CONTENTS
Model for the Mob
NEWSLETTER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
NEWSLETTER
A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS
BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS
LAIRDS & LADIES
RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD
IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS
Collaborations
About the Author
MODEL FOR THE MOB
AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE
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A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 241
FLORA FERRARI
Copyright © 2021 by Flora Ferrari
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
MODEL FOR THE MOB
I’ve been laughed at all my life: by the bullies in high school, by the bullies in the orphanage, even by the adults who should know better.
Now I’m twenty and I should be past immature stuff like that. But when Franco Rosso, one of the most vicious mobsters in the city, orders me to participate in his fashion show so he can laugh at me, I have no choice.
It’s just another humiliation. My only hope is getting through it without making the mobsters angry.
But then something crazy happens.
Luca Lioni – tall, handsome, powerful – comes to my defense when Franco makes fun of me. This muscular silver fox starts a mafia war over me.
He takes me to his estate. He says he’ll protect me. At first, I have no idea why, and when he tells me, I find it even more difficult to believe.
“I own you, Lucy. You belong to me. I’m claiming you… forever.”
I think it’s a trick. I’m a curvy virgin who’s never received attention from men, and definitely not from anybody like Luca Lioni.
He’s six and a half feet tall, with iron hair and dark intense eyes. He’s huge and intimidating and captivating. And I’m me… a wannabe fashion designer who’s never even had a boyfriend.
Luca shows me the different aspects of himself, parts of him I never would’ve guessed at.
Even as war wages around us – even when our lives are in danger – he never stops wanting me.
Maybe being a model for the mob will become a blessing in disguise.
Or maybe Luca will lose the mafia war and Franco will punish me for the part I played in it.
*Model for the Mob is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.
NEWSLETTER
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CHAPTER ONE
Luca
I look down from the balcony, taking in the sight of the function hall and the runway, the bright spotlights resting against the closed curtains.
The very fact that I’m here is driving a screw of rage to the base of my skull.
Franco has always pushed his luck, ever since he made a play against my family when I was only nineteen years old. That was a war that resulted in the death of my father, but for the good of the family, I signed a peace treaty.
I’d much rather have pommeled the bastard into the dirt.
The table beside us is empty. I wonder if it’s a sign of disrespect, Franco’s lateness, or if he’s really as unorganized as he seems.
I move my forefinger around my whiskey glass, looking over the assembled crowd below.
This place is asking for trouble.
We’ve got Lioni’s – my family – and Franco’s family, the Russos, all piled into one area pretending we’re friends. The only thing stopping one of us from making a move is the police presence at a table in the corner, officers none of us can afford to wound in the crossfire.
My men talk quietly all around me, around a dozen of my most trusted and loyal capos.
Aldo shifts beside me, taking off his horn-rimmed glasses and cleaning them with his shirt before replacing them. Looking at my cousin – a thirty year old beanpole of a man with a receding hairline and slight features – it’d be hard for most to imagine how tough he is, deep down where it matters.
Tough and smart, Aldo is the one who persuaded me to sign the treaty once I’d torn through the city and established my dominance.
He was only thirteen when he made that decision. He’s a wise man.
Goddamn, how was that twenty years ago?
“He’s taking his fucking time,” I growl.
Aldo nods, keeping his expression calm like he always does. “Maybe there’s traffic.”
I smirk and he chuckles. We both know what a bullshit excuse that is.
“Fine,” he goes on, “but there could be any number of reasons, boss.”
That’s my consigliere, always seeing the best in people even if we live a life where the worst is more prominent.
“Part of me wants the bastard to make a play on the docks,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Let him run into your armed guards. See how he deals with a proper battle.”
“That wouldn’t be good for business, boss… with respect.”
“I know.” I sigh heavily. “Fucking clerical error. Does he expect me to believe that horse shit?”
“Probably not. But you can’t call him a liar and he knows that.”
Aldo’s right.
In this life calling a man, a liar is a good way to start a war. And even if part of me would relish a war – where I can let the beast out of me and focus on that task and that task alone – I know my men would suffer.
They rely on the docks and the income it brings.
We agreed to share the docks and union control equally between families when we signed the treaty, but Franco’s been pushing his luck lately. We found him redirecting containers of electronics to a private warehouse and he blamed it on an admin issue.
He lied to my face.
I take a small sip of whiskey, the first one since I got here. It burns down my throat and settles hotly in my stomach.
But nothing is as hot as my rage.
Behind me, the men mutter about the Lioni Lounge, one of my uptown clubs. I know they’d rather be there, buying drinks for the socialite women who frequent it.
I avoid the place unless I’m conducting business there.
I hate the way those women throw themselves at me, the way they dress to attempt to draw my eye, the power they think they have over me.
I don’t hate them though. They’re surviving in
their own way.
But they don’t interest me. They never have.
Hell, no woman has interested me over the years. I know the men want me to find a wife and start a family. This doesn’t come from any issues of succession or shit like that. We’re not a monarchy. Even if I had a family, I wouldn’t want them involved in this life.
No, my men want me to find a woman because they can see the wild rage in me, barely contained in my every gesture, pulsing out of my six-foot-seven frame.
They know that I want a woman, but that I’ve never found one who captivates me, who grabs a hold of me and won’t let me go.
And I never will.
I’ve come to terms with that.
I’ve stopped looking.
Finally, there’s movement behind me, and then I hear Franco’s obnoxious voice raised.
“So sorry, so sorry,” he calls, his booming raspy voice echoing around the large hall.
I straighten and turn, sensing Aldo give me a look of warning.
Be nice, the look says. We don’t want a war.
Part of me begs to differ, but he’s right. But want and afford are two different things.
Franco is a wide man bedecked in gold jewelry. At his throat and wrists and on his thick fingers, gold glitters. His comb-over fools nobody in the stark lighting, showing his shiny head beneath. He’s only a few years older than me – he’s fifty, I’m forty-two – but he looks worn-out.
His consigliere, Ottavio, stands beside him. He doesn’t look anywhere near as drunk as his shiny-faced don. He’s thin and tall and completely bald. He stands with his hands behind his back, always observing.
“Fucking traffic,” Franco says when he stops in front of us, our men crowding around us, the taste of near-violence in the air. “Some asshole wrapped his truck around a streetlamp. Can you believe that shit?”
No, I can’t fucking believe it.
“Nobody knows how to drive these days,” Aldo says after a pause.
“There is a table prepared for us.” Franco nods briskly. “Hope you don’t mind, Luca.”
“Not at all,” I say coldly to the man who may have killed my father.
I don’t know for sure who left my old man bullet-riddled in his car, but I wouldn’t put it past Franco. He was just a soldier back then, like me, and he would’ve done his own grunt work.
We take our seats and Franco drops into his with a loud huffing breath, as though the effort of sitting is beyond him. He reaches immediately for a tumbler of whiskey and knocks back a mouthful, grunting in what could be satisfaction or what could be disgust. It’s hard to tell.
“Got a lot of variety tonight, Luca.” He wipes his mouth. “A nice civilized show. Skinny girls. Big girls. Asian girls. Black girls. White girls. Anything a man could want. I’ve pulled out all the stops to make up for that damn misunderstanding we had.”
Aldo flashes me a subtle look, the message clear in his eyes.
Misunderstanding.
The motherfucker purposefully stole from us.
I nod and stare down at the stage. I don’t trust myself to say anything, because I know my words might become a beast’s growl and I’ll maul him right here, smashing his face against the golden railing before throwing him over the edge.
“Just don’t tell my wife, eh?”
He cackles and slaps his knee.
Who the fuck actually slaps their knee in real life?
“You haven’t settled down yet, have you, Luca? A man like you must have them lining up. What’s the holdup?”
“I haven’t found the right woman,” I tell him, my voice cold.
I’m aware my men are listening. The whole function hall is listening, our voices echoing across the chatter and rising into the air.
I need to be careful I don’t say the wrong thing, something that will embarrass Franco and make him angry, even if that’s what I secretly want.
To fight – to bleed, to hurt, to wage war – burns through me like a primal need.
I wonder if there could ever be a woman who ignites this kind of atavistic compulsion inside of me, and I know there isn’t. I know I’d go crazy if I spent the rest of my life searching for her.
“We’ve kept this nice and civilized,” Franco goes on, pouring himself another glass. “No nudity, a nice fancy sort of deal. We can see all the tits and slits we want later at the club, eh, fellas?”
His men cheer, but mine know better than that. They keep quiet because I keep quiet, even if they’re as enthusiastic about the prospect as the Rosso’s are.
I note that Franco’s consigliere Ottavio glances with disgust at his boss, but quickly masks the expression.
Interesting… perhaps there’s something to work with there.
“What’s up, Luca? Not thirsty?”
He gestures at my glass.
I simply stare at him. It’s one thing to sit here and indulge in this fucking fashion show – which is ridiculous in itself – but it’s another to get hammered and laugh and make a fool of myself like he is.
“More for me then, eh?”
He winks and drains another glass.
“Shall we start the show soon?” Aldo says, cleaning his glasses again.
The glasses are already clean, but I know it helps him to focus when he’s nervous. I can’t blame him for being on-edge. My cousin has been around me enough to sense when I’m on the verge of a rare explosion, bloody intent pumping around my body like a war song.
“Yeah, sure,” Franco says. “But first we gotta decide what we want to see first. My vote is for the plus-size models. Ottavio here has got a taste for them so we had to include them, right, Otto?”
Ottavio flinches slightly at the use of the nickname, but again he quickly masks it. There is tension simmering beneath his consigliere and Franco is too blind to see it.
“That’s right,” he says evenly.
“What’d you reckon, Luca?”
I shrug. “Sounds fine.”
I just want to get this over with so we can draw up another contract for the docks, making sure no clerical errors happen in the future. If they do, maybe a firearm error will happen and Franco will end up face down in a fucking quarry.
CHAPTER TWO
Lucy
I stand backstage wringing my hands, wondering how the heck I even got here.
One minute I’m waitressing at the rundown diner where I work and the next a man with a bad comb-over is threatening me with violence if I don’t participate in this fashion show.
My belly swirls with anxiety at the thought of walking down the runway in these ridiculous heels, in this ridiculous outfit – mini skirt, tank top, my face dolled up like a clown – but once I learned that the man with the comb-over was Franco Russo I knew I had to listen.
I’d heard the name Russo growing up, all throughout my childhood at the orphanage, and even more lately now that I live in a bad part of the city. It’s the only place I can afford to live.
Franco Russo is a mobster and his men have free reign over the poorer areas of the city. Saying no to him simply isn’t an option.
So here I am, ready to make a complete fool of myself.
I move my hands over my belly, swallowing a mouthful of nervousness.
I don’t want to be the girl who’s made fun of for the way she looks. I’m twenty. I should be beyond that.
I know all of them are going to laugh their asses off when I strut out there in this joke of a costume. And even thinking about strutting out there makes me want to let out wild insane laughter.
I’m not going to strut in these six-inch heels. I can barely walk.
Some of the girls – the ones who actually look like models – wear proud smiles and exchange jokes as we wait.
I stand off to the side, on my own, barely able to breathe enough to stay calm, let alone make jokes.
It would be one thing if I was getting paid for this. I need the money. I’m late on my rent and most of my bills, which is partly my own fault because I
splurged and bought a sewing machine. But also my boss is a real ass-hat who likes to change my working hours last minute.
That’s the biggest irony about this.
I’ve wanted to work in fashion for as long as I can remember. But I’ve always envisioned designing outfits that would make women of my build feel flattered and beautiful, not laughingstocks.
A hush falls over the room when the door opens and the lady in charge steps in. She reminds me of a vulture, her eyes cold, her wrinkled hands glittering with bone-colored rings. She looks over us like we’re meat and she can’t bring herself to acknowledge us as human.
“Plus-size models first,” she calls over the room. “Come on. Get moving.”
My stomach tightens, even more, a big ball of self-hate and anxiety gripping me with ghostly hands. Ghostly, fine, but they feel extremely real as I teeter on my heels toward the exit.
One of the beautiful women giggles when I almost stumble and I want to scream at her, to slap her across the face, to make her hurt for making me feel so worthless.
The five of us walk down the hallway toward the curtain.
The lady in charge – I’ve forgotten her name I’m so freaking nervous – talks in clipped sentences as she walks ahead.
“Remember who this is for. Don’t embarrass me out there. We have our city’s finest in attendance, as well as the Russo and the Lioni families. They may laugh at you. They may make loud comments. They can do whatever they want and you will walk, heads held high, slowly, slowly… remember that. Don’t rush. Some of you will be nervous, but you can’t let such pathetic emotions rule you.”
She spins on us when we reach the curtain, glaring, like any second she’s going to bring a ring-decked hand up in a vicious slap.
“Am I clear?”
“Yes,” we all say in unison.
I try to detect nerves in the voices of the other women, but it’s difficult when my ears are ringing so loudly with my own fear.
I tell myself I’m strong.
I grew up in an orphanage and I live in one of the toughest neighborhoods in the city.
I have to be strong to get through all that, don’t I?
But it’s hard to convince myself when I can feel the tank top digging into my shoulders, the skirt riding up my ass, making me feel exposed and vulnerable.
Model for the Mob: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Page 1