Lure (Mafia Queen Book 1)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Is it really a gift if the sender expects praise from the recipient?”

  Marcell set his cufflinks aside and slipped out of his suit jacket, loosening his tie, and then reaching for the top few buttons on his shirt. As soon as he started to open them, I noticed more tattoos lying in wait beneath the starched fabric.

  Setting my wine down, I started undoing the clasp on the bracelet.

  “It's bad luck to refuse a gift,” he said, leaning across the table and taking my wrist in one hand. The touch of his fingers on my skin was intoxicating, a poison that seeped into my blood and paralyzed me for one, terrifying moment.

  My eyes met his, those deep, dark pools, as black as India ink, impossible to read.

  “The jewelry is yours, Adelasia,” he said, and he pronounced it the proper, Italian way. Where all my friends said Ad-uh-lay-zha, Marcell said Ah-dee-lah-sa. I tried not to let that sway me too much, pulling away from his grip before that poison killed something inside of me I could not repair.

  “I'd like to go home now.”

  Marcell gave me a wolfish smile and withdrew his hand, nice and slow.

  “Sì, certo,” he said, standing up and taking a small step away from the table. “Of course.”

  I pushed my chair back before either he or one of his men could come over and do it for me.

  I was afraid if Marcell touched me again … I might find it just a bit harder than it should be to pull away.

  Nights at the Costello Manor were peaceful—so long as there wasn't any business happening on the property. The air was warm enough to keep my windows open, and the quiet, soft sounds of nature were the only accompaniment to my dreams.

  When I was in the city, I enjoyed the sound of traffic, the wild, chaotic explosion of life all around me. But when I came out here, I remembered how much I missed the silence.

  And as I slept, I dreamed.

  And I dreamed of things better left forgotten, of men with blood on their faces and tattoos on their hands. I dreamt of Marcell's hand on my thigh and his voice, as smooth and silken as cognac. It was the musky scent of his aftershave that filled my nostrils as hot hands laid me down on the gold expanse of my satin sheets.

  Sensuous lips curved into a dangerous smile.

  “Fai sesso con me,” he said, his words a command I wanted to follow.

  That right there should've been a clue that I was dreaming—I didn't take orders from men—but the fantasy continued to play out in all its wicked, licentious glory.

  This isn't right, I told myself, even as I did as he asked and laid back, spreading my legs and welcoming the hard, hot heat of him between my thighs. In all the places I was soft, he was hard. My legs were smooth while his were rough with dark hair. The mix of sensations was almost enough to put me over the edge, tease my aching body into a chasm of dark pleasure that I knew I'd never escape.

  I shouldn't be doing this, I thought again, but then his hot mouth was on mine, searing my thoughts away, obliterating my logicality until I was desperate for him, claws scraping down his back, legs engulfing the masculine beauty of his body.

  Marcell thrust his hips forward and took me, burying himself deep with a groan of wild pleasure. It was a call that I answered, groaning and wrapping my arms around his neck. I tried to wake myself up by thinking of Bo, but when I opened my eyes, it wasn't a pair of pale blue ones that looked back at me. No, it was eyes the color of a moonless night, free of stars and city lights.

  Marcell's body rose above mine, fine beads of sweat pooling in the valleys between his muscles, dripping across my body as he moved inside of me.

  “I'm going to fuck you until the sun comes up,” he whispered against my ear, and I couldn't tell if he was speaking Italian or English or some language only lovers know in the dark.

  Our lips connected with violent slashes of heat, just two wounded lovers aching for one another's rage, for that darkness buried deep down that we both had inside of us. It was in our blood, this need to conquer and bury and burn. I felt his heart hammering with it, with all of that wild need, and my own suppressed demons rose up to meet it.

  “We could be great together, Adelasia,” he said, pronouncing my name the way it was always meant to be said. Ah-dee-lah-sa. Ah-dee-lah-sa. Ah-dee-lah-sa.

  My head dropped back into the pillows and all of a sudden, I found myself staring up at Bo's face, this melancholic wreck of a human being, his eyes these violent orbs of betrayal.

  I woke with a start, sitting up so fast that my head spun and my blankets slid to the floor like snakes, satin slithering into a heap next to the bed.

  All around me, the mattress was soaked with sweat, and between my thighs, I could feel a throbbing heat that made my teeth clench and my eyes shut tight.

  No.

  No, no, fucking no.

  I was not going to let my father or this life or those men corrupt me.

  Crime and violence, the need for power … those things might've been written in my DNA, but they weren't in my heart. I was stronger than that, better than that.

  Laying back into the pillows, I reached a hand between my thighs and felt the molten heat of my desire, liquid and warm between my thighs. I thought of Bo—sweet, gentle, loving Bo—and I teased my clit, traced my opening, penetrated the aching depths of my body with my fingers.

  Nothing.

  I felt fucking nothing.

  With a small scream, I sat up and grabbed the first thing I found on my nightstand—an antique clock that my grandfather had given to me as a girl—and I threw it as hard as I could against the wall.

  Even watching it explode into springs and cogs and bits of splintered wood did nothing to help me.

  I was back, sitting in the seat of corruption, and already, I could feel that awful poison running through my veins.

  The only thing in the world I wanted was to go back home to Bo and my friends.

  But when I did … would the person going back home to them be someone I wanted them to see?

  Would she be someone they wanted to know?

  I didn't think I wanted to know the answer to that.

  “Good morning, Adelasia,” Vincent said when I appeared in the massive dining room with a black silk robe tossed over my shoulders and a frown on my face. After that awful dream, I'd made up my mind—I needed to get back into the city to see Bo. And I needed to do it sooner rather than later. Setting up some sort of regular way to sneak back to my old life was essential.

  It was the only way to keep the Adelasia Costello I'd worked so hard for alive and well.

  “How was dinner?”

  “Dinner was delicious”—and so was the man eating it with me—“but I didn't much enjoy the random gunfight we endured on the way there.”

  I smiled sharply as I took a seat at the table, giving Vincent a look across the empty place setting in front of me.

  He didn't seem to notice.

  “Oh?” he asked, taking a bite of his crostata and chewing it thoughtfully. “Where at?”

  “About twenty minutes down the road,” I said, fully aware that anything violent that happened that close to Costello Manor would've already been noted and investigated. Vincent was just playing games with me, seeing if I'd tell the truth.

  It was a test.

  How much of it, I wasn't sure. For all I knew, my father or Vincent could've planted men out there on purpose to cause trouble.

  “What was it about?” I asked him, reaching out and removing the silver lid from a nearby tray. Holy shit. Inside, there was a tomato onion quiche. I quickly cut a slice and plopped it on my plate. No sooner had I replaced the lid than I was staring at a steaming hot cappuccino.

  “For you, Lazy,” our cook, Renata, said as she planted a small kiss on my cheek and patted my hair. Renata had been working for my father since before I was born; she was like an aunt to me. If I'd let anyone call me Lazy, it'd be her. “It's so good to have you home.”

  “Thanks, Renata,” I said, not bothering to correct her.
<
br />   I wasn't home.

  No, I'd been ripped away from home.

  This place … it was a glorified prison.

  Although, after taking a sip of Renata's cappuccino, I had to wonder if maybe it wasn't all bad.

  “We have no idea who those men were,” Vincent said calmly, “not us or the Morans. Give us some time and we'll figure it out.”

  “There was an altercation not twenty minutes away and you have no idea who was involved?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended it to be.

  Vincent's brows rose up, and I heard my father's laugh echoing behind me.

  “Oh, my little Lazy, up and ready to command an army in her bathrobe.” Carlo paused to kiss me on the top of my head, a gesture that made me feel like a child—and in a bad way. Everything the man did was rife with threats; it was just the way he functioned. “Change of plans, polpetta mia,” he said, sitting down with a cigarette at the head of the table. Smoke drifted from his nostrils like he was a dragon, lording over his territory. “The Morettis are anxious to see what a beautiful woman you've grown into. They've invited us to the grand opening of their new speakeasy in the city.”

  “There are no speakeasies, Carlo,” I said, and noticed his eyes lift to mine at the sound of his name. “Dad, speakeasies ended along with prohibition.”

  “It's a tribute bar,” he said, ashing his cigarette into a tray I'd made in ceramics as a child. I wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that he was still using it. “Designed to honor the history of their family and the area …” He trailed off and picked up the espresso Renata had just brought over. “It's a throwback; you'll love it.”

  Carlo stood up and took his smoke and his drink with him.

  “The Morettis,” I said, imagining Fortunato 'Lucky' Moretti as a child, that awkward, gangly thing that had followed me around at every public function we'd attended together. I hadn't seen him in about twenty years, but I could hardly imagine him as the underboss to the Moretti crime syndicate. No fucking way.

  Then again, I'd heard rumors that once, a capo (basically an officer in the mob) had commented on his nickname—'Lucky is name of dog in Italy!' he'd supposedly said. The next week they'd found his body floating down the river.

  “Anything else you want to report?” Vincent asked, but I was already standing up and getting ready to head back up to my room. I had no idea if my father was sadistic enough to go to the extreme—like post cameras in my bedroom to keep watch on me—but I had a feeling my bathroom was fairly safe.

  I'd go in there, and I'd text my boss and my friends and my boyfriend … and since I was headed into the city anyway, I'd figure out a way to see him, too.

  “It was one dinner, Vincent,” I said, holding my cup carefully and looking down at him, “and I had a curfew.”

  I headed down the hall and tried to ignore the sound of his laughter chasing along behind me.

  Once again, I wasn't trusted to dress myself, so I sat patiently while Vera did her thing, bringing my face to brilliant life with a careful, steady hand. Several times, I thought about making conversation with her, but her face was just so goddamn serious, her lips pressed so thin. Besides, she was sleeping with Carlo so first off, she couldn't be trusted for shit. And second, did I really want to make girl talk with a woman who knew my father so intimately?

  Probably not.

  My gown for the event was exquisite, a metallic evening gown with a plunging halter and a scandalously low back. It draped over me like liquid gold, clinging to my body in all the right places. This time, Vera had paired it with some glitter-snakeskin Louboutins and a diamond encrusted arm band in the shape of a snake.

  “Please tell me this isn't a gift from Lucky Moretti?” I asked as Vera continued her ministrations on my eyebrows, plucking a few hairs that I was certain weren't necessary.

  “Not tonight,” was the only answer I got in response.

  With a sigh, I stood up and followed her out and into the hallway—she was as dolled up as I was for tonight's events—and down the stairs to the foyer. My father and several of his men were gathered there, just standing around and shooting the breeze. They all just generally looked like assholes, but I smiled anyway.

  There was no way I was going to act like an asshole when I had an escape plan in mind for later. Not a chance.

  “You remember my beautiful daughter, Adelasia?” Carlo was saying, waving me forward with a cigarette in one hand and grinning like he'd already had a few drinks. “Adelasia, it's Caj! Caj Bellincioni!”

  There was a moment there where I was completely stunned.

  “Caj Bellincioni,” I managed to say, extending my hand to one of the most beautiful men I'd ever seen in my life. His eyes were rich pools of jade, depthless and inscrutable. His hair, a red-brown wave that fell partially across his forehead, adding to the messy, careless sort of look that his rumpled gray suit portrayed. But the shape of his mouth, this dangerous curve of lips, that belied his true nature.

  I knew better than to fall for the lazy slouch of his body as he leaned against the wall. Caj Bellincioni saw everything with those beautifully vicious eyes of his, heard everything with ears covered in diamond studs. But that smirk, the one with a studded piercing on either side, it did wonders to make me want to forget.

  The fact that I'd lost my virginity to him, however, did not escape my mind.

  “Adelasia Costello,” he replied slowly, his smile an easy stretch of lips. “Of course.”

  When Caj's hand closed around mine, I felt the breath slip from my own lips. Time seemed to slow around us, coming to this interminable crawl. The space between us slid away and then Caj's mouth was at my ear.

  “How could I forget such a beautiful face?” he whispered, sliding the smooth skin of his cheek against mine. Even though this was supposed to be a chaste, friendly kiss among friends, it turned into something else entirely. “Or the body underneath that dress?”

  My breasts brushed up against Caj's chest as he moved to my left cheek next. His scent was as overwhelming as Marcell's, like night-blooming jasmine, floral but masculine at the same time. My eyes fluttered closed and a small sigh escaped my mouth.

  Fuck.

  Flicking my lashes open, I stared Caj down as he pulled away and tried to remember the last time I'd seen him. The families weren't exactly close—and we didn't often mingle—but somehow, here were the Bellincioni's standing in my father's foyer.

  “If you'll excuse us, Mr. Bellincioni,” I said, smiling prettily and putting a hand on my father's arm. “Papà?” I raised my eyebrows and gently tugged my father to a slightly more private spot in the crowded room.

  Although, of course, the word private was fairly obtuse considering the number of bodyguards surrounding us.

  “What's going on here?” I demanded while still keeping a pleasantly neutral expression plastered on my face. “Since when do the Big Four ever get together for an event?”

  “It happens on occasion, polpetta mia, you know that. It's just a bit of showing off.” My father looked at me with eyes too like mine to deny my parentage. But if I could have, I would. I wished with every beat of my heart that the girl I'd made up when I left for college, the Adelasia with no family and a life so mundane there were no stories to tell, that she was real. Because although she didn't have a past, she had a future.

  “I don't believe that for a second,” I said as Carlo slipped away but unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately since my father could be a vengeful man—he didn't hear me.

  I had the strongest urge to march up to Caj and ask him if he knew we were being set up, if he knew about Marcell and Lucky and my father's plans to ferret out a rat.

  That move, however, was very likely to get me killed.

  “There's not a moon or star in heaven as beautiful as you,” Caj said a moment later, coming up on my left side and offering a glass of champagne. We hadn't even left the house yet and already, the festivities were in full-swing.

  I took the glass from him and
downed it in a single gulp, not caring how that might look to the rest of the room.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bellincioni,” I said politely, but Caj was already curling his fingers around my wrist and pulling me closer. The bands on his rings dug into my skin, not unpleasantly.

  “Mr. Bellincioni?” he asked, his voice rife with humor. “Please, is that where we're going with this?”

  “Not right now, please,” I said, glancing over and finding his gaze trained on my face. They were devastating, those eyes, but in a completely different way than Marcell's. Caj was full of humor, but there was a sharpness to it, a bite. He was like a fox. Sly and playful, so cute from a distance. Dangerous as hell up close.

  “I get one night from you, one awful, sweaty, angry night and then this? Mmm. You really are a don's daughter.”

  “Fuck off, Caj,” I snapped, moving away from the wall and heading for the front door.

  I dropped my champagne glass off on a decorative table on my way out, and slipped into a wet, Northeastern night.

  If I hadn't felt like a veritable prisoner, I might've actually enjoyed the party at the speakeasy. It wasn't hard to believe, standing in the middle of such well-dressed men in fedoras and pinstripes and plaid, cigarette girls, and women in flapper dresses, that I was actually stepping back in time.

  The air was perfumed with smoke, husky cologne, and soft floral perfume. Onstage, a woman in a glimmering white gown sung Hard-Hearted Hannah with a live band behind her, adding to the excitement in the atmosphere.

  The walls were littered with bits and pieces of mafia history—famous mobsters from the Moretti family, a wedding dress worn by the wife of the original don, and row after row of subtle advertisements for the speakeasies of the time, calling customers to come and have an illegal drink to pad the family's pockets. There was even a signed photograph of Vito 'Lucky' Moretti, Fortunato's great-great grandfather, a man considered to be the father of organized crime in the United States.

  “It's a little over-the-top, don't you think?” a smooth, easy voice said in my right ear. I glanced over to find Lucky Moretti with his blonde hair styled in a sleek, modern take on a traditional twenties combover. His hazel eyes sparkled as he took me in from head to toe, admiring the satin gold waves of my dress.