Mob Daddies: A Contemporary Romance Box Sex Read online

  Mob Daddies

  Contemporary Romance Box Set

  Alexa Hart

  Looking for a bad boy to rock your world?

  Get 4 sheet-melting alphas in this MEGA HOT box set! Mob Daddies is full of alpha heat with single dads as bad as they come.

  Slow burning romances, accidental babies, and the ultimate mafia bad boys… this collection has it all!

  Marcello

  I despise Marcello Morano.

  He’s nothing but a filthy rich, mafia bad boy… (or so I’ve heard)

  So why can’t I get him off my mind?...

  He’s mind-numbingly gorgeous, with off-the-charts sex appeal.

  I feel something for Marcello that I’ve never felt before.

  What is this…lust? No, it can’t be. I wouldn’t lust after a criminal… would I?

  Kane

  I never expected faking a marriage to be easy…

  But I also never expected Kane to be so hard.

  Now I’m ready to give him everything, v-card be damned.

  And let me tell you… Kane Dagger is soooo good…

  Maximo

  Max. My brother’s best friend…

  He’s pure, delicious, panty-melting, sex on a stick…

  But I’m not about to make the same mistake twice.

  It will never work.

  He’ll never leave the business and I’m never coming back.

  But nobody can bring me to my peak the way Max does. Nobody…

  Dax

  I’ve made billions, but the filthy streets of Boston made me.

  Once a bad boy – always a bad boy.

  One night with little miss good girl and we’re both knee deep in sh*t.

  Getting her pregnant was never in the plans.

  But I’ll protect Hannah no matter what it takes…

  EACH BOOK IN THE COLLECTION IS A SIZZLING HOT STANDALONE ROMANCE COMPLETE WITH A HAPPILY EVER AFTER. SNAG THIS BOX SET TODAY IF YOU’RE CRAVING ULTRA HOT BAD BOYS WHO ALWAYS TAKE EXACTLY WHAT THEY WANT.

  Copyright © 2020 Alexa Hart

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any

  means, including photocopying, recording or other

  electronic or mechanical methods, without the

  prior written permission of the publisher, except

  in the case of brief quotations embodied in

  critical reviews and certain other noncommercial

  uses permitted by copyright law.

  For permission requests, foreign and subsidiary

  rights, contact the author or her representative

  via [email protected]

  Passion Pique Publishing

  United States

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are

  sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or

  locales are completely coincidental.

  Digital Edition

  Contents

  BOOK 1: MARCELLO

  Marcello

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  BOOK 2: KANE

  Kane

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  BOOK 3: MAXIMO

  Maximo

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  BOOK 4: DAX

  Dax

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Also by Alexa Hart

  About the Author

  This book is dedicated to all the hopeless romantics. To the beautiful lovers out there who just want love, plain and simple. Love… wrapped in a delicious, hard as nails, muscle-clad package that will make you forget your own name… plain and simple.

  -ALEXA HART

  BOOK 1: MARCELLO

  I despise Marcello Morano.

  He’s nothing but a filthy rich, mafia bad boy… (or so I’ve heard)

  So why can’t I get him off my mind?...

  He’s mind-numbingly gorgeous, with off-the-charts sex appeal.

  I feel something for Marcello that I’ve never felt before.

  What is this…lust? No, it can’t be. I wouldn’t lust after a criminal… would I?

  His lifestyle may be putting his precious daughter (my favorite student) in danger and I can’t just stand by and watch.

  I couldn’t live with myself if anything ever happened to Gia.

  But when I come face to face with Marcello Morano, my whole world gets flipped upside down.

  Now, suddenly none of the rumors about his mafia involvement matter anymore.

  It doesn’t matter that his dark past scares the hell out of me and his current reality may scare me even more.

  It doesn’t even matter that I could be risking everything to be with him.

  All that matters now is him. Just him and the secret I’m carrying as a memento from a passionate night in his arms.

  But is Marcello’s dangerous lifestyle more than I can handle?

  Chapter 1

  Marcello

  If I’m being honest with myself, I loved her from the second I first saw her. But she never knew she was being seen. How twisted is that? How twisted am I? I needed her and she had never even seen my face. If I had the chance… God, the things I would do to her, but I have to keep my distance. I can’t get her out of my head. I see nothing else… just… her…

  Abby

  I hated that goddamn clock. I was thoroughly convinced that the ancient round beast purposely moved slower than normal during the last fifteen minutes of the school day just to fuck with me. It was 3:11, and it had been 3:11 for at least seventy-five years. I loved my job and adored my students (most of them). There w
as just something about those last few minutes of being trapped in a room where the door was required to be shut “at all times, the only exceptions being recess and end of the day line-up", with twenty-five sets of restless eyes darting from you to the clock and back again, that had an unnerving, torture-tactic quality to it.

  I stared listlessly at the gold name plate sitting silently on my desktop. Miss Abigail Greene. So formal. Why couldn’t it just say Abby Greene? Why couldn’t my students just call me Abby? Most of their bank accounts had more money in them than mine ever would. If anything, I should be formally addressing them as little Sirs and Madams.

  A familiar voice jarred me out of my musings. I could hear Felicity Howard – my closest friend and Winston Elementary Private School’s sole kindergarten teacher – calling out across the hall in her classroom gently but firmly, “Tyler, when I said to stop playing with Jordan’s shoe, I did not mean to start playing with your own.” She sounded a mixture of exhausted and amused, and I smiled a little picturing the scene.

  Sometimes the maturity level difference between her students and my ever-so-much-older first grade students seemed vast. As I gratefully thought this, James O’Connor fell out of his desk and landed flat on his face in a failed attempt to retrieve a dropped crayon.

  Maybe the difference wasn’t so fucking vast.

  “James, are you alright?” I was on my feet and helping him up while his classmates snickered shamelessly. He met my gaze with a cheerful “I’m fine, Miss Greene!” and a dripping, bloody nose. I cringed inwardly. I didn’t mind blood or James’ clumsiness, but Mrs. O’Connor was a straight up steel-cold bitch when she thought anyone had in some way failed her child (and thereby failed her). You didn’t fail people like Mrs. O’Connor. You didn’t fail any of the wealthy parents of Winston Elementary’s elite student body. It was an unwritten job requirement with well understood consequences.

  James, easy-going and unaffected as ever, had Kleenex up each nostril and a sweet smile on his face by the time the 3:14 closing announcements crackled across the intercom. There was not a day in my memory that the ancient school secretary, Mrs. Bonaparte (Felicity called her simply “The Hag”), had ever missed the opportunity to let her shrill voice be the last thing the students heard before their anticipated release.

  “Students of Winston Elementary, let me remind you that this weekend holds Trick-or-Treat night for most of you. Safety should be of utmost importance when you are out and about the neighborhoods. Always walk with a friend. Wear bright colors. Have your parents check your candy before you eat any of it. Always remember that you are representing Winston Elementary and should be on your very best behavior. Have a good weekend.”

  I rolled my eyes, wondering what the statistics were for small children who actually waited until their parents examined each and every piece of their loot before indulging in their nightly steal. Those numbers had to be staggeringly low; but maybe not quite as low as the percentage of parents who gave a shit to check the candy in the first place. Bonaparte was probably reading straight off a piece of paper that had been printed out in the fucking seventies.

  “Tyler! Shoes on!” Felicity’s voice echoed through the hallway with much less good humor than it had a mere three minutes before. I giggled, as did some of my students, and then proceeded to form the neat line of children for the end-of-day parent pick-up procedure.

  The split second the bell rang, the kids were moving rapidly out the door and instantly became the multiple hall monitors’ responsibility. It was a swift lifting of weight off all of the teachers’ shoulders and had a magical, if somewhat militant, quality to it.

  “Bye, Miss Greene!” In twenty plus little voices as backpacks and giddy, uniform clad children whisked out the door with the inexplicable, never-ending exuberance of innocent youth. I tried to give them all one good look over as they exited, and today especially focused on James. His bloody nose plugs had been discarded and his face looked as cheerful and fresh as ever.

  Thank God, I thought, returning his vigorous hug and mentally replaying the footage of the last time I had upset Mrs. O’Connor. I had no desire to ever repeat that encounter. Her own husband had seemed scared of her at our “meeting”, which was more or less an extended speech about her expectations for any teacher involved in the care of her “dear James” - and how I had not met them. That had been over James swallowing and very briefly almost choking on a piece of bubblegum that he was not allowed to have in the classroom to begin with.

  I had developed quite a good eye for spotting moving jaws amongst my kids since that incident. Bubblegum might as well have been cocaine in my opinion, because it would most definitely be treated as such were I to “fail” again and let such contraband infiltrate my classroom. I had earned an official warning for it from Principal Sanders, and we were only allowed three warnings per school year before being fired became a very viable option.

  I still had seven months to go.

  Felicity and I referred to it as “The Bitch O’Connor Warning” in private. Felicity had been James’ teacher the previous year and had many colorful, descriptive phrases devoted entirely to Mrs. O’Connor. I couldn’t help but agree that the woman deserved every last one.

  I felt a particularly tight squeeze around my middle and knew instantly little Gia Morano was the culprit. Her head full of dark curls pressed into my stomach with genuine seven-year-old affection, and she turned her beautiful little face up to mine with a wide, happy grin and shining chocolate-brown eyes. “I’m going as a panther this year, Miss Greene. My daddy said it might be hard to find a panther costume that didn’t look just like a regular ol’ black cat, but we fooound one and it’s the best costume everrr! Just like a real-life panther! Bye!”

  She skipped out the door, and I felt a wave of tenderness flood my heart. Gia was one of the most precious little girls I had taught to date. Although my teaching career had only spanned exactly three years and counting, I had a gut feeling that you didn’t get a “Gia” in your classroom very often. She was delicate and endearing, intelligent beyond her tiny years, and my absolute favorite student. I would deny it to the staff as though my life depended on it (or more accurately, my career). However, I couldn’t even attempt to pretend it wasn’t true within my own private thoughts and emotions.

  I sat at my desk and closed my eyes. But her father.

  No one knew much about Mr. Morano. Felicity had been Gia’s teacher last year and had not met him even once. The girl’s elderly nanny had always dropped her off – complete with a personal driver and a jet-black Rolls Royce – and always picked her up. If Gia fell ill and needed to go home, the nanny came. If she had a dentist or doctor appointment midday, the nanny came. Even at parent teacher conferences, Gia’s father had not shown his face. Gia’s nanny appeared for him, to fulfill his duty by proxy. Oddly enough, Felicity had told me that at the meeting, the nanny had audio recorded the entire conversation – “with Miss Howard’s express consent”. Felicity had been given the distinct feeling that refusing was not an option, and had conceded without any protest.

  The general impression given by such a request was that Mr. Morano cared very much about his daughter’s educational progression. The complete lack of his presence at the school or any of its functions suggested the opposite.

  I wasn’t bothered by any of that so much as I was by the disturbing rumors surrounding Mr. Morano’s occupation. No one seemed to have any hard evidence to back up their claims, but it swirled around the staff in heated whispers that he was, in fact, involved somehow with the mafia. The rumors went deeper than that though. I had been made aware on more than one occasion that the deceased Mrs. Morano herself had fallen victim to a mafia related altercation. I knew the great liberties with which gossip was generally gifted, especially in this wealthy and slightly vicious community. That aside, Mrs. Morano was very much dead. If her husband’s involvement with crime had been the catalyst to that death, then wasn’t it fair to say Mr. Morano was somewhat t
o blame? The thought of this man’s activities endangering his wife to the point of her untimely passing haunted me ruthlessly every day when Gia came bubbling through the classroom door. She was so innocent, so friendly, and so perfect.