Filthy Secrets: A Steamy Romance Boxset Collection Read online

  Filthy Secrets

  A Steamy Romance Boxset Collection

  Nova Rain

  Contents

  FREE Bonus Gift For You

  Mob Ties: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The PREQUEL)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Mob Ties: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Guardians From Hell Book 1)

  1. Michael

  2. Michelle

  3. Joe

  4. Joe

  5. Michelle

  6. Joe

  7. Michelle

  8. Joe

  9. Michelle

  10. Joe

  11. Joe

  12. Michelle

  13. Michelle

  14. Joe

  15. Joe

  16. Michelle

  17. Joe

  18. Michelle

  19. Joe

  20. Michelle

  21. Joe

  22. Michelle

  23. Joe

  24. Michelle

  25. Michelle

  26. Joe

  27. Joe

  28. Michelle

  29. Michelle

  30. Joe

  31. Michelle

  32. Joe

  33. Joe

  34. Michelle

  35. Joe

  36. Joe

  37. Joe

  38. Michelle

  39. Joe

  40. Joe

  41. Joe

  42. Michelle

  43. Michelle

  44. Joe

  45. Joe

  46. Michelle

  47. Joe

  48. Michelle

  49. Joe

  50. Michelle

  51. Joe

  52. Joe

  53. Michelle

  54. Michelle

  55. Joe

  56. Joe

  57. Michelle

  58. Joe

  59. Michelle

  60. Joe

  61. Michelle

  62. Joe

  63. Michelle

  64. Joe

  65. Michelle

  66. Michelle

  67. Joe

  68. Joe

  69. Michelle

  70. Michelle

  71. Joe

  72. Michelle

  73. Joe

  74. Joe

  75. Michelle

  76. Joe

  77. Joe

  78. Joe

  79. Michelle

  80. Joe

  81. Joe

  82. Joe

  83. Michelle

  Mob Lust A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Guardians From Hell Book 2

  1. Donny

  2. Ava

  3. Donny

  4. Donny

  5. Ava

  6. Donny

  7. Ava

  8. Ava

  9. Donny

  10. Ava

  11. Donny

  12. Ava

  13. Donny

  14. Ava

  15. Ava

  16. Donny

  17. Donny

  18. Ava

  19. Donny

  20. Ava

  21. Donny

  22. Ava

  23. Donny

  24. Ava

  25. Donny

  26. Donny

  27. Ava

  28. Donny

  29. Donny

  30. Ava

  31. Donny

  32. Donny

  33. Ava

  Fight or Flight: An Enemies To Lovers Romance (Hate To Love You Book 1)

  1. Jake

  2. Penny

  3. Jake

  4. Penny

  5. Jake

  6. Penny

  7. Jake

  8. Penny

  9. Jake

  10. Penny

  11. Penny

  12. Jake

  13. Penny

  14. Jake

  15. Penny

  16. Jake

  17. Penny

  18. Jake

  19. Jake

  20. Jake

  21. Penny

  22. Jake

  23. Penny

  24. Jake

  25. Penny

  26. Jake

  27. Penny

  28. Jake

  29. Jake

  30. Penny

  31. Jake

  32. Penny

  33. Penny

  34. Penny

  35. Penny

  36. Penny

  Free Flight: A Secret Bad Boy Romance (Hate To Love You Book 2)

  1. Michael

  2. Ava

  3. Michael

  4. Ava

  5. Ava

  6. Michael

  7. Ava

  8. Michael

  9. Ava

  10. Ava

  11. Ava

  12. Michael

  13. Michael

  14. Ava

  15. Michael

  16. Michael

  17. Ava

  18. Ava

  19. Michael

  20. Ava

  21. Ava

  22. Ava

  23. Ava

  24. Ava

  25. Michael

  26. Ava

  27. Ava

  28. Michael

  29. Ava

  30. Michael

  31. Ava

  32. Michael

  33. Ava

  Love Technically: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (The PREQUEL)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Love Technically: An Alpha Billionaire Romance

  1. Rosanna

  2. Chris

  3. Rosanna

  4. Chris

  5. Rosanna

  6. Chris

  7. Rosanna

  8. Chris

  9. Rosanna

  10. Chris

  11. Rosanna

  12. Chris

  13. Rosanna

  14. Chris

  15. Rosanna

  16. Rosanna

  17. Chris

  18. Rosanna

  19. Rosanna

  20. Chris

  21. Rosanna

  22. Chris

  23. Rosanna

  24. Chris

  25. Rosanna

  26. Chris

  27. Rosanna

  28. Chris

  29. Chris

  30. Rosanna

  31. Chris

  Racing Hearts: A Medical Romance

  1. Sean

  2. Monica

  3. Sean

  4. Monica

  5. Sean

  6. Monica

  7. Sean

  8. Monica

  9. Sean

  10. Monica

  11. Sean

  12. Monica

  13. Monica

  14. Sean

  15. Monica

  16. Sean

  17. Sean

  18. Monica

  19. Sean

  20. Monica

  21. Sean

  22. Monica

  23. Sean

  24. Monica

  25. Sean

  26. Monica

  27. Sean

  28. Monica

  29. Sean

  30. Sean

  31. Sean

  32. Monica

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Mob Ties: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The PREQUEL)

  Chapter One

  Twelve Years Ago

  “Be careful out there, child. Good luck.”

  These were Sister Mary Alice’s last words on that July morning. She and her fellow nuns walked me to the gate of St. Francis’s orphanage, all teary-eyed and wearing bitter smiles. Behind them, my friends were sniffling and waving “goodbye” to me. Everywhere I looked, I saw their sad little faces, shedding tears for their “big brother” as they liked to call me. It broke my heart. I used to see all those kids happy. Their laughter used to echo through our dorms. In those moments, none of us seemed to care that we had grown up without any parents around. I would miss them, but there wasn’t much I could do. I was eighteen years old, and I had to leave the orphanage.

  Despite the memories and our tearful “goodbye” though, a big part of me was thrilled. For the first time in my life, I would be out in the real world. I could go anywhere and do anything, without worrying about any punishment from nuns or priests. I would be living in a fantasy. Just like Jon Bon Jovi in “Wanted Dead or Alive,” I would be walking the streets of the big city, with a guitar on my back. I also had a few bucks in my pocket, courtesy of Sister Mary Alice. For months, she’d kept trying to tell me that the world outside the walls of the orphanage was tough, especially for a kid like me. She warned me of pitfalls and hardships that might come along the way. One of her most common lines was:

  “People can be vicious, son. They will try to exploit you; make no mistake about it.”

  To me, her advice sounded more like an attempt to make me stay on God’s path. What she didn’t know, was that I had been sick and tired of that path. I didn’t want to be humble. I wanted to grab life by the balls, enjoy what those so-called sinners did. I didn’t wish to kill anybody, but I was sure there was more to life than just prayer, fasting, and good manners.

  My first taste of reality was pretty good. On the train to Manhattan, lights and underground walls just blurred past, leading me to what I considered the best part of New York City. I’d been there once on a field trip. It might have been four years ago, but I could still remember the endless shops in the downtown area. Most of them were twice as big as the orphanage itself. People were pouring in and strolling out with bags in their hands. Yet, this wasn’t what had struck me most about that borough. That had actually been Central Park. Why? Because it was a huge park in the heart of the city. I didn’t even know it was possible to have something like that in the Big Apple. I’d read about it, but descriptions and pictures weren’t the same as being in it. For an orphan like me, it was heaven on earth: open space; lots and lots of greenery, including bushes and towering trees; joggers’ chatter. In truth, it was everything I couldn’t have at Saint Francis’s.

  But, after a week, I realized how wrong I’d been. I was flat-broke. When you can’t afford basic things like food and water, it doesn’t matter where you are. Your growling stomach makes everything seem secondary; annoying even. People’s chatter bothered me, because no one seemed to be paying attention to a poor kid playing the guitar. They just looked the other way, ignoring any tunes coming out of my mouth. I was both invisible and inaudible to them.

  On the morning of the eighth day, I pulled my guitar out of its case, crazy thoughts running through my mind. If I attacked someone, they’d call the police. There was a good chance I would spend the night in a cell, but at least the cops would give me something to eat. I eased the instrument onto my lap and left the open case at my feet. Swallowing hard, I took the pick between my thumb and index finger. With my mouth already dry in the blazing heat, I began to strum the intro of Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive.” I kept my eyes down on the brown fabric of the case, a voice inside complaining at the thought of playing and singing. The pennies and quarters people were throwing in, weren’t enough for a decent meal. I made four or five dollars a day, which would buy me a lousy hotdog and a small bottle of water.

  As I reached the chorus, the view of a bill landing in the case forced me to slam my fingers onto the strings and stare at it in disbelief. The number “50” was on each one of its four corners. President Ulysses S. Grant’s picture was in the middle. Before I could speak, I noticed a pair of black shiny saddle shoes, just an inch from the guitar case. Lifting my gaze up, I saw their owner. An old man in a beige suit and a red tie was smiling down at me, wrinkles forming across his forehead. Someone much younger was on his right, wearing a black suit. That guy had to be my height. His muscles were stretching the sleeves of his jacket to their limit.

  “Morning, kid,” the old man spoke in a nasal voice. “Don’t mind me. Keep playing.”

  “Did you just leave me fifty bucks?” I asked, furrowing my brow.

  “Yep,” he said with a nod.

  “What for?”

  “To enjoy your company,” he explained, still wearing that smile.

  “Take that money and shove it up your ass, you faggot,” I groaned, gripping the neck of my guitar.

  “Faggot?!” The guy behind him growled, stepping in front of the old man. “I’m going to teach you some manners, you little piece of shit!”

  I jumped up, watching him jerking his arm back. But, just when he was about to punch me, the old man thrust his arm up and caught his wrist in mid-air.

  “Don’t,” he commanded, his smile disappearing all of a sudden. “How many times do I have to tell you to use your head? Look at him, Greg. He’s perfect.”

  “Perfect for what?” I wondered, raising my voice.

  “Put that thing down and we’ll talk,” the old man requested, shifting his gaze back up to mine.

  “No can do,” I shook my head sideways. “How do I know your goon here won’t try to hit me again?”

  “He won’t,” he assured me, shoving Greg’s arm back.

  “Alright,” I nodded in agreement, easing the guitar down onto the bench.

  “You don’t know who I am,” he stated next, relaxing his posture. “It’s funny, because the whole city does. Are you from out of town, kid?”

  “No,” I spoke in a calmer voice. “I was released from St. Francis’s orphanage eight days ago. My name’s Joe. Joe Mancini.”

  “I’m Thomas Santone,” he introduced himself, reaching out for a handshake. I wrapped my fingers around his, without taking my eyes off his goon. “Strong grip. I like that. When was the last time you ate, Joe?”

  “Last night,” I muttered, dragging my gaze away from Greg.

  “What did you eat?” Santone asked, his voice gaining in volume.

  “A hotdog,” I replied, my tone weakening.

  “Hotdog…” he snorted in derision. “A hotdog can’t even sustain a ten-year old, much less a big man like you. Would you like to work for me, Joe?”