Taken: A Dark Mafia Romance

by Vanessa Waltz

  I can’t believe this. “If I agree, then what?”

  “We get married.” He smoothed his lapels, running his fingers over the silk. “And I’ll release Ignacio.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. But he is cut from your life. The details can wait, but I’m not compromising. You know what your dad did. This is his only way out. Marry me—or he’s dead.”

  I’d torch the world for my father. He was the only man I trusted. He’d kicked in doors of men who’d wronged me. He’d always been an unwavering force, and now he was helpless. Dad needed me.

  Was I going to let him down?

  No.

  “Okay.”

  “I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”

  Dread pitted my stomach. He was toying with me, and it was just the beginning.

  “I’ll marry you.”

  Two

  Michael

  Family was everything.

  I loved nothing like I did my babies, but it was an obsessive love. It brought out the worst in me. Like when I beat up a shopkeeper for slapping my daughter’s hand. I left him on the sidewalk with mangled limbs and shattered pride, wailing at witnesses for help. Nobody had assisted him because, in my neighborhood, everybody knew me and what I represented.

  I had one rule.

  Don’t fuck with my kids.

  Those who threatened my son and daughter died painful deaths. They were my legacy, body, soul. Anybody who risked their safety bought a ticket to the morgue, or more likely, a grave around the Quabbin Reservoir.

  Which prompted me to the front gates of my mansion to stare down the world’s biggest moron. The security guard I’d hired stood at an impressive height of six-foot-four and came well-recommended by his peers. He’d served in Afghanistan and graduated from a top-tier executive protection school, and he’d allowed a stranger to enter my home.

  Bryan was built like an ox, but the steroids must’ve deteriorated his brain. His square jaw ticked as I approached him with a photo of Carmela on my phone.

  “Recognize this woman?”

  He gaped at the picture I took after locking her up. “Yeah…I think. She walked in about thirty minutes ago.”

  “Did she give you a blowjob?”

  His brows furrowed. “No.”

  “Were you distracted by her tits?”

  His nostrils flared, and a ripple of rage went through me. He had no right to be angry, the dumbass. “I don’t understand the question.”

  “Why the fuck did you let in someone who wasn’t on the guest list?”

  A spasm of panic twitched his face. “She was carrying a gift.”

  “Anything could’ve been inside.”

  “Mr. Costa, I’d never put your family at risk. She had nothing on her.”

  “You have one fucking job—check their names.”

  I wouldn’t use that agency again. If he was that guileless, I had zero faith in the rest of their employees.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Costa. It’ll never happen again.”

  “Damn straight. You’re fired.” I shoved him onto the sidewalk, glowering. “Get out of here before I do something I regret.”

  I snagged a money clip and tossed his hourly rate into the air. I watched him scramble after the cash as it scattered with the wind. He was lucky Carmela was the honey I’d lusted after for months.

  I could’ve killed her for bulldozing my boundaries and touching my kid. The fact that she’d strolled through my security without a hitch strangled me, but I knew Carmela. I’d seen her at Christmas parties, and she’d babysat my children with her sister, Mia. She’d never hurt a child.

  She was tall and fuck-hot, with long espresso-brown hair streaked with caramel highlights. Carmela was Gal Gadot with curves, a stunning woman who’d been the discussion of many drunken card games at Sunset Tavern. Her hourglass figure was a magnet for male attention, which she usually ignored. Half of Boston’s underworld had a crush on the leggy Italian goddess with a mouth. Alessio, her former fiancé, had called her difficult. She shot down guys with the delicacy of a flying brick. She was a tough girl.

  God, I loved them.

  Specifically, I loved bringing them to their knees.

  Thinking of her trapped in my bedroom worked me into a frenzy. Once inside, I grabbed a cocktail from the open bar, pressing the chilled glass to my throbbing pulse. I cooled down, and then I rejoined the room awash in wrapping paper. My daughter lay on the rug. The coffee table was pushed aside to make way for the mountain of gifts. Matteo hovered near his sister, bawling.

  I knelt beside my son and kissed Matteo’s temple. “Are you okay?”

  Matteo pouted. “No.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  The four-year-old looked at the packages waiting to be opened and burst into fresh tears. “What about me?”

  I squeezed his chin. “Buddy, you’re killing me. It’s your sister’s birthday.”

  He pointed at the boxes. “But I want one, too!”

  Mariette tackled a present wrapped in gold. “Ooh!”

  I dragged him over my lap. “You cry every time someone else has a party.”

  He turned into my chest and sobbed. I rubbed his back, shaking with barely audible laughter. Then I heaved a sigh, fished a small package from my pocket, and pressed it into Matteo’s hands.

  “Here you go, honey.”

  Matteo’s sobbing quieted. He disengaged and wrestled the truck from the packaging. Two years ago, I held a party for my daughter with nothing for Matteo—what a disaster. He’d been inconsolable. Since then, I never threw a birthday without a gift for the other kid.

  I tugged on Mariette’s pigtails. “What did you get?”

  “Easy-Bake Oven!” Mariette scratched through paper, revealing a giant, pink plastic toy. “It makes cakes! Wow.”

  “That’s awesome. Who’s it from?”

  She peeled an envelope from the box and took out the card, frowning. “Dear Mariette, As you grow, make sure you dream big. Smile, live, laugh, and have fun! Happy seventh birthday. Love, Carmela. Who is Carmela?”

  I took the card. “She’s… Daddy’s girlfriend.”

  Mariette made a face. “Yuck.”

  The note was a nice touch.

  I smiled, picturing the brunette upstairs, wearing that sheer dress. She’d obviously hoped to seduce me and wrangle an arrangement. She got what she wanted. I’d forced her into an engagement.

  What was wrong with me?

  I could’ve lied and banged her, but the image of her holding my son had stopped me. I’d always seen myself with a girl like Carmela.

  Life hadn’t been kind. I knocked up a stripper. Married said girl, whose instincts for motherhood were nonexistent. When she wasn’t threatening to take my children, she cheated, scored drugs, and drove me insane. I tried to fix her—rehab, psychiatrists, therapy—nothing worked. I’d been held hostage for six years. So when she died, aching relief had washed over my bones.

  Finally free.

  The last thing I needed was another shitty marriage.

  I had a feeling about Carmela.

  A stupid feeling, maybe, but it warmed my body. I ignored such an impulse once, and it almost destroyed me. Fortunately, my head and heart screamed the same advice—Don’t let Carmela go.

  So I wouldn’t.

  Three

  Carmela

  I did not do well in cages.

  Especially those that resembled my worst nightmares.

  I stood by the leaded windows as daylight leached from the sky. A ball of anxiety throbbed inside me as night descended on the sleepy suburb. Silhouettes of homes disappeared, melting into pitch-black nothingness. Warmth sapped from my bones as the evening mist dissolved the taillights from the last departing guests.

  What would he do when he returned?

  Clues presented themselves in the bedroom’s strange décor. Bronze rings stuck out from the four-poster bed. A cast-iron lattice comprised the headboard. A hook screw
ed into the ceiling beam. I opened his walk-in closet. Steel boxes lined the top shelf—were they gun safes? I swept aside the rack of bespoke suits, heart pounding when my fingers touched a bundle of nylon rope. Beside it sat a leather blindfold.

  My breathing hitched.

  We were so incompatible.

  I’d never known this side of him. Michael was supposed to be one of the good ones. The gossip surrounding the newly minted consigliere never mentioned the room with sex toys. This bondage crap pushed my boundaries to their limit.

  The things I will do to you.

  Jesus, he wasn’t kidding.

  Several uncomfortable minutes passed with a walnut-sized lump lodged in my throat. I pictured Michael fisting my hair, bending me over the mattress. A violent shiver ran down my spine.

  Footsteps tapped outside.

  Oh shit.

  I held my breath as the door creaked. A shadow seemed to melt inside.

  The light stroked Michael’s silhouette with warm colors, illuminating alluring details—a lean form rippling with muscle, the sharp edges defining his angular cheeks, the elegant slope of his nose, and his hooded eyes—lately, always narrowed.

  Calculating.

  He’d discarded the jacket. The untucked T-shirt combined with his swagger would’ve made James Dean proud. His irises were a vibrant shade of amber, and as tempting as whiskey on a chilly evening. Black stubble covered his jaw and chin, chiseling his angular features. Completing the look of perfection were his playful grin and the dimples shaping his face. I absorbed his every detail, as though I’d find a secret in his wrinkles that’d free me.

  The urge to flatten my hand against his chest to keep him at bay was overpowering. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re a decent man.”

  “Carmela. Sweetheart.” He brushed his knuckles against my frozen cheek. “I was nice to you because I wanted to get laid. You’re easy to manipulate, and I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  “You’re a psychopath.”

  Michael looked bored with the turn in conversation. “I’ll be one hundred percent real with you starting now, except around my children.”

  “Have you reconsidered?”

  Please say yes.

  “No. Cold feet?”

  “I’m no coward. I just don’t like to be locked in a freak show for hours.”

  “Freak show?”

  He followed my gaze to the bronze rings, the ceiling hook, and the walk-in closet filled with rope. He lifted his shoulders.

  “I wouldn’t tie you up on our first night together.”

  “I didn’t realize you were into ropes. Michael, that is…intense.”

  Before this, I would’ve attached a thousand different words to Michael—glib, carefree, lighthearted. Everything I’d associated with him had vanished in private.

  I’d been deceived. He was a friend of the family who dropped in on Christmas with his adorable kids. The same man who cooed at my sister’s newborn had blackmailed me into an engagement.

  This was Michael—unmasked.

  He fixed me with a stare that heated my blood. “Intense is how I like it.”

  “So you’re a sadist.”

  “I’m many things, Carmela.”

  “Clearly. Why do you do it?”

  “Having a woman at my mercy makes my cock hard.” He was so flippant and crass, far from the gentleman who’d kissed my knuckles.

  “I’ll never look at you the same again.”

  “But you are looking at me.”

  As if my attention could’ve wandered with him in the room. Michael used to be a bright spot in a dark universe.

  “I never gave you the time of day for a reason.” My throat tightened when his smile grew. “Maybe you should’ve taken a hint.”

  “That you wanted to be chased?”

  “I wasn’t interested because I’m not attracted to you.”

  “That’s why you got all dolled up and offered yourself as a sex slave.” Michael smiled, and gooseflesh pricked my arms. “Never thought you’d do that. It’ll be a great story to tell the grandchildren.”

  Whoa.

  “Michael, you need to dial back your expectations. When I fantasize about sex, it’s without leather cuffs.” Judging from Michael’s walk-in closet, he was the least vanilla guy on the fucking planet. “You’ll be happier with someone else.”

  “I don’t care about my happiness.” He bulldozed past that alarming statement and adopted a chastising tone. “Shouldn’t you have higher priorities than my sex life?”

  “It’s all I can think of.”

  He tapped my chin. “Well, get your mind out of the gutter. We have rules to discuss.”

  “Rules?”

  “Yes, hon. Rules. Did you believe I’d let you run amok where my kids live and sleep?”

  He still hadn’t shown evidence that Dad was alive.

  “I have to see my father. You owe me proof.”

  “Your dad is fine.” The glimmer in his eyes disappeared. “I give you my word.”

  “Is that good for anything?”

  “Why would I lie?”

  Easy. “Because you enjoy screwing with people.”

  “I’d rather fuck you than mess with your pretty head.”

  “You’ll never touch me, especially with that bondage shit.”

  “You’re sending mixed signals, Carmela.” Michael resisted when I pushed his chest. “Bringing up my kinks over and over.”

  It was hard not to launch at him with everything I had. “I want to see my father!”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s my decision, and I’m saying no. When the timing is right, I’ll allow a visit.”

  That dug the rusted nail into my pit of rage. “Is this a sick game? Keep me in suspense about whether my father is alive?”

  “You don’t want to see Ignacio. Trust me.”

  So he’d been tortured.

  Tears slammed into my eyes as I pictured my dad huddled in a concrete cell, gashes marring the face I loved, and God knows what else.

  Hate swirled into a heated frenzy. “Whatever you want out of this marriage—you’ll never have my love.”

  “But you’ll love my kids.”

  I opened my mouth to deny it, but I couldn’t form the words. There was plenty of room in my heart for two innocent kids, but absolutely none for Michael. Falling for a man almost killed me once. It dragged me into a pitch-black place, and I emerged with mental scars that still bled.

  I’d tolerate Michael.

  But love him? Never.

  Four

  Michael

  There were seven stages of grief, but I only felt one.

  Rage.

  Daniel had an anger management problem. A gangster with attitude. Go figure. He wasn’t the easiest person to deal with. Growing up, we’d had a love-hate relationship. He slapped me around until I packed on enough muscle to strike back. We used to beat the shit out of each other. Once, he stabbed me in the thigh.

  My overwhelmed mother sent him to therapists who made him count to ten and bullshit like that. Daniel never hit pause on his aggression. If a fight broke out, he ended it with a gun. And he won.

  This time, he hadn’t been so lucky.

  All I knew was that an altercation had led to Carmela’s father sinking two rounds in my brother’s head. Knowing Daniel, he probably asked for it. That didn’t mean my mom deserved to watch his corpse sink into the ground.

  It was my job to pick up the pieces.

  “Ignacio. Can you hear me?”

  I doubted he heard anything but the ringing.

  Ignacio slumped on concrete. Carmela’s judgmental gaze seemed to glare through her father’s eyes. A patchy beard stained with vomit grew in salt-and-pepper chunks. He still wore his Sunday clothes, although he’d stripped to his tank top. Every day, he’d peeled off another blood-soaked layer, discarding it lik
e a tumor excised from his body.

  I took it as a sign of progress that he was weakening his resistance, but after countless fuck-yous and fuck-your-mothers, I decided Ignacio was nowhere close to a mental breakdown.

  Stubborn ass.

  My brother had been just as bullheaded, and the comparison twisted a knife in my chest. If I’d taken his complaints seriously, Daniel’s dispute with Ignacio would’ve stayed harmless. My mom and sister wouldn’t be wrecked. I wouldn’t be struggling to move on in a world without him.

  “Fuck you,” Ignacio growled. “Fuck your mother and your rotten family. I hope they get cancer in the ass and die, all of them.”

  He’d said it a thousand times already.

  “I’m bored with these exchanges.” I stooped and grabbed a fistful of his hair. “You tell me to fuck off. I hit you. And round and round we go. What are you trying to prove?”

  Ignacio grimaced and spat, crimson staining the floor. The sixty-something-year-old staggered upright, shrugging off his pain like he had for five days.

  Carmela’s father was one tough bastard.

  “Give me what I want, or I’ll introduce you to Vinn.”

  I pointed out my cousin, but it wasn’t necessary. Ignacio’s gaze never strayed far from the imposing Costa boss.

  Vinn stood in a navy hoodie, rolled to tattooed sleeves, beside the Camaro that needed bodywork. The acting boss before him, Alessio Salvatore, put him in intimidating roles. Vinn was tall and big, with biceps as wide as my neck, and he didn’t know how to not be frightening. I loved the guy, but he had zero self-restraint. He wielded an axe when he should’ve used a scalpel.

  People were scared of Vinn. They zeroed in on what I overlooked. Instead of deadness, I saw decades of trust. Vinn was the kid with nothing to eat until my mom sent me to school with two lunches. He was a tragic character who attracted women like my sister, who wanted to fix him.

  I switched on the stereo, which blasted Metallica’s “Ride the Lightning.” Ignacio groaned and pitched forward. Spittle ran from his mouth in a constant stream, and he screamed in unintelligible syllables.