(sneak peek below)
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READER REVIEWS
NEW dangerously dark & spicy mafia thriller romance with serious stalker vibes from debut author D. Lamers!
"You can run all you want, my little kitten, but you can’t outrun me."
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
"I cracked this book open expecting mafia drama and got a full-on dark, delicious stalker obsession that made me question all my morals (and love every second of it). Deadly Games isn’t just a mafia romance—it’s a raw, jagged, do-not-read-before-bed descent into temptation and control. And baby, I was here for it.
What hit just right:
• A heroine who fights back even when her knees are shaking
• A dark alpha who stalks, protects, and seduces like a damn predator
• Knife’s-edge tension between “I hate you” and “I need you inside me”
• Dirty talk that scorched the page
• The kind of forbidden, enemies-touching-you romance that owns your whole brain for days
This book didn’t pretend to be nice. It bit, scratched, left marks—and I devoured every dark, unhinged, addictive chapter with my breath caught in my throat and a grin on my face." (Rebel)
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
“Deadly Games has everything anyone could ever want in a dark Mafia romance. More than the usual two POVs (which I wasn't sure I'd like, but I'm obsessed), so many twists and turns that I couldn't predict what was going to happen next, the perfect amount of spice (thankful for the amazing plot and not just complete 🌶️), and a cliffhanger that makes me ready right now for the second book….” (Hannah Irene)
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
“Deadly Games reminded me of a dark mafia romance Romeo and Juliet….” (Jessie Jones)
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
This book burned hotter than an inferno! The plot is dark and twisted, the characters fierce and infuriating and it twists your soul in agony. I loved and loathed every single moment! Wish I knew it was to be continued... I am furious I have to wait for the next book to see what happens! Fan-bloody-tastic!!!
(Lorraine Whiteley)
SNEAK PEEK
OLIVIA
Never tip your hand. Never show fear.
Raised the dutiful mafia princess, I played the game well. But I was willing to spill my own blood to escape an arranged marriage. When that failed, I finally fled.
Never in my darkest, deadliest dreams did I think my path to freedom would thrust me right into bloodthirsty enemy arms. Arms and eyes made of steel. A man like no other man I’d ever known. He’d be the death of me.
If only the death of me didn’t feel so excruciatingly good.
ENZO
If only I’d known what she’d do to me, I would’ve been more careful. I would’ve kept my distance.
But I didn’t. And now she’s everywhere.
No. I’ll take her apart.
Break her until there’s nothing left but a shattered version of the woman who dared to mess with my head.
She’ll be mine. She’ll have no choice. She’ll be trapped in my cage. I’ll watch her crumble.
And when I am finished with her, she will beg for the sweet release of mercy. But I will not grant her that mercy.
Not ever.
Trigger Warning
This is a dark mafia romance containing graphic content, including violence, guns, blood, suicide ideation, drugs, alcohol, and explicit romance scenes that may not be suitable for some readers.
BLURB
Never tip your hand. Never show fear.
Raised the dutiful mafia princess, I played the game well. But I was willing to spill my own blood to escape an arranged marriage. When that failed, I finally fled.
Never in my darkest, deadliest dreams did I think my path to freedom would thrust me right into bloodthirsty enemy arms.
Arms and eyes made of steel. A man like no other man I’d ever known. He’d be the death of me.
If only the death of me didn’t feel so excruciatingly good.
A dark & dirty mafia thriller romance with serious stalker vibes by debut author D. Lamers!
Enzo
Just observe, they said. Track her movements. Make a report if you notice anything useful.
Right. Like I’m some errand boy with a camera phone and nothing better to do.
I lean against the weathered brick of the old gardener’s shed, hoodie up, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a uniform that doesn’t belong to me. The patch sewn on my chest says “Lawn & Garden Services.” It’s fake like everything else about this assignment.
But it works. Her guards haven’t looked at me twice. They’ve got their eyes on the fences and the tree lines, not the help with mud on his boots. They see what they expect to see.
Idiots.
She’s about a hundred feet away, standing between headstones, a cigarette burning slowly between her fingers. Black dress. Bare legs. Heels sinking slightly into the damp grass.
Her family finally fucked off ten minutes ago. Left her alone with the marble slabs and the ghosts. And all that’s left are those stupid men in black suits scattered around her like annoying bugs.
She’s grieving. I know that. Buried her father today. I don’t know what I expected from her today. I figured she’d cry, scream, become a liability.
But she hasn’t moved for five minutes. Just stares at the dirt.
And something about that stillness—it gets to me, more than it should.
I shift slightly, exhaling through my nose. The trees are blooming—delicate petals dusting the wind—but all I can think about is how fucking pointless this is.
Surveillance. Babysitting. They can call it whatever they want.
I call it beneath me.
I was trained for extraction. Combat. Cleanup. Things that require actual skill. This? This is a waste of time.
But at least she’s smoking hot to look at.
I catch myself thinking it and clench my jaw. Pathetic. But true.
She’s striking. The kind of pretty that doesn’t ask for attention, just assumes it. She’s wearing heels too impractical for the grass beneath her. A black dress that’s too polite for her figure. And her hair is pulled into a tight bun.
And the way she moves… there’s something off. Controlled. Calculated. Almost like she knows she’s being watched.
I narrow my eyes. No. She can’t know. She’s not trained, not like that. She walks like someone who grew up having people stare.
Rich girl. Pretty girl. Untouchable girl.
And now, my responsibility.
Lucky me.
She takes one final drag on her cigarette, then flicks it into a nearby trash bin without looking. She stops at the root of a nearby tree, stretches up on tiptoes to reach for a branch. A small leaf breaks and falls into her hair.
She doesn’t notice. But I do.
It’s fucking ridiculous. The whole scene looks like a damn painting. And I hate paintings.
I remind myself: I’m not supposed to touch her. Not supposed to get involved. Just track her routine. Study her behavior. Watch who she speaks to, how often she comes out here, and when she’s alone. No involvement. No contact.
But the truth is: she doesn’t look like an assignment. She looks like temptation with a pulse.
She glances around, her eyes flicking across the orchard. Something shifts in her. Suspicion, maybe. Or habit. But she doesn’t see me.
Of course, she doesn’t. She doesn’t even know who I am.
We’ve never met. Never spoken. She’s seen my file, maybe. But she’s never seen me. I made sure of that.
My hair’s longer, I’ve added more bulk to my frame, and even changed the way I move. If she ever had a photo of me—unlikely—it wouldn’t match. If her security had a list of known enemies, my face wouldn’t trigger a damn thing.
She turns again suddenly—fast enough to make my pulse jump—and I press myself lower behind the wall.
The leaf she hadn’t noticed flutters to the ground, forgotten, and then she starts walking back toward the house.
God. What a waste of time.
Except… she isn’t. Not really. She’s interesting, unfamiliar, different than anyone I’ve ever approached. She’s like something ethereal, an entity that I can’t stop watching.
Like an angel.
I wait until the last edge of her dress disappears through the back door before I move, stepping into the space she just left. It’s not smart. I know that. But I do it anyway.
I walk to the tree. Stand where she stood. I tilt my head up and look at the branch she reached for. Then I pick up the fallen leaf that she never knew landed in her hair. I roll it between my thumb and index finger.
Stupid. Sentimental. I should throw it away.
Instead, I slip it into my coat pocket.
Tomorrow I’ll come earlier.
Watch longer.
Get closer.
Because something about her doesn’t sit right.
And I need to know what it is.
Olivia
Sometimes, I picture myself descending into the depths of hell. I can almost feel the blistering heat threading through my veins, boiling away every trace of civility my mother so painstakingly forged. In my mind's eye, I envision being dragged through the colossal gates, guided onward by the hounds of hell. With each deliberate step, I would stride through the flames, embracing my fate with unwavering grace.
Goodbye, gilded cage.
Hello, glorious oblivion.
But amid this beautiful fairytale crafted within the confines of my imagination, I can’t help but wonder, would I miss it? Would I ache for the cold marble floors beneath my feet or the suffocating scent of Mother’s perfume? Would I yearn for Marcus’ occasional glances of something resembling affection, or for the hollow echoes of laughter that once filled this house?
No, I would not. That’s what my rational mind keeps telling me. But my heart, it’s been trying for years to convince me that there must be something, someone, anything worth fighting for. The harsh truth? There is none. All I can do is cling to this useless hope that one day, my heart will be filled with love, with the will to continue this existence.
One day.
But when?
Today?
Tomorrow?
Or ever?
Probably never.
I’m going to marry a stranger.
That thought alone is enough to split my skull open.
A man I don’t know. A man my brother will choose, like I’m a horse up for auction. Someone who fits the mold. Someone strategic. Who’ll nod and smile and keep our bloodline from thinning out too soon. He’ll slide a ring on my finger and sign a contract with my name on it, and that’s supposed to be enough.
It’s not. It never will be.
Word spreads like wildfire about the impending wedding. The staff knows. The extended family definitely knows. My brother makes sure of it—he doesn’t believe in postponing major events, since “life is too short already.”
Fuck. Me.
I’ve exiled myself to my study, the one place in this suffocating mansion that feels remotely mine. The floor is littered with discarded scraps of paper, crumbled into sad little balls. I’m in the midst of writer’s block, and whatever I do, I can’t seem to grasp my thoughts on this stupid piece of paper.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want to stand in front of some polished man in a dark suit and promise to love him until death—or 52—whichever comes first. I don’t want to be a broodmare, a political pawn, a womb in a pretty dress.
But that’s the point. Nothing in my life has ever been mine to decide.
My parents chose the bed I sleep in, the color of the bedsheets, and my light-toned armoire. They chose the soft blue hue of the rug on the floor, the pinkish tone of the curtains. My bedroom isn’t mine. It’s just a cage where my body rests at night.
And it doesn’t end there. My parents designed the entirety of my room, my bathroom, and even decided on the contents of my closet. My mother once told me that I looked best in tight dresses and dark tones, which contrasted well with my hair and fair skin, so that’s about all I ever wear.
I’ve never dared to tell her I’d kill for jeans and a T-shirt. For something white. For softness. For color. For letting my hair down and not getting scolded for “appearing undone.” The daughter of powerful people must always reflect their strength.
Nothing more than an asset.
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