by Bethany-Kris
CAPTIVATED
BETHANY-KRIS
For all the buried women—gone far too soon. And for the ones still dying slowly. You are not alone.
CONTENTS
CAPTIVATED
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
THANKS!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS
Copyright
ONE
THERE WAS NOTHING quite like being strapped in while speeding through the clouds in something that might as well have been a tin can. It was no wonder that it was practically impossible to find bodies after a plane crash, all things considered.
Christ, his thoughts were morbid today.
“You really don’t like flying, do you?”
Joseph Rossi hated that his discomfort was this obvious. Mind you, it was his father, but still. He took great pains to keep his outward appearance at undecipherable levels. It was a talent of his.
Or shit, it should have been.
He fingered the rosary, a gift from his uncle, Tommas, at his First Communion, around his throat, and wished it would give him the peace he usually found in it. The church had become somewhat of a sanctuary for him.
No matter the kind of shit he did—or how much blood stained his hands when the daylight broke over the horizon—those doors were still open. The church still welcomed. His priest was still there to listen.
He was the worst kind of sinner.
It never seemed to matter.
Damian didn’t miss Joe fidgeting with the rosary. Frankly, his father never missed very much anyway. Eagle-eye, and all.
“We’ll only be another thirty minutes,” his father said.
Joe shot Damian a look from the side that he hoped screamed at his father to just stop before he started—
“Take a deep breath,” Damian added.
And there he goes.
“Don’t use that voice with me,” Joe muttered.
Damian raised a single brow high, and regarded his son. “What voice?”
“That one—the one you just used. The one with the tone.”
It unsettled Joe for more reasons than he cared to explain. Mostly, though, because it wasn’t like his father to be a gentle kind of man in his speech. Soft-spoken, and quiet, sure. That was just Damian’s way because he didn’t need noise to get the job done, or to do violence.
A lot like Joe.
No one ever saw them coming that way. Yeah, he was definitely the worst kind of sinner.
“Hand to God, Joe,” Damian said, shaking his head,” I have no idea what you are talking about.”
His father looked sincere, too. That was the thing about Rossis, though. They could look innocent as fuck, but at the same time, be planning some way to slit your throat the first chance they could … if they had a reason to.
Men like them—criminals; Mafiosi—all needed an edge to stay on top where this life and business was concerned. Joe’s edge just happened to be a hell of a lot like his father’s edge once used to be. He was the man in the shadows doing what needed to be done to protect the organization and family. Damian had once done that, too, except he traded his hitman-style in for a cushier seat as the Chicago Outfit’s underboss.
Funny how that worked.
“That tone you just used,” Joe said as the plane finally settled out of the turbulence. Jesus, he could actually breathe again. “You know exactly what I mean, Dad. It’s the same tone you used to use on Cory and me when we were kids, and you wanted us to admit to something we had done wrong. Now, you use it on Monica because it doesn’t work on us anymore, and she’s the only one who hasn’t caught onto your shit.”
And Joe only blamed his sister’s trusting nature on her age—being a decade younger than his twenty-one years, she had a valid excuse for being gullible.
Damian’s lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. “You sure about that?”
There it is again.
Joe opened his mouth to speak, but his father held up a single hand and let out a short laugh. It was only the amusement and mirth in Damian’s eyes that kept Joe quiet for a moment. Sometimes, he just let his father have his moments. They all needed them occasionally.
“You’re right,” Damian said quietly, “I do know which tone you mean.”
“Great—stop using it.”
“Glad I could distract you long enough to prevent you from ripping the armrests off your seat, however.”
Joe blinked.
Huh.
He had removed his death grip from the armrests. At least, for now.
“I know you hate flying,” Damian murmured, staring out the port window.
He really did. More than he cared to admit. It was an unjustified fear, and just about the only thing in life that did scare the hell out him, but that didn’t make it any less real to him. Like the universe was coming around to kick Joe in the ass with a sarcastic smirk to remind him that he was just as fucking human as everybody else.
“We could have drove to New York,” Joe said. “Damn, I would have drove for you.”
Damian’s gaze drifted toward his oldest son, and he smiled a little bit. “It’s amusing.”
“What is?”
“That you feel like when another family calls—a family with bigger pull and more control than yours—that you have the option to make them wait.”
Joe stiffened a bit in his seat. “I didn’t—”
“That’s exactly what you’re saying, and you know better, son.”
Just like that, the easy banter between a father and son was lost. In its place was the unspoken code of made men, and the mafia life they were surrounded and suffocated by. It was never-ending. All the rules, the expectations, and everything else that came along with being men like them.
Usually, he didn’t mind.
Joe didn’t know anything different.
“You’re twenty-one,” Damian said, never turning his attention away from the window as he spoke, “and so I will give you a pass for putting your own wants before someone else’s. But you’re close enough to twenty-two, Joe, that I can’t keep giving you passes.”
Clearing his throat, Joe glanced down the first class aisle at the flight attendant starting to make her rounds again. She was too far away yet to hear their conversation. No doubt, his father knew that, too.
Damian knew everything.
“No offense,” Joe started to say.
“Whenever someone starts a sentence with that statement—”
“It’s usually going to offend someone. Yeah, let me talk.”
Damian waved a hand as if to silently say, Get on with it.
“No offense,” he repeated, “but you didn’t even tell me what we were coming to New York for, Dad. You just said the Marcellos needed something, but not what, or why I needed to come along. You expect me to know everything just because? I’m not a goddamn mind reader.”
“Business,” Damian said simply, “when the Marcello family calls, it always means business.”
And Joe knew … He’d grown up his whole life being told—everybody bent to the Marcellos, but they didn’t fucking bend for anybody else. So was their right being who they were, and having what they did.
No mafia organization remained on top by playing nice with others.
“No, I won’t be long, Lily,” Damia
n said. “I won’t miss Mon’s game.”
In the backseat beside his father, Joe ignored the buzzing of his own phone. He didn’t need to pick it up and look at it to know who it was.
Cory, likely.
His younger brother—by only a year—was dying a little because Joe was in New York for this mysterious business, and Cory had to stay at home. He was not in the mood to listen to his brother whine or bitch about it, so he just opted to not pick up the phone at all. It would be nicer to listen to Cory rant about that, anyway.
“You got it, sweetheart,” Damian said. “Love you, bye.”
Not a damn second after Damian hung up the phone with his wife—Lily, Joe’s sweet-natured, good-hearted mother—he snapped at his son, “Joe, stop that goddamn fidgeting.”
It was almost like his father had been watching him the whole time through his phone call, and knew the closer they were getting to the Marcello mansion, the worse his fidgeting had become. Joe’s hands stilled in his lap instantly.
Joe scowled at his father. “I’m nervous, all right.”
“Be nervous, but stop the jittery bullshit.”
“Easy for you to say, Dad.”
Damian smirked, but he didn’t hide it fast enough for Joe. He still saw the grin before his father turned his head, and stared out at the cars they passed. It kind of struck him then at how content and comfortable his father seemed in a state that was not in any way theirs—at least when it came to the business side of their life. Going into the territory of another family could sometimes be tricky. Like navigating alligator infested waters. A person might think they were stepping on a rock, and before they knew it, they were in the mouth of an alligator.
Yeah, just like that.
Maybe it wasn’t the same for his father, though. He often made trips to visit other organized crime families to do deals, or make peace. Despite how intimidating his father could be at first glance, Damian was charming when he made the effort to be. And doing good business and keeping peace was one of his many jobs as the underboss for Joe’s uncle, Tommas.
Really … he worried about fucking this up for his father. It was the first time Damian brought Joe along for a meeting of this caliber, and it kind of put him on edge. He was always the one in the shadows, never the one stepping up to take center stage.
He didn’t like that.
He wasn’t the type.
“Dad?” Joe asked.
“Yeah?”
“Cory would have been better for this, not me.”
There, he said it.
Let his father make of that what he wanted.
Damian sighed, and looked at Joe. For a short while, the two simply stared at each other in silence. He took in the almost-perpetual smirk his father wore, the strong jawline, and sky-blue eyes, and felt like he was staring into a reflection of his oncoming older years. Even their hair was the same shade of dark brown, although Damian toted a bit of salt color behind his ears, and Joe liked to keep his cut in a high-fade style.
Still, his father stayed silent. More often than not, that was Damian’s way of getting one of his sons to speak. It worked far better on Cory than it did Joe.
Joe liked silence, after all.
And right now, he had nothing to say. He said what he said.
“I know Cory would have had more fun maybe,” Damian finally said.
“Exactly.”
That was also evident by the phone in Joe’s pocket that had finally stopped ringing for two goddamn minutes.
“But you’re in a position where you could use a bit of education on the rules of other families,” his father added, shrugging. “And as someone once told me, Joe, comfort zones are reserved for weak men who are afraid to try something new. I want you to succeed—you chose this life, son. Don’t shy away because you prefer to hide away.”
Joe frowned. “I hate it when you do that.”
“I know.”
Smug asshole.
“How much longer?” Joe asked.
Better to change the topic—he wasn’t going to get anything else from his father in this conversation, clearly.
“Actually, we’re almost there.”
Damian hadn’t been exaggerating, thankfully. It was only ten minutes of driving later, and the car pulled in front of a gated driveway. Once the gate was opened for them, a long and winding driveway lined with tall trees led them to a stop in front of a mansion that was probably large enough to house a small army.
He took in the manicured grass, carefully placed cobblestones in the driveway, and the large marble pillars holding up a grand entrance for cars to drive under. Their car parked off to the side, instead.
Wealth.
The place screamed wealth.
Joe had just slid out of the car—still taking in the Marcello estate with fresh eyes—when the front door of the mansion opened, and a group of young women fled onto the marble steps one by one. Five young women, actually.
Marcello daughters?
Principessas?
Did the Marcellos have that many daughters in their family?
Joe didn’t really know.
He figured it didn’t really matter anyway, and besides, his attention had caught something far better to focus in on. Like the young, willowy woman hanging back a little from her group of friends. Her hazel gaze caught his, and something struck him still and silent when she refused to drop his stare. Confidence wafted from the tall, gorgeous woman. Her dark blonde hair hung in loose waves that flicked over her shoulder when she turned her head a bit to keep staring at Joe even as she rounded the back of the waiting SUV.
Goddamn.
Joe wasn’t one to notice women. He liked a good time once in a while when the mood struck him, but he had far more important things to focus on in his life. Not like his brother, Cory, who liked to have a different female on his arm every weekend.
And yet, Joe found it damn near impossible to look away from the hazel-eyed, blonde woman with the bow-shaped lips, and dancer’s legs. She had to be a dancer given the way she walked like the ground was made of clouds, and her toes barely touched the cobblestone in her flats before lifting back up again. Quick, carefully taken steps with a posture that spoke of beauty and grace.
All the other ladies wore skinny jeans, and heels. But not her. She wore a flowy summer dress that spun wide with every step she took.
Still, she kept staring.
So did he.
What was her name?
And why couldn’t he breathe normally again?
“Joe,” Damian said loudly.
Joe snapped out of his daze just as the unknown woman reached for the backdoor of the SUV, and looked over his shoulder to find his father staring at him. He couldn’t even pretend like he hadn’t been gawking like a foolish boy caught with his prick in his hands. He didn’t even try, either.
“Yeah, Dad?”
Tires squealed before the SUV quickly pulled out of the circular drive, and headed down the winding path out of Joe’s sight.
Damn.
Who was that woman?
“Find something you like?” Damian asked, smiling in that way of his.
“Uh …”
Fuck.
Damian cocked a brow.
Joe cleared his throat.
Jesus.
Maybe he should have acted like he hadn’t been staring.
“The last one—you were watching her,” Damian said.
Joe spun around to face his father completely, and tried to laugh it off. “So, what if I was?”
“Since when do you stare like that?”
“I don’t.”
His father nodded like he knew exactly what was running through Joe’s mind.
He wanted to know the woman. Who she was, and what made her so bold as to stare at a man she didn’t know from Adam like she liked what she was seeing.
“Leave it alone, Dad,” Joe said.
“I didn’t say a thing.”
“You’re thinking it.”
Joe didn’t need to be told.
He knew.
“No, I’m thinking that I should give you a heads up,” Damian said.
“What’s that?”
Damian grabbed Joe by his shoulder, and turned them both to face the entrance of the Marcello mansion. During Joe’s little daze, it seemed someone else—or several people, actually—had come to stand out on the marble steps.
Three men.
Dressed in black three-piece suits.
Side by side.
Even from this distance, Joe could see the resemblance between two of the men, and easily guessed this was the infamous Marcello brothers. One of the three were adopted—or so the stories went. The men waited for Joe and Damian to come to them, and not the other way around.
“That girl, Joe,” his father said slowly as though he wanted to make sure his son heard every single last word, “is Liliana Marcello.”
Joe grimaced.
A visceral reaction he couldn’t even try to hide. Not because that deterred his interest in her, but rather, because he knew it was going to make it that much harder on him.
Liliana Marcello.
Daughter of Lucian Marcello.
Principessa of the family underboss.
Shit.
Nothing good ever came easy.
“Oh?” Joe asked.
He tried to sound unbothered.
He failed like a fucker.
Damian laughed. “The man on the left end is her father—the other two are her uncles. She’s a year younger than you. Lucian is intimidating as hell. Don’t let him know you think so, however.”
“Thanks?”
Why did that come out like a question?
“That’s a start,” Damian grunted as he gave Joe a hard pat on the back. “Best way not to fuck this up, Joe, is not to act like a cafone. That is something you’re incapable of doing. I know because I raised you this way. Do you want to know that girl?”
His head said to keep his mouth shut.
The rest of him didn’t listen.
“Maybe,” Joe said.
Because yes.
He did want to know her.
Damian nodded in the direction of the men waiting on the steps. “Start with her father.”
“Great.” Moving forward in step with his father, Joe asked, “Shit, they don’t call her Lily, do they?”