Shattered by Control: A Dark Mafia Romance Read online

  Shattered by Control

  BB Hamel

  Contents

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  Trigger Warning

  1. Mirella

  2. Fynn

  3. Mirella

  4. Mirella

  5. Mirella

  6. Fynn

  7. Mirella

  8. Mirella

  9. Mirella

  10. Mirella

  11. Fynn

  12. Fynn

  13. Mirella

  14. Mirella

  15. Fynn

  16. Mirella

  17. Mirella

  18. Mirella

  19. Fynn

  20. Mirella

  21. Mirella

  22. Mirella

  23. Mirella

  24. Fynn

  25. Mirella

  26. Fynn

  27. Mirella

  28. Fynn

  29. Mirella

  30. Fynn

  31. Mirella

  32. Fynn

  33. Mirella

  34. Mirella

  Preview: Possessive Devil

  Also by BB Hamel

  Copyright © 2022 by B. B. Hamel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Coverluv Book Designs

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  Trigger Warning

  This book contains graphic descriptions of sexual content, explicit violence, some mild drug use, and past trauma. These scenes were written to create a more vivid, in-depth experience, but may be triggering for some readers.

  Read at your own risk.

  Chapter 1

  Mirella

  I haven’t spoken to my father in ten years and now he wants to get me a job.

  I almost didn’t show up to this interview. I sit in my beat-up Camry with the AC blasting outside of a strip mall in sunny Phoenix, AZ, home of shoe-melting heat and too many cacti and palm trees, and watch the front of a quiet little coffee shop tucked between a shoe repair place and a UPS drop-off location. It looks innocent enough, but inside is either my doom or my salvation.

  And a whole lot of extremely dangerous men.

  If Dad had contacted me directly, none of this would be happening. Instead, he went through Mom, like the coward he is, and the guilt trip I felt when she told me about the opportunity was like being shoved under freezing cold water and held there. I had to agree to show up—what was I going to do? Tell my mom no, when I have no other prospects and about seven years of higher education debt to pay off? When she has worked like six jobs at a time to feed and clothe me my entire life? Seems like there’s no alternative here.

  She’s got no love for my father, but she sounded so darn excited and said it could be huge for me—she used those words, it could be huge, sweetie, which only made it way harder. I kept thinking about all the years she raised me as a single mom working her ass off, slaving away at multiple jobs just to afford crappy daycare, crappy school supplies, crappy second-hand clothing, but she did it, she raised me right, and I can’t refuse this even if I want to.

  So here I am, at a job interview for a position I don’t know anything about, working for people I don’t want to know anything about, except that they’re rich and in need of a discreet and honest physical therapist, which I am, at least according to my estranged asshole father. And if that same asshole father set this whole thing up, I can be very sure that whoever employs me will have deep, dark connections to the Phoenix underworld, and most likely this will be an extremely dangerous job.

  This is not an ideal situation.

  But here I am. I take a deep breath, check myself in the mirror, and get out of the car. I’m in business casual clothes, a simple skirt and blouse with my hair pinned up, and I carry a black folder tucked under my arm with my resume (padded to hell) and some blank stationary for taking notes (ornamental), and try to calm my rapidly beating heart. I’m nervous, but not for the interview.

  I’m nervous for whoever I’m about to see through that door.

  I don’t hesitate. Standing outside in the heat’s only going to make it worse and get me all drenched with sweat, so I plunge on inside, into a surprisingly comfortable interior. Lots of leather, metal, exposed wood, and hanging green plants all over. The ambiance is post-industrial chic mixed with comfy homestyle coziness. It smells like coffee beans and vanilla.

  The sitting area is empty except for a bored-looking barista behind the counter and one table with three men sitting around it, all of them facing the door, all of them staring at me with deep frowns.

  Three very large, very terrifying looking men.

  Which is basically what I expected, knowing my father, but it still sends fear shooting into my chest when I spot them.

  I grew up in this world. My father was a member of the Bruno Famiglia—probably still is, but I really don’t know, we don’t talk—and his friends came around the house all the time. Rough guys covered in tattoos, quick to anger, loud laughter, lots of swearing. Mom told me stories over the years about those friends, and how half of them are dead now and the other half are in prison. Somehow, Dad survived and thrived, and remains on the free side of the bars.

  These men don’t look like Dad’s buddies from back in the day though. Instead of rough clothes and sneers, these guys are all wearing black, sleek suits. They look expensive, like they’re the upper echelons of the mafia hierarchy, which I definitely was not expecting. They’re all handsome, and two of them have a similar look, like they could be brothers, and the third is the largest bastard I’ve ever seen—seriously, he’s like a looming giant. The giant sits back, glaring at me with a deep frown, tattoos everywhere but his face.

  I step forward, my throat suddenly closing like I’ve forgotten how to speak. For a second, I worry I’m about to choke on my own terror. The man in the middle stares at me intently, leaning forward on his elbows to get a better view. I can’t turn away, even though I want to run back to my car, drive as fast as I can, and get the hell out of here. The man’s gaze is magnetic: dark blue eyes, dark black hair pushed back in a casual wave, stubble on his square jaw, lips pursed in a cocky-angry frown, tattoos poking out of the edge of his dress shirt. He looks like a king sitting on his throne, and he sucks all the attention in the room like the center of a universe. His full lips quirk, and his high cheekbones stand in stark contrast to his long, dark lashes.

  He’s beautiful in a way I’ve never seen before and it makes my heart race wildly. I wonder what his muscular chest would feel like if I ran my hands along the front of his crisp white dress shirt—which is like thinking about petting a starving lion. I must have a death wish.

  But he’s gorgeous, and he’s looking at me intently like he wants to swallow me with his eyes. It’s not a professional stare either—there’s no calm, safe curiosity.

  There’s pure hunger and domination in those eyes. Like he wants to rip me to pieces.

  He is easily the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my life.

  “Are you Mirella Bernero?” His voice is soft but resonant and low, so low, like a rumble.

  That last name, Bernero, breaks me from my spell. “That’s my father’s name, I go by Falconet.”

  He nods slowly, expression twisting slightly li
ke he’s watching a distasteful film and can’t wait for its end. “Mirella Falconet. Your father said you’re a physical therapist.”

  “Fresh out of school,” I say, taking a step forward, and reach toward the folder under my arm awkwardly, thinking this is the right moment to hand over my resume.

  The giant flinches like I’m about to pull out a shotgun. The gorgeous man frowns at him and waves a hand like he’s giving the giant permission to relax. The big guy shrugs and leans back in his chair, grinning at me viciously, and I wonder how close to death I just came.

  I clear my throat, terrified by that little exchange, and take out a resume. I hand it over, but the man on the far right takes it instead. He looks like the speaker, with similar cheekbones and hair, but his eyes are dark and he seems a couple years younger.

  “You really are fresh from school. Not much work experience either. Honestly, this is the most pathetic excuse for a resume I’ve ever seen in my life. You want to take a look, Fynn? You probably should, since the girl’s gonna be working so closely with you.” The man grins at Fynn, and my gorgeous devil has a name.

  Fynn.

  It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Something nags at the back of my mind, but I’m completely spellbound by Fynn. The way he moves, the way he looks at me, it’s utterly captivating. I catch myself staring at his chest and shoulders and arms, and quickly stare at the floor, hoping he hasn’t noticed.

  “I’m fine,” Fynn says. “I don’t need to see it. And lay off the girl, Gavino.” He clears his throat and gestures. “Mirella, please sit down.”

  I hesitate, but it’s not a question. I glance over at the barista girl, but she’s gone, like my appearance was her cue to get the hell out of here.

  Not that I can blame her.

  I sit at the table. Fynn studies me for several long moments while Gavino continues the show of looking over my resume, rolling his eyes dramatically and grinning at me like this is all some big joke. I glance at the giant, and he’s watching me lazily through narrowed eyes, though I get the feeling that he’s as calm as a cat, ready to pounce at any moment.

  Fynn and Gavino. Those names are so familiar I could scream. Where do I know them from?

  And why does Fynn keep on staring at me, saying nothing? Like he’s trying to break me down to my constituent parts through the sheer weight of his gaze alone. It’s unnerving, but also exciting, and I can’t stop my racing heart as it gallops away in my chest. Fynn’s seductive glare is so sensual, so filled with promise, that I almost hate him for it, if I didn’t like it so damn much.

  I shift uncomfortably in my chair, not sure if I should speak up and keep this interview moving, but I really don’t want to. If keeping my mouth shut means I can run out of here with my body intact and my dignity mostly there, I’ll happily stay mute for a while.

  “Did your father explain the nature of this job?” Fynn asks finally, breaking the tense silence. Gavino picks up a white mug and takes a sip, watching me.

  “Not exactly,” I say, glancing between the men. “I’m a physical therapist so I assumed it had to do with that?”

  “Good assumption,” the giant says and chuckles.

  “You go easy too, Nico,” Fynn says, smiling slightly like he enjoyed the joke, and looks back at me. “You’re right, we’re in need of a physical therapist, one that can be extremely private. As you may know, my business is very difficult and it’s exceedingly proprietary. Meaning anyone I work with is expected to be extremely quiet and discreet. More than that, my business is predicated on strength, and any hint of weakness will be exploited to maximum effect. Which is why you’re here and I’m not out at some fancy fucking hospital right now.”

  I blink rapidly, trying to digest what he’s saying. “You need a private PT because your enemies might try to hurt you while you’re healing?” It all comes together quickly, probably because I’m used to thinking like a monster all thanks to good old Dad. He taught me how to be a thief, how to stand up for myself, how to fight when I need to fight. He also taught me to be smart and patient. Dad wasn’t so bad, at least until the day he ran off and left me and my mom broke and alone.

  Gavino snaps his fingers. “Bingo, girl’s a genius.”

  “Stop it,” Fynn grumbles. “But yes, that’s more or less correct.”

  “Why me?” I’m practically pleading at this point, not sure why the heck they’d come to someone like me when I’m sure they have multiple doctors in their back pocket, someone with more experience.

  Fynn glances sideways at Nico. “We need to be more prudent than usual right now. Things are…precarious. I can’t go into more detail, but your father said you’d have the skills necessary to help and the intelligence needed to do so without speaking a word to anyone, and we trust your father’s word.”

  I sit back in my chair, trembling now. Those names… How do I know those names? “I’m going to be honest, this is all a little bit… overwhelming.”

  “I understand. You’re not used to dealing with my family.”

  “Your family?” I blink at him rapidly and my mouth falls open as those names suddenly click into place.

  Fynn. Gavino. I’ve heard them before. My father used to mention them from time to time back when he and his friends would talk about the Bruno family. The core Bruno family.

  The central core of violent, vicious mafia bastards that run the Bruno Famiglia, the most powerful Italian mafia in all of Phoenix, and possibly the entire West Coast. They’re famous for their ruthlessness and lack of moral compass and they’re known to do anything to hold onto power, no matter how crazy, bloody, or violent.

  And now I’m sitting across the table from two of their inner circle, two of the most important men in their entire organization.

  The third man, the giant named Nico, has to be in that upper rung too if what I’m hearing is correct.

  All of a sudden, my situation becomes extremely clear: my life hangs in the balance.

  “What I’m offering is very simple,” Fynn says, ignoring my outburst. He must see the fear on my face because I’m not doing a good job at hiding it. “Three months ago, I woke up from a coma. My injuries were significant, and I’ve been told I’ll need intensive PT if I’m ever going to walk properly again, and I very much want to walk fucking properly. At first, I thought the doctors were a bunch of lying fucks, but it turns out that they’re right. I can’t simply will myself out of this situation. If you’re willing to help, I will pay you handsomely. Hell, I’ll pay you extravagantly. There will be strings, but this will be the best job you’ll ever have in your life. One single patient, and I’ll pay you like I’m a dozen.”

  I bark an awkward, uncomfortable laugh, not sure if I can actually believe what I’m hearing. This man sitting in front of me right now is the patient, the one that needs therapy, and he says it’ll have to be extensive. I’m guessing that means multiple sessions per week, possibly daily if he’s as bad as he’s implying. In exchange, they’ll pay me in their blood money, and I’ll be expected to keep my mouth shut.

  Fynn Bruno. The son of the Don himself, last time I heard. This gorgeous devil wants me to be his personal therapist, and the idea of touching him, stretching him, working with him, dealing with this monster’s gaze is a horrible hell I can barely imagine. It’s like a knife is at my throat, a glittering, jeweled knife with a diamond blade. Beautiful, expensive, and deadly.

  I can’t do this. I’ve spent my life hating mafia assholes like these guys ever since my dad ran out on me and Mom when I was only ten years old. I know what men like them want, and it’s all selfish aggrandizement and power. They don’t care about anything but themselves and their precious mafia family, and they’ll gladly eat me up, chew me down to the bone, and swallow me whole if it means they’ll get what they want.

  I won’t walk away from this alive.

  I’m nothing to them and taking this job might be the last thing I ever do.

  But how the hell do I say no to one of the most p
owerful men in the city?

  “I don’t… I’m not sure… I have to get a job with a real practice. I have student loans, and for my long-term career…” I’m stuttering and sputtering now, not sure how to turn him down without getting my head chopped off. I very much want to stay alive.

  “I’ll pay your student loans.”

  I nearly gag. “It’s a lot.”

  “I don’t care. Consider them paid, if you take this job.”

  “But a practice… I’ll need professional experience. I can’t exactly put this on my resume, right?”

  “We know doctors that can get you a job after we’re finished.” Fynn glances at Nico, who shrugs and nods.

  “Shouldn’t be hard,” Nico says.

  “Student loans paid. A new job secured.” Fynn stares thunder at me, his gaze so piercing and intense it makes me squirm in my chair like a little kid. His beauty is overwhelming and I don’t want to feel this way, I don’t want it at all. I reach for my hate and hold on to it as tightly as I can to stem the tide of desire that threatens to overwhelm my mind. Fynn continues, “Plus I’ll pay another two hundred thousand dollars. That should be plenty to compensate you.”

  I nearly cry. That kind of money would change my entire life. Two hundred grand, plus no more loans, plus a new job—that could put me on the path to serious financial stability for the first time ever. It’s almost impossible to imagine. I could buy Mom a new car, finally pay off her mortgage, hell, maybe I could get her to quit her waitressing job and retire—