Renata Vitali

by Huntington, Parker S.

  Copyright © 2018 by Parker S. Huntington

  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.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Content Warning

  Renata Vitali

  Playlist

  More Books

  Author’s Note

  Foreword

  Freebie

  Trust

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Damiano De Luca: Sneak Peek

  This book is a prequel novella. It ends in a cliffhanger. This is the story of how Renata and Damian meet; however, you don’t need to read it to read Damiano De Luca. This book may also contain triggers.

  Damiano De Luca—the curse with no cure.

  Before he ruled the De Luca family,

  before he became the man everyone feared,

  before he scoured an empire in search of me, he chose me to ruin.

  I was innocent.

  An untainted princess.

  The heiress to the Vitali mafia throne.

  And I was in the wrong place at the wrong time when I met the wrong boy.

  My name is Renata Vitali,

  and this is not a love story.

  Fall For You - Secondhand Serenade

  Seventeen Forever - Metro Station

  Kelsey - Metro Station

  Wild Horses - Natasha Bedingfield

  Before the Storm - Jonas Brothers (ft. Miley Cyrus)

  Set Me on Fire - Bella Ferraro

  Monsters - Timeflies & Katie Sky

  Broken Strings - James Morrison & Nelly Furtado

  Beside You - 5 Seconds of Summer

  Better Luck Next Time - Kelsea Ballerini

  Lying (Next To You) - Jack Newsome

  Crush - Daniel Feels & Annie Schindel

  Listen on Spotify here.

  Asher Black

  Niccolaio Andretti

  Ranieri Andretti

  Bastiano Romano

  Renata Vitali

  Damiano De Luca

  Marco Camerino

  Rafaello Rossi

  Lucy Black

  Hey, readers!

  It always intimidates me to write the author’s note. It means that this—my dream, being an author—is real. It also means I’m about to send another book into the world—scared, excited, and a million other emotions I can’t name.

  I’ll start with the easy stuff. This is a novella. It ends in a cliffhanger and is the prequel to Damiano De Luca. Fair warning!

  This is the story of how Damian and Renata meet. It’s also a story of learning how and who to trust—your friends, family… yourself. Sometimes, the people you should be able to trust are the last people you can. Sometimes, you find refuge in unexpected people, people you’re scared to trust yet 100% should.

  When you find yourself at a crossroads, looking at a path you’re familiar with and an unknown path that makes your heart pound just thinking of it, trust yourself to make the right choice, to take a leap of faith, and to be happy.

  In my author’s notes, I love to talk about what I learned from each book and what I went through while writing and publishing it. Usually, I write a book and it ends up mirroring what I’m going through as I write it. However, this time, after I wrote Renata and Damian’s story, I noticed the lessons I learned kept popping up in my life.

  I’m the type of person who gives people a second chance. Then a third. A forth. And so on. Then, I thought of Damian and Renata’s story and realized I don’t owe anyone my trust. I don’t have to give chance after chance. I can break free. I can choose better people to trust. People who really deserve it.

  Don’t be afraid to leave something or someone you know because you feel you need to stay, or you’re comfortable staying, or you’re afraid of change. Break the mold. Trust yourself. Choose yourself. The right people for you will be the ones who choose you back.

  With so, so, so much love,

  Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men share the equal right to pirated books.

  Ha! Just kidding. In real life, people who pirate books get their own circle in purgatory. Ya know, where you’ll be forced to listen to the books you pirated read to you in Latin by a choir consisting of American Idol rejects and crooked politicians who’ve had their tongues removed.

  I warned ya!

  Note: this book is only legally for sale through Amazon.

  For Chloe.

  I miss you.

  Life hurts without you.

  Want a free book? Sign up for my newsletter and receive The Anti-Fling FREE! Click here to download or visit http://bit.ly/AntiFling!

  The devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you’ve ever wished for. Pray for wisdom and discernment.

  Tucker Max, Assholes Finish First

  Trust

  trəst/

  Noun

  Firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something.

  Trust is a series of decisions. It’s your choice to give it, and the people you give it to have the choice to prove you right. One day, the time will come when it’s you you’ll have to decide to trust. When that time comes, trust yourself. Then, let your heart prove you right.

  Trusting you is my decision. Proving me right is your choice.

  Unknown

  They say, one day, it will hurt less. The distance will stop seizing my throat and let me breathe. It’ll feel okay to wake up, pat the space beside me, and not feel her there. It’ll be easier to tell a joke and realize the only person who can understand it isn’t there to hear it. They say, one day, you’ll find someone else, and you’ll feel these same things for her.

  They say these things, but not a night passes where she doesn’t cross my mind.

  She’s either my curse or my angel.

  Damiano De Luca is the hardest challenge I’ve ever faced. He is my only leap of faith. My I-fell-fast, I-fell-hard, I-jumped-first-and-asked-later, and only-he-can-pick-me-back-up first love. He’s my think of you every night. My wake up reaching for you. My never-be-the-same goodbye. My heart’s biggest enemy.

  And me? I am his first love.

  But I don’t want to be his first love. I want to be his last love.

  The truth is, this story is not a love story.

  Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

  William Shakespeare

  My fingers gripped the leather armrest as the plane skidded across the tarmac at Devil’s Landing. I supposed most small Texas towns didn’t have the luxury of a private airstrip, but Devils Ridge wasn’t a typical small town.

  With cute lighthouses scattered across its coastal edges, Devils Ridge would have been quaint and scenic—had there not been a cumbersome mafia presence. It was the second o
ldest city in Texas, with its first colonial settlement dating back to the 1700s. A couple of hundred years later, a new devil settled in Devils Ridge—Ludovico De Luca, the first De Luca to taint the town.

  In the Vitali archives, there were books documenting Ludovico’s descent into madness. After his son’s wife had given birth, he slaughtered them both and raised his grandchild to be crazier than him. The De Lucas bred each generation with no moral code, and I was entering the lion’s den.

  I traced my fingers along the wood-trimmed table in front of me. My last name, Vitali, laid etched in the center, along with our centuries-old coat of arms. Laurel leaves. Lion. Torch. Purple. Peace. Courage. Intelligence. Royalty.

  There were Italian mafia syndicates all over the world, but the major syndicates were the five American syndicates—Romano, Andretti, De Luca, Camerino, and Rossi. Hundreds of years ago, ruthless wars broke out across the globe. Syndicates fought other syndicates for territories and honor. Two syndicates in Europe wiped out. Thousands dead. Millions wasted. Only then did every syndicate agree to gather for peace talks in Italy.

  My family—the Vitali—ran the peace talks. Since then, my family has governed the syndicates, making sure no syndicate crossed the line. The Vitali had our own armies. We had our own deep coffers. And we had our own hierarchy, where my father—il condottiero—was the boss who sat at the top, and I was the lone mafia princess.

  It sounded glamorous, but in reality, it was a tyrannical father, an unconventional upbringing, and a life of boarding schools… and now, being shipped to De Luca territory as punishment.

  “Miss Vitali?” Seven years ago, Ivo had been the flight attendant on my flight from Italy to my junior boarding school in Connecticut, and he’d stuck with me since. Which was how he knew what I wanted as my eyes shifted across his attire. “No phones, Ren. Your papà gave strict instructions.”

  I hated when he used my nickname. It drained my anger like watching Netflix with 3G drained my iPhone battery. “I didn’t ask.”

  He tsked and gave me his arm, helping me to my feet until my five-six frame stood eye-level with his shoulder. My cheap, dyed-blonde hair rested in a samurai bun on the top of my head, and between my bare face and the sweats that covered my long legs, I gave the accurate impression that I didn’t want to be here. I doubted I could find any rational syndicate member outside the De Luca family who’d want to be here.

  Ivo led me down the stairs and off the plane. “Your things will arrive at the De Luca manor later tonight.” He eyed the town car resting a few feet from the base of the stairs. Tinted windows. Dark and shiny. Vanity plates, whereas most mafiosos preferred unmarked and nondescript. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  What did he want me to do? Blink twice if I needed saving? I nodded my head but blinked twice anyway. You never knew when someone would surprise you.

  Displays of affection were as rare to me as beluga sturgeon caviar, but I leaned forward and wrapped my twig-like arms around Ivo’s neck anyway. “I’ll miss you, Ivo. You be good now, alright?”

  And I would. Since I was nine, Ivo had shuffled me the thirty-minute flight from boarding school to Maman every weekend. I’d seen him far more than I’d seen my own father, and now I didn’t know when I would see him again.

  “I should be telling you that, Miss Vitali. I trust there will be no trouble from you, little one.” He kissed my forehead and waited until the driver opened the car door to leave.

  Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

  I looked back, and a tear slipped past my lashes as the plane door closed behind Ivo. I pretended to sneeze into my hand, so I could wipe away the tear without anyone noticing. But when I entered the Rolls Royce, came face to face with Devils Ridge’s Head Devil, and was gifted a knowing sneer, I knew I fooled no one.

  Angelo De Luca out-dressed me in his three-piece bespoke suit, his hair slicked back and his manicured nails gripping an oversized cigar. “Well, well, well. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Vitali.” His leery eyes lined my skin with goosebumps as I settled into the back seat, thankful for the middle console separating us. Neither of us spoke as his ogling continued. “So, Daddy sent his bad little girl here for punishment, huh?”

  No, Daddy got caught eating between his secretary’s legs for lunch and sent his daughter to Middle of Nowhere, Texas before she could tell his wife. It wasn’t my fault my father couldn’t keep his dick clean the one week I surprised him with a visit. I wondered who Angelo would think was the bad guy in that scenario. Probably me.

  I didn’t respond, instead reaching for the tablet attached to the back of the seat in front of me. Angelo’s hand gripped my wrist tightly, proving just how much of a farce his name was. There wasn’t a trace of angel in this man.

  I yanked my hand away and forced myself not to cradle the bruised flesh with my other hand. Dad’s phone ban would be a nuisance, but it wouldn’t stop me from finding one and spilling what I’d seen to Maman. I didn’t want to be here. I doubted I could find any rational syndicate member outside the De Luca family who’d want to be here.

  I didn’t know why he even bothered keeping up the pretense of their marriage. They didn’t live in the same country. It’s not like they fooled anyone, let alone one another. Dad lived in Italy, where I visited him once a year, and Maman lived a short thirty-minute flight from my Connecticut boarding school, where I visited her every weekend.

  We passed a strip club parallel to the airport’s landing strip, and the words “The Landing Strip” glowed from the neon sign.

  “My club.” Angelo eyed my chest beneath the baggy weight of my oversized Blink 182 tee. “You’re welcome to visit if you’d like. I’m sure you would fit right in, darlin’.”

  I ignored him, looking out the window as the driver cruised past rows of large Victorian-style homes. It seemed like time had touched nothing in Devils Ridge, and had it not been for the very twenty-first-century car we rode in, I’d have thought someone trapped us in the mid-1800s.

  After the car passed a double set of looming iron gates and made its way down a tree-canopied driveway, Angelo passed something black, plastic, and rectangular to me.

  I took it from his outstretched fingers, taking painstaking care not to touch him. “What’s this?”

  “A pager.” A sneer curved his thin lips. “Signore Vitali said you’re to have no contact with a phone, and I’ll need a way to contact you.”

  I pocketed the thing, amusement consuming me as he eyed my sweats with a curled upper lip. Only a fool looks at strength and sees weakness. Maman had first told me this when I missed the growth spurt all of my peers seemed to share at the same time. She was right.

  By middle school, I reached my growth spurt and boasted cascading brown hair with natural waves, which bounced like Victoria’s Secret models’ when they strut down runways. My eyes boasted a shade of amber I liked to call evil, but Maman always referred to as rapturous. And eighth-grade boys referred to the slight Italian accent which adorned my voice as “exotic.”

  I hated the attention. Hated the way it made girls scowl and boys stare. Hated the way my teachers thought differently of me. Hated the expectations that came with looking and sounding like I did.

  As soon as Maman let me, I started dying my hair a simple blonde, adopted a flawless General American accent, and found a pair of mousy, prescription-free glasses I occasionally wore. When I left junior boarding school and entered boarding school, I no longer had to build pretend friendships. People overlooked me, just like I had intended.

  And now, sitting beside the head of the De Luca family, I knew he overlooked me, too. Angelo’s leery gazes and rough touch were an intimidation tool. But in doing so, he’d laid his cards out for me to see. He thought I was weak. Too weak to earn anything more than brute intimidation tactics when subtlety would have worked better.

  He was a fool, and I didn’t need other people to validate my strength. I’d get through this exile with my head on my shoulders by being over
looked and savvy. There was no other way.

  The driver opened the door, shooting a gust of hot Texas wind at me. I took his offered hand, righted myself, and stepped as far away from Angelo as I could without being too obvious. I followed Angelo up a set of stone stairs to a giant Victorian manor that had probably been built somewhere around 1850, like most of the houses in Devils Ridge.

  The white trim stood out amongst the near-black stones. When I entered through the double doors two butlers held open, I saw that the dark wood floors matched the gloomy exterior. The house looked cold, like despite its age, it hadn’t been lived in.

  Angelo led me past a spiral staircase and into a hallway. He opened the second to last door but stayed at the doorway. “This is your room.” He stepped to the door across from my new room and opened it. It led to an honest-to-God bathing pool, like the ones in public bathhouses. “This is the East wing bathroom. The house is pre-Victorian, and the plumbing reflects it. While it’s been renovated twice, once to reflect late Victorian-era homes of the time and more recently to introduce modern amenities, we couldn’t add more bathrooms without altering the historical integrity of the home.” He nearly growled at his own words.