the pack in my pocket and pinched it between my lips. I just managed to light it and turn the corner simultaneously, taking the back roads to my house.

My cell rang at the same time as my garage door closed behind me. Seeing Jensen Marsh’s name light up on the screen pissed me the hell off.

In lieu of a standard greeting, I barked, Don’t I always call you once I’m done?

Oh, I forgot you had a client tonight. It was unusual for my boss, head of the mafia cartel in the area, to forget anything, much less a scheduled hit. Listen, Creed, I need to ask a favor.

Taking another drag, I blew out loudly against the speaker while closing the car door behind me and going inside. Unless this favor comes with a payout, you know my answer.

It's important.

I’m all ears. Shouldering the phone, I finished my cigarette and stubbed it out so I could pour the scotch I’d sat there envisioning for hours on that damn rooftop while my fingers threatened to go numb on me.

It’s about the Ardens.

Your best buddy, Cassius Arden? Now he had my attention. What could he possibly want me to do with them?

The very same. He paused, leaving me enough time to wonder what the fuck was up. Jensen and Cassius had been friends for decades, and that was saying a lot when one of them was a criminal and one was a politician. I need you to go undercover as his daughter’s bodyguard.

That wasn’t in my wheelhouse in the slightest. Is she in trouble?

You could say that.

I’d swallowed down most of the scotch by then, letting the warmth spread through my otherwise empty chest. I’m not interested in babysitting someone’s brat.

There’s money in it.

There’d better be. Just him fucking asking me was offensive. Why her and why me?

It’s part of a bigger plan, Creed. I can’t go into the specifics right now, but I need you to start off as her bodyguard and then I’ll give you further instructions down the road.

Unless you want one of the Ardens dead, why would you choose me for this particular favor?

Who said I didn’t want one of them dead?

For several long seconds, silence wrapped around me like the whisper of a bitter wind. You want your closest friend dead?

As I said, I can’t go into specifics right now. Are you in or not?

I settled in my favorite leather chair, the one with the view of the city outside my wall of windows. How much is the payout?

Hundred upfront, and fifty every month until I give you the next set of instructions. Once you move forward with the rest of my plan, I’ll drop a million in your offshore account.

My eyebrows shot up. You’re giving me hundreds of thousands of dollars to keep an eye on a kid for a few months?

She’s not a kid, for one thing. Daddy wants her protection bumped up over the summer, so he’s looking to train fresh meat now.

How old are we talking? This conversation required another cigarette, which I pulled out and lit while he replied.

Just turned eighteen, and you’re not to touch the fucking merchandise, Cruz. Not one fingertip.

Chuckling, I sucked on my smoke and blew it out in his ear. I don’t play with little girls.

All I’m saying is, the job doesn't entail helping her become a woman.

Ew. So, I follow the princess around the city all day, and then what?

And then you infiltrate the family so deeply they consider you one of them. A long-lost brother, a cousin, what the fuck ever. You suck up to them until they trust you enough to be her primary guard, and then you wait for my call.

I could tell he was on the verge of hanging up on me in frustration, so I needed to give him my answer. On one hand, it wasn't in my normal job description, but on the other hand, it was a shit ton of money.

Naturally, I had to needle him a little. You sure it’s worth the money, Marsh? You won’t change your mind later and renege on me when you remember your decades-long bromance with Cassius?

Have I ever fucked you over, Creed Cruz? he bit out.

Fine, I’ll play babysitter for your friend’s daughter. But don't bring this type of work to me again. I’m a fucking hitman, not a daycare center.

Understood. For the record, this is a special project that I can’t trust giving to just anyone. That’s why I picked you.

Interesting. Fine. I’ll expect the first payment immediately.

It’ll be in your account by morning.

Tonight’s target is taken care of, by the way. Since you forgot to ask.

He sighed heavily in my ear. Thanks.

I hung up, finishing my cigarette and my scotch. What could Jensen Marsh have up his sleeve that he’d pull me from killing his enemies and put me on security detail for his friend’s little princess instead?

Chapter One

Nova

Move over, kid.

Throwing popcorn at Creed’s face, I scooted over so he could sit beside me on the couch. We were about to watch a movie in the living room attached to my bedroom suite, which was secretly one of my favorite pastimes. I didn’t know how in God's name I’d gotten so lucky when Daddy hired the new bodyguards, but this guy had no idea how big my crush on him was.

I could never tell him. It was one of Daddy’s biggest rules that the staff couldn’t touch me.

As if. Rolling my eyes, I turned to face the screen. Someone like Creed had zero interest in me, which was why my attraction had to remain a secret. But he was so darn hot, I could barely stand to look at him. His black hair was always combed neatly when he arrived in the mornings, but he messed it up almost immediately after arriving. He claimed it was because I stressed him out, but I tried very hard to listen to all his instructions.

The last thing I wanted was Creed telling Daddy I was misbehaving, especially since he might rotate the guards so I didn’t have the same ones anymore. I couldn't handle that. In my head, Creed Cruz was my personal bodyguard, there to protect me from Daddy’s enemies because he wanted me safe, not because he was paid well and was part of a unit of several guards who rotated regularly.

It felt as though Creed lived there with us. I should have had the type of secret service-style bodyguards provided to Daddy—since he was a senator—but he didn't trust anyone. Hence the five guys who rotated watching over me, who Daddy had vetted through his best friend. Though he’d been in my life since I was a baby, I didn’t actually know much about Jensen Marsh. He would pop in if we were having a party, then disappear with Daddy to smoke cigars and have drinks in the study. Mother said that type of activity was strictly for the men, and I was not allowed to even enter the study if my parents had friends over.

Despite having a legion of men to keep me safe, Creed was there the most. Daddy liked him a lot, even going as far as calling him son occasionally. I would love to have him as a big brother—only not really. Can’t throw yourself at your big brother.

Seriously, kid? This one again?

Frowning down into my bowl, I wished I had the nerve to tell him I was not a kid. He preferred to call me by that nickname instead of Nova. All I said was, It’s my favorite, you know that.

He grunted instead of commenting, and I noticed he moved further away when I settled into the cushions. Can’t touch the merchandise.

Every night, he and I did something together after dinner. We played board games, and he taught me to play poker. Or we watched a movie, made snacks, and settled together on my only couch. He rarely looked me directly in the eyes, and never touched me. Not even an accidental brushing of fingertips. Part of me tried to rationalize it by saying he didn’t like to be touched by anyone, but I’d witnessed my mother resting her hand on his shoulder, and he didn’t flinch away. My dad shook his hand, and he loved to let our toy poodle, LuLu, sit on his lap.

So it was just the idea of touching me that he loathed.

By the time the movie credits rolled, I couldn’t stop yawning. I wanted to ask Creed to carry me to bed, but I didn't. Instead, I struggled to keep my eyes open as I trudged through the short hall past my bathroom that separated the two rooms of my suite.

Nighty-night, he said sarcastically, closing the bedroom door behind me.

Ugh. One day, I would tell him how I felt. Maybe I would have to be older and more street savvy. Maybe once I no longer needed him to guard me, then I could tell him how much I wanted him to see me as a grown woman. But Daddy was determined to treat me as an immature child who couldn't make her own decisions, much less date a man. Even though I was now closer to nineteen than eighteen, they all treated me like a child.

And now, I was headed to college in a few weeks. What I wanted and what was going to happen were not the same thing. I wanted to be a photographer, specifically shooting wildlife, but my parents insisted I go to Grandview Women’s College so I could become a faceless drone in the privileged society my parents reigned in. Even then, I sincerely doubted they would see me as an autonomous adult, capable of my own thoughts and opinions. The last thing I wanted to do with my life was to become a photojournalist, stuck writing the society pages and the who’s who of Hidden Hills. Taking pictures of Sally Waterston and her newest beau, asking who made her dress, and having to pretend to give a crap made me want to gag. If I were honest, they’d probably try to marry me off to someone they owed a favor to rather than allow me to work.

Since Daddy was otherwise known as Senator Arden, we had personas to uphold. He’d ingrained it in me since I was in diapers, and there was no straying from that vision of his. Manners, interacting in society, and presenting myself well were the only things they cared about. Individual thoughts, dreams, and goals were nowhere to be found.

Stripping off my clothes, I changed into pajamas covered in cartoon cats and sat on the foot of my bed. Gazing down at myself, I realized why Creed never looked at me twice. My legs were long, but I wasn’t at all well-endowed, with flat breasts better suited to a preteen and a slender waist. My nanny used to say I had the opposite of childbearing hips, and that I’d struggle to birth babies when I got to that age.

I was kind of glad she was no longer needed at the house.

My best feature was my hair; a soft strawberry blonde I inherited from my mother. Along with that, I’d gained her large brown eyes, but I longed for turquoise eyes like Creed’s. Though they were too pretty for a man, they somehow fit his rough, street-fighter face.

Scrambling up to my pillow, I sighed heavily. My pink cat pajamas weren’t beguiling; they didn't entice anyone and didn’t present me as a full-grown woman. By design—my parents’ design—everything in my life was meant to infantilize me. Even the family dog wore little pink outfits every day. My mother enjoyed dressing her up like a four-legged doll, and I suppose that’s what she did with me too. College was my best hope at an escape, however tightly controlled it might be.

I fell asleep dreaming of Creed taking me away from there, to some place exotic where we could carve out a life for ourselves.

I woke with disappointment in my heart, knowing none of my dreams would ever come to fruition.

By the time I’d dressed and gone down to breakfast, Creed stood by the dining room doors. As far as I knew, he went home at night, but sometimes it appeared as if he lived there full time. Standing sentry with his hands folded in front of him, he didn’t so much as glance at me as I entered the room.

In my head, I screamed, "Look at me! I’m right here in front of you!" In reality, I sat at the table and unfolded my napkin over my lap.

Our housekeeper came in with platters of food, setting it all on the table and then leaving again. Mother and Daddy weren’t there yet, but I didn’t hesitate to take food while it was hot. Since there was no one to tell me I was taking too much and that I would only get fat if I ate that much bacon—AKA my mother—I piled my plate high.

Save some for your parents, kid.

Startled, I lifted my head to find Creed watching me. Feeling guilty at getting caught being greedy, I hastily shoveled half the eggs back on the platter, feeling my face flush deep red.

I was joking.

God, I was such an idiot. Why did I care what he thought? My mother usually makes some comment about my weight if I take too much food.

What weight? he asked with amusement. You’re a stick.

Yeah, I know. An ugly, curveless stick. I just shrugged instead of responding out loud.

Next thing I knew, Creed was leaning over the table, dumping scrambled eggs on my plate. Eat.

I . . . But I didn’t know what to say to that. Thanks?

Christ, he muttered, returning to his post at the door.

God, he made me feel incredibly childish for hiding food from my parents before they arrived for breakfast. I was an imbecile.

But I devoured the eggs so they wouldn’t have the chance to see how much food I had on my plate. Three pieces of bacon and a croissant later, I sat back in my chair completely sated.

You’re not a bird, so stop eating like one.

It’s easier to go along with what they say than to listen to their constant criticism.

Neither