Blood Bound

by Sasha Leone

  A Dark Mafia Romance

  Sasha Leone

  Copyright © 2020 by Sasha Leone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Blood Bound

  Acknowledgments

  1. Ronan

  2. Nia

  3. Ronan

  4. Nia

  5. Ronan

  6. Nia

  7. Ronan

  8. Nia

  9. Ronan

  10. Nia

  11. Ronan

  12. Nia

  13. Nia

  14. Ronan

  15. Ronan

  16. Ronan

  17. Nia

  18. Nia

  19. Ronan

  20. Nia

  21. Ronan

  22. Nia

  23. Ronan

  24. Ronan

  25. Nia

  Epilogue

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  I’m pregnant with the devil’s baby—

  And it’s going to be the death of me.

  What’s a girl to do?

  He’s muscle-bound. Iron-willed. Dimpled.

  The Irish enforcer takes what he wants.

  And he wants me.

  As if I can resist…

  … But how I wish I had.

  Before I can even blink, he’s gone;

  Replaced by chaos and a cursed gift.

  The Russian Bratva. The Italian Mafia.

  They all want the Irishman’s blood.

  But he’s nowhere to be found.

  I guess I’m the next best thing.

  Because suddenly, the entire underworld is after me.

  Looks like my fallen angel isn’t done with me yet.

  They say love is blind. But I know better now.

  Love isn’t blind at all. It’s just dark as hell.

  SASHA LEONE ROMANCE

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  Editor: C.J. Swan

  Cover Design by Clarise Tan, CT Cover Creations

  1

  Ronan

  A cold wind crashes in through my open window and slaps me across the face. I bite the inside of my lip, daring myself to draw blood—I wonder if it would even be warm? My cheeks are numb and my heart runs slow, but the frigid downtown breeze is the only thing keeping me awake.

  I check my phone. I’ve been idling outside of this dump of a bodega for hours now, waiting for a certain slimy bastard to finally show up. But, true to his nature, he’s making life harder than it has to be.

  I’m going to make him suffer for it.

  The shop on the corner is closed and the rubbery glass door off to its side is dark, as is the window overtop of it. Neon light washes over its façade, drenching the stained bricks in red and yellow and green. The place reminds me of where I lived after I first joined the Barone family. Back then, the peeling walls of my new grubby homestead had seemed like a little slice of heaven, a sanctuary in the hellish landscape of the underworld, but now I see it for what it truly is: a cage for a rat. I was more free on the streets as a scrawny guttersnipe than I am now as a feared enforcer—not that it matters. No one’s truly free in this world. A choice was made for me, and now my life is dedicated to repaying the debt that it created.

  I dig my fingernails into my palm until I feel something, anything. A simmering anger broils just beneath my surface; it’s the only thing keeping me from freezing completely over. I almost manage to smile at the thought of not getting the information I need tonight. If my ‘perp’ isn’t in the mood for talking, then I just might get to have a little fun with him. A few hard punches here and there are usually enough to break the ice that encases my soul, if even only for a moment.

  The streetlights ahead sway in the frigid midnight gusts. A modest hurricane rips through these streets every night, born off the lake that borders the wrong side of the tracks. This city is wall-to-wall bad news... and I love it. I can’t take a step outside without being beset by grime and false neon dawns; the muck I’ve built up under my soles makes me feel about ten-feet tall. This is my world, the only world I’ve ever known, and I’ve had to fight and scrap and claw just to break the surface—but now I’m nearly above it all. My chest puffs out when I think of just how far I’ve come since Gianni Barone found me on that street corner all those years ago. A helpless kid, transformed into the hand of the king...

  Suddenly, I hear the lonely footsteps I’ve been waiting for. They echo through the restless air and I sink down into my seat. I can see my target in the rear-view mirror. A dark man in a lengthy trench coat shuffles up to the bodega’s side door. I sneer and click the safety off on my Glock. Finally.

  I watch with furious patience as the shrouded figure fights the wind until his door is unlocked. I slip out of my car just as he slips inside of the doorway. The cold metal of my weapon feels warm against my back. The simmering fire inside of me starts to jump and bubble. I wrangle on my leather gloves and don’t hesitate when I reach the door. I punch through the flexible glass like a cannonball through water and whip the door open harder than any hurricane ever could. The frame creaks off of its hinges just loud enough to cut through the tunnelled gusts that invade the dark staircase. At the top of the steps, I see the shadow of my prey turn to me—there’s a glimmer of fear in his eyes that reflects off the neon light seeping in from just outside. I make sure all he sees is the barrel of my doom.

  I step forward.

  He freezes.

  “Open up,” I growl, pointing the tip of my heat towards his apartment door. My numb fingers are beginning to thaw just enough to hurt. I bite my tongue until I draw some warm blood. I’ve been through this before; I know what it takes

  “Listen... I don’t have any—” I interrupt the stammering shadow with the butt of my gun. I hear his nose crack and I’m sick of waiting. I keep my steel on him as I kick open his flimsy wooden door and push us both inside. I have to duck under the doorway.

  No alarm is sounded. This scum couldn’t afford one even if he wanted to. I grab him by the scruff of his collar and throw him into a nearby chair. He’s holding onto his nose like it’s about to fall off. Dark blood gushes from his face.

  The little apartment is raggedy and water damaged. A thin, torn carpet folds under my feet and a wispy curtain floats in front of a cracked window like a ghost.

  “You better start talking,” I command, with the power of life and death resting on my fingertips. I just want to get out of here. You don’t live like this anymore, I have to remind myself. You’ve earned better.

  “You... You’re fucking with the wrong person...” blubbers the fool on the couch. “I... I’m connected!”

  He spits blood onto the carpet and I take another step forward. “Not anymore, you’re not, Alonzo,” I let him know. The dingy apartment is dark enough to hide my face, but the man wouldn’t recognize me even if it were mid-day. The Barone family likes to keep me hidden away, and that’s the way I like it.

  The only light in the room comes from the red digital clock in the kitchen. It’s bright enough to silhouette the coward’s features, but not show his face; that’s too bad, I’d like to see the fear that he’s wearing.

  The man hesitates. I can almost hear the gears in his mind turning. “Who are you with?” he gargles, down to a whisper. It’s a legitimate question for someone in his shoes. He’s pissed off both sides of this city’s underworld and it’s only now dawning on him that his own boss could be coming for his throat. Idiot.

  “That doesn’t matter,” I assure him. �
�All that matters is that you answer my next question truthfully—if you don’t, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.” I point the tip of my Glock directly between his eyes.

  The bloody silhouette scoffs in my direction. He may be a blubbering coward, but there’s no way this is the first time he’s had a gun pointed in his face. This scum is Alonzo Bianchi and we share the same crime boss: Gianni Barone. No one gets through this grimy world without at least a few bullet-burns and steel brandings. I’ve had my fair share—just, as I’m sure, Alonzo has. But it can only make you so bold, to stare down death over and over again.

  “Feels like whatever I do next is going to be the last thing I ever do,” Alonzo spits. I’m getting tired of his disobedience. With my free hand, I pull the switchblade out of my jacket pocket. That makes him squirm.

  “Are you ready for your question?” I hold the blade up and let it shimmer in the little light that is able to squeak through the cracks of this hellhole. The digital clock in the kitchen blinks like a strobe. I take another step towards my victim.

  Alonzo flinches at my approach. He splays out his palms over his face, as if that will protect him from the boogeyman. “What do you want to know!?” he pleads.

  I stop my advance, just feet away from him. “Who told you to fuck with Alexai Molchalin?”

  I can feel the air being sucked out of the room as Alonzo realizes what’s happening. He doesn’t answer right away. So, I take another step forward—three more and I’ll be close enough to smell his boozy breath.

  “We didn’t mean to kill him! I swear, it was an accident. We just wanted to scare him off!”

  “We?”

  Another moment of hesitation on Alonzo’s part means another step forward from me. Alonzo curls his legs up on the couch like a terrified child. It’s disgusting. This is a grown man. A killer. He deserves no pity. No mercy.

  “He was on our territory!” Alonzo begs for understanding. He won’t find it with me.

  “Who told you to get him off of it?”

  Hesitation. Another step forward. The next one will be my last.

  “Santino!” Alonzo yelps. “Santino Costa. We’d been drinking. We heard someone speaking Russian and it just made our eyes go red. Can you blame us? After so many years, it’s going to take more than just a few weeks to learn to live together.”

  “You’ve had more than a few weeks,” I answer coldly. “This business with the Russians has been no secret. You’ve put everything in danger. You and Santino...”

  “Santino was the one who pulled the trigger!” Alonzo interrupts, throwing his superior under the bus. “I just shot around the Russian’s feet. Santino was out for blood. You know his little brother was killed by the reds, right? He can’t stand a Ruski.”

  I consider the information. Everyone already knows that Alonzo was involved in the killing of Alexai Molchalin—he made sure of that when he drunkenly stumbled back to the Paradise Alley bar and bragged about it to all the patrons—but there had been something missing to the story. Not anymore. The twitchy underling was just following orders, and even then, he hadn’t pulled the trigger himself—Gianni had been right, as always.

  “One more question,” I ask, almost teasing the curled-up ball of filth before me.

  “You said you only had one!” Alonzo whines. I just want to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until his eyes pop out of his head. Even now, the clueless piece-of-shit doesn’t understand how close he’s come to undermining the biggest underworld deal in the history of this stinking city.

  “I said that the first question would be your last if you didn’t answer it truthfully; now that you have, I have another.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” Alonzo whispers, before I can ask it of him.

  I get ready to take my final step. “That’s not what I want to hear.” The rickety floorboards creak under my weight. Alonzo crawls up higher in his chair.

  “I haven’t seen him since that night. I swear! He’s probably long gone. If I had known that I’d be blamed for all this, I’d have left town too!”

  I stab my switchblade down into the arm of the couch and press the cold barrel of my Glock against Alonzo’s sweaty forehead. I can see his face now. He’s gaunt and pockmarked and the faint shadows from the kitchen clock make his eyes look like pale dots in a vast sea of darkness. He’s scared shitless. I slide my finger overtop the trigger.

  “Last chance.”

  Alonzo is frozen. I’m not going to get any answers from him like this. Quickly, I rip my switchblade out from the arm of the couch and plunge it deep into his clavicle. I can hear the blade scrape the bone. Before Alonzo can cry out, I shove the barrel of my Glock into his mouth. His teeth chatter around the cold steel. He’s awake now. I slowly pull the barrel out, but leave it levelled on his greasy lips.

  “Where is Santino?” I ask, making it clear that if he falters these will be the last words he ever hears.

  Alonzo closes his wide eyes and takes a deep breath. His head collapses so that my barrel is pointed at his forehead again. His thin, greasy strands of black hair drape my weapon. “... Chinatown.” Alonzo whispers, defeated. Blood pours out of his chest. His face is stained with the mess that came out of his nose earlier.

  “Where in Chinatown?” I ask, offering him more words than I had just promised.

  “At the Triad’s base. The Moon Dragon’s Den. It’s where he always goes when he needs to hide.”

  “Do the Chinese know what he’s hiding from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I can tell that there are no more lies left in him. I could ask him anything in the world right now, and honesty would flow out of his mouth like the blood from his shoulder.

  I decide to make sure.

  “Who took the final shot?” I ask.

  Alonzo sighs in the way that only those who realize they’re done for do. “He did.”

  I slide my knife out of him and the bleeding only increases. Alonzo barely flinches. I push his hung head up with the barrel of my gun until his eyes are level with mine. He already looks dead. I just finish the job.

  2

  Nia

  I swear to god, if this motherfucker tests me one more time...

  Wind whips against the flexi-glass storefront of Chelly’s diner, shaking the windows like a warning of what’s outside. I rub my arms and give thanks that at least the heat’s working here. It’s warm inside, but just barely. Orange light cascades down from the flickering lamps above and the heat from the kitchen behind me provides just enough fire to quell the one raging inside of me.

  I stare daggers at the rude man at table C. He’s picking his yellow teeth with one of our forks and shifting back and forth on the dusty red cushions of the corner booth. If he wasn’t so fat, I’d figure he was a tweaker. The glare from his bald head is enough to make me look away. I turn my gaze towards the front door, crossing my fingers and praying with all my might that no one else decides to show up before closing time. Small snowflakes have started to lash around outside and I shiver at the thought of having to walk home after my shift—my only consolation is the smell wafting up from behind me in the kitchen.

  Carlos is cooking up something mean. At least I won’t have to go to bed hungry tonight—it’s more than I’ve been able to ask for in a long time.

  The smell of pulled pork and toasting Kaiser buns puts me at ease. I know that the dude in the corner booth isn’t about to tip me, but if he can just get lost in the next 10 minutes or so, then I’ll thank him, because it’ll mean I can kick off my work shoes and dig into my first real meal of the day. I can’t push, though. Things have been rough lately, and I can’t afford to get into another fight.

  My belly rumbles and I look back at the rude man at table C. Get out of here! I try to will him off of his fat ass. All I’ve had to eat today are other people’s scraps and it’s just not enough. But this dude won’t budge. He’s been a thorn in my ass all night long, and it’s taking every last ounce of my remaini
ng strength not to snap at him. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. I’m usually not that angry of a person, but there’s been so much building up on my plate lately—and none of it food—that I feel like I deserve a little release.

  Boy, would I love to just unload on this asshole. But I can’t. I’ve already lost one job because of my attitude; I can’t afford to lose another.

  I try to busy myself as far away from table C as I can manage, until, finally, after what seems like ages, the dude stops molesting his fork for long enough to gesture for the bill. He flicks his hand at me like I’m some kind of wench, and I have no choice but to obey him. It kills me, but I’m in no position to do anything drastic. Mrs. Cheng, the owner of this place, was nice enough to give me a job, despite my lack of references, and I have a pile of bills as high as Mt. Everest on my coffee table at home. This dude can test me all he wants, but I can’t react—so is the life of a lowly servant.

  I scream internally as I tally up his bill and walk it over to him. I toss it on his table and turn around before we can make eye contact. I don’t get far, though.

  “Excuse me,” the bald man barks. He clears his slimy throat. I stop in my tracks and turn around at a snail’s pace. I’m just about punching air as I force a strained, customer-service friendly smile onto my face.