Blog Tour: Mafia King: A Mafia Royals Novella by Rachel Van Dyken
Mafia King: A Mafia Royals Novella, an all new must read standalone novella from New York Times bestselling author Rachel Van Dyken and 1,001 Dark Nights, is available now!
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From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Rachel Van Dyken comes a new story in her Mafia Royals series…
**Every 1001 Dark Nights novella is a standalone story. For new readers, it’s an introduction to an author’s world. And for fans, it’s a bonus book in the author’s series. We hope you'll enjoy each one as much as we do.**
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Add Mafia King to Goodreads: http://bit.ly/3ujkrvn
Excerpt
The door slammed.
“Honey, I’m home...” I said to myself with a grin.
I had a bottle of wine out on the living room table, my shoes on the glass as I leaned back and took a swig from my goblet—because why not get fancy at two in the afternoon?
“It’s ten a.m,” came Tank’s annoyed voice.
Or ten in the morning…whoops.
“I don’t own a watch.” I shrugged.
“What’s that on your left wrist, then?”
“Oh, that?” I shrugged. “It’s an Apple watch used strictly for heart rate and exercise purposes.”
“Exercise to you is opening your mouth and closing it, Tiny.” He made it farther into the room, and I tried…I really did. I tried not to check him out.
Not to stare at his golden skin.
His bulging biceps beneath his plain black t-shirt.
The new ink poking out from the V of that same shirt.
Would he get the Abandonato crest like the rest of the Family?
I shivered.
He would look so hot with it across his chest.
Our crest.
Mine.
I shifted my eyes away too slowly, and he caught them with his green-eyed gaze before he licked his full lips like he saw something else he wanted to lick.
He always looked at me that way—with both annoyance and need.
And I never knew how to take it.
On one hand, I wanted to believe the need trumped any annoyance he felt for me, but I knew how he saw me.
As a spoiled brat with a silver spoon stuck up her ass.
And even worse now that I was older.
Now that I was…different.
“You added more blue.” He jutted his chin toward me and sat down on the chair across from the sofa I was lying on.
“Yup.” I examined my black nail polish. “I felt like it wasn’t making a strong enough statement.”
He snorted out a laugh. “And what sort of statement were you going for? Gothic chic?”
“What?” I glared at him. “You don’t like it.”
“It’s not you.”
Disappointment threatened to choke me, and shame crawled up my neck by way of a harsh red flush. “You don’t know me.”
“I did.” He locked eyes with me. “Or I thought I did.”
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