Crown of Bliss: A Billionaire Mafia Romance, page 1
Crown of Bliss
BB Hamel
Contents
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1. Renata
2. Renata
3. Renata
4. Lanzo
5. Renata
6. Renata
7. Renata
8. Renata
9. Renata
10. Renata
11. Lanzo
12. Renata
13. Renata
14. Renata
15. Renata
16. Renata
17. Renata
18. Renata
19. Renata
20. Lanzo
21. Renata
22. Renata
23. Renata
24. Renata
25. Renata
26. Lanzo
27. Renata
28. Renata
29. Renata
30. Renata
31. Renata
32. Lanzo
33. Lanzo
34. Renata
35. Renata
36. Renata
37. Lanzo
38. Renata
39. Renata
40. Renata
41. Renata
42. Lanzo
43. Renata
44. Lanzo
45. Renata
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Also by BB Hamel
Copyright © 2023 by B. B. Hamel
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Chapter 1
Renata
I had no idea cleaning up after my new boss would involve a dead body.
The motel room smells like disinfectant and vinegar. A cigarette’s still burning in the ashtray, nearly down to the filter now, and the water’s running in the bathroom sink. I stare at a pair of shoes on the floor next to the bed: beat-up sneakers, laces still tied, like he slips them on and off without bending over.
Slipped, actually—got to think in the past tense. He’s dead.
I shut the door behind me. Panic hasn’t hit yet. That’s probably good. I walk closer to the bed but veer away at the last second. There’s an empty beer bottle next to the TV and luggage in the corner. A pair of pants, a dress shirt. Someone packed light, like he didn’t plan on staying long.
I can’t look at the body yet, because if I do, I’m going to lose this lucky calm.
Instead, I shut the water off in the bathroom, though not before splashing some in my face. “Get it together, Ren,” I whisper at the mirror. God, I look tired. Big bags under my eyes. Brown hair with streaky red highlights pulled into a messy bun. I need a shower. A wash day. Anything but this. “Get it together. You’re here for a reason.”
Back into the main room, and finally, I raise my eyes to the bed.
The body’s still there. Hasn’t moved. That’s probably good. Dead bodies shouldn’t move.
I close my eyes, take a couple steadying breaths, think about Grandpop back home in his easy chair, unable to sleep from all the medications, struggling to breathe through the oxygen tubes, then get to work.
My new boss had been explicit when he texted me a half hour ago: head to this room, go inside, don’t freak out, clean up the mess. I figured there’d be used condoms, drugs, maybe a sleeping hooker or something.
Instead, a corpse.
I begin to roll the body up in the blankets.
He’s youngish. Thirties, if I had to guess. Maybe early forties. Sandy brown hair, thick eyebrows. Thin, like he’s a runner or a junkie. Baggy jeans, socks on his feet. Button-down shirt askew. I can’t tell what killed him—there’s no blood. No trauma anywhere. Only he smells terrible.
This is not normal. Not remotely normal. Nowhere in the realm of normal. Except I have to do it. I untuck the blankets, roll the body from side to side, until he’s wrapped up like a burrito. A corpse burrito. I laugh once sharply and realize I’m crying. I don’t remember when that started.
Then I puke on the floor.
“Not great,” I groan, wiping my mouth. Spitting to get the taste of bile off my tongue. Some woman like me is going to clean this up. A girl that’s been working too hard for too long. I almost feel bad.
But then the corpse burrito loses its balance and flops onto the floor.
I puke again.
It takes me a few minutes to get myself together. I’m spinny, head light and dizzy. I’m tempted to see if there’s another beer in that minifridge, if only to steady me a bit, but drinking and dealing with bodies probably isn’t a good mix.
I’m not in a healthy place right now.
“Money,” I whisper, walking around to the corpse burrito. I begin to drag him to the door, not sure how the hell I’ll get it to my car without being seen, but at least it’s two in the morning. The parking lot was dead when I came inside, the road quiet, nobody around. Maybe I’ll get lucky.
“Money,” I say again, grunting with the effort. I picture Grandpop’s face in my mind: shining blue eyes, square jaw, short forehead, bushy hair, wrinkles around his thin lips. I have to remember why I’m doing this, or else I’m going to lose it completely. “Money, money, money.” It’s a chant, like a song.
I almost reach the door.
Then someone knocks.
I straighten up, breathing hard, before clamping my hands over my mouth to keep a scream inside. How the hell is this happening right now? There’s another knock, more insistent this time.
“I know you’re in there,” a man says. “I know you’re in trouble. Open up and I can help.”
I stand very, very still.
Still holding back a scream. If I move my hands, I’m not sure I’ll ever stop screaming.
This wasn’t part of the deal.
My new boss said he’d give me a hundred grand to show up at this rundown motel on the edge of Dallas, in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and clean up his mess.
He didn’t specific corpse removal.
He never said there’d be other people involved.
Finally, the panic hits in force.
I close my eyes. The corpse burrito lies on the floor behind me. Tears leak down my face, dripping onto the front of my zip-up hoodie. I’m fucked, beyond fucked. I knew getting involved with this shady guy was a bad idea, knew the kind of money he was throwing at me is reserved for extremely illegal activities only, but I didn’t care.
I’m used to doing ugly, difficult jobs.
And I’m fine with tasking risks.
My whole life has been one long ugly job, and it can’t get any worse.
I need the money. Grandpop needs the money. Cancer treatments aren’t cheap, at-home nurses aren’t cheap, retirement isn’t cheap. Nothing’s free in this godforsaken hell hole. All I want to do is provide for him the way he’s been providing for me his whole life, give him a few good years here at the end, and now I might be screwed. I might get caught with this corpse burrito, and what will Grandpop think then?
It’ll kill him. I’ll be a murderer. Well, an accomplice to an actual murder, and a murderer of my own Grandpop. Because he’ll die the second he hears what I’ve been doing. The man I love most in the world, dead of a heart attack.
“Shit,” I whisper to myself, unable to help it. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“I hear you cursing,” the man says, voice pitched low and soft like he’s talking to an angry cat. “It’s okay. I’m not a cop. If you don’t let me in right now though, things might get really bad for you, and that’s not a threat. It’s more like a warning. Time’s running out.”
What the hell is he talking about? Things might get bad for me? I just spent the last ten minutes wrapping a dead body up in blankets and fully planned on dragging it out to my beat-up Subaru station wagon so I could drive it out into the desert and dump the body somewhere it’ll get devoured by coyotes.
Things are already terrible.
“What’s your name?” he asks, sounding way calmer than I feel.
And the weird simplicity of the question yanks an answer from me before I think to keep my dumb mouth shut. “Renata. Everyone calls me Ren.”
First rule of cleaning up a murder scene: don’t tell the strange guy knocking on the door your actual freaking name.
“Okay, Ren. My name’s Lanzo. In about ten minutes, this place is going to be swarming with police. If you open the door right now, we can get that body out of here together, and maybe you’ll walk away from this without going to jail for the rest of your life. You don’t want to go to jail, right? Jail’s not fun, trust me. Jail fucks you up. Jail really sucks. So open the door if you don’t want to get fucked up.”
I stare at the knob. Then back at the corpse burrito. Then back to the knob. “That stuff about jail isn’t helping,” I say, forcing my voice not to tremble. “I’m having a really hard time in here.”
“I’m not trying to help. I’m trying to get you to open up. Then I can help.”
“You’re freaking me out, talking about jail like that. Who the heck are you? Did Dimitry send
Lanzo snorts like I said something funny. “He told you his name is Dimitry? That’s cute.”
“Who are you talking about? Who the hell are you?”
“Look, Ren, we don’t have time for this. The guy you’re working for is a very, very bad man, and I’m pretty sure he plans on pinning that dead body on you. It’s kind of his move, if I’m honest with you. If you want to survive, open the damn door and come with me.”
My mouth falls open. This can’t be happening. “Is this some sort of Terminator reference? Are you doing the whole come with me if you want to live thing right now?”
He’s quiet for a second. Then: “Yes, and I kind of hoped it would work.”
“It’s not working. It’s only making me panic even more. What kind of freak would make a movie joke at a time like this?”
He sounds frustrated. “Will you just open up? I’m trying to save you from a few decades of prison time and you’re making it really difficult.”
“How do you know what I’m doing in here? You sound absolutely crazy, you know that? Maybe you got the wrong room.”
It’s probably too late to bluff, but I’ll admit, I’m not at my best.
He sighs. “You should’ve said that from the start. Please open up.”
“Okay, good point, still not opening the door.”
I need to think. This guy obviously knows more about the situation than I do, but how can I trust him? There’s a dead body wrapped in blankets behind me and there’s a strong possibility I might end up the same way. I start pacing back and forth, brain working a million miles an hour but coming up with absolutely nothing.
“Ren, we’ve got eight minutes before the cops arrive. I need at least five to drag that dead body down to my truck. That leaves us three minutes to spare, which is cutting it real close.”
“How do I know you’re not the one who killed this guy?” I put my hands on my hips, feeling triumphant. This is a really good point I’m making. “How do I know you’re not going to do the same to me?”
Something bangs against the door. Not hard, but enough to make me flinch. “That was my forehead,” he says. “I’m slamming my forehead against this door because I am so beyond annoyed right now. I am so fucking sick and tired of Burian getting away with all these kills and leaving a wake of destruction behind him. For once, I want to ruin his goddamn day. So please, open up, and let me help you.”
Something in his tone makes me soften. I step forward, hesitating as I reach for the knob. “Who’s Burian?”
“Dimitry. Your boss. That’s his real name.”
“Huh. I like Dimitry better.”
“Burian’s fine. Please, Ren. Open up.”
I grab the knob. My heart’s racing. Am I really doing this? It doesn’t feel like I have much of a choice. I can stand here, call his bluff, and hope he goes away. But more likely, if he’s lying about the cops, he’ll sit out there until the body in here starts to stink, then I’m really screwed.
Or he’s not lying about the cops, and he’s not kidding about trying to help me, and I really do have about seven minutes until I end up in prison.
“Shit,” I whisper sharply.
Grandpop would lose his mind if he knew what I was out here doing for him. He’d call me all sorts of things, most of which would boil down to total moron, and he wouldn’t be wrong. Grandpop’s a serious man, but a gentle one, and even though he’d never do it, I’d probably deserve a little smack upside the head for this. Well, probably worse.
Door closed, I’m screwed no matter what.
Door opened, and I have a slim chance.
“Shit,” I say again, then yank down the handle.
I jump back as a man steps inside.
My heart pounds like a marching band wants to storm up my throat as I stare at Lanzo, my mouth hanging open.
He’s big, tall, easily over six feet, with wide shoulders, athletic arms, a muscular chest. My stomach twists and my nipples stiffen from sheer confused excitement. The guy’s attractive, hot even, which is an obscene thing to notice given the situation. His eyes are crystal blue, his hair’s a deep black color and a total mess, on the shaggy side, and he needs a shave. He’s in slim jeans, running shoes, and a dark jacket, completely nondescript.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but definitely not a runway model.
His cheekbones are high. His nose is slightly crooked like it’s been broken before. His lips are full, kissably full, like the sort of lips I’d like to get lost in for a while.
He radiates this strange, intense masculinity, like he could use a single screwdriver to break down this entire building, mixed with a tinge of chaotic energy. When his gaze lands on me and his lips quirk up, I feel a thrill of pure desire and excitement run into my core.
I want this man.
I need this man.
And I’m going to scream.
It’s a very disconcerting mix of emotions.
Lanzo’s head cocks to the side. His grin gets bigger, more confident.
“Hello, Ren,” he says. “Come with me if you want to live.”
Chapter 2
Renata
“What is the matter with you?” I blurt out, arms crossed over my chest, trying to hide my stiff nipples. It’s extremely embarrassing that my body’s reacting that way, considering the corpse burrito on the floor behind me.
Lanzo bursts out laughing as he hustles past. “This the guy? Huh, you got him wrapped up, good job. A lot of people sort of panic and don’t know what to do, but this is a solid start. You watch mafia movies or something? Don’t answer that, doesn’t matter. Here, grab his ankles.” He bends over and hefts the shoulders up.
I stand there, gaping at him. “You seriously came in here quoting Terminator and now you’re just picking the body up? Will you slow down for a second?”
“No time,” he says. “Six minutes. Gotta hustle now. If you had answered right away, we could have a civilized chat, but no time for that. Help me get him up then I’ll do the carrying. You go ahead, make sure nobody’s around. We’re heading to a beat-up old Dodge right at the end of the stairs.”
“Wait, hold on.” I wave my hands at him. “I threw up. Over there on the rug. That’s my DNA, right?”
He makes a face. “I wondered what that smell was. But yep, that’s your DNA, and it won’t really matter. Unless you have a criminal history?” His eyebrows raise.
“No, but—”
“Then don’t worry about it. Cops are way less competent than you think. Grab his ankles, please.”
I finally get moving. I help Lanzo get the body up and onto his shoulder. He grunts as he stands.
“What am I supposed to do if someone’s around?” I ask, feeling another wave of panic threaten to consume me.
“Uh, distract them,” he says, walking to the door. “Seriously. Five minutes. Time to run.”
I curse, slipping past him, and head down the walkway to the steps. Sure enough, there’s a truck idling down by the curb.
Lanzo’s coming after me, lugging the corpse burrito on his shoulder. This whole thing is surreal, absolutely insane, and I almost don’t notice the drunk guy stumbling toward the stairs before Lanzo comes around the corner lugging what is very obviously a body.
“Stop,” I hiss at him then run down toward the wasted guy. He’s older, fifties, balding, heavy-set, clearly so inebriated that he’s stumbling. “Excuse me, sir? Sir, excuse me? Did you drop this?” I grab a lighter from my pocket, improvising now.
