Sing To Me (A Dark Renzetti Series Book 1)

by V Domino

  Traditions, am I right?

  We would have been married as soon as she reached the age of eighteen but she was killed alongside her family when she was just an infant.

  My father’s old underboss, Frankie, was pop’s best friend and adopted brother but he was killed at a young age. His whole family—two kids and wife—were wiped out in the middle of the night. To this day we have no idea who murdered the family and burned the small mansion to the ground. It’s against our code to touch women and children, and whoever did this didn’t just kill Frankie and his guards. They killed the nannies and maids along with the kids and wife. It’s practically sacrilegious.

  Since then my father has culled the whole organization. Spilling the blood of any known traitors and setting an example to any others. It's how my father earned the name Andino "Hangman" Renzetti. My uncle is the underboss now, since he was the youngest of the three brothers, but according to my father, Adriano is a heavy-handed, unfaithful man who doesn’t deserve the position and only got it because he’s the next brother in line.

  Coming back to the present, I watch as Jefa pivot’s left and kicks her opponent’s knee causing it to snap backwards. The girl screams loudly and drops but the ref isn’t fast enough to stop Jefa from ground and pounding the girl. Finally the ref pulls Jefa off, declaring her the winner of the bantamweight division. Marco, Drake and I laugh as Nico makes his way to the locker room to help her clean up, while flipping us off.

  "Fratellino thinks he’s slick.” Marco laughs

  “What? He’s just going to help Jefa clean off her nonexistent cuts.” Drake says with mock innocence.

  We watch the rest of the fights through the night until Marco tells me Pop needs us to go and take care of someone. Seems that part of the lost cocaine shipment was found and with it is the thief.

  “Need me to head out with you guys?” Drake asks while watching Lauren Tanner talk with her brother, Joseph. He just lost to Twitch but like all the Tanners, he’s all smiles with a jovial attitude.

  “No brother, we’re good. We’ll be going to Temptation to take care of this guy. Let Nico know, yeah?” I turn to walk away but the way Drake bites the inside of his cheek has me remembering.

  “And don’t think I’ll forget stronzo, you owe me five thousand dollars for betting against Twitch.”

  I clap him on the shoulder when he laughs. Asshole thought he was smooth, fuck that. Brother or not, you owe me you’ll pay me.

  I nod my head for Marco to lead the way out to the car.

  It’s time to teach the lesson to this bitch who thinks it’s smart to steal from a Renzetti.

  It’s been a few months—four to be exact—since that night and I haven’t seen Gavriel since. Which is a shame really, but it’s okay because I’ve been searching for clues on my parents. So far, I found that my mother’s maiden name was DeLuca, but all other information has been sealed shut like a nun’s legs; the only reason I found out my mother’s maiden name was because the city worker let it slip before she realized all the records have been locked.

  “I’m sorry I can't offer you more assistance, Ms. Romano. All we can legally give you is this.” She hands me a document that gives vague details about how I came to be a child of the state. A woman left one-year-old me at a church here in Manhattan. Soon after, I was being taken to Texas, but it doesn’t say why, just dates.

  I’ve been planning to visit the churches and see if I can find more answers, but I haven’t gotten to it. Maybe, I tell myself, it’s because I’m overwhelmed with work and my new life here, but that’s a lie. I’m scared to find out. What if my parents are dead or worse, didn’t want me? That would be painful. To realize that I’ve lived a life filled with so much rage and pain that I now have zero hesitations to take a human’s life while all this time I could have had a better childhood? Damn, I think I’d become more of a dark soul than I already am.

  I think I need to admit that I’m not as ready for those answers as I thought I was.

  Maybe I’ll never be.

  Maybe I should just let it go and focus on myself and my future, leave the past behind.

  Right.

  It’s my first weekend off work this month and I’m looking forward to sitting at home, bundled up from head to toe in blankets. Spend my evening writing some lyrics that’ve been bouncing around in my head. I’ve noticed that my lyrics have gone from a darker side to lighter. Not quite happy-go-fucking-lucky, but since coming here and making a new life that puts a smile on my face every day, my lyrics are lighter. Soulful and happier with a bit of my natural darkness. “Wickedly happy” Carla calls it.

  Instead of sitting peacefully in my room tonight, though, Carla has different ideas for this cool October evening. “Let’s hit up that new club that just opened over on Madison Ave.”

  “Aww, C. Why? It’s fucking freezing outside and I just want to practice Italian words and write some lyrics.”

  Carla’s been teaching me how to speak the beautiful language and set up an online account to learn what she’s unable to teach me. I’m picking it up pretty easily. I think it’s because it was the language my parents spoke. Maybe not, but I like to imagine that’s the reason.

  “Freezing? Girl, it’s a cool night not freezing. God, you Southerners have weak skin.” She rolls her eyes and playfully sticks her nose in the air like she’s too good for me.

  “Bitch, please. You try living in the South for summer and we’ll see who’s got weak skin. I don’t want to go out to a club. The last time we went you got wasted and I had to drag—literally—your drunk ass home. I may have missed my morning workout today, but I don’t need it so bad as to carry your deadweight.”

  When I give her my best stink-eye, she shrugs and says the magic words, “I hear the owner is fine as hell annnd he’s having an open mic night tonight. Maybe you can sing some of your own songs.” She says that last part in a sing-song voice.

  Fuck it, it’s not that cold tonight anyway.

  Three hours later we’re almost ready to go and despite my fake bravado I’m really not looking forward to the chill that’s bound to be in the air. It’s around fifty-five degrees outside, so I’m most definitely not wearing clubbing clothes like C is. Instead, I’m wearing my ripped, black skinny jeans with red wedge heels, a loose satin strappy crop top—same red as my shoes—under my trusty black leather jacket. My wavy hair is hanging down my back, but in case it gets hot at the club I have a hair tie around my wrist.

  “Do the smokey eye look but add in some red to match my theme,” I tell C, my bestie slash makeup artist. She’s really good with details and knows how to bring out someone’s natural beauty, but it shouldn’t be a surprise because this bitch can paint! Her art work adorns the walls in my room and most of them are abstracts painted to my lyrics while others are scenes she depicted based on my voice and words. And her fucking charcoal drawings! They’re worthy of art galleries.

  Once she’s done with my makeup, she goes to get changed into her outfit and take her hair out of those tiny curlers. How she has the patience to mess with those, I’ll never know. Once we’re outside waiting for the Uber to pick us up, we light a joint and pass it back and forth. The weed here is so much better than the crap I smoked back in Dallas, which was dry as hell.

  I watch the way the smoke dances as Carla’s shivering voice chimes. I knew I wasn’t the only person feeling the cold. “I’m really hoping you’re able to sing some of those songs you’ve been working on tonight. Maybe someone will sign you to a label!”

  As great as that would be, I doubt I'd get that lucky in an open mic night. I mean, if I haven’t gotten a music producer calling me yet—and I’ve been watched on social media as much as cats afraid of cucumbers—then I don’t think it’s going to happen anytime soon. That’s okay, though, because I really like the personal setting I have going on at Medusa’s.

  “I like what I’ve got going now. I mean, I know I’m only singing for tips, but I feel like I have a deeper connect
ion to the audience at the bar. The only thing that would make it better is if Joe would let me sing my own songs. That would be the fucking icing on my cake if he made that happen. I love cover singing, but the repetitive song requests make singing feel like a chore.” Taking the last pull from the joint before tossing it and holding the smoke in my lungs until it burns, I slowly exhale, letting the thick, pungent smoke wrap around us as the Uber pulls up.

  On the way to the club C surprises the shit out of me when she snaps her fingers and says, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Gavriel came by the bar a few days ago, the day you called in sick, and he asked about you.” Again with the sing-song voice.

  I wait for her to elaborate, but when she doesn’t, I elbow her. “And? What did he ask and what did you say?” I sound like a needy teenager with a crush. I guess I am crushing hard, but I can’t play it cool when this is honestly the first crush I’ve ever had. The opposite sex usually lets me down, but Gavriel has been on my mind quite often, especially in my quiet moments.

  “I told him you weren’t feeling well after dealing with the damn city clerk again, so you called in. He said”—she tries to imitate his deep voice and fails miserably—“‘was it about her parents?’ I told him yes, but that I didn’t think you’d be okay with me talking to anyone about it in detail.” True, it’s my business and Carla’s a good friend for keeping my confidence like that.

  I can’t stop my stupid vibration from rushing through my chest. “Did he say anything else?”

  I know I sound pathetic, but fuck it, I need to know every detail. I haven’t seen him since that night we spoke in the alley, but that hasn’t stopped his beautiful face and burning touch from invading my thoughts on the daily. Thinking of the way he touched my neck and ran his thumb over my lip never fails to get my girly parts throbbing and when I’m lying alone in bed some nights, it’s his face, voice, and touch that have me pleasuring myself.

  Breathe, Sia.

  “He just asked if you’ll be singing next weekend. I told him no.” Bitch knows I’ll be singing then!

  “Carla! What the hell!” I smack her arm.

  “Joking! Geez. I told him yes. Girl, you got it hard, don’t you?”

  Blushing, I don’t answer. She knows how I feel because I’ve told her. He’s the only man I’ve ever looked at twice. The only man I’ve actually wanted in my bed and the only man I hope wants me too. Now that I know he hasn't forgotten about me, butterflies swarm my stomach.

  Although, I probably shouldn’t be nurturing these feelings. Carla finally told me who the Renzettis are.

  Gavriel is one of four sons to the mafia boss, Andino Renzetti, and theirs is the leading family of the Cosa Nostra. He’s also the current consigliere for his father and is known as Gavriel the Cruel Renzetti.

  His family runs the most powerful, respected, and feared empire in North America with connections in the Chicago Outfit, Vegas Mob, and the Southern Mafias.

  Their reach is far and wide.

  They’re rich and powerful with blood on their hands and politicians in their pockets.

  I’m not going to lie and say that I disapprove of such a lifestyle because I can honestly say, the government failed me. They fucking failed to protect not only me but thousands of children across the country. If I could, I’d live my life on the other side of the law because fuck them. Gavriel and his family have it right in my eyes. So what if they kill their foes? I have no qualms about spilling blood. It’s not a kink per se, but it’s like a drug to me when I make an adversary bleed. That may sound dramatic but walk a mile in my past and see if you don’t get a bit twisted as a result. Way I see it, you try to do me harm in any way, you instantly become my target.

  My life has taught me that you’re either predator or prey, and I’m no one’s prey.

  Unless it’s Gavriel Renzetti because, yes, daddy.

  Shaking off my kinky thoughts, I quietly ask Carla, “You think Gavriel would be able to help me find information on my family? I’m sure he could go through back channels and find something.”

  Quickly glancing at the driver to make sure he’s not eavesdropping, she says, “Yes, but to get a favor from the mob you’ll owe a favor. Doesn’t matter how small a favor you ask for, you'll be indebted to them. It’s a slippery slope. Just ask Joe.”

  Turns out Joe took a loan from one of the Renzetti brothers to put toward the bar. Every time Gavriel or one of his family members come into the bar, everything is supposed to be on the house. I don’t know about the others in his family, but Carla says Gavriel never walks out without leaving enormous tips for the waitress attending the VIPs and paying for the bottles. That alone has me thinking that he’s generous and doesn’t look down on us blue collars working for paychecks.

  Maybe.

  Who knows? Not all that shines is always gold; he could be a sex trafficking bastard.

  We pull up to the new, three-level club called Temptation, and instead of going to the back of the line that looks like it’s a block long, we walk right up to the entrance. Ignoring the grumbles of the people waiting to get in, Carla stops in front of the bouncer. She stands tall in her outrageous heels, white lace bodysuit and high waist white skinny jeans.

  Blowing a loose red strand of hair that fell in her eyes when it escaped the updo, she says, “This is Sia Romano,” gesturing to me like she’s my music manager or some shit, “the singer from Medusa’s Lounge. She’s here to perform tonight.” Is she mimicking a British accent?

  The bouncer looks me up and down then says something into his walkie-talkie. I can’t quite hear him because the music is pouring out the door, but it sounds like he’s speaking Italian. Once he gets a reply, he turns and unclips the velvet rope and lets us through. “Have a good evening, ladies.”

  As soon as we’re inside and away from the bouncer I stop Carla and demand, “What the hell was that about? Did you call in and tell them I’d be performing tonight?” I’m not complaining if she did, but I would have liked a heads-up.

  “No, I didn’t, I swear! I didn’t even think that would work. I just thought I’d give it a try since everyone knows you as the Manhattan Singer. I guess I was right or maybe I was just smooth enough to make him believe it.”

  Scoffing, I say, “You were definitely smooth, but he spoke to someone on the talkie. Someone allowed us through but fuck it, I won’t complain. I’ll be singing my own songs tonight!” We girly jump and squeal like fools but do we care? No, no, we don’t.

  Once we make it through the crowd of dancing bodies to the bar, Carla orders our first drinks of the night while I take in the scene. This club is fucking lit! There are some beautiful women dancing in G-strings and nipple tassels in hanging cages above the crowd off to the left and right of the stage. The VIP area is on the second floor, leveled with the cages, and is filled with people partying. It’s wrapped around the entire club except one wall. Looking to the third level, I see that all four walls are made of glass, but you can’t see in. It almost resembles the one-way mirror in a police station.

  Pretty cool.

  Behind the bar is an amazing mural of a woman lounging on a chaise with her breasts showing above a red blanket draped over her waist. She looks like a goddess. With long black hair and hazel eyes. In her left hand, hanging from her fingertips is a microphone, while in her right hand is a gun that’s pointed straight at the viewer. I wonder what it means.

  Carla sees it and gets caught in its amazingly realistic details as well. “Fuck, Sia, that looks like you!” I laugh and shake my head as I take the drink she ordered. Penicillin, I think it’s called. We turn away from the painting and survey the crowd.

  “This club is amazing!” Carla yells above the music the live DJ is playing. He’s situated on a platform that is slightly raised behind the stage between the caged women but not quite level with them.

  “Look at the dance floor. Let’s go dance, bitch!”

  Smiling, I nod and take her hand as she leads me into the sea of people grinding agai
nst one another. Feeling the effects of the whiskey and scotch, I grab her hips and bring her closer to me. A remix of SAINt JHN’s “Roses” is playing and it has the perfect beat to seductively dance in tune with.

  We’re dancing for a while, having a blast, when I decide I want another drink, but before I can tell Carla a guy comes dancing up behind her. I give her a wink to let her know the guy is cute and she turns to dance with him after giving me a kiss on the cheek.

  Planning on getting some water and asking the bartender to put my jacket in the back, I start to walk toward the bar, but my wrist is snatched by a rough hand. Spinning around to yank my hand back, I almost stumble in my heels when I see that sinful smirk. Gavriel pulls me to him and I go willingly. No shame. He’s so fucking sexy and the way he looks at me, I couldn’t walk away if I wanted to. Which I don’t.

  Wrapping his hands around my hips, he leans down, letting his lips brush against the shell of my ear.

  Fuck.

  "Bella. I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” I say into her ear, tightening my grip on her perfectly flared hips. Her scent is unique, an intoxicating mix of ginger and the sweet pungent smell of East Coast marijuana. A scent I’ve only smelled once before, four months ago behind Medusa’s lounge. The same scent that has invaded my memories from the first night we met. The night I touched her soft, creamy skin while it bloomed with an innocent blush.

  So sweet, this girl.

  Sia’s sweet, raspy voice infiltrates my mind. “I didn’t expect to see you either, Gavriel.”

  My name on her lips should be fucking criminal. I bring her closer, erasing the tiny space between our bodies and slowly sway with her, moving to our own music instead of the fast pace beat that's being played.