Bonus Scenes
Prequel
Stitched In Gold
The bell above the door chimes as I step into the dry cleaners, the scent of starch and detergent thick in the air. The place is small, quiet—one of the few places in the city where no one watches me too closely.
I walk to the counter, adjusting the cuff of my coat. My usual order should be ready. It always is.
The woman behind the register sees me and straightens, her hands going still where they were counting out change. Her son, Mark, is working the press in the back, but it’s the seamstress, Lina, who usually handles my clothes.
She isn’t here today.
A flash of irritation moves through me, sharp and unexpected. I shouldn’t care. It’s not like we ever say much beyond the usual good evening and thank you. But she’s the only one I trust to handle my suits. Not because she’s the best—though she is—but because she understands.
I’ve brought her ruined suits before. Torn seams, bloodstains that shouldn’t be possible to remove. And yet, each time, they come back to me as if nothing ever happened. Like she’s erased the past with a few quiet stitches.
The woman clears his throat. “Ah, Mr. Novikov. Let me get your order.” She turns and disappears behind a curtain, leaving me alone at the counter.
A moment later, she returns with a carefully wrapped set of hangers, each one encased in plastic. She sets them on the counter and hesitates, her eyes darting toward me, then away.
“She—uh—made some adjustments,” he says. “Hope that’s alright.”
Adjustments?
I flick the plastic aside and lift the sleeve of the first shirt.
Something new stares back at me.
My initials are still there, embroidered at the cuff as always, but they are no longer alone.
Two guns, stitched in muted gold thread, intertwine with the letters.
The design is small. Elegant. Perfectly aligned with the fabric. It looks like it belongs there. Like it was always meant to be part of the shirt.
My chest tightens.
She did this on her own.
I brush my thumb over the embroidery, feeling the delicate texture of the thread. The work is impeccable, precise. It would’ve taken time—hours of careful stitching. A ridiculous, unnecessary detail for a man who never asked for it.
And yet…she did it anyway.
The woman man shifts nervously. “If you don’t like it, I can have her—”
“No.” My voice is too sharp. I clear my throat, force my fingers to relax where they’ve tightened around the fabric. “No. It’s good.”
She nods quickly. “Lina—uh—she said every man deserves something that’s just his.”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know how to answer.
I pull out my wallet, pay, and take the garments without another word. The woman doesn’t press, just nods once before I step out into the cold.
The wind whips against me, but I don’t move. I stand there, gripping the plastic-covered hangers a little too tightly, my thumb still brushing over the embroidered detail.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
It’s nothing.
Just thread. Just fabric.
But deep in my chest, something shifts.
I exhale slowly, shove the thought away, and walk toward my car.
But as I drive away, I already know—every shirt from now on will have her touch.
Cars were discussed endlessly in this book, and I thought it would be fun for you to see exactly how those driving lessons went.
Brakes Are Optional
Yuri
This is a mistake.
I know it the second Lina slides into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors like she has a single clue what to do with them. The sun catches in her hair as she smiles, all bright-eyed enthusiasm and I wonder exactly how much destruction she’s about to cause.
I shut her door—firmly, like I’m locking in an unruly prisoner—and round the hood, staring at the car as if it might protect itself.
It won’t.
Taking a slow breath, I open the passenger door and drop into the seat, buckling my seatbelt with the efficiency of a man preparing for impact.
“Okay!” Lina grips the wheel, excitement vibrating off her like an untrained puppy. “Where do I put my hands? Is it ten and two or, like, nine and three? I saw something online that said ten and two is outdated.”
“It doesn’t matter where you put them,” I say, already regretting everything. “As long as you keep them there.”
She wiggles her fingers over the leather like she’s testing the energy of the vehicle, then nods. “Solid plan.”
God help us.
“Foot on the brake,” I instruct.
She obeys.
“Now start the engine.”
The car rumbles to life. So far, so good.
“Slowly shift into drive,” I continue, keeping my voice calm. Controlled.
Lina does as I ask, but then, instead of easing her foot off the brake, she slams it down harder, making the car jerk in protest.
“Whoa.” She looks at me, alarmed. “Did you feel that?”
“Yes.” I exhale sharply. “Try again. Gently.”
She does, and this time, the car crawls forward at the speed of a dying tortoise. I nod. “Good. Now give it a little more gas—”
We lurch forward like we’ve been rear-ended by a freight train. My hand shoots out to the dashboard on instinct, my own life flashing before my eyes.
Lina squeaks and slams the brakes. Hard.
My seatbelt locks as I jerk forward, my forehead nearly colliding with the dash.
Silence.
She turns to me with wide, panicked eyes. “Okay. That was a lot.”
I close my eyes and pray for patience. “What part of slowly was unclear?”
“I thought I was going slow,” she protests. “But my foot—” She lifts it demonstratively, like it’s a separate entity that betrayed her. “It has a mind of its own.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Your foot is attached to you, Lina. Control it.”
“Rude.”
I exhale sharply. “Let’s try again. Gently press the gas.”
She inhales like she’s about to defuse a bomb and—miraculously—guides the car forward in a smooth roll.
“Better,” I say cautiously.
She beams.
I do not trust this peace.
“Now turn right,” I instruct.
She does. Sort of.
Instead of a smooth turn, she overcorrects, sending us veering too far left before jerking us right, the tires screeching in protest.
I swear the car lifts onto two wheels.
I grab the door handle.
Lina gasps. “Oh my God, did you see that? I think we went airborne for a second—”
“Stop the car.”
She slams the brakes. Again.
My whole body whiplashes against the seat.
“Yuri,” she breathes, gripping the wheel. “I think I was a street racer in a past life.”
“You were not.”
“No, but seriously, that felt kind of—” She pauses, thoughtful. “Badass.”
I stare at her. “You nearly flipped the vehicle.”
“Did I?” She bites her lip. “Or did I just push the boundaries of gravity?”
I breathe through my nose and release the handle. “We’re done.”
“What?” She pouts. “That was barely five minutes!”
“More than enough.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “I will be driving us home.”
She crosses her arms, indignant. “I was just getting the hang of it.”
I arch a brow.
“Fine,” she huffs, unbuckling. “But admit it, I have potential.”
I step out of the car, move around to her side, and open the door. She stands, her arms still crossed, waiting for my verdict.
I lean down, brushing my lips against her ear.
“You have potential,” I murmur. “To be an absolute menace to society.”
She cackles as I settle into the driver’s seat, and as we pull away—smoothly, like a normal person—she leans over, grinning. “Same time next week?”
I floor the gas and know my wife will likely end my life before a bullet does.
Do you need more Mafia love? The third book is waiting for you.
When destiny shuffles the cards, only love can change the game.
Outrageous, curvaceous Abby Mercer is the last woman Enzo Bianchi should get involved with. Unfortunately, that small fact keeps slipping his mind. Even though she’s making his life a thousand times more complicated than it needs to be.
Abby can’t help it if she was born with a brain that resembles a computer and enough curves to make men foolish. She’s going to use what the good Lord blessed her with and become the best damn poker player the city has seen. All she has to do is avoid the arms dealer, who’s still a tad pissy about a girl beating him at cards. Poor thing doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor about losing.
Dive into this delicious Mafia romance and see what happens when Abby attempts a life-saving sleight of hand. Will she succeed, or will the sexy mobster save the day…and steal her heart?