“She didn’t die a slave. That much you can be assured of. She passed from cancer, and it seems she might even have been happy towards the end. The obituary is short with not many details, but someone cared enough to put it in the newspaper and to bury her properly.”
A stray tear cascades down my cheek, and I’m quick to wipe it away. Fuck, I haven’t cried since I was six years old, and I’m not about to start now. But to know that my mother didn’t die as a sex slave, that she might have had a better outcome in life is the best news I’ve heard thus far.
“And my sister?” I prompt.
“I’m still searching for her,” Baz tells me with a frown. “If we just had the name of the man she was originally sold to, I could track her whereabouts, maybe even find her if she’s still…” His voice trails off, but I know what he was going to say.
If she’s still alive.
My sister could have died years ago, and I would have never known. Part of me hopes she died shortly after being taken, so that she didn’t have to suffer long. A child sold into sex slavery turns my stomach to the point of pain.
Baz’s words come back to me. If he just had the name of the man she was sold to…
A name. All I need is a name.
And there’s only one man who can tell me that information. Giorgio Ciccone.
“I’ll get you the name,” I vow.
Baz’s dark brows rise to his hairline as he slowly stands and takes me in for a moment. “And just how do you plan on doing that, my friend? You know as well as I do that Ciccone is impossible to get close to.”
I give him a nod. He’s right about that. “I’m going to get to him through his daughter.”
“His daughter…” His voice trails off as he thinks about it for a moment. “You don’t mean Victoria Ciccone?” he blurts out in shock. “The girl you used to tell me about every single day when we were kids? The girl you loved and vowed you wanted to marry someday? That girl?”
“Yes, that girl,” I say with a frown. I don’t need a reminder of how infatuated with her I was back then. Even after the fire and the death and disappearance of my family, I still naively held onto the idea that one day Victoria and I would be together again. “I was young and stupid and thought I knew what love was, but I was wrong,” I spit out in a growl. “She’s just as spoiled and greedy as her father.”
Victoria was innocent back then, just like me. But even when she reached adulthood, she never searched for me or wondered about the truth. While I was starving to death on the streets, feeding off the garbage others threw away, the mafia princess was living a life of luxury with private schools and tutors.
And now she’s holed up in a posh apartment in downtown Manhattan without a care in the world. Hell, she doesn’t even have a job. But it’s not like she needs to worry about money, after all. She’ll survive just as well on her daddy’s blood money.
I’ve been stalking her online and watching her life unfold before my eyes. It’s nothing but fancy parties and the best of everything for the materialistic bitch. And I’ve allowed the bitterness and jealousy to creep into my bones and harden my dark heart.
Any affection I once felt towards her dissipated over the years and especially since she’s been back in New York. Now, I have no qualms in using Victoria to get to her father. In fact, she is the very key to my revenge; the only way in which I can get to the man who is thought by all to be invincible.
We’ll see how invincible he is when I shoot him dead and take my retribution.
“So, my friend, tell me about this plan of yours and how I can help,” Baz says with a malicious grin.
CHAPTER 4
VICTORIA
I’VE LOST COUNT of how many charity balls, galas and parties I’ve attended since arriving back home. My father has been putting me down as his plus one for every event he’s invited to, and he gets invited to a lot. The event coordinators know he has money, and my father wants to flaunt his wealth and show off, so it’s a win-win for both parties.
Even though I’d rather do anything but attend these events, my father knows how compassionate I am, even though he secretly doesn’t approve of it. He knows I won’t turn down a chance to help raise money for charity. But the charity aspect isn’t at all what he cares about. My father just wants to rub elbows with the city’s elite and bring them over to his side — the dark side.
Tonight’s charity gala dinner is in Long Island, a place I haven’t visited in years, since my mother was alive.
When I finally arrive by the car my father sent to my apartment — no doubt to make sure I’d attend and not back out — I’m greeted by the flash of cameras. I’m sure my face will be gracing Page Six tomorrow right smack dab in the middle of all the other celebrity gossip.
The socialite status is something I neither care about nor want. I’m famous for doing nothing, like so many others in this world, and it makes me sick. I would rather be known for saving someone’s life or curing cancer.
Simply being renowned because my father runs this city — illegally, I might add — is not something to be proud of.
My father, on the other hand, insists that I keep up to date on my social media accounts. He even hires people to post for me, saying it keeps me relevant. It might keep me relevant, but nothing on my Facebook page or Instagram account is real.
For the outsider looking in, I appear to be rich and spoiled — wearing the latest trend and attending the most exclusive parties with other notoriously famous people all while dining at the most expensive restaurants and enjoying the finer things in life just because I can. Because it’s expected of me.
But the real me isn’t like that at all. My public persona seems like another person entirely, someone I don’t even recognize. It’s simply just not me.
I’m supposed to enjoy events like tonight. But all I really want to do is stay home in my PJs, eat chocolate chip ice cream and catch up on Grey’s Anatomy.
The smile on my face falters as I get caught up in my inner thoughts, and I quickly hide behind my shielded hands, telling the photographers I’d like to go inside now.
The lights quit flashing as I make my way to the front door of the gorgeous, sprawled-out mansion in Long Island. The doorman checks for my name on a long list attached to his clipboard before granting me access inside.
The foyer is busy, bustling with people leaving their coats with coat check and meeting and greeting others. I hate crowds. I always have. My father knows this but chooses to ignore it…or maybe he simply forgot. My social anxiety gets the better of me sometimes, but I can’t let it rattle me tonight. I promised to be on my best behavior, and my father promised this is the last party of the year.
Pushing my way past the crowd, I escape into a nearby hallway so I can breathe. I grasp the locket under the silky material of my dress, take a few deep breaths and instantly feel better. The necklace Arlo gave me so long ago is my security blanket, in a way. It keeps me grounded when I’m feeling overwhelmed.
Turning, I catch a glimpse of myself in the tall mirror in the hall. My long, deep purple Versace ball gown looks stunning in the reflection. The dress is strapless with a modest neckline. But the most alluring part is the long slit that reaches a little higher than mid-thigh.
I hired a makeup artist and hairstylist, and they decided to do a smoky eye to accentuate my deep blue eyes and put my hair up in a stylish and elegant chignon with tendrils hanging down to frame my face.
Feeling satisfied that I’ve successfully averted a panic attack, I leave the deserted hall and weed my way through the abundance of people gathered in the main ballroom.
The space is open and huge, revealing hundreds of round tables already dressed with fancy linens, crystal glasses and fine china. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings, and soft light radiates from wall sconces.
There’s an open space in front of a small, lighted stage at the far end of the room where a string quartet plays music quietly in the background.
My
heels click-clack on the wood flooring as I make my way to the crowd gathered just outside of the room through the open doors leading to the backyard.
This is how I always manage to find my father at large gatherings like this. He’s constantly surrounded by people, whether it be his bodyguards or people who want him for something. I always look for the biggest group of people, and there he will be.
This time proves to be like all the others, because my father is standing in the middle of a throng of people, laughing and shaking hands while he puffs on one of his signature Cuban cigars.
Smoke billows up to the night sky as his eyes find mine. His smile is bigger then, genuine even as he waves me towards him.
The crowd parts, letting me through, and my father embraces me in a brief hug. “So glad you came, Victoria,” he whispers in my ear. He’s dressed up in a nice, dark-colored suit tonight, and power seems to radiate off of him.
“You say that like I actually had a choice, Papa,” I whisper back wryly.
He pulls back and smirks. “Excuse us for a moment,” he says before wrapping his hand around my arm and leading me away from the people blatantly vying for his attention.
My father is a powerful man. I always knew growing up he was involved in the mafia in one way or another, but I never knew the extent of his power until I moved back to the city.
He’s the mob boss for the Italians, employing thousands of people to do his bidding all while controlling his half of the city.
Once we’re out of earshot, he releases his hold on me and stares into my eyes. “I just want what’s best for you, Victoria. I wish you could understand that.”
What I’ve learned over the years is that what my father thinks is best and what I want are on complete opposite ends of the spectrum.
He wants me to be the perfect daughter, so that he can tote me around at these parties, bragging me up and making himself look better. He looks like the doting family man, carting his precious, overachieving daughter around.
What I want is to leave New York for good, put my college degree to good use and not live on my father’s money. I can’t even get a job in this city because of my father’s ruthless reputation.
But it’s never been about what I want. Not when I was a little girl and definitely not now.
My father brought me back to New York simply to use me as a pawn in the game of life he’s playing.
But even after everything he’s done and everything he is, I still can’t hate him. He’s the only family that I have left.
His brown eyes search the crowd, and he waves at someone in the distance. His dark hair is the only thing I inherited from him. My mother was fair-haired and blue-eyed with the face of an angel. My father used to tell me how much I looked like my mother, but I think that’s also the reason why he sent me away at such a young age. It’s as if he couldn’t bear to look at me or have me in his presence because I was a constant reminder of the woman he loved and lost.
“Enjoy yourself tonight,” Papa insists, breaking me out of my inner thoughts. “There are many eligible bachelors here. Maybe you’ll take a liking to one of them,” he says with a wink.
I resist rolling my eyes as he walks off, leaving me alone. I’m surprised my father hasn’t taken to the old tradition of marrying me off to someone he deems fit. I guess I should thank my lucky stars I don’t have to endure that as well.
A waiter walks by with a tray of champagne flutes, and I grab one, downing half of the flute in one gulp. My father insists on me attending these stupid parties, but he never told me I couldn’t get drunk while doing so.
After my third glass, I feel more willing to disperse through the crowd and mingle a little. I see some familiar faces, and I tolerate their small-talk for several minutes before moving on.
I’ve never considered myself a social butterfly, and I hate having to pretend like I am at places like this. Growing up under my father’s constant supervision, I only had one friend — Arlo. And the only reason he got to be my friend was because his family lived next door and his dad worked for my father.
After my father sent me away, I saw the same group of girls day in and day out for the next decade. There were the rare occasions when we would have socials where the all boys’ school came to visit, but I was never interested in those boys.
My heart always belonged to Arlo, and I grieved his death every day of my life.
I still do.
Pressing my hand against my chest, the feel of the locket under my palm calms me.
I’m on my fourth glass of champagne when I feel a presence behind me in the shadows. Turning, my eyes narrow as I try to make out the form standing there, stalking me.
When he steps out into the light, my heart skips a beat or two and then quickens against my ribcage.
Nolan Farrell.
If my life was based on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, my family would be the Montagues and the Farrells would be the Capulets.
Rivaling families, with a hatred for one another, constantly feuding and vying for more power.
Nolan’s lips curl upwards, flashing his yellowing teeth. “Good evening, lass,” he says with a thick Irish accent.
My father warned me as soon as I returned to the city to stay away from the Farrells and especially Nolan. I didn’t understand or really think to heed the warning until I met Nolan at the first charity gala.
The guy instantly gave me the creeps and set off all the inner alarms in my head.
He’s not a good man.
Nolan walks around me like a shark circling its prey after the first scent of blood in the water, his cane click, click, clicking on the Herringbone parquet floor. “You look good enough to eat,” he remarks with a sour smile.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, I quickly cross my arms in front of myself. Nolan is always throwing out inappropriate comments. “I wish I could say the same,” I retort before quickly clamping my mouth shut. The champagne has clearly gone to my head if I’m spouting off to the Irish mob boss.
Instead of anger, though, Nolan throws his head back with a loud cackle. He stops pacing and stands in front of me, taking a step closer until I can smell his cheap aftershave and rancid breath. “You’ve got a mouth on you, lass.” He leans in and whispers, “I can think of a lot of better things that mouth of yours would be good for.”
“Nolan,” my father’s voice booms from beside me, and I instantly retreat to be closer to him. “Why is an old Irish fuck like you sniffing around my young daughter? What would your wife say?” Papa asks, barely able to hide the disgust and anger in his tone.
“What my wife don’t know won’t hurt her,” Nolan says in an attempt to joke, and he cackles loudly again.
Papa doesn’t laugh or even so much as blink. And my hair stands on end when I feel my father’s bodyguards slinking up behind us, ready to strike.
“I was just gonna tell your daughter that my oldest son, Brody, is single and lookin’ for a wife. It would be quite the union, wouldn’t it? Irish and Italians uniting for a beautiful weddin’.”
“Over my dead body,” Papa growls, his features crumpling with rage.
“That could be arranged,” I hear Nolan say before one of Papa’s bodyguards grabs ahold of his collar and hauls him up against the wall. Nolan’s cane clatters to the wood floor. “Ah, no need for the show, boys. I just have a message to give your boss and then I’ll be retirin’ for the evening.”
My father waves him off, and the bodyguard reluctantly lets go of Nolan. Nolan straightens his suit and tie, picks up his cane and then squares off again with my father. “I wanted to tell you to stay away from my youngest boy, Teague. I heard you were in his ear, tellin’ him things he wanted to hear. But all of it’s bullshit,” he accuses.
My father scoffs. “Would it be so bad if he came to work for me, Nolan?”
The man sneers, “He’s not workin’ for no goddamn Italian.”
Papa laughs at that. “And just a moment ago you were talking about a
beautiful Irish-Italian wedding. I guess that offer is off the table already.”
Nolan points his finger at my father. “Just stay away from my boy, and we won’t have any trouble. Ya hear me, Ciccone?”
“Loud and clear,” Papa says with a deadly tone.
When Nolan disappears through the crowd, I turn to my father with a scowl on my face. “I wish you wouldn’t provoke him like that, Papa. He’s dangerous,” I hiss.
“Not as dangerous as me,” my father remarks with a knowing smile before kissing my cheek.
“You have nothing to worry about, Victoria,” he assures me before leaving with his bodyguards in tow.
I just hope my father’s right, because Nolan Farrell reminds me of a vicious snake…hiding in the shadows and waiting to strike at just the right moment.
CHAPTER 5
VICTORIA
THE REST OF the night at the gala is uneventful, and I soon find myself growing bored and looking for an excuse to leave.
I’ve lost count of the number of champagne flutes I have downed, but I’m thinking half a dozen is a good guess.
After dinner is over, they turn on the lights on the stage, and an older man with dark blond hair gets behind a small podium with a microphone attached. “Get out your checkbooks, gentlemen,” he says with a sly smile. “The auction is about to start.”
Auction?
I cock a brow as I watch him announce a woman’s name, and she goes on stage. “We’ll be bidding on a date to the Hamptons with the lovely Britney Pritchett.”
Britney is a tall blonde with a dress that’s barely containing her fake tits. She stands under the spotlight as men crowd around the stage and begin bidding on her like she’s cattle. I roll my eyes at the archaic show, thankful I’m not Britney.
I’ve been to charity galas before that have had such auctions. The men try to win exclusive dates with single women who normally wouldn’t give them the time of day. At least the money goes to charity, but still, the whole thing gives me the creeps. I wouldn’t want to go out with some guy I don’t know just because of his huge bank account.
Devious: A Dark Mafia Romance (Deviant Series Book 1) Page 3
