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    Broken (Book 1): A Broken Bad Boy Hitman Romance, #1
    Broken (Book 1): A Broken Bad Boy Hitman Romance, #1
    Broken (Book 1): A Broken Bad Boy Hitman Romance, #1
    Ebook93 pages1 hour

    Broken (Book 1): A Broken Bad Boy Hitman Romance, #1

    By NINA PARK

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    This is book 1 of the Broken Bad Boy Hitman Romance series! Books 2 and 3 are available everywhere now!

    Ruthless hitman. Violent mobster. Utterly irresistible.

    He took me home and showed me what it meant to be his woman.

    Then he disappeared.

    Now, he's back, with a bloody mission in his hands.

    And a plan to break me again.

    MADELINE

    I woke up sick to my stomach.

    My worst fears had come true.

    A one night stand with a handsome stranger…

    Left me with his baby in my belly.

    I couldn't believe this was happening.

    But then it got worse.

    An unexpected knock at my door.

    Who could it be?

    My jaw drops when I see it's the man who claimed me.

    And my heart breaks when I find out what he wants.

    NIKOLAI

    I'm a contract killer for the Russian mob.

    And I'm the best there is.

    I go hunting one night for my next target:

    A lowlife con man who stole millions from my employer.

    But a curvy blonde catches my eye and my plans take an unexpected twist.

    I had her for the night, then left her in the morning.

    I thought I'd never see her again.

    But then my work brings me right to her doorstep.

    Turns out her brother is the criminal in my crosshairs.

    And that's not the only surprise.

    Turns out I also got her pregnant.

    ***

    BROKEN is a dark bad boy mafia hitman romance series from author Nina Park. This romantic suspense thriller is a twist-filled love story about a hired gun for the Russian mob and his dark romance with an innocent girl. If you like dark surprise pregnancy romance books, you'll love BROKEN.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSopris Page Press
    Release dateOct 1, 2019
    ISBN9781393632863
    Broken (Book 1): A Broken Bad Boy Hitman Romance, #1

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      Book preview

      Broken (Book 1) - NINA PARK

      Broken: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance (Book 1)

      By Nina Park

      Ruthless hitman. Violent mobster. Utterly irresistible.

      HE TOOK ME HOME AND showed me what it meant to be his woman.

      Then he disappeared.

      Now, he’s back, with a bloody mission in his hands.

      And a plan to break me again.

      MADELINE

      I woke up sick to my stomach.

      My worst fears had come true.

      A one night stand with a handsome stranger...

      Left me with his baby in my belly.

      I couldn’t believe this was happening.

      But then it got worse.

      An unexpected knock at my door.

      Who could it be?

      My jaw drops when I see it’s the man who claimed me.

      And my heart breaks when I find out what he wants.

      NIKOLAI

      I’m a contract killer for the Russian mob.

      And I’m the best there is.

      I go hunting one night for my next target:

      A lowlife con man who stole millions from my employer.

      But a curvy blonde catches my eye and my plans take an unexpected twist.

      I had her for the night, then left her in the morning.

      I thought I’d never see her again.

      But then my work brings me right to her doorstep.

      Turns out her brother is the criminal in my crosshairs.

      And that’s not the only surprise.

      Turns out I also got her pregnant.

      BROKEN IS A DARK BAD boy mafia hitman romance series from author Nina Park. This romantic suspense thriller is a twist-filled love story about a hired gun for the Russian mob and his dark romance with an innocent girl. If you like dark surprise pregnancy romance books, you’ll love BROKEN.

      Chapter 1

      Madeline

      The alarm was red and bleary, or maybe that was just my vision. It was early, too early for my alarm, which meant I was losing valuable sleep instead of rejuvenating for the exam I had in just two hours in Renaissance Paintings of Europe—a boring, easy class for most who were naïve and picking based on nothing more than the category it fell under—art in this case, but it was part of my major. There was a lingering image in my mind, something about a dream and a man and something dark and hot. I blushed at the thought that maybe it was a wet dream, but then I felt my forehead and decided my blushing had nothing to do with the dream.

      I felt sick. Bad sick.

      When my stomach roiled and gurgled, angry for being woken, yet doing the waking itself, I knew I had only moments to get to the bathroom. I tumbled from the bed, which was so close to the hardwood floor anyway that I couldn’t stick a textbook under there, much less anything else. The sheets tangled around my legs, but I scrambled away from them, half crawling and half running for the little bathroom that was stuck between my bedroom—which was really just curtained off from the rest of the living room and kitchen—and the open living space. I ducked into it, not bothering with the door.

      It was hanging off its hinges, leaning against the doorjamb at an odd angle, precarious enough that I thought more than once I’d knock it over and have it fall on top of me while I was trying to pee.

      Today I didn’t worry about it, though. All I cared about was getting to the toilet.

      When I reached the porcelain bowl, I got my face over it just in time to retch up anything that might have been lingering in my stomach. I ached and burned, flushed with what was probably a nasty fever as my body tried to expel whatever toxins were in my system. I had enough forethought to hold my long blonde hair away from my face, keeping it mostly out of the bowl. When I thought the throwing up portion of my morning was finished, I flushed the toilet, but I didn’t get up right away.

      I felt awful. And not just a little bit.

      Leaning against the wall beside the door, I sat on the cool tiles and tried to calm my still queasy insides.

      Maybe it’s just nerves, a very stupid part of my brain tried to convince me.

      Nerves over this huge test which I needed to pass to get a good grade in the class, which I needed to have since my major was art. And it wasn’t one of those classes that was all portfolio work and sketchbook time and whatever else came with those kinds of classes. This was all history and studying and long-winded, fluff-filled papers. All of the stuff that didn’t come necessarily naturally to me. If anything, I was working harder in this class than I ever had before in my life.

      Who would have guessed college was so hard?

      I groaned, slumping farther so I could press my forehead against the tile. It was delightfully cool and brought me some modicum of relief. Just a little, but it was enough. Until I felt my stomach lurch again and then I was back over the toilet.

      The flu. It’s definitely the flu, I thought, and continued to heave until there was nothing left.

      I took a shower directly after that. Mostly because I felt so gross that not taking a shower wasn’t an option. I understood bodily functions were bodily functions and everyone did them, but that didn’t mean I was cool with throwing up. Ew. So I showered. I washed my hair and I brushed my teeth about ten times. I nearly threw up again, but just managed to avoid it. And by the time I got out of the shower, I felt better. Not completely better, in fact my stomach was still bothering me, but a little better. Better enough to go to class.

      At least that was what I was telling myself. I had to get to that class. Period. My exam could not wait, nor would Mrs. Sylvia cut me any slack, no matter how sick I was.

      Maybe crackers, I mumbled to myself as I slunk out of the bathroom with a fuzzy robe wrapped around me. It was periwinkle blue with birds on it. A gift from my dad, who was worried I’d end up in one of those dorms with the communal bathrooms down the hall on the same floor as crazy, lecherous boys.

      It hadn’t turned out that way, but I was grateful for the robe all the same.

      I headed into the kitchen intending on crackers, but I couldn’t find anything like that—I didn’t even have bread for toast right now—and made a mental note to go grocery shopping. The only thing in the fridge was a jar of half gone pickles, mustard, and what might have been bologna, but maybe not.

      Shuddering, I closed the

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