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  Conheartists

  Copyright © 2019 K Webster

  Copyright © 2019 J.D. Hollyfield

  Cover Design: All By Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Editor: Emily A. Lawrence

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

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

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About This Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Frannie’s I Owe Yous

  More from J.D. Hollyfield

  More from K Webster

  About J.D. Hollyfield

  About K Webster

  Acknowledgements from J.D. Hollyfield

  Acknowledgements from K Webster

  To Dennis—the real MVP—for showing us that crop circles are real…

  #aliensinkansas

  Sheltered from the real world, Francis lives off Hollywood magazines, Lean Cuisines, and her secret obsession with romance novels. When her best friends set her up on an adventure of a lifetime, she’s more than willing to play along. A trip cross-country with a super hunky guy who smells like sin and excitement.

  Being a con man has been a way of life for Luca. But his swindling ways eventually catch up to him. He’s been given a wicked task: kidnap a woman and deliver her to the villain.

  Sounds easy. Until he meets her…

  Captive: We’re getting out of Kansas, Toto!

  Mr. Bing: Yap! Yap!

  Con Man: Why are the crazy ones always hot?

  Luca

  Like Robin Hood

  I failed.

  I fucking failed.

  For someone like me, it’s a tough pill to swallow. I’m not the man who screws up. I’m the man who screws people over. It’s what I’m really good at. Some would call me legendary. The best con artist of the country. Of the century. Had my life been different, perhaps I would’ve taken all those skills and become an actor. I mean, I had the opportunities at my fingertips. Los Angeles is my home. I’ve got the looks—killer smile and fit as fuck. I’m tenacious as hell. Goals…I smash ’em.

  But I was never a patient man.

  Waiting for that big break was like watching water boil on a stove or paint drying. Fucking boring. The inner fire inside me burns bright and endless. I can’t sit still. When I want something, I take action.

  So all this acting shit, I do it all right.

  And I make a helluva lot of money depending on the job.

  Problem is, it’s illegal.

  Dangerous.

  Stupid as hell.

  But, goddamn, it gives me a thrill like no other.

  I was pretty sure I was going to retire early. Live in the lap of luxury—just like all the Hollywood stars. My dreams were like anyone else’s.

  Until I got greedy.

  I wanted too much, too fast.

  Because of her.

  The center of my universe.

  My baby sister Lindsay and my niece Cala.

  Leaning my temple against the cold glass in the back of the squad car has a chill of realization seeping through me. I shouldn’t be here. All the way across country in Atlantic City, New Jersey. I thought I could pull off the biggest con of my career.

  It’d worked in Vegas last month. On a much smaller scale, of course. I’d suited up in my best clothes and worked over those casinos—the rich men and women were so easy to outsmart. It made me greedy. I thought I could travel to New Jersey where no one knew me, swindle those dumb fucks’ money and jewelry out of their drunk and gambling hands, and be out of there before anyone knew what hit them.

  But I fucked with the wrong guy.

  Not just some mark with a glitzy Rolex and Bentley.

  No, it had to be Arlo Rossi.

  How the hell was I supposed to know he was a motherfucking mob boss?

  I mean, the gold rings on his fingers could have been my first clue. Or, maybe even the entourage of suited goons who surrounded him. And if I’m really thinking about it, it could have clued me in when the entire casino and everyone in it seemed to bow at his Italian leather shoe-covered feet.

  He was supposed to be some rich mark.

  Someone whom I could easily rip off.

  And, damn, I really wanted that car.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the officer who arrested me grinds out to one of Rossi’s henchmen. “He is in official police custody.”

  The henchman growls out the Rossi name as though this will have him handing me right back to him, but this young officer seems unimpressed. At least luck is on my side. If it weren’t for someone calling the police when Rossi’s men chased me through the casino, I’d be in a basement somewhere having my toenails pulled off with pliers—a vat of acid just waiting to consume my flesh and bones.

  I let out a sigh of relief. Most men wouldn’t be relieved knowing once this cop pulls up my mile-long rap sheet, I’ll be in a heap of trouble. Most men would know they’d be facing some hard time in the pen.

  I may have gotten caught, but I’m not stupid.

  All I need is one call.

  I’ll tell Lindsay where the money I’ve stashed away is, and then she can stop taking off her clothes to feed her daughter. I do my best to help my sister, even though she hates accepting it. But sometimes she has no choice. When money is tight and her four-year-old needs to eat, my “criminal” money comes in handy. On those days, she doesn’t argue. Once I get my phone call, I’ll tell her the location in a bus station locker in New York City and she can take what I’ve earned on this trip. It’ll help her and Cala get settled someplace. A fresh start. Maybe even a little house with a yard. She can stop dating assholes who like to rough her up, and she can keep her fucking clothes on.

  The money won’t last forever.

  I just hope it lasts long enough for my sister to get out of the hole life thrust her in and give her a fighting chance at something better. It’s a fucking shame I won’t be around to see it.

  The officer climbs into the squad car grumbling. He ignores Rossi’s men, much to my relief, and takes off. The Armani suit I’d swiped from one of the shops near the casino feels stiff and unwelcome on my body. I long for some sweats and a hoodie. I long to crawl into that crummy bed with the lumpy mattress back at the motel and sleep for a week. I long to pick up a woman to get lost in for the evening and then eat the hell ou
t of the endless buffet breakfast at one of the casinos I’d passed by earlier today.

  None of that will happen.

  Soon, I’ll be booked in the county jail. And then…then it only goes downhill from there. I’m sure the FBI will be all over this case. I’ve only been toying with them for the past seven years. When our mom OD’d on heroin and left my fifteen-year-old sister without a home, I’d started my life of crime. At just twenty at the time, I did what I had to do to provide for her. I’ve been a wanted fugitive with the FBI ever since.

  It’s annoying, really.

  It’s not like I hurt people.

  I just relieve them of their extra shit.

  Kind of like Robin Hood. Except, I rob to stay out of the hood. I take from the wealthy and give to the poor. The poor being me, Lindsay, and Cala.

  My chest aches thinking about Cala. Sweet Cala with the biggest green eyes in the world. Her skin is the color of caramel and she has the kinkiest dark brown curls I’ve ever seen. Now that kid can make it the legitimate way one day in Hollywood. She’s going to grow up to be more gorgeous than her mother. And Lindsay, she’s a looker. I’m her fucking brother and I’ve beat enough asses to keep them off her tail to know this. When she had a fling with a rapper staying in LA for a few days as part of a tour, he left her with a present. Knocked my sister up at a party before she was even able to buy alcohol. Lindsay didn’t bother chasing his ass down and demanding child support. Instead, she had Cala and then did what she had to do to take care of her.

  If she’d ever tell me that motherfucker’s name, I’d pay his manwhore ass a visit. Unfortunately, that’s something she has never revealed to me. I don’t think she ever will.

  I’m lost in thoughts about my niece and how her giggles are good for the damn soul when a squeal of tires demands my attention. I jerk my head around to look behind us in the glass. A black, discreet SUV barrels behind us.

  Oh, shit.

  “I think that’s Rossi’s guys,” I tell the cop.

  His brows furrow in the rearview mirror, but he doesn’t respond. He gasses the squad car and I’m thrown back against the seat. When he reaches for his radio, the SUV slams into us from behind. The cop barely has time to recover before we’re hit again. My head bounces off the headrest and when the car makes a sharp turn, I’m thrown against the door, bruising my shoulder. We’re slammed into again, harder this time, until we start spinning.

  Screeching tires.

  Crunching metal.

  My head pops the glass and darkness floods my vision.

  Seconds, maybe minutes, of confusion blur by. I’m just coming back to enough to realize the vehicle has stopped. The side door gets flung open, but instead of the cop standing there, it’s one of Rossi’s goons.

  Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

  “Long time, no see, asshole,” I say, swinging my leg out to kick him right in the gut.

  My move takes him by surprise and he stumbles away, heaving for air. The cop bursts from the front, swinging his gun toward the two men who’ve come for me.

  “Stop right there!” the cop bellows.

  But they don’t stop.

  They’re fucking mobsters, for fuck’s sake.

  The one behind the guy holding his stomach reaches into his front pocket.

  Pop! Pop!

  He goes down, clutching his chest as blood blooms from the bullet holes. Stomach Guy recovers from my kick and whips a gun toward the cop.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Bullets fly everywhere and grunts can be heard. I clamber out of the vehicle and survey the scene. The goons are fucking dead. Cop has good aim.

  “Unhhh,” the cop groans.

  He’s fallen to his knees and clutches his neck that gushes with blood.

  “Fuck,” I cry out. “Fuck.”

  Running over to him, I attempt to assess the damage, which is really hard to do with my hands cuffed behind me. The guy was only doing his job. He doesn’t deserve to go down like this. And, goddamn, he’s going down. His hand falls away and I cringe. The bullet tore through the side of his throat and his carotid spurts blood like a damn fountain. There’s no saving him.

  But I can save me.

  He slumps over as he bleeds the rest of the way out. Awkwardly, I turn my back to his belt and feel around for his keys. Once I yank them from his belt, it takes some finagling, not to mention almost popping my shoulder out of its socket, them being tied behind my back, but I manage to locate the handcuff key and free myself.

  A phone rings nearby and I realize it belongs to one of Rossi’s men. Quickly, I rush over to him, steal his gun and phone, and then get the hell out of there.

  It’s not the first time I’ve had to run from a bad situation.

  In fact, it’s what I spend a good deal of my time doing.

  It’s what keeps me in shape.

  But at twenty-seven, I’m starting to feel my age. My lungs scream in protest as I run as fast as I can through the city streets. I duck behind cars, take pitch-black dark alleys, hide in the shadows. Sirens can be heard in the distance, but I ignore them. They won’t find me now. I’ll grab my shit from the motel and then I’ll be on my way back to LA within an hour. In forty-two hours, give or take, I’ll drag my exhausted ass into my bed and sleep for a week.

  Goals.

  That’s mine.

  Fucking sleep for a week.

  I’m nearly to the motel when the phone in my pocket rings again. Pulling it out, I answer on the first ring.

  “Rossi,” I growl in greeting.

  The voice on the other end is deep and husky as he chuckles. “No, Luca, this is not Rossi.”

  “Who is this?” I demand. One thing’s for sure, no one knows my name. The police would have found out eventually when they fingerprinted me, but my fake IDs—and as far as Rossi’s men were concerned—all say I’m Levi Greene.

  “You may call me Mr. Death.”

  What the actual fuck?

  I scrub my palm down the front of my face as exhaustion seeps into me. “Wrong number, asswipe.”

  I hear some shuffling on the other line and then I hear something that freezes every part of my body down to the marrow in my bones.

  Chattering.

  Cute, adorable chattering.

  Familiar chattering.

  My niece.

  “Cala here says I have the right number.”

  A beat of horrible silence.

  “How did you get this number?” This feels like a fucking setup. I don’t even have this number. I picked it up off a dead guy.

  “I have my ways,” he snarls. “I know everything about everyone. Including you. Especially you.”

  “What do you want?” I demand, my grip on the phone nearly crushing it.

  He chuckles, haunting my fucking soul. “I want you to do exactly as I say. You give me what I want, and I give you want you want.”

  Lindsay cries out in the background. “Do what he says, Luca! Please!”

  “Name it,” I growl. “Just don’t fucking touch my family.”

  “I’m going to text you an address and a phone number. Get rid of this phone. They can trace it. Once you have a burner phone, call me back. You have three hours to make this call or I start cutting fingers off a certain little girl.”

  Bile rises up in my throat and my world spins around me. “I have a burner phone in my motel room. I’m almost there.”

  “Good. Save the address and save the number.”

  “That’s it?”

  His laugh is sinister. “Of course that’s not it. This is just the beginning, con man. I have a very important job for you and it needs to happen quickly. I want something Arlo Rossi wants. And you’re going to acquire it for me before he has an opportunity. You have three hours to go to the address and get me what I want. Before those three hours are up, I want proof you’ve got what I asked for. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “And if you fail—”

  I don’t let him finish. “I
won’t fail.”

  The line goes dead and then the phone buzzes in my hand with a text.

  An address—just over a two-hour drive from Atlantic City. A phone number. And a name. He wants a fucking person.

  Holy shit.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to talk myself out of what I’m about to do. But Cala’s big green eyes are forefront in my mind. Her little caramel-colored fingers as she counts to ten make me cringe, because the thought of them covered in blood sickens me.

  I’ll be goddamned if I let this motherfucker hurt one hair on Cala’s head.

  Even if it means kidnapping someone.

  Francis

  Maybe It’s Not the Size That Matters

  His strong hands, ruthless and hungry for her virgin flesh, work their way up her silky-smooth leg, his calloused fingers finding her bare of any undergarments. “Naughty little girl, aren’t you? Makin’ it easier for Daddy to get to that puss—”

  “Dear Lord.” I slam the book closed. My breathing hitches, and I’m embarrassed to feel the spike in temperature on my cheeks. What kind of book did Beatrice lend me? I raise my head and look around the storage room of Corleone’s Trinkets and Treasures, my antique shop, making sure no one’s watching me. A little bit ashamed, but more intrigued, I reopen the book.

  Christina knows she should push his hand away. Fight him and run for her freedom. But her desires swirling deep inside her override the urge to be set free from her captor. “My pussy has been bad and needs to be punished. Filled and beaten—”

  “Oh holy heavens!” The book is once again shut. How does one beat up a…pussy and enjoy it? Confused, and overly concerned for the poor girl and her lady parts, I flip the book back open.

  “Make me beg, Daddy.” An evil darkness blares from his dark hazel eyes, casting a cloud of nerves around her. Her pussy throbs as he stares down at her, the hunger in his gaze causing a wave of moistness between her young, quivering thighs. She thought about how big he was. Would he fit in her tiny opening? In her small heart-shaped mouth? Would he taste like male dominance and forbidden fantasies? Her lust for curiosity wasn’t going to stop the fact that he was an outlaw. Wanted for the murder of—