Mafia Romance

by Aleatha Romig, Skye Warren, Annika Martin, Natasha Knight, Kaye Blue, Michelle St. James, Renee Rose, Parker S. Huntington, Alexis Abbott, Willow Winters

  “Remember when my dad was sent to jail, and you told me to let him go. That he’s dead weight?”

  “This isn’t the same.” I look to the side and stare at a picture frame on the wall. A quote.

  When the wrong people leave your life, the right things start happening.

  Cris got me this when I took over the De Luca syndicate. I thought it referred to Angelo, but now I have to wonder if he meant it for Renata.

  He follows my line of sight. “Isn’t it, though? You’re still transfixed on her, and you can’t be happy until you let her go. So, please, just let her go, man. How long is it gonna take? Five more years? Fifty?”

  Try never.

  I trace the camel bone case on my desk, a relic of the past. “Your advice is noted.”

  He nods his head, stands, and leaves with a parting message. “Let her go.”

  And he’s right.

  I should.

  * * *

  Renata Vitali

  The bell rings, and my students file out, running past one another.

  “Walk, don’t run!” I shout out to them. No use. It’s still chaos.

  Sally, one of the other second grade teachers, pokes her head in the doorway. “Some of the teachers and I are headed out for drinks tonight. Would you like to go?”

  I shake my head. “I’m headed for my mom’s for the weekend.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you out.”

  That’s because I don’t go out. I teach. Stay home. Grade papers. Read a book. Eat takeout. Take baths. Pop out a glass of wine. Go to bed. Wake up. Then, do it all again the next day.

  I smile at her. It’s forced, but I doubt she knows that. “Sorry, Sally. My mom’s been begging for a girl’s weekend.”

  “Well, you work too hard. You’ve worked here two years, and I haven’t seen you take a break once. That’s not healthy.”

  “I appreciate the concern, but I’ll be fine.”

  Her eyes look uncertain. Maybe she sees past my bullshit, but she says nothing. The people in small town Connecticut keep to themselves. They’re not the type to ask invasive questions or give me a hard time. That’s good when you’re trying to lay low.

  The drive from Connecticut to my mom’s is short. Her majordomo Gaspard greets me with a smile and leads me to the library, where Maman sits at her chessboard. She’s staring at the pieces when I take a seat across from her.

  “Hello, darling.”

  “Hey, Maman. Did you—”

  “Get your pictures? Yes, my love. You have a problem.” She hands me an envelope, which I take without a word. “This is the last time.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts,’ Renata. Either you move on or you go back, but you must choose or I will make the choice for you.”

  “Fine.” If she won’t help me, I can find a way to do it myself. “How have you been getting these pictures?” I slide the images out of the envelope and stare at them.

  Classic surveillance photos.

  I grab a close-up shot. Damian is stepping out of a car. He looks so angry at the world, and I wonder why no one else notices. It’s almost enough to make me want to save him. Almost.

  “I have a friend.”

  “In De Luca territory?”

  “You can’t ask about Vitali things. You gave up that right.” Her patient smile does little to soothe me, especially because she can’t even begin to understand why I left the mafia. “Either you’re out of the mafia or you’re not, Renata. I pulled a lot of strings to get you out.”

  My eyes shutter closed. I left because this world embodies everything I hate. The fractured childhood. Being alone all the time. Letting Angelo De Luca and his stupid picture of Ludovico De Luca run me out of Devils Ridge.

  I open my eyes and meet her gaze. “And I thank you for that.”

  Any other Vitali wife wouldn’t have the power, but Maman makes friends everywhere she goes. She’s friends with the wives of every powerful Vitali man, and Papà is so afraid Maman will leave him that he’ll listen to her—to an extent.

  “Then, truly thank me for that by moving on. Do what’s right for you, Renata. You can move on, look to the future, thrive in your teaching job. I know you love learning and education. You should be happy.”

  “I am.”

  I’m not.

  She sees past my lies, her eyes so understanding. “You’re not. That’s okay. He’s your first love, Renata. First loves will always be the one you compare everyone else to. They’ll live in your heart every day, and no matter how much you think you’ve moved on, they’ll always have that special piece of you. For you, it’s every time you step into a library and remember the memories you two shared in them. It’s whenever you hear Texas in the news, and you wonder what he’s doing right now. It’s a million little triggers. It’s a million little things. And if it were just one thing, you could bury it. But you can’t bury a million little things, Renata. There’s only so much space in the world.”

  “How do you know this? How do you know that’s how I feel?”

  “If you don’t feel that way, he was never your first love in the first place.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I love you, Renata. I want what’s best for you. You either need to go back to him or move on. This in-between state isn’t healthy.”

  We both lied to each other. How can we trust each other again? It’s not like trust comes with a free refill. My biggest fear is going to Damian and being told he doesn’t want me anymore. That fear seizes me up every time I think of flying to Texas and begging him to believe I’m not just another person who disappointed him.

  Don’t be weak.

  You’re a Vitali.

  Vitalis don’t feel fear.

  I repeat Papà’s mantra twice in my head before I tell Maman, “I can’t go back to him.”

  She releases my hand. “Then, move on.”

  It’s not that easy, I want to tell her, but I bite my tongue. I don’t want to hear her replies. I don’t want to confront her logic.

  Instead, I gather the courage to tell Maman, “When I was in Devils Ridge, Damian said I was sent there.”

  I told her nearly everything that happened in Devils Ridge—falling in love with Damian, fending off Angelo, and faking a fight to flee after finding the picture of Ludovico De Luca in Damian’s room. But I never went into the specifics of the fight. Too painful.

  Her brows draw together. “You were. We’ve been over this. Your father sent you there. He forbade me from visiting or contacting you.”

  I shake my head. “But why did you listen?”

  Her remorse slithers across the table and into my heart. Making Maman feel guilty is like finding a stray dog and leaving him in a ditch. You just don’t do it.

  She dips her head and eyes one of the chess pieces between us. “I thought if I listened, he’d cut your trip short and let you come home to me.”—He didn’t.—“One of many regrets of mine.”

  “But Damian mentioned I was sent there. He implied it wasn’t by Papà. I—” I take in her eyes. They’re on the verge of tears, and I know if I push, she’ll cry. One of many reasons I’ve never pushed. I take in a deep breath, then expel as much of the past as I can. “I’m sorry I brought this up. I know it upsets you.”

  “Oh, baby.” She stands, rounds the small table, kneels in front of me, and grabs both of my hands, making me feel like I’m a kid again. “I love you, Renata. I worry for you. You have to stop asking for Damiano De Luca. You have to let him go.”

  “I will,” I lie, because I’d rather break Maman’s trust than admit to her that there’s no letting go.

  Loving Damian is trench warfare. It’s digging deep, then clawing your way out. But sometimes, you have to accept that there’s no way out.

  * * *

  Thank you so much for reading! You can read the 110,000-word standalone novel BASTIANO ROMANO in The Five Syndicates mafia romance series now.

  …and so the cruel prince fell
in love with the liar.

  I love my boss.

  I love a man some call a monster.

  I love a man more accustomed to cruelty than kindness.

  But we both have our duties.

  Our laws.

  Our worlds.

  Two worlds never meant to touch.

  Two people never meant to fall in love.

  A mafia prince.

  And the undercover agent sent to ruin him.

  ONE CLICK BASTIANO ROMANO NOW >

  CAPTIVE OF THE HITMAN

  ALEXIS ABBOTT

  “I was sent to kill her.”

  There was one rule for this job. No witnesses.

  Then I saw her. She wasn’t supposed to be there, and I can only imagine what those dirtbags had been planning for her with her gorgeous blonde hair and her deadly curves. So I did the one thing I knew I shouldn’t: I killed every a**hole in that room and I took her as my prize.

  I don’t save people’s lives. I’m a killer, a hired hitman for the Russian mob. But I tell her to trust me, and I mean it. I’m not going to let anyone take her away from me. I’d sworn off women long ago, but I can’t resist her long legs and wicked mind, and every time I tell myself I’m being foolish, she gets down on her knees and begs me not to leave her.

  I’d rather die than lose her and the baby I know she’ll give me.

  Mikhail

  My cock throbs in my hand as I stare at the page in a glossy magazine. It’s not like I need it. It’s not about her, the sexy woman sprawled along the centerfold. Even jerking off is all business.

  My veins pulse as my grip tightens, and I lick my lips as I start to stroke myself. It’s a slow, rhythmic thing, letting the tension gather in my shoulders. I need to feel tense now so that later, I can find the perfect calm I need.

  Not too fast. Slow. Teasing. My thumb gathers the precum at the tip, running it along my swollen head, adding a hint of lubrication. It’s been too long since I’ve been with a woman, by my own choice. I don’t have room in my life for a girl, not even a fling. My job is too dangerous to drag someone into, even if I wanted that.

  So instead, I stroke myself to a skin mag and groan as the stress keeps building in my gut. I have a big job tonight. Something important, and nothing can distract me, especially not this damn urge to fuck. To go to a club, find some hot piece of ass, and take her. Meaningless, useless, unfulfilling sex, but it’d be something.

  I grip myself harder as I lean back on the couch, the tension travelling from my shoulders down to my back and into my belly. I force it lower, so that when I start jerking myself faster, I can rid myself of this fucking stress.

  Gritting my teeth, my breathing speeds up, and I close my eyes. The centerfold doesn’t do much for me. Most women don’t.

  So instead, I just focus on the feel of my hard cock, pulsing like mad in my hand. This is what life should be made of. Pleasure exploding in my brain as I get closer and closer to the edge.

  And when finally I burst, my entire body empties. It’s not just my balls as they tighten and spurt their cream over my abs. It’s not just my mind that clears of its fog.

  My entire body feels lighter for that perfect, pure moment of orgasm, and I’m ready to do my job tonight. There’s no room for error. There’s no fucking this up.

  Tonight, I’m a killer.

  * * *

  The group of revelers spills out of the limousine. All but one are men, dressed in expensive tailored suits, ties mostly loosened. They look like they just came from Wall Street, pretentious and full of themselves and whatever perceived victory they’d just been celebrating.

  Some of them hold bottles of ridiculously expensive booze, but it’s clear that a few of them are on something much harder, looking wired. But it’s the sole woman in the group that catches my attention once the others are tallied.

  I hate excess casualties in my line of work. It’s an increased risk, and one I don’t care to take. The other men are all on my list, but this woman? A young blonde, in high heels and a red dress? She’s stumbling a bit but somehow managing to make it look gracefully natural. She’s had more intoxicants than she’s realized, I can tell. I’ve seen that vaguely confused look before.

  By my reckoning, one of those shit heads has slipped her something extra into her drink before they head up to the penthouse for the real party.

  All targets accounted for, and one extra person isn’t too much for me to handle, not even close. But there’s something about her, that bright smile upon her face, the twinkle in her eyes. She doesn’t strike me as the usual sort of drugged-up bimbo these sorts of guys haul back for their debauchery. There’s a spark to her.

  I push her from my mind though. I have to, there’s no other option. Civilian casualties are sometimes an unavoidable thing. I’ve seen that firsthand more often than I care to remember.

  It isn’t long before the group has all vanished into the posh hotel, their security detail trailing behind. They do a good job looking like part of the group, for what it’s worth, but there’s no way for them to match the drunken, drugged-up gait while doing their job effectively, so it’s easy to tell how many I have to deal with.

  Six armed guards. I was expecting eight, but it seems two remain with the vehicle.

  Now it’s my turn.

  There’s no rush. My movements are casual. The last thing I ever want to do is stand out on a mission like this, so while I have plenty of time, I don’t hurry. I make my way around back, down into the subterranean parking lot.

  I sight the two guards at the vehicle; one’s smoking, the other’s talking on a phone. They look casual too, but it’s a ruse. They’re alert and dangerous, like me. I stay far enough away that I never draw their eyes. My target is the door leading up.

  Through the stairwell, I make my way to an employee’s only hall. The key card lock is easy enough to bypass, and I just move on through. It winds through a laundry room, but nobody pays me any mind. The hotel is far too bustling for me to stand out, dressed in a black sweater and pants. I look like just another employee coming on or off the job before getting into uniform.

  I swipe an access card from some manager, too busy berating an employee to notice its loss. This is something I could’ve done earlier in preparation, but that would have ran the risk of it being noticed. And while I doubt it’d have affected the mission, you never know with people.

  But me? I know I’d have no issue getting what I need when I need it.

  A service elevator takes me up, the stolen key card granting me easy access to the penthouse suites on top.

  The doors open, and I walk along a narrow service hallway before peering out into the elite foyer. There, I see two more of the guards outside a door. Not that I needed to know that—it was easy to figure out which room they’d be staying at ahead of time.

  I grasp a cleaning cart and roll it out into the hall to one of the rooms. It’s unoccupied, and the two security men pay me little heed as I disappear inside. I suppose I look like a janitor in their eyes, harmless. Someone weak and easy to ignore, with my head and shoulders hunched, ID card dangling from my belt.

  It takes me a while to meander my way on up, but still I have ample time.

  I pull a knife from beneath my pant leg and slide it into my belt. I give the gun in my pocket a final check. It’s small, but it’ll do the job. The silencer from my other pocket screws on, and I slide my mask on down over my face. Then that’s it. No time like the present.

  But it’s not the door I go for. That’d leave two corpses in the hallway while I do the rest, and I’m a professional. Leaving dead bodies in plain sight is too risky, especially with the risk of those security cameras actually being monitored.

  I head to the window, sliding it open to go onto the posh balcony, and the ledge I’m counting on is right there to the left. The wind up here is cold, and I let it bite into me. Distract me from the ridiculously long plunge below. One unexpected gust, and I’m a splatter on the street. I don’t feel
afraid, though. I never feel afraid.

  I can’t see the windows and balcony to the party’s suite from here, I have to round the corner. But to get that far, I have about three dozen feet of clinging to the side of a skyscraper.

  The key is to not think about it. As in all things, I let myself run on practiced instinct. Skills and methods honed through repetition.

  The ledge holds as I creep my way along to that corner and peer around the edge.

  It’s all clear. And I carry on, winding about the corner of the building towards the first window. The curtains are shut still, thankfully, so that makes my job easier. Even assassins have to be grateful for small favors.

  But then the doors to the balcony open, about a dozen feet away. So much for luck.

  One of the security guards steps out, and I go still as a dead mouse. He looks around the cityscape and lingers a while, so my hand creeps down into my pocket, slowly—so slowly!—pulling the gun out, keeping it at the ready, aimed for him.

  Time stands still, quiet but for the wind. There’s about twenty stories between me and the ground. Long enough that if I fall, I’m going to have plenty of time to regret it. I focus my mind forward onto the man, let that cool calm grip my heart. My finger tenses on the trigger.

  Then I hear him mutter seemingly to himself.

  “Check in. All clear,” he says into a headpiece that’s all but invisible.

  Now I have about five minutes, max. Then the next check-in will occur, and the men in the car would realize something’s wrong, impeding my getaway.

  The guard meanders a while longer before turning, heading back in, and shutting the door.

  I lower my gun, slip it back into my pocket, and carry on, sidling along until I can climb up over the railing onto the balcony. I can peer in through the glass doors, into the hallway there. The suite beyond is massive, I know: I looked into it ahead of time. But the hallway is guarded by that lone security man.

  Slipping the knife from my belt, I ever so carefully open the door, which I earlier jammed so that it never quite locks, though it appears to. The sounds of laughter and music from the partiers immediately fill my senses.