Sweet Release (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) Read online

  Sweet Release

  A novel by Victoria Villeneuve

  Sweet Release

  A novel by Victoria Villeneuve

  Prologue

  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

  About the Author

  Bonus Book: HERO

  Chapter One - Valerie

  Chapter Two - Zander

  Chapter Three – Valerie

  Chapter Four – Valerie

  Chapter Five – Zander

  Chapter Six – Valerie

  Chapter Seven – Zander

  Chapter Eight – Valerie

  Chapter Nine – Zander

  Chapter Ten – Valerie

  Chapter Eleven – Inferno

  Chapter Twelve – Valerie

  Chapter Thirteen – Inferno

  Chapter Fourteen - Inferno

  Chapter Fifteen – Valerie

  Chapter Sixteen – Inferno

  Chapter Seventeen – Inferno

  Chapter Eighteen – Valerie

  Chapter Nineteen – Inferno

  Chapter Twenty – Valerie

  Chapter Twenty One – Valerie

  Chapter Twenty Two – Inferno

  Chapter Twenty Three – Valerie

  Chapter Twenty Four – Inferno

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Michael

  That first breath of air outside the prison gate was probably the sweetest air I’d ever had in my lungs. I just stood there, inhaling and exhaling, letting the tension in my chest that had been there for four years, a steel band around my ribs that I’d gotten used to, finally release. At least a little.

  Serving time was just the first part of a long journey. I’d known enough guys who’d done time to know that. Out there, regardless what I knew was true, I was an ex-con and I always would be. That kind of tag came with baggage. Having baggage is better than being in prison, though; by a lot.

  I stood there for five or six minutes before I got my feet to move. Being out… didn’t quite feel like being out just yet. Any minute, a guard would come out, tell me there’d been a mistake. Check me back in to the Hotel Max. Or sound the alarm; I felt like an escapee, breaking the rules by walking off like this. My clothes were too tight; I’d put on muscle in there, and now I felt like I’d stolen someone’s clothes. All of it made me nervous; antsy. I kept looking back at the door.

  The thing nobody tells you about getting out is that they don’t point you in a direction. They don’t arrange a job, or a place to stay, or even one taste of real food. I got twenty bucks and a polite but firm dismissal. Go on, get outta here. Ya’ll don’t come back now, hear?

  But I did have something, at least. Floating around my head was a number. My cell mate, Lawrence had told it to me. I had to say to myself over and over again to remember it. Didn’t have a pen, or anything to write on where it wouldn’t get lost or confiscated. So I repeated it to myself now, and hunted down the nearest place to make change outta the State’s severance pay.

  I bought a snickers at a gas station. They didn’t carry ‘em inside, just cheap knock-off shit that tasted like low-calorie imitation card-board. That little bit was like heaven. Except, too sweet to finish in one go. Funny how things like that taste different once you go four years without.

  There was a pay phone on the corner. I called the number Lawrence had given me, got an address, and then called a cab next thing. And that was the end of my twenty bucks.

  I had to walk the last couple of miles but it wasn’t like I was in a hurry, right? I coulda called my brother, Tony. He’d have given me a ride. Hell, he’d have put me up and given me cash to burn, even got me a job. But, that’s how the whole thing started in the first place; Tony’s help didn’t come without strings.

  It was afternoon by the time I stood outside a couple of wide, fogged up windows under a plain red lettered sign: the gym. Lawrence’s cousin, Jarome, ran the place. Said he’d help me out if he could. Just drop his name, tell him Lindy liked to lick; whatever that meant.

  I pushed through the door.

  The place was big, but not sprawling. Two regulation sized rings, and a matted floor full of guys like me—and a few girls, too—all sweating, huffing, and fighting. I had to smile. This was familiar, even comfortable. I got a few tattoos, so maybe I’m not one to judge—but every guy in this place had the look of guys that had served hard time. Hell, so did the two muscled ladies in the ring; a short-haired latina and her squat, thick black opponent with tattoos crawling up her arms.

  I watched ‘em for a minute. I wasn’t the only one. A tall guy on the other side of the ring shouted something about Layla and her footwork, and the Latina shook her head and made some small change. After that he set eyes on me, told them to keep going, and made his way around the ring.

  He eyed me up as he came. I had an inch on him, and a lot of muscle. Maybe I looked fresh outta the slammer, I don’t know. But he looked grim. Still, he stuck out his hand. “Jarome Tyson.”

  I nodded, shook his hand. “Michael Frazetta. This your place?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Interested in training up?”

  “Uh… sure. I got your number from Lawrence Myers. Says he’s your cousin.”

  Jarome watched me.

  “Uh, he says ‘Lindy likes to… lick’?”

  Jarome’s eyes were hard for a heartbeat more, and then he threw his head back and laughed; a big, deep belly laugh that had his short dreadlocks bouncing. He clapped me on the shoulder. “He’ll never let me live that down. Bastard. Huh… so, you know Lawrence?”

  “Yeah we… we stayed together, you know…”

  Jarome’s expression became sympathetic, but not pitying. “I do know. Come on back to my office, Michael. Let’s chat. You prefer Michael, or Mike?”

  “Mike’s good,” I said. I followed him back through the gym and he took me to a little office, might have been a converted closet. He sat, I sat, and Jarome steepled his fingers over his elbows where they rested on the old desk between us.

  “So,” he said. “I take it you’re looking for more than to train.”

  I nodded slowly. “I’ll do whatever you need, if you’re hiring. Or, if you know someone who is. I’ll scrub toilets, scrape gum; whatever.”

  Jarome chuckled. “We have staff for that, I’m afraid, and I’m full up. But…” He looked me over. “You trained before.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Kick-boxing, regular boxing, wu shu. Like kung fu, you know, Chinese martial arts.”

  “I’m familiar,” Jarome said, smiling. “How far along?”

  “Black belt for kick-boxing, light weight semi-pro when I boxed, and the chinese stuff I picked up…”

  “In prison,” Jarome finished.

  I shrugged.

  Jarome was quiet for a moment, then, “I might have work for you. I lost a trainer a few weeks ago. You don’t need any certifications here, belts or anything like that—just know your shit. You know your shit?”

  “I guess I probably do,” I said. “Guy that taught me wu shu in the House woulda said I knew enough to know I didn’t know anything yet.”

  Jarome chuckled. “Sounds like the real deal. I can have you start to
morrow.”

  “Yeah?” I asked. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Unless you’ve got other plans?” He raised both eyebrows, spread his fingers like he expected I might.

  “Nah,” I said. “Nothing. But… you don’t wanna know what I went to prison for, first?”

  Jarome sighed, and sat back in his office chair, regarding me with a look like he might wanna know after all. But, after a few seconds he shook his head. “Not now. Later, maybe. I believe in fresh slates and second chances. Lord knows I got mine. Maybe once I get to know you, we can have that talk. Wouldn’t want to see you differently, just because of your past. Assuming you didn’t escape, I imagine you served your time. Least I can do is treat you like you’ve been absolved.”

  That band around my chest unwound a little more.

  “That’s… real good of you, man,” I said. “I don’t know what to say… I didn’t expect… thanks. Really, I mean it.”

  Jarome gave me a short nod of acceptance; that was that. Done and over with. I liked him. “You got a home address yet?” He asked.

  My stomach fell a little. Great. Maybe I’d have to call Tony after all. “Uh… not as such. I can get one though, I know some people.”

  “Most ex-cons only know a few people when they get out,” Jarome said. “People who usually had to do with why they went in. That your case?”

  Tony hadn’t had anything directly to do with what had put me behind bars. That was the cop, Pembry, who’d done that. But, hanging around Tony and the Business would make it hard to look like I wasn’t getting involved with it now.

  “I can see the answer is yes,” Jarome said, no judgment; just an observation. “You got a parole officer, yes?”

  “Yeah,” I told him. “Annemarie Blunt. I can give you her number—”

  “No need,” Jarome said. “I know her. A little. Worked with one or two of hers before. Tell you what. I got a room upstairs that’s empty right now. It’s not the Luxor, or even a Motel 6; but it’s got four walls and a ceiling, and a bed that’ll just about fit you. You can fill in the gaps.”

  I rocked back in my chair, shaking my head. “I… Jarome… I don’t even know if I can take that. You don’t know me, man.”

  He quirked up an eyebrow, “Should I have a reason to worry about you living over my business?”

  “No, no… course not, but I could be anybody.”

  “I don’t think you’re ‘anybody’,” Jarome said. “And, frankly, Lawrence is a good judge of character. Whatever else you may or may not be, you’re at least a good person. Lawrence has a gift for that.”

  He did. Lawrence was one of those that had found religion in prison. Islam, but not the crazy kind where they cut off heads and blow shit up—the real kind. He was in for life, and I was just one of dozens of cell-mates he’d had. Nothing bothered him, and he had a way of looking at you like he saw how human you really were. He got me through some tough years.

  “Alright,” I said. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll take it.”

  “Good man,” Jarome said. He pointed up. “Outside the office there’s a door, leads to the back hall. Past the restrooms, there’s a stairway. Door upstairs doesn’t lock, and you aren’t a tenant. If I need to search it, or if the police need to, that’s up to me. We clear?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. I had nothing to worry about. From here out, I was on the straight and narrow.

  “Tell me something,” Jarome said. “What do you want to do with your life, now that you have it back?”

  I’d thought about that a lot inside. I didn’t have to think about it. “Break in to MMA, fight in the Octagon. Win.” I grinned. “Got a bad taste from losing, you know?”

  Jarome nodded slowly, “I do know. You’re in the right place. Now go on, check out the digs, then get your ass a shower. Take one of those,” he jerked his chin toward a shelf full of packaged gym clothes, tops and bottoms, “get changed, and then get your ass back down here to train. We start today.”

  I had an empty stomach still, and the wrong shoes for it—but I laughed anyway, and shook his hand, and did what the man said.

  It was a new life, and I was gonna take it.

  Chapter 1

  Ella

  A Modern Woman’s Guide to Moving On.

  Step one: Divorce the bastard who has been beating you for the past four years. He isn’t worth sticking around for. Whether or not you pay a ‘witch’ to hex his junk is optional. It doesn’t work, but it feels damn good and could be money well spent just for that. Plus, you never do know.

  Step two: Get back into school. Do what you always wanted to do. Finish that degree, or do something else, but take steps to never need to rely on anyone like He-who-shall-not-be-named ever again.

  Step three: Learn a martial art. For me it was Krav Maga; I liked the idea of being hardcore like those Israeli special forces ladies, and if it’s good enough for them and the highest paid bodyguards, it was good enough for me. But pick whatever you like most. I almost learned Aikido.

  Step four: Graduate from whatever, go out into the world, get a job, and for once in the last six years finally have both your own feet under you—each of them entirely capable of kicking ass if need be.

  That’s where I was. Step four. Six years later, walking into day three of my first full time job, putting that hard earned student loan debt to good use. Thank you, Federal Government, even if I did have to sign over my first born child to get through school.

  And thank you Jarome Tyson; possibly the most upstanding, respectful man I had met in a long, long time and willing to take me on fresh out of school with no resume. Jarome had a local reputation for doing his best to heft the poorest dregs of the city up and out of the pits and into… well most of them were still in the pits afterward, but they were on a slightly higher tier and you know what? That was good enough for me. You couldn’t go lower than rock bottom and I was happy to see that six tiers below me now.

  Always be moving forward. That’s what my therapist had said, back when I thought I needed one. I probably did, at the time. She was a doll.

  I strolled through the doors of the gym, waved to the sweaty receptionist behind the front counter who I’d seen take down a guy twice her size on my first day in, and made my way to the back room—my room—where waited my table, my sheets and towels, my oils and creams, my rack of what a casual observer would probably consider instruments of torture. (They weren’t, they were tools of the trade. But I could see where they might get the idea.)

  There was a knock on the door behind me, minutes after I set my back down and started spraying down the table.

  Jarome leaned against the door frame, that casual, easy smile of his directed at me. “I’m hearing good things,” he said. “I like that. You’re getting popular. Full book today. Congratulations.”

  “It’s taking off faster than I expected,” I told him, brushing stray wisps of blond hair out of my face. I’d cut it short after The Event. It was just past my shoulders now. “I really appreciate you spreading the word.”

  Jarome raised a wide, oar-paddle hand, “I didn’t do anything, just put the book up front. Everyone… behaving?” He lifted an eyebrow.

  “So far so good,” I told him; though, the truth was just a little shy of that. Still, I could handle myself, and once I shut some of these guys down they stayed that way, and that was good enough for me. In a way it was flattering, as long as it didn’t go too far. The women were the best; plus, they pointed out to me the guys that were likely to be a problem—and offered to cream them on the mat if they heard about any funny business.

  “Excellent. Well, I won’t keep you.” He turned to leave. “Oh, there is one thing; I hired a new trainer over the weekend. Mike Frazetta. I should introduce you later, when you go to lunch, so you know how to spot him.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “You’re growing by leaps and bounds it sounds like.”

  He only shrugged. This place, Jarome had explained before, was as big as he pla
nned to get. He had money left over from a boxing career before the gym, and made enough from the gym on his reputation alone that he had no plans to open up another place, move to a bigger space, or anything like that. “You know what I learned being somewhat famous and rich enough to pay off my car?” He’d asked when she first started. She hadn’t known, and had said so. “That the only wealth you need in life is a wealth of purpose. Everything else is temporary, and fleeting, and in the end worthless. Only your purpose in life can survive you.”

  Wisdom from a near miss with death, she suspected. She didn’t follow boxing, and never really had, but she’d done research on Jarome Tyson after that and he’d taken a severe blow to the head during his last bout. Six weeks later he woke up from a coma, resigned, and made the papers when he opened the gym and promised to train anyone who walked through the door.

  And he had as far as I could tell. the gym floor was a mix of people of disparate sizes, shapes, races, genders. I think that’s part of why I liked it. I had done the white middle class suburbia thing. It hurt, as far as I could tell.