by Mara McQueen
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BEWARE THE WICKED LOVE (BEWARE THE WICKED LOVE SERIES BOOK 2)
A Contemporary Gothic Romance Novel
COMING SOON
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Mara McQueen writes hot and twisted Mafia Romance and Contemporary Gothic Romance. She loves her books with heart, heat, and humor and she's never written a bad boy she couldn't redeem.
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SCROLL DOWN to read the first chapter of The Innocent: A Dark Mafia Romance (The Syndicate's Revenge Book 3)
The Innocent
A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance
THE SYNDICATE’S REVENGE BOOK 3
Her family owed him. Now he owns her.
Chapter One
PATRICE
"Well, this is just as gaudy and horrifying as I was expecting."
Then again, Patrice D'Amelio was standing in the rain, an umbrella in one hand, Mr. Oscar's cat carrier in the other, staring at Lorenzo "Enzo" Caputo's lair of debauchery.
The imposing house was the biggest on this street that reeked of new money and unearned luxury. Its upstairs windows, coated in a smoky layer to keep the curious gazes away, thumped with a mesmerizing song that beat straight into Patrice's chest.
She could make out the bare edges of some languorous shadows swaying behind the gauzy drapes. Mere blurs enjoying the night.
Everything about this place seemed to entice a closer look, but deny it.
She hadn't expected any less of Enzo.
The Syndicate mafia princeling was famed for his extravagant tastes and depraved parties. Rumors of his charm had been spreading like wildfire for years; they'd even managed to creep into Patrice's secluded lab.
In a few short, infuriating months, he'd add another title to his roster—that of Patrice's "beloved" husband.
Patrice shivered at the thought. The two of them were a match made in hell.
If they didn't marry, a Clan war would break out. Her Clan, the powerful Brotherhood, had been wrongfully accused of crashing a Syndicate wedding which had ended in a massacre.
Well, the Brotherhood had crashed the wedding. And, yes, some of Patrice's Brothers and Sisters had taken a life or two. In self-defense, naturally. But they hadn't attacked first. They hadn't rained down bullets on the guests. They hadn't killed the Syndicate leader, Victor Caputo.
They had been targets, like all the others.
But the vicious Underworld didn't care. The Brotherhood had been there, at the wrong place and the wrong time, and they had to pay. The code was unbreakable.
Patrice had to marry Enzo. She wasn't risking any of her Brothers and Sisters' lives in a war.
She'd given her life to the Clan, now she had to sacrifice her happiness for it.
It was how the Underworld worked.
But out of all the mafia bastards in the world, why did she have to marry Enzo-fucking-Caputo?
Mr. Oscar hissed from his carrier. He was an unusual cat—wasn't scared of water, but hated the cold with a feline passion. He'd been putting up with it for ten whole minutes now, while Patrice had tried in vain to strangle her nerves.
That was obviously not happening, so might as well face the inevitable head-on.
It was time she met her future husband. For real this time.
"But do I really have to?" she whispered.
Mr. Oscar whined. Patrice didn't know who was more miserable, the cat or her.
With a heavy sigh, she turned to her guards and gestured at them to wait. Having a dozen highly-skilled Brotherhood assassins behind her would give the wrong impression. She could face Enzo all by herself.
She rolled her shoulders back and marched straight to the door. It was big enough to let an entire parade through.
She rang the doorbell. Then she rang it again. And again.
Did she have to break the door down? She might've been tiny, but they didn't call her the Lady of the Brotherhood for nothing.
Just as she lifted her leg to give the carved wood a good kick, the door swung open.
"Good evening."
Patrice stared. Enzo had a butler. Of course he did. And not just any butler—one that looked like he'd been transported from some British lord's house from the nineteenth century. The man had graying muttonchops, for heaven's sake.
"How may I help you?" he asked, perfectly polite and stoic.
Patrice licked her teeth. Enzo had been reminded, more than once, that she'd be arriving today. Asshole.
"I'm here to see your boss," she said.
"Business or personal?"
"Both," Patrice ground out.
"Ah, Mistress D'Amelio," he said, just as pleasantly. "Please, do come in. The Master is waiting for you."
The Master would've kept on waiting, if Patrice had it her way. But she didn't, did she?
She walked in like she already owned the place. Technically, she'd own half of it by the end of the year. She didn't want any of it, not even the specks of dust.
Not that she could see any. The house was pristine. The huge foyer was a mix of white marble and golden fixtures. A vintage chandelier hung from the painted ceiling and a massive staircase spread out in front.
She'd walked into a bloody palace parading as a mere house from the outside.
The butler made to grab the carrier. "Allow me to help you with—"
Mr. Oscar hissed. The butler flinched back.
"What's your name?" Patrice asked.
"Charles, Madam."
Of course it was. "Don't get too close to Mr. Oscar. He doesn't like strangers."
Especially Syndicate strangers.
"Very well." Charles eyed the carrier suspiciously. "The Master is upstairs. Shall I inform him of your arrival?"
Judging by the sounds vibrating through the ceiling, Patrice very much doubted Enzo would hear his butler.
"I'll surprise him."
She wanted to get this over with. Meet the man, tell him to go to hell, then get on with her life.
A nice, simple plan.
But as soon as Patrice climbed the stairs and walked down the dimly-lit hallway, heading straight for the crimson room at the end, her bravado melted.
She didn't want to be here. Lord, she did not want to be in this situation.
She had her lab. She had her poisons. She had her sketchy missions—she'd just come back from poisoning a senator. In his own home.
She liked her vicious, organized life. There was no room for a marriage in it. And there definitely wasn't room for Caputo.
He was a wildcard, everyone and their bodyguard knew that. He lived his jetsetting life, doing whatever...Actually, nobody knew what he really did. But everyone knew who he was and stayed far, far away from him.
Nobody messed with Enzo Caputo. He hadn't killed a single soul—as far as anyone knew, and the Underworld liked its gossip—but everyone feared him. His Clan respected him.
He was an enigma, and Patrice was in no hurry to solve it.
What she did know of him didn't bode well for her future. Whenever Patrice ventured out to a party, she made friends with the walls. She liked her cozy home, with her cozy blankets, and her cozy fireplace.
Cozy was familiar. Most importantly, it was safe.
Enzo was a player. Patrice was not—she avoided the game altogether.
She didn'
t jet off to underground ceremonies, secret concerts held in catacombs, and wine tastings in the Vatican secret library.
Also—and she couldn't stress this enough—she did not organize goddamned sex parties. Because she'd just walked into one.
An extravagant nest of decadence stretched out before her.
Black velvet cushions, sofas, and chairs were nestled in every corner of the round room. Thick candles were strewn on every surface. Hot wax dripped onto the dark floor and onto sweaty chests.
Some of the guests danced, some of them moaned, and some were writhing in the shadows.
"What the hell have I gotten myself into?" Patrice mumbled, frozen on the spot.
So many naked people. Those who'd bothered with clothes had opted for corsets, harnesses, and long cascading necklaces that didn't hide anything.
A blush ravaged Patrice's skin, from her toes, straight up her small chest, past her blonde hair, and up into her forehead.
Stare straight ahead.
She took a shaky step. Then another. By the fifth, she felt eyes on her.
Hungry, curious stares burning into the back of her neck.
She didn't belong here and all these people knew it. The woman who was dressed in a comfortable pair of pants, had a fluffy scarf that swallowed half her chest, and had a cat as a companion.
At least she had heels on. That seemed to be part of the dress code.
She'd walked into a dark, hedonistic world.
Mr. Oscar shouldn't be seeing this. His poor, innocent feline eyes.
Patrice had never felt more out of place. She wanted to fidget so, so badly.
Which is why she pushed her chin up as far as it would go and straightened her back.
Don't let them see you sweat.
But she was. Her body was heating up and, honestly, Patrice didn't know if she could blame it on the thermostat, which was cranked up to a hellish level.
She was surrounded by moans and groans and—was that a whipping sound?
Don't look. Don't you dare look.
Whatever sensation was coursing through her, making her blood pump harder and faster, turned to fury.
Enzo was, in fact, an asshole. He'd known she was coming today, because heaven forbid his precious ass came to live at her place.
Instead of toning it down, just for tonight, he'd amped his debauchery up.
Patrice was going to kill him. Technically, she couldn't—the blasted code and all—but it didn't hurt to dream, did it?
She wandered through the crowd, doing her best not to brush up against anyone.
Patrice schooled her features into what her Brothers and Sisters called her "don't fuck with me" face. Which was very appropriate, given the event.
A few more steps and the crowd got the message. The people parted out of her way, revealing the head of the beast.
There he was. Enzo Caputo, the future apple of her eye, sitting in a velvet chair that looked more like a throne. He had one long leg thrown over one of the chair's arms, his torso leaned against the other, like he owned the world and everyone in it.
His black shirt was undone at the clavicle; the hazy lights glided across his bronze skin, highlighting the edge of the tattoo snaking up from his chest. An entire halo of naked bodies danced and slid around him, vying for his attention.
The devil would've been so proud of him.
Patrice sucked in a breath.
Damn it, he was gorgeous. Lean, muscular body. Cheekbones that could cut. Perfect lips.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Patrice couldn't be attracted to him. She just couldn't. She refused.
Maybe if she turned around and—
Enzo took a sip of blood-red wine. His gaze slashed to hers over the rim of the glass, trapping her on the spot.
Patrice was officially screwed.
Get The Innocent: A Dark Enemies to Lovers Mafia Romance (The Syndicate's Revenge Book 3)
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SCROLL DOWN to read the first chapter of The Witness: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance (The Syndicate's Revenge Book 0)
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The Witness
An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance
THE SYNDICATE’S REVENGE BOOK 0
She witnessed a dangerous conversation. Now he needs to track her down before a Clan war breaks out.
Chapter One
BIANCA
If there was one thing Bianca "Bia" Marino hated more than Clan weddings, it was rehearsal dinners.
You'd think that after a few decades on this planet, each and every single guest—no kids, thank God, too dangerous for the little tikes—would have learned how to walk in a straight line then get to a restaurant.
But no. They had to rehearse it. For the fanciest, most ridiculous wedding her Syndicate had organized in more than a century.
But Bianca knew why her Clan had gone all out with the decorations and location—a sleepy little island that didn't show up on any map and was a secret as guarded as the Syndicate's bank accounts.
Gaudy luxury was the proper way to go when a member of the First Family got married to the heir of a rival Clan, the Serpents. Even if said heir was nothing more than a mountain of muscles with too much money and not enough brains.
Then again, who was Bianca to judge? She'd been drooling after a gorgeous, infuriating Serpent bastard for the past six months, and he was way more dangerous than Darius could ever hope to be.
"I just don't get it," she whispered into her third champagne flute of the night, balancing her weight from one foot to another. She shouldn't have worn these heels, sharp and long enough to puncture a neck or two. But, damn, did they make her legs look fantastic. "Ava's smart. She's funny. What is she doing with that lump of a man?"
Darius was, to put in plainly, a waste of oxygen. The only thing he'd managed to do in his twenty-three years was to party his liver away. But nobody said that out loud. He was the Serpents' heir. His Clan's future leader. God help those poor bastards he'd end up leading. And God definitely help Ava.
Natalia "Nat" Caputo, the Syndicate's Underworld law specialist and Bianca's sort-of-boss-in-the-Clan-hierarchy, definitely-best-friend shrugged, her tight blonde curls bouncing. "The heart wants what it wants."
Did it, though? Because all the guests had arrived on the island five days ago—and had two more to go before whatever this wedding was mercifully ended—and Bianca had seen the bride and groom kissing a grand total of two times. Chaste pecks, too.
Maybe they were just shy. Or maybe something was up.
"You're her cousin, did she tell you anything?" Bianca pressed on, even though she should have let the matter drop already.
But when did she ever?
She couldn't help herself, especially now. She came from a broken family. An only child to two very unhappy parents who should not have married each other. Or reproduced. And they'd dealt with that unhappiness by shouting and cheating whenever the other wasn’t looking too closely. Sadly, they were still married. At least they had both been too busy with their respective squeeze of the month to come here. They'd been embarrassing Bianca in the Syndicate for twenty-two years, she deserved a break.
So, no, Bianca did not like weddings. She liked Ava, though.
"You're her cousin, too," Nat said in that sing-song voice of hers. The sky could fall, but she would still be smiling while it happened. That was Nat, a petite ray of sunshine—which could turn vicious whenever the Underworld laws were broken. And she never, ever let any offender get away.
Bianca snorted a laugh. She could dress up in the silkiest green dress, wear the highest heels, have enough gold jewelry on her to make a priest weep, but she was still rough at heart—and damn proud of it.
Sure, she played at proper and polite during her duties as a Clan negotiator—and loved it when her voice echoed in those big Clan boardrooms—but she had a wild streak. Which she definitely needed to keep hidden if she had any shot of becoming the Syndica
te's head negotiator before she turned twenty-five.
"Ava and I are sort of cousins. Fifty times removed."
Nat, however, was First Family. Practically royalty, if the Syndicate had ever bothered with those pretentious titles some other Clans obsessed over—like the loathsome Brotherhood, their worst, fiercest enemy. And everyone knew the five cousins in the First Family stuck together.
Loyalty ran deep in the Syndicate. It helped that most of them were related. Their family gatherings were full of dark hair, dark eyes, and darker hearts. They were Clan through and through. Or mafia, as the few civilians who knew they existed sometimes dared to call them.
"Maybe Ava and Darius are lovey-dovey behind closed doors." Nat sighed. "All she's done since she's been back is gush over him whenever anyone was listening."
Ah, yes. Ava's triumphant return back to the seedy Underworld and her Clan.
It had shocked the Syndicate and was still only whispered about, one year after she'd reappeared. When Ava had been only a child, her parents had taken her and ran away, hiding somewhere in the mountains. Why and how, Bianca didn't know. It was First Family business and you didn't butt in if you knew what was good for you.
But something felt off. About Ava's return. About her accepting Clan responsibilities so quickly. About her wanting to marry Darius, who was busy picking his teeth with a knife, in front of all the guests.
Charming. But if Nat said Ava was in love, then Bianca must've been imagining things.
After all, she has a reason to be antsy—but nobody needed to know that. Especially him. And those sharp eyes of his never missed anything.