Taken: A Dark Italian Mafia Romance (Men of Mayhem Book 3)

by Kristen Luciani

  “I was in it for a fucking year!” I yell, jumping off the stool. “I kept fucking Gio alive! I kept Freddie safe! I got you names! I did what you wanted!”

  “And now you’re Enemy Number One because of your dumbass idea to grab Marco’s phone.”

  “I was trying to—”

  “You were trying to figure out how to salvage the situation after you realized Gemma might be in danger. Admit it. She was your priority. Not Freddie. Not Gio. And not us.”

  I stomp over to where Vince is standing and push against him with my chest. “So then you obviously picked the wrong guy for the job, so what does that say about you?” I hiss.

  And then, expecting him to punch me for that comment, he shocks the shit out of me. With a quick shake of his head, he smiles. “No, ironically, I picked the right one. Even though you almost fucked us tonight and you made plenty of mistakes that could have cost us everything, you made the enemy scatter like cockroaches when you let Gio blast Marco.”

  I furrow my brow. “I don’t get it. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the Colombians. Word travels fast, bro. Sofia Rojas isn’t happy about her little victory. Yeah, she got Freddie last night, but she’s playing the long game, and we’re up next. Because of you, we’re finally prepared to handle her crew. You may not have planned the hit on Freddie, but it led us to the biggest enemy we have to face right now.” He nods his head toward my bedroom upstairs. “So pack a bag. We’re going on a little trip. Ant and Diego are meeting us at the airport.”

  “Where are we going?” I am so confused and fucking exhausted right now and part of me just wants to sit here and eat the rest of that icing while Vince scrubs the color off his mouth. Instead, I slide open the drawer next to my stove, grab the gift-wrapped journal Gemma gave me, and slip it behind my back. She gave it to me for a reason, and it’s my only connection to her right now.

  And maybe ever.

  “Monaco,” Vince says, turning around to face me. “That’s where the cockroaches are headed next. And that’s where we’ll crush them.” He takes a few steps toward me and places his hands on my shoulders. “Because we always crush them, Tommy. Always. That’s what you do for family.”

  Chapter Ten

  Tommaso

  Two Years Later

  “You know what guys in my line of work like to do to let off steam?” I glance at the shivering, blubbering asshole folded into a corner of my massive kitchen. “They listen to classical music, play video games, shoot hoops, drink, do drugs, fuck. Whatever it takes to erase the shit from their hands and minds. But you wanna know what I do?” I ask, dragging my prized beef slicer through the thick red flesh on the stainless-steel countertop as my captive whimpers, his eyes wide and laser-focused on my knife. I look up with a satisfied smile. “I butcher.”

  Carlos Diaz, the dipshit praying to God in Spanish at my feet, feels me.

  He gets that what he and his equally stupid partner did was bad on so many levels.

  And he knows he’s fucked right about now.

  I stop slicing, my knife poised over said partner and glare at Carlos.

  “Did you really think you were gonna get away with stealing those drugs, amigo?” I point the tip of my knife at Carlos. “And I can see you sampled them, too.” I shake my head, turning back to my work of art. “You scumbags violated our agreement, hijacked our drug shipments, and then you went behind my back to sell the stolen drugs to another family. And you’re gonna tell me who put you up to it or ese here isn’t the only one who’s gonna be gutted like a fucking fish. Comprende, dickhead?”

  Fucking Mexicans. Why the hell did we get into business with these assholes?

  The Guerra Cartel out of Juárez rose to power a couple of years ago, after their Colombian nemesis Sofia Rojas ordered the hit on Freddie and nearly killed my sister Gianna and brother-in-law Alek during a standoff in Monaco right afterward. Sofia made a play to become the most powerful cartel head in the world and went on a manhunt to destroy any organizations standing in her way, including ours.

  Luckily, our family trip to Monaco had a happy ending.

  I mean, not entirely for Alek since he took a couple of shots to the chest before finally icing the cunt bitch on the night we showed up in town.

  But that’s ancient history, and Sofia’s long gone, along with her degenerate family.

  An annoying voice in the back of my head says the cliché words I hate to hear but know to be true.

  History has a way of repeating itself.

  I push the thought to the back of my mind so I can finish writing my ‘message’ to Juan Salazar, one of the lieutenants of the Guerra Cartel and my supposed business partner.

  I don’t want to think about history.

  And with the work I’m in, concentrating too much on the future is damn stupid.

  So I take shit one day at a time.

  I have no delusions about the fact that my business dealings may have me on the receiving end of one of these messages at some point, but that doesn’t stop me.

  Nothing does.

  And nobody can.

  Not anymore.

  As soon as Sofia’s cartel crumbled, Vince decided we needed an exclusive supplier who would get us cheap drugs in return for distribution through our shipping ports along the coastline of Europe and Asia. It would be a win-win, and we’d launder all the money through my new and exclusive restaurant in Sicily, Il Gioiello, that’s opening soon.

  Except someone decided that they wanted to stick their hands in the cookie jar and fuck up our arrangement, and I suspect that bastard Juan Salazar is behind the whole thing. He’s looking to take over as head of the cartel and I’d bet my left nut that this was his way of making himself stand out against the competition. Now I just want to hear Carlos confirm my suspicions.

  “Okay, Carlos. Before it’s your turn to sit your ass up on my beautiful stainless-steel cutting board, why don’t you tell me the truth? Who came up with the plan to steal our drugs?” I swing my slicer through the air like I’m wielding a ninja sword. “And speak fucking English!”

  Dots of blood drip onto the front of Carlos’s dirty and faded jeans. His lips quiver, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, partly from the drugs, but mainly because of the crying.

  Fucking pussy.

  “I-it was Juan’s idea,” Carlos weeps. “He t-told us to t-take the d-drugs off your ships and s-sell them to Paolo Villani. He made an arrangement with Villani to distribute the drugs in his territories and use them to lure in women who’d be kidnapped and sold.”

  “Villani,” I repeat. Vince has ties to the boss, Paolo Villani, because he and my father grew up together. He’d never associate with Villani if he knew the guy was working in the sex trade. And with our history, I can’t believe Paolo would screw us over like that. It doesn’t make any sense.

  But if Villani is working with Juan, distributing on his behalf, there’s really no other explanation.

  Maybe Vince was duped.

  Or maybe Carlos is making up bullshit to stall me.

  Jesus Christ, it’s like you shut down one sex trafficking ring and fifty more bubble up to destroy innocent lives. Kidnap the women, addict them to drugs, and then have them mule the dope around. It feels like we’ve been chasing down these trafficking rings for years.

  Oh, yeah.

  We have.

  Fortunately for us, we’ve always won the battles.

  But when you cut the head off a hydra, five more grow in its place.

  And they’re all equally fucking destructive.

  “See?” I say, sitting back on my heels. “Was that so fucking hard? All you had to do was admit to stealing my shit and tell me who made you do it.” I flash a wide smile and give him a couple of slaps on the cheek. “If your idiot partner had flapped his gums a little more instead of trying to use my own knife against me, he might’ve lived instead of becoming human carpaccio.”

  “S-so you’re not g-going to kill m
e?” Carlos asks in a trembling voice.

  I straighten up, still clutching the slicer in my hand. “Oh, you’d better fucking believe I’m gonna kill you. But not right now. I have a big night coming up, and I need to plan a menu.”

  “Will w-we be on the plates?” Carlos asks in a cracked whisper.

  I snicker. “Listen, man. This is a classy fucking place. I’m not in the business of serving dirty drug dealing bastards to my celebrity guest list.” No, I’m thinking more like chilled veal with tuna crudo. And prosciutto-wrapped branzino with cippolini onion, fennel and herb aioli. Anything but the mangy fucking meat taking up my counterspace.

  My iPhone buzzes against the stainless steel and I grab it, rolling my eyes at the screen.

  I lay the thick strips of plastic over Carlos’s former sidekick and grab Carlos by the back of his jacket, pulling him to his feet. “Okay, ese, time for you to take a little nap or whatever the fuck you can manage in here while I do some work.” I push him into a tiny concrete cell in the corner of my basement ‘kitchen’, kicking the door closed behind him.

  His cries are muffled, and once he finds out how much it hurts to pound your fists on solid concrete, he stops.

  I let out a deep sigh and peel off my gloves before tossing them into the trash. I didn’t need this shit today, of all days. I’m hosting a small VIP event tonight before the opening, and I really didn’t want to take time away from the planning to find and kill my business partner.

  I take my private elevator up three floors to the main level, which is where my actual kitchen is located. It’s beautiful, sparkling, and begging to be used for the restaurant’s debut. I bought it from another owner about six months ago after my last restaurant got its third Michelin star. That’s how Salazar found me in the first place.

  He made me an offer I really wanted to refuse, but Vince liked the terms.

  A lot.

  So much that we tested the cash in, cash out theory with the restaurant and banked hundreds of millions in less than a year. Pretty soon, we needed another place to keep funneling through the money. The drug money was growing too fast for us to bank it for the one restaurant without raising red flags, so we needed another shelter for the cash.

  And it had to be the same type of business.

  So Salazar found us a new restaurant and mangled the owner pretty badly after threatening to cut off his limbs, one by one. Mission accomplished. Salazar scared the living shit out of him and the owner sold me the restaurant at a rock-bottom price. Six months later, here we are, ready to launch the next chapter of our illicit story.

  But like everything, it was too goddamn good to be true.

  Shit hasn’t been adding up recently, and when I sat down to run through the numbers, I found out we were getting shorted by at least a million for each of the past couple of months. Stupid fucks weren’t even smart enough to fly under the radar. They just kept taking bigger and bigger chunks, thinking the money they were bringing in was enough to keep us happy.

  They were wrong.

  And now that I know for sure who gave the order, they’re all gonna pay the debt…and one by one, they’ll become very acquainted with my meat slicer.

  But Salazar?

  Oh, I have something very special planned for him. He’s the big-ticket item on my menu.

  The other shitheads are just the amuse bouche.

  Salazar will be the primi and secondi courses.

  I clap my sous chef Roro on the back as I pass his station and take in a deep breath. The doors are closed and the place is off-limits to the public until the opening, but Roro and the rest of my staff have been working all day on sample bites for the VIP event tonight.

  “Try this,” he says with a big smile on his face. He spoons something off a plate and hands it to me. When the braised pork agnolotti hits my tongue and the flavors of Parmigiano Reggiano, basil, and savory explode in my mouth, I forget about my butchering and remember why I love my work so fucking much…my real work, that is.

  “That’s fucking amazing,” I mumble, scooping a spoonful of artichoke custard and bringing it under my nose. I inhale the scent of anchovy, garlic, and oregano and let out a low moan before sliding the spoon into my mouth.

  Roro flashes me a knowing smile. “I told you this menu would be outrageous. You’ve outdone yourself for real this time, Tommy.”

  I smirk. “You say that every time I create a new menu. You looking for another raise?”

  “Always.” He wipes his hands on the front of his apron and grabs an open bottle of Veuve Cliquot.

  “You started without me?” I ask, grabbing one of the flutes he hands to me.

  “When you cook a fucking masterpiece like that,” he nods at the trays of food. “Yeah. You take a break or two and knock back some bubbly. Keeps me fresh.”

  I gulp down the fizzy liquid and almost spit it out when I remember why I came up here in the first place. “Christ,” I grumble, putting down the glass. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t do any more pre-gaming without me.”

  Roro salutes me and turns back to the stove as I jog toward the front door, pulling it open. “Sorry, guys. I got a little sidetracked.”

  Vince, Ant, and Diego push past me and head right into the kitchen. They barely even look at the dining room, which I have to say is pretty incredible. The walls are colored with dark, moody hues that set off the white marble-tiled floor and a glass top bar sits along the back of the space. Lighting is minimal, creating an intimate and anonymous setting.

  It’s understated elegance at its finest.

  You’d never guess I chop up bodies deep in the underbelly of this place.

  Or that I launder dirty money right alongside the crisp linen table dressings.

  I’m a one-stop shop.

  Drugs, laundered cash, and the best zabaglione in the country, you can get it all, right in one place.

  Some might call me a bloodthirsty crackpot with a death wish for running this kind of an operation out of a soon-to-be Michelin-rated restaurant.

  I call myself an entrepreneur.

  What can I say?

  I like to think big and do bigger.

  I follow my brothers into the kitchen, watching Ant and Diego head straight for the stove.

  Ant claps a hand on Roro’s back in greeting and snatches a pork dumpling from the plate next to the stove. “What’s the good word, Yo-Yo?”

  “I’ve got a lotta words, Ant.” Roro smirks as he spins some sauce around a pot before drizzling it over some sea scallops. “But here are my favorite two — fuck off.”

  Ant recoils and clutches his heart. “Come on, Fro-Yo. I thought we had a thing going on here.”

  “The thing where you come in and eat my hard work then bitch about still being hungry?” Roro flings a pickled cucumber at my brother and turns back to his presentation. “Find a McDonald’s, you gavone.”

  “I can’t help it if all you know how to do is make small food,” Ant grumbles, grabbing a handful of rosemary-infused breadsticks from a basket and stuffing them into his mouth. “I’m a growing boy. I need volume.”

  “No, you need to get the fuck away from my sous chef,” I say with a snicker. “He’s busy bringing my vision to life, and if you don’t get the hell out of his way, there won’t be any fucking food for my event tonight.”

  Ant crunches on another breadstick and makes a face. “Jesus, even your breadsticks are small.”

  “I’ve never had any complaints before,” I say with a smirk. “Come on, let’s take a walk.”

  Diego nudges Ant away from Roro.

  “See ya later, JLo,” Ant snips.

  Roro laughs, but never looks up from his work. A total perfectionist, which is why he’s the ideal person to have as my right hand.

  Diego snatches a sea scallop and pops it in his mouth, then pokes Ant. “See? That’s how you do it. You’re just not slick enough, bro.”

  “Can you guys leave Roro alone, for fuck’s sake? We’ve got shit to discuss!”
Vince looks up from his phone, his dark eyes targeting mine. “Now.”

  I lead the way to the elevator and stick my key in the lock, and we pile into the small car as it creaks down to the lowest level. The doors open, a chill in the damp air.

  Diego sticks his hands into his jeans pocket. “Okay, what’s so urgent that you needed to drag us down here, Tommy? I was getting a blowjob when you called, and it was about to turn into something very fucking dirty, so this better be good.”

  I roll my eyes and walk over to my work area, flinging the plastic sheet off of my latest slay.

  “Oh, Christ. Did I just eat Carlos?” Ant moans, holding his stomach.

  I chuckle. “Nah. That’s not Carlos. Carlos is in the hole. This is..ah…I don’t really know, actually. Let’s just call him Dipshit number two.”

  “Okay. So did I just eat Dipshit number two?” Ant covers his mouth and starts to gag.

  “Don’t be such a pussy.” I roll my eyes. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

  Ant rushes toward me and grabs the sides of my jacket and I can’t help but laugh at the panicked look on his face.

  “Relax. You ate pork, not drug-dealing Mexican scum.”

  “Who the fuck is that?” Vince steps closer and peers at the guy’s lifeless body.

  “The new guy who works for Salazar,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “He showed up here today with Carlos Diaz to drop off some dope.”

  “And you killed him because…?” Vince glares at me.

  “Because Salazar is stiffing us. You know how this works. They bring us the drugs, we pay them, and then we move them and keep the profit.” I let out a deep sigh. “I checked our records and the amounts have been dropping over the past couple of months. So I looked into it and found out that someone has been hijacking our drug shipments.”