He lifts his chin in silent acknowledgement. “Do you love me?” he asks, echoing what I asked him last night when everything changed, when our worlds finally melted together.
“Christian,” I catch his hand, twining my fingers with his. “I have loved you for a long time. Thank you. Thank you for her, for tonight. Thank you for being you.”
The look he gives me shatters my heart. I have never seen someone so naked, so happy, and so afraid.
“It’ll be all right, you know,” I say with a profound feeling I’m holding his heart in my hand. I could crush him with a flick of my wrist, but he is my whole world too.
“Marry me,” he says.
My heart leaps, but I tsk and he widens his eyes.
“I want you on your knees, with a ring.”
A sly smile spreads on his face, his gaze devouring me. “Yes, ma’am. Your word is my law, will always be.”
“Always?”
“Except in bed.”
I laugh. “I can live with that.”
Till death do us part.
Epilogue
Kerry
“You look absolutely stunning, honey!”
Mom flutters around me, correcting invisible wrinkles. I haven’t had any of the champagne I was offered, I just brought the glass to my mouth and pretended. The new life I carry inside doesn’t yet show, and it will be my and Christian’s secret for a little while longer.
Staring at my image in the mirror, I’m amazed at how this all came to be.
“Isn’t she pretty?” Mom turns to Bianca Russo who, with her perfect hairdo, and extravagant makeup, I’ve come to realize, is way too similar to my mom. They’re both women who fight for what they want, carry themselves with pride and plow through life, determined to bend everyone to their will. They’re also both deeply involved in making me the prettiest bride in history.
Bianca fiddles with bobby pins, even though my hair already looks fantastic, red with newly added highlights, most of it high up on the back of my head, but letting little curly tresses fall along my nape. There are simple diamonds in my ears, and a thin platinum chain around my wrist. I have Christian’s necklace around my neck, and I chose the simple, creme-colored, bare-shouldered dress to go with the beautiful jewelry, rather than choose jewelry after my dress.
My whole soul reaches for him. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.
On a couch in the far end of the room sits Chloe, feeding little pieces of bread to Cecilia. Our gazes meet and Chloe smiles shyly. We still haven’t talked. I know she was away. I know things happened to her that changed my happy-go-lucky friend and hardened her, but we’re slowly finding our way back to each other, and the rest will come. I hope.
The door slams open. Gayle and Rebecca storm in, their cheeks a little rosy. Just like Chloe and Cecilia, they have pale pink dresses, all in different styles. I made no one maid of honor. How could I choose? They’re all equally important to me, all in their own right. Rebecca stands for light-hearted fun. Gayle has known me the longest and centers me. She knew my father. She can hold her own against my mother. Chloe knows all my darkest, dirtiest secrets. I don’t have to pretend anything with her.
“Girl! It’s time,” says Rebecca.
“The fricking church is full, Kerry, you wouldn’t believe it. Who are all these people?!” Gayle spreads her arms wide.
My gaze flickers to Mom and Bianca. “I think they’re relatives to Christian.”
“The Italian side of the family decided to join,” says Bianca, and that’s clearly all the information we get.
“Kerry, you’re so beautiful,” says Gayle. “Cecilia, doesn’t Mom look like a princess?”
“No. She should have worn pink,” says my soon-to-be three-year-old, “and the skirt isn’t fluffy.”
Chloe laughs and puts the sandwich back in the box. “You look like a real princess, hon.”
“America doesn’t have princesses.”
Bianca spins around and crouches before Cecilia. “They do now.”
Cecilia squirms, a shy smile on her face, then she throws her arms around Bianca, who stiffens visibly.
“You’re the best gramma ever!”
My mom looks from me to Bianca and Cecilia, then back to me. “I can’t win, can I?”
“Mom,” I whisper, “it’s not a contest.”
Her eyes narrow as she glances at Bianca again and I sigh. The contest is clearly on.
“Wanna see Mommy marry Daddy, then?” Chloe puts a stray lock of hair back behind Cecilia’s ear.
Bianca pulls it right back out, letting it fall in a corkscrew curl along her temple and Chloe throws out her hands, looking at me, rolling her eyes.
We all straighten when the bells start ringing and my pulse skyrockets. St. Patrick’s Church is gigantic, and it’s filled with people I don’t know, and a few that I do know. There’ll be a choir, a boy soprano singing solo, the ceremony will be part in English and part in Latin. Suddenly I want to escape out the window, jump from the second floor and just run. Chloe must sense my panic because she comes right up to me and grabs my arm.
“It’ll be all right, hon. Christian loves you, you love him. That, and your baby, it’s all that matters. The rest… you’ll get the hang of it. Just, you know—” she bumps her hip to mine, nudging me, “grab’em by the balls. They like you more than you think.”
Bianca claps her hands and opens the door. The bells are still chiming, the sound louder now, echoing in the stone corridor. We move as one unit. Rebecca holds up the back of my dress. Chloe clutches my clammy hand. We all seem to hold our breath, standing outside the giant double doors that lead into the chapel, and when the organist starts playing Mendelssohn, I choke up. The custodian swings open the doors and I take in the massive chapel, the people, the flowers, my knees going weak. Chloe squeezes my hand reassuringly, then she starts walking down the aisle with Rebecca and Gayle. The moms go next, together, no partners by their sides. Two proud women who I think will find each other eventually. My eyes fall on Salvatore. He’s standing to the right, impeccably suited up, calmly waiting for me and Cecilia.
I swallow and give him a nod. He winks and I step up to his side. He’s giving me away. He didn’t ask.
I give him my arm and whisper to Cecilia, “It’s time, baby.”
A female custodian gives her a little basket with flower petals. Everyone turns to look at us as we make our way down the aisle. In front of the altar stands my man, my soon-to-be husband, my tall, intoxicatingly beautiful partner, and right then and there, calm washes over me and everything in the world is all right again.
He’s mine.
I’m his.
It was always us. It just took us a little while to understand it.
The End
Capo
Russo Saga - Book Six
Published by Blushing Books
An Imprint of
ABCD Graphics and Design, Inc.
A Virginia Corporation
977 Seminole Trail #233
Charlottesville, VA 22901
©2020
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The trademark Blushing Books is pending in the US Patent and Trademark Office.
Nicolina Martin
Capo
EBook ISBN: 978-1-64563-195-8
v2
Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design
This book contains fantasy themes appropriate for mature readers only. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual sexual activity.
To all my readers who have followed me on this journey. Thank you for loving the Russos. This is for you.
Prologue
Tell on the Mob and Die
Chloe
Chicago
You’ll die if you talk.
The words make the skin on my back crawl. I clutch the old, worn leather on the steering wheel until it squeaks as a shiver runs through me. Reaching for the panel, I crank up the heat a couple of notches even though it isn’t that cold. My best friend was afraid. She was really, truly afraid. I’ve never seen anyone in the state she was in when I found her a few weeks back, hidden away in her dark house, curtains pulled closed, her usually bright and happy home eerily silent. It was as if something in her had died. A mob hitman had tried to kill her because she had overheard something she shouldn’t have. She had escaped death by the breadth of a hair, but it was as if it had caught her anyway.
You can’t tell anyone. You don’t want to get involved.
That’s what she said.
And then I got involved anyway, helping her flee San Francisco.
I drive a block, but then I stop and sit for a long while after watching her disappear into the house, trailing after my cousin with one last glance over her shoulder. Her posture was stiff, as if her body wanted to slump in defeat while her brain forced her to stay upright, too proud to yield. I don’t know if her moving to Chicago will solve anything. With a professional murderer after her she needs to disappear off the face of the Earth, but how does a person do that in the modern US? We leave traces everywhere. ATMs. CCTV. Receipts. Cell phone calls.
Me, I’m left with everything. I need to lock up her house more properly. Turn off the water and gas. Lower the heat to a minimum. I need to talk to her mom and explain the best I can without saying anything.
And what do I tell our friends? People are going to ask.
It’s not Kerry’s fault, but what happened to her is going to make my life hell. I’ll be looking over my shoulder for a very long time.
Mafia.
The mob.
Luciano Salvatore. The father of little David at the center for autistic children where I work part time as an accountant. The rest of my time I run my own business, working my ass off to stay afloat. I guess that will be my only business from now on. I don’t think I dare set foot at the center again. David isn’t there anymore, but it’s where everything started, it’s where Kerry’s hell began.
Salvatore.
He doesn’t know who I am. At least I don’t think he does. Why would I be on his radar? I’m sure he’s got bigger fish to fry.
I fall over the steering wheel with a groan. Maybe I should just stay in Chicago too?
With one last glance at my cousin’s run-down little house, the white paint so chipped it’s almost not visible, and feeling a twinge of guilt over putting Kerry in there, I start the car and put the gear in drive. No. I’m going home. I have nothing to be afraid of.
Chapter 1
Chloe
San Francisco
Eighteen months later
R.I.P.
George and Samantha Bourne.
Gone but never forgotten. Eternally missed.
Same date of death. A date that’s etched into my mind.
The plane from Atlanta bounces along the tarmac of San Francisco International. My mind is still stuck on the image of the gray granite headstone. The wind makes the plane shudder even as we come to a stop by the gate. It was a rough ride.
I visit them every few months, year after year, putting fresh flowers in a vase, brushing off dried leaves, cursing my fucking asshats for brothers for leaving me alone with this.
When I come home, I do what I always do. I take a leaf that I saved from the grave and put it in an envelope. Then I do the same with a second leaf. I write two different addresses to correctional institutions, put on a stamp, and send them off. No sender. I love how it irks the wardens when they check the mail, but there’s also a deeper meaning for my brothers who eventually receive them. It’s a little hug from me to them, and a little reminder that they came from somewhere, that we had parents, and a life.
Preparing a cup of tea, I hesitate between calling Gayle to see what she’s up to or starting up my computer. I have two deadlines for tomorrow, and two more for the day after. Handling the accounting for small businesses comes easy for me. I have a way with numbers. It’s as if they speak to me. I see errors as if they were written in glaring red, a missing invoice calls for me to find it. It’s like detective work. My friends call it boring, but I love it. I will always miss the light-hearted hours at the center, though. The kids. Working with Kerry was a blast, always funny, always kind, always compassionate. We were younger, more innocent. Those were good times.
On the other hand. Grave. Grumpy over my brothers. Tired and a long journey. Screw working. I call Gayle.
“What’s up, girl?” She’s panting hard.
I quickly swallow my mouthful of tea. “Heya. What’s with you?”
“I’ve been out running.”
I nearly sputter. “Running? You?”
“Gotta get in shape.”
There’s something in her voice that makes me narrow my eyes. “Why?”
“Just—So, are you home? Trip went all right?”
I sigh. “Yeah, meeting the family is always a hoot. Lots of food and talks.” The lie comes easy as always. It’s been ingrained in my being. “Wanna go out?”
“Sure. I need to shower.”
“Me too.”
We decide on a time and place and hang up.
My little two-bedroom apartment is foggy with steam when I’m done. I pick through the wardrobe and decide on a pair of antique-looking, brown leather pants and a white blouse with a lacy back. I pass on makeup and put my hair up in a messy bun. I just can’t be bothered. I’m not out to flirt. I want one glass of white wine with a friend and leave it at that.
Lying alone in bed that night, like every night, I feel the sting of sadness over life passing me by. Gayle has a new lover. I’m twenty-six and I have no one. I have yet to meet anyone who can fulfill my needs, my longing for heat, passion and a little dose of danger. Pulling up the dating site on my phone only enhances that feeling. I flip through one kinky ad after the other and nothing resonates with me. They all seem like little boys playing Doms. I want someone who can show me the ropes, so to speak. I have no experience, I only know that I need something more, something that can compensate for the lack of tension in my life, that can sate me. The only ones who seem to be for real are already in a relationship but are willing to take on more subs for training, and I’m not interested in that. I want someone who is for me, and me alone.
I want what everyone wants. I just want to be seen. There’s more to me than the tall, generic blonde. A lot more. But the secrets I carry will stay mine it seems, because no one has dug, no one has asked.
Luciano
They eat my food, drink my wine, and fuck my whores.
The men around the table laugh and joke and think they’re in my good graces. They’re wrong. Few around me are as safe as they think.
“Luci, what’s your thoughts on the Crimson Corp takeover?” Eric leans half-way over Christian to catch my attention. Eric Reed. My second in command. I took him in when he was still in his late teens, some twenty years ago.
“We’ll pay them what their clubs are worth,” I say.
“And what is that?”
I laugh. “Not what they claim. More like thirty percent of that.”
“I say we take ‘em out,” says Christian, joining the discussion. “They’re a fucking mess. They still want to keep a share. They can go fuck themselves.”
Two of my nephews attend dinner tonight. My sister Bianca’s second youngest son, Matteo Russo on my left seems to be having a good time and is deeply engaged in a discussion with some girl across the table, gesturing vividly. The girl laughs and blushes. Matteo goes after anything pretty. Tonight, he’ll tie her up in one of my guestrooms and probably give her the best fuck of her life. Tomorrow she’ll be too sore to walk, and he’ll find some other chick. We Salvatore/Russo men don’t play nice.
Me, I don’t know how to live any other kind of
life, and I don’t want to either. I’m perfect right where I am.
Christian Russo sits to my right. He barely speaks, consumes copious amounts of whisky, and has become my most ruthless man. His dark soul seems unsalvageable. Botching a mission, nearly dying, falling hard for his hit and then losing both the girl and their baby hasn’t become him. I’m not surprised he scared her off, making her drop off the face of the Earth. I am as cruel as they come, but even I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side these days. He’s very useful, though. I can pitch him against anyone and he pulls through, leaving no witnesses.
No witnesses. Except one, the one Eric unexpectedly chose as his woman. Anna.
For some reason Christian spared her. I even think he cares for the feisty little lady. Maybe he thinks he made up for his past mistake. Maybe he just respects Eric’s wishes. They’ve worked closely together half their lives.
It’s good. And bad. My men need to trust each other, but they also need to obey me without questioning my orders, and they’ve been fucking slacking in that department lately.
Next to Eric sits Ivan Sokolov. Him I can trust. He’s been doing my dirtiest business for years. He barely speaks, but he listens. He’s built like a house and looks like a brainless brute with his rough features and his broken nose, but there’s intelligence in those eyes. Munching on a piece of steak and chugging it down with beer, he observes my men, taking stock. He’ll alert me the moment something is off.
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