Break Me Beautifully

by Nora Flite

  Break

  Me

  Beautifully

  Lucardo Crime Family

  Book One

  Nora Flite

  Copyright © 2021 Nora Flite

  All rights reserved.

  BREAK ME BEAUTIFULLY is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  https://www.noraflite.net/

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  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.

  Chapter 16.

  Chapter 17.

  Chapter 1.

  I met the devil while lying in a garden of roses.

  There's a wonderful breeze in the air, my hands graze through the ruby-red flowers, fingertips feeling their cool, velvety petals. I often retreat to this spot in my family's garden. It's one of the few quiet places I have access to. The manor is full of voices at all hours; my siblings, the dogs, security officers, my father's business partners, people offering favors (or seeking them).

  But here, with just the sun and bees and my sketchbook, I'm alone. The patch of garden is surrounded by hedges that stand as high as the second floor of the mansion. The grass slopes so I can see through the gaps in the greenery to the huge circular driveway below. Our estate is massive. As a child, I used to pretend I was in another country while I ran through the halls, slipping behind doors, ducking under desks.

  Mouse. That was the nickname the maids gave me when I was just five years old. It had stuck, but my siblings twisted it into an insult, calling me rat when they thought our parents couldn't hear. I'm sure Mom and Dad knew about the cruel name. They didn't stop the wicked games, though.

  Honestly?

  I don't mind the name.

  Rats are smart. Rats are quick. Rats are survivors.

  There's a sound below. I sit up on my elbows, recognizing the gentle creak of the large gates before I see them spread wide. Three cars, all expensive matching models with glossy black paint jobs, roll onto the driveway. We have company.

  This isn't anything new. Not around here. Dad does deals upon deals from sunup until sundown. He controls the biggest construction firm this side of the rust belt.

  I'm so used to the blur of faces parading through our home that I avert my eyes—I have a sketch to finish, after all.

  Then I see him.

  Polished brown shoes glimmer in the sun. They're expensive, clean, leading the way up his tight black pants that hug his thighs in a way that makes me feel dirty just to look at. Large hands grip his belt, and I think I see some ink on his wrists before the skin disappears into his white cuffs and a broad-shouldered dark jacket. You can tell a lot about a person by what they wear. But to me, the secrets are always in the eyes. My eyes sweep over his face. They take in his square jaw with hints of stubble and perfectly curved lips with a tiny scar cutting across the left corner, He's painfully handsome. I want to linger on each detail that makes this stranger him ... but my goal is his eyes.

  When I find them, I freeze. I'm always invisible in my rose garden. The house staff might find me out here, but strangers never see me among the flowers. I've watched so many come and go without a single glance in my direction.

  Not this time.

  This man is looking directly at me. His chin is tilted up, piercing black eyes narrowing on my wide hazel ones. More men climb out of the cars, talking, laughing, but his attention is squarely on me.

  My breath tangles in my chest. I put my hand on my heart to make sure it hasn't stopped. Oh, no—it's thudding rapidly. Whoever this man is, he's staring at me like he knows me, or like he wants to, like he plans to. The edge of his smile lifts, his tiny scar going with it. The wicked pleasure in his hot gaze makes my skin tingle.

  I'm not naive. He wants me. I have no idea why. I'm mousy little Leona, the girl who hides in the shadows, who rolls in the grass, who'd rather create fantastical worlds in her sketchbook than deal with the high society drama my family regards.

  He hasn't stopped watching me. One of the other men speaks into his ear. He nods, saying something back that I can't hear. The group moves without him towards the mansion’s large front doors. I see the shine of sunglasses as two security guards escort them inside.

  My mystery man doesn't go with them.

  It's just us now.

  The wind rustles the roses, wafting their scent to my nose. Goosebumps Velvety petals stroke my skin and gives me goosebumps. I shiver, and I swear he notices, prompting him to stride up the grassy slope in my direction.

  The wind brushes through his thick, glossy hair and carries his scent my way. Brandy, almonds, musk. A whiff of danger. I'm not an easily frightened girl. Here, on my father's gated property with security guards a shout away, I should feel at ease, but my belly knots up as the stranger looms over me. His long legs walked over to me in a blink of an eye. With his fingers tucked into his pockets, he looks down his elegant nose at me. I'm sitting in the flowers at his feet, waiting, unsure what he'll say or do because I don't have a clue why he's here. Not just at the estate, but literally here, inches away from me.

  His delicious looking lips part into a wide smirk. When he speaks, his voice is like cotton across my skin. “You must be Leona.”

  A crisp, dominate energy in his voice strips me of my ability to respond; he wields it so naturally. But I grew up with a father who could peel the flesh from your bones with a cross look. “And you must have forgotten you're a guest on my property,” I say coolly. “I'm not Leona to you. I'm Ms. Hark.”

  He rakes his eyes over me, then looks at something near my hand in the flowers. “I didn't take you for someone so obsessed with decorum.”

  A hot blush builds in my cheeks. I'm pointedly aware of the grass stains on my jeans, the dirt under my nails, the leaves in my hair, and the sketchbook spread open to show off my fantasy. The picture is one I've been working at since yesterday; a girl in elegant armor riding a dragon through the snowy mountains.

  I smack the book shut. I've been teased enough about my imagination. I don't need more from this ... this ... “Who are you?” I snap.

  “The Devil.” He says smoothly. If anyone else responded that way, I would have laughed. But I can't with him staring at me with those intense eyes. He bends towards me, blocking out the sun, swaddling me in shadow and his delicious scent. I think he's going to touch me, and a deep, hungry, dirty part of me wants him to.

  He pulls away with my sketchbook in his grip. “You're very talented,” he says, flipping the pages.

  “Wait,” I gasp, jumping to my feet, roses fluttering around my ankles. “Give me that, it's private!”

  “Why would you want it to be?” he asks in a low voice tinged with anger. He towers over me, easily dodging my attempts to snatch the book back. I'm panting from the effort as I keep jumping, swiping, struggling to get my sketchbook.

  He freezes. I know what he's found.

  “Sweet girl,” he breathes, eyeing me over the top of the page. He turns the book agonizingly slow, revealing my detailed, labor of love – a drawing of a man cradling a mermaid in the throes of passion, her breasts thrusting into his hard chest, hair tang
led in his fingers.

  Oh, yes. This man is indeed the Devil.

  Whip-fast I grab the book. Maybe he let me take it that time; I don't care, I just crush it against me, glaring at him with absolute fury. “How dare you?” I spit.

  “How dare I what?”

  “Take something that doesn't belong to you!”

  “It's a terrible habit of mine,” he answers softly. Tilting his head towards me, his eyes flash with danger, with promise. “I'm a man who can't resist beautiful things. When I discover them, I make them mine.”

  He's looking at me, and I think with a flicker of curiosity, that he isn't talking about my art. My heart beats in an unsteady pattern, I can't keep track of the rhythm. My blood is fighting with my brain and creates the most hot, delirious chaos.

  This man I just met has a confidence I want to understand. How can anyone feel so sure of the things they do or say? What made him like this?

  And how can I steal it for myself?

  His hand moves towards me. I could stop it, but I don't. His fingers tuck behind my ear, sweeping down, causing my skin to tingle he brushes the sensitive patch of skin behind my jaw. I swallow loudly—he grins, then shows me the rose petal in his fingers. He rubs his thumb over the red flower, my body trembling as I imagine him rubbing me the same way. “Unfortunately, beautiful things break when I play with them.”

  I hold out my palm. He hesitates, and I love that I've done something to confuse him. He isn't someone who's thrown off easily or often. He pushes the petal into my palm where I cradle it carefully. “It's not broken,” I say, tucking it into the pages of my sketchbook. “It's become something else, is all.”

  He purses his lips. “A bookmark?”

  “I don't know why you'd say it in that tone, like it's not important. You were the one who complimented my art in the first place. Were you lying? Making fun of me?”

  There—I catch the tiny droop in his smile. The edges of his eyes narrow. He's judging me with new appreciation. It thrills me, even if it shouldn't. No one should encourage a man who calls himself the Devil. His phone beeps, and he yanks it out of his pocket. “Fuck,” he mumbles, reading the screen. His shoulders lower an inch. “Looks like the meeting is over.”

  “Already?” I ask. “My father usually talks for hours.”

  “No. Our meeting.” He motions between us, his smirk returning. “But don't worry. We'll talk again soon.”

  A flutter rushes down my spine. “Why would we ...”

  He turns his back on me, marching down the slope towards the mansion's front doors. I catch myself staring at his perfect ass where his pants tighten across the flexing muscles with his every long-legged stride.

  I have no clue what the hell that was. None of it. My father's guests don't make it a point to talk to me. No one pays attention to me in this place. I can’t compete with the powerful money exchanging hands or my gorgeous, flirtatious sisters.

  So what did I do to catch this man's eye?

  Lowering myself to the grass, the breeze tickles my neck as my hair winds in loose curls on my shoulders. I'm watching the front doors, waiting to see if he comes back out. Wondering what he's here for.

  Wondering why, even with the strong smell of roses all around me, I can't get his musky scent from my nose.

  Chapter 2.

  I know something is different in the house.

  The maids won't look me in the eye. There's a silence flowing through the massive halls, a weight that the gentle sunlight drifting through the windows and warming my bare feet can't erase.

  The Devil, as he called himself, hasn't left with his entourage. Their cars are still parked in our driveway. I considered whether to go inside, but gave in to my grumbling stomach.

  “Leona.”

  I jump; my older sister, Katy, beckons me from an open doorway to the study—one of the many places in our mansion that is meant for looking, not living. Chairs for decoration, books never to be cracked. My parents adore luxurious spaces with no purpose other than to show wealth.

  “What is it?” I ask, approaching her warily. Katy is the oldest at twenty-eight. She's also the kindest to me out of my siblings. You'd never guess it with her severely blunt haircut and scrutinizing hooded eyes, but her heart is kind, her arms willing to give hugs when no one is looking.

  She shoots a paranoid glance around the hall before pulling me inside. She doesn't close the door all the way. “Dad needs to talk to you,” she whispers.

  My forehead crinkles. “What, why? I didn't do anything.”

  “Yeah, you did. You caught the attention of Marshall Klintock.” I stare blankly. She curls her upper lip. “The man everyone in New York City hires to curate their galleries? The guy with an uncanny ability to tell fake art from real? That Marshall Klintock?”

  I stagger backwards in surprise. I'd read a few articles about the man online. He was known for never failing to find whatever painting his client was chasing, even if it meant diving into the black markets. "Are you joking? How does he even know who I am?"

  “I don't know. Someone must have shown him your work.”

  That coaxes a bitter snort out of me. “Impossible. Dad has never let me have a show.” My father went to great lengths to tell me I wasn't ready for a display, that I wasn't good enough. He never said yet. Good enough yet would have hurt less. That was the reason I'd started posting my art on Instagram under a pen name. Even then, it wasn't like I had a ton of followers. I was a nobody. How had I gotten on anyone's radar?

  Katy is staring at me with her lower lip in her teeth. “Listen, I don't know how to tell you this.”

  “Just say it, Katy.”

  “Klintock isn't just an art curator. He has a reputation.”

  “I'm guessing it's a bad one with how many lines are in your forehead right now.”

  Her face doesn't smooth, it scrunches more. “Leona. This guy is rumored to be involved in the mafia.”

  “The art mafia?” I tease.

  “Take this seriously!” she growls, gripping me by my upper arms.

  I wince. “Katy, that hurts. ”

  “He's dangerous. Do you understand? He's known for being able to get whatever art his clients want, for any price, and for cutting out competition when his clients want that, too. I've heard he doesn't back down from any job he takes, even if it means killing someone if they're in his way.”

  “Oh my god.” I cover my mouth with my hands. This is unreal. I didn't know that the art world could be so violent. But then, I knew the real estate business was, and from the outside, everyone thought that was all perfect smiles and billboards. “How do you know all this?” I ask.

  “Willbur told me.”

  Her twin brother. Younger by a few hours, wiser than his years, but that didn't keep him out of trouble. He'd always been on the wild side, messing with the next high—drugs, women, street racing. No one could ever control him. The spiral was complete when he was arrested in a drug trafficking sting.

  No amount of money or influence could keep Willbur from jail. He'd been locked away for over a year with ten more to go. It was the biggest stain on our family's name. That event left a deep mark on Katy. As twins, they were hip-to-hip. She cried for weeks after the judge ruled. To this day, she swore Willbur was innocent.

  “If this guy is dangerous,” I whisper, “why does Dad want to talk to me about him?”

  “Because Klintock wants to work with you.”

  A cold sensation spreads through my body. “Should I be flattered or horrified?”

  She hesitates, releasing me. My arms throb from her fingerprints. “Both. I mean, whatever this guy's reputation, he knows his stuff. It's a massive opportunity."

  “You're right,” I say, letting myself absorb the gravity of this new information. Instead of getting upset, I'm growing excited. “Katy, this is huge. What if he helps me land my first gallery show?" My mother told me constantly to resign myself to the family business of handshakes and fake smiles, that nobody would
take me seriously as an artist. I started to believe her. It was a relief she was wrong.

  Katy's face is still pinched, but I'm too thrilled to care. This is the best news I've had in ... forever, if I'm honest. My life is about to change. Finally!

  “Leona?” a voice echoes in the hallway outside our door. I know it's Dad. I brush past my sister, eager to hear the official words from my father himself. He's standing by the large windows. A group of men dressed in matching suits, shiny shoes and gelled hair surround him.

  Except for him.

  My Devil.

  He’s distinct not only in dress but in his position apart from the group. A lump in the rug catches my toe and I stumble. Strong arms scoop me up before I crash into the floor. I know it's him without looking. I know his scent. His warmth. My head is swarming with noise, making it hard to think, and I need to think because this situation is like turning a corner and facing a tsunami on dry land.

  “Leona!” my father huffs. “I told you to wear shoes in the house, be more careful.”

  I can't lift my head. I'm staring down at the Devil's oxfords, my reflection bouncing back at me in the waxed surface. He speaks into my ear. “Are you okay, can you stand?”

  My body trembles as I untangle from his grip. Backing up, I face the group of men with emotionless faces, except for my father’s glare, and the Devil with his sly smirk. As I watch, he brings his hand to his cheek, like he's fixing his hair, but instead he seems to be inhaling.

  He's smelling me, I realize with a warm jolt.

  “Leona,” my father says, clearing his throat. “I have some big news for you.”

  “I know,” I say, looking at him, trying to ignore the handsome stranger who keeps staring at me like he wants me to trip into his arms again.

  “You do?” he scoffs. “How?”

  Dammit, Katy wasn't supposed to tell me. Not wanting to get her in trouble, I put on my sweetest smile. “Sorry, I mean, I figured you did, why else call for me?”

  He looks like he wants to scold me, but with everyone watching, he stops himself. “Apparently, your art skills have managed to reach the top-tier attention of Mr. Klintock, an art curator from New York City. He's worked with celebrities, business moguls, foreign leaders, and amazingly, he's decided to offer you a personal mentorship.”