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Wanderer (The Nomad Series Book 2)

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Wanderer (The Nomad Series Book 2)




  A member of a people having no permanent abode and who travel from place to place to find fresh pasture for their livestock.

  A person who does not stay long in the same place; a drifter, a wanderer, a roamer, a loner.

  By Janine Infante Bosco

  Table of Contents

  © Copyright 2017 All Rights Reserved

  Dear Reader,



  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

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven


  Bonus Epilogue


  Other Books by Janine Infante Bosco

  About the Author

  © Copyright 2017 All Rights Reserved

  Wanderer Book Two A Nomad Series Novel


  Janine Infante Bosco

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN-13: 9781370200245

  Published by Janine Infante Bosco

  Copy Edited/formatted by: Jennifer Bosco

  Proofread and edited by Trish Bacher of Editor in Heels

  Cover Design: JB’s Cover Obsession Design

  Front Cover Image by: Photographer Wander Pedro Aguiar

  Front Cover Models: Marshall Perrin

  Dear Reader,

  Dear Reader,

  We’ve drifted into chaos.

  Now, it’s time to wander in it with Cobra and Celeste.

  Are you ready for the next wild ride in The Nomad Series?

  This book is dedicated to the readers.

  I asked.

  You answered.

  I listened.

  And here we are.

  The men in leather are back!

  Saddle up, you’re about to enter the unapologetic world of the Satan’s Knights MC.

  A world created by a woman who has as little of a filter as her characters do.

  They’re crass, vulgar and well, they’re not scholars.

  Like me, they are flawed.

  The word ain’t is used as much as the word fuck is in this book. The grammar won’t always be on point and that’s because you are now riding with the Satan’s Knights and the men wearing the reaper aren’t scholars, they are street guys who are rough around the edges.

  As with Drifter, Wanderer touches on some very sensitive subject matter. This book won’t be everyone’s favorite. They’ll be times—more frequent than not, when you’ll curse me and wish you never heard of Janine Infante Bosco.

  Like I’ve asked before, have faith in me and the characters.

  Sometimes we all need to taste ugly before we experience the beautiful.

  I’ve pushed the envelope a bit, touching on certain topics that are hard to read but are very much a part of the world we live in.

  You’ll want to throw your Kindle.

  You’ll curse.



  But if you have faith, you’ll hopefully fall in love with these characters.

  There will be humor.

  Lots of sex….pushed the envelope there too.

  And most of all there will be love.

  Lots of love.

  These characters all love hard.

  They’ll tug at your heart strings, have you cheering for them and when it’s all over—when you’ve found the beautiful, you’ll be part of this unconventional family.

  You too will be property of Parrish.

  Now, I’d ask you if you’re ready to ride but, I’ve got a drinking game for you. So, the better question is…are you ready to get drunk with me?

  Grab your favorite bottle of the hard stuff—Cobra would want you to grab the whiskey and let’s do this!

  Take a shot every time you wish you were behind closed doors with Cobra.

  Take two shots when you laugh.

  Take three shots if you can relate to Celeste.

  Chug every time you see the word motherfucker.

  When your heart starts to race and you fear what’s going to happen next, put the bottle down.

  Grab the Tylenol and hang on for dear life.

  After you’ve gasped, cursed, and cried, take a breath.

  Absorb it.

  Then write your review.

  Please, don’t pirate this shit either—that’s all sorts of ugly and I’ll

  send Rocco after you—the man is looking to make a name for himself these days.

  As always thank you for choosing me, you’ll never know how much it means to me.

  In fact, it blows my fucking mind that this is my twelfth novel.

  Something that wouldn’t be possible without you.

  That right there is all sorts of beautiful.

  Thank you for bringing beauty into my life.

  See you on the other side,


  ***NOTE: Contains explicit sexual situations, violence, sensitive subjects, offensive language, and mature topics.

  Recommended for age 18 years and up. ***


  To my temptresses,

  This one is for you…

  Thank you for supporting my dreams.


  Present Day

  As a boy, I identified desperation as a narcotic, something toxic that defined a man as weak. It was the sense of hopelessness I saw in my old man’s eyes every time the cops knocked on our front door. It robbed him of his ability to think straight and made him crave vengeance.

  For my father, desperation was his confirmed resignation on life.

  As a man, my views have changed and I now identify desperation as an act of war. The fundamentals of war are; someone wins and someone dies trying, but it is the cause not the death that makes the martyr.

  My cause is simple.

  It’s driven by the ice in my veins.

  Fueled by the blood in my eyes.

by the hate in my soul.

  My cause is retribution.

  I’ve been grooming myself for this battle since I was fourteen years old, since Vladimir Yankovich first took my sister. Back then, he didn’t have a face, nor did he have a name. By the time I discovered who was responsible for the tragedy that claimed our lives; the Russian cocksucker had already taken more from me by brutally killing my parents.

  I became familiar with desperation and morphed into the same hopeless man my father used to be. I wandered alone, hunting a faceless stranger for years, adding to my list of immoralities but never got my due vengeance.

  I gave up before I signed away on my confirmed resignation too. Resolving that all the sins I committed chasing the devil would eventually catch up with me. Life only lets you get away with inflicting evil for so long. Sooner or later we all pay the price, and when you get the bill you better be prepared to pay.

  Today I got the bill and I’m paying for my sins, but I’m not the only one, she’s paying too.

  With the heart of an angel and a soul so pure, I was sure she was sent from Heaven.

  So sweet.

  So innocent.

  She brought light into my life. I knew the moment I laid eyes on her I would never love anyone the way I love her.

  He knew too.

  Now he’s taken from me again and I’ve become the man I feared.

  I’ve become my father.

  And desperation has claimed me because I won’t let history repeat itself again. I won’t let Yankovich take from me and live to tell.

  Not this time.

  Not ever again.

  This is war and there is only one victor.

  All men have fears, but the ones that are brave place their fears down and move forward. Sometimes death is the only victory allowed. Lucky for me, I’ve never been afraid of dying. I used to think I’d die for my club; that the patch on my back was worth the sacrifice. It’s that patch that has led Satan to my doorstep.

  It’s the stitching that reads Brooklyn that has made my angel become Yankovich’s next target.

  Stripping the worn cut from my shoulders, I toss it to the ground as my boots pound the pavement and I run through the shipping yard. Alone and defying my brotherhood. Chasing retribution I spot the boat anchored at the end of the pier.

  My father’s voice rings in my ears, reminding me to listen to my gut, schooling me on intuition.

  Intuition knows the game and has your best interest at heart.

  What my father should have taught me is that retribution and bad decisions go hand in hand. He should have taught me not to be reckless because one reckless mistake is about to cost me the sweetest and the purest love I’ve ever known.

  One mistake can cost me her.

  The distinct rumble and roar of straight pipes echoes behind me. I know the men I once called my brothers have arrived and their duty isn’t to save me but to kill me.

  They can try, but they gotta catch me to kill me.

  Rounding the dock, I see Yankovich’s men running toward the boat. Without hesitation I take my father’s advice and follow my gut, dragging the strap of my automatic shotgun around my shoulders. I lift the gun, wrap my finger around the trigger and ignore the voices behind me.

  “Cobra, stand down,” Riggs shouts.

  “Get back,” Blackie demands.

  Fuck them.

  I continue taking long strides along the wooden dock, closing in on my mark and deciding execution style is the way I’m going to deliver them to Hell, but I’m too slow. They spin around, draw their weapons and unleash their bullets in my direction.

  Shot after shot.

  Clip after clip.

  Bang! Bang!

  Gun powder fills the air mixing with the dense fog, making it impossible to see my targets, the bullets heading straight for me or the ones whizzing through the air from behind me.

  Blindly, I fire back, keeping my finger on the trigger as I have a showdown with death. Voices shout around me in both a native and foreign tongue. In front of me, my last rites are given to me in Russian. Behind me, orders of war are declared.

  “Riggs, press the fucking button,” Blackie bellows.

  “Cobra, get down,” Riggs shouts.

  “Do it now,” Blackie commands.

  “No,” I scream at the top of my lungs as I drop my gun.

  Spreading my arms wide, I close my eyes and offer myself to both sides of the fence, praying they take me and spare her.

  A million smiles flash before my eyes.

  Every single one I’ve tallied through the years.

  All belong to Celeste except for the final one.

  It’s the smile of an innocent child.

  Big blue eyes, pure and full of wonder stare back at me, asking me—pleading with me to rescue her from the ugly world.

  Save me, Daddy.

  It’s her face I’ll remember as I die. The beautiful face of my daughter.

  Helpless, spent and defeated, I drop to my knees as the blast reverberates through me and the sky lights in hues of orange and red.

  I open my mouth to scream, but the voice I hear isn’t my own.


  “Get back, Celeste,” Blackie barks.

  I close my eyes.


  Bullets tear through my skin.

  Blood pours from my wounds.

  But I don’t feel a thing.

  Numbly, I open my eyes and stare down the dock into the flames of hell.

  Once the wanderer, I am now the martyr.

  Chapter One

  Age: 24

  Place: New York

  Flexing my naked fingers, missing the silver that usually covered my tattoos, I reach for the glass and bring the crystal to my lips. Most men savor the first taste, taking just enough to wet their lips. I’m greedier than most men and I take a long sip of the aged whiskey, draining it until there’s nothing left but ice. Before setting it back on the table, I pluck an ice cube out with my fingers and pop it into my mouth, grinding it between my teeth as I glance down at my hands and the tattoos that mark my skin.

  Mother on one hand.

  Daddy on the other.

  A tribute to the two people who brought me into this world and left me alone to rot in it, chasing the ghost of revenge by myself. What once was a family’s quest for justice has now become a one man mission.

  I am the lone man.

  I am the wanderer.

  And I’m the motherfucking reaper chasing a phantom from coast to coast. Thirsty for the blood of the Russian cocksucker who wiped out my family and ruined any chance I had at a normal life.

  “Can I get you another?” the bartender asks, jarring me from my thoughts.

  I lift my head and acknowledge the guy who has been serving me for the last hour. With my index finger, I nudge the glass toward him and give him a curt nod. Whiskey ain’t my thing. Neither is the suit I’m wearing, but the pricey booze and the designer threads are a small price to pay for a taste of retribution. Silently, he goes about fixing me another as my eyes scan the room in search of the target that brought me to this swanky hotel in the first place. Unfortunately I’ve come up short.


  It’s not a virtue for me, instead it’s a fucking lifeline. Without it my mission fails and I become a reckless soldier, one that will likely get himself killed. I’ve made peace with the fact I will most likely die young. Between being a Satan’s Knight nomad and hunting the illusive mobster responsible for the desecration of my family—I’m lucky if I make it to thirty. No one is putting me in the dirt until I make that cocksucker beg me to kill him. Until I make him suffer for all his sins and all of mine, because if Yankovich never existed then neither would Cobra.

  I wouldn’t be the reaper dressed in leather sent to deliver your fate.

  There would be no blood on my hands and no body count.

  I wouldn’t be the man who calls his bike his home.

  I’d still be Jagger

  “Here you go, buddy,” the bartender says, placing the refill down on the bar as he slides the leather folder in front of me. “Your check,” he continues, meeting my gaze briefly before diverting his eyes over my shoulder. I take a sip of the whiskey, welcoming the burn as it slides down my throat. I flick open the folder and glance down at the piece of paper. Reaching into my suit pocket, I pull out my credit card and pretend to go over the check, studying the message the bartender has written for me.

  4 am. Pier 56

  His hand closes over the leather folder and his gaze meets mine.

  “We’ve got company,” he mutters under his breath before disappearing toward the other end of the bar to process my tab. Patiently, I sip the whiskey and will myself not to reach for my gun and pump this bar with enough ammo to rip the life out of everyone in it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, a chance to tip the scales and let Yankovich know the motherfucking reaper is coming for him.

  A woman pulls out the stool beside me and I turn around, using her presence as decoy to steal a glance over at my enemy, one of the hitmen Yankovich hired to wipe my parents off the grid. The motherfucker isn’t alone.

  He steps around the table, taking a seat across from his date and my gaze falls onto the beauty he’s with.

  My heart stops.

  My breath catches.

  The world stops turning as I stare at the face that haunts my dreams.

  Miles of blonde hair cascades around her shoulders, framing the face of the girl I left behind and the woman I never got the chance to know. She’s changed, but those eyes of hers—I’d know those sad, brown eyes anywhere. They match what’s in her heart and are full of regret, sorrow and guilt.

  She smiles but it's not genuine.

  They’re not the smiles I began tallying when we turned fourteen.

  The smiles that acted as a reprieve from the guilt that consumed us both.

  The beauty mark above the corner of her lip stares back at me, reminding me of all the times I kissed it. It’s been six long years since I pressed my lips to that spot. Six years since I left her without so much as a goodbye.

  Since the boy Celeste Spinelli knew and loved died and Cobra was born.

  “You keep staring like that and you’re going to blow your cover and mine,” the bartender hisses, forcing me to peel my eyes off Celeste and turn back to him.

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