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Maid for the Hitman


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


Extended Epilogue

Extended Epilogue








About the Author






Copyright © 2021 by Flora Ferrari

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.



I work as a gun for hire, but I never hurt women or children.

Then one of the most dangerous men in the city hires me… and the target is a woman. If I refuse, he’ll send somebody else to kill her.

I can’t let anyone hurt her. The second I saw her, I knew I needed her. I had to claim her. It was just a photo, but it drove me wild.

Rosie is half my age, twenty-one, and so naïve and inexperienced. She’s my perfect, curvy virgin, and I’d die and kill before I let anything happen to her.

Possessive doesn’t even come close to describing how I feel about my woman.


I didn’t know the trouble I was getting into when I stood up to a mob boss. Vito Franzese has put a hit out on my life.

I have nowhere to run. Our beat-up old car is out of gas and we haven’t got any money. I had to drop out of college to help with Mom’s hospital bills.

Life is looking pretty bleak…

But then Ryland Radley appears at my door one evening, six and a half foot with silver swept hair, intense blue eyes, and a smoldering, deadly aura.

“Come with me,” he growls. “You’re my maid now. Do what you’re told and maybe you’ll live.”

I’m not sure if I should go with this man.

But what other choice do I have?

*Maid for the Hitman is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.


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I sit at the edge of the bed, folding the damp towel and laying it across Mom’s forehead. I can feel the heat of her skin burning through the towel, and for a crazy second I think it’s going to instantly dry and I’ll have to get another one.

I’ve opened the window to let in some fresh spring air to cool her down, but the vomiting always makes her burn up, sweat sliding over her cheeks and her head.

Something breaks in my chest when I look down at my mother.

A year ago, Jackie Smithson was as curvy as me, with a beautiful head of gray hair falling all the way down to her hips. She looked like a hippy in her billowing dresses and her thick silver and jeweled rings. But now her fingers are too thin for the rings and her body is too wasted away for the dresses.

“Mom, do you want anything?” I murmur.

She glances up at me, her lips tight.

“You need to eat,” I tell her.

“Not enough… money,” she sighs.

Anger flares alive inside of me, vicious and twisting and hate-filled.

“Of course we have enough money for food,” I snap, even if her words slam into me with the authenticity of truth. “Whatever you want, I’ll bring it to you, okay? Anything to help you feel better.”

“You should be at college,” she murmurs, turning her face away from me.

I stroke my hand tenderly up her shoulder. “Mom, we’ve talked about this. I’m going back when you’re better.”

She sighs heavily. I know what she wants to say. I can almost hear the words shimmering in the air, dancing and taunting me.

She wants to say, I’m not going to get better.

But the last time she said something like that, I really freaked out.

“What about some lemonade?” I say. “I’ll run down to the store real quick.”

She turns back to me, tears glistening in her eyes. Jackie Smithson is a strong woman and she doesn’t sob easily. She’s raised me on her own all my life and I’ve never seen her back down, not once, even when the world tried to tell her she was too poor and too uneducated to deserve respect.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, “that’d be nice.”

I smile down at her. Her glistening green eyes haven’t been affected by the breast cancer. They’re just as bright and charismatic as they were a year ago, flooded with so much life I almost weep just gazing at her.

“Go on,” she says, giving me a too-soft shove with her hand. “Before we both start blubbering.”

“I won’t be long,” I tell her.

“Meet a nice man while you’re out there,” she teases. “And, if he’s nice enough, don’t come back. Go somewhere bright and happy where you don’t have to think about your depressing old mother.”

I sigh again, shaking my head. My mom is sixty-two years old. She had me when she was forty.

An unexpected gift, she always calls me, and I love her for it.

But I feel like something is wrenching my gut when she calls herself old. Age is a huge determining factor with cancer, and I don’t want to think about what happens if she loses her battle.

No, no, no…

Calling it a battle isn’t fair.

If she—if the worst happens, it’s not because she didn’t fight hard enough.

“Yeah, yeah,” I laugh, turning away to hide the heartache that must streak across my features. “And maybe they’ll be

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