Mafia Princess: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance (Valenti Family Ties Book 1)

by Selena

  “Good girl,” Il Diavolo growls, shoving her forward as he turns to the bedroom. I step in front, kicking down what’s left of the door and then jumping aside. No bullets come. Il Diavolo steps through the door, still holding Bianca in front of him, the muzzle of his gun pushing her chin up as he presses it to her throat. I step in behind him, edging in with my gun raised.

  The room is small, probably meant to be a bedroom, but it’s set up as an office with a thick leather armchair near the window and a heavy walnut desk to our left. Lou Luciani is sitting in the armchair, an automatic rifle lying across his lap. Bianca start sobbing and choking out apologies to her father. I lean around my partner, aiming carefully at the man sitting in the chair. While his eyes are on his daughter, I squeeze the trigger.

  The bullet rips into his thick torso, and he curses savagely.

  “Daddy,” Bianca screams, flailing in Diavolo’s arms.

  “Shut the fuck up and stop squirming unless you want my finger to slip on the trigger,” Diavolo says, squeezing her until she whimpers.

  “She had nothin’ to do with it,” Luciani says, his voice thick with a Jersey accent and edged with panic. “Let her go and I’ll put the gun down. See?”

  He raises both hands, leaving the gun in his lap.

  “You think we fucking trust you?” I ask, cradling the gun in my palm, keeping one finger on the trigger and the barrel aimed at his face as I stride across the room.

  “Don’t kill him yet,” Il Diavolo says behind me.

  Right. Dead men don’t talk.

  “How’d you know where we’d be that day?” I ask, pressing the gun to Luciani’s temple.

  He lunges out of the chair, his arms clamping around my torso as he tackles me to the floor. My finger convulses on the trigger, sending a bullet into the ceiling when I hit the floor, the air knocked from my lungs by the fat man. I bring the butt of the gun down on his temple, and he slumps on top of me, groaning. I heave him off and frisk him quickly, tossing his pistol into the corner and kicking the rifle away.

  “Don’t kill me,” he wheezes when I roll him onto his back and press the muzzle of my gun to the underside of his chin. I grab his tie, pulling his face up. Blood is coursing down his face from where I struck him, and his eyes are small and teary as they roll around in his head.

  Even the most powerful men are reduced to nothing in a moment like this, so much like the ones I see every day with Little Al. Lou Luciani may be a sneaky bastard, and he may have tried to kill me, but at least he loves his daughter. So much so that he’s giving up his life for hers, letting us walk in on him. He must know it’s over. He may have executed a sloppy ambush in broad daylight, but he’s not stupid, and he’s not heartless. There are worse people in the world, at least.

  “Answer the fucking question,” I demand.

  “I’m no rat,” he spits back at me, his lips coated with saliva and trembling as he tries to get the words out.

  Il Diavolo spins Bianca and pushes her face down on the walnut desk, yanking up her skirt and pushing the muzzle of his gun against her panties. “Answer the fucking question, or we’ll know your daughter is the rat,” he barks.

  Bianca screams out a sob, her terror palpable as she writhes on the desk, begging for mercy.

  “Don’t touch my daughter, you sick son of a bitch,” Lou yells, bucking under me.

  Il Diavolo pulls aside her underwear and rubs the tip of the silencer against her entrance, his other hand flat against her back, pinning her down. “Oh, but I bet she’s never been touched,” he taunts. “It’s such a shame to waste good virgin pussy.”

  “Is that really necessary?” I growl, glaring over at him while I wrestle to keep Luciani down. If I thought I could let go of Lou without him going for his guns, I’d take down the devil himself. But if I did that, Lou would kill me, and Eliza would be left a widow, and that’s one thing I promised I’d never do. I could kill Lou and go after Il Diavolo, but then I’d never find out who tipped him off, and the blame will fall on Bianca whether she’s guilty or not.

  Besides all that, I don’t even want to think what this guy will do to me if I try to take him down and fail. And even if I succeed, if anyone figures out I’m responsible, there’s no question about leaving Eliza a widow then. If I killed one of our own men, Al’s inner circle no less, to protect an enemy who could be responsible for the attempt on Al’s life…

  I force myself to hold onto Luciani’s throat, my fingers digging in while I kneel on his chest, the gun still shoved against his throat. This asshole needs to talk, and fast.

  “Please,” Bianca sobs. “I didn’t tell anyone anything.”

  Il Diavolo grins at Luciani, who’s going nuts in my hold, and forces the tip of the silencer into Bianca’s hole. “You got one more chance to talk, or I’m going to shoot and then fuck this tight little cunt until she bleeds to death.”

  I ram the gun into Luciani’s jugular. “You’re going to die anyway,” I snap. “If you love your daughter, you better talk right fucking now.”

  “It was Al,” he howls, his voice high with panic as he tries to rise, to go to his daughter. “Little Al De Luca. He tipped me off.”

  I pull the trigger and jump up, grabbing Il Diavolo and shoving him. He grins at me and slides the tip of the silencer out of Bianca, who is sobbing uncontrollably on the desk.

  “Works like a charm,” he says, wiping the gun on his pants. “Too bad he talked. I wouldn’t mind a few minutes inside that pussy. She’s tight.”

  I pull Bianca to her feet, and she collapses into my arms, clinging to me like I’m some kind of savior, her body convulsing with sobs. “We’d better go find Uncle Al,” I say.

  “Bring her along,” Il Diavolo says, gesturing lazily with his gun for me to follow as he heads for the door. “To the victor go the spoils, right?”

  I follow him out, Bianca hanging off my neck. “What are you going to do with me?” she wails as we start down the stairs.

  “Nothing,” I say firmly.

  “Al can keep you until we check out your dad’s story,” Il Diavolo says. “If he was lying, you’ll die like the rest of your family. If he was telling the truth… You’re Al’s problem then. Maybe he’ll put you to work at one of his clubs until you’ve paid off what Lou owes him.”

  Damn. Luciani owed him money. No wonder he tried to take us out. He must have thought his debt would be erased if he got rid of one of the other families.

  The remaining men gather in the little fenced yard. Al is bleeding from a cut on his cheek but otherwise fine. Three of the guys were killed, and one more is seriously injured. Il Diavolo has a cut on his side that I didn’t even notice, as he showed no reaction whenever he got it. The rest of us got away without injury. We pile into the SUVs, anxious to get out of there before more Luciani men show up. With the head cut off, either the family will fall or more likely, someone will rise to take his place immediately, and we don’t want to be there when a bunch of thirsty heirs show up to duke it out.

  I end up in a car with Al, Il Diavolo, and Bianca, who has fallen silent and stares out the window with mascara running down her cheeks from her blank eyes. She’s probably in shock.

  “You need to get that looked at?” Al asks Il Diavolo, who sits up front with him.

  “I’ll stop by the chop shop later,” Il Diavolo responds.

  We don’t discuss the findings until we’re back at Uncle Al’s. His housekeeper takes Bianca off to clean up, I assume, and the rest of us head into his office space downstairs. When we’re all seated around the table with the consigliere, Al speaks up.

  “What information did you get from the late Luciani?” he asks.

  I wait for Il Diavolo to speak, but he gestures a giant hand at the me, his other mitt holding a towel to his side. “It’s your moment, rookie,” he says. “Tell him.”

  I clear my throat, not wanting to deliver this news and unable to keep from wondering if this is a shoot-the-messenger situation, and Il Diavolo knows it a
nd doesn’t want to be the one to tell Al that his beloved grandson conspired to have him killed.

  “He said Little Al tipped him off,” I say quietly.

  Uncle Al doesn’t even bat an eye.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I add.

  “Were you aware of this?” he asks.

  My blood runs cold. I’m Little Al’s partner. Of course scrutiny falls on me. “No, sir.”

  “Then don’t apologize,” he says. “He set up the meeting and wasn’t there when shots were fired. You joined at the last minute and took a hit for me. And I’m going to let you deal with him.”

  I nod, gulping down the protest. It’s one thing to shoot the bastard who tried to have me killed and set up my wife’s family, trying to pit us against each other. Luciani’s another family. Little Al is a Valenti. And not only is he family, he’s my partner. Sure, he’s kind of a tool, but we’ve worked as a team for the past three months, since my first day on the job. It might as well have been my whole life. I’ve grown a lot, learned, and hardened to become a man who gets shit done, who does what he needs to survive. A lot of it is thanks to Little Al.

  He taught me well.

  So I used what he taught me. I nod, and I give the only answer that lets me live another day, go home to my wife, and try to be a better man tomorrow. “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “He’s not answering his phone,” the consigliere says with a frown. “I’ll try his old lady.”

  One of the men at the table grunts. “You think someone tipped him off?”

  “We didn’t leave anyone alive to tip him off,” says Joey One-Eye.

  “Did anyone take Bianca’s phone?” I ask.

  There’s a long moment of tense silence while the consigliere calls Mrs. De Luca. After a brief conversation, he hangs up and shakes his head. “She says he left early this morning and she hasn’t heard from him since.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Uncle Al curses quietly. “He was here for some of the planning to take down Luciani. He must have known he’d talk, and he ran like the coward he is.”

  “He’ll be lying low, waiting to see if we succeeded,” the consigliere says.

  “Need me to find him?” asks Il Diavolo, his voice a low rumble.

  “We’ll find him, alright,” Al says, grimacing. “He’s a threat that needs to be eliminated.”

  As we leave the room after a few more minutes of discussion, Al lingers, putting a hand on my shoulder to keep me another second after everyone leaves. “Brother killing brother is just another day in the Life,” he says. “You seemed a little shaken in there. It’s just business, son.”

  “I know.”

  “Good,” he says. “You’ve had enough excitement for tonight. Go home to your wife.”

  “Thank you.”

  He gives me a long, shrewd look. “Is that going better?”

  “Yes,” I say. And then, because he’s the only person I can talk to about this, I stay a minute longer. “Can I ask your advice about something?”

  “Sure,” he says. “Does this need a drink?”

  “Thanks,” I say as he pours a couple glasses of whiskey from a decanter on the liquor cart in the corner. “What would you do if someone hurt the person you’re supposed to take care of, but that person doesn’t want you to do anything about it?”

  Al nods slowly, sinking back down into his chair and leaning back, swirling the liquor in his glass and watching me. “I don’t know all the details, and I’m guessing I’m not going to get them, so it’s hard to say,” he says. “But forgiveness is a personal matter, King. If someone chooses that over revenge, that’s their way. You might not choose the same for yourself, but you can’t stop someone else from choosing it.”

  “I don’t think she chose forgiveness,” I say. “She’s held onto it all this time, and she’s starting to deal with it, but she hasn’t chosen either revenge or forgiveness. She’s just living in it.”

  “Then I’d say you’re doing the right thing by waiting for her to decide,” he says. “When the time is right, she’ll choose what she wants to do. If you get revenge for her before she’s made that choice, she might never forgive you. And I was married long enough to know that’s not something you want in the bed between you.”

  “Okay,” I say, nodding. “Thanks for the advice. And your trust in me.”

  “You’ve done well so far,” he says. “As long as you keep giving me no reason to doubt you, you’ll get along just fine.”

  I think of Little Al, about how much it must hurt to be betrayed by your own family—and not just far extended family or people who work for you, but your own grandson, whom you’ve groomed to take your place. Uncle Al may not show it, but he’s got to hate that. Which means if I want to show my loyalty to him, I have to kill the guy who betrayed him.

  I thought pulling the trigger on a stranger would be the hardest thing I’d ever have to do, but this is so much harder. I don’t hate Little Al. And he’s not a stranger whose face I can pretend I don’t see when I can’t sleep at night. He’s a friend. I don’t know how in the hell I’m going to go through with it. I’ll find a way, though. It’s time to put what I’ve learned to use. This is my first true test. This will make or break me, put me in a grave or maybe in Uncle Al’s inner circle. And more than that, it’ll prove something to myself. I need to know if I can survive this life when it’s not just easy jobs, or if I choke in crunch time. Time to prove that I can do the right thing even when it’s hard.

  There’s no easy way out on this one. The mafia rules are clear. He violated them. He knew the risks, the consequences. Those are clear, too. It may have been my job to worry about my partner’s life when we were working side by side, but he’s not my partner anymore. He’s the fallen heir to this empire. He chose where to put his loyalty, and I choose where to put mine. He made his bed, and it’s my job to make sure he sleeps in it—permanently.

  twenty-two

  Eliza

  “What’s wrong?” I ask King, sliding a hand over his cheek. He’s lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, the same as he’s done for the past three nights. I don’t think the guy ever sleeps.

  He gives me a distracted smile and covers my hand with his. “Nothing.”

  “Talk to me,” I plead, snuggling up next to him. “You can tell me anything.”

  “It’s not you,” he says. “It’s just… Work stuff. The less you know about that, the better.”

  “King,” I say. “I know all about your job, the families, the Life. I know you want to protect me, but you don’t have to do that.”

  “But I want to,” he says, turning his face toward me. “I’m your husband. It’s my job to protect you. And I couldn’t do that when you needed it most.”

  “You didn’t even know me then,” I point out.

  “But I want to do something for you now,” he says. “Maybe we can go find her. I have an uncle on the force, and one who’s a lawyer. I can find her, Eliza. I can make her pay for what she did.”

  I swallow hard. I don’t know if I’m ready for that. But I know I have to figure out a way to move on, and I don’t know if I can do that without seeing her at least once. Do I want revenge, though? I’m not sure what I want from her, which means I’m sure I don’t want to see her. Not yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to confront her, if I’d be able to handle it.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  King turns back to stare at the ceiling again. “What about your brother?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I meant… Was she abusing him, too?”

  I swallow hard and roll onto my back. I never wanted to confront any of this, but some part of me knew he’d keep asking, that he’d want all the answers. And he deserves them.

  “I don’t really know,” I admit. “He was a lot older than me. I remember sitting on the floor in the bathroom one time, and she’d left me there, but I knew she was coming back. And she was trying to get Jonathan to come in, but he wouldn’t. I don’t remem
ber the reason she was giving for why he needed to. I just remember that I was scared he’d come in and know. I remember him saying something like, ‘I don’t want to be a part of this house of horrors anymore.’ A week later, he was killed.”

  King’s jaw clenches, and I cringe back, imagining what he’s thinking of me. “Where was your dad?”

  “He was at work,” I say. “He was always gone. I don’t know if anything happened to my brother when he was younger, but he was old enough to refuse then. He just walked away. But she always made me feel guilty, like I’d let her if I loved her. She always said it was good for me, that I should enjoy it. And she’d get mad when I didn’t, like there was something wrong with me.”

  “Eliza, you know that’s not true, right? She was a sick person. And you were a kid, and she was the person who was supposed to love and protect you.”

  I nod, unable to meet his eyes. “I know,” I say. “And the fucked up part is, she only did the right thing once in her whole fucking life, and that’s when she left. So I kept focusing on that, on the one time she protected me. And I convinced myself that meant she loved me, even after everything else she did. I kept telling myself that, until it grew like a tall tale into this legend. She didn’t just protect me one time, didn’t just love me, but she was a hero.”

  “I wondered why you admired her.”

  “I don’t,” I say. “You know that. I just…I guess it was a defense. I kept repeating it until if I didn’t think about it too hard, I could believe it. But I never thought about when she was here. I only thought about her leaving. It’s like she was only here to do one thing—walk out. There was nothing before or after that day. That’s all she was. The mom who left. Because if she was that, she didn’t have to be a monster.”

  “And your brother?”

  “Dying was his one act. He was only sixteen. When I do think about him, before he died, I remember he was so angry all the time. I was a little scared of him. So maybe Mom did hurt him, too, when he was little, and that’s why he was like that. And then when he said that he didn’t want to live in her house of horrors… I don’t know, maybe… Maybe they just said he was shot to cover up how he really died. I always thought some things didn’t add up. Now I wonder if maybe he did it.”