Dark Crown: A Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance (Russo Royals Book 1)

by Shanna Handel

  Dark Crown

  Shanna Handel

  Contents

  Welcome

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Bonus Content FREE Chapter

  Book 2 in Russo Royals

  About the Author

  Also by Shanna Handel

  Welcome

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  (NOTE: To avoid spoilers only read Dark AFTER you’ve read Dark Crown)

  Shanna Handel

  Copyright © 2020 Shanna Handel

  Cover Art by Pop Kitty

  All rights reserved.

  Dark Crown: A Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance

  Russo Royals; Book 1

  He’s the king of the Mafia. I’ve been promised to him as payment.

  I’ve dreamed of my wedding day since I was a little girl.

  Only this is not a dream but a nightmare.

  I’m forced to marry the most dangerous man in Italy.

  He’ll steal me away to his castle. Make me his wife.

  Demand my obedience.

  Take all of me.

  I loathe him.

  And yet…

  When he puts his hands on my body…

  My secrets reveal themselves.

  I lose control,

  I crave this man I hate...

  My husband.

  Prologue

  Vincent

  There are two things a man can never have enough of in this life. Power, and wealth.

  Not money, but wealth.

  Money comes and goes, flowing like water. Slipping through your fingers like fine grains of sand.

  Wealth is the stone you build your kingdom with. Hard. Unmoving. Timeless.

  Power can be bought, or it can be taken. I’ve come to Italy and conquered, earning the trust of a carefully chosen army. I’ve become the king of the Italian mafia, giving it my blood, my sweat, and my surname: Russo.

  My castle stands high on the hill, surrounded by thick stone walls, complete with turrets where my men stand guard over our family. To my right, the green rolling hills make their way down to the village, the pristine shops and cottages dotting the land like a storybook. To the left, the land lowers into the aquamarine expanse of the sea.

  I’ll never tire of this view.

  I lack for nothing.

  And yet…

  There is one final conquest I must reign victorious.

  A win so trivial, yet it nags constantly at the back of my mind.

  A marriage.

  Felicity Alfano.

  She’s a beauty, a shy girl, working in her father’s store attempting to keep it from going under, but with his surmounting debts—money owed to me—its demise is inevitable.

  The last wish of my grandfather was for me to take her for my wife.

  I’ll steal her body. Demand her loyalty.

  And her heart?

  She can keep it to herself for all I care.

  She’s nothing more to me than a toy; something to play with.

  Something to break.

  But when I finally take her in my arms,

  I find I’ve gotten it all wrong.

  1

  Felicity

  I’ve dreamed of my wedding day since I was a little girl. I knew I would wear a white dress with longs sleeves and a full skirt. I would dance with my father to his favorite song, Figlia Mia: My Daughter, and I would carry a bouquet of deep red roses.

  And my groom—my prince charming, my knight in shining armor—I didn’t know who he would be, but I knew what he would be. A warm, funny man with a crooked smile and an easy laugh. One that would hold me tight, kiss my forehead, shower me with his love.

  A kind man. A gentle man.

  Now, as strangers surround me, preparing me for what should be the happiest day of my life, I find myself swallowing back bitter tears. I watch them in the mirror as they curl my dark hair, blush my cheeks, and pin my veil into place, smiling and laughing with one another as they work.

  After all, a wedding in the family is a joyous occasion.

  I take in my reflection. Other than the flashing terror behind my hazel eyes, I’m the picture perfect bride. They’ve thought of everything, no detail has been overlooked.

  He’s thought of everything.

  My keeper, my dark king. And by the end of this day, my husband.

  I will be his.

  His will be done.

  The youngest member of his staff, seventeen year old Esme, hovers at my side. She’s eight years my junior, impulsive and flighty, but there’s a deep wisdom that resides within her. With her light hair and contrasting dark eyes, they call her perla neara, the black pearl. She longs to please, to prove her place in the ranks. She can read this unhappiness in my face and she fears she’s the one who’s put it there.

  Placing a birdlike, fluttering hand on my shoulder, she says, “Miss Felicity? Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Catching her worried eyes in the mirror, I try to reassure her with a smile. It comes out forced and tight. My voice breaks as I speak. “No, my darling. You’ve done everything perfectly. Thank you.”

  Her face etched with concern, she gives me a timid nod. I’ve noticed she can be a bit distracted and seems somewhat boy crazy, but now, sensing my need to be alone, she gathers the other women, shooing them out the door. For someone so young, she’s extremely perceptive and helpful.

  I tuck the thought in the back of my mind. Perhaps Esme will be of assistance when I plan my inevitable escape. Because though I may be legally bound to this man in a few short hours, there’s no way in hell I’m staying here.

  Where will I go?

  I’ve no idea.

  And to complicate matters, I must save my father as well, even though he was the one who put me in this hell. After borrowing money from the Russo family that he couldn’t pay back he sold the only thing he had left of value.

  Me.

  His only child. His precious daughter.

  There’s only one thing I take solace in on this day. Marrying this man means my father will live out his days in safety. And thanks to my husband gifting my father a monthly stipend, he won’t be living in the streets.

  My groom is generous with his wealth to those who are tied to him. For that, I cannot fault him.

  Vincenzo Russo.

  I’ve heard his name plenty of times, but never seen the man in person. Everyone calls him Vincent. Sophia, the matronly woman who’s been employed by his family all her life tells me his name means to win, to conquer.

  And he does. In every avenue of his life. He always gets what he wants.

  And he wanted me.

  Apparently, a few months ago, he visited my father’s shop before we had to close it down due to money troubles from Dad’s gambling addictions. I must have made an impression because he took me for his own, plucking me from the store, like a can of dry goods from the shelf.

  I’ve racked my brain, wondering what possessed him to choose me. Surely there were ot
her girls whose fathers were indebted to him? Girls more beautiful, or interesting. Girls who longed to be the queen of the mafia, to live the lavish lifestyle he offers.

  Why choose me?

  As a shy bookworm, I often kept my nose stuck in the pages of a fairytale as I worked the counter at my father’s shop on the main street in the village. I’d often spent lonely afternoons gazing upon, watching the members of the Russo family as they made their way home from the village to their chateau in little clusters. Talking. Laughing. Happy. I’d envied them their lives.

  The irony grows bitter in my mouth.

  Sophia briskly enters the room, shuffling over to my side, her generous, floral-covered hips pressing against my arm. “Get up, il mio amore, my love. It’s time.”

  It’s time.

  I find myself frozen to the chair, unable to move.

  She grabs my shoulder, gently tugging at me to stand. “Come, come. You mustn’t keep him waiting. He’s not fond of delays.”

  “I’m not fond of being forced to marry.”

  My words make her face fall and I instantly regret them. I soften my tone, putting a hand over hers where it rests on my shoulders. “It’s not your fault, I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

  She sniffs as if I’ve complained of my hairpins being too tight. “I understand. But my dear, things could be worse. In my day, our parents had the say in who we married. And it was difficult to move up in this world other than through marriage. At least in Vincent, you will never want for anything.”

  Anything, other than love.

  Though her demeanor is tough, in her gaze I can read her apologies. She’s not the one at fault. I give her the same tight smile I braved for Esme.

  Patting her hand, I say, “I know. He’s been more than generous.”

  She gives a grateful sigh, as if I’ve taken the weight of guilt from her shoulders. “I understand this isn’t the way you envisioned your life heading, but you will grow to love him. I have a sixth sense about these things and I’ve not been wrong yet.”

  There’s a first time for everything, Sophia.

  I will never love him.

  As soon as I can break out of the castle walls safely, I’m going to flee. Grab my father, and get us out of the country. Maybe we can go back to New York, where we lived before coming to Italy.

  But first, I must play the part of the bride.

  Standing, I smooth my shaking hands over my dress, a slinky white silk slip gown, the seaming hugging my curves, the back rising into baguette-encrusted halter straps that lead to a black grosgrain bow-topped T-back. It’s nothing I would have chosen for myself, but as I gaze in the mirror, I find it suits me.

  “How do I look?” I offer Sophia a smile I hope is kind. She hemmed this dress for me, painstakingly making every stitch by hand when I arrived the other morning, telling me if she left it up to the castle’s tailor, he’d snag the silk with his rough hands.

  Tears brush up in her eyes as she gazes at me through her wire-framed glasses. “Dear, you look lovely. Vincent is a very lucky man.”

  Taking my arm in hers, she leads me from the room. We make our way through the castle.

  It’s a truly beautiful building, a structure built for fairytales. I’ve read so many books, and in every one pictured myself walking along the halls of the castles on the pages. But now, it’s real.

  Deep red rugs line the halls. Paintings of the Italian countryside, and the regal ancestors of the family hang from the walls below black iron sconces that holding burning candles. Servants flutter behind me, ready and willing to meet any need I may have.

  I’ve dreamed of castles like this.

  And now, my dream feels like a nightmare.

  Together, we walk down the back stairs of the castle, beneath an arched entrance. My feet pad over the soft green grass of the rolling hills toward the Gothic cathedral style church that sits on the property.

  Shaped topiary trees twist up from the ground, lining our path to the stone building. Above the elaborately carved archway, the front of the church curves into five sharp points that seem to be reaching for the clouds, the center one wider than the others, a massive cross rising from its peak.

  Where hundreds of curious eyes are waiting.

  I will walk down the aisle alone—my father was not invited.

  As we walk under the warm sun, a breeze blows by, fluttering my veil. The weather is so pleasant, I almost smile, but then my gaze goes to the dark wooden doors of the church and I tense.

  The doors are flanked by guards.

  Are they here to keep us safe from rivals, or to keep me from running?

  My shoulders stiffen as the guards eye me, their gazes heavy, their jaws clenched.

  The guards open the doors, and my knees go weak. So many people. The church is packed, the guests standing shoulder to shoulder, dressed in crisp suits and satin gowns, their faces turning toward me.

  Overwhelmed by their gazes, my eyes turn upward. I focus on my breath, taking in the architecture, the domed ceiling with its carving and paintings of angels with feathery gold wings. I’ve dreamed of visiting this duomo, built in the eleventh century and an integral part of our village’s history, but only the Russo family and their guests are ever allowed on the property. If I was here under other circumstances, I would stay for hours, taking in the beauty of this place, lighting a candle for the spirits of my mother and my grandmother.

  But this is not a day out.

  This is my wedding.

  And I must move my body, force my legs to obey me, make my feet glide down the cold, stone aisle, where, at the end of this sea of people, I will get the first glimpse of the man I am to marry.

  The music is beautiful and full, as it echoes through the church. The organ plays the notes of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus, but in my heart it feels more like a funeral march, reminding me this is not the happy day I dreamed of.

  With trembling limbs and not even a bridal bouquet to hide my shaking fingers, I somehow manage to force my way down the aisle, the sound of the magnificent organ thrumming through my chest.

  There he is.

  It’s…him?

  His jaw is cut from stone, his eyes as dark as his soul. His lips, though full, rest in a line, a near scowl. There are a few strands of early silver woven through his thick, chestnut hair. He holds his shoulders as if he’s going into battle.

  An icy tremble runs through me, a chill running down my spine.

  I remember him.

  I was working the store, my nose stuck in a book when he first walked in with his posse. He was buying a bouquet of purple roses. For a special lady, he said, his accent a blend of Italian and American, like mine.

  His eyes lingered on my face. He brought his finger to my cheek, running it down the curve of my face, leaving a line of fire behind from his touch. The move was so exciting, so possessive, I felt a welling in my chest.

  But this was a stranger. And judging by the men in dark suits that flanked both his sides, a dangerous one at that.

  When I went upstairs to our home that night, I found the roses in a vase on my front steps. No note. No sign of him.

  I took the flowers into the apartment, leaving them on the center of the table. When my father saw them, his face blanched. He scurried from the room without a word.

  I figured the gift had made my father uncomfortable, a case of him not wanting his little girl to be all grown up, receiving gifts from strange men. I gave the beautiful roses to a neighbor, but kept the vase.

  My father said nothing in the morning, but acted strangely for days. Then the money ran out, our suppliers no longer making deliveries. He confessed his lifelong gambling addiction.

  And I forgot about the man with the purple roses.

  That was weeks ago.

  Now, I stand before him, realizing his gift of flowers was simply a prelude to him claiming me as payment. I want to turn, to run. But I think of my father, and do the only thing I can to keep him safe; put one foot i
n front of the other and close the final distance between us.

  I reach the front of the church, and I stare straight ahead past his looming presence, focusing my eyes on a bouquet of white lilies resting on a table just behind the priest.

  The mass is in Italian. The Russo family has ties to Italy as well as America, and like me, are bilingual. I let the words flow around me, unable to focus. Vincent stands beside me, his arm a hand’s length from mine. I feel heat emanating from his body, making my spine rigid, my muscles tense.

  The priest drones on. My feet pinch in my shoes. Dread creeps through my body, weighing heavy in my stomach. My heart thumps in my ears. Tears burn at the backs of my eyes.

  I will them away.

  Do not cry, Felicity.

  The language changes to English, I assume for the benefit of Vincent’s friends who have flown in from the states. They will want to hear the words, to understand what is said as we bind our lives to one another for all eternity.

  Only there will be no exchanging of vows today. My hands shake as I realize I can’t do this.

  His dark eyes lock on mine.

  And he begins to speak.

  He’s saying the words by heart. He’s taken the time to memorize them.

  "I, Vincenzo, take thee, Felicity to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I pledge thee my faith."

  For one bizarre, fleeting moment, I’m touched.

  Then, I remember the monster in the man that stands before me.

  The priest turns to me. “Now Felicity, please repeat after me. ‘I, Felicity, take thee, Vincenzo, to be my wedded husband…”