Luca Vitiello (Born in Blood Mafia Chronicles Book 0)

by Cora Reilly

  Copyright ©2019 Cora Reilly

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, events and places are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

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  eBook design by Inkstain Design Studio

  Cover design by Romantic Book Affairs Design

  CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  More Books By Cora Reilly

  About The Author

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is BOUND BY HONOR from Luca’s point of view. While there are a few new scenes, it mainly reiterates the events from the book. If you want to find out what went on in Luca’s head, this is for you!

  Prologue

  I was the boy who killed his first man at eleven.

  I was the teenager who crushed his cousin’s throat at seventeen.

  I was the man who bathed in his enemies’ blood without a flicker of remorse, who relished in their screams as if it was a fucking Mozart sonata.

  Monsters are created, not born.

  Bullshit.

  I was born a monster. Cruelty ran in my veins like poison. It ran in the veins of every Vitiello man, passed on from father to son, an endless spiral of monstrosity.

  I was a born monster shaped into an even worse monster by my father’s blade and fists and harsh words.

  I was raised to become Capo, to rule without mercy, to dish out brutality without a second thought.

  I was raised to break others.

  When Aria was given to me in marriage, everyone waited with baited breath to see how fast I’d break her like my father broke his women. How I’d crush her innocence and kindness with the force of my cruelty, with relentless brutality.

  Breaking her would have taken little effort. It came naturally to me.

  A man born a monster, raised to be a monster, bound to be a monster to become Capo.

  I was gladly the monster everyone feared.

  Until her. Until Aria.

  With her, I didn’t have to cover up my darkness.

  Her light shone brighter than my darkness ever could.

  With her, I didn’t want to be the monster. I wanted to shield her from that part of my nature.

  But I was born a monster. Raised to break others.

  Not breaking her would come with a price.

  A price a monster like myself shouldn’t risk paying.

  CHAPTER 1

  LUCA, 9 YEARS OLD

  Matteo and I sat at the dining table, our eyes trained on the door, waiting for Mother. The bell for dinner had rung a long time ago.

  Our nanny Marianna stood against the wall, glancing toward the clock on the sideboard, then back to us. Father rarely ate with us, but Mother always did—at least dinner, even when she could hardly stand. She was always on time in case Father decided to show up.

  Where was she?

  Was she sick?

  Yesterday she’d looked white, except for the blue and yellow blotches on her face and arms where Father had disciplined her. She often did things wrong. It was difficult not to do wrong with Father. A thing that was okay yesterday could be wrong today. Matteo and I often confused one with the other and got punished as well.

  Matteo took his knife and stuck it into the bowl with mashed potato that had stopped steaming before slipping the mash-covered blade into his mouth.

  Marianna clucked her tongue. “One day you’ll cut yourself.”

  Matteo shoved the knife back into the mash and licked it off again, his chin jutting out stubbornly. “I won’t.”

  I pushed my chair back and stood. It wasn’t permitted to get up before dinner was eaten, but Father wasn’t home, so I was the master of the house because Matteo was two years younger than me.

  I walked around the table. Marianna made a step in my direction. “Luca, you shouldn’t…” She trailed off as she looked at my face.

  I looked like Father. That’s why she was more scared of me than Matteo. That, and because I was going to be Capo. Soon, I’d be the one to punish everyone for doing wrong things.

  She didn’t follow me when I walked through the foyer and up the stairs. “Mother? Dinner’s ready.”

  No answer. I stepped onto the landing, then approached Mother’s bedroom. The door was ajar. The last time that had happened, I’d found her wailing on her bed, but it was quiet inside. I pushed the door open, swallowing. It was too quiet. Light spilled out of the open bathroom.

  Downstairs, I heard Father’s voice. He had arrived home from work. He was probably angry that I wasn’t sitting at the dining room table. I should have gone downstairs and apologized, but my feet carried me toward the light source.

  Our bathrooms were white Carrara marble but, for some reason, a pink glow reflected in the room. I stepped into the doorframe and froze. The floor was covered with blood. I’d seen it often enough to recognize it, and its smell, a hint of copper and something sweet, was even sweeter today as it mixed with Mother’s perfume.

  My eyes followed the river of blood, then the dried waterfall of red staining the white tub up to a limp arm. The white flesh was parted, giving way to dark red below.

  The arm belonged to Mother. It had to be her, even if she looked alien. Masklike and stiff, her eyes were dull brown. They were staring at me, sad and lonely.

  I moved a few steps closer. “Mother?” Another step. “Mom?”

  She didn’t react. She was dead. Dead. My eyes registered the knife on the floor. It was one of Matteo’s, a black Karambit knife. She didn’t have her own weapons.

  She had cut herself. It was her blood. I looked down at my feet. My socks were soaked with the red liquid. I stumbled away and slipped, falling back, crying out. My butt hit the floor hard and my clothes soaked up her blood, sticking to my skin.

  I scrambled to my feet and stormed outside, my mouth open wide, my head throbbing, my eyes stinging. I collided with something. Looking up, I found Father’s furious face glaring down at me. He hit me hard across the face. “Stop screaming!”

  My lips snapped shut. I’d screamed? I blinked up at my father but he was blurry. He gripped me by the collar, shaking me. “Are you crying?”

  I wasn’t sure. I knew crying wasn’t allowed. I never cried, not even when Father hurt me. He hit me even harder. “Speak up.”

  “Mother’s dead,” I croaked.

  Father frowned, taking in the blood on my clothes. He moved past me toward the bedroom. “Come,” he ordered. I noticed his two bodyguards in the hallway with us. They watched me with a look in their eyes I didn’t understand.

  I didn’t move.

  “Come, Luca,” Father hissed.

  “Please,” I said. Another forbid
den thing: begging. “I don’t want to see her again.”

  Father’s face twisted with rage, and I braced myself. He was upon me and gripped my arm. “Never again. You won’t ever say that word again. And no tears, not another disgusting tear, or I’ll burn out your left eye. You can still be a Made Man with one eye.”

  I gave a quick nod and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. I didn’t fight when Father wrenched me back into the bathroom and I didn’t cry again, only stared at the body in the tub. Only a body. Slowly, the roar in my chest quieted. It was only a body.

  “Pathetic,” Father muttered. “Pathetic whore.”

  My brows drew together. The women Father met when he wasn’t home were whores, but Mother wasn’t. She was his wife. Whores took care of Father so he didn’t hurt Mother as badly. That’s what she explained to me. But it didn’t work.

  “One!” Father bellowed.

  One of the bodyguards entered. His name wasn’t One, but Father didn’t bother learning the names of low soldiers and gave them numbers instead.

  One stood close behind me, and when Father inspected Mother more closely with a cruel smile, he squeezed my shoulder. I peered up at him, wondering why he was doing it, what it meant, but his gaze was focused on Father, not me. “Get someone to clean up this mess and call for Bardoni. He needs to find me a new wife.”

  My brain stumbled over what he’d said. “New wife?”

  Father narrowed his gray eyes. Gray like mine. “Change clothes and act like a goddamn man, not a boy.” He paused. “And get Matteo. He needs to see what kind of cowardly whore his mother was.”

  “No,” I said.

  Father stared at me. “What did you say?”

  “No,” I repeated in a small voice. Matteo loved our Mother. It would hurt him.

  Father glanced at the hand still on my shoulder, then up at his bodyguard. “One, beat some sense into him.”

  One pulled his hand away and, with a short glance at my face, he began beating me. I fell to my knees, back to crouching in Mother’s blood. I barely felt the hits, only stared at the red on the white marble.

  “Stop,” Father ordered, and the blows did stop. I looked back up at him, my head ringing, my back and stomach burning. He looked into my eyes for a long time, and I stared back. No. No. No. I wouldn’t get Matteo. I wouldn’t whether One kept beating me or not. I was used to pain.

  His mouth thinned. “Two!” Bodyguard Two came in. “Get Matteo. Luca will only get blood on the expensive Persian rugs.”

  I almost smiled because I had won. I tried to jump to my feet to stop Two, but One gripped my arm hard. I fought and almost freed myself, but then Matteo appeared in the doorway and I went slack.

  Matteo’s brown eyes became huge when he saw our mother and the blood, then his knife next to the tub. Father motioned at Mother. “Your mother abandoned you. She killed herself.”

  Matteo only looked.

  “Get your knife,” Father ordered.

  Matteo stumbled inside, and One’s grip on my arm tightened. Father glanced at me, then back at my brother, who picked up the knife with shaking hands.

  I hated Father. I hated him so much.

  And I hated Mother for doing this, for leaving us with him.

  “Now clean up, the both of you.”

  Matteo stood stock-still, staring at his bloody knife. I gripped his arm and pulled him out, stumbling after me. I led him into my bedroom, then into the bathroom. He still looked at his knife. I ripped it from his hand and held it under the faucet, cleaning it with hot water to get rid of the dried blood. My eyes prickled, but I swallowed.

  No tears. Not ever again.

  “Why did she use my knife?” Matteo asked quietly.

  I turned off the water and dried it with a towel, then held it out to him. After a moment, he shook his head, backing away until he bumped against the wall, before he sank down on his butt. “Why?” he muttered, eyes filling with tears.

  “Don’t cry,” I hissed, quickly closing the bathroom door in case Father came into my bedroom.

  Matteo jutted his chin out, narrowing his eyes even as he began bawling. I tensed and gripped a clean towel before I knelt in front of my brother. “Stop crying, Matteo. Stop it,” I said quietly. I shoved the towel into his face. “Dry your face. Father will punish you.”

  “I don’t care,” Matteo choked out. “I don’t care what he does.” His words were proven wrong by the shaky note of terror in his voice.

  I glanced at the door, worried I’d heard footsteps. It was silent unless Father was spying on us, but he was probably busy taking care of Mother’s body. Maybe he’d tell his Consigliere Bardoni to drop her in the Hudson River. I shuddered.

  “Take the towel,” I ordered.

  Matteo finally did and wiped it roughly over his red eyes. I held the knife out to him. He eyed it critically. “Take it.”

  He pressed his lips together.

  “Matteo, you have to take it.” Father wouldn’t allow him to get rid of it. My little brother finally reached for the knife and curled his fingers around the handle.

  “It’s only a knife,” I said, but I, too, could only see the blood it had been covered with.

  He nodded and pushed it into his pocket. We stared at each other. “Now we’re alone.”

  “You have me,” I said.

  A knock sounded and I quickly pulled Matteo to his feet. The door swung open and Marianna stepped inside. Her eyes crinkled as she looked at us. Her brown hair, which she usually wore in a bun, was all over the place as if she’d ripped the hairnet out of it. “The Master sent me to see if you were getting ready. Soon his Consigliere will be here.” Her voice held a strange note I didn’t recognize, and her lips trembled as her eyes darted between Matteo and me.

  I nodded. She came closer and touched my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” I stepped back, away from the touch. I glared, because it made not crying easier.

  “I’m not,” I muttered. “She was weak.”

  Marianna took a step back, glancing between Matteo and me, her expression falling. “Hurry,” she said before she left.

  Matteo slipped his hand in mine. “I’ll miss her.”

  I looked down at my feet, at my blood-covered socks, not saying anything because it would have been weak to do so. I wasn’t allowed to be weak. Not ever.

  Cesare landed a hard hit in my stomach. Gasping, I dropped to my knees. Marianna put down her knitting needles with a sharp intake of breath. Before he could land a hit on my head, I rolled away and pushed to my feet, then raised my balled fists.

  Cesare nodded. “Don’t get distracted again.”

  I gritted my teeth and attacked, feigning an upper cut, then smashed my fist into his side. He grunted then jumped back. Cesare had been giving me fighting lessons since I was three years old.

  Cesare stepped back from me. “You’ll be unbeatable when you’re older.”

  I wanted to be unbeatable now so I could stop Father from hurting us. I was already much taller and stronger than the other kids in school, but I needed to be even stronger. I began to pull off my gloves.

  Cesare turned to Matteo, who sat on the edge of the boxing ring, his legs pulled up to his chest, a deep frown on his forehead. “It’s your turn.”

  My brother didn’t react, staring off into space. I threw my boxing glove at him. He gasped, rubbing the side of his head, messing up his brown hair, then scowled. “Your turn,” I said.

  He got to his feet, but I could tell that he was in a sour mood. I knew why, but I really hoped he would keep it to himself.

  “Why aren’t we at Mom’s funeral?”

  Marianna was heading our way. I threw my second glove at him. “Shut up.”

  He stomped his foot. “No!” He jumped off the boxing ring and stalked toward the door of the gym. What was he doing?

  “Matteo!” I shouted, chasing after him.

  “I want to say goodbye to her! It’s not fair that she’s alone.”

  No, no, no! Why did he
have to say something like that when others were around? I didn’t look back at Cesare and Marianna, but I knew they’d heard every word.

  I grabbed Matteo’s arm shortly before the exit and jerked him back. He tried to shake me off, but I was stronger than him. He glared up at me with teary eyes. “Stop crying,” I whispered harshly.

  “Don’t you want to say goodbye?” he rasped.

  My chest tightened. “She didn’t say goodbye to us either.” I released Matteo, and he began crying again.

  Marianna put her hand on his shoulder but not on mine. She’d learned. Every time she’d tried to console me in the last few days, I’d shaken her off. “It’s okay to be sad.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said firmly. Didn’t she understand? If Father found out that Matteo was crying after our mother, especially when Cesare was around, he’d punish him. Maybe he’d burn his eye out like he’d threatened to do to me. I couldn’t let that happen. I glanced to Cesare who stood a few steps back, unwrapping his tape from his wrist.

  “Our mother was a sinner. Suicide is sin. She doesn’t deserve our sadness,” I repeated what the pastor had told me when I’d visited church with Father. I didn’t understand it. Killing was a sin too, but the pastor never said anything to Father about that.

  Marianna shook her head and touched my shoulder with sad eyes. Why did she have to do it? “She shouldn’t have left you boys alone.”

  “She was never really there for us before, either,” I said firmly, balling my emotions inside of me.

  Marianna nodded. “I know, I know. Your mother…”

  “…was weak,” I hissed, drawing back from her touch. I didn’t want to talk about her. I just wanted to forget she’d ever existed, and I wanted Matteo to stop looking at the stupid knife as if it would kill him.

  “Don’t,” Marianna whispered. “Don’t become like your father, Luca.”

  That’s what Grandma Marcella had said before she’d died.

  Grandma looked thin and small. Her skin appeared too big for her body, as if she’d borrowed it from a person twice her size.