Copyright © 2021 by Billie Lustig
Chasing Fire Copyright © 2021 by Billie Lustig
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction, all names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Billie Lustig asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.
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First Edition.
Cover Design: © Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs
Editor: Kim BookJunkie
Formatting and Proofread: Katie Salt at KLS Publishing
Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
1. Callie
2. Kane
3. Callie
4. Callie
5. Kane
6. Callie
7. Kane
8. Callie
9. Callie
10. Kane
11. Kane
12. Callie
13. Callie
14. Kane
15. Callie
16. Kane
17. Kane
18. Callie
19. Callie
20. Callie
21. Kane
22. Callie
23. Kane
24. Callie
25. Kane
26. Callie
27. Kane
28. Kane
29. Callie
30. Kane
31. Callie
32. Callie
33. Kane
34. Callie
35. Callie
36. Callie
37. Kane
38. Kane
39. Callie
40. Callie
41. Kane
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author’s Note
If you don’t know me, let me give you a heads up:
I say fuck.
A lot.
My books are no exception.
This is a dark, mafia romance that contains strong language, explicit sex scenes, and both sexual and physical abuse.
If that is not your cup’a tea, don’t read it.
If you are not sure and you want to know the details, feel free to send me a DM on Instagram or fill out the contact form on my website!
Love is like Chasing Fire,
it will burn you in the best way.
Billie Lustig
Prologue
Callie
five years ago
You know the true fact about the death of a loved one?
You can’t prepare yourself for it.
No matter how unexpectedly it sneaks up on you, or how long you’ve been waiting for it. You can never predict what will happen with your heart when the reaper decides your loved one is next on his list.
Will your heart get a punch, but bounce back? Will your heart start beating on autopilot while the rest of your body goes numb?
Will your heart stop, but for some reason your brain keep functioning?
I never expected for it to feel like a thousand needles were puncturing the tender flesh of my heart, making it ache more with every move I make. Yet it’s like a woodcutter is slowly chopping small pieces off the edges of it every single day.
It’s excruciating.
I look at my mother’s skin that now looks gray instead of the soft blush that it used to hold, while she lies on the silk pillows of her final resting place. Her once pink lips are pressed in an unnaturally firm stripe.
I heard once that they put makeup on the faces of dead people, glue their lips so they stick together, and basically make them presentable for the people who want to give them one last glance before they are buried six feet under.
If that is really the case, I wonder what she looked like before they did that, because she still looks very much like the life was sucked out of her, anyway.
Literally.
My mom was the most vibrant person in my life. With her gorgeous red hair and her beaming smile, she brightened my world on a daily basis. She was my best friend and my mom, all wrapped up in one freckled package with green emerald eyes. She was the one who knew how to make me laugh no matter the circumstances, the one who always knew what to say, and the one who made me feel like I was the most precious thing alive.
Well, at least to her.
The thought of living another day without her makes another tear run down the same fair skin I inherited from her, and I bring my finger up to casually brush it away.
“What the fuck am I going to do now, Mom?” I whisper while my hand rests on the white casket in front of me. I can hear the soft murmur of voices in the other room, all waiting until I’m ready to start the ceremony.
Like I will ever be ready.
I feel an arm wrap around my shoulder and quickly glance to the right, noticing Imogen’s light blonde hair. I take a relieved sigh, happy that it isn’t some distant relative who wants to pay their respects, because I don’t think I have it in me to force out another polite smile.
“You okay, Callie girl?”
“She doesn’t even look real, don’t you think?” I ask, dodging her question. “More like a doll.”
“I guess, in a way, she does.” Imogen agrees, squeezing my shoulder.
We both stare at the casing that was once my mom, shoulder to shoulder, and I’m grateful my cousin doesn’t feel the need to fill up the silence.
She just lets me be.
“You know, this morning I woke up hating her. Hating that she never wanted to fucking get a drink with me because I am ‘still underaged’, but all of a sudden she gets wasted and drives herself into a fucking tree. Who the fuck does that? She never fucking drinks, and when she does, she gets in the fucking car.” I choke out the last word, feeling my eyes tear up.
Imogen gently rubs my shoulder.
“I know you’re angry, but it was an accident.”
“One that could have been avoided if she’d taken a fucking cab, Gen.”
Before she can respond, we hear someone clear his throat behind us. We both turn around, and I look into the nut-brown eyes of my older brother who is standing in the doorway of the funeral home. He’s wearing a black suit, and his long hair is up in his signature man bun. An evil grin appears on his five o'clock shadowed face. I have to close my eyes to calm down the tension that instantly enters my body while I ball my hands into fists, doing my best to ignore the fucked-up memories of my brother and me that are floating to the surface.
“Imogen.” He greets her with a smile that doesn’t match his voice. “Can I talk to mi hermanita for a second?”
She hesitantly lets go of my shoulder before she shoots him a glare.
“Nice of you to f
inally show up, Junior.”
The smile on his face is quickly replaced by a look that can only come straight from hell. He saunters towards us while his eyes darken up until they are almost black, his dark energy easily filling up the room.
“Get going, little Irish puta.”
Imogen’s jaw tics, and I quickly glance down to see her fingers flexing, telling me she is itching to slap him. My big brother is not someone you take for granted, and if she was anyone else, she would probably have a bullet in her brain by now. But although the whole population of Granada fears my brother and his torturing ways, Imogen refuses to bow down to the devil himself.
I let out a big sigh and place my arm on Gen’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Gen.”
She keeps her gaze on Junior, who is staring her down, then turns around to give me a reassuring look.
“I’ll be right around the corner.”
I nod in agreement and watch her strut away in her black bodycon dress, cocking my head a little when I notice Junior looking at her ass until she disappears around the corner.
“You literally just called her a whore.” I point out incredulously when he turns his face back to me.
“Sí, and what are puta’s good for? Fucking. And I bet she would be a good fuck.”
He opens his arms and closes the space between us, wrapping me in his arms. I keep my arms tightly beside my body, disgusted by the physical connection.
“Que, Hermanita? No hug? I’m sorry for your loss,” he adds when he places his hands on my shoulder and looks at me with a pleased smirk. I feel a cold shiver running over my back while I do my best not to crumble under his devious gaze.
“Stop with the theatrics, Junior. I’m surprised you came at all. Everyone knows you hated my mother.”
He moves his face towards mine and gives me a kiss on the cheek before I can feel his breath on my neck. My heart is racing in my chest. I close my eyes, fighting to stay calm, while his hands move down to cup my ass.
“But everyone knows how much I love my sister.”
I open my eyes and roughly push him back, determined to add space between us.
“Don’t touch me, you sick fuck,” I growl while I take a few steps back.
“Junior. Leave her alone.” The beaming voice of our father tightens his body and brings a sigh of relief from mine. Even though Junior is 26 years old, he still crumbles under the authority that our father built during the last 45 years. Our father still controls him, even though everyone knows it won’t take long before Junior will demand to take over. Our father saunters towards us before he drops a hand on Junior’s shoulder.
“Go tell everyone we will get started in five minutes.”
Junior narrows his eyes to small slits before he blows me a kiss and a wink. My stomach turns as he embraces me, and I bite my tongue to keep myself from blurting out a snarky comment.
I exhale when he finally lets me go and turns around to walk towards the door.
Relieved, I look into the dark brown eyes of my father. He is an older version of Junior in every way, the only difference being that my father still has some of his soul left, yet I’m pretty sure Junior wasn’t even born with one.
“Cariño, how are you?” He wraps me into his arms just like Junior did, but this time I respond by putting my arms around him.
“You couldn’t get here any sooner?” I murmur against his chest in a condescending tone.
“You know how it goes, Hija. I can’t just cancel a job. This was the only window we had.”
I bring my head back to lock my gaze with his.
“My mother just died, and I had to do this all by myself. Would have been nice if my father was here to support me, but instead you worked a job even though you don’t need the money.”
You would expect your father to at least be a little bit affected by a heartbroken daughter, but not mine. No, mine just gives me a look and brushes my feelings away like my puppy just died instead of my mother.
“You can never have enough money, besides, you have Imogen, right?” he responds with a serious look.
My punctured heart feels like it's being thrown into a pool of disappointment. My father has never been a candidate for father of the year. He wasn’t the type who came to school functions, and he wasn’t the one who called me on a regular basis when my parents divorced and I moved to New York with my mother. He called on my birthday and sent me a gift at Christmas, but he only visited me when he had a target on the East Coast. My father’s life is in Granada, and when my mother and I left, we were no longer a part of it anymore.
“Right.” I nod, knowing it’s useless to beg him for more than he’s capable of giving. I let him go and turn my body back towards my mom. She looks peaceful, but I know she would turn over in her casket if she could hear my father right now.
“How long are you guys staying?” My eyes fill again, and I keep them focused on my mother’s red hair, doing my best to keep it together, swallowing to make sure none of my tears will get the chance to roll down my cheek.
“We are flying back tonight.”
I snap my head towards him and look at him with wide eyes.
“Tonight?!”
“We need to be back in Spain tomorrow. I have an important meeting.” He shrugs.
I shake my head while a boiling anger starts running through my veins. He keeps my gaze with a dull look, clearly not understanding why I’m ready to throw a fit.
I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, when Imogen walks back in to the room.
“Sorry to interrupt, but the undertaker is ready to start the ceremony.” She gives me an apologetic look, not giving my father even the slightest glance.
I snap my mouth shut and look between the both of them while I clench my jaw in frustration. Imogen narrows her eyes with a questioning look in them, wondering why I’m angry.
“Imogen,” my father begins while he turns his head towards her. “Sorry about your aunt.”
Her eyes land on his, and she cocks an eyebrow in disbelief.
“I doubt that, Frank.” She scowls while she folds her arms in front of her body in a provoking stance.
My father’s lips lift at the corners of his mouth, forming an evil grin, before he looks back at me.
“I will tell the undertaker you will be ready in two minutes.” Without waiting for my reply, he walks out. Imogen places herself next to me while we both watch him leave the room.
“He’s leaving tonight,” I explain after he is out of our sight.
“Motherfucker,” she hisses incredulously.
“Yeah.”
She grabs my hand and squeezes it in a comforting way.
“I guess it’s just you and me now, Callie girl.”
“I guess so,” I reply, squeezing hers back.
Callie
Present Day
I open my eyes and feel a terrible pain starting in my neck, moving all the way up to my head.
Holy fuck, that’s gonna trigger a migraine.
I rub my neck to ease the pain while I take in my surroundings. Where the fuck am I? The room is small with nothing more than a sink and a small bed—basically nothing more than a mattress. There is no window, and the concrete walls tell me I’m in a cell.
That Italian shithead said I had fourteen days.
I slowly get up before I walk to the steel door with only a food hatch in the middle and try to listen for any movement on the other side, but I can’t hear anything.
Thank fuck I’m not tied down.
“Let me the fuck out!” I yell to no one in particular, praying that this is all some sick joke. The three scary as shit men in my apartment who knocked me out probably weren’t joking, though. My fist slams against the cold door with as much force as I can muster, hitting it over and over again. When the side of my fist and my trimmed manicured fingers turn numb and red, I exhale deeply, trying to calm my nerves.
Like they will let me out, anyway.
Oh, hey girl, you want out
? Sure, no problem. How about a nice cool glass of whiskey to help you get comfortable?
You’re so fucked, Callie.
Imogen warned me about the Italians and their word not meaning shit. I run a hand through my strawberry blonde hair. It feels greasy and heavy, like I’ve been working out all morning.
I’m not scared easily, but being locked up between four walls with no visible way out other than a steel door kind of increases my stress level.
Like those hammer things at the carnival?
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. My anxiety just went sky high.
I growl in frustration, pissed at the situation I’ve gotten myself in. I knew this day was inevitable when he first summoned me, but I should have had more time. He said fourteen days, and I still have ten left.
Note to self: Never trust a Distucci.
I look around the room for anything I can use to get out of here. The air in the room is brisk, causing chills to run through my spine despite the cream sweater I’m wearing.
Although that could also be happening due to the fact that I’m locked the fuck up.
I look down and notice there are blood smudges on my clothes. I quickly examine my body, wondering if it may be mine. When I don’t feel anything painful other than the sledge hammer banging inside my head, I let out a relieved sigh.
Throwing the thin mattress through the air, I look for any scrap of metal I can use to get out. My fingertips are searching the cold stone floor for any unnoticeable scraps when I hear the lock click from the outside.
Chasing Fire (The Fire Duet Book 1) Page 1
