Don’t Make Me (Made Men #3) Read Online Renee Rose

Categories Genre: BDSM, Erotic, Mafia, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Made Men Series by Renee Rose
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Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
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Joey lifts a brow. “My niece, Summer.” He doesn’t say it like a question. More like I’m in deep shit.

“Yeah.” Damn, my heart is hammering. Jesus.

I lost my entire family four years ago.

The LaTorres are all I have now. I didn’t realize how afraid I am of losing my place here. But who am I kidding? I might lose more than my place if I truly offend the don. I could lose everything–including my life.

Joey folds his arms across his chest. “Do you have a death wish?”

A flare of irritation runs through me. I may respect the don, but I’m also worthy of his daughter. Besides, there’s no backing out now. I jumped in with both feet. To reverse directions now would hurt Summer. And beyond that, I have no intention of giving her up. My lips flatten. “Why?” I ask, even though I know exactly why.

Joey blows out his breath. “He’ll kill you.”

My throat tightens. My hands turn cold. “Literally?”

Joey tips his head to the side, considering. “Nah. At least, I don’t think so. Not unless you hurt her. But Christ, why’d you have to pick her?”

The misery on my face must’ve been apparent because Joey’s brows rise, and he walks forward and drops a hand on my shoulder. “Wow, you got it bad, don’t you?”

The words open up some crack that’s always been inside me. Or at least since the day I landed in the LaTorre house four years ago. Emotion pours out, gushes over me, fogs my brain. For some stupid reason, the memory of standing outside my great-uncle’s house four years ago, stripped of my family, at a loss for how to move forward flashes through my mind, making the scar on my ear burn.

I reach up and rubbed it. “Yeah,” I manage to answer.

Joey paces around the room, rubbing his forehead. “Al loves you like a son. Or a brother.” His smile is rueful as if he regrets letting Al down by taking a step back from running of the organization. “My honest opinion? I think he’ll be pissed at first but get over it—if she really wants to be with you.”

The suggestion that she might not grates but only because I’m not sure myself. Does she want this, or have I just foisted it on her when she was at her weakest? Would she wake up in three weeks or a month and say she’s had enough?

“If you’re not sure yet if this is a real thing, I wouldn’t say anything. Not when things are new and tenuous. You’ll want to present it as a united front, I think. He loves you both, he’s going to want what makes you both happy, and if that’s each other, he might be able to swallow it.”

Some of the tension in my stomach eases hearing Joey share the same views I do on holding off.

“As much as Carmen loves you, I think she’ll fight it. She’s like Sophie’s mom—she doesn’t necessarily want her daughter to make the same choice she did about marrying into la famiglia. I think she wants some nice WASP-y city councilman for Summer, something as far from you and me as it gets.”

I shove my hands in my pockets and try not to scowl. I suppose I knew this obstacle existed, too. In some ways, it’s a harder problem to overcome than Al’s wrath.

Joey shrugs. “So you just persist.”

“Is that how you won over Sophie?”

“Yeah.” He grins. “You gotta fight for the woman you love, even if she isn’t sure.”

I extend my hand, and Joey grasps it, pulling me into a man-hug, thumping my back. “Grazie molte.”

“Yeah, anytime.” He pulls away. “But you know, if you hurt that girl, I’ll kill you, too.”

I smile. “I have no doubt of that. ‘Night, Joey.” Walking to the door, I consider Joey’s advice. Fighting for Summer makes sense in theory, but in reality, she’s fragile right now. I’ve already come on way too strong. If I were a better man, I’d give her a lot more space right now.

But hell. I shove my hands back in my pockets. I’m not a better man, am I?

Summer

I sit in my car in front of Northeast Ballet Academy, my childhood dance studio. Little girls in buns and pink tights walk in holding their mothers’ hands and carrying their net bags with ballet shoes. That was me at age three. I trained here in ballet up through high school.

Ana Teasedale, the owner, was my first employer, hiring me at age thirteen to help as a student assistant with the tiny tots.

At age fourteen, my mom started driving me into New York City to take master classes at other studios, but I kept it from Ana, fearing she’d see it as a betrayal.

At age seventeen, I won an apprenticeship with Joffrey Ballet, and I had to drop out of the Northeast Nutcracker performance. Ana was pissed. Understandably. She was blindsided by the whole thing and had to put a lesser performer in the lead to take my place.


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