Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel

by Huntington, Parker S.

  Heidi, I love that you make ugly things beautiful like helping caterpillars turn into butterflies and my first drafts into actual books. I love the beauty you see in unexpected places—the photographs you capture, the way you treat me and our friendship. I love how you don’t handle me with kid gloves and treat me like I’m made of tough stuff—and as I’m starting to realize, I am. I love how you came into my life so kind and unassuming, a sweet reader whose words I didn’t know would have the large footprints they do today. I love how you get me, how you love dogs, how you understand my words—and when you don’t, you work to understand them (and me). I love your selflessness and the time you give as if it is not the rarest, most precious gift you could give me (aside from your friendship). And mostly, I just love you. Thank you.

  Professor Harloe, thank you for being my cheerleader and offering a helping hand always. You’re so supportive of me and deal with all of my craziness without a complaint (even when I am level ten dramatic, spouting crazy conspiracy theories).

  Leigh, thank you for all the momager duties, making me get my ass in gear, and loving/beta-ing this book even when I was so frustrated at having to scrap the first 60K. I couldn’t have done this without you!

  Jose, I have no words. I struggled to find a cover for Nash, but you sent me this one as if you just knew I needed it. Seriously, I didn’t even tell you I was cover searching, which is why I think it’s 100% fate.

  Ryan, thank you for being Nash! I’m in love with this cover.

  Desireé and Sebastian, thank you for bringing Emery and Nash to life! Des, you put up with my crazy and go above and beyond. I am so grateful to have you in my life.

  Juli, you are always so supportive of me! When I need a pick-me-up, I go to the Romano IG page you made and am just in awe that someone out there is sweet and talented enough to do that for me.

  Brittany, thank you for beta-ing this book and loving Nash for me. I can’t begin to describe how much I value your friendship and appreciate you.

  Elan, your Battleship game is weak. Bask in my awesomeness. Also, thank you for being my friend.

  Gem and Janice, thank you for your diligent work on my manuscripts. They’d be a mess without you both.

  Ashlee, you are such a talent!

  Thank you to my amazing admins: Gemma, Ava, Krista, Heather, Amanda, Brittany, and Leigh.

  Thank you to my wonderful author friends: Giana Darling, Lylah James, SM Soto, Heather Oregeron, Claudia Burgoa, Nicole French, Logan Chance, and Amara Kent.

  Thank you to the amazing group of people who helped get this book into as many hands as possible:

  Jenn Watson, for dealing with my crazy, especially my rambling phone calls

  Sarah Ferguson, Shan Brown, and everyone at Social Butterfly PR—total rockstars

  Cecelia Mecca and Bridgette Duplantis, two gems

  Harrison, you’re probably realizing that giving my neurotic self your number was a big mistake. THANK YOU!

  Daniel, Daniela, and Luiz—I appreciate all you do for me!

  Bloggers! I am in complete awe at all the love this book has received. You guys help me spread the word, and I cannot be more grateful!

  Lastly, my readers! To the new ones, welcome! I can’t wait to continue this journey with you. To the ones who’ve been with me for longer, thank you for your continued support and patience. I know you all wanted a mafia book this release, but you guys have greeted Nash’s book with open arms, supporting me more than I can ever imagine. I’m so lucky and blessed to have you all.

  So much love,

  Parker

  P.S. If you loved the book, please consider leaving a review. They mean so much to me. <3

  Parker S. Huntington is from Orange County, California, USA. She has a Bachelor’s of Arts in Creative Writing from the University of California, Riverside and a Master's in Liberal Arts in Creative Writing and Literature from Harvard.

  She was the proud mom of Chloe and has two puppies, Bauer and Rose. She also lives with her boyfriend of seven years.

  Reach me at:

  Group: facebook.com/groups/Parkerettes/

  Website: www.parkershuntington.com

  Facebook: facebook.com/parkershuntington

  IG: instagram.com/parkershuntington

  Amazon: amazon.com/author/parkershuntington

  BookBub: bookbub.com/profile/parker-s-huntington

  Goodreads: goodreads.com/author/show/16632079.Parker_S_Huntington

  Sneak Peek: Bastiano Romano

  Prologue

  DALIA RICCI

  The Past

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” My pulse quickens, the fear simmering beneath my skin at what I know I have to do. Run. “It has been four years since my last confession.”

  The grating separating us smells musty, but I lean my cheek against it anyway. The walls of the confessional moan. Old, like everything else in Devils Ridge, Texas. The heart of the De Luca mafia syndicate. The heart of Hell.

  “What ails you, my child?”

  Everything.

  I am helpless to men, to fate, the insignificant pawn housing a future queen in a game far greater than her. I don’t say the things my heart feels. Instead, I cradle my stomach. I’m not showing. I still have some time. Not much but perhaps enough to figure out my options.

  “I slept with a married man.”

  And I liked it.

  Until I didn’t.

  And still, he wouldn’t stop.

  Father Luciano says nothing. I can picture him. The scattering of blond hair covering next to nothing on his receding hairline. His pudgy fingers pressed together like a steeple. His white clerical collar choking his thick neck. The all-black attire and stuffy booth running sweat down his hunched back.

  Father Luciano. Two years my senior. The twenty-four year old who looks a day shy of forty. I’d pity him if I didn’t need to reserve my pity for myself. My lips let loose a breathy sigh as I wait for his response, unsure why I bothered coming here. It felt right at the time.

  The sigh is too seductive, but I can’t help it. Half the men in this town tell me I am a goddess. The other half tells me I’m a curse. I know which half I believe. It is not the same half that visits me at the Landing Strip, leering at my body as I strip away my clothes and dignity to their praises.

  I wonder, for a moment, what Father Luciano thinks as his breathing deepens, and the wooden bench on his half of the booth creaks with stilted movement. He knows who I am. He knows what I do for a living. I suspect he knows who I do, also.

  He wants you, the Devil in me whispers.

  I always listen to my Devil. She controls my future. Sometimes, I get antsy in this small town. One I stumbled upon after listening to her voice, following the pit stop of a groupie tour bus.

  I’d call her Fate if it weren’t for the series of bad decisions I’ve made. My Devil encouraged me to stay here. She wiped away my conscience and begged me to sleep with Angelo De Luca, a man unfit to run his own syndicate let alone lay his hands on me. I know I am my Devil, but I prefer distancing myself from the blame.

  Because now, I live trapped in a world of four mafia syndicates pitted against one another. Andretti versus Romano. Camerino versus Rossi.

  Two fractured coasts, warring within themselves.

  And the fifth syndicate, cast to the side. The De Luca syndicate. Undeserving. A breeding ground for resentment. Ridiculed as inconsequential for centuries. Run by a mad man whose attention I have caught.

  Father Luciano clears his throat and, perhaps, his lust. “Do you feel guilt, my child?”

  “Yes.”

  Not to Angelo De Luca. Not to his wife. To my child. A girl, my Devil predicts. If my Devil is right, she will die in this town like me. Insignificant. An illegitimate princess unable to claim her throne. Surely, there’s a better way.

  Run. The urge seizes me once again. I feel it down to my toes.

  “Guilt is a weight on your shoulder. Your body’s way of telling you to pause. Thin
k. Make better decisions. Repent.”

  My repentance will not matter once Angelo De Luca discovers I am pregnant. I will either be dead or captured.

  “Have you ever considered leaving this town, Father Luciano?”

  His discomfort drifts to my half of the confessional. People do not leave Devils Ridge because people do not leave the mafia. Father Luciano is not a Made Man, but in this town, everyone is, at most, one degree away.

  “No,” he finally relents, and I hear it. The lie.

  If priests can lie, where is the sanctity of confession?

  “If you were to leave this town, Father, how would you do it?” A provocative question, but most would argue I am a provocative person.

  “I would not leave Devils Ridge.”

  “Humor me.” I dip my voice the way I know men like. “Please.” At his silence, I continue, voice smooth like silky sex hitting all the right spots. “I’m your child, Father. Your flock.” My lips part as I lean closer to the grating. I know he can see them as I whisper like I am begging for his cock, “Lead me.”

  He bristles again. “The airport—”

  “Will leave a trace.”

  “The church ships supplies through a discreet entrance on Echo Street. I would use it to slip into the cargo hold of an outbound plane.”

  It’s a long shot, but a better chance of escape than I had ten seconds ago.

  “Thank you.” Not bothering to wait for my penance, I stand and gather the little belongings I own. A passport and wallet with a faded picture of me and my sister.

  Father Luciano meets me outside the confessional, his eyes not distracted by my pretty packaging for once. “You cannot leave this town, my child.”

  “You just showed me how, Father.” My lips curve into a smile. “You showed me, step by step, and I never would have known about the church’s access to the airport had you not shown me the way.” I toy with the top edges of my shirt until a flash of cleavage blinds him. Then, I fix his collar until he sucks in a breath at the touch of my fingers against his pulse. “A way only you and your brethren know of.”

  When I leave the church, it’s to the sound of silence. I hop into my dinky car and take off with the feel of my Devil patting me on the back.

  Well done, my Devil praises.

  Self-preservation, I protest.

  And because bad requires the balance of good, I stop for the man waving on the side of the road. His tire is flat, its bottom the shape of a pancake. I recognize him as I step out of the car Angelo bought me and our eyes connect.

  I may fear Angelo De Luca, but I know this man deserves my fear more. Except I don’t feel fear.

  “Miss Ricci,” he drawls in that Yankee accent, not offering his name. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things.”

  I pat my belly on instinct. The movement betrays too much. His eyes dip down. He knows. He knows who I am. And judging by the cock of his brow, he now knows of my baby girl also.

  “What a wonderful surprise.” He stretches a hand out. “Please, accept my congratulations.”

  I stare at his hand before I take it. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “Says the man stranded on the side of the road.”

  “True.” He shrugs as if every car that passed hadn’t ignored him. They knew who he is. Just my luck.

  Not luck but Fate, my Devil suggests as if she understands the word.

  “I have a spare in my trunk.”

  He sends me a grateful smile that has my back relaxing. I can’t pin point what this is. It’s not lust. Nothing I’m used to encountering. It’s human decency. Perhaps even familiarity. When the tire has been replaced, he shuts my truck and nods his head to the song on the stereo. It’s an old one, where the Bhundu Boys sing about crazy things like Fate and Destiny.

  He confirms my suspicions that he knows who I am when he says, “Dalia.” His lips wrap around my name like a present, as if something pleasant hides within. “The goddess of Fate. Do you believe in Fate?”

  I don’t, but I answer, “Yes,” because the way he asks makes me feel like he does.

  He nods his head and considers something for a moment before his eyes cut through pretenses and narrow on my belly. “Would you like my help?”

  I’d like help, yes, but I’m not sure from him. He and Angelo can be two sides of the same coin, but at least there’s kindness in his eyes, and I’m not in the position to pick and choose which Devil to run from.

  Mine or theirs.

  “Why?” I finally ask.

  “Fate,” he answers, as if it exists.

  Chapter One

  BASTIANO ROMANO

  The Present

  My cousin Asher tossed me the engagement ring like it didn’t cost more than a brownstone on the Upper East Side.

  “Jackass.” I tucked it into the velvet case, slid it inside the inner pocket of my suit jacket, then threw him a clean shirt.

  Blood clung to the fabric of his white tee, but it fazed neither of us. The Romano syndicate possessed no shortage of enemies, and Asher’s job as our fixer was to dispose of them when told. He swapped the soaked shirt for the clean button down, discarding the ruined material on my floor without a care for the stains on my hardwood.

  “Ballsy,” Asher remarked. Like a true fixer, his footsteps made no noise as he followed me down the stairs of my penthouse to the open-plan living room, sidestepping Elsa’s lace panties by the piano with an arched brow. “Your dad won’t like it.”

  Dad didn’t like anything to do with Elsa, so expecting him to like this proposal would be like expecting a virgin to fake a convincing orgasm.

  I picked the panties up and pocketed them for later, already imagining them stuffed in her mouth as I slide inside her after she accepts my proposal. “My dad won’t know until it’s too late.”

  “But Elsa’s not royal.” He shook his head. “Hell, she’s not even mafia.”

  That was the point. Elsa was far from mafia with her Southern drawl, football obsession, and inability to eat any meal without a side of store-bought ketchup. She was also the smartest woman I’d ever met, fuck-hot, capable of script-worthy banter, and the first woman to make me fall in love. I had plans for tonight which included an engagement ring on her finger and my cock on her tongue.

  Plucking my phone from my kitchen island, I shot a text to my assistant Lewis to confirm my plans. “Again. Dad won’t know until it’s too late.”

  As far as I was concerned, my dad had no say in this. I’d done everything right. The top boarding schools. The Ivy League education. Learning the Romano businesses—legal and less legal—inside and out. Any fucker—my dad included—who got in between me and Elsa could acquaint himself with my fist and, perhaps, the jagged blade of the knife Uncle Vince had gifted me when I’d turned nine.

  I hadn’t used it—that was what the enforcers were for—but I had the training and wouldn’t hesitate to. People saw me as the privileged, over-educated spawn of Giovanni Romano. I did little to alter their perception, mostly because I gave no fucks, but also because I enjoyed being underestimated.

  Asher tucked his socked feet into his Jordans, still staring at me with those eery too-blue eyes of his. “Okay, Golden Child.”

  He still didn’t believe I’d defy the syndicate. Dad expected me to marry another mafia royal. Not quite as drastic as his arranged marriage with Ma, but the daughter of an upper-level mafia figure of my own choosing at the very least.

  Never once had I gone against my family’s wishes before Elsa. My Uncles Frankie and Eli didn’t have children. So, I’d been groomed to run the Romano empire from the business side, leaving enforcement to Dad’s twin Uncle Vince—and eventually Asher Black, Uncle Vince’s son by pseudo-adoption.

  Asher got his hands dirty; I filled mine with business textbooks from Wharton. I graduated with my masters at twenty-two and came back with Elsa in tow, her Southern-belle eyes starstruck by the size of my penthouse and a
lifestyle she never knew existed.

  I loved that about her—how untouched she was by all this wealth, which never seemed to stop growing. Dad, on the other hand, hated every second he spent in her presence, nearly painted the town red when she moved in with me, and will probably stab someone when he finds out about my proposal.

  Not like I gave a fuck.

  I grabbed my keys and turned to Asher, who stood with his arms crossed, a little lanky but looking way older than his seventeen years. A smirk lifted the corners of my lips, my good mood bleeding all over my face. “There’s blood on your Jordans,” I remarked.

  Then, I left Asher and his disbelief at the door, descending the elevator into the parking garage and sliding into the back of my Bentley Mulsanne. The driver took off, always briefed on my itinerary beforehand by Lewis.

  I skimmed a few business emails on my phone. One of many Romano-owned businesses in the syndicate included Launder, Inc., the largest chain of laundromats on the East Coast. It started as a single cash business to launder dirty money through and grew into a corporation which grossed over one hundred million dollars last year.

  I’d taken over as CEO a few months ago. Elsa didn’t like the hours, but she understood. We made time for dates twice a week, each time a different surprise to make up for all the time I spent working.