Scars and Silk 1 (The Calvetti Crime Family)

by Rose Harper

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  GIVE ME FREE BOOKS

  SCARS AND SILK

  COPYRIGHT

  SYNOPSIS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  THANK YOU

  PLAYLIST

  COMING SOON

  CAN’T WAIT FOR ROSE HARPER’S NEXT BOOK

  ROSE’S SEXY FREEBIES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Don’t want to miss out on Rose’s latest release dates and sneak peeks of upcoming books? Sign up for her newsletter to become a Red Rose! Receive TWO FREE steamy short stories from Rose for signing up today!!

  Click here:

  GIVE ME FREE BOOKS

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2018 by Rose Harper, All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations within critical reviews and otherwise as permitted by copyright law.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real life is purely coincidental. All characters in this story are 18 or older.

  Copyright © 2018, Rose Harper Publishing. All rights reserved. www.authorroseharper.wixsite.com/books/

  Edited by Mitzi Pummer Carroll

  Mitzi Carroll: Editor

  Proofread by Marisa Nichols

  Marisa Nichols: Proofreader

  Cover Art by Jay Aheer at Simply Defined Art

  Simply Defined Art

  SYNOPSIS

  She nearly ruined him. Now she needs him to save her.

  It was supposed to be a simple protection job.

  Or, at least, that’s what Gavino Calvetti thinks until it’s too late.

  But he soon finds out this job is far from normal.

  It’s quite suicidal, in fact.

  The little “Sky” he is in charge of protecting is the same one he’d soon rather see dead.

  She nearly ruined him.

  Nearly ripped him away from his familia.

  She cost him dozens of scars,

  Years of regret,

  And an underlining hatred for anything related to her.

  His brothers always hint about his scarred flesh,

  But they never understand the reason he keeps his lips sealed.

  Now she needs him to save her life,

  But the question still remains …

  Which man should she be afraid of?

  The man she’s running from,

  Or the man she’s racing toward?

  Scars and Silk:1

  The Calvetti Crime Family

  1

  GAVINO

  I lean back, nonchalantly placing my hands in the pocket of my slacks. Eyeing everyone attending tonight’s festivities with a threatening glare, I silently sift my gaze through the crowd.

  Something is going to happen. I can feel it in my bones. We’ve been problem free for almost a year now, and … it just doesn’t feel right.

  I have always been the person in our familia to stand back, creating a barrier around myself so I can make sure that everyone is okay. Even though this is a “freedom party,” as my dipshit brother calls it, something is about to go down.

  The main reason I don’t want to leave is because the Brotherhood called, stating they have an assignment for me. With their ominous tone, something tells me when I walk out of this house, I won’t be returning.

  Goddammit! I wish they weren’t so secretive about whom I’ll be protecting. The way they made it sound on the phone, you’d think I was putting their nuts in a vice for even bringing me this shit job, which only leads me to believe that whomever it is I’m deemed to protect for the next foreseeable future—it’s someone I want dead, which is the exact opposite of what my job entails.

  Either a liar, cheater, or a thief. Otherwise, they would have sent me the encrypted information over the phone, instead of making me wait here for further instructions.

  Domino meets my eyes from across the room as he nibbles on some buxom blonde’s neck. I snidely smile in his direction, refraining from flipping the little shit off. If only he knew how easy his life is compared to mine. The level of freedom he’s allowed to express when I’m the scarred-up fucker who takes orders from a secret organization that protects people who cannot protect themselves.

  I’d give my right nut to be able to live the life he has. To go where I want to go without fearing the Brotherhood will call me up at any moment with a job. I can’t even leave the state of New York because I need to be on call twenty-four-seven.

  I get no holidays, sick time, or a vacation. I need to be in the mood to either kill or protect someone every second of the day.

  Lifting my tumbler to my lips, I feel his presence before I even see him. My eyes trail over the mass congregated in the center of the room, landing on my target as he makes his way to the opening of the doorway.

  Valentino Bianchi.

  The man I can’t stand, and also my superior.

  His eyes meet mine over the heads of our friends and familia, and with a sharp jerk of his head, he turns around the way he came and exits just as fast. He says nothing, gives nothing away.

  With one last look toward Carina and my brother, I allow their light to fill me for just a moment before making my way after him. It’s the only time I don’t feel like the impending darkness is going to swallow me alive. The small, stolen moments I partake in is enough to make me stay afloat, if just for a little while.

  Just seeing the two of them together gives me hope. Hope that maybe one day something like that could …

  Shaking my head from side to side, I push that thought from my mind. There’s no way I’ll ever find happiness. Not someone like me. A person so scarred they look like a patchwork quilt, some of them deep and angry.

  Most have faded over the years, but the majority that remains is a daily reminder that nothing good can last forever for someone like me. Because something will always happen to crush that fantasy and make me plunge headfirst into the reality I’ve built for myself.

  Or, should I say, the reality that the Calvetti name built for me.

  Making my way through the crowd, I follow the path Valentino took. Weaving my way through the foyer, my eyes stray to all the invaluable décor littering the walls and priceless antique tables. A flourish of burgundy, sterling silver, and oak greet my eyes, causing pain like no other to spear through me.

  After all this time, it’s still hard to be in this house with what happened that night. Seeing the way my father was posed in his chair as if he were just getting to work for the night, when in reality, his life was stolen away from him by the one person who was closest to him.

  Adriano didn’t just take my father’s life that day. He made it damn near impossible for me to trust another soul who isn’t bound by blood. He ripped apart the very life my father built for us, causing everything to crumble down around us. If it weren’t for Mateo’s thirst for blood and vengeance, I dare say that even I don’t know where our familia would be right now. It was because of his courage and conviction that led us into the light after being cast into the dark for so long.

  Tearing my eyes away from the decorative vases, plants, and pictures, I make my way through the French doors t
hat lead out onto the veranda. They’re standing open, allowing the fresh breeze to swirl its way inside, gracing everyone with its sweet purity.

  As soon as I exit, I see him standing in front of me. His back is turned to me, but I can clearly see he’s keeping himself restrained. His shoulders are stiff—in fact, he’s downright rigid all over. His hands rest inside the pockets of his slacks as he stares out into the darkness of the gardens that flourish behind my father’s home.

  I hate to be the person to break up the tranquility of the night, but it’s as good a time as any to find out what that phone call from earlier was all about. Or should I say, whom it was about.

  “What’s my mark?” I ask, sidling up beside him.

  The gentle warm night air swirls around us as my question linger in the space between us. Instead of answering quickly, he keeps to his silence as his eyes assess everything around us.

  This has to be the cause for the gut feeling I had earlier. I knew this familia went without problems for far too long.

  “Gavino,” he says, his voice soft and gentle—almost apologetic. “I tried every way in the world to get the Brotherhood to change their mind on this. I swear to you, I tried.”

  Why does it sound like whatever their decision was is a goddamn death sentence?

  I’ve never known Valentino to cower to anyone or to second-guess the Brotherhood’s judgment when divvying out cases, yet, it appears he’s doing just that this time. Whoever this person is, it seems they have either done the Brotherhood wrong, my familia, or me.

  “Spit it out, Val.” My hackles rise the longer his silence extends between us. Almost to the point where it’s hard to catch my breath.

  Still, he stands there, staring out into the night as if it can offer him solace he hasn’t felt in quite some time. But his silence doesn’t answer my unspoken questions.

  “Valentino,” I say more forcefully.

  Sighing, he turns toward me, his face a mask of guilt and pain. What does he have to be guilty about? None of this makes any sense. The members of the Brotherhood haven’t been known to concede on any decision they made, yet here is their second in command practically falling at my feet, groveling.

  “Your charge is Skylah Bow, Gavino,” he says regretfully, his omission causing my entire world to tilt on its axis.

  It can’t be the same woman I’m thinking about. Not her; they know how much I fucking despise that woman, and it would be just like spitting in my face if they handed me the job of protecting her.

  “Come again?”

  “I’m sorry, man.”

  Taking a few steps away from him, so many thoughts and emotions bombard me all at once. It takes everything inside me not to take my frustrations out on him. I’m practically on the edge of sanity, and at any moment, I feel as if something is going to happen to push me over the edge.

  “Is this the same woman I’m thinking of, Valentino?” I ask, waiting for his answer. But he stays silent, as if he knows how close I am to teetering off the edge.

  “Answer me, goddammit! Is. This. The. Same. Woman?!”

  Meeting his eyes, I know the answer before he even utters another word. “Yes. This is the Skylah Bow you knew in school.”

  Running my hands through my hair, I tug on the strands as I weigh my options.

  My options of being the first male to turn down an assignment. Because as I see it, I’d rather fucking die than see that lying whore ever again.

  The woman who cost me everything.

  My smooth flesh.

  My sanity.

  Her fucking me over was the last straw that pushed me over the edge into the darkness of mafia life.

  She’s the reason I embraced the Brotherhood with open arms.

  I’d rather see her fucking dead than in my care. They better know what they got her into, because if she thought the person threatening her was making her life a living hell, then they clearly don’t know how much I loathe the very thought of her.

  Loathe the fact she’s the one who turned me into the devil himself.

  2

  SKYLAH

  In the dark, hauntingly exquisite silence of Columbia University’s library, I hum softly to myself, allowing the vibrations to pulse through my chest and control their crescendo from the feeling. It’s a hymn that Sister Francis always made us sing upon entry into school every morning. It’s just as soothing now as it was seven plus years ago—from the time I was five until I graduated Catholic high school at eighteen, my last year being a ward of the state.

  I properly check in and catalog all books returned during the day so I can place them back on the shelves in the places they belong before retiring for the evening. Getting lost in my work, I slowly start swaying back and forth as I continue to hum. I would break out in song, but with all things considered, it’s best to stay as quiet as possible. You know, with it being a library and all.

  This is the same routine I’ve had for the past five years. Ever since I came to work for Columbia, I have always risen well before dawn and retired long after sunset. When the moon rises high in the sky, shining its silvery glow all over New York City, I finally allow myself to rest.

  Most of my friends—or what few acquaintances I have—call me a workaholic. They always complain I work all day, every day, and never have enough time to go out with them. Yet, who wants to waste all their time in a cheap, alcohol-induced daze inside some pungent beer-scented bar? I, for one, would rather curl up with a good historical romance novel, devouring the pages until I can barely keep my eyes open at night.

  I like running off to faraway lands within the leather-bound pages, putting myself in the main female’s shoes. Going through their ups and downs before she falls madly in love with the hero of the story. It’s a dreamy existence that only a few get to call a reality, and my friends—acquaintances—want me to give that up for a few stiff drinks and a less than stellar roll in the sheets? No, thank you!

  This isn’t my job; it’s a pastime—a way of life. It’s just an added bonus that I get paid to do something I love.

  In all reality, I love the oasis a place like this provides. A library can bring academic growth or spiritual freedom—the sky is the limit. I love the peacefulness. It’s similar to a smooth, cool balm spread along the surface of a singed soul, healing it of all its ailments.

  I feel at home here. Instead of the one-bedroom studio loft I rent in upper west side I’d rather be here, filling my lungs to the brim with the sweetest smell known to man. The aroma of weathered, well-used, leather bound novels. I’d rather surround myself with floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with books, my heart pitter-pattering in my chest with the thought of what secret treasures I can find on the shelves, than to walk into my barely furnished loft at night time. With its inky darkness and off-putting interior, it always makes me feel so … unwelcome.

  As a child, reading was the only escape a girl like me could afford. My family didn’t have much money when I was growing up, but what we didn’t have in wealth, we made up for in love. My parents were always with me in my quest to devour any book set in front of us.

  Until the terrible night that took them away from me forever. The night that still claws at my heart when I think about it. I still remember seeing their cries of fear, watching as they took their last, wheezing breaths.

  The last thing I ever heard before the accident left me completely deaf without the use of a hearing device is my mother turning toward me—fear lacing her sweet, steel-colored eyes—telling me both of them loved me more than the entire world, and that I should never forget it.

  That day, I lost my parents forever.

  It was the day I became an orphan, the rest of my family shunning me from their existence because of my involvement in their siblings' demise. Even though I was only twelve at the time, they still considered it my fault because I was the reason they were out that night. The death of my parents rests heavily on my shoulders, and no matter how many times I go to confessional, the burden is st
ill there.

  Reaching up, I hiccup on a sob, wiping away a stray tear that slips from the corner of my eye. It flows down my cheek, hot and feverish before I’m able to catch it. Lifting my hand higher, I turn on the hearing aids wrapped around my ears. They’re big, ugly pieces of technology, with their cream coloring and orange earpieces.

  The device itself is almost bigger than my ear, making it hard to slip past anyone. Usually, I have to wear my hair down, only putting it up when others aren’t around, so I don’t have to explain anything to them. You would be amazed at the insensitivity people can show if you even think about being different—let alone, if you go out of your way to be normal.

  A buzzing noise begins. Then the sounds whoosh around me as if I’m under water, fighting to break the surface. Shortly after that, I’m back to being a part of the land of the hearing. I stop humming completely as I fight with the memories trying to drag me under, knowing if I allow it, they’ll win, and I’ll be lost to the depressing thoughts of being without my parents once more.

  Taking a shuddering breath, I pick up the stack of books resting in front of me over to the cart, carefully placing them just inside the confines. As soon as I lay them inside, a menacing voice carries over the stagnant wind, making me stop in my tracks. When did anyone come in? The doors are supposed to be locked. My mind is screaming at me to do something, but it’s as if my body is frozen in shock.

  My head tilts toward the sound, noting the husky, rough lilt to the faceless man’s voice. It’s fueled by anger, seeping hatred, but it’s familiar in ways I can’t explain. Whoever it is, they shouldn’t be here. Locked doors have a reason, and the reason is to stay out.

  Sighing, I dust my hands off on my knee-length polyester skirt, then make my way toward the front doors of the library, swearing under my breath the entire time. Upon reaching the doors, I notice then that something is off. When grabbing hold of the gleaming, smooth ornamental knob, I see that I’m correct in my earlier assumption.