Forever Lies (The Five Families Book 1)

by Jill Ramsower

  The passion glinting in his eyes vanquished all other thought. It was the same thing he’d done since he cornered me in that elevator—his presence eclipsed all else.

  He was my world, and I was his.

  I was still coming to terms with the mafia element of the equation, but as for Luca, there was no longer any doubt in my mind. He was the one for me, and there was no running from that. I believed he would never hurt anyone unjustly, and he would never let anyone lay a finger on me. I trusted him to always give me the truth, his truth, no matter how ugly that might be; and I would give him my light to guide him through the darkness.

  A Note from Jill

  I’d like to offer a sincere thank you for purchasing Forever Lies. If you enjoyed reading the series as much as I enjoyed writing it, please take a moment to leave a review. Leaving a review is the easiest way to say Thank You to an author. Reviews do not need to be long or involved, just a sentence or two that tells people what you liked about the book in order to help readers know why they might like it too.

  If this book was the first book you’ve read of my work, you might be interested in my fantasy romance series, The Fae Games. I highly recommend you check out the duet that started the series. Books one and two tell a single story about American-born Rebecca as she discovers the magical Fae haunting the streets of Belfast.

  Originally, I only intended to write the single story about Rebecca; however, my readers made repeated requests for more books in the The Fae Games world. In response, I published three more spin-off novels joining Ashley, Cat, and Morgan on their adventures. You can grab them individually or save by downloading the five-book boxed set in one convenient purchase.

  Tap the links below to find out more about each book:

  Shadow Play

  Twilight Siege

  Shades of Betrayal

  Born of Nothing

  Beneath the Crimson Cloak (short story)

  Midnight’s End

  -or-

  The Fae Games Series, Boxed Set

  In The Five Families Series

  Forever Lies

  Five minutes in a stalled elevator was all it took to turn Alessia Genovese’s world upside down. She was just one among millions of New Yorkers, but now, she’s landed on Luca Romano’s radar, and he isn’t about to let her walk away. Dragging her into his world of lies and deceit, Luca’s secret agenda shatters Alessia’s perfectly crafted life. Sometimes lies are easier than the truth…

  In The Fae Games Series

  Shadow Play

  Alluring strangers and deadly secrets make the streets of Belfast a living nightmare. Newly arrived from America, Rebecca Peterson must stay alive long enough to learn about this deadly Fae world and discover why she’s been drawn into its clutches.

  Learn More about Shadow Play

  Twilight Siege

  After her carefree world is ripped apart, Rebecca must accept her new life and the dark powers that come with it. She looks to Lochlan for help, but the sweltering tension between them is a dangerous distraction. Deep into the treacherous Shadow Lands, both her knowledge and courage will be tested. To keep those she loves safe, Becca is willing to risk it all.

  Learn More about Twilight Siege

  Shades of Betrayal

  Ashley’s out to stop a monster from killing young women in the heart of Belfast. Michael will do anything it takes to stop her from getting the answers she seeks. Together, their explosive chemistry laced with deadly Fae secrets may be a recipe for disaster. Can they unite to find a killer, or will their fiery passion blaze out of control?

  Learn More about Shades of Betrayal

  Born of Nothing

  A druid woman and a Fae man—Cat and Fenodree are two people from different worlds—only by chance do their paths happen to cross. What develops between them is tender and intimate … and totally forbidden. Cat’s Druid family fear and hate the Fae. Running becomes her only choice, but what will happen if she doesn’t make it out in time?

  Learn More about Born of Nothing

  Beneath the Crimson Cloak (Short Story)

  Morgan Le Fay awakes from her capture in the one place she doubted she’d ever see again—Seelie Lands. Only problem? She’s a prisoner on a vast forested estate. After a month of isolation and frustration, she makes an uneasy alliance with a new furry friend only to discover her canine bedmate is much more than he seems. The classic tale of Little Red and her Big Bad told with a delightfully wicked Fae twist in this Fae Games short story!

  Download for FREE!

  Midnight’s End

  Villainess, Morgan Le Fay, teams up with a sworn enemy to help her acquire the illusive Cauldron of Dagda. In this thrilling finale to The Fae Games Series, Jill Ramsower ties together the four previous books in a romantic adventure full of jaw-dropping twists and heart-stopping heroics you won’t want to miss!

  Learn More about Midnight’s End

  Acknowledgements

  My dad was born into an Armenian immigrant family in New York City. He didn't speak English until he started school and was primarily raised by his grandparents, who owned a small sandwich shop in Hell's Kitchen. (The picture is my dad with his mom and grandma in front of the shop.)

  While my dad was an only child, he had a cousin who was like an older brother. This cousin grew up friends with the kids who became key players in the Irish Westies and the Italian Mafia. He started robbing trains at the age of ten with his friends and became well-liked by both factions—he was one of the few people who successfully associated with both groups. My father’s cousin had a long career as a bookie, working with people like Fat Tony and Louie the Count—names and characters you would swear had to have come from a movie.

  My dad is a phenomenal storyteller, and I grew up hearing about his cousin’s antics and the insanity that was life in Hell's Kitchen in the 1950s. This fostered in me a mildly unhealthy fascination with all things mafia. I want to thank my dad for inspiring my imagination and giving me an appreciation for a lifestyle otherwise foreign to this Texas girl.

  I’d also like to thank the amazing authors, such as L.P. Lovell, J.M. Darhower, London Miller, Sarah Brianne, and Ashley Zavarelli, who fed my mafia obsession with the most harrowing, passionate stories of romance in the dark underworld. Not only are these ladies incredible storytellers, they are also fellow indie authors and trailblazers in their trade. Each of them has inspired me on a daily basis, and I am eternally grateful.

  About the Author

  Jill Ramsower is a life-long Texan—born in Houston, raised in Austin, and currently residing in West Texas. She attended Baylor University and subsequently Baylor Law School to obtain her BA and JD degrees. She spent the next fourteen years practicing law and raising her three children until one fateful day, she strayed from the well-trod path she had been walking and sat down to write a book. An addict with a pen, she set to writing like a woman possessed and discovered that telling stories is her passion in life.

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  Social Media & Website

  Official Website: www.jillramsower.com

  Jill's Facebook Page: www.facebook.com/jillramsowerauthor

  Follow Jill on Instagram: @jillramsowerauthor

  Follow Jill on Twitter: @JRamsower

  Did you get a chance to read Jill’s debut fantasy romance series? See what readers are calling “dark, somewhat disturbing, but utterly enjoyable” and grab the first book in Jill Ramsower’s The Fae Games series…

  Shadow Play

  By

  Jill Ramsower

  Available now, and here’s a taste of the Rebecca’s exciting adventure.

  1

  “Rebecca, order's up!” Joe hollered from the kitchen behind me.

  I flashed my gritte
d teeth in a look that was probably more creepy-carnie than patient waitress, as my customer changed his mind for the third time. I wanted to scream at him that it was lunch, not solving the national debt. I had started my day by opening a letter from my landlord announcing a rent increase, and things had only gotten worse from there. I dropped my phone on the way to work and shattered the screen, and as if that hadn’t been enough, I was currently in the middle of waiting tables during a particularly busy lunch rush.

  “What did you say the special was?” the overweight man with grease stains on his shirt asked casually, oblivious to my rising frustration.

  “Meatloaf—how about I check back with you in just a minute?” I started to step toward the next table where a customer sat with an empty glass, eyeing me for the past ten minutes.

  “No, no, I've got it. How about the Ruben—I'll have that with some fries. Do you guys have Coke? I hate that RC Cola, just not the same.”

  “Pepsi, actually.”

  “Ugh, why's it so hard to get a Coke in this damn city? Just bring me a water.”

  I gave him a grimace and hurried to the thirsty man at table five, got the ticket for table two, and ran back to the kitchen to get the order Joe had signaled was ready.

  “The fuck, Rebecca, food's getting cold,” Joe grumbled under his breath.

  He was a third-generation Italian whose father had started the small diner twenty years earlier. He had a strong New York accent and a receding hairline but was otherwise not totally unattractive. More importantly, he was decent to the waitresses. Days like these, though, we all got short tempered.

  “I know Joe, doing my best.”

  I loaded up a tray and carried it to table seven where two older couples sat with matching scowls. After I set each of their plates on the table, the man sitting closest to the window shook his head. “I knew it, this is cold. Feel it, it's cold now.” He fingered the pile of vegetables and picked up the chicken breast, waving it around in the air like silly putty in a child's hand. If it wasn't cold before, it certainly would be now.

  I visualized taking his full glass of ice water and slowly pouring it over his balding head. I couldn’t follow through, but the thought was enough to bring a smile to my face. “I'm very sorry; let me send that back for you.”

  “Don't just heat it up, it'll get rubbery,” he added as his companions dug into the food on their plates.

  “Yes sir, I'll have a fresh plate prepared right away.” I took the offending dish back to Joe and explained the problem before racing back out to clean up a now empty table two.

  Just looking at the booth weighed me down. Crayon markings on the table, food covering every square inch in sight, and a suspicious puddle on one of the benches. And for my troubles, a $1.50 tip.

  A dollar fifty—who does that?

  That's no way to treat another human being.

  My despair morphed into anger. I took out my frustrations on the formica table and cushioned benches as I threw dishes into a tub and wiped down every surface, including the puddle with the tell-tale ammonia scent of urine.

  I couldn't keep doing this. I had been in the city for two years, and I was getting nowhere—every day ate away more of my soul. At some point, I wouldn't recognize the girl I was anymore.

  Doing my best not to scowl or snap at my customers, I finished out my shift. What I had wanted to do was take off my apron and walk out the door without looking back. For months I had thought more and more about my lack of progress finding a job using my art history degree. My attempts to make the best of my situation were soured by feelings of failure and unmet potential. I had an incessant itch to make a change in my life, and that impulse could no longer be ignored.

  When people told me that I should have known better than to get a liberal arts degree, I always insisted that the arts were my passion. The joy I found in my studies outweighed my worry of finding a job after college. I was confident that if I gave my job search enough time, and was open minded about an entry level position, I would work my way up to becoming a museum curator or similar position in administration. What kind of museum I worked for was, for the most part, irrelevant. I wanted to be a part of the cultural world around me.

  After my shift, I sat in the back office to wait for Joe. The office was grungy, smelled of grease, and was crowded with supply boxes and random crap that had been set down and forgotten. I perched myself on the only chair not stacked with papers and wondered why I had not forced myself to do this a long time ago. When Joe finally walked in, I felt empowered and confident that I was making the right decision.

  “Hey Becca, what're you doing in here?” Joe sat back in his scarred leather desk chair and riffled through stacks of papers.

  “Joe, I'm giving my notice. It's time for me do something else.” Despite knowing I was doing the right thing, my voice came out soft because there was a part of me that felt bad for leaving.

  He stopped what he was doing and let out a sigh. “Yeah, I knew this day would come. You're better than this place, Bec. You need to get a job with that fancy degree of yours.”

  I gave Joe a warm smile. I should have known he’d be supportive. I had been working for him long enough to know he’d want the best for me. “Thanks, Joe. I'll give you two weeks, I'm not going to leave you hanging.”

  “Good to know. Now get outta here and good luck on the job hunt.”

  I gave him one more grin and left the diner holding my head high and determined to find a job that would be fulfilling. Branching out my search beyond New York would open up a myriad of options, and I was confident I would find success. Not only that, but for months I had found myself searching travel websites for deals and daydreaming about exploring new cities. I felt an inexplicable pull to pack my things and go, and it was growing stronger every day.

  Normally, on my walk home I would have taken my time and enjoyed the unseasonably warm weather, but the adrenaline brought on by quitting my job without a new position lined up kept my steps quick and my mind racing. Making sure to avoid Angry Arnold, the homeless guy who lived outside my building, I ran upstairs to my third-floor apartment and booted up my laptop.

  I may have been open to all types of museums, but that didn't mean I wanted to be stuck working in the American Windmill Museum back near my West Texas hometown. Not to say it didn’t have its place, but a job there would likely involve more dusting than negotiating the acquisition of new exhibits. I wanted to work in a dynamic museum that updated displays regularly and engaged the community. New York City wasn’t the only American city rich with museums, but if I was going to make a move, I wanted to go abroad. As my best friend Ashley would say, go big or go home.

  I had spent my childhood traveling, and it felt normal to pack up and relocate to cities where I didn't speak the language and knew no one but my parents. My mother was an artist who found inspiration in new cultures, and my father was a writer who could work from anywhere. Growing up, every penny we had went into traveling. I spent Easter in Beijing and summer in the Alps with only as much time as necessary back in Lubbock to regroup and save enough money to hit the road again.

  My mom’s mantra was 'a life lived in fear is a life half lived.' I may not have agreed with all her philosophies, but that one resonated with me on a deep level. I couldn’t miss out on life just because I was scared.

  I searched the internet for job listings in international museums, intending to focus my search in Italy for its rich history in art and culture. Despite those intentions, I found myself scouring listings for Irish job ads. When I discovered the assistant curator posting for the Ulster Museum in Belfast, my eyes locked on the laptop screen, and my pulse pounded in my ears. The job was well above my qualifications, and I had no idea what on earth made me think I had any business applying, but my gut told me to give it a try.

  I wrote down all the contact information for that position and information on several other jobs in various locations. By the time I had gather
ed a list of prospects, the museums in Europe were closed, so my phone inquiries had to wait until the following morning.

  When the front door was flung open, and my smiling best friend and roommate, Ashley, walked into the apartment, I panicked.

  Ash and I met when we were placed as potluck roommates at college, but we quickly settled into an easy friendship. If I was sad, she was there with cookies to wallow with me. If I was overwhelmed, she was the first to ask what she could do to help. If I had great news, she was the first person I wanted to tell. I shared everything with her, including my wardrobe. However, my seemingly sudden career change felt like a betrayal. As much as I wanted to share it with her, I was heartbroken at the idea of leaving her and couldn't force the words past my lips.

  “Whatcha up to?” she asked midway through changing into our standard evening loungewear leggings and a t-shirt. I could hear myself giving her the scoop on how I'd quit my job and was looking for work overseas, but instead, I clammed up.

  “Not much, just checking email and putzing on the internet.”

  “You know what night it is!” she called out in a sing-song voice.