Kissing The Enemy: A Russian Mafia/Italian Mafia Romance

KISSING THE

ENEMY

HELENA NEWBURY

FOSTER & BLACK

CONTENTS

Copyright

1. Angelo

2. Irina

3. Angelo

4. Irina

5. Angelo

6. Irina

7. Angelo

8. Angelo

9. Irina

10. Angelo

11. Irina

12. Angelo

13. Irina

14. Angelo

15. Irina

16. Angelo

17. Irina

18. Irina

19. Irina

20. Angelo

21. Angelo

22. Irina

23. Angelo

24. Irina

25. Angelo

26. Irina

27. Irina

28. Angelo

29. Irina

30. Irina

31. Angelo

32. Angelo

33. Irina

34. Angelo

35. Irina

36. Irina

37. Irina

38. Angelo

39. Irina

40. Angelo

41. Irina

42. Angelo

43. Irina

44. Angelo

45. Irina

46. Irina

47. Angelo

48. Irina

49. Angelo

50. Angelo

51. Irina

52. Angelo

53. Irina

54. Angelo

55. Angelo

56. Irina

57. Angelo

58. Irina

Epilogue

Lying and Kissing Chapter 1

Lying and Kissing Chapter 2

Lying and Kissing Chapter 3

Lying and Kissing Chapter 4

Contact Me

Copyright

© Copyright Helena Newbury 2016

The right of Helena Newbury to be identified as the

author of this work has been asserted by her in

accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act

1988

This book is entirely a work of fiction. All characters,

companies, organizations, products and events in this

book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are

fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to

any real persons, living or dead, events, companies,

organizations or products is purely coincidental.

This book contains adult scenes and is intended for

readers 18+.

Cover by Mayhem Cover Creations

Main cover model image licensed from (and copyright

remains with) Tverdohlib.com/Deposit Photos (head),

Curaphotography / Deposit Photos (body)

1

Angelo

It was raining, the day she danced into my life and

changed it forever.

It was February and New York hunkered under a sky

the same color as the sidewalk. Bullets of freezing water

hammered the car’s windows. I hate winter. Give me a

roasting summer sun any day. I got my driver to drop

me six feet from the building, but my hair and the back

of my neck were still soaked by the time I made it

inside.

People scattered ahead of me: my size or my expression

or maybe just my reputation. As I passed, the

receptionist got as far as calling, “Sir…?” before a

security guard put a hand on her arm and shook his

head. “That’s Angelo Baroni!” I heard him whisper.

Any other time, that would have pleased me. But I

wasn’t in the mood.

Up on the twentieth floor, I marched straight into the

office of Peterson, the little prick I’d come to see. He

turned pale as I came around his desk, craning his head

to look up at me. “Mr. Baroni! I wasn’t expecting—”

I put my foot on his chest and shoved. Peterson and his

office chair shot across the room towards the floor-to-

ceiling window. He screamed in terror, clutching at the

arms of the chair... and crashed to a stop. He sat there

panting, eyes huge, staring down at the ant-like people

twenty stories below. There were hairline cracks

spreading across the glass, but the toughened pane had

held.

This time.

I hooked my toe under the front of his chair and tugged

him back towards me, castors squeaking. My voice was

low and very, very cold. “You were good to me,” I told

Peterson. “You made sure our containers got through

customs. So I was good to you.”

Peterson nodded. Sweat was beading on his forehead

and trickling down under his shirt.

“But then you had to get greedy,” I said. And I shoved

his chair towards the window again. It crashed into the

weakened glass and this time there was a definite

cracking sound. A spider web of lines fanned out across

the glass. Peterson began to panic-breathe.

I’m a big guy. Six-three and most of it muscle. But

when I’m really pissed off, my voice can go what people

call dangerously quiet. I hauled Peterson back towards

me. “I even let you take bribes from other people. I said

you could smuggle what you wanted, except for one

thing. Do you remember what that one thing was?”

“I swear, Mr. Baroni, I don’t know what—”

I shoved his chair again, this time putting every ounce

of my anger into it, and it hit the glass with the force of

a quarterback going into a tackle. The window finally

caved, becoming a flexible sheet of frosted white held

together only by its safety film. “Women!” Peterson

screamed. “You said no women!”

“Women,” I confirmed. “You smuggled women. In my

fucking city.” I put my foot higher on Peterson’s chest

and pushed. The chair tipped, the whole window slowly

bowing outwards over the street twenty stories below.

Peterson’s feet lifted off the floor.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I told him. “You’re

going to keep our containers moving. You lose your cut

for the next six months. And if you ever, ever help

someone traffic women again, I’ll chain you to that

fucking chair and toss you into the harbor myself.”

Peterson nodded frantically. I lifted my foot and his

chair crashed down onto its wheels. Peterson hurled

himself out onto the carpet, then scrambled on hands

and knees away from the window. The temperature in

the office dropped as the outside air started to howl in

through a thousand little cracks.

“Thank you, Mr. Baroni.” Peterson dug in a pocket,