Forgotten Vengeance

Forgotten Vengeance PARISI FAMILY BOOK 1 ANDREA HAGAN Copyright 2023 by Andrea Hagan This 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 deceased—events, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental. Forgotten Vengeance Parisi Family Book 1 by Andrea Hagan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner—except for brief quotations embodied in book reviews—without the prior written permission of the author. Library of Congress Control Number: 2023905820 Tradepaper ISBN: 978-0-9994116-8-1 Contents Also by the Author Dedication Content Warning 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 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Epilogue Sneak Peek of Parisi Family Book 2 Acknowledgments About the Author Also by the Author The Memphis Magic Series Possession: A Memphis Magic Novel A kitchen witch holds a séance and accidentally summons a demon who unintentionally possesses her. You know, it’s the classic boy meets girl story. Read Now Obsession: A Memphis Magic Novel “I’ve gone from demonic possession to demonic obsession. It’s a real problem.” Read Now Heal Me: A Memphis Magic Novel A baby witch plus a Nephilim spells a sweet and sexy read. Read Now To any family member reading this book...turn back now. (My family, not the family.) Before you begin reading… This book is on the lighter side of dark mafia romance, but for a full content warning, go to andreahaganauthor.com. Click on FAQ. Chapter One Nicky “Motherfucker!” A traffic detour has me shouting every expletive in the book. Forced to make a right turn even though I need to make a left, my foul mood improves when I spot a coffee shop. But should I stop? I’m already late, and the preceptor overseeing my clinical rotations is a real bitch. On the other hand, if I don’t have caffeine, I can’t deal with said bitch. A car backs out of a parking space, and I take it as a sign. “See? I need this coffee,” I tell myself as I snag the spot. Jaywalking across the street—there’s not enough time to be a good citizen and catch the crosswalk—I step inside Corner Caffè, a self-proclaimed “authentic” Italian coffee shop. Never having been to Italy, I’ll just have to take them at their word. I get stuck behind an indecisive prick, but he finally orders and moves out of the way. This being my first time at this shop, I quickly scan the menu before ordering a caffè latte and chocolate cornetto. Stepping to the side, I try to ignore the clock on the wall judging me for this decision. “Nicky,” a barista calls, and I walk to the counter. “Your cornetto’s coming right up.” “Thanks.” I grab the coffee cup, taking a much-needed sip, just as someone knocks into my back. Hot coffee dribbles down my chin and onto my light blue scrubs. “Hey!” I cry, spinning around. Opening my mouth to give this asshole a piece of my mind, I can’t seem to find the words. A few years older than me, he has a rather severe jawline covered in short facial hair, tan skin, and thick lashes wasted on a man. His black hair’s slicked to the side carelessly—like men try to do intentionally, except his looks like he’s been running his hand through it in frustration. Full lips turned down, whiskey-colored eyes hard, I wonder what he does for a living. Power and warning roll off him in waves. * * * Romeo Colpo di fulmine. I always thought the thunderbolt was romanticized bullshit. And I would be wrong, because I’ve been struck so fucking hard, it’s a miracle I’m upright. I need to head out to my meeting in Atlantic City, but I can’t take my eyes off the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Likely in her early twenties, she’s several inches shorter than me, with a gorgeous heart-shaped face, pouty lips, and the perfect hourglass figure. She clears her throat, and my eyes take a leisurely stroll back up her body, but not before realizing there’s a coffee stain on her right tit. She glances down to the wet spot on her scrubs, then to me—her stunning hazel eyes murderous. * * * Nicky “Nicky,” the barista calls. Tearing my attention from the hottest asshole in the world, I walk past him to grab my pastry, but not before giving him a not-so-subtle shoulder check. Stepping outside, I pause to slip on my sunglasses when someone knocks into my back. “Hey, watch out,” I cry, spinning around. “You.” Asshole coffee-spiller looks at me like I’m something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Are you addressing me?” It’s a question, but in his gravely tone, it’s more like a warning. A warning I ignore as I mouth off, “Yeah, I’m addressing you, the man who spilled coffee on me.” “You spilled coffee on yourself.” “Because you knocked into me! Now I have a coffee stain on my tit for the rest of my day. Thanks,” I say with the attitude, spinning around to walk away. Except I don’t get very far. It all happens so fast, and yet it doesn’t—like it’s playing out in slow motion. A black car pulling up to the curb. The window rolling down. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. I’m on the ground, the asshole coffee-spiller on top of me. Something wet drips on my face. I shove at him, and he rolls off of me. Quickly, I discover the source—blood’s gushing from a gunshot wound to this man’s shoulder. Ripping