Taken: A Dark Mafia Romance

by Vanessa Waltz

I increased the volume.

  Ignacio clawed his ears. The song reached the halfway mark before I stopped the music. His frame straightened to his towering height.

  “When I get out, I’ll kill you!”

  I grabbed his bound hands and shoved him into the metal chair. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome to try if you escape.”

  “I swear to Christ. I will burn all you love to the ground.”

  “Naz, I have your daughter.”

  Ignacio froze. A flicker of panic marbleized his bloodshot gaze. He doubled over, cradling his head, whispering a prayer in a shrill voice I’d never heard before.

  Jackpot.

  “Carmela came to see me. Beautiful girl. Very sweet. Willing to do anything to save you.”

  All we’d done was talk.

  I leaned back, lost in the memory of that hottie strolling into my house like she owned the place. Many qualities of Carmela appealed to me—smoking-hot body, grab-me-by-the-balls confidence, and her affinity for children.

  All reservations about marrying Carmela disappeared when I remembered Ignacio’s devotion to his daughters. He’d almost started a war with the Irish after a member had assaulted Mia, his youngest. I wanted to twist the blade, so I’d cut him from Carmela.

  I would take his darling jewel away from him forever.

  Ignacio lunged with a snarl, snapped by Vinn’s hand. “What did you do to my girl?”

  “Everything. It was a wild night.”

  “I’ll kill you! I kill your whole fucking family!”

  “Relax, Ignacio. She’s no worse for wear.” I winked at him, provoking another hoarse scream. “Actually, I’m keeping her.”

  If someone taunted me about Mariette like this, I would stab their nuts with an ice pick. It turned Ignacio into a frothing beast who leaped at me no matter how often Vinn restrained him.

  “No. Not my daughter, you son of a bitch!”

  “Give me information. Save Carmela.” A sharp frustration tugged at my chest as he sat, gnashing his teeth. “Or I’ll continue to do whatever I want with her.”

  Nothing.

  Maybe he didn’t care.

  Ignacio attempted to stand. “I can’t say anything!”

  “I’ve had it with your bullshit. Tell me, for Christ’s sake. What did my brother do? Why did you shoot him? You’re dragging this out, and it’s pissing me off! Grow a pair and own what you did.”

  Vinn pushed him down. “Michael. Enough.”

  I refused to change the subject. “Why did you murder the man protecting you?”

  “Michael, stop.”

  I grasped Ignacio’s dislocated shoulder and dug my thumb into the joint.

  His shriek pierced my eardrums.

  “I said stop.” Vinn seized my bicep and jerked his head toward the office. “Let’s talk.”

  I shoved him. “I’m not done.”

  “You are.”

  Disobeying a direct order from Vinn wasn’t an option, even if he was family. I stood, kicking the chair on its side. None of them had ever really seen me angry. They knew me as the fun-loving guy, the peacemaker—the man everybody chose for a godfather role.

  Not anymore.

  Everything inside was twisted and black.

  Five

  Carmela

  Michael offered me a big, calloused hand. I did not want to touch him, but I had little choice. His fingers clasped mine, ironing me with heat. Then he pulled me outside, and we headed downstairs. As I struggled to match his pace, I took in more of the mansion.

  Spending my life in this colorless place seemed like torture enough without Michael prowling its interior. As we passed the kitchen, I glanced at the backyard. An English garden surrounded a full, green lawn. A lonely tree house fashioned from the same wood as the mansion stood in the house’s shadow. A blue ball sat in the sandbox, which didn’t even have a shovel.

  God, it was sad.

  The house reflected this family’s downward spiral because the cottage he’d lived in months ago didn’t have this depressing vibe. Wall-mounted photos glowed with Serena’s wide grin—his late wife. She’d died in rehab, chasing the same high that put her there.

  I hoped the kids were okay.

  Staring at their faces pitted my belly with sadness. What happened to them was so unfair. Matteo had been only three years old. I focused on his cherubic face, and a shock jolted my heart when I glanced at Michael. It was hard to connect the grinning man with the dark presence beside me. Michael turned his menace at the family portrait, communicating more with a stare than he could in words.

  “They’re only up for the kids’ sakes.”

  In the kitchen, a nanny scattered as though ordered to leave once he was in the room. Michael detached from me to greet his children, who sat at the granite countertop.

  He beamed at them and shouted, “Who wants pancakes?”

  “Me!”

  I marveled at his transformation from broody asshole to wholesome daddy. “Morning.”

  The kids crowed a greeting. I joined Michael near the stove as he mixed pancake batter from scratch and dropped blueberries into smiley faces. “Need help? I can start the bacon or cook some eggs.”

  “Thanks.” Michael cleared his throat, softening. “That sounds great.”

  I grabbed a package of bacon and a carton of eggs. Michael watched my every move, not even letting me cook scrambled eggs in peace.

  Once the food was ready, I set the table, and Michael made everyone’s plates. I sat beside Matteo, my head pounding as my fiancé served the kids, and then me. Mariette’s judgmental blue gaze pierced me as I sat beside her father, who kissed my cheek. I forced a smile as his face glowed with happiness that didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Kids, we need to talk. Do you remember Carmela?”

  Matteo beamed. “Carmel!”

  “Carmela.” Michael’s baritone softened. “Carmel is a city in California.”

  “Her name is Caramel,” boasted Mariette. “Like candy!”

  “No. Car-mel-ah. She’s Daddy’s fiancée. She’s staying with us from now on.”

  Mariette’s blonde head snapped up, her lips forming a pout. “Why?”

  “Because we’re getting married.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we love each other so much.” Michael teased his fingers across my shoulders and planted the softest kiss on my temple. “And we couldn’t wait another second to get engaged.”

  Mariette darkened. She gave her father the stink-eye, and then her haughty disapproval flicked to me.

  Believe me, honey. I’m not thrilled about this either.

  The four-year-old, however, glowed. “What about Mommy?”

  Michael sobered. “Mommy’s dead.”

  Ouch.

  I felt that one in the stomach.

  It was awful to hear Michael’s matter-of-fact delivery, and even worse to see their confusion. How many times had Matteo asked that question, and how did it feel to give that devastating answer?

  Mariette frowned at her plate. “Why can’t she come back?”

  “She’s gone. People who die don’t come back.”

  Matteo shrugged and returned to his scrambled eggs. Mariette flushed beet-red, her forehead creased in a deep scowl.

  I braced for the outburst.

  “I hate you.” Mariette stood, her tiny frame vibrating with a fury that seemed to match her father’s. “Why are you marrying her? What about Mommy?”

  A lump lodged in my throat.

  “Mommy’s dead, and it’s your fault!” Mariette seized her glass and hurled it to the floor. It shattered across the marble in hundreds of pieces, and suddenly I wished I didn’t have a heart.

  Good God.

  A horrible silence filled the air, broken by Michael’s hammer-like command. “Go to your room.”

  Mariette howled as she raced upstairs. Michael stared ahead, his expression vacant of all pain, but it poured over me like molasses.

  “Do you mind if I talk to her? Michael
?”

  He sighed deeply. “Go ahead.”

  I slid off the stool and climbed the staircase, following the sound of her crying into a room shimmering with gold. She lay in her bed, wrapped in her comforter, and her face streamed with tears.

  “I don’t like you. Go away.”

  Ouch. “I just want to talk.”

  “No. Go away.”

  “Five minutes, and then I’ll leave you alone. Promise.”

  Mariette rolled over, sniffling.

  I sank onto the mattress.

  How the hell should I approach this? Was there a manual on how to talk to a seven-year-old about their mother’s death?

  “I know this must be confusing. I’m a stranger, and all of a sudden, I’m in your home, eating breakfast with you, doing things your mommy used to do. I’m not trying to replace her, honey. She’ll always be your mom.”

  Mariette turned toward me, crying. “I miss her.”

  “I’m sorry, honey.” I wiped the hair clinging to her wet cheeks. “I know you’re upset, but so is your dad. He misses your mom, too.”

  “He doesn’t. He hates Mommy.”

  Probably true. “Why would you think that?”

  “Daddy hates me.”

  “Your daddy loves you more than anything in the world.” That wasn’t a lie, at least. “It’s his job to keep you safe and happy.”

  Mariette fell silent and chewed her lip.

  I pulled a random children’s book from her nightstand. “Can I read you a story?”

  “Okay.”

  I opened the watercolored pages and read until her lashes fluttered. When her body sagged, I undid her ponytail and smoothed her curls on the pillow. Then I replaced the book and stood. I headed for the door.

  Michael was at the threshold.

  My pulse galloped ahead at the sight of him blocking my exit. His impassive gaze zeroed in on his sleeping daughter. When it swept over me, his lips parted. Raw emotion pulsed from him, dragging me forward like light spiraling into a black hole.

  I felt sorry for him.

  I didn’t think that was possible

  “Michael, she didn’t mean it. She misses her mother, and she’s lashing out. She doesn’t understand what she’s saying.”

  “You said a lot on my behalf.”

  I followed him into the hall and closed the door. “What was I supposed to say?”

  “The truth.” His features were twisted in the shadows, his smile bestial. “I never loved her. I hated that junkie, waste-of-space bitch. I’m glad she’s gone.”

  “Michael.”

  “Don’t.” Michael turned away, as though he couldn’t bear the sight of my pity. “Just leave me alone.”

  “You need to lighten up. They lost their mom. They need laughter and silliness, not the cold, hard truth.”

  “Jesus Christ, Carmela. Go away.”

  “What is your problem?”

  He wheeled around. “They’re my kids, not yours!”

  I jumped, my heart wrapped in barbed wire. A plea stuck in my throat as his overwhelming rage blackened the hallway. My back struck the wall, and he loomed over me.

  Suddenly, I was yanked to a different time. My senses filled with clove smoke, scarred fingers groping where they had no right, and bright lashes of pain on my thighs—and I could not pull from Nick. In my mind, my ex-boyfriend stood in a leather cut, his fist raised to strike.

  “Please, don’t. Please.”

  His burning palm touched my cheek.

  “Get the fuck off!” I flinched and smacked him away. “Don’t touch me!”

  “Fine,” the horrible voice exploded. “Pick a room and stay there.”

  I ran down the hall and dove into a study, shaking as I slid the lock. Then I dragged a chair under the handle and hid under the desk. I watched the door and waited for it to tremble.

  So I braced myself.

  Six

  Carmela

  My dreams were ashes.

  Soon, I’d marry a man I hated. I’d sign Carmela Costa onto a marriage certificate and bind myself forever to a psychopath.

  Starting a family was out of the question. Michael’s two kids meant he was unlikely to want more.

  I leaned my head back so my tears wouldn’t blur the mascara.

  I sat in a room in the Boston Cathedral, a magnificent colonial structure from the early nineteenth century restored by my brother-in-law, Alessio. The cost of booking it ran in the tens of thousands, but Michael had spared no expense on this sham wedding.

  I’d wanted a small ceremony—Michael insisted on a big affair, instructed me to buy a designer dress, and booked a major act for the reception. It was the party of the year, as far as Boston’s underworld was concerned. Everybody would be here, from politicians, CEOs, cops on the Costa payroll, and gangsters from every corner of the Northeast.

  A ray of sunlight broke through a cloud, stroking my face with warmth. The golden windows were shut against the dazzling sunshine burning through rolling clouds. So inviting. I could so easily open them and jump into that brilliant blue.

  Seven days had passed since Michael took me into his home. I’d arranged the details for this last-minute wedding with the help of a planner Michael hired. I thought it’d be a shit show, but over three hundred guests RSVP’d to attend.

  The stylist pinned my ebony mane into a thick updo, the silk flowers with pearls for buds standing out like stars. Janet, a willowy makeup artist, dabbed my wrist with swatches of two identical pink lip glosses and peered at the stripes of color. She unscrewed one and painted my mouth.

  The church bells tolled, ringing the half-hour.

  Janet sighed, looking everywhere but my eyes. She leaned over and tweezed hair from my brow.

  “Perfect.” She plucked a Q-tip from the pile and soaked my tears. “The photographers will be in any minute.”

  I wasn’t big on displays of emotion. I hated losing control. I’d never even been drunk, which seemed like a significant accomplishment at twenty-seven years old, but I couldn’t look into the mirror without tearing up. This should have been the best day of my life.

  A fist hammered the door, punctuating the last echo of the bell, and then Michael’s smoky voice boomed through. “It’s me. Open.”

  Someone got the door.

  Michael stepped through, the sunlight bleaching his expression into something wholesome. Handsome—picture-perfect with the white boutonniere hanging over his lapel. He’d tamed his mocha hair into a slick wave. He wore a navy tuxedo and had softened his beard to a shadow clinging to his neck. His brown eyes glowed with a swirl of golden amber. A gorgeous smile curved his full mouth, completing the look that’d always cemented him as the Safe Guy.

  It was a con.

  In private, the temperamental bastard barely spoke. During my seven-day isolation, he’d locked me in the east wing of his mansion and popped in only to discuss wedding details, ignoring me so thoroughly it was hard to accept he wanted this marriage.

  Michael took in my dress with an appreciative nod. He stopped an inch away, blocking the bright rays. “Everybody out.”

  Nobody argued with a Costa.

  The workers filtered from the room, making so little noise it was as though they passed through the wood. Michael’s knuckles grazed my chin. He touched me with the familiarity of a lover.

  Before this, we’d done nothing but exchange pleasantries. At my niece’s christening, he sat beside me. Matteo had raced down the pews, so I’d dragged him over my lap. I still remembered Michael’s gratitude and the stinging patch on my cheek when he kissed me.

  “You look beautiful, Carmela.”

  The ghost of his lips seemed to press into me. I stamped on the growing flames. I would not be manipulated.

  “Stop pretending to be nice. We both know it’s an act, and I won’t have it around me. Ever.”

  “Fine.”

  His hand fell, and the light in his gaze died. I could’ve laughed at how quickly he abandoned the façade if
this weren’t so depressing.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m less concerned about superstition and more worried my bride will misbehave at the ceremony.” Michael pulled from the sun’s brilliance and stepped into shadow. “We have a long day ahead of us. My family is here, including my kids. Matteo will do whatever he’s told, but my daughter …she’s not happy.”

  No shit, Sherlock. “What do you expect? You dropped this marriage on her without warning. She’ll hate you forever.”

  “She already hates me.”

  I can’t imagine why. “What do you want?”

  “When we’re around my children, we call a cease-fire. No fighting. No insults. No slammed doors. With them, we are the perfect couple.”

  “What do I get in return?”

  His brow ticked. “You won’t be punished. Before your panties twist in a wad, remember that you freaked out over a few sex toys. You’ll cave after five minutes.”

  He was such a prick to throw that in my face.

  “Go to hell, Michael.”

  “It’s up to you.” He checked his watch with a flick of his wrist. “If I were in your position, I wouldn’t consider it a worthy battle. I’ll have you begging for mercy in a heartbeat, and all our bickering does is hurt two innocent kids who didn’t ask for this.”

  I hated that he sounded so reasonable, but I had no intention of dragging those children into our mess. “Makes sense. You don’t want a repeat performance of the last marriage.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Quite clever.”

  “Are we finished?”

  “Not yet. I have something for you. Part one of your wedding gift, so to speak.” Michael lazily gestured at the door. “Bring him in.”

  Oak doors swung inward, and a disheveled man stumbled inside. His hair stuck up on all sides. Once free of Michael’s soldiers, he shook his jacket.

  “Get your fucking hands off me!”

  I stood. “Dad?”

  He wore a double-breasted suit, the material bunching on his chest. A butterfly bandage stretched across a heavily bruised nose. He pivoted toward Michael, who smiled and waved.

  “Ignacio,” greeted Michael with a tight grin. “Glad you could make it.”