Don’t Make Me (Made Men #3) Read Online Renee Rose

Categories Genre: BDSM, Erotic, Mafia, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Made Men Series by Renee Rose
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Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
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“Carlo?” The joy in my aunt’s voice almost makes me tear up. Cristo. I’m going soft. Well, when your own brother wants you dead, it’s nice to know someone in the family still cares.

I stand and embrace the tiny woman, accept her clucking over my ear. I don’t try to stop her from pulling out all the food in the fridge and heating it up for a full meal. You can’t keep an Italian woman from that generation from feeding her family.

When I finish eating and successfully ward off Maria’s pressure for seconds, she sits down with us.

“Mamma.” Junior covers his wife’s gnarled hand. “Carlo’s in a pinch. His brother wants him dead because he’s worried about his stealing power when their father dies.”

I didn’t expect Junior to tell Maria. Usually, the women are left out of business discussions—no one wants to incriminate the innocent. But this is a family issue, and right now I need help from my family.

Zia Maria covers her mouth with her hand, but when she removes it, she already has a sharp look in her eye. She taps the table with her bony fingers. “Send him to my nephew Alberto, in New Jersey. Just until this all blows over. He could use a smart young man like our Carlo. He’ll take good care of our boy.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. I’d be away when my dad dies. Miss saying goodbye. And he wouldn’t know where I’ve gone. But there is no way around it.

I draw a breath. New Jersey. Well, it sounds better than any plan I’ve come up with. “Okay.” I nod. “That sounds good. Thank you.”

Chapter One

New Jersey

Four Years Later

Summer

I grip the pole and extend one leg up into a perfect split. A lifetime of ballet lessons is finally paying off. Heh. Well, it’s not like I can perform for real anymore, not since my injury.

I consider stripping at The Candy Store to be a form of sex therapy. That’s how I framed it to my best friend, Maggie, anyway.

I don’t strip for the money, and it sure as hell isn’t to meet nice guys. But I like the sense of power it gives me. Or is it the objectification? Either way, each time I take the stage and twirl around the pole, it repairs a small piece of my shattered sexual confidence.

I have my asswipe ex-boyfriend John to thank for my new career. Every night I work, I feed off the lust in the men’s eyes and send a psychic f-you to the guy who found me so unappealing. He barely managed to have sex with me once a month. When I found out he was cheating on me with multiple women—sometimes three different women in a week—I was ready to give up men altogether. But this is better.

So long as my father never finds out. Because Alberto LaTorre, don of the LaTorre Crime Family, would never recover from learning his spoiled principessa is taking her clothes off for money. He has some very old school Catholic ideas about women—they’re either whores or the blessed Virgin herself, and nothing in between exists. And, obviously, he wants me firmly in the blessed virgin category.

I pull off my short plaid Catholic school girl skirt to the applause of the crowd. The white blouse is already off, leaving me in nothing but a bikini top and lacey white G-string. I crawl forward on the stage and accept a five-dollar bill between my tits, giving the man who offered it a nibble on his earlobe as I murmur “Thanks.”

Standing to twirl around the pole again, I grip it and flip myself upside down with my legs in a forward split. Rotating my legs, I open them to a center split, then wrap both ankles around the pole and slide down to land on my back with my knees bent up and spread wide.

In my periphery, I see a couple guys enter through the door. Maybe it’s the well-tailored suit that makes me look twice. Maybe it’s just my instincts kicking into gear, but when I glance through the low-lit club at the faces of the men, I go cold.

Carlo.

My father’s right-hand man. My drool-worthy, sexy Sicilian foster-brother of sorts, walking in like he owns the place. I recognize the face of the guy with him but don’t know his name. One of Carlo’s soldiers.

I spin to hide my face, praying he didn’t see me. He’ll probably head straight up to the VIP section for private dances. He certainly has the money and seems like the type who prefers that. Hopefully he won’t even give the stage the time of day. Thank heavens no one around here will object to the sight of my ass instead of my face. I put my two hands on the upstage wall and roll my hips and head in concentric circles, letting my thick brown hair fall down my back. I wonder if I could just stay back there, pin to the wall until my set is over. Two more numbers, and I’ll be off the stage, and then I’ll tell my boss I’m not feeling well and split.



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