The Brit
Jodi Ellen Malpas
The Brit
Jodi Ellen Malpas
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Prologue - Part 1
Prologue - Part 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Also by Jodi Ellen Malpas
About Jodi Ellen Malpas
Copyright
Copyright © 2021 by Jodi Ellen Malpas
All rights reserved.
First published in 2021 by Jodi Ellen Malpas
ISBN - 978-1-7360572-2-3
The moral right of Jodi Ellen Malpas to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Jodi Ellen Malpas. All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Jodi Ellen Malpas 2021
Editing by - Marion Archer
Cover design by – Hang Le
Praise for Jodi Ellen Malpas
“Malpas’s sexy love scenes scorch the page, and her sensitive, multilayered hero and heroine will easily capture readers’ hearts. A taut plot and a first-rate lineup of supporting characters make this a keeper.” —Publishers Weekly on Gentleman Sinner
* * *
“A magnetic mutual attraction, a superalpha, and long-buried scars that are healed by love. Theo is irresistible.” —Booklist on Gentleman Sinner
* * *
“Filled with raw emotions that ranged from the deepest rage to utter elation, Jodi Ellen Malpas wove together an incredible must-read tale that fans will certainly embrace.” —Harlequin Junkie on Gentleman Sinner
* * *
"The characters are realistic and relatable and the tension ratchets up to an explosive conclusion. For anyone who enjoys Sleeping with the Enemy-style stories, this is a perfect choice."―Library Journal on Leave Me Breathless
* * *
“The Controversial Princess, told from Adeline’s POV, is thick on plot, rich in character development with Kindle-melting sex and the perfect blend of twists and turns, shockers and villains!” —SueBee, Goodreads Reviewer
* * *
“The Controversial Princess is an all-consuming, scorching hot, modern royal romance with twists, turns and a jaw-dropping cliff-hanger that will leave you begging for more.” —Mary Dube, USA Today HEA
* * *
“The Controversial Princess provided us with the romance our hearts needed, the passion our hearts craved, with jaw dropping twists and turns that kept us guessing and eagerly flipping the pages.” —TotallyBooked Blog
* * *
“A brave, cutting-edge romance…This is a worthwhile read.” —Library Journal on The Forbidden
* * *
“Unpredictable and addictive.”—Booklist on The Forbidden
* * *
“The Forbidden proves that Jodi Ellen Malpas is not only one of the romance genre’s most talented authors, but also one of the bravest. In this raw and honest portrayal of forbidden love, Jodi delivers a sexy and passionate love story with characters to root for. The Forbidden is easily my favorite read of 2017!”—Shelly Bell, author of At His Mercy, on The Forbidden
* * *
“The Forbidden is a gut-wrenching tale full of passion, angst, and heart! Not to be missed!”
—Harlequin Junkie on The Forbidden
* * *
“Every kiss, every sexy scene, every word between this pair owned a piece of my soul. I could read this book a hundred times and still react as if it was the first time. The Protector is a top 2016 fave for me.” —Audrey Carlan, #1 bestselling author of The Calendar Girl series on The Protector
* * *
“4.5 stars. Top Pick. Readers will love this book from the very beginning! The characters are so real and flawed that fans feel as if they’re alongside them. Malpas’ writing is also spot-on with emotions.”—RT Book Reviews on The Protector
* * *
“With This Man took this already epic love story to a whole new, unthinkable height of brilliance.” – Gi’s Spot Reviews
* * *
“Super steamy and emotionally intense.” –The Library Journal on With This Man
* * *
"Jodi Ellen Malpas delivers a new heart-wrenching, addicting read."—RT Book Reviews on With This Man
* * *
“We really don’t have enough words nor accolades for this book! It had everything and MORE with added ghosts from the past as well as a surprising suspense. But mostly, it was about a love that proves it can conquer anything and everything placed in its way. A beautiful addition to one of our favourite series!”—TotallyBooked Blog on With This Man
Acknowledgments
My place in the romance world is one that I am so thankful for. Every morning I wake up and take a few moments to decipher between my dreams and reality. And every morning, I smile, because my dreams really are my reality. I get to write you stories to get lost in and create characters for you to fall in love with. What a wonderful job I have.
Here we are at release #18. Danny Black. Or The Brit. This is a dark one. It’s my first mafia type romance, and, God, it was a joy to create this world and these characters. Both desperately flawed. Both harbouring endless demons. Pleasure has never been so deadly.
As ever, a huge thank you to all of my wonderful followers. I’ve said it time and again, you’re a fuel to my passion. I hope you enjoy The Brit. JEM xxx
For my sister. One of the bravest women I know.
Prologue - Part 1
London—Twenty Years Ago
* * *
DANNY
* * *
I could smell it. Bacon. Greasy, fatty bacon. It was making my stomach twist harder as I scavenged through the huge bin at the back of the burger bar I raided daily. My frantic hands were digging like my life depended on it, rummaging down and down though soggy chips and bread to find the good stuff. When I moved a cardboard box and the scent intensified, wafting up into my filthy face, I very nearly looked to the heavens in thanks. But I didn’t, because if there was a god, I wouldn’t have been rummaging through a bin like a tramp.
I was pretty sure bacon had never looked so good, and the piece I’d found had the remnants of melted cheese smothered far and wide. My mouth watered; my tummy growled hard. I shoved it past my teeth and chewed like a child possessed, swallowing way too soon. I should have savored it. Who knew when I’d find another piece of heaven like that, because, let’s face it, who took off the bacon on a bacon cheeseburger? It was my lucky day.
Dusting off my hands, I jumped down from the edge of the bin, wincing a tiny bit at the sharp pain in my rib. Pulling up my T-shirt, one of only two I had which was three sizes too small, even for my emaciated ten-year-old frame, I inspected the damage.
“Bastard,” I mutte
red, taking in the colorful patches over my torso, an ugly blend of purples, yellows, black, and blues. I was a dense fool. He’d told me to trust him. He’d promised not to cuff me if I did as I was told and got his beer. The moment I held out the can, he’d taken it and proceeded to pound me with it. It didn’t hurt. Never did during the actual beating. It was afterward, when I had escaped the arsehole and was no longer making myself numb, that the pain kicked in. Part of me knew when I took what he dished out without so much as a murmur, it made him angrier. But I learned years before that I got satisfaction in knowing I frustrated him. He’d never see me beg. He’d never see my pain. Never. Not even when he pinned me face first to the kitchen table and shoved his dick in my arse.
I picked up my feet and started strolling down the alley toward the main road. Not even the biting cold affected me anymore. I was hardened. Used to the slow torture that was my sad life. I was wearing a T-shirt, half ripped up one side exposing my scrawny torso. In December. It was minus one degrees, and I couldn’t feel a damn thing.
I just made it to the end of the alley when I heard my name being called. The voice should have made me break into a sprint and run away. But instead, I turned, finding Pedro, a boy from the posh estate up the road. He was flanked by his usual crew of five, all kids better off than me. It wasn’t a hard feat. Pedro was Italian. His family owned a restaurant on the main drag where I’d often scavenged. The first time I scrounged through the bin looking for leftovers, he caught me. From that day, Pedro made it his mission to make my life miserable. Or even more miserable.
The six boys circled me, and I passed my eyes over each one. I wasn’t scared. In fact, I was more in awe of their clean clothes and their brand-new trainers. They were all Italian. Cousins, I think. But Pedro was the leader of the gang, and he was also the largest by a clear foot, both in height and width.
“Find anything tasty, little tramp?” Pedro asked, nodding to the bin I had just crawled out of. His cousins started tittering, like they hadn’t heard him ask me the very same question a dozen times before. I didn’t bother answering. My reply wouldn’t have changed the outcome, and running away would have made the next time he caught me a longer encounter. So I stood and waited for him to approach me, shutting down for the second time that day. His grin was wicked as he leaned in and sniffed me before wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Well?” he prompted.
“Bacon,” I answered stoically. “It was better than that shit pasta I find in your family’s bins.”
His face faltered before he quickly gathered himself and his disgust grew. Sickly, I relished in it, despite the beating I knew was coming. “Cut him,” he spat, elbowing the tall lanky boy beside him. I think they called him Bony. I smiled on the inside. He had nothing on me.
Bony produced a flick knife from his stylish jeans, inspecting the blade. I should have flinched. I didn’t. Nothing I faced fazed me at that point in my life. “Get on with it,” I goaded him, stepping forward. His lip curled, and his arm shot forward. My eyes slammed shut, yet I didn’t move anything else, as I felt the blade sink into the flesh of my cheek and drag a few inches down.
The gang cheered, clearly thrilled with today’s work, and I opened my eyes, feeling warm dampness sliding down my face, meeting the corner of my mouth. I flicked my tongue out and licked up some blood, reacquainting myself with the coppery taste.
“You’re sick, man,” Pedro spat.
“Want a taste?” I reached up to my cheek and dragged my finger down through the stream of blood, presenting it to him.
The rage in his eyes thrilled me as he advanced forward, ready to land a few brutal thumps to my face. I was more than ready. Every minute of my life, I was ready. What I endured at home made it easy to take whatever this piece of spoiled shit threw my way.
Pedro pulled his fist back, but the sound of screeching tires halted him in his tracks, and we all turned in unison to see a beat-up old Merc speeding toward us. Pedro and his gang split. Me? I stood and watched as two more cars entered the alley, two other Mercs, but these ones brand new. One raced up behind the old Merc, and one came in from the other end of the alley, blocking it in.
I stepped back into the shadows and watched as six huge, suited men stepped out of the two new Mercs, three men from each car. Despite it being December, they all wore sunglasses. And straight faces. They were all mean-looking motherfuckers. One opened the back door of one of the cars, and then another man emerged, this one distinctly separated from the others in a cream linen suit. He took his time, straightening out the few creases in his jacket before he swept a hand through his hair. He looked important. Powerful. Fearless. Respected. It was obvious to me, even as a ten-year-old, that he’d earned it. He wasn’t simply a bully. I was instantly in awe of him.
I watched in fascination as he strolled toward the old Merc and opened the driver’s door. Then I heard a plea for mercy.
And then I heard a loud bang. A gunshot.
I blinked a few times, mesmerized, as the cream-suited man coolly shut the door of the old Merc and started to wander casually back to one of the cars. I looked across to the old Merc and saw blood splattered everywhere, a body slumped over the steering wheel.
“Deal with it,” the cream-suited man said, lifting his trousers at the knees to get back into the car.
It was then I saw it. A man across the way through some caged fencing, scrambling up onto a high wall that looked over the alleyway. And in his hand, a gun. He looked like bad news. Too tatty and dirty to be with the smart-suited men in the shiny new Mercs, and before I could register my mouth moving, I was shouting, “Hey, Mister. Hey!”
The cream-suited man paused, looking my way along with the other well-dressed men. His blue eyes shone at me. I was a kid, yes, but I knew evil when I saw it. I looked at it most days, though what was staring at me in that moment was a different kind of menacing. My young mind couldn’t put a finger on exactly what it was that was different. It just . . . was.
I raised my hand and pointed to the wall. “He has a gun.” When I looked back to the wall, I found the guy pointing his firearm down into the alley, right at the cream-suited man. One shot fired. Just one, and it didn’t come from the man high up above us. Like a sack of shit, the rogue on the wall plummeted and hit the concrete on a deafening thud, and I stared at his mangled form splattered on the ground, his neck twisted on his body, his head at a freaky angle. His eyes were open, and in them I saw a familiar evil. The kind of evil I saw every day.
I didn’t look away until a shadow crept over me. Peeking up, I came face to face with the cream-suited man. He was even bigger close up, even scarier. “What’s your name, kid?” he asked. He had an accent, just like I’d heard when I’d snuck into the cinema. American.
“Danny.” I wasn’t one for entertaining strangers, but the man demanded to be answered without even demanding it.
“Who did that to your face?” He nodded to my cheek, sliding his hand into his pocket. I noticed in his other he was still holding the gun.
Reaching up to my cheek, I cupped it, feeling my palm slide across the blood. “It’s nothing. Doesn’t hurt.”
“Big, tough guy, huh?” His thick eyebrows raised, and I shrugged. “But that wasn’t my question.”
“Just some kids.”
His heavy brow crinkled a tad, and the evil shone brighter. “Next time they try to do that to you, kill them. No second chances, kid. Remember that. Don’t hesitate, don’t ask questions. Just do it.”
I glanced across to the car that was decorated in blood, nodding, and Mr. Cream Suit looked down my front, turning his nose up at my filthy form. When his armed hand reached forward and lifted the material of my T-shirt with the end of his gun, I did nothing to stop him. Didn’t flinch, didn’t even move. “They do this too?”
“No, Mister.”
“Who?”
“My stepfather.”
His blue eyes flicked up to meet my stare. “He beats you?” he asked, and I nodded. “Why?”
Truth was, I didn’t know. He hated me. Always had. So I shrugged my skinny shoulders again.
“Your mother?”
“Left when I was eight.”
He sniffed, stepping back, and I suspected he was piecing my miserable puzzle together. “Next time your stepfather touches you, kill him too.”
I smiled, loving the thought of doing that. I wouldn’t, couldn’t—my stepfather was five times the size of me—but I still nodded anyway. “Yes, Mister.”
I couldn’t be sure, but I thought a smile cracked the corners of his mouth. “Here.” He pulled out a pile of notes that was held neatly together by a shiny money clip, and pulled off a fifty. My eyes bugged. I’d never seen a fifty before. Not even a twenty. “Get something to eat and some clean clothes, kid.”
“Thanks, Mister.” I swiped the note from his hand and held it up in front of me with both hands. I was in awe, and it must have been obvious because the man chuckled lightly as he pulled off another.
