Pay Off: Accidental Marriage Mafia Romance (The Ferrari Family Book 5) Read online

  Pay Off

  The Ferrari Mafia Family Series

  Book Five

  ~

  Hazel Parker

  Pay Off – Ferrari Family Series © 2020 Hazel Parker

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Brad

  Chapter 2: Megan

  Chapter 3: Brad

  Chapter 4: Megan

  Chapter 5: Brad

  Chapter 6: Megan

  Chapter 7: Brad

  Chapter 8: Megan

  Chapter 9: Brad

  Chapter 10: Megan

  Chapter 11: Brad

  Chapter 12: Megan

  Chapter 13: Brad

  Chapter 14: Megan

  Chapter 15: Brad

  Chapter 16: Megan

  Chapter 17: Brad

  Chapter 18: Megan

  Chapter 19: Brad

  Chapter 20: Megan

  Chapter 21: Brad

  Chapter 22: Megan

  Chapter 23: Brad

  Chapter 24: Megan

  Chapter 25: Brad

  Chapter 26: Megan

  Chapter 27: Brad

  Chapter 28: Megan

  THE COMPLETE SERIES

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  Author Bio

  Chapter 1: Brad

  I opened my eyes to the naked body of Megan Adams lying in front of me, her hand on my chest, a wedding ring glaring under the morning Las Vegas sun. I—

  Wait, a fucking wedding ring?

  When the fuck did Megan get married?

  I looked closer at the ring. Surely, I had misinterpreted it. Perhaps it had been a ring on a different finger, or perhaps just a different style…

  Nope. She was married. She was fucking taken by some lucky bastard.

  “Well, fuck,” I muttered.

  I didn’t worry about the husband. I was fucking Brad Nimico, CEO and owner of Nimico Waste Management, the largest company in its niche on the East Coast, and a fucking strong, healthy adult in his thirties. What was he going to do, threaten to sue me or beat me up?

  Even if he could, I had enough connections to make sure shit like that didn’t happen. Suffice to say, the thought was downright laughable.

  I didn’t worry about any potential scandal. I’d long had a reputation as being honest and shameless to a fault. If anything, sleeping with Megan would only bolster my reputation and make me even more revered. Perhaps it was secretly a gift to me.

  But I did fucking worry about this fucking hangover that I was suffering from. I would have preferred to go to the pool party at Wet Republic without wondering why the fuck I’d gotten so drunk that I couldn’t even recall how Megan and I had wound up in bed.

  Not that I was complaining. After how long the two of us had had eyes for each other? Shit, it was a damn miracle that nothing had ever fucking happened before.

  But, seriously, how the fuck did we wind up in this spot?

  * * *

  Fifteen Hours Earlier

  “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the future of Nimico Waste Management. Thank you very much.”

  The audience at the convention broke out in uproarious applause after my speech about the new technologies our company would introduce. I waved and nodded my head, but my eyes really only remained on one person for the duration of the applause.

  Megan Adams.

  She was the CEO of a rival company in New York City, but if I were honest, the rivalry never was personal—and that was by choice. Sure, we had our competition over contracts, but by and large, our relationship was one of respect, gentle teasing, and fun.

  And flirting.

  A lot of fucking flirting.

  I’d had my eyes on her since the first time I had seen her at a convention. Long blonde hair, seductive blue eyes, kissable red lips…she looked every bit the part of girl next door by day while also being the college co-ed that screamed wild sex by night. Usually, when I wanted a girl, I got her.

  But, for some stupid reason, not Megan Adams.

  Call it her being a business equal or just call it her being her, but so far, she had managed to resist. But I would not wait much longer.

  I went backstage, took off my mic and other equipment, and headed back to the main atrium. I had barely gotten off-stage when I saw Megan waiting for me, her arms crossed. In her red jacket and black skirt, she had me dreaming about what would happen if I just lifted that skirt a smidge, ran my fingers up, found her panties…

  “Quite the speech you gave up there, Mr. Nimico.”

  “For the last fucking time, Megan, just call me Brad,” I said, locking my eyes on her.

  “Why? It’s much more fun to see you squirm when I call you by your formal name.”

  Opportunity.

  “Well then, maybe it’s time we change the circumstances in which you see me,” I said. “Maybe it’s time that you and I enjoy a drink at one of the Cosmopolitan bars.”

  “Is that so?” Megan said, arching an eyebrow, a coy smile on her face. “In that case, maybe it’s time for me to go back to my room so I can get a nap and get ready.”

  “Better be a fucking fast nap then,” I said. “Last night of the convention. You know everyone will want to network and chat. Only person I’m interested in networking and chatting with you.”

  And grabbing you, slamming you, choking you, fucking you.

  “Maybe I’m interested in that too,” she said. “Where and when?”

  “Chandelier Bar, two hours,” I said. “Don’t be late. A man of my position has many options.”

  She chuckled.

  “A woman of my position does too,” she said. “But luckily, I have some respect for you.”

  And a fucking whole lot more than that.

  She turned and walked two steps away before she looked back at me.

  “See you in two hours…Brad.”

  Oh, fuck, I thought as I felt myself stiffening beneath my slacks.

  * * *

  If not for Megan Adams, I would have fucking hated coming to these conventions. As it was, I still couldn’t say this was my favorite part of the job.

  The story was always the same. Give some bullshit speech about the changes we were making at NWM. Listen to people talk about how great we were. Get the occasional opener for discussing business options or, worse yet, a request for angel investment in some stupid-ass startup that I knew would never work. Take time away from actually growing the business and making money.

  Rinse. And fucking repeat.

  But the “if not for” wasn’t exactly something that could be ignored. I dared to say, in fact, that by this point, it was really the only reason I even bothered to show up to these fucking things in the first place. It’s not like I needed the network or the
business opportunities; that was for damn sure.

  I heard a seat pull back beside me. I looked over. Megan, good fucking heavens, was standing there.

  And now, she only had a black cocktail dress on. And it was dangerously attractive. She knew damn well what she was doing. And I knew damn well that neither of us was going to resist the other.

  “Hello, Mr. Nimico.”

  I groaned. She laughed. Only she had the power to pull me on a string like this, but I didn’t think she even realized how much she could.

  “For the last fucking time!” I said.

  “What, call you Brad?” she said as she put her purse on her lap. “What’s the fun in that? Everyone else does what you want. Someone needs to push back.”

  “And so you’ll do it by calling me a Mr. Nimico like I’m a teacher?”

  “Shit, I guess that does make me something of a schoolgirl, huh?”

  That cannot be by accident. Fuck, I’m getting hard. Uncontrollably hard.

  “Well, luckily for you, we are all adults here, and we can all enjoy an alcoholic beverage,” I said, holding my hand up to the bartender, who came over immediately. “Two Manhattans.”

  “Classy, huh?”

  “Do you think I’d do shots?” I said.

  Megan laughed. She leaned forward and put her hand on my arm.

  For someone who could get laid easily and with some of the most beautiful women wherever he went, I did not get nervous very often. I had too much confidence in myself and too many options to ever let a woman make me feel nervous.

  But that touch right there had me feeling like a high school freshman who had just been kissed on the cheek by the hot college girl.

  I liked it, but I didn’t want to like it. I didn’t like that Megan had this kind of power and probably didn’t even realize it. I didn’t like that my usual smooth charm would soon turn into awkward fumbling. I needed to do something I hadn’t done in a while.

  I needed to let the alcohol work some magic.

  And then the true Brad would take over, and I would have nothing to worry about. Not that I do now. Just good to have backup options.

  “No, no shots for me,” she said. “I—”

  “How about one round?”

  Megan arched an eyebrow at me. A playful one that seemed to suggest she knew what I was up to, but that obviously expressed a little trepidation.

  “Well, I’m going to do a shot to celebrate ending this nightmare of a convention,” I said. “You are welcome to partake if you’d like.”

  I again got the bartender’s attention.

  “Shot of patron—”

  “Two, please.”

  I got a wicked smirk on my face as Megan cut in. Yeah, tonight was going pretty well.

  * * *

  An hour later, I was still holding it together, but the shot of patron and the two rounds of Manhattans I’d had were starting to buzz me a little. They were, not surprisingly, making me bolder.

  Why the fuck had I never crossed this bridge before with Megan? Forget the fact that she was so hot I would have looked past a supermodel to gawk at her. Forget the fact that she, like me, had her own company and therefore had shitloads of money in the coming years. Forget the fact that she could flirt, gab, and seduce like I could.

  Just the fact that we had had eyes for each other for so long and yet never even done anything more than a hug—probably tonight was the first time we had touched arms—was astonishing. Fucking defied all the odds, really.

  Given that, though, I was not about to bow down again to fate and miss another chance. Fuck that. I was going to take mine, and I was going to have a blast doing it.

  “So what now, Mr. Brad?”

  “Oh, so now we’re mixing it up, huh?” I said. “Well, wanna know what I wanna do?”

  “Hmm?”

  I want to grab you by the throat, pull you to me, and make out with you. I want to bend you over this bar and rail you from behind. I want to make you mine.

  Too bad that would get me arrested for public indecency, hot as that may be.

  “You ever been to the nightclub, Marquee? Here in Cosmopolitan?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, have I ever been to a convention?”

  I rolled my eyes as Megan laughed at me.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “But have you ever been to Marquee with me?”

  She smirked.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  She hesitated for just a second. I took the pause to throw down a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, stand up from my bar seat, and grab Megan and pull her away. I didn’t wait for her permission; I just took her. And, not surprisingly, she went right along with it.

  Marquee already had a line out the ass for people to get in, but I knew damn well how these nightclubs worked, having had extended family in the area. If you were a dude without a hot chick, you either ponied up a few grand for bottle service or you waited in line for hours, at the mercy of a bouncer who may or may not have judged you to be too much of a pussy to make the club look good. If you were a dude with a hot chick, you’d still have to wait, but the bouncers would be more forgiving.

  And if you were a hot chick? You practically got the red carpet past all the broke-ass losers who thought that trading in four hours in line was worth awkwardly dancing in a nightclub while paying twenty bucks for a vodka-soda.

  But there was one equalizer that I had taken advantage of many times before to jump to the front of the line—bribes.

  Slip the bouncer a twenty, and he’d get you in ASAP when you got to the front of the line. Slip the bouncer a hundred, and you skipped over everyone. Oh, sure, you’d still have to pay cover, but how badly did you want to attend one of the exclusive Las Vegas nightclubs?

  I went straight up to the bouncer, didn’t say a word, flashed him a hundred-dollar bill, and he took it with a nod. He let me pass the line, and we ignored the drunk guys bitching about how I wasn’t hot enough for the girl I was with. But I’ve got the balls to get her, and you don’t.

  And millions of dollars. And confidence. And status.

  We went up an elevator, and with space being cramped, Megan had to lean into me. And by lean into me, I mean she scooted her ass back against my crotch and leaned her head back into my shoulder.

  God, I could have kissed her. She had to feel how hard I was getting. I was not so much aroused by her as I was utterly intoxicated, and not because of the booze. She may not have been my one true soulmate, but Megan Adams was the closest thing to my one true sexmate—my idealized sex partner, the girl I’d considered for so long but was finally on the cusp of making it happen.

  And when the elevator doors opened, she was the one that took my hand as EDM blared loudly against the speakers. And I actually felt genuinely nervous. I needed more alcohol.

  “Hey!” I said, leaning in, wrapping my hand around her hips and the small of her back. “Let’s do another round of shots. Celebrate getting past the lines.”

  It was the last thing I would remember clearly that evening.

  * * *

  I turned away from Megan in bed, trying to process how the fuck we’d gotten from taking shots at a nightclub to winding up in bed—and more importantly, how the fuck I had never noticed that she was married. Wouldn’t that have come up in conversation at some point? I felt sorry for her cockless husband if she was so willing to sleep with me, even after all this time, but it was a fake kind of sorry, like a pat on the head, “grow the fuck up,” “you’ll get over it,” kind of sorry.

  I tried to recall if she’d ever mentioned getting married or, hell, even just fucking engaged. I looked back at her hand. I was no ring connoisseur, but I was pretty sure that was a wedding ring, not an engagement ring. Maybe she’d had it off when we were hanging out, only to put it on to surprise me and still fuck me. Boy, that spoke really poorly for her husband. As if fucking me didn’t already.

  Christ. I didn’t deliberately seek out being a dick, but if this was what happen
ed, so be it. We’d just have an awkward morning, hopefully, make peace, and then move forward. And that would be that. If Megan never wanted to see me again after, at least I’d have the knowledge we finally fucked. Even if I can’t fucking remember a moment of it.

  And if she did want to see me after, well, I’d make sure I was sober and not black-out drunk this time.

  I got out of bed, headed for my pants, and rummaged through them. I felt a piece of paper, like a receipt. I figured it would be one of the bars that I’d gotten a shot at, but that didn’t make sense. I never exactly made it a point to keep receipts for anything under a thousand bucks. Curious, I pulled it out.

  “Berger & Sons.”

  That name didn’t ring any bells. I read further down.

  “1.3-carat wedding set, $6,567.”

  No…

  No. No. No fucking way.

  That’s fucking impossible. That’s…how…what…

  “No fucking way.”

  “Brad? Brad! Oh my God, what the…what the fuck happened?”

  I looked over at Megan. No longer was she the sexual fiend that I’d conquered last night. Now she wasn’t looking at my naked body, turning away as if she was, in fact, married to someone else. But the fucking receipt in my fucking pocket…

  I took a closer look. The purchase had happened shortly before midnight—almost exactly before, actually, as if we had rushed in to get the purchase done before the store closed.

  “What is this…Brad!”

  “I don’t fucking know, Megan; chill the fuck out,” I said, trying to feign confidence.

  “Chill the fuck out?” she said.

  The only reason her voice hadn’t risen to an angry screech, I suspected, was that she was still waking up.

  “I can’t remember anything after the Chandelier Bar, I woke up to your naked body in my vision, and now I’ve got…this? A wedding ring?”

  She gulped. I gulped. She finally said the words that we both knew to be true, no matter how much we wanted to fight like hell to believe otherwise.

  “Holy shit. Brad…are we married?”