Knocked Up by the Beast: A Mafia Romance (Kingdoms Book 1)

by Aria R. Blue

  My phone flashes with a picture.

  I starve for these pictures every single day.

  The female bodyguards I have stationed in front of Belle’s cottage send me photos of her.

  For surveillance purposes, of course.

  My phone nearly drops from my hand as I hurriedly walk away from the group to open the picture.

  She’s wearing a white sweater today, and is staring out of that front window. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold, and her hair is pulled back in a braid.

  She looks even better when I’m not with her.

  Her body is fuller, and her skin looks like it’s made of tiny diamonds. There’s just a glow to her these days.

  I turn off the phone, and catch a glimpse of myself on the reflective black screen.

  Being away from her hasn’t done my face any favors. I stay up all night thinking about her.

  My Dad sneaks up from behind me.

  “You miss her, don’t you?” he asks.

  I push my phone back into my pocket. My gun shifts in its holster at the center of my back.

  This is my life now.

  Danger and gloom.

  It makes for a deadly combination.

  I turn to face my father.

  The man I used to yearn for as a child. The man I despised as an adult. The man I’m starting to grow fond of once more.

  “Yeah, I do miss her.”

  “Why don’t you invite her to Chicago?”

  “Dad, we’ve been through this already. I can’t just invite her here.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Look around you,” I say, pointing to the smoke still rising off the building in front of us. There’s not a single person to be found on the streets. It’s no coincidence. People know when to stay away. “I don’t want to show her this world. It’s not for someone like her.”

  “Would you have brought her here if the circumstances were different?” he asks.

  “If circumstances were different, I never would have left her in the first place,” I say.

  “I had a feeling you would say that,” he says, nodding to himself. “But I would like to meet her one day.”

  “Maybe I’ll invite you to my wedding,” I smirk.

  A few months ago, I never thought I would be getting married, much less invite my father to it.

  But with Belle, I want everything.

  I want to make her my bride.

  I want her to have my babies.

  I want to build libraries and monuments in her name and give her everything her heart wishes for.

  Dad looks at me strangely. And then he does something that’s so atypical of him.

  He hugs me.

  I don’t know what to do at first, but then I hug him back. It feels so familiar and strange at the same time—my father’s hug.

  “I’m proud of you,” he says when he pulls back.

  “You are?”

  “Absolutely. One hundred percent proud of the man you’ve now become and the life you made for yourself.”

  “You really mean it,” I marvel.

  “Why would I be kidding?”

  “Aren’t you mad at me? For leaving the family?”

  He sighs, and looks at his armed soldiers. “This life isn’t for everyone, son. It was wrong of me to drag you into it.”

  Words of forgiveness are at the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say anything.

  “You haven’t been talking to her either right?” he asks me a moment later.

  I suck in a deep breath. “She’s…doing well now. She’s with her sisters. She’s happy. I don’t want to drag her into this chaos.”

  And also…I would drop everything and run to her the second I heard her voice.

  My self-control has always been weak when it came to her.

  “I won’t offer this again, but if you want her here, I can promise her safety.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t want to take the risk,” I say.

  A man approaches us—my father’s second-in-command and right-hand man, Rocco. He was promoted to my place in the gang when I left and he’s been there ever since. “Boss, we need to get moving. There are more people we need to meet with.”

  Ah, that’s right.

  When the Russians strike, they don’t just strike one bakery. The target a whole territory. The entire neighborhood.

  There are more people we need to console.

  We need to hear out their laments and then offer our help.

  Because these businesses pay us for protection. Every month, they carve out a significant portion of their income as a tribute to our protection. In return, we offer them safety from rival gangs and pay for any damages or losses.

  Nearly every single business under our protection has been targeted by the Russians now.

  We drive away from the burning bakery, and visit other crime scenes.

  It’s always the same.

  Devastated owners, cars turned over, shops burnt to the ground, not a single person on the sidewalks.

  And the Blackwood’s stop and offer their sympathy along with hefty amounts of cash.

  The last of the sunlight swathes the winter sky in orange and red by the time we’re done with the day.

  The car moves down the street slowly.

  I look away from the window, and towards my father. He’s popping some pills into his mouth.

  “What are those for?” I ask, trying to read the prescription bottles.

  He downs them with a swig of water, and answers, “Multi-vitamins. Calcium for my old bones.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to take those earlier in the morning?”

  He turns to his second-in-command. “Hey Rocco, remind me to take my vitamins earlier in the morning.”

  Rocco grunts his assent, and looks out of the tinted windows.

  Rocco is a man of few words. He’s loyal to the core, and would give his life to protect the Blackwood family—which is precisely why he despises me.

  To him, I’m an unwanted bug.

  He can’t wait to get rid of me. It’s why he refuses to even look at me.

  I follow his gaze now—to a house with nineteenth-century Victorian architecture. It’s nestled in between modern homes.

  All of the houses in this historic district of Chicago have been remodeled. But the original features of the one we’re approaching have been preserved.

  Dad’s place.

  “I thought you were going to drop me off at the hotel?” I ask.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “Haven’t we had enough of those today?”

  A flash of hurt passes over his face. “Just- trust me on this, okay?”

  “Alright,” I say, leaning back in my seat.

  Truth is, I’m bone-tired.

  All I want to do is go back to my hotel and stare at Belle’s photos for the rest of the night.

  I’ve been exhausted ever since I left her in that cottage.

  Dad keeps suggesting that I should bring her to Chicago and that she would be safe here.

  I guess the only thing holding me back at this point is that a part of me is ashamed.

  I don’t want her to see the world I come from. I don’t want her to see my family’s ugly roots, and the things we do to maintain our power.

  And I don’t want her to see the kind of man I am in Chicago.

  I reach my fingers up and touch the half-mask that covers the left side of my face. I still remember the disappointment in her eyes when I first wore it.

  I don’t want her to see me like this.

  When I’m…weak. Violent. Despised.

  The gates to the house are swung open. The lawn is neat. To a corner, there’s a lone black cherry tree with bare branches.

  “I’ve never been here before,” I say.

  “It’s much cozier than my other home. I think you’ll like it,” Dad says, stepping out of the car.

  We walk into the house together.

  My ey
es sweep over the art glass windows, grand fireplaces, and intricate millwork.

  “You know who would have really appreciated this house?” I ask. “Belle.”

  “Your mother,” he answers at the same time.

  “Mother?” I ask, confused.

  We walk through a foyer and through some pocket doors.

  “She used to ride her white bike here, and stare up at the house. She used to take photos of it. Polaroid ones.”

  He opens the doors to a bedroom, and turns on the lights.

  My heart swells in my chest, and starts to clog up my throat.

  She’s…everywhere.

  My mother.

  It’s a shrine of sorts.

  “What is this place?”

  He points to some photos on the wall near us. Polaroid ones.

  They’re photos of the same house we’re inside right now. The only way I can tell it’s from the past is because of the black cherry tree. It’s only half as tall as it is now.

  I want to touch them, but I’m afraid of ruining them with my dirty hands.

  There are other photos too.

  Lining the entire blank space of the walls.

  They’re all of her.

  Some of them are from a distance. Some include my father. And all of them capture who she was as a person.

  Her mystique.

  Her brightness.

  The room has a grand fireplace, and a single cushioned bench in the middle. Like the ones at museums where viewers sit down to admire the art in front of them. Apart from that bench, the room is bare of any furniture.

  “She doesn’t even know about this house, Leo,” he says. “I never got to show it to her.”

  “Why not?”

  “I bought it for her when I saw her admiring it from the sidewalk. And…I wanted to give it to her as a wedding gift,” he says softly.

  “Oh.” They never got married.

  “Did you know that I proposed to her?”

  “What?” The word comes out choked. I had no clue.

  “Your mother was more like you than you realize. She was kind, but she was also as stubborn as a mule. She said that she would only marry me if I left the family.”

  “And you couldn’t do that.”

  “Not when I spent my entire life working my way up the ranks. Not when our ancestors have worked so hard to bring us to where we are today.”

  Our ancestors.

  I was wondering why he didn’t bring it up sooner.

  My Dad worships our ancestors—the men and women who rose from poverty and made their riches during the 1920s Prohibition Era.

  Their legacy was made by dabbling in the black-market alcohol industry, shipping high-quality liquor from Europe and South America. They sold the best stuff to the rich and the diluted stuff to the masses.

  But today is a rare day for my father.

  He talks about the one thing that he loves more than our ancestors—my mother.

  “Maisie gave me an ultimatum. And the truth is…I never chose.”

  “But you did. You chose the family. Your brothers.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “But I was miserable the entire time. Even after all this time, I still see her in my dreams. It was a doomed love. For both of us.”

  “If you could go back in time and change your decision, would you have?”

  He doesn’t respond. I don’t press him to.

  I’m not sure I want to hear the answer anyway.

  I walk away from him, and take my time looking at all of the pictures of her. By the beach, laughing at the clear blue sky. By a garden, purple flowers gathered in her arms. In the kitchen, feet dangling off the floor as she sat on a countertop, smiling at the man taking pictures of her.

  Her bright smile.

  Her golden hair.

  Her love.

  She seemed so carefree then. She looked invincible—like nothing could touch her.

  And she still is.

  In my memory, that’s how I remember her.

  I stop at a particular photo. It’s a close-up photo of her hand. Her fingers are flexed, held by a man’s hand—Dad’s.

  Shining on her ring finger is a giant pink diamond—the Rose.

  It was her engagement ring.

  “You used to wear it around your neck all the time,” he says. “The Rose. What happened to it?”

  “It’s safe—in a place where it’s supposed to be,” I say quietly. It’s around Belle’s neck now.

  “Did your mother ever tell you what it was?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “She used to get really quiet every time I asked, so I stopped asking. I didn’t want her to be upset.”

  But I know now.

  It was special to her because it was given to her by the love of her life. A beautiful love that was ripped to shreds by circumstances.

  But she never let it turn into hate.

  No, my mother was too pure for that.

  There wasn’t a drop of hate in her veins. She was a being of love, made to be loved and to show love.

  After she died, I took the necklace. The Rose.

  At some point, my mother must have had the ring turned into a pendant. It was how I’ve always seen it—a large diamond hanging from a thin gold chain.

  All I knew was that she adored it.

  And so I did too.

  I held onto it for dear life. It was always a steady comforting weight, there with me as I grew from a twelve-year-old boy into a man.

  And in a way…it’s this diamond that made me meet Belle. My Mom led me to Belle—another angel who’s all goodness and light.

  Father is still talking, his eyes slightly glazed over. “I was so ashamed of myself. For not being there for her when she needed me. For not being there for you. There was no happiness without her in my life. I died the second she left, Leo.”

  I need to sit down.

  I take a seat in the middle of the room. The room where my mother still lives.

  “Every single time I close my eyes, I see her. There’s no hope for men like me.” He’s falling deeper and deeper into himself, into his own shame and grief.

  “I forgive you,” I whisper.

  And I mean it.

  Because I can finally sympathize.

  I can finally put myself in his position. I wouldn’t have done what he did, but I can understand why my father acted that way.

  It wasn’t because he didn’t have love for his woman or his son, but because he knew that giving up this life isn’t an option.

  Especially when you’re the boss.

  You don’t get to walk away from that. Men will hunt you down until everything you ever cherished is taken from you.

  “I forgive you,” I say, louder this time.

  His eyes are on me. They’re glistening with emotion, but he dabs those tears away. “You do?”

  “We might have lost her, but I still want us to have each other.” The words scratch my throat, turning it raw.

  Dad closes the distance between us, and I’m crushed in a hug.

  “Two hugs in a day? You’re breaking all sorts of records, Dad,” I say, even as I lean into the hug.

  The doors burst open, and a female voice shrieks, “I want a hug too.”

  Ivy.

  A second later, Dad and I are both covered in a blanket of golden-brown hair. Long slender arms spread around us, turning it into a group hug.

  My sister nuzzles her head on top of ours and lets out a long sigh. “Now this is what I came home for.”

  She detaches herself from the hug, and Dad grins at me. “She’s the surprise.”

  “Surprise,” Ivy says, spreading her arms out and striking a pose. Only her hands get tangled in her long hair, and she ends up frowning at it.

  “How the hell is it even longer?” I ask, laughing at her Rapunzel hair. It’s not just long, it’s crazy long. Down to the back of her calves long.

  “Not this again. It’s the one thing I have, okay?”

  “A few more
inches and you’re going to be tripping over your own hair,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek.

  She absolutely hates it when I say something about her hair. Which naturally makes me want to give her a hard time about it.

  “You know, for a second there, I was actually happy to see you,” she says, giving me the middle finger.

  “Ivy,” says Dad.

  She turns back to him, all big smile and chubby cheeks. “He’s making fun of my hair, Dad.”

  “Leave your sister alone, Leo,” Dad says.

  I shake my head, even as a smile grows on my face. “You’re here for winter break?”

  She glances at our father, and then at me. “Something like that.”

  My eyes narrow as I look between the two of them. “What? What are you not telling me?”

  “Nothing,” she says, burying her hands in her jeans pockets. Her head dips forward, covering her face with her hair.

  I know that move.

  She hides her face when she’s trying to avoid a conversation.

  “What are you hiding, Ivy?” I ask. When she doesn’t answer, I turn to Dad.

  He throws his hands up in the air. “For the last few months, your sister has been…my apprentice.”

  “What kind of apprentice?”

  This better not be what I think it is. I look at Ivy. She’s studying her toenails with great interest.

  Dad’s voice is quiet as he says, “She’s training to join the Blackwood Crime Family, Leo.”

  34

  Leo

  “What the hell, Ivy? Are you out of your mind?” I say through clenched teeth.

  She crosses her arms, and glares at Dad. “This is why I didn’t want to tell him.”

  “Why would you want to drag her into this?” I ask him.

  He clasps his hands behind his back, eyes hard. “There’s nobody I trust more than family. And she wanted to be a part of it.”

  “So you’ve been training her to shoot and kill?”

  “No, I’m learning how to make deals and negotiate,” she says, lifting her head up. Her hair swishes behind her, grazing the back of her legs.

  “What about design?” I ask. She wanted to be a fashion designer all her life.

  “What about it?” she replies, tilting her head to one side.

  “For God’s sake, you’re a college student, Ivy. You have a bright future ahead of you. Why the hell would you want to get mixed up in this business?”