Loving Talia: A Dark Mafia Billionaire Romance (Amatucci Family Book 5)

by Sadie Jacks

  On a quick spin of my heel, I shouldered open the steel door. Winced at the noise it made. Shit. That could wake the dead.

  Pushing the door closed, I made a mental note to oil the hinges at some point. How the Family had anything this far into disrepair boggled the mind. But we were in one of their more obscure outposts.

  Following the blood trail the Italian mafia princess had left, my mind replayed the terror in her frame as she stood up to me about raping her. Her body had been quaking, but her voice had been laced with steel.

  Maybe I would leave the door as it was. It would be hard for anyone to sneak into her room. As far as I knew, she was to be left down here by herself. Untouched.

  But knowing how butthurt Sergei was over how she treated him on the plane, I couldn’t see that order being followed through. Zmeya wouldn’t really care what shape she was in when she was returned. As long as she was breathing, he was happy.

  If Zmeya found out who did it, heads would roll. But if he never found out, then no one would suffer. And these men were loyal. To a certain degree.

  Making it back to the reception room, I saw that they were all waiting for me. Huge grins split their faces. Knowing glints brightened their eyes.

  Flashing them a smile, I walked right on through. Not stopping to shoot the shit or give high fives or knuckle bumps. I had a reputation to keep up. One that I’d built through blood and pain. And the loss of my soul. One small, courageous woman wasn’t going to make me lose it.

  Not in this lifetime.

  I had bigger fish to fry.

  “Vytashchi svoi golovy iz yeye pizdy. U nas yest' rabota.” Pull your heads out of her cunt. We have work to do.

  They fell into line behind me. We did have work to do, and we were the best at getting it done. There was a reason we were feared in Moscow.

  Chapter 7 – Foster

  Glaring at my watch, I noted the time. They had an eight hour jump on me. They could be anywhere in the massive country that was Russia. Literally anywhere.

  Luckily, something had come up with Momma and Papa, and the Amatucci children had been unable to fly with me. Which was good. Better than I’d planned on, actually. I couldn’t do what I needed to do if they were around. There were some things a person just couldn’t hide when someone was in his pocket.

  The international phone Nik had slapped in my hand at the airport rang. A smirk rose as I read the name scroll across the screen.

  Mistress Nikanya—Answer Immediately.

  “Yes, Mistress?” I asked.

  A chuckle and a lower pitched hiss came over the line together. “Might want to watch what you call me, Ambright. Turo’s kinda possessive like that.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have listed your name that way in my phone. What’s up?”

  I heard Turo growl in the background. “Seriously, Cricket? You could have just put your name on it. You had to call yourself Mistress?”

  “What? It’s what I make weaklings call me. That or Queen. Which do you want?” she rebutted.

  “I’m not weak, but I am waiting. Why did you call?” I interrupted.

  Nik snickered. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. I finally found out who the plane is registered to.”

  “Kamenev family,” I said.

  “No. Although that’s what the shell company would have you believe.”

  My spine stiffened. My contact had lied. Shit. “Okay, who owns it, then?”

  “It’s rented, actually.”

  I blinked a couple times. “Someone rented a private plane to abduct and transport Talia in?” What the fuck was actually going on here?

  “Yeah. Platinum Executive Air. They have hangars in almost all major cities in the world.”

  Trying to clear my head, I scrubbed a hand down my face. “Who owns PEA?”

  “A consortium of celebrities. Bad ones, from what I can tell. Everything on the company is pristine. And not scrub job pristine. They pay taxes, get fined for not logging flight plans, FAA inspections that don’t meet standards. They’re legit.”

  “And your Babs didn’t tell you this,” Turo said from the background.

  “It’s my call, Alexander. You want to talk, call him on your own phone,” Nik snapped.

  I smirked.

  “Just keep in mind how Great I am,” Turo said as a slap came over the line.

  This time I rolled my eyes. I didn’t care how well they were suited, they needed to learn some damn boundaries. “Keep your weird sexy times to yourself. What are the best theories at the moment?”

  “Foster, this is Momma. You have much to answer for when you arrive back home. I’m very displeased. However, we will discuss this later. Papa says that there is bad blood between some of the Russian families.”

  I bit back the sarcasm. This was Momma, even I wasn’t stupid enough to actively put myself on her bad side. “Momma, in the bratva, there is always bad blood.”

  She snickered. “Si. However, some of that bad blood might be against my tesoro.”

  I chewed on that for a bit. “So someone wanted to teach Papa a lesson, and they did it by kidnapping your daughter.” I made it a statement.

  “Si. That is what we think.”

  Nodding, I thought that over. Inter-family feuds weren’t uncommon. But there was always a reason. Especially for crossing international boundaries. That opened a whole other can of worms that shouldn’t just be tossed around like confetti. “Did Papa kill, maim, or kidnap one of these bratva’s women?”

  Momma sucked in a noisy breath. Heated silence filled the phone.

  I didn’t have time to baby her. She was in the fucking mafia, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like she doesn’t understand how this game is played.

  “Momma, I need an answer. If I’m going to bring Talia home, I need all the information I can get. Solid, reliable information. We could both die.”

  “My tesoro is still too hurt to tell you. So I will. But the breach of promise comes from your flesh when next I see you, Foster Ambright. Do you understand me?”

  “Si, Momma. Mi dispiace devvero.” I am truly sorry.

  “Hmph. My Angelo is oldest of seven children, five brothers and two sisters.”

  She paused as if this were some massive revelation. When I remained silent, she continued.

  “He was being groomed to take over the Family. When he was twenty-two, he and his brothers were travelling abroad. They spent time just about everywhere the Amatuccis had business. One of these places was in –”

  Shit.

  “Sweden.”

  Double shit.

  The information I’d had Nik dig up for me a couple days ago on a flash drive was coming back to haunt all of us. And it had cost Talia her safety.

  “Are you listening, Foster? I do not like to repeat myself,” Momma said in a snippy tone.

  “Si, Momma. I always listen.”

  “Bravo, ragazzo. While in Sweden, the boys went to a brothel. Other men were there. A couple of them didn’t like that Angelo and his brothers were staying in the same place. They started a fight, demanding the Amatuccis leave. Angelo controlled his brothers and they left. That was the end of the fight.”

  Or so they’d thought. According to my information, it seemed the youngest Amatucci brother had gone back out that night. His next older brother followed him. Neither brother came home.

  “Guiberto and Lucio Amatucci left that night. Two bodies were found the next morning. Both Russian.”

  I nodded. She wasn’t telling me anything new. I needed one piece of information that hadn’t been in Nik’s dossier though. “Which bratva, Momma?”

  She was quiet for so long, that had I not known her, I would have thought she wasn’t there anymore. But I did know her. She was not only strong and protective, she played odds and weighed each action carefully.

  I could hear people breathing on the other end of the line, but that was about it. Everyone else was waiting for Momma to point a finger in the right direction.

  “Y
ou must understand, Foster, it was 1968. The world was a different place then.”

  “Only in some ways, Momma. In many ways, it is very much the same. I need the name.”

  “Nochnyee Koshmary,” Momma said softly.

  My brow furrowed as I ran the words through my head. Night Terrors? What kind of name was that for a bratva? There was no sense of tradition. No location. No patronymics. Nothing. Just a name meant to be scary?

  I shook my head. “There’s no way…” My voice trailed off. 1968. Damn. “Momma, are you telling me that Papa brushed up against the Soviet mafia?”

  She was quiet for a long time.

  “Yes, I did,” Papa said quietly. I could hear the residual pain in his voice from the beating he’d received at the hands of Beverly Chase a little more than a month ago. “I lost two brothers to that incident. I will not lose a daughter to those monsters.”

  “Wait. What’s the difference?” Turo asked. “I don’t understand.”

  I licked my lips. “Soviet mafia and bratva are like comparing great white sharks to dolphins. Most of the bosses in Soviet mafias lived through Stalin’s gulags. They came out and essentially declared war against the entire world. Tattoos, separate language, customs, vehement hatred towards authority figures. More what would be considered a cult today, but you’ll never hear someone describe it like that.”

  “The crime families of today are gentle and happy go lucky guys in comparison. That’s what you’re saying,” Turo recapped.

  “Exactly. Some of the bratva today are in the highest offices of government. From the Kremlin to the local police department. The Soviet mafia morphed and adapted as the USSR fell and became the Russian Federation.”

  “The current bratva can operate just as successfully within the confines of the new system. Therefore they don’t have to resort to gulag tactics,” Nik offered.

  “Precisely. But if we’re dealing with a Soviet mafia group? Then we’re dealing not only with gulag tactics, but the adaptability of the current bratva and all it entails. They would be an amalgamation of both factions. Sheer brutality with at least limited cultural acceptance.” I let the statement hang in the air.

  “You bring my daughter home, Foster. Or don’t bother coming home at all,” Papa said softly.

  Chapter 8 – Talia

  The grating screech of the door brought me awake with a harsh jolt. Immediately, my body was locked and loaded for bear. I would do my best to escape today. Just a few pesky details needed to be ironed out.

  My full bladder merely one of those details.

  Pulling the blanket up around me, I sat up. Looked towards the door. Or at least, I thought I was looking in the right direction. Both of my eyes were crusted shut.

  Okay, Pesky Detail Number Two…get my eyes to open. Check.

  “I have come with your food. You will not get anymore until tonight.” With that, I heard Arkady set something down on the floor and push it. Assuming he wasn’t a complete asshole went against my common sense, but I needed at least one ally in this hellhole.

  “I can’t see. Can you bring it to me?” I asked. Made sure to keep my voice firm.

  The light shifted slightly behind my eyelids. I hunched back against the wall. This whole being even momentarily blind thing was awful. I had a new respect for people with this limitation.

  Someone lifted my hand and put it down on what felt like a plastic tray. “I suggest you figure out how to manage with your eyes as they are.”

  Within moments, the heavy metal door was grating against its casing. I winced as the sound stabbed at my brain. They joined the symphony with all the other bruises and broken bones that heralded their announcements of pain.

  Biting back the moan that flirted with the back of my throat, I danced light fingers over the tray. Tried to form a mental picture from the information my fingers gave me. The tray seemed like something from middle school lunch. Different sections divided in a hard, smooth plastic material.

  My mind provided the speckled beige color of the school lunch trays of Saint Mary’s Catholic School of my youth. That was right before I got kicked out and sent to boarding school and where I met Willow.

  A smile tugged at my split lips. A sharp pain in my lower lip brought the tang of old pennies. Damn it.

  I went back to my sightless investigation of the tray. What felt like some kind of bread sat atop a creamy slice of what I hoped was cheese. Beneath that was a relatively cool piece of meat that was shaped more like a chicken breast than a slice of lunch meat.

  Lifting the whole thing to my face, I took a delicate sniff. What air I could pull through my nostrils smelled of old blood. Note to self, don’t get smashed in the face ever again.

  With no other options, I flicked my tongue out. Without the sense of smell, I couldn’t tell if anything was off or spoiled. I just had to pray that it wasn’t. Getting sick on top of everything else going on in my body wasn’t really what I had planned for today.

  Praying I’d been given a glass of something to drink, I patted the air softly. My fingers knocked against something. Trying to catch it, I heard the splash of liquid against the floor before I could fix it.

  Pouting, I finished the rest of my meal. Well, the sandwich anyway. There wasn’t anything else on the tray that I could tell. At least I’d gotten a full chicken boob instead of a slice of turkey or something.

  Sliding down to the floor, I found the spilled liquid pretty quickly. It soaked the knees of my pants. Brushing the annoyance away, I searched for the cup.

  On my third pass, I felt it. It had managed to roll back under the bed. I had kept my shoulder on the side rail so I wouldn’t get lost in the room.

  Setting the cup back on the tray, I got to my feet. Felt the low cramping of a full bladder. Trying not to do the pee-pee dance, I brought a mental picture of the room up in my mind’s eye. Not a single toilet or bucket to be remembered.

  Taking a deep breath, I turned. Hoping I was still oriented in the room correctly, I started moving. My hands outstretched, I swept each section of empty space before I took a single step.

  It took what felt like hours, but I managed to make it to the wall. Granted, I had no idea which wall, but walls should be pretty easy to navigate. Hopefully.

  Damn Zmeya. I was going to pluck his eyeballs out of his head with a dull grapefruit spoon for this.

  With my hand against the wall, I started going in a clockwise motion. Unless I’d managed to plant myself at the farthest corner of the room, I’d hit the door in a couple of steps. Please, Chase’s goddess, let me find the door.

  Within moments, my fingers landed on a different section of wall. I fought back the tears of joy. I’d done it.

  With a slight turn to keep my hip on the new section, I lifted my hands and placed them against the wall. In large sweeping motions, I quickly found the doorknob. It reminded me of a submarine handle.

  Grabbing the wheel, I wrenched it towards the left. It spun easily in my hands. Not wanting to have to start the whole process over again, I kept my hands on the wheel until I felt the slight pop of pressure that signaled the door was loose.

  “Hello?” I yelled down the hall.

  The sound of rushing feet came barreling towards me.

  Shit. This had been a horrible idea. I couldn’t even see what I was doing, let alone see any attack that might now be headed my way.

  I just wanted to pee. Was that so bad? Anger, pain, fear, everything inside me welled up. I was done being nice. Done trying to be docile and —

  Someone grabbed my shoulder, yanked me forward. I caught a whiff of stank and stale body odor right as I crashed into someone’s pudgy body. From the feel of it, it wasn’t Arkady. I didn’t think that man had an ounce of fat on him.

  “Little bird, you fuck me now,” someone said.

  “How many of you are there?” I asked, his words sending steel down my spine.

  “Two. But I go first.” He grabbed at my clothes.

  Instinct and training
took over. I grabbed his hand, wrenched it back. His squeal of pain was a bright spark of joy in my brain. Using his arm as a fulcrum, I twisted around the outside of his body, and slammed my opposite forearm where I thought his elbow joint should be.

  Howls of enraged pain lightened my soul as I leveraged his distraction and curling body movement into my advantage. Loosening my grip on his hand, I made sure to follow the line of his arm up to his neck. He tried to bat at me with his good hand.

  His fingers lodged in my hair, I fought off the extra pain. Managing to maneuver my hands to his face, I sank my thumbs into the fragile sockets of his eyes. As his screams rang in my ears, I followed that with a knee kick to his groin.

  Someone grabbed me from behind, locking my arms against my body. I kicked out with my legs. Aiming for a knee or an inner thigh contact point, the new howl of rage brought a smile to my face as I apparently struck gold.

  As if the adrenaline in my system had finally done its job, I felt my lashes unstick from each other. I could finally see. A little. But, hell, I’d take a little over nothing. Damn my stupid fingers for knocking over the cup earlier.

  With the first guy on the floor still holding his balls and his eyes, I focused on the person holding me. I sank my fingernails into his skin, gouged like as if my life depended on it. As blood welled up under my assault, I lifted my knees and executed the perfect donkey kick.

  Moments later, I was free. But I wasn’t done fighting. A well-aimed kick to the temple of Scar Dude on the floor sent him to La-La Land. With him out of commission, I turned and gave the last guy all my attention.

  The guy looked like he was as big as a mountain, and almost as pretty. Except for that nasty scowl and death-ray glare he was sending my way. Too bad he was about to die as well.

  Hands still cupping his balls, I shot forward. But I kinda misjudged the distance and slapped down inches from him. Oh well. He was close enough to nail now.

  With his head up so he could keep his gaze on me, I arrowed a spear hand into the fragile tissues of his neck. Winced at the cramping sensation in my digits, I did it again while he struggled to breathe.