Lure (Mafia Queen Book 1) - C.M. Stunich(ang.)

Table of Contents Table of Contents Front Matter Title Page Copyright Dedication Signup for my Newsletter Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Back Matter Lavish (Mafia Queen #2) Cover Groupie Cover I Was Born Ruined Cover Glacier Cover Biker Rockstar Billionaire CEO Alpha Cover Keep Up With The Fun More Books By C.M. Stunich About the Author

This was it for me, the beginning of the end, the moment I shifted my gears from reluctant princess to greedy queen.

Lure (Mafia Queen #1) Lure © C.M. Stunich 2017 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478. www.sarianroyal.com Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

this book is dedicated to all the wonderful authors in my writing group. you know who you are! to many more late nights of writing to come. Special thanks go to Arianna Amyra H. Bonfanti for helping me with the Italian that appears in this book! Any errors remaining are entirely my own.

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Seduction was not a weapon I was comfortable wielding. “A woman can bring a man to his knees with the right shade of lipstick,” my mother used to say. And there wasn't a person on this earth that would know better than her; she'd married the most feared man in North America, kept his attention until the very end. But I was not my mother. “I don't …” I started to say, but I knew better than to spit meaningless phrases at my father's feet. Telling him that I didn't understand would only get me a harsh, bitter smile and a reprimand that would sting as sharp as the kiss of a whip. I did understand. I just didn't want to believe that his words were

true. I swallowed hard and swept my hands back over my hair, pushing the dark wavy strands away from my face. I was sweating—profusely—but my lips, tongue, and throat were suddenly dry, like none of the moisture in my body was where it was supposed to be. Droplets of sweat dotted my forehead and trailed down my spine like warm fingers. “I'm sorry,” I said, taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the men on either side of me, dressed casually enough but with this tightness to their bodies, like taut strings. If my father were to give any indication that he wanted me dead, I would be. “But why now?” “Let me worry about that,” he said, standing up and moving across my mother's meticulously decorated living room. Since she'd died, he'd kept the place up like a museum, treasuring every last magazine she'd left fanned out on the coffee table, the empty water glass on the mantle, even the vase of flowers on the sofa table. They were as dead as she was, but there they sat, brown and dried in the white vase my mother'd received as a wedding present. I was pretty sure her dying had driven him insane. “You want me to … date three different men?” I asked, feeling a small tremor pass through me as my father, Carlo Costello, the leader of the Costello

Crime Family, paused on my right side, his arm just barely touching mine. “Is that a new habit you've developed since moving out?” he asked me, and even that simple question held the slightest tinge of a threat. “Repeating things that have already been said?” I stood there, staring straight ahead at my mother's white linen couch, watching my life pull away from me like waves on a beach. No, no, no, no, no. This isn't happening. I won't let this happen. “I have a life now,” I started, but Carlo just laughed. “A life?” he asked, as he waved Vincent, his consigliere—basically his advisor—over to us. Carlo put a big, meaty hand on my shoulder, a gesture that should've been familial but came across as ominous instead. “Ah, tesoro, you know that any life you lead is just a gift from me.” His hand slid off my shoulder and he walked away, loafers loud against the marble floor, the taint of cigarette smoke trailing along behind him.

I waited until I got to the bar to have a freak-out. “No, God, please,” I whispered, rubbing at the rosary around my neck and pacing back and forth in the swanky gray-on-gray bathroom at the Nightingale. It was the only bar I liked, upscale

enough to keep college students out but affordable enough that I could keep a long-standing appointment with my best friends to have drinks every Friday night. Putting my hands on the edge of the countertop, I leaned forward and stared at myself in the mirror, at the purple-blue bags under my eyes and the tightness around my mouth. I was feeling okay about turning thirty next month, really okay … but now, looking at myself, I looked haggard. “Fuck you, Carlo,” I growled, turning on the tap and splashing my face with water. One visit with that man had aged me a decade and now I was supposed to work for him? I glanced up, staring into dark brown eyes ringed with smudged liner. My father's eyes. I hit the tap with the heel of my hand and headed out into the haziness of the bar, happy chatter and the clinking of glasses following me across the room toward our usual table. “We need you, Adelasia.” A pause. An eerie smile. “That special talent that only you possess.” “I won't do it,” I said as I tucked my sequined clutch under one arm and steered my way through the bar, straight over to where Takia, Edlyn, and Millie were sitting, waiting for me. “I'll just tell him no and that'll be it. He has no control over me. None. The things I know could sink that whole ship …”

Yet I knew without a doubt that if I went to the cops with the mafia's secrets, I wouldn't be around long enough to enjoy this life I was so scared of losing. “Hey!” I said, plastering a false smile onto my face as I slid into the purple velvet booth. “Looks like you guys got started without me.” I waved a server down as Takia pushed her martini toward me. “Are you okay?” she asked, putting her hand on my arm, a full wrist of gold bracelets tinkling with the motion. “You don't look very good.” “I'm just …” I started, but how did I tell my friends that everything they knew about me was a lie? How did I tell them that the bubbly, outgoing girl they met in college was a persona that I made up to escape the reality of who I really was? As far as they knew, both my parents were dead, and the lives they had lived … boring, average, unassuming. So how was I supposed to tell them that my father wanted me to date not one, not two, but three different mafia underbosses? Hmm? Three different men with the royal blood of three different crime families running through their veins, each one a prince to his own throne. “Meet with them. Seduce them. Find out what I need to know.” It was disgusting, just fucking disgusting. All of

it. My father wanted to join two great crime families by using me as a pawn—but he wanted to play the field first. It was a dangerous move that risked my life first and foremost. An indispensable weapon, that's what my father called me. “Just … had a hard day at work,” I lied, downing Takia's drink in a single sip and setting the glass down on the table a little harder than necessary. “Just a hard goddamn day.” “It's not Bo, is it?” Edlyn asked, leaning back against the seat, and surreptitiously glancing down at the screen of her phone. It was sitting on the table, glowing harshly in the dim, atmospheric lighting. Edlyn had three kids—one of whom was a nine month old baby—and she didn't get out much. Friday was supposed to be her day of the week to relax, but she couldn't resist checking her phone every few minutes to see if her husband had texted. “It's not Bo,” I confirmed, mouthing a generous thank you to the waiter for bringing over my drink. God. Bo. His face was the first image that popped up in my mind when my father started talking, listing his demands like I was a soldier in his stupid fucking army instead of his only daughter. Bo, my boyfriend of two years, was not going to just sit by while I dated three other dudes. And even if he were so inclined, how did I explain the how part of

this equation? How the hell did a twenty-nine year old woman get forced into dating men she didn't know for her father's crime syndicate? Because her life depended on it, that's why. But like the girls, Bo didn't know a damn thing about the true history of the woman he was living with. Not a goddamn thing. “Lawyer stuff?” asked Millie, and I smiled, nice and tight. Three sips of the drink in my hand and I was starting to feel a little more relaxed. Well, as relaxed as a person can be when they've just been told by their mafia don father that they're going to be dating three violent criminals with sordid histories painted in blood. Oh, sure, I was about as calm as a rabid wolverine. “Lawyer stuff,” I repeated, because apparently that was all I was capable of in that moment. “I don't care if you have to wine, dine, or fuck their brains out, but you will figure out who's in league with the cartel and then report back to me. Are we clear, cucciola?” My throat got tight all of a sudden and I had to down the rest of my drink just to wet it enough to speak. “So, what's up with you guys?” I asked, trying to settle myself into the familiarity of our routine, a routine that I wasn't going to get to enjoy for much

longer if I didn't figure out a way to weasel out of this. Either my dad was going to kill me for refusing his orders … or one of the other families was going to find out that he was not only shopping for my future husband-to-be, but also fishing for information that somebody was going to be awful careful to keep. Seduce three dangerous men. Kill one. Marry one. Hope the third didn't kill me when he found out what I'd done. Oh yeah. Seduction was not my weapon of choice. But it might be my only salvation.

Nightmares stole the rest of my Friday night away from me, leaving me in a sad, sorry state on Saturday morning. Bo was out of town, so I had the apartment all to myself, just me and his little orange tabby cat named Sanders. “I hate my life,” I told the cat as he sat in Bo's usual chair and licked his shoulder. My elbow was propped on the edge of the table, my head in my hand as I contemplated downing a glass of orange juice to try to wash away my hangover. Then again, considering the current state of my affairs, maybe a little hair of the dog was in order? “Well, actually,” I continued as Sanders chewed a spot on his leg and made me wonder if it was time to reapply his flea medication, “I loved my life.

See? The worst thing I had to deal with on a Saturday was whether or not Bo would make it home for dinner, and if I should give you a bath. Now it's wondering if I'm going to be executed in my sleep by hitmen who work for my father.” I stood up, my stool scraping across the worn hardwood floor, and made my way over to the cabinet for some vodka. It was screwdriver time for fucking sure. I refused to look at the clock and acknowledge that it was only nine in the morning. When one's life is on the line … vodka is not just a want but a necessity. “What am I going to do, Sand?” I asked, pouring a more than healthy dose of alcohol into my juice. “If Carlo were at all inclined to take his daughter's wishes into account, he wouldn't have asked me over to the house with an audience.” I finished pouring my drink and set the bottle aside, picking up the glass and not even bothering to stir it before I took a chug. “If I defy him now, then everyone will know it. They'll know it and he'll have no choice but to …” I didn't get to finish my sentence—not that it mattered since, you know, I was talking to a cat— because the doorbell to my loft rang, echoing with ominous intent around the cozy little space I shared with Bo. “Jesus Christ,” I murmured and clutched at my

rosary, praying that it was just Millie stopping by with coffee or Edlyn with a desperate plea for me to babysit. I grabbed my phone off the table as I moved to the door, but the only message on there was from Bo. Have dinner out with me tonight? I'll be home at six. I swallowed hard and bit my lower lip, trying to hold back a scream. I didn't even bother to check the peephole before I opened the door; I already knew who was going to be standing on the other side of it. “Good morning, Vincent,” I said, nostrils flaring at the sight of Vincent Gotti, my father's righthand man. He was looking sharp in a checkered black and white suit, a crisp button-up and black silk tie layered underneath. His face was lined, but still handsome. It was no wonder my Aunt Giuliana had fallen for him almost as badly as my mother'd fallen for Carlo. “Would you like something to drink?” “I'd love something,” he said, closing the door behind him and making sure to flip all the locks. “Bourbon, neat, if you've got it.” “I have vodka and red wine,” I told him, noticing a visible wince on his part as I made my way over to the kitchen cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Cabernet. I made sure it was a California grape— there wasn't a man in the Costello Crime Family that didn't despise Napa Valley wine.

“Vodka then,” he said, and then waited patiently next to the table while I fetched him a glass. Old-fashioned as he was, he didn't sit until I did. “You're here awfully early,” I said, and watched as his thin lips twisted into a smile. He looked nice enough like this, sitting at the distressed French country bistro table that Bo and I had picked out at the secondhand shop. But I knew better. I'd seen this man covered head to toe in blood. “You know your father,” he said with a congenial laugh, leaning back in his seat and tapping his fingers on the tabletop. “Once he's made a decision, he likes to move quick. Besides, cartel involvement is bad for business. We've all got families to take care of, Adelasia.” “Right,” I said, taking the seat opposite him and pulling my screwdriver close. If Vincent was here this early in the morning, I was going to need at least three of these to function properly. “This is all about putting food in your children's mouths.” “The family always put food in yours, didn't it?” he asked me as I stared into the thick orange waters of my drink. It was tempting to lift it up and toss it in his face, but that wouldn't get me anywhere. If there was one thing the family would not tolerate, it was disrespect. “Paid for that fancy law school of yours.” He paused and lifted the tumbler to his mouth, taking a long, slow sip of the vodka. It was good stuff, nice and smooth, but he sipped it so

slow, savored the mouthful before swallowing—and he didn't even flinch. “Tell me, Lazy,” Vincent continued, using my childhood nickname, the one I'd always hated. I might've been a lot of things, but lazy was not one of them. “What have you ever done for the family? Hmm? Have you ever put that fancy law degree of yours to good use?” “I work in animal rights law, Vincent, not criminal law. Helping men slip past very legitimate charges isn't exactly my thing.” “Right, va bene, so you use your degree for puppies and kitties—I respect that.” I frowned. It didn't sound like he respected me at all. No, I was clearly being mocked. “So if you won't use that law degree of yours to help your papà, then why not take advantage of that pretty face?” Vincent winked at me as I tightened my mouth into a long, thin line. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I'd worked my whole life to stand up for those that didn't have a voice—working for equal rights for women and those in the LGBT community, for the rights of shelter animals, fighting to save huge swaths of public parklands from development. I wasn't about to sit here and watch my own voice be ripped straight from my throat. “If I find out the information that my father wants,” I began, knowing that I was trying to bargain with absolutely zero chips. If I wasn't

careful, my father would send someone after Bo, after Takia, Edlyn, or Millie. And then, once everyone I loved was dead, he'd come after me. “I'd like to come back here, to my life.” Vincent smiled and stood up without answering me, setting his empty vodka glass aside. “Phone, please,” he said as I gaped up at him. My entire life was in that phone. My work schedule, client list, photos of me and Bo, my girlfriends' numbers. “What do you need my phone for?” I asked warily, pushing it across the table. Thing was, I knew this was coming. In fact, I'd been worrying about something like this happening for so long that I always kept a backup phone—charged and connected to my account. The phone I carried with me was connected to the cloud and scheduled to backup all my information every hour on the hour. Vincent could take this phone, but I had another one. “You let me worry about that,” he told me, pocketing my cell and handing me another one. “You'll get a different phone everyday,” he explained, watching as I flipped through mindless photos of kittens, grocery lists I'd never made, and texts to numbers I didn't recognize. It was all meaningless fluff, meant to throw off someone snooping through my phone. “Every morning, you will check in with me,” he continued, moving over

to the door and unlocking it, gesturing with his chin for several of my father's men to enter. “Understood? No matter where you are.” His mouth quirked up at one edge. “If you spend the night out, no problem. But at nine every morning,” Vincent pointed to the clock on the stove, “you will call me and we'll talk about meeting for breakfast. Understood?” I nodded because I couldn't bear to say a word, not now. Emotions were bubbling up in my throat like acid, burning my esophagus, making me want to choke. I wasn't sure if it was anger, fear, or despair—most likely it was a mix of all three. “Show the boys what you want to take with you. This is your last day living in this dump.” Vincent gestured at his men as I pulled my robe tighter around me. “Start packing.” “Follow me,” I managed to say, the hand holding my screwdriver trembling as I led them into the bedroom. “You can grab all the clothes in here,” I continued, kicking my silver dresser with bare toes. “And here.” I pointed at the closet. “Take the books in the living room, and all the good glassware from the kitchen.” I smiled tightly. “I basically moved in here with nothing—this is all Bo's stuff. My furniture's in storage.” Blatant lie, that. But I wasn't willing to give up on the idea of having my own life, of having Bo, of

living in this apartment. I would find a way back here, somehow, someway. So I'd take just enough personal effects to convince Vincent and Carlo that I was moving out, but not so much that it'd be difficult to move back in. “Excuse me while I change my tampon,” I said purposefully, noticing several of the men wrinkling their noses. I grabbed a stack of clean clothes off the dresser and smiled tightly. “Misogynistic pigs,” I muttered under my breath, making sure the bathroom door was closed and locked before I flipped the switch for the fan. With the loud whirring covering up the sound of my movements, I pulled open the top drawer of the vanity and extracted a box of tampons, pulling the few wrapped ones off the top so I could get to the phone underneath. Need to hide something from the mafia? 'Macho' men never want to go through a lady's personal effects. Too icky, I guess. Maybe they're afraid of cooties? Whatever the reason, I was just glad to have a lifeline to the outside world. Remember how we discussed cleaning out the apartment to make room for a dog? Well, I took a bunch of books to the used bookstore today for credit. Oh, and I've managed to purge most of my clothes. Yay! I'll be out of town for a few days on a business trip. Came up last minute. I just don't want you to worry.

I sent the wordy text with a quick selfie of me kissing my phone, and hoped Bo didn't think too hard about it. Next, I messaged my boss, my secretary, and my girlfriends, wondering how much time my lame excuses would really buy me. Not a lot would be my guess. I checked one last time to make sure my information was stored in the cloud, turned the phone off, and tucked it back in the tampon box. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, it was time. I approached the front door and wasn't at all surprised when Vincent asked to take a look inside my purse. He rifled around, withdrawing the Taser I'd bought in California as well as my pepper spray, and handing those over to one of the men. He paused briefly on the box of tampons, opened the top and peered inside, but as soon as he saw pink, gold, and blue wrappers, he closed it back up again. I had to hold back a sigh of relief. One single little tell and he'd know. Vincent was an expert at reading people. But I'd grown up around him; I knew exactly what to do. “Where are we heading?” I asked as we made our way to the elevator. I'm not even sure why I asked. I knew. Vincent just smiled tightly.

And so off to my father's house we went.

The Costello family home was a sprawling art nouveau style mansion buried in the vibrant countryside of upstate New York, about four hours outside of the city. Thirty manicured acres spread out around the house, a sea of vineyards on one side and several themed gardens on the other. One entire wall showcased a mosaic and stained glass mural of the Italian countryside, a Tuscan tribute that was as gaudy as it was beautiful. From the front lawn, if you squinted just right, you could see a yellow-orange stained glass window serving as the summer sun in a blue, blue sky. That was the only window on the front of the house that let light into my bedroom. And it was about as comfortable as a jail cell. My room was on the third floor, last door on the

right, the very same room I'd lived in all my life. I was even born in this house. I sat down on the side of my bed, curling my fingers around the edge of the mattress as I stared at the floor and tried to think my way out of this. I was really good at that, thinking myself out of terrible situations. I'd been doing it my whole life. My father's real goals here were what? First and foremost, he needed to find out which of the old families had finally sold out and partnered with a cartel from across the border. Second, he wanted to strengthen his numbers and bolster his power by adding the might of the Costello crime syndicate to another mafia family. The first part, I was pretty sure I could help with. It might take some … maneuvering to get that sort of information without actually having to fuck my way to it, but I'd figure it out. I wasn't about to whore myself out on my father's whim. Sorry, but this was the twenty-first century and there were better ways. There had to be a better way. But number two on dad's list of priorities? I needed to find a way out of that one—and quick. Marrying a mob boss not only ruined the life I had now, but pretty much ensured that I never had a life of my own again. Temporarily, I could deal with the family and their bullshit.

Forever though … forever was far too long. A knock sounded at the door. As expected. I stood up and made my way over to answer it, finding a woman with a dress wrapped in plastic and a man behind her holding several very expensive looking boxes. “Miss Costello,” she said, pushing her way into the room and gesturing for the man to set his packages down on my old vanity table. Once he was done, she waved him away and he closed the door on his way out. I didn't recognize the woman which was surprising since my father hated to change out members of his staff—every new person that set foot in this house was an unknown, a liability just waiting to happen. And each new person had to be indoctrinated into the organization, threatened or bribed (usually both) to keep everything that happened at the house quiet, discreet. It was a lot of work. “Who are you?” I asked blatantly, folding my arms across the front of my red t-shirt and watching her as she hung the dress on the rack hanging off the bathroom door. As she unzipped it, I caught a glimpse of a sleek, black dress inside. Something wicked, dangerous. A weapon. My throat went dry and I pressed a pair of

fingers to my temple. “What's all this?” “Vera Caprice,” the woman told me brusquely, her Italian accent so thick it was a struggle to understand. I spoke Italian, too, but I wasn't about to start engaging her in my grandparents' language. My dad called himself Italian, but I considered myself an American, through and through. “I'm here to dress you for your engagement this evening.” “Engagement?” I asked, and then paused again as another knock sounded on the door. “Are you decent?” Vincent asked, but he didn't wait for an answer before opening it. “Ah, Adelasia, I see you've met Vera. She's your father's new … interior decorator.” His smile told me everything I needed to know about that. “Tonight, you're having dinner with Marcell Moran,” he continued, thrusting me into this nightmare with little preamble. I could feel the color draining from my face. I'd known this was coming obviously, but it was just so … sudden. And Mr. Moran? He was notorious. “He'll be here to pick you up in two hours. As soon as you're dressed, come downstairs and we'll talk. Your father—bless his old heart—thinks there's nothing more to this than makeup and a

pretty face, but you and I know different, don't we, topolina?” “Give me fifteen,” I told him, but Vera was already looking at me in my faded jeans and t-shirt like I was crazy. “One hour,” she said, in the dripping European vowels of her homeland. My nostrils flared, but Vincent nodded like my father's courtesan's word was final and left, tipping his hat at me before he closed the door. Vera turned to look at me, her skin kissed by the sun, her dark hair lying in gentle waves around her face. She looked like she belonged on a Victoria's Secret runway, not standing in this coffin surrounded by death and crime. I wanted to ask her her age, but I decided I'd rather not know. My guess? Twenty-one, twenty-two at most. And my father was sixty. My mouth pursed tight. Vera looked at me for a long moment, her red lips puckering slightly at the dastardly state of me. I expected her to ask something about my hair or makeup. Instead, I got this … “Are you on birth control?” I tried not to scream. Really, I did. But in the end, I had to hide myself in the bathroom and shout every curse I knew in both English and Italian into the sweet smelling folds of a towel. Dinner with Marcell Moran.

The underboss of the Moran Crime Family. Thirty-one years old, dressed in blood and sin. A man wanted by the FBI, but so disconnected from the actual acts of his organization that even RICO charges couldn't be brought against him. He was a manipulative son of a bitch with a fortune equal to my father's own, a sharp temper, and a face that could melt the panties off a nun. Fuck me.

The dress that Vera pulled from the bag was an Armani evening gown in silk, its dark folds more of a charcoal than a true black. It draped over my body like a glove, kissing my curves in all the right places and bringing out the rich, olive tones of my skin. I'd been putting in so many hours at the office lately that I'd gotten pale, almost ashen. But wearing this dress, there was no doubt I was one hundred percent an Italian girl. I sat in the small white chair in front of the vanity and let Vera do my makeup. I'd always thought I was pretty damn good at it, but seeing her steady hand made me wonder if I'd been doing an amateur job on my face all these years. I was given lips as red as blood, a wicked sexy cat eye with gold shadow powdered across my lids, and lashes that curved up so far I could feel them brushing my brow.

My dark hair was twisted into a chignon on the back of my head, a few artful pieces curled around my face. And the jewelry? Well, if I wasn't essentially being held against my will, I might've enjoyed it. My father had spared no expense in making this evening right—I was wearing over two million dollars in diamonds around my slender throat, dangling from the lobes of my ears, glittering like ice from my wrists and fingers. Even the shoes were lovely, these gold strappy sandals with little diamond charms hanging down the back and teasing the skin of my ankle. When I next looked in the mirror, I didn't recognize myself. My breath caught and I felt this sudden, sharp tugging inside my chest. This, this is what I wanted to look like for Bo. I wanted to put on an outfit like this and go to dinner at our favorite restaurant, watch him smiling across the table at me, maybe even get up the courage to propose to him—or wait and see if he might propose to me. But in light of the situation, I felt like a glittering doll, like a knife with a hilt dressed in jewels. It might look pretty, but it's only purpose is to kill. The most disturbing part of the whole getup was what I was wearing underneath it. I wasn't wearing a bra, but I had on a garter belt,

a thong, and thigh-highs whose only purpose was to be seen after the floor length dress came off. I didn't plan on using that particular part of my arsenal, but the very fact that I had the lingerie on disturbed me. When Vera was finished, she simply packed up her makeup, opened the door and left. She'd done her job; now it was time for me to do mine. With a sigh, I stood up and headed into the long stretch of hallway, childhood memories assaulting me as I made my way toward the curved length of staircase that led to the second floor. As a little kid, I was scared of this house and all the monsters I just knew were hiding inside of it. When I got a little older, I never stopped being scared of the house, but by that point, I'd learned that monsters weren't real. No, it was people that I had to be scared of, that I needed to worry about. My own darkness most of all. That was the most frightening thing I'd ever encountered. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I pushed the cobwebs of old memories to the back of my mind and put them to bed. Thinking about the naivety of my childhood and the sin of my young adult years would not do me any good here tonight. My eyes flicked open and I kept my gaze straight ahead, focused on the task at hand. Slowly, I worked my way down to the second

floor, ignoring my mother's shuttered bedroom door as I passed down to the ground floor and outside, to where my father was enjoying a moment by the pool. He waved me over, holding Vera close by his side, and smoking a cigar. “Polpetta mia, look at you, ” he said with a cruel laugh. “You are truly a woman now, aren't you?” I pursed my lips. I'd always hated being called polpetta; it literally translated to meatball. When I was younger, I was substantially overweight, and my father had never let me forget it for a moment. Now that I was older and more slender, in control of my body and life for the first time, he just couldn't resist reminding me of who I used to be. Young. Scared. Under his control. And then later … A nightmare of his own making. “She cuts quite the figure, my daughter,” Carlo said as he stood up and walked over to me, his dark eyes twinkling as he took me in like just another commodity, another soldier in his army. “Don't you think, Vincent?” “Assolutamente,” he said, pushing through the etched glass doors that led onto the patio and securing them open with a pair of latches on the side the house. Vincent made his way over to us and quirked a small, sad smile. “The spitting image of her mother, is she not?”

“She is,” Carlo said, but his voice was tight all of a sudden, almost broken, like shattered glass in a blender. “Are you ready?” he asked me, turning my entire life upside down with a single sentence. Yesterday, I'd been in my office, working on a proposal that would stop publicly funded shelters from ever using a gas chamber on their animals again … and then I'd gotten that call, that awful call I'd been dreading my whole life. An invitation from Carlo. An invitation that lead to a conversation that lead to this. So, when he asked if I was ready, the answer to that question was no. No, I was not ready. I would never be ready. “Yes,” I heard my perfectly manicured lips say, moving solely out of a sense of self-preservation. “Good,” Carlo said, leaning over to give me a tobacco scented kiss on my forehead. “I'll see you tomorrow for lunch?” I nodded and watched as he moved away, gesturing for Vera to follow along behind him like a dog. “Alright,” Vincent said as I turned around and looked at him, pulling out a piece of paper from his checkered suit jacket. “As I said, tonight's dinner is with Marcell, Mario Moran's only son. He's been one of your father's most outspoken supporters for

the past few years, even going so far as to deliver Antonio Lucchese's head on a platter.” I didn't ask if that was literal or figurative. There was a good chance it was very literal indeed. And I remembered Antonio Lucchese from my years working with the family—he was a fucking rat. The world was better off without him, even if the idea of his decapitated head gave me goose bumps. “He's been in charge of arms trafficking in the city for years; poor Mario doesn't have shit to do over there in that big old house o' his anymore.” Vincent scribbled something down on a sheet of paper and showed it to me. Highly suspect—take it slow, is all it said. And then he was lighting the scrap with the silver Zippo from his pocket and tossing it into the pool. “Since you have a standing appointment for breakfast with me, and another one for lunch with your father, I'd like to see you back here tonight.” I just stared at Vincent's wrinkled face and wondered if, in another life, he might be that grandfatherly figure I'd always wanted. But I knew that at least right here, right now in this particular life, that all his joviality served to do was hide his cruelty. Apparently I was not only condemned to date three criminally adept devils, but I also couldn't set

my own terms for a night out with one of them. I had to wonder if the next slip of paper that Vinny flashed me might tell me what positions to use during sex, or if I should start with a hand job or a blow job instead. “Any questions?” “I don't understand how I'm supposed to talk a man into telling me all his secrets when I don't know a goddamn thing about him.” “You're a smart girl,” Vincent said, but he was looking at the slit in my dress instead of my face. It was a pointed look, a reminder. Seduction was my weapon, and I would not be allowed to forget that. “Get to know the guy. Figure him out. You know what they say, right? Behind every powerful man, there's a woman between the sheets that knows all his dirt.” “I highly doubt that's a widely used phrase,” I muttered, moving past him and into the living room just in time to see the SUV pull up in front of my house. Fuck. Here we go. The beginning of my end.

My heels clacked across the marble floor toward the front door, a death knell that seemed to ring in my head like the tolling of church bells. An hour away, in a city loft with an orange and white cat, Bo was probably staring at the empty bookcase and wondering what the hell had gotten into me, a girl who loved her first edition classics getting rid of her whole collection on a whim? And I could only imagine what my boss thought about the supposed 'family emergency' that would keep me away from work for the foreseeable future —especially since I'd told her my entire family was dead and gone. A girl could wish. “Mr. Masseria,” my father's butler, a man named Carmine Roselli, said as he opened the door for an

older gentleman I recognized right away. Not Marcell Moran, but his driver. The other families were as careful about keeping their staff consistent as my father was; everybody knew everybody by this point. “I apologize. The day has certainly been eventful. Mr. Moran has elected to remain in the car for security reasons. I'd be happy to escort you out, Miss Costello. If that suits the lady, of course.” “It suits her just fine,” I said, deciding that at the very least, Marcell's driver had enough common sense to look me in the eye when he was talking, and the balls to actually ask me what I wanted. It was refreshing after the day I'd had. I stepped up to him and held out my arm, letting him lead me down the damp pavement toward the idling SUV. It was nice, a Bentley Bentayga, but it was indistinct, easily looked over—like all the Costello syndicate vehicles. It was important not to attract attention. As we approached the back door, I felt my heartbeat start to pick up. Not only was I about to climb in this vehicle with a man who ran a quarter of the New York City underground, but I was going to have to play nice with him through an entire evening of dinner and God only knew what else. Just not sex, of course. I would remain faithful to Bo if it killed me.

And in this company, it just might. “Miss Costello,” the driver said, unhooking his arm from mine and opening the back door for me. I didn't hesitate, pushing through the moment as if I wanted to be here doing this, as if I was actually a willing participant in this whole scenario. I didn't need to ask Vincent or Carlo to know if they'd told the other families about my reluctance agreeing to this whole scenario. They'd expect complete obedience from me, just like they did any other member of the organization. I hated being born into this life. Hated it. “Miss Costello,” a voice greeted before I'd even gotten the chance to settle onto the leather bench seat. “It's a pleasure.” Holy. Shit. My skin rippled with sinful delight and I unknowingly wet my lower lip with my tongue. The voice that was speaking from the shadows was warm, but dangerous, this easy tone that belied the true nature underneath. It was darkness made sound, like church bells in the night, a warning to lone travelers to stay away. To run. I just wasn't sure if I was supposed to run away … or run toward it. “Mr. Moran,” I said, feeling my heartbeat pick up in a staccato rhythm that sloshed the blood between my ears and turned the volume up on my pulse to a point where I could barely hear my own

thoughts. I blinked several times, trying to adjust to the low light in the backseat. Before I'd even gotten the chance to gather my thoughts, a hand was coming to rest on my right leg, the scorching path of a thumbprint chasing its away across the bare skin below the slit in my dress. Shivers of heat rose up in my skin, obliterating the words in my mouth, freezing my hand in midmovement as I tried to shove Marcell's away. “A pleasure,” he repeated, withdrawing his hand and leaving me an icy ruin. “I …” I had no idea what to say, sitting there and blinking through the shadows at the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. I mean Bo was handsome, but … the man sitting next to me was pure unadulterated sin. He was lust given life, a demon risen from the depths of hell, as beautiful as he was dangerous. The words died on my lips. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, his eyes as black as the darkness outside the SUV, his hair an indistinguishable shade from the shadows. His smile was liquid agony, melting my insides and calling up every single shred of my DNA that belonged to the Costello family. Hot. Impulsive. Easy to anger and quick to lust. It was literally in my blood.

And I'd been ignoring it for eight, almost nine, years. That was going to come back to bite me in the ass, wasn't it? “I, uh,” I started, looking around for the bar— there usually was one, in any proper mafia convey. After all, our families were built on the fruits of prohibition. Supplying booze was as natural as offering a smile or a handshake. A quick glance over my shoulder showed me a pair of bodyguards in the back row, a small cabinet built into the wall beside them. Instead of a third seat, there was a minibar right there in the back of the vehicle. Figures. “Whiskey, neat,” I managed to choke out. I wanted that fire to burn down my throat, sear me awake, break my concentration away from the crime lord sitting next to me. Marcell didn't repeat my order to his employees. Why bother? There was no doubt in that handsome head of his that they'd be jumping to accommodate his every whim. I hoped it wouldn't be too much of a disappointment when I did not. “The same for me,” he said, his words these quiet whispers that cut through the dark and drove straight into me. Marcell was looking at me from a face chiseled out of darkness, that strong, square jaw, lightly

stubbled and perfectly shaped around that full mouth of his. The way he was looking at me, I felt like he could see straight through my skin and all the way down to the deepest, darkest parts of me, the ones I tried to keep hidden from the world. From myself, my girlfriends, even from Bo. I didn't want anybody looking that closely, so I turned away, pretending to be interested in scenery I couldn't exactly see outside the tinted windows, a sea of night sky and stars my only companions. “Are we heading into the city?” I asked. I secretly hoped so. Just being in the city would mean I'd be closer to Bo. Then again, it was a four hour drive. “To the water,” he said slowly, almost like he was testing the syllables out on his lips. “I'm very excited to meet you, Miss Costello. I've prepared a very special evening for us.” I looked back at him, hating that sweat was beading on the sides of my neck, trailing down my spine. I didn't want to like this man. And I don't think that was really it at all anyway; I don't think that I did. But my body did, my hormones, my senses. I could smell him, sitting over there with a musky sharpness to his aftershave, this violently beautiful scent that I knew I'd never forget, not even if I lived a thousand years.

Bo, I need you, I thought as I curled my fingers in the silken folds of my dress. I need you right fucking now. “Seafood sounds nice,” I said blandly, reminding myself that I was not supposed to sit here and sweat like a teenage girl with a crush. I had a job to do, and the sooner I did it, the sooner I could leave, go back home to my boyfriend and my cat and my Kindle. “Your drink, Miss Costello,” Marcell said, taking the small tumbler from one of his men and passing it over to me. I could smell the scorching fire of the whiskey before I even took my first drink. As soon as I touched the glass to my lips I could feel Marcell's eyes on my mouth. I tried my best to ignore the penetrating reach of his gaze and tipped the drink back, luxuriating in the spicy burn of the liquid. It warmed me up from the inside out, gave me the final push I needed to collect my head. It also made me wonder if Marcell's lips would burn so good, if his kiss would chase through my body with the same scalding warmth as my drink. “Any place I might've heard of?” I asked casually, turning so that my back was to the door, my legs crossed at the knee. The movement pushed my dress up my thigh, flashing a long, smooth line of olive skin that Marcell ignored as if it wasn't

there at all. Instead, his focus remained on my lips. I wet them and Marcell smiled, his cruel mouth turning up at the edges. “I highly doubt it,” he said, accepting another drink from the backseat. The way he held it, it was as if he was cradling it in his big hands, granting reverence to the aubergine glass with long fingers tattooed with words and symbols I didn't understand—didn't want to understand. Deep down, I knew who I was—the daughter of the most powerful crime lord on the East Coast—but I also knew that that was not how I'd chosen to define myself. Whatever secrets Marcell was holding in his hands, he could keep them. “It's local,” he told me, continuing the conservation as if there weren't long, hot pauses in between, “family run.” “Ah, I see,” I said, with a smile that was all my own. “A family run operation. Invitation only, I presume?” “Of course.” Marcell took a nice, long sip of his drink, but his eyes never left my face. His unwavering attention made me feel flustered, but I took it in stride, opening up my purse and fetching the tube of lipstick Vera had given me. Still focused on Marcell, I slowly and carefully applied it to my mouth.

“Your father tells me you're a lawyer,” he continued, just as smooth and polished as everything else he said. I wanted to tell myself it was too practiced, too perfect, but really I imagined that everything Marcell said just came out that way naturally. “I suppose that law degree comes in quite handy?” “I'm sure my father's told you that I waste my talents on animals,” I said, uncrossing and recrossing my legs, trying to draw his attention down and away from my face. It felt suddenly too hot in here, and I swear, there were beads of sweat trailing down my temples and sticking the artfully curled bits of hair to my face. Marcell frowned at a bump in the road, a slight swerve of the SUV to the right. “One moment, Miss Costello, I apologize for the interruption.” I watched as Marcell handed his drink back over the seat and growled out something in perfect Italian. I missed what he was saying because the man behind me was extracting my drink from my own hands, just narrowly saving me from sloshing alcohol all down the front of my dress as the SUV came to a sudden stop. In an instant, I went from hot to cold. “Mr. Moran,” I started, but this time, when he glanced at me and smiled, it was a shark's grin. “Pardon me, Miss Costello,” he said, pulling a

revolver from his pocket before stepping out of the door and onto the street. I waited for a moment, leaning into the center of the seat so I could look out the front window. The headlights illuminated a small swath of the road, but otherwise it was just darkness. The men behind me had already gotten out of the vehicle, leaving me to sit inside with the driver. “Shit,” I cursed under my breath, closing my eyes and trying to breathe through my nose. One day. That's how long I'd been back in the family's fold. And what had I gotten out of it? Two million dollars in diamonds, three hot (but very dangerous) men to date, and a gunfight just a few hours outside of NYC. That sounded about right. I reached inside my purse and carefully opened the top of the tampon box, sliding my phone out just enough to turn it on. I made sure to keep it within the confines of my purse, so the screen would stay hidden. Anyway, I assumed—and probably rightly so—that the driver would be more concerned with whatever the fuck was going on outside the car than what I was doing in it. Glancing at the extensive list of texts I'd gotten made me feel both loved and terrified. There were people out there in this world that cared for me,

people that would miss me if I were gone. But that also meant there were people out there that could be used against me, hurt, killed even if things went wrong on this end. I swallowed hard, and pushed those feelings aside. Now was definitely not the time to be delving into my own personal thoughts and fears. Using my brief moment of freedom, I pulled up Bo's texts and scanned them as quickly as I could. Clearly, he was confused—and a little hurt—by my sudden disappearance, but his texts were all positive. Miss you, babe! Call me tomorrow so I can hear your gorgeous voice. For a moment, I just stared at the screen, fighting back a sudden surge of panic. A part of me wanted to tell Bo to buy us a couple of plane tickets, so we could get the hell out of here, fly to some other country and start over. I didn't think my dad would be so vindictive as to chase me halfway across the world. Then again … running hadn't saved his brother. I love you, I sent back, more than anything in this world or any other. Night fucking one on my mission and I was already sending I love you texts to my boyfriend in case I died here tonight. How awful was that? A few seconds later, I heard the distinct sound of

shots being fired. But like a proper mob daughter, I just sat there, stoic and poised, legs crossed, face pointed forward. My phone was safely tucked back in my bag, my emotions safely tucked inside my heart. Not a minute later, Marcell was climbing back in the vehicle and sliding onto the leather seat next to me. His men did the same, and before I could really take in the sight and smell of Marcell Moran, I had a fresh drink in my hand, and so did he. Only his hands … they were covered in blood.

The sight of Marcell with red spattered across his face and his beautiful, tattooed hands followed me all the way through the first and second courses. Dinner was, as expected, a sumptuous affair of crab cakes, scallops, and bourbon glazed salmon with a fine chocolate mousse for dessert, an Italian wine that probably cost more than Bo's car. Even though Marcell had taken the time to change before joining me at the table, I could still smell the faintest whiff of gunpowder and blood clinging to him along with the deep masculine burn of his aftershave. “I take it you enjoyed your dinner?” he asked after I finished off the last bite of mousse and leaned back in my chair to look at him, feeling the

warm sedation of wine and food slide over me. I figured if I was going to be here, I was going to take advantage of the few perks. Food, of course, being one of them. After all, I never knew when, exactly, I'd be having my last meal. “It was wonderful,” I said, fully and completely aware that several people's heads probably literally rested on my enjoying their food. If I said I hated it, somebody would pay a hefty price. But at least in this case, I didn't have to lie—I really had enjoyed it. What I hadn't enjoyed was enduring Marcell's stare, the way his eyes seemed to catch and hold on my mouth, like each bite I took was an exquisite, sensual pleasure to be savored and enjoyed. His smile, when it took over his mouth, turned his entire face into a painting I couldn't look away from, an exceptional piece of art that was meant to be enjoyed only in context, only when the viewer was aware of the meaning behind it. It was simply too beautifully severe to be taken in by an uneducated observer. “And the wine?” “Personally,” I said, playing with the diamond bracelet around my wrist, “I prefer a California grape.” Marcell's smile never faltered, never changed. He didn't so much as twitch.

“Do you now?” he asked, like he was challenging me. I hated being challenged. That was one of the things I loved so much about Bo. I felt like we were equals at all times, that he respected my independence as much as I did his. This man … he looked like he enjoyed being the only alpha in the room. “Do you know what you remind me of?” I told him, feeling irritation creep across my skin like the legs of a thousand tiny spiders. “I haven't the faintest idea,” he said, just the slightest hint of an Italian accent creeping into his words. “Un uomo che vuoi scopare?” I pursed my lips. “No, not like a man I want to fuck,” I said, letting the last word snap off my lips like a rubber band. Marcell's expression stayed exactly as it was —infuriating, engaging, utterly and completely lickable. He was almost too beautiful to be real, but also, apparently, a fucking prick. “Actually, you remind me of a vampire in a novel for teenage girls.” I crossed my arms over the front of my dress, feeling the expensive satin brush against against my skin like a lover's caress. “One of those old, clichéd characters that are about to turn three hundred years old and are going around hitting on high school girls.” “Is it the accent or the suit?” he asked me, still

completely unfazed, still smiling. Marcell leaned forward and put his arm on the table. “Because if it's the suit, me lo posso togliere.” I can take it off, he says. Total prick. I picked up my glass of wine and held it in one hand, swishing the deep red liquid around and trying my best not to compare the color to blood. “What happened back there?” I asked casually, looking up and over the top of the wine glass at Marcell's face, at the tattoos staining his big hands, the wicked smile on his face. “Just a little misunderstanding is all,” he said, leaning back in his own chair and reaching down to take off the diamond cufflinks he was wearing. Somehow, they were a perfect match to the jewelry draped around my neck and throat, across my fingers and wrists. Asscher cut, flawless clarity, mind-numbingly expensive. My mouth tightened. “What is all this?” I asked, pointing at the necklace draped around my throat. “Is this from you?” “Is it really a gift if the sender expects praise from the recipient?” Marcell set his cufflinks aside and slipped out of his suit jacket, loosening his tie, and then reaching for the top few buttons on his shirt. As soon as he

started to open them, I noticed more tattoos lying in wait beneath the starched fabric. Setting my wine down, I started undoing the clasp on the bracelet. “It's bad luck to refuse a gift,” he said, leaning across the table and taking my wrist in one hand. The touch of his fingers on my skin was intoxicating, a poison that seeped into my blood and paralyzed me for one, terrifying moment. My eyes met his, those deep, dark pools, as black as India ink, impossible to read. “The jewelry is yours, Adelasia,” he said, and he pronounced it the proper, Italian way. Where all my friends said Ad-uh-lay-zha, Marcell said Ah-deelah-sa. I tried not to let that sway me too much, pulling away from his grip before that poison killed something inside of me I could not repair. “I'd like to go home now.” Marcell gave me a wolfish smile and withdrew his hand, nice and slow. “Sì, certo,” he said, standing up and taking a small step away from the table. “Of course.” I pushed my chair back before either he or one of his men could come over and do it for me. I was afraid if Marcell touched me again … I might find it just a bit harder than it should be to pull away.

Nights at the Costello Manor were peaceful—so long as there wasn't any business happening on the property. The air was warm enough to keep my windows open, and the quiet, soft sounds of nature were the only accompaniment to my dreams. When I was in the city, I enjoyed the sound of traffic, the wild, chaotic explosion of life all around me. But when I came out here, I remembered how much I missed the silence. And as I slept, I dreamed. And I dreamed of things better left forgotten, of men with blood on their faces and tattoos on their hands. I dreamt of Marcell's hand on my thigh and his voice, as smooth and silken as cognac. It was the musky scent of his aftershave that filled my nostrils as hot hands laid me down on the gold

expanse of my satin sheets. Sensuous lips curved into a dangerous smile. “Fai sesso con me,” he said, his words a command I wanted to follow. That right there should've been a clue that I was dreaming—I didn't take orders from men—but the fantasy continued to play out in all its wicked, licentious glory. This isn't right, I told myself, even as I did as he asked and laid back, spreading my legs and welcoming the hard, hot heat of him between my thighs. In all the places I was soft, he was hard. My legs were smooth while his were rough with dark hair. The mix of sensations was almost enough to put me over the edge, tease my aching body into a chasm of dark pleasure that I knew I'd never escape. I shouldn't be doing this, I thought again, but then his hot mouth was on mine, searing my thoughts away, obliterating my logicality until I was desperate for him, claws scraping down his back, legs engulfing the masculine beauty of his body. Marcell thrust his hips forward and took me, burying himself deep with a groan of wild pleasure. It was a call that I answered, groaning and wrapping my arms around his neck. I tried to wake myself up by thinking of Bo, but when I opened my eyes, it wasn't a pair of pale blue ones that looked back at me. No, it was eyes the color of a moonless

night, free of stars and city lights. Marcell's body rose above mine, fine beads of sweat pooling in the valleys between his muscles, dripping across my body as he moved inside of me. “I'm going to fuck you until the sun comes up,” he whispered against my ear, and I couldn't tell if he was speaking Italian or English or some language only lovers know in the dark. Our lips connected with violent slashes of heat, just two wounded lovers aching for one another's rage, for that darkness buried deep down that we both had inside of us. It was in our blood, this need to conquer and bury and burn. I felt his heart hammering with it, with all of that wild need, and my own suppressed demons rose up to meet it. “We could be great together, Adelasia,” he said, pronouncing my name the way it was always meant to be said. Ah-dee-lah-sa. Ah-dee-lah-sa. Ah-deelah-sa. My head dropped back into the pillows and all of a sudden, I found myself staring up at Bo's face, this melancholic wreck of a human being, his eyes these violent orbs of betrayal. I woke with a start, sitting up so fast that my head spun and my blankets slid to the floor like snakes, satin slithering into a heap next to the bed. All around me, the mattress was soaked with sweat, and between my thighs, I could feel a throbbing heat that made my teeth clench and my

eyes shut tight. No. No, no, fucking no. I was not going to let my father or this life or those men corrupt me. Crime and violence, the need for power … those things might've been written in my DNA, but they weren't in my heart. I was stronger than that, better than that. Laying back into the pillows, I reached a hand between my thighs and felt the molten heat of my desire, liquid and warm between my thighs. I thought of Bo—sweet, gentle, loving Bo—and I teased my clit, traced my opening, penetrated the aching depths of my body with my fingers. Nothing. I felt fucking nothing. With a small scream, I sat up and grabbed the first thing I found on my nightstand—an antique clock that my grandfather had given to me as a girl —and I threw it as hard as I could against the wall. Even watching it explode into springs and cogs and bits of splintered wood did nothing to help me. I was back, sitting in the seat of corruption, and already, I could feel that awful poison running through my veins. The only thing in the world I wanted was to go back home to Bo and my friends. But when I did … would the person going back

home to them be someone I wanted them to see? Would she be someone they wanted to know? I didn't think I wanted to know the answer to that.

“Good morning, Adelasia,” Vincent said when I appeared in the massive dining room with a black silk robe tossed over my shoulders and a frown on my face. After that awful dream, I'd made up my mind—I needed to get back into the city to see Bo. And I needed to do it sooner rather than later. Setting up some sort of regular way to sneak back to my old life was essential. It was the only way to keep the Adelasia Costello I'd worked so hard for alive and well. “How was dinner?” “Dinner was delicious”—and so was the man eating it with me—“but I didn't much enjoy the random gunfight we endured on the way there.” I smiled sharply as I took a seat at the table, giving Vincent a look across the empty place setting in front of me. He didn't seem to notice. “Oh?” he asked, taking a bite of his crostata and chewing it thoughtfully. “Where at?” “About twenty minutes down the road,” I said, fully aware that anything violent that happened that close to Costello Manor would've already been

noted and investigated. Vincent was just playing games with me, seeing if I'd tell the truth. It was a test. How much of it, I wasn't sure. For all I knew, my father or Vincent could've planted men out there on purpose to cause trouble. “What was it about?” I asked him, reaching out and removing the silver lid from a nearby tray. Holy shit. Inside, there was a tomato onion quiche. I quickly cut a slice and plopped it on my plate. No sooner had I replaced the lid than I was staring at a steaming hot cappuccino. “For you, Lazy,” our cook, Renata, said as she planted a small kiss on my cheek and patted my hair. Renata had been working for my father since before I was born; she was like an aunt to me. If I'd let anyone call me Lazy, it'd be her. “It's so good to have you home.” “Thanks, Renata,” I said, not bothering to correct her. I wasn't home. No, I'd been ripped away from home. This place … it was a glorified prison. Although, after taking a sip of Renata's cappuccino, I had to wonder if maybe it wasn't all bad. “We have no idea who those men were,” Vincent said calmly, “not us or the Morans. Give us some time and we'll figure it out.”

“There was an altercation not twenty minutes away and you have no idea who was involved?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended it to be. Vincent's brows rose up, and I heard my father's laugh echoing behind me. “Oh, my little Lazy, up and ready to command an army in her bathrobe.” Carlo paused to kiss me on the top of my head, a gesture that made me feel like a child—and in a bad way. Everything the man did was rife with threats; it was just the way he functioned. “Change of plans, polpetta mia,” he said, sitting down with a cigarette at the head of the table. Smoke drifted from his nostrils like he was a dragon, lording over his territory. “The Morettis are anxious to see what a beautiful woman you've grown into. They've invited us to the grand opening of their new speakeasy in the city.” “There are no speakeasies, Carlo,” I said, and noticed his eyes lift to mine at the sound of his name. “Dad, speakeasies ended along with prohibition.” “It's a tribute bar,” he said, ashing his cigarette into a tray I'd made in ceramics as a child. I wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that he was still using it. “Designed to honor the history of their family and the area …” He trailed off and picked up the espresso Renata had just brought over. “It's a throwback; you'll love it.” Carlo stood up and took his smoke and his drink

with him. “The Morettis,” I said, imagining Fortunato 'Lucky' Moretti as a child, that awkward, gangly thing that had followed me around at every public function we'd attended together. I hadn't seen him in about twenty years, but I could hardly imagine him as the underboss to the Moretti crime syndicate. No fucking way. Then again, I'd heard rumors that once, a capo (basically an officer in the mob) had commented on his nickname—'Lucky is name of dog in Italy!' he'd supposedly said. The next week they'd found his body floating down the river. “Anything else you want to report?” Vincent asked, but I was already standing up and getting ready to head back up to my room. I had no idea if my father was sadistic enough to go to the extreme —like post cameras in my bedroom to keep watch on me—but I had a feeling my bathroom was fairly safe. I'd go in there, and I'd text my boss and my friends and my boyfriend … and since I was headed into the city anyway, I'd figure out a way to see him, too. “It was one dinner, Vincent,” I said, holding my cup carefully and looking down at him, “and I had a curfew.” I headed down the hall and tried to ignore the sound of his laughter chasing along behind me.

Once again, I wasn't trusted to dress myself, so I sat patiently while Vera did her thing, bringing my face to brilliant life with a careful, steady hand. Several times, I thought about making conversation with her, but her face was just so goddamn serious, her lips pressed so thin. Besides, she was sleeping with Carlo so first off, she couldn't be trusted for shit. And second, did I really want to make girl talk with a woman who knew my father so intimately? Probably not. My gown for the event was exquisite, a metallic evening gown with a plunging halter and a scandalously low back. It draped over me like liquid gold, clinging to my body in all the right places. This time, Vera had paired it with some glitter-snakeskin Louboutins and a diamond encrusted arm band in the shape of a snake. “Please tell me this isn't a gift from Lucky Moretti?” I asked as Vera continued her ministrations on my eyebrows, plucking a few hairs that I was certain weren't necessary. “Not tonight,” was the only answer I got in response. With a sigh, I stood up and followed her out and into the hallway—she was as dolled up as I was for tonight's events—and down the stairs to the foyer. My father and several of his men were gathered

there, just standing around and shooting the breeze. They all just generally looked like assholes, but I smiled anyway. There was no way I was going to act like an asshole when I had an escape plan in mind for later. Not a chance. “You remember my beautiful daughter, Adelasia?” Carlo was saying, waving me forward with a cigarette in one hand and grinning like he'd already had a few drinks. “Adelasia, it's Caj! Caj Bellincioni!” There was a moment there where I was completely stunned. “Caj Bellincioni,” I managed to say, extending my hand to one of the most beautiful men I'd ever seen in my life. His eyes were rich pools of jade, depthless and inscrutable. His hair, a red-brown wave that fell partially across his forehead, adding to the messy, careless sort of look that his rumpled gray suit portrayed. But the shape of his mouth, this dangerous curve of lips, that belied his true nature. I knew better than to fall for the lazy slouch of his body as he leaned against the wall. Caj Bellincioni saw everything with those beautifully vicious eyes of his, heard everything with ears covered in diamond studs. But that smirk, the one with a studded piercing on either side, it did wonders to make me want to forget. The fact that I'd lost my virginity to him,

however, did not escape my mind. “Adelasia Costello,” he replied slowly, his smile an easy stretch of lips. “Of course.” When Caj's hand closed around mine, I felt the breath slip from my own lips. Time seemed to slow around us, coming to this interminable crawl. The space between us slid away and then Caj's mouth was at my ear. “How could I forget such a beautiful face?” he whispered, sliding the smooth skin of his cheek against mine. Even though this was supposed to be a chaste, friendly kiss among friends, it turned into something else entirely. “Or the body underneath that dress?” My breasts brushed up against Caj's chest as he moved to my left cheek next. His scent was as overwhelming as Marcell's, like night-blooming jasmine, floral but masculine at the same time. My eyes fluttered closed and a small sigh escaped my mouth. Fuck. Flicking my lashes open, I stared Caj down as he pulled away and tried to remember the last time I'd seen him. The families weren't exactly close—and we didn't often mingle—but somehow, here were the Bellincioni's standing in my father's foyer. “If you'll excuse us, Mr. Bellincioni,” I said, smiling prettily and putting a hand on my father's arm. “Papà?” I raised my eyebrows and gently

tugged my father to a slightly more private spot in the crowded room. Although, of course, the word private was fairly obtuse considering the number of bodyguards surrounding us. “What's going on here?” I demanded while still keeping a pleasantly neutral expression plastered on my face. “Since when do the Big Four ever get together for an event?” “It happens on occasion, polpetta mia, you know that. It's just a bit of showing off.” My father looked at me with eyes too like mine to deny my parentage. But if I could have, I would. I wished with every beat of my heart that the girl I'd made up when I left for college, the Adelasia with no family and a life so mundane there were no stories to tell, that she was real. Because although she didn't have a past, she had a future. “I don't believe that for a second,” I said as Carlo slipped away but unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately since my father could be a vengeful man—he didn't hear me. I had the strongest urge to march up to Caj and ask him if he knew we were being set up, if he knew about Marcell and Lucky and my father's plans to ferret out a rat. That move, however, was very likely to get me killed. “There's not a moon or star in heaven as

beautiful as you,” Caj said a moment later, coming up on my left side and offering a glass of champagne. We hadn't even left the house yet and already, the festivities were in full-swing. I took the glass from him and downed it in a single gulp, not caring how that might look to the rest of the room. “Thank you, Mr. Bellincioni,” I said politely, but Caj was already curling his fingers around my wrist and pulling me closer. The bands on his rings dug into my skin, not unpleasantly. “Mr. Bellincioni?” he asked, his voice rife with humor. “Please, is that where we're going with this?” “Not right now, please,” I said, glancing over and finding his gaze trained on my face. They were devastating, those eyes, but in a completely different way than Marcell's. Caj was full of humor, but there was a sharpness to it, a bite. He was like a fox. Sly and playful, so cute from a distance. Dangerous as hell up close. “I get one night from you, one awful, sweaty, angry night and then this? Mmm. You really are a don's daughter.” “Fuck off, Caj,” I snapped, moving away from the wall and heading for the front door. I dropped my champagne glass off on a decorative table on my way out, and slipped into a wet, Northeastern night.

If I hadn't felt like a veritable prisoner, I might've actually enjoyed the party at the speakeasy. It wasn't hard to believe, standing in the middle of such well-dressed men in fedoras and pinstripes and plaid, cigarette girls, and women in flapper dresses, that I was actually stepping back in time. The air was perfumed with smoke, husky cologne, and soft floral perfume. Onstage, a woman in a glimmering white gown sung Hard-Hearted Hannah with a live band behind her, adding to the excitement in the atmosphere. The walls were littered with bits and pieces of mafia history—famous mobsters from the Moretti family, a wedding dress worn by the wife of the original don, and row after row of subtle advertisements for the speakeasies of the time, calling customers to come and have an illegal drink to pad the family's pockets. There was even a signed photograph of Vito 'Lucky' Moretti, Fortunato's great-great grandfather, a man considered to be the father of organized crime in the United States. “It's a little over-the-top, don't you think?” a smooth, easy voice said in my right ear. I glanced over to find Lucky Moretti with his blonde hair styled in a sleek, modern take on a traditional twenties combover. His hazel eyes sparkled as he

took me in from head to toe, admiring the satin gold waves of my dress. “I think it's fantastic,” I said, grabbing a fancy European chocolate bar off the tray of a nearby cigarette girl. Seemed like a weird thing to serve in a bar, all that candy, but it looked like the Moretti's were going for authentic all the way. “You don't like it?” “Mm,” Lucky said, leaning back against the wall next to me. He was dressed in a three-piece suit— the jacket and pants white, the vest black. His tie was red and his shoes were these fabulous two-tone wingtips. “Maybe I'm a little biased since I know my mother decorated the joint?” “Don't say that,” I told him, taking a bite of the chocolate and letting it melt in my mouth. It wasn't quite as delectable as the man standing in front of me, but still … delicious. “I found it charming before; don't spoil it for me.” Lucky laughed and made my heart skip a little, just like he used to do to me as a little girl. I hadn't seen him in twenty years, but standing next to him … I almost felt relaxed. What a mistake that would be … Lucky Moretti was just another asshole in the families' webs, an underboss with a future in crime. His hands were as red as Marcell's, just as coated in blood and pain and crime. I would not let myself forget that—even if he was a tad charming.

“Dance with me?” he asked after a moment, tilting his head to the side and showing me whitewhite teeth in a big, genuine sort of smile. “Give your old childhood friend a spin around the dance floor?” I looked him up and down for a moment and then held out a hand, dropping my wrapper into a nearby trash can before letting Lucky pull me away from the wall. His big hands found my hips; my fingers curled together behind his neck. Our connection … it was electric. And I was fucking pissed at myself for feeling that way. “I'm surprised to see you back in the fold,” he said, his voice low and even, almost kind. That was the thing with Lucky. He had the face of an angel, but the morals of a demon. He had this way about him that made you feel like you could trust him, like he was different than all the rest. In reality, he was as much a mobster as the rest of them. “And why's that?” I asked as he twirled me around to swanky big band jazz. “I'm Carlo's daughter, aren't I?” I raised my eyebrows just before Lucky spun me in a tight circle. I wouldn't admit it to myself, but with his hands on my hips and his eyes locked on my own, I felt a little breathless. He was one slice of my past that I didn't regret quite so much.

But trouble, he certainly had that in spades. “You made a life for yourself outside of all this,” he said, but not like he was condemning or praising me, just like it was simple fact. “I'm just surprised to see you here. Whatever happened to that uppity lawyer beau of yours?” Lucky swished a smirking smile at me and then dipped me so low that my hair brushed the floor. “He's living in my loft with his cat,” I said when Lucky righted me and pulled me so tightly against his chest that my breasts squished between us, and the hard bulge inside his slacks teased my belly. “Bo,” I said aloud, just so I could hear his name ring in my ears. Bo was light and magic; these men were all darkness and poison. And inside of me, I had that same dark glitter, that want for pretty, awful things. I just couldn't let myself have it. “Bo,” Lucky said, trying the name out like it intrigued him somehow. “What a moron he must be to let a woman like you go.” I read the implications behind his words, but I didn't comment on them. Lucky and I had spent quite a lot of time together as kids, but relations between the families were often strained and unpredictable. Around the time that I turned nine, the Morettis and the Costellos were at war again. Over what, I had no clue, but it seemed as if times

were changing. With influences leaking in from across the border, it was starting to look like we might be stronger together than apart. That's what Carlo was doing, preemptively guaranteeing that the Costello Crime Family lived to see the next century. And I was the goddamn linchpin. “If you'll excuse me,” I said as the song ended and I stepped away from Lucky. Being too close to him for too long was just asking for trouble. “You'll save me a slot on your dance card?” he asked as I smiled slyly and moved away, weaving through the spectacularly dressed crowd toward the bathrooms. I wondered what he'd make of my not answering. Inside the restrooms, a few finely dressed women loitered, doing lines of cocaine on the countertop. Their diamond necklaces dripped low as they put gloved fingers to a single nostril and inhaled expensive, powdered confidence and false joy with the other. Carlo always used to say, 'only the sad and the ignorant sample their own wares.' I ignored them and tucked myself into a stall, pulling my cell out of the tampon box. At the café, Bo had already texted, I know I'm early, but I miss you, babe. I smiled and shot off a quick response. On my way, I told him, slipping out of the dress

and pulling out the tank I'd shoved into my purse. Vincent had checked my bag again today, but I'd rolled up a pair of panties in the shirt and sighed when he'd unrolled it. 'Just in case my tampon leaks—I was trying to be discreet,' I'd told him and he'd promptly rolled it back up and returned it. I had jeans on under my dress, and a plan in mind that I could only pray was going to work. I rubbed at the rosary around my neck and hoped for the best. As soon as the women left the bathroom and I had a moment to myself, I stashed my dress back in my purse and slipped into the hallway, heading toward the small kitchen that was used to prepare the appetizers. There were guards back here, too, but they belonged to the Moretti family and without my jewelry and my dress, they didn't seem to recognize me. “Sorry I'm late,” I said to a waitress, just as she was passing through into the kitchen. The men didn't stop us—I would never have gotten into the building if I wasn't supposed to be there. “Late?” she asked me as soon as we'd slipped past the swinging kitchen doors. I handed over a hundred dollar bill and a smile. “Just don't mention you saw me unless somebody asks, okay?” I said, and then moved

through the mess of kitchen staff before I could attract anyone else's attention. Before I left through the back door, I grabbed one of the jackets all the waiters and waitresses were wearing and slipped it on. I also had a pack of smokes (Millie's, not mine) that had somehow ended up in my purse and stayed there. As soon as I hit the back door with my shoulder, I lit up and came out into the New York City night with a cigarette hanging from my lips. I smiled tightly at the men on either side of the exit and moved down the sidewalk like I was just stepping out to have a smoke. Getting back into the building should be simple enough, as long as I put my dress back on. I'm doing this, I thought as I rounded the first corner, I'm actually fucking doing this. Putting the slip on New York's Big Four crime families was not the easiest stunt in the world to pull off—and it wouldn't last long. I'd pop in, give Bo a heart-stopping kiss, and have a cup of coffee. After that, it was back to the party I went before anyone was the wiser. My motivations for seeing him were purely selfish—I needed a drink of fresh water, a beam of sunshine, a smile that wasn't hiding a thousand sins. There's darkness deep inside that heart of yours, Adelasia, I told myself as I tossed my cigarette into a trash can and kept my head down. It's a thorn

you've never managed to pull free. Sucking in a sharp, cold breath, I had to fight my own self-deprecating thoughts. Being a mafia princess didn't mean I had to give into either nature or nurture—I could make my own damn choices. At the same time, there were signs. Lots of them. Bo's face, for example, when we lay in bed one night and I spilled all my darkest, dirtiest thoughts to him. He couldn't hide that disgust; it was written plain as day across the wide, open blue expanses of his eyes. “Fuck.” I cut that train of thought off at the station and breathed a sigh of relief when I found the coffee shop, letting myself into the cozy, warm interior and casting my eyes around for Bo. There. A smile lit my face as I hurried over and covered his eyes from behind with my hands. “Guess who?” I asked, feeling girly and childish and so completely and utterly relieved, I wanted to sob. I knew, knew, that I was using Bo as a crutch and yet … I couldn't seem to help myself. “Hey, baby,” he said as I dropped my hands and waited for him to stand up and wrap his arms around me. “How was your trip?” he asked, sliding those big, comforting arms around my waist. “I can't decide if it getting cut short is a good thing … or a bad one?” He raised an eyebrow in question.

“Oh, you know,” I said noncommittally, but I was more concerned with burying my face into his camel coat, breathing in the cucumber-melon scent of his aftershave. “It's a lot harder when I'm working for the prosecution than for the defense.” I didn't clarify, just let him think I was working on one of my real cases, the one from Austin, Texas where the shelter workers left an escaped kitty stuck in the wall until he starved to death. They only removed him after he died and started to stink up their workspace. Something that horrendous … it reminded me of my father. The Costello Crime Family … would absolutely do the exact same to anybody that dared threaten their business, their morals, or their way of life. One hand grasped my rosary as I leaned back and tilted my face for a kiss. Bo's mouth swept mine with the freshness of a summer breeze, sending little tingles through me. I would not admit to myself that they were purely from relief. Touching Bo was not at all like touching Marcell, or Caj, even Lucky. Then again, alcohol is poison and it feels great at first, doesn't it? But it's easy to consume too much. Bo was like … a fresh glass of water. Not remarkable perhaps, but necessary. When I tried to take our kiss a bit further, putting my tongue into his mouth, he pulled away.

“Not in public,” he laughed, and those little tingles died away as quickly as they'd come. “I'm still working on my intimacy issues …” he said softly. I made myself take a deep breath and pulled away, trying to be understanding. After all, he was just refusing to give me a kiss in public—I was outright lying to his face. “I'm just really happy to see you,” I said, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. There was a pumpkin spiced latte waiting for me which was fine, except that Bo knew I preferred cappuccino. God, I'm on edge today, I thought as I slapped away the petty thought. “How was your trip?” I asked instead, holding the paper cup between two hands and studying Bo's face from across the table's smooth surface. He had these big, open eyes that told the whole world how he was feeling. As soon as I asked about his trip, something strange happened in them. Embarrassment? Frustration? Confusion? Maybe all three. I was guessing he hadn't won his case. “It was …” Bo started and then paused as the bells over the door jingled and my eyes flicked to the frosty glass. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Lucky strolled in the door and leaned his

shoulder against the wall, like he was standing in the long line for coffee. As soon as our eyes met, I felt my stomach bottom out. “Everything okay?” Bo asked, examining my expression with curiosity. “Adelasia?” “Just fine,” I said, keeping a smile on my face. I had no idea if Lucky was going to walk over here or not, but I decided to maintain my cool and act like I didn't give a shit that he'd seen me. So what? As far as he knew, I was helping my father of my own accord. My being here didn't mean a damn thing. “You were saying?” Bo took a sip of his drink and raised a blonde brow at me, but he continued on with his story anyway. Meanwhile, I could barely take my eyes off Lucky as he swept up an espresso and took a seat two tables away, near a wall covered in books. In all of New York City, this was my favorite place to grab coffee. They owned several first edition classics that I would die to get my hands on. Just being near the damn things filled me with an easy sense of relaxation. Seeing Lucky sitting next to them, an espresso in hand, his mouth half-cocked in a wily smile … I felt something else. I just wasn't exactly sure what that was. After Bo and I had finished our drinks, we stood up to say our goodbyes. “Where are you off to next?” he asked, still

working on the assumption that I was passing through from the airport, on my way to my next consult. “California,” I said, thinking on my feet. And then I very purposely leaned in and brushed my breasts against his chest, taking Bo's face between my hands. “Try not to get into too much trouble without me,” I said, pressing a kiss to his lips. I could tell before I tried that he wasn't going to let me put on a show for Lucky. “I'll be good,” he promised, giving me an extra kiss on the cheek and forehead. “And I'll be waiting for you, princess.” Bo turned and left the shop, his coat billowing out behind him as he strolled down the sidewalk and out of sight. “You want to tell me what that was all about?” Lucky asked, sliding into the seat opposite me and looking like a god among men. The playful expression on his face reminded me of a coyote, sly and wily as hell. Mm. So the men my father wanted me to date resembled a wolf, a fox, and a coyote. How canine of them. “What do you mean?” I asked, frowning as he passed me a fresh cappuccino. “How do you put up with all of that dull, asinine

bullshit? Oh, Lazy,” he said with a small shake of his head, one long finger tracing around the rim of his cup. “How long do you think you'll be able to go before you get bored of him?” I pursed my lips. “Maybe that's none of your goddamn business?” I asked as I moved to stand up. Lucky reached out, lightning quick and touched my wrist with such gentle fingers that I froze in place. “It's exactly my business,” he said, nice and easy and casual. “If you're dating me and the bland lawyer in the wool coat at the same time.” “Oh, didn't you know?” I asked, carefully pulling my wrist away from him. “I'm dating four men right now.” Lucky just leaned back and crossed his arms casually behind his head. “Marcell and Caj are a different matter altogether,” he said, cool as a cucumber. The blood drained from my face as I leaned over and put my palms on the table. “What the hell is going on in this fucking city?” I hissed, feeling my fingers curl into claws. “I hardly believe a single one of you is the type to share a woman.” “Times are changing, Lazy,” he said, staring me down with eyes the color of a mottled summer sunset—blue and gold, gray and brown, all mixed

into a shade that was difficult to describe. For me, that color was a relaxing evening on the veranda, a glass of wine in one hand, a book in the other. “Do you know what polyandry is?” His question was casual, but sharp enough to make my chest feel tight. “One woman, many husbands,” I replied, just as casual, just as sharp. “So what?” “It's a part of history that isn't often talked about,” he continued, glancing sidelong at the windows to the coffee shop. It had just begun to rain outside, a slanting shade of drops to cleanse the city. “Yes, I'm aware of that. Unfortunately, the heavy hand of the patriarchy has its fingers in many pots —including written and recorded history. Believe it or not, Mr. Moretti,” I said, intentionally foregoing the use of his first name, “as a woman who grew up in the mafia, I'm more than aware of such idiosyncrasies.” Lucky laughed, dropping his hands into his lap and leaning forward, eyes still bright and sparkling. He was enjoying this, jerking me around like a puppet on a string. “Instead of splitting the land among several sons, a parent might choose to marry them to one woman and keep it all in the family.” “Where are you going with this?” I asked, feeling irritation creep across my skin, hot and achy, like

embers drifting from an out of control bonfire. I wanted to put out that flame—desperately. “You think your father would really play the field with you? Only if he wanted you dead. No, we have much bigger plans, Miss Costello.” I stood there fuming for a minute before I stood up and stormed out of the coffee shop, slamming the door behind me. I just wasn't sure if it was Lucky that I was running from … or the rapid thump and bass beat of my heart.

“You want me to marry three men?” I asked Vincent the next morning, after I'd cooled my head a little. He barely glanced up at me, perusing the paper as he nibbled on a piece of toast. “Good morning to you, too, cucciola,” he said as he continued to ignore me. “Anything you want to report from last night?” I crossed my arms over my chest and stood tall, refusing to budge until I'd gotten some answers. After about five long, agonizing minutes, Vincent glanced up at me and sighed, the wrinkles on his face rearranging themselves as he took on a putout facial expression. “Adelasia, the world is a rough place. We all do what we need to to get by. And besides,” he said,

gesturing at me with one hand, “what do you have to complain about? You'll never want for nothing!” “Except free will and choice,” I ground out, goose bumps prickling my skin as righteous indignation took over. “Except the life that I really want.” “What's to want?!” Vincent shouted back, that famous Italian temper of his getting the better of him. “You'll have three strapping giovanotti for your bed, protection, money. What else is there?” I just stared at him for a second, turned, and went storming for the front door. “I'm going out to visit with my girlfriends,” I said, as calmly as I was able. “If that's still allowed.” Marching out the front door, I took the steps two at a time and hopped into the backseat of one of my father's SUVs. If I left with a driver and a guard, they'd probably let me out of my cage long enough to take a walk on a leash. With a scoff, I slammed the door behind me and gave the driver directions to Edlyn's house.

My friend Edlyn lived in a small three bedroom ranch house with her nine month old baby and husband, Adam. They'd married young—high school sweethearts—and had already been living together in this house when I'd met them in college.

This place was like a second home to me; I felt safe here. “Please don't get out of the car,” I said and then paused to give my bodyguard a look when he reached for the door anyway. “Juliano,” I warned as I raised my eyebrows. He was a third or fourth cousin—I could never remember—that I'd grown up with. “Don't make me tell your pretty new wife about that time you stuck a pumpkin spider up your nose.” I climbed out before he could respond and made my way up the winding stone path to the front door. Adam's car was gone, but I knew Edlyn would be here with the baby. Since I wasn't supposed to have a phone, I hadn't bothered to text or call, but I did have a key. “Lyn!” I called when I slipped inside and kicked off my heels. I set my purse down on the sofa table just inside the front door and raised my brows at the various candles spread around the living room. Crap, maybe Adam's car is in the shop and I'm interrupting something here? I bit my lower lip and checked the backyard through the sliding doors, the kitchen, and then made my way down the hallway. The baby was in his crib, but awake, and he smiled at me when I peeked my head in. “Hey, passerotto,” I said, moving inside and

hefting him into my arms. “Dov'è la tua mamma?” Where's your mom? Gad gurgled in response and smiled at me again, bouncing around as I carried him out and started checking rooms down the length of the hallway. “Lyn!” I yelled, feeling my heart start to flutter in my chest. As a mafia daughter, there was no possibility too far-fetched to ignore. And always the chance—however slim—that Edlyn and her family had been targeted because of me. “Edlyn!” I heard laughter and burst into one of the spare bedrooms, the one where Edlyn always did her crafts. But instead of crafting at the table in the corner, she was on the daybed. Naked. With Bo thrusting between her thighs. “Oh my God,” I gasped, grabbing hold of my rosary as the two scrambled to separate. “What the … what the fuck is this?” “Adelasia,” Edlyn said, sitting back against the wall and not even bothering to hide her tits. Her lips were swollen, eyes wide, long red hair cascading over one shoulder. “Oh God …” Bo didn't say a damn word, just stood there with his pants hanging around his ass and his dick halfhard and poking into the air like a sword. At that moment, I felt like I had more than enough rage to chop it right off.

The weirdest part about the whole moment though, was that I felt more betrayed by Lyn than by Bo. “I'm going to give you Gad,” I said quietly, “and then I'm going to leave.” “Adelasia,” Bo started, fixing his pants and coming toward me. It was in that moment that I saw, with the bright kiss of sunlight across his face, that he looked a lot more like Gad than Adam did. Fuck. My. Life. “Take your son,” I said quietly, swallowing down my rage. Bo and Edlyn exchanged a look. “I'm not going to tell Adam,” I told them, breathing so hard I felt like a bull in the ring. “I wouldn't want him to feel what I'm feeling right now. But maybe you should—before he goes any longer without realizing the truth about his son.” I handed Gad over to Bo, turned on my heel and got the fuck out of there. Two of the coziest places in the world—my loft and Lyn's house—had just disappeared from my heart in clouds of smoke and fire. For the first time in a long time, I felt lost. And a person with no direction … is a dangerous person indeed.

One of the best parts of staying in my father's house

was the wine cellar. He had a collection worth millions and the frivolity to generously drink and offer bottles worth tens of thousands of dollars. I selected a 2008 Masseto Toscana Merlot, popped the cork, and retreated to my room to nurse a broken heart. I shouldn't have been surprised about Bo … But I was. Fuck, I was more surprised about Lyn though. “The world is a cruel place,” I said, looking up at my ceiling and taking a chance by having Takia on video chat on my phone next to me. “It's not cruel,” she said, mixing a batch of cookies while she stared at me through the tiny rectangle of phone screen. “Just chaotic. I mean, when there's a group of people who all love and care for each other, things happen.” “Please don't, Kia,” I said as I swigged the wine straight from the bottle. “Just don't.” “I know this is rough, but I don't think you and Bo were meant to be anyway. Remember when you asked if you could tie him up? Or if he'd tie you up? And he flipped all the way out.” I rolled away from the phone with a groan and swigged my adult grape juice. Kia didn't understand. I knew Bo was … different from me. That was why I'd liked him. He kept the darkness inside of me in check. Now … I felt unfettered and wicked.

The wine wasn't helping. The wine wasn't fucking helping. That's when I knew I was in serious trouble. “Takia, I'm …” I paused and turned back to look at the phone. She'd stopped stirring the cookie batter and was now staring at me, her honey-brown eyes worried and pinched at the edges. She still didn't know where I was right now. I couldn't very well tell her that my dad was not only alive, but the largest crime boss on the East Coast. Fortunately for me, Takia was the kind of friend that didn't ask. She knew when someone had secrets they didn't want to share. “I feel like I'm broken, Kia. Bo … was like the tape that held together a broken window. Without him, I shatter.” “Exactly. Tape. That's about how interesting that man was. Listen, Adelasia, you don't need a man to hold yourself together. You can do that all on your own, honey.” I licked the sweet tanginess of wine off my lips and wished I could spill it all, my whole story from start to finish. If I did, maybe she'd understand a little better. Takia was right: I didn't need a man to hold me together—I just needed something. Anything. I felt darkness sweep up and wrap a hard, unyielding hand around my heart. I wanted to be bad.

Fuck, I reveled in it. “Takia, I'm gonna go,” I said and she gave me a knowing smile. “I'll be right here, baking up a storm if you need me.” “Thanks, babe,” I said, blowing a kiss at the screen before I ended the call. And then for a while there, I just leaned back into the pillows and nursed the dregs of wine in the bottom of my bottle. Three husbands. The families wanted me to have three. fucking. husbands. Hmm. I sat up, put the empty bottle on my nightstand, and pulled on some fresh clothes. I might be trapped here for the time being, but I wasn't going to just sit around and stare at the bars of my prison cell. I was going to start digging through the back wall … My father needed the traitor; I wanted out. There was a way to get out of this mess. I just needed to find it.

“Vincent,” I said, when I found him downstairs with a gaggle of men that were first, second, third and fourth cousins. The Costellos added a whole new meaning to 'keeping it in the family'.

He paused his conversation briefly to glance back at me. “I'd like to speak with Marcell Moran,” I said, and then before he could continue, “and Lucky Moretti, and Caj Bellincioni, please.” “Just a moment,” he told the men, shooing them away with a dismissive swipe of his hand. “Come on, Lazy, let's take a walk together.” I nodded, and with the wine flowing like liquid courage through my veins, I followed him outside and into the meticulously manicured grounds of the Costello Manor. The entire thirty acre parcel that belonged to the estate was styled after the flora my father had grown up around in Italy—olive trees, maritime pines, cork oaks, sage, and juniper. Strawberry trees (which were actually more similar to fig trees than actual strawberry plants) dotted the edges of the pathway, the round shapes of red and yellow berries dangling in enticing little clusters. “You understand that this whole …” Vincent paused for a moment and rubbed at the silver hair dotting his chin and cheeks. “Accordo is a tad … unconventional.” No shit, I thought, but managed to maintain my composure. “No one is more aware of that than I am, Vinny,” I said, trying to appeal to his more affectionate side —if he even had one, that is. There were times as a kid that I thought Vincent Gotti was the nicest man

in the whole world. But then I'd grown up and seen him for who he really was—a man who arranged the assassinations of his enemies, of innocent witnesses, and sometimes … even his own friends. “But if the families want this to work, clearly the four of us should be able to sit in a room together? Have a glass of wine or some coffee?” Vincent sighed and adjusted the gray fedora on his head, pausing at the split in the path. One way led down to my father's personal vineyard, and the other led to the native plant garden my mother had started before she'd died. Walking through it, it was hard to imagine she was gone. It looked just as good as it had when she'd been alive, putting love and tenderness into each tiny shoot, each broken branch, each fallen blossom. “I suppose I could work something out,” he said, turning to look me up and down. If he noticed my wine-reddened cheeks, he didn't say anything. “But it would have to be on neutral ground …” “Costello Winery,” I said, even though that wasn't exactly neutral ground. My father's winery produced some of the finest chardonnay in the state —it was my mother's favorite. “Neutral, topolina mia,” he said, patting one of my cheeks with a ringed hand. “Perhaps the Four Seasons—” “Costello Winery,” I repeated, folding my arms across my chest. “I'm the linchpin here. As far as

I'm concerned, I am the neutral ground.” Vincent sighed and took a step back, giving me another calculating once-over. “You are quite the little spitfire, aren't you?” he asked me, shaking his head with a small laugh. Vincent pulled a metal case of cigars from his pocket and lit one up while I watched. The thick scent of tobacco engulfed me, making me feel like a kid again, a little girl in a dress singing in Italian for a room full of mobsters. I never knew then that I was among murderers and career criminals. But I didn't miss those days. No, it was better to be miserable and in the know than it was to be ignorant. “I'll arrange it,” he said, giving my holey jeans and long-sleeved top a critical look. “Have Vera help you get dressed and I'll have the car brought around.” Vincent turned and left me alone on the path to contemplate this decision. Meeting with three powerful, independent men who'd grown up learning to hate each other … It was either the best decision I'd ever made or one I'd certainly come to regret. “Dammi la forza, Mamma,” I whispered in Italian. Give me strength. I plucked a berry from one of the strawberry trees and popped it in my mouth, crushing it between white-white teeth.

Three wicked mafia bosses. And me. It was a challenge I knew I could handle. Or maybe it was just the wine talking.

A sapphire blue Talbot Runhof gown was my companion for the evening, just one long drape of navy satin that clung to my body and showed off my curves. A deep V highlighted the olive skin of my back, and a slit climbed straight up to mid-thigh, flashing the seamed black tights I was wearing underneath. As much as it disturbed me to see my father dating a woman younger than I was, I had to give it to the girl—she knew how to highlight a woman's best attributes. Her makeup skills were Hollywood level, and as a stylist, she'd be sought after by every modeling agency in the country. I only hoped for her sake, she got away from the Costello family nightmare sooner rather than later. I swept down the stairs and into the backseat of the waiting car, a sleek black Maserati Quattroporte GTS, my father's personal favorite. Before we pulled out of the driveway, Vincent leaned in and flashed me a sharp smile. “May I see your purse, little Lazy?” Inwardly, I gave a huge sigh of frustration, but on the outside, I maintained my composure and passed

it over without complaint. This time, instead of going through my things, he simply dropped a small revolver inside, planted a kiss on my cheek and patted my knee. “Enjoy your evening,” he said, and then disappeared out the door, closing it carefully behind him. As we left the estate, I examined the gun, checked the chamber, and tried to figure out why he'd be giving this to me now. Was it a test? A precaution? A warning? It was impossible to tell at this point; I dropped the gun back into my purse. I'd just have to wait and see. When we reached the halfway point between my father's house and the winery, I slid my phone carefully from the tampon box and checked for messages. Really, the last thing in the world I wanted to do right now was hear from either Edlyn or Bo, but my curiosity was eating me alive. We need to talk, Adelasia. There are things we have to discuss—you're on the lease, remember? Typical Bo, short and to the point. He knew there was no apologizing or explaining, so instead he was going the logical route, the practical route. Well, fuck him. Pursing my lips, I scrolled back through my other messages—from my boss, from my clients, and nothing at all from Lyn. Fuck, I need another glass of wine.

I turned the phone off, shoved it back into the box of OBs, and closed my purse. Time for business. My personal life had somehow gone to shit even without the families' help. “Miss Costello,” the driver said when we finally pulled up to the large brick building and idled next to the curb. Waiting outside my door, the tall, dark and handsome shadow of Marcell Moran stood. Even just the limned outline of the man was dignified, classic, breathtaking. I felt my pulse begin to pound, quickened with lust and fine wine. This was certainly going to be an interesting evening. “Unlock the doors, please,” I told the driver. Marcell opened the door with a fluid, dangerous sort of grace, giving me a sultry smile that spoke of carnal secrets he shouldn't know. It was a scary smile because although the logical, rational part of me said no, the desperate darkness inside of me said now. Yes. I wanted him to fuck me against the rough brick wall of the winery, take my mind away from the image of Bo's guilty face, and Gad's cute little smile, so like my boyfriend of two years that the idea of parentage was undeniable. “Buonasera, Miss Costello,” he said, the fluid notes of his vowels like a balm against my suddenly

heated skin. I rose from the car, avoiding the hand Marcell offered me with a mysterious half-smile on my face. “Excuse my manners,” I said as I skirted around him and headed for the side door of the building. The winery was closed, but strands of Edison bulbs clung to the front and cast the sidewalk in a warm, welcoming glow. I knew, however, that the side door would be unlocked and that inside, there'd be wine and cheese, grapes and crostata waiting for us. “I've been around careless company for far too long.” Marcell smiled at me, a wicked slash of lips that twisted my insides into knots. I stood aside and allowed him to open the winery door for me. “Perhaps you're simply repelled by the idea of a vampire's touch?” I fought the smile straining to trace its way across my lips. “Perhaps.” Moving through the storeroom that was connected to the employee entrance, I headed for the retail portion of the store, a large room with a vaulted ceiling and natural brick walls, various handcrafted stained glass lamps, and bottles of wine for sale. In the center of it, a small table was set with candles and food, Lucky Moretti and Caj

Bellincioni already seated around it. Seeing the two men sitting so close gave me the chills. “Mr. Bellincioni,” I greeted with a slight nod, ignoring the way his beautiful green eyes swept my curves with a dangerous amount of appreciation. “Mr. Moretti.” My childhood friend leaned back in his chair, his dark blonde hair swept back, his hazel eyes open and interested, twinkling with curiosity. “Is this your response to that little secret I shared?” Lucky asked, but I ignored him, tucking the satin of my dress against my thighs and taking a seat. Before any of the men could take charge, I grabbed a bottle of chardonnay and used a Costello Winery branded opener to pop the cork. Pouring four even glasses, I set the empty bottle aside. “This is simply a discussion,” I said, still wondering how to work my way through this. Seduction. That was the weapon my father wanted me to use. But I had other options to try first. “I want to understand how the families have become so desperate, they're willing to trade decades old rivalries on a chance.” “Politics are complicated,” Caj said, his voice liquid sex in my ear. He was leaning close, too close. The warm, sweet scent of jasmine overwhelmed me as I flicked a quick glance his way and then slowly lifted the wine to my lips.

“Business is even more complicated.” Closing my eyes, I let the tart taste of grapes slide over my tongue and down my throat. When I opened them, all three men were staring at me, intrigued. Good. “The story goes,” I said, swirling the liquid around in my glass. “That the day I was born, on the second floor of the Costello Manor, my father wept for hours. Clearly, in the misogynistic patriarchal society in which you all function, a male heir is certainly preferable.” I took another breath and wondered if I was getting in over my head here. But this was my way, the answer to all my problems. Unfortunately, after the day's events, I wasn't quite as hungry for my old life. It was as if Bo and Edlyn had stripped it all away from me, leaving me with this violet heat, this darkness that swirled like a storm inside my chest. Leaning back, I crossed my legs at the knee and continued on. “But he got me instead, his only child. Why he never had another one, I'm not sure any of us will ever know.” I finished my drink and then paused as Lucky beat me to opening a second bottle. “The thing is, I don't want this life; my father wants an heir; you need an alliance.” “I sense an offer coming,” Marcell said, his

tattooed hand elegantly draped around the stem of the wineglass. The crest of the Moran family was clearly visible. “Name your terms, Miss Costello.” “I want to live my own life,” I said, looking each man directly in the eyes for a moment before moving onto the next. Black as the night, green as new grass, mottled as a summer sunset. Three separate gazes, three very different men, all of them holding onto the same agenda. Me. I was the key to unlocking more power, more money, more connections. Fine. I didn't want any of it; they could have it. I just wanted to be free. “I will do and say whatever it is my father wants to hear, whatever the families need to hear. But once we've established the new order in this city, I do what I want, live where I want, continue practicing law.” “Is that really what you want?” Lucky asked, looking at me like he thought he still knew me, like he had some insider knowledge because we used to play together in my mother's garden. Placing his hands on the table, he leaned forward and grinned at me. “All of that civility”—he spat the word like it was filthy—“it doesn't suit you.” Lucky stood up from his chair and both of the

other men stiffened slightly. I had no idea how they thought they'd share me if they could hardly be in the same room together. “It sickens you,” he continued, coming around the table and pausing next to the small crowns on the counter, woven from dried grapevines and sold to girls during their bachelorette parties, or little kids dragged into the retail room while their parents bought a bottle of dad's 2013 chardonnay reserve, rated the best in the state. Lucky pulled one twisted, gnarled little crown from the pile and moved over to stand next to me for a moment, placing it on the slick, smooth darkness of my hair. “You were meant to be a queen,” he breathed, and I felt a small shiver climb down my spine. “I'm a lawyer,” I said, but the wine was starting to taste sweeter, the room was starting to look warmer. I felt that awful wicked sickness inside of me rise up like a dragon uncoiling from a long, long sleep. “You were notorious,” Lucky said, and I felt myself shiver again. I was notorious. Before I'd left for college at twenty-one, I'd played my father's games better than any of his crews, better even than him. I made the family money, and I gave them notoriety, and I was cruel and awful and terrible.

More wine. Damn you, Bo, I whispered inside the depths of a tortured, twisted mind. If I let myself, I could be consumed by power, want, need. I felt like Bo had taken a ribbon from my corset, let it fall around my waist and to the floor in a pile of satin and steel boning. There was nothing keeping it all in, nothing at all. “Carlo might not see it, but I do,” Lucky said, kneeling down next to the table. I ignored him and set my glass aside, feeling the fuzziness at the edges of my brain start to tease away my logicality. I felt like Sleeping Beauty, standing next to her spindle, getting ready to prick her own finger. “International influences are strong at the moment,” Caj inserted, the thick, sultry tones of his voice bringing up memories of a night best left forgotten. Like a tainted rose, I'd spread myself for a hot and sultry night in his arms. It'd been an exquisite lesson in torture. I'd known then that if I let myself fall, I might not come back from it. Remember why you're fighting, I reminded myself, my thoughts drifting to a night drenched in blood and pain and loss. Mmm. Spreading brie across the face of a water cracker, I glanced over at Marcell. “You want to share a woman with your rivals?” I

asked, taking a small bite. “This is about more than just that, Miss Costello,” Marcell continued. “Bedroom talk aside, we need to pool our resources or face the facts: our hold over the city isn't going to survive into the next generation.” “Prove it,” I heard myself saying as I finished my cracker and stood up. “Prove, what?” Caj asked as both he and Marcell followed me to my feet. Reaching back, I took hold of my zipper and pulled it down my back. “Prove that you're willing to do what it takes to secure this alliance,” I said, knowing that I was not only drunk but also reeling from the afternoon's events. This is so stupid, Adelasia, I warned myself. But it'd been so long since I'd given into the darkness … it wanted to be fed. “Prove it,” I repeated quietly, feeling Lucky's hand slide around my side, his palm pressing into my belly. With a desperate sigh, something akin to relief, I leaned into his touch, melted into the hot press of his lips against my neck. It should've been weird, letting my childhood friend touch me like this, but in that moment, I didn't care. I didn't give a fuck. I spread my dark wings wide, and let him work his way down to my shoulder, pushing the blue satin of my dress aside to

reach my skin. Caj's mouth twisted to the side in a wicked, little smirk as he made his way around the table. Dropping to his knees in front of me, he pushed my dress up and slid his warm hands up to grip my hips. As soon as his mouth connected with the front of my panties, I felt the rest of my inhibitions dry up like droplets in a desert. My fingers found their way into Caj's hair, the gunmetal gray of my nail polish digging into the red-brown darkness. Tilting my head back, I let Lucky run his tongue along the side of my throat. Marcell stood aside for a moment, removing his cufflinks the way he'd done the other night, slow and wicked, dripping with intention. As soon as he shrugged his pinstriped suit jacket off his shoulders, I knew I was in trouble. “Put her against the wall, boys,” he said, and I gasped as Caj withdrew, taking my panties with him. I was pushed into the brick wall, my palms splayed against the rich red color of the stone as Lucky slid the fabric of my dress over my hips. “Dì che vuoi il mio uccello, bellezza,” Marcell whispered against my ear, his hands tracing up and over my belly, finding my breasts, his inked fingers squeezing the tender flesh without mercy, bringing me to my metaphorical knees. Translation: Tell me you want my cock, beautiful.

I knew he'd be trouble. The underboss of the Moran Crime Family took one of my diamond earrings—the ones he'd sent me as a gift—between his teeth and pulled. At the same time, pushing aside my panties and using his fingers to stroke the hot, liquid center of my core. “Say it,” he whispered cruelly, that musky heat of his scent searing my throat as I took in a sharp, wild inhale. “If you want this.” And I did. I wanted it with an unrestrained passion that surprised me. “Scopami,” I said instead. Fuck me. Marcell reached between us and unbuttoned his slacks, teasing me with the head of his cock for several agonizing seconds. I wanted to turn and see what the other men were up to, but Marcell had such a firm grip on me … I should've hated it, but I loved. An exchange of power. I wanted to feel him fuck me against this wall, and then I wanted to turn around and do the same to him. Ride him until he screamed. We didn't talk about condoms—we were both mobsters here. Staying vigilant and keeping on top of things was the name of the game. I didn't need to look to know he was putting one on. Marcell let go of the earring, sending it swaying against my cheek, a gentle kiss of frosted diamond against my face.

Sliding his right hand up and under my skirts, he gripped my hip with his hand and drove into me at the same time. The pleasure … it was excruciating, this angry, violent thrust that awakened every dark instinct inside of me. Fucking Marcell was nothing at all like fucking Bo. He was cruel, but seductive, ruthless but passionate. His shaft was long and thick, filling me up, spreading me wide. Each movement of his hips ground my body up against the wall and I loved it. I didn't want to, but I did. I did. My fingers curled against the bricks as Marcell moved inside of me, using his right hand to sneak around to my front, fingers deftly finding my clit and slicking my natural wetness up and over. A moan slipped past my lips as I relaxed into him, the wine taking away what few inhibitions I had left. Between the time I graduated high school and started college, I was a ruthless mafia princess. I carried out my father's orders with a knife's edge of precision—and I did it with tyrannical glee. I was a nightmare waiting to be unleashed. Well, it felt like Marcell was coaxing all of those dark dreams from inside of me again. Waking up monsters. Whispering to demons. “Bellezza, sei così stretta,” Marcell groaned. You're so tight, beautiful. The sound of his voice, as smooth and easy as

cognac, this Lucullan feast for the ears … it was hard to imagine denying him anything. And yet, at the same time, I still had the urge to do it. “Look at you, Lazy, already tasting the ripe fruit dangled in front of you,” Lucky said, leaning against the wall, his cheek to the bricks. His smile was as wide as always, but there was a heat there that surprised me. He liked this, me getting fucked by his rival. It was turning him on. Reaching out a hand, he cupped the back of my head and leaned in, pressing his lips to mine. He tasted like merlot and mint, his tongue expertly sweeping around mine, reminding me of Bo's sloppy but sweet press of lips. They were night and day, that man and these. One, masquerading as the perfect gentleman and fucking my friend behind my back. The others, well, these wolves didn't prance around in sheep's clothing. Marcell's breath was hot on my neck, teasing my earrings as they swayed with each thrust. His hand didn't speed up or slow down, keeping an even, steady rhythm on my clit. But it was when Caj slipped up on my other side that I knew I was in for some trouble. “Make room, Marcell,” he said, and there was a dangerous intensity in his voice, the spark of a memory of a night I'd long tried to forget. Mmm. More than a decade ago, I'd bedded Caj Bellincioni, gave him my virginity and took his in turn. I'd never

looked back. But how intriguing to fuck him again, see what he'd learned in the meantime. You're falling to pieces, Adelasia, I told myself, but when Marcell pulled away, I broke away from Lucky's mouth and turned, putting my back to the wall. The look Caj gave me was rife with wicked intent, as sharp as a knife. I could feel it cutting into me, and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the pain. Like calls to like, and all that. “Follow me,” I said, moving through the three mafia bosses and over to the chaise in the corner. Like a queen instructing her men, I pointed at the purple velvet cushion. “One of you, sit.” “Look at you, already taking advantage of our offer,” Lucky said, swaggering past me in a gray and white pinstriped suit, the red and white plaid shirt underneath giving him a distinctly retro look. Sweating, panting, my cunt throbbing with a wild need, I knew I wasn't thinking clearly. And I couldn't seem to make myself care. Caj came up behind me, pulling my hair from its bun and letting it tumble down my back. I could feel the silken waves brushing against my skin as he dug his fingers in it, teasing my scalp with a firm, desperate touch. Turning around, I met him head on, his charcoal gray suit striking against the red-brown color of his hair. And those eyes? They were nothing but

trouble. “For years, I've wondered …” he began, but he didn't have to finish the statement. I was thinking the same thing. “Let's find out how we've both changed,” I challenged, arching a brow. I glanced back and found that Lucky had already undone his pants. His dick was thick, rock solid, ready for me. It could've been lewd, certainly. It could've been vulgar, this whole exchange. But inside the old brick winery with the vaulted ceilings, the walls of colored bottles, the artful furniture and the candles … It was an exquisite nightmare, one that I did not wish to wake up from. Lifting up my right leg, I slid it back and onto the chaise, sitting back and finding Lucky with his hands on my hips, guiding his shaft into the warm, hot wetness of my opening. The fact that I was about to screw my childhood friend turned mobster crossed my mind, but whether it was the wine or my own inner darkness flooding me, I didn't care. Caj's hands cupped the sides of my face as he leaned down and kissed me at the exact moment Lucky's body was sheathed in mine. His tongue was like a whip, taming my mouth with hot, wild flicks. He gave me just enough to tease me, not enough to satisfy. Just before he pulled away, Caj licked up the side of my face and sent hot thrills of pleasure

arcing down my spine; mixing with the sensations from between my legs, it was agony. As I rolled my hips on Lucky's lap, Caj unbuttoned his slacks with a sort of purposeful intensity that made my tongue slide across my lips. “Lean back,” he told me, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. He sounded like he'd done this before —or at least something similar to this—so I decided to comply. Relaxing back against Lucky's chest, I found his lips on my neck, his hands massaging my breasts. Caj was not a gentle or a patient lover, so when he knelt on the edge of the chaise and aimed the head of his shaft for my opening, I knew this was going to ride that fine line between pain and pleasure. “Do it,” I heard myself saying, commanding. But the queen and the king were in agreement on this one—Caj thrust into my opening, sliding his dick along the length of Lucky's. The sounds that the two men made were nothing compared to the ones that escaped my own throat. My body was completely full, stretched to the limit, but the pleasure of having two men inside of me was enough—they hit every hungry part of me that needed attention. A climax rolled over me like a storm, thunder and lightning inside my very soul. I felt flashes of it break the darkness into pieces, highlight the rain

and the clouds, enhance the shadows. A hand closed around mine—Marcell's—drawing my attention over to the hungry, curved length of his cock. Even reeling as I was from the orgasm, I turned my face slightly toward him, let him slip his shaft between the bright red color of my lips. Smearing lipstick across the length of him, Mr. Moran fucked my face while the underbosses of the Bellincioni and Moretti family fucked my cunt. Letting my body go, I relaxed into three men I knew I couldn't trust—and I let myself go. This was it for me, the beginning of the end, the moment I shifted my gears from reluctant princess to greedy queen. My moans rose in pitch and fever as bodies slid in and out of mine, the pleasure a crescendo of carnal music to which I knew all the lyrics. I wasn't sure who came first because the room had become this hot sultry mix of bodies and limbs, cocks and mouths, and a cunt to rule them all. The sweet salty tang of Marcell's semen filled my mouth and I swallowed, gasping at the intensity between my thighs, the distant soreness that I knew was coming later. But first, I got to ride the waves of another orgasm, my pussy clenching and squeezing around the men, drawing their fervor to the forefront. And when they were spent, I simply rose, brushed my skirt back into place, and grabbed a

glass of wine. “Shall we continue our meeting?” I'd never felt more powerful in all my life.

Sitting on the floor in the middle of the tasting room, I watched as Lucky lit a circle of candles around me. “Why are you doing this?” I asked, as the other men showered off in the apartment upstairs. It was often used by the family for nefarious purposes but was currently empty. Hmm. Maybe I'd ask my father for the key? He wouldn't want me to move out of the house, but surely the winery was a good compromise? “Doing what?” he asked, crouching in just his gray slacks, wingtips, and a smile. “Enjoying your presence back in my life?” “Putting up with all of this.” I gestured up at the ceiling, in the direction of Marcell and Caj. “Your rivals. Me. Group sex with other men.”

“I'll do whatever it takes to get what I want,” he told me, meeting my eyes without a hint of shame in his gaze. “And fucking you isn't exactly a chore, Lazy.” “If I get deeper into this,” I asked, still not entirely sure if I was acting out of hurt … or a genuine desire to dig myself back into the web of the families. “Am I going to uncover things that scare me?” “Nothing scares you, Adelasia,” Lucky said, lighting the last candle and chucking the used matches into one of the empty wine glasses. He poured a generous serving of alcohol into another glass and paused at a sound from the street, like a car door slamming. For a normal person, a sound like that is nothing. Just another heartbeat in the chorus of life. But for someone born into our world, it had the potential for something much more sinister. Casually, as if I couldn't care less, I rose to my feet and stepped out of the circle of candles, glass of wine still in hand. Unzipping my purse, I withdrew a tube of lipstick and a compact. Putting my drink aside, I began to put it on. “Lazy,” Lucky whispered just a second or two before the glass at the front of the store cracked and spiderwebbed with the force of several shots. Too bad whoever it was that was attacking us didn't know that my father prepared for all things—

even the windows of his winery were bulletproof. I slid the revolver from my purse and dropped my lipstick to the floor, the red-red color rolling toward the circle of candles. “There are more weapons upstairs,” I said as Lucky pulled a .40 caliber pistol from his jacket and nodded at me. Together, we slipped back through the tasting room and into the back hall where the stairs to the apartment were. “Shots fired?” Caj asked, almost like he was bored. He stepped aside and let us into the apartment. It should've been weird, being surrounded by three strangers—three very dangerous strangers— that I'd just fucked, at the same time no less. And yet, I was a mafia daughter through and through. When it came to wheeling and dealing for my life, I could shut down the emotions. But I knew—I fucking knew—that as soon as this was over, I'd have a whole hell of a lot of them. “Wow. The world just gets dumber and dumber every damn day,” Caj said, slicking his red-brown hair back with his fingers, popping a cigar between his lips and lighting up. With the dancing flame bathing his face in orange, he looked for a moment like some sort of demon. A demon you had inside of you just thirty minutes before. “Only a complete moron,” he continued, sliding

a black case out from under the desk beneath the window and flipping it open, “would come here knowing I have access to a sniper rifle.” “You're assuming they're in the know,” I said, opening the closet and pulling out a bulletproof vest. Slipping it on over the expensive silk of my designer gown felt like the most natural thing in the world. “And tell me, Mr. Bellincioni, how you knew about the rifle.” I gestured with my chin in his direction, watching as he pulled out the gun, assembled it, and set it on the table. With a flick of the window latch, he shoved the glass up and out of his way—much the same way the men did with my skirts earlier—and took aim. “Vincent,” he said, and that was all I needed to hear. Caj knew I'd confirm with Vinny to see if that was true; it probably was. “And who knows we're here?” he continued conversationally, his voice as smooth as silk. Caj was a very dangerous man. “Not an extraordinarily large number of people,” Marcell said, his smile as sharp as the knife I had hidden under my dress, the one the men hadn't found, not even while fucking me. I almost smiled. But then, we were in the middle of a potentially dangerous situation. Later then, with a glass of wine, I'd relive the moment.

“Vincent,” I said, already on the phone. Of course he'd answer on the first ring. “There's trouble at the winery.” He cursed under his breath in Italian for a moment. “We'll be right there, principessina, just hold tight.” I tossed the phone onto the nightstand and left it on speaker, watching as Caj lined up a shot and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening, but it didn't faze me. I'd been around worse. Glancing into the hallway, I saw Lucky leaning up against the wall just inside the door to the apartment. Outside, I could hear footsteps and the distinct sound of glass breaking. Those motherfuckers were wasting all the wine … I pulled the hammer back on the revolver and glanced over at Marcell. “I'll take the back entrance; care to join me?” “I'd love to see the back entrance,” he said smoothly, and even though the words were lewd, the delivery was not. I smiled tightly, lips as red as blood, makeup freshly applied. The rest of my lipstick … was on Marcell's cock. He followed me down the hall toward the back, just in time for the door to come crashing in at us. “Abbassati!” Marcell shouted, and I ducked at

just the right moment, narrowly avoiding being shot in the face. The men that flooded the stairwell didn't look at all familiar, but that didn't mean they weren't working for one of the families. Our rat is here, I thought as I rose to my feet in a single, fluid motion and aimed with both hands on the revolver. The first man through the door dropped to the rough hewn wood floor beneath my heels. Group sex and then a firefight. A day in the life of a mafia princess … Marcell swung his gun up and to the right, hitting another man in the side of the face. The crack of bone was unmistakable. Blood spattered the white walls behind the stranger's face, red as the merlot I'd sipped that afternoon. And the blows didn't stop —Marcell gave him one brutal bash after another, disabling the man without firing a single shot. No wonder he'd returned to the car with his hands bloody during our dinner date. I should've been disgusted. Instead, I was fascinated. They might've been from different families, but these men … their blood ran as dark as rain, thick with shadows. Their hearts … they beat the same, uneasy rhythm as my own. Blinking away my thoughts, I managed to spin around at the exact moment Lucky shouted out to me.

“Lazy!” he screamed, drawing my attention to him as he struggled with another man, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He was a sloppy fighter, this man, but he was also a hulking mountain of muscle. He'd managed to distract Lucky just long enough to let his companion past. As soon as he saw me, the newcomer switched his gun over to Marcell and took a shot. I couldn't see if the bullet found its target, but it didn't matter. If something had happened to Marcell, it'd have to be dealt with after the fight. In that moment, I was all instinct and muscles, heated skin and panting breath. My cunt was sweetly sore, and I felt like an animal defending its territory. Dropping into a crouch—not easy with heels on —I swung my leg out and caught the man in the shins, dropping him to his knees in the hallway. Before he could quite register what was happening to him, I swung my revolver over, pointed it at his forehead and attempted to pull the trigger. Hands grabbed me from behind, tangling in my hair and jerking me back so suddenly that the shot went wild; plaster crashed to the floor as the bullet buried itself in the ceiling. My attacker drew me backwards, but I was already in the process of spinning around, ignoring the pain in my scalp and throwing the hardest punch I could manage right to the man's crotch. He

howled in agony, but his grip on my hair only tightened. I grabbed at the bulge in his jeans with all my strength and twisted. They don't want to kill you, I noted in the back of my mind. They want you alive. Why? There are only a handful of people in this world that know where this meeting was taking place, so who fits both categories? Who knows we're here and might want me to keep breathing? I squeezed harder and then threw myself back. The man's grip didn't loosen, but the force of my movement made him stumble. Putting out a leg, I dropped him straight to the floor, his fingers finally sliding from my hair, snapping a few loose strands. When I grabbed my gun and stood up, I pointed it down at his face, watched his eyes lift to mine, and pulled the trigger. Blood spattered my high heels, pooled across the floor in an awful viscous red. I ignored it all, turning to focus on the rest of the men that had been in the apartment with us. There weren't many —maybe six in all that I could see—and they were sloppy. Too sloppy. “Whatever this is, it's shoddy mercenary work,” Caj said, appearing with the rifle slung over one shoulder. In his suit, with that smile, he looked like a vengeful god. “Clearly, there wasn't intent to kill here,” I said

as I glanced over and found Marcell shrugging out of his bloody suit jacket and button-up. As soon as the fabric came down, and I saw the inked rockhard abs and chest underneath, I felt a little skip in my stomach. “A set up?” Lucky asked, coming up from behind me, panting and sporting what looked to be the beginning of a nasty black eye. “A test,” I said, at the same moment the sound of multiple vehicles pulling up to the winery sounded through the broken window. “Or a warning.” I headed toward the stairs, my heels slipping in the blood that covered the hallway floor. Four drivers, one consigliere, and me. That's who knew we were here. Clearly, I wasn't a fucking rat. Vincent … it was possible, but highly unlikely considering his length of service to the family, his marriage to my aunt, and his seeming fondness for me. I wouldn't rule him out completely, but it was a less than one percent chance. Which meant … One of the men I'd just fucked was a traitor. The question now was: which one?

To Be Continued …

To Be Continued in Lavish (Mafia Queen, Book #2)

"Can one of these five rockstars fill the hole in my heart? Or will I stay broken forever?"

"All motorcyle clubs have their old ladies; these officers, they share one. They share me."

"He was darkness, sin incarnate. I loved him anyway."

.

"Dash was the son of my father's worst enemy, but also the man I'd grow to love."

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About the Author C.M. Stunich is a self-admitted bibliophile with a love for exotic teas and a whole host of characters who live full time inside the strange, swirling vortex of her thoughts. Some folks might call this crazy, but Caitlin Morgan doesn't mind - especially considering she has to write biographies in the third person. Oh, and half the host of characters in her head are searing hot bad boys with dirty mouths and skillful hands (among other things). If being crazy means hanging out with them

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Table of Contents Table of Contents Front Matter Title Page Copyright Dedication Signup for my Newsletter Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Back Matter Lavish (Mafia Queen #2) Cover Groupie Cover I Was Born Ruined Cover Glacier Cover Biker Rockstar Billionaire CEO Alpha Cover Keep Up With The Fun More Books By C.M. Stunich About the Author