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Saint (Boston Underworld #4)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

A. Zavarelli

Language:
English
Book Information:

Scarlett-

When going to war, there are three very simple rules one must abide by.

1. Know thy enemy
2. Be prepared to sacrifice.
3. Always wear good shoes

After all, revenge is a dish best served in stilettos.
I’ve got an eye for it, and nothing’s going to stand in my way.
Not even Rory ‘The Saint’ Brodrick.
He’s a fool if he thinks he can change me. By the time I’m through with him, I’ll make his mafia look like child’s play.
Cross me, Mr. Brodrick?
You better cross your heart and hope to die.

Rory-

I’m a fighter. A hustler. A mobster.
I’ve seen a few things in my day.
But I’ve never encountered anything like her.
She’s a beauty with a beast of a heart. The poison apple I just can’t resist. And in her trail she leaves a wake of men crawling on their knees.
What she doesn’t know is that I like my women wild.
It only makes it that much more fun to tame them.

Books in Series:

Boston Underworld Series by A. Zavarelli

Books by Author:

A. Zavarelli Books

Prologue

Scarlett

Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

-Confucius

All the world’s a stage, and I’m just one of the many players, baby.

Like that douchebag over there, watching me eat this hot dog. What is it about men and phallic shaped objects? I can’t even pick out a cucumber at the market without their eyes on me. They imagine dirty things while their wives herd the children down the aisles in an orderly fashion and thirst for the vodka at home.

The men, though. They’ll go home, still thinking about that cucumber. And they’ll jerk off to it and then sit on the sofa and watch some inconsequential sports program and grunt out responses when their wives ask them a question.

The American dream.

Sigh.

This hot dog though. Legendary. There’s extra mustard and relish, of course, because… go big or go home. I’m going to eat this whole goddamned hot dog, and I’m not even going to feel a little bit bad about it.

Course, there isn’t a whole awful lot I feel bad about.

It’s important to find humor in the little things. Like the construction worker who trips over a pothole and nearly breaks his neck while he eye-fucks me.

I smile back at him and lean into the cold brick wall behind me. My stilettos are crossed at the ankles on the broken concrete below, and there isn’t a chance he could miss me in this dress.

I like it when they look at me. Because I know what comes next.

His friend catcalls me and asks how much.

“Five thousand,” I yell back with a mouth still half full of food. “To let me watch while you suck a bag of dicks.”

They exchange a dopey look and hurl some verbal insults my way. I flip them the bird before stuffing the last of the hot dog into my mouth and licking my fingers.

Boys. That’s what they are.

Silly little playthings.

On my stage, and in my show, the only players I allow have blue blooded pedigrees. Like the current toy waiting for me just inside the hotel room at my back. Twenty minutes have come and gone since I lured him back here. And being that my windows of time aren’t really an exact science, I need to stop fucking around.

I mentally press stop on the endless reel of chaos running through my head and take a deep breath.

There is nothing good or bad. Only thinking makes it so.

I step back into the room and stare at the heap of privilege and repugnance lying on the dank come-stained carpet.

His eyes are shuttered, his mouth slack as his face droops into his shoulder.

They never see it coming.

This prick didn’t either. Another day, another unconscious prick on a hotel floor. Only this one has purpose, I think. Maybe. He looks exactly like the type of grade A douchebag that would run in Alexander’s pack.

And that’s unfortunate for him.

I nudge him with my toe, confirming that the benzos I slipped into his drink have fully entered his bloodstream.

Every client is different. Some of them need more. Some less. But they always go down in the end.

This one is built like a fucking horse.

The bigger the man, the bigger the ego. Or is it the bigger the bank account, the bigger the ego?

In either case, it’s been my experience that the flashier the clothes, the smaller the cock. They are all compensating for something, and I’ve no doubt that when I get his clothes off, there will be no surprises. This one looks like a Ralph Lauren catalog threw up on him.

I yank his Burberry wallet from the back of his khaki trousers and dump the contents onto the bed. A part of me wishes for something shocking and unexpected.

But, alas, it’s always the same. Even with Teddy the III.

Country club memberships and credit cards with exorbitant limits. A Porsche keychain because clearly the car isn’t enough for this asshole. And a condom to fuck the whores with. Razzle fucking dazzle.

They can never be original. I swear the whole lot must be mass produced in a factory somewhere.

The WASP cookie cutter doesn’t break the mold. These Ken dolls are all assembled in the same fashion. Posh clothing and secret societies and Ivy League educations. Humble beginnings sold separately. They sail and have luncheons and charity benefits all while stuffing one skeleton into their closets after another. Never short on arrogance but long on pretentious diatribes and entitlement.

These guys think the world owes them. Whatever they want, they take. No fucks given.

It’s an epidemic in the upper crust.

And there’s only one antidote for such an affliction.

The little monster they created.

C’est moi.

Debutant turned deviant.

Captain shitforbrains here paid me for a good time, and I’m about to rock his fucking world.

First things first, I relieve him of anything of value and shove it into my purse. Watches, rings, cufflinks. They are always found in abundance on these name brand jackoffs.


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