[MAFIA FICTION] ___________ "Look what we have here.. " He spoke, smirking, in his deep sensual voice that made me skip few heartbeats and my breath. The way his voice teased me, showed he knew how bad I'm craving it. I covered my burning red face, squirming, shyly. "Oh No, No, baby , if you do that, how will I get a view of the moment that I waited for so long, my Blossom" he whispered, pinning my hands over my head firmly, positioning himself between my legs once again to have a view of me under his dominance and control. His intense stares made me go crazy. I could feel my heart pounding on trampoline in my chest. I couldn't believe this breathtaking inked God was so close to me, in such an intimate moment that I only dreamt of.. Thinking of all this made me bit my lip and look away in overwhelming shyness. He grabbed my face with his hand made me face him, "If my baby looks away one more time, I'll have to reconsider the reward. I want you to look at me and only me... Am I clear, Blossom?" he spoke, his voice producing a sense of vibration throughout my body everytime he spoke. ____________

[MAJOR EDITING] Aside from her breathtaking beauty and desirable personality the young spy Isabella Garcia is far from lovely. She's intelligent, dangerous, deadly, and positively any villain's worst nightmare. She's placed on a mission going undercover to win the trust and love of the most feared Don, Lorenzo Russo. Only to take down the powerful mafia he's built from nothing. She's determined to take down the handsome, cold, arrogant boss regardless of the tempting lustful desires. ...Or so she thought after one night takes a turn leading the original plan through stressful obstacles. What will happen when the hate and pretending between the two turns into forbidden love? Who will Isabella betray at the end, her agency or her love? ______ His hand remains on the back of my neck, the cold glass brushing my lips, and I drink. The bitter, acidic, tart fruit flavor overpowering the sweet cake. Lorenzo's light eyes darken with fierce, anger as he watches me swallow the wine then finally parting the glass away from my mouth. The cup almost shattering in his hold before letting it go onto the wooden table. His thumb grazed my lips, staining red with the leftover wine. He scans his finger then brings it to his mouth, his blazing look remaining back on me. My stomach is twisting. My universe is spinning with insanity. He speaks low so only we can hear, "Try that again Isabella and I'll have you wishing I poison you." Started 3/5/21

When someone dies mysteriously during a Psych experiment, Rhiannon becomes enmeshed in a conspiracy that includes both the survivors and the killer. ***** Short on cash, Rhiannon Ford signs up to take part in a social psychology experiment based on group think. But when a participant dies under mysterious circumstances, and the story surrounding that death seems mired in conflicting lies, she's quickly drawn into a web of conspiracies that merge urban legends, rivalries, and the very psychological principle the test was about. When everyone is lying, how can Rhiannon find the truth? ***** [[word count: 100,000-150,000 words]]

"You're atheist," I remind him. "You don't believe in god." "I believe in you," He murmurs, letting the cigarette hang from his lips. "I believe in whatever you believe." He says, letting the confession roll off his tongue as if it were that simple. As if god, the devil, heaven, hell-as if none of it really had meaning to him. "That's not how it works," I mutter as we walk down a few more alleyways-the city of Manhattan coated in a light blanket of snow. Henry Vitiello had never had anything to pray for, that is, until he met me-the only thing that had ever opened his mind up to the possibility of religion "Isn't it?" He argues, taking the cigarette by his middle and pointer finger before blowing the smoke out. "I'II dip my hands in holy water if it means I could touch you." "You'd probably burn." 𓆩♡𓆪 𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎, the reaper. He's a prick. An asshole. A pretentious son of a bitch. He's not perfect. He's not even decent. But he's hers. She could be a bottle labeled poison but he was an alcoholic, and he had drunk her empty. Now he was hungover. 𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒, the healer. She's known to be the perfect good girl, with perfect grades and a perfect life with a perfect family. They didn't know that behind the gated doors of their billion dollar estate, she was strapped down to a chair every night and picked apart just to be put back together in time for supper. 𓆩♡𓆪 star-crossed; adjective (of a person or a plan) thwarted by bad luck. 'star-crossed lovers' and that, they were. So they fucked under those very stars that tried so desperately to break them apart. 𓆩♡𓆪 ‼️DISCLAIMER ‼️ BOOK REFERENCES TO MARA DYER, SHATTER ME, MIND FUCK, ETC ARE ALL INTENTIONAL SO DONT BE RUDE. AS FOR TRIGGER WARN