Sergio
a Dark Mafia Romance
Natasha Knight
Copyright © 2018 by Natasha Knight
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.
Contents
About This Book
Inspiration
Letter From Natasha
Prologue
1. Sergio
2. Natalie
3. Sergio
4. Natalie
5. Sergio
6. Natalie
7. Sergio
8. Natalie
9. Sergio
10. Natalie
11. Sergio
12. Sergio
13. Natalie
14. Sergio
15. Natalie
16. Sergio
17. Natalie
18. Natalie
19. Sergio
20. Natalie
21. Natalie
22. Sergio
23. Natalie
24. Sergio
25. Natalie
26. Natalie
27. Sergio
28. Sergio
29. Natalie
30. Natalie
31. Natalie
2nd Letter from Natasha
Salvatore: a Dark Mafia Romance Excerpt
Dominic: a Dark Mafia Romance Excerpt
Thank You!
Also by Natasha Knight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About This Book
I’m the first born son of the mafia king. The favorite. Destined to rule, I’m a dangerous man, a ruthless one. But in my world, you have to be.
* * *
Then Natalie stumbles into my life. Wrong place. Wrong time.
* * *
Twice, fate put her in my path.
Twice, fate placed the innocent lamb at the mercy of the monster.
* * *
I gave her a chance to walk away. Told her it would be better for her if she did.
But she didn’t listen.
And now it’s too late.
Because I’m not good. I never wanted to be. And I won’t let her go anymore. See, I’m not the hero. When I touch her, it’s with dirty hands.
* * *
I know my reckoning is coming though. I know I’ll burn for the things I’ve done, the sins I’ve committed. I don’t deny hell is where I belong, but I want my time first. I want my time with her.
* * *
She’s mine.
Forever.
No matter what.
“Darlin’
Darlin’
Darlin’
Why don’t you sleep at night?”
* * *
~ Houndmouth, “Darlin’”
Letter From Natasha
Please read this before beginning the book
Dear Reader,
* * *
Sergio’s story wasn’t one I ever thought I’d write. He was a secondary character in another book and that was all. At least until late in 2017.
* * *
When a story starts to form in my mind, it’s usually the hero who takes shape, whose eyes I see, who slowly grows into a living, breathing person for me. It’s usually his voice that first sparks the story.
* * *
In Sergio’s case, this started a few months ago with a song, Darlin’ by Houndmouth. From the first moment I heard it, I thought this is it. This is Sergio. This is his song. Even as I write this, I can almost feel him, feel his arms around me, his body heavy as he moves slowly to the music, his breath warm at my cheek as he sings along.
* * *
I feel like Sergio was waiting his turn. Like he was patient and watched as the Benedetti world took form and grew layers and finally, he was up. He had a story too, and it had to be told, no matter what. And this is why I’m writing this letter. There will be a second one at the end of the book. Please do not read ahead.
* * *
This book is not a traditional romance and I know it will be upsetting to some of you, but I had no magic up my sleeve for this one. No tricks. No nothing. This is the only story I could tell for Sergio and I feel like from the first second I heard his voice, as much as it broke my heart, he knew it too.
* * *
I don’t want to say too much more here. I don’t want to give anything away. I just want to ask that you keep an open mind.
* * *
As always, thank you so much for choosing to spend your time reading my book. I am honored and awed, still, by this. I hope you fall in love and maybe even have your heart broken a little. I hope you feel every single thing the way I felt it and maybe when you play that song, you’ll feel Sergio’s arms around you too.
* * *
Love,
Natasha
Prologue
Natalie
“Wrong place, wrong time, sweetheart.”
The words echo in my head.
I’ve done this before. Twice in my life now, I’ve been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Isn’t there some sort of karmic balancing? Like isn’t it enough to witness this kind of violence just once in a lifetime?
Last time was six years ago. I was fourteen and standing in front of the freezer of the convenience store down the street from my house deciding which ice cream bar I wanted. I remember the humming of the air conditioner. Liking the cool inside on that too hot August day. It was one of the few times my parents let me go alone. We didn’t live in the best neighborhood.
The men came in so quickly, I barely registered the fact they were wearing ski masks before the first gunshot went off. I dove to the ground and shut my ears to the commands they shouted, but the man with the greasy shirt saw me. He came at me and I would have screamed if I could find my voice, but the others’ screams muted me, and when he gripped me by my hair and hauled me to my feet, I followed where he led me.
Another gunshot was followed by another scream and I swear I saw red splatter the walls.
Blood.
But when he threw me to the ground in the last aisle and I registered what he meant to do, it all became surreal.
Gunshots and fists and screams all seemed in the distance. Like they weren’t part of my reality anymore because my reality was about to change. My reality came down to him and me on the floor of this forgotten shop, with blood seeping from beneath the aisle divider. Fear in the voices of the others trapped here with me. Him with his pants undone. Him with his hands in my jeans. Me watching, mute. Trying to shove him away.
I remember the bell over the door going again.
Remember the sound of footsteps.
Someone cursing.
I remember the sound of a gun being cocked. Readied. How I knew what that little click meant I’m not sure, but it’s an unmistakable sound. I remember the look on the face of the one between my legs as he registered cold steel on the back of his head.
We looked up at the man in the dark suit at the same time. He wore black from head to toe, a dark angel. His pistol shone bright in the blinking fluorescent light. The angel called me to go to him. I did. I scrambled to my feet and went. He glanced down to where my jeans were undone before meeting my eyes. He pulled me to him, put one hand on the back of my head, burying my face in his belly.
He told me to keep my eyes closed. To cover my ears. Said he’d try not to get blood on me.
I didn’t think. I did as he said. Put my hands over my ears. And I swear I know what a bullet tearing through flesh sounds like now.
But all
that I’ve managed to file away. Locked up in a box until now.
It’s his words that play back over and over again. The sound of his voice that I recognize as now, so many years after that terrible day, I crouch behind the decrepit machinery in this abandoned warehouse and hide.
“Wrong place, wrong time, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
I’ll never forget that voice. Never forget the casual way he called me sweetheart. And I recognize it now. The man in the suit, my dark angel. The man who killed without flinching. The man who saved my life once. It’s him. He’s here.
And when he shifts his gaze in my direction, I swear he hears the pounding of my heart against my chest. Swear it’ll give me away.
Except that this time, if he finds me, he won’t be saving me.
1
Sergio
Fuck. I hate these fucking warehouses. Dusty and always frigid.
I’m flanked by two of my men. Four more soldiers trail us with a dozen more outside. It’s to make an impression. Joe and Lance Vitelli have overstepped.
Lance. Who the fuck names their kid Lance in this business? It’s no wonder he’s acting out. Trying to prove he’s not a pussy.
Our footsteps echo off the old machinery as I follow Roman, my uncle, through the main room and to the back where the brothers are being held. There’s no door to that room and the glow of the single light bulb is a contrast to the pitch black of the rest of the place.
The sound of a fist connecting with flesh is followed by a grunt. The grunt, I know, belongs to either Joe or Lance. I pick lint off my sleeve and adjust the cuff of my shirt as we near the entrance. Roman steps into the room, stands to the side, folding his hands together. He takes in what’s going on, then turns to me, gives a brief nod and waits.
I walk into the room, crack my neck. Slept bad last night.
The sight that greets me is not an unfamiliar one. The offenders are sitting in straight back chairs, but they’re not bound. There’s a splattering of blood on Joe’s white shirt. It’s fresh. I guess he’s the one who took the punch I heard.
“That’s disgusting. Get something on his nose,” I say to one of my men.
“It’s fucking broke,” Joe whines, taking the wad of nasty cloth someone just shoved at him.
I go right up to him. Lean down to get my face in his. “You’re lucky you’re not broke. Be grateful or that’ll change.”
He breathes in a sharp breath and I know he’s biting his lip not to reply.
“Sergio,” Lance starts. Lance is the older brother. The slightly smarter one. Or the one with a healthier fear of death.
Of me.
I straighten, turn to him.
“Mr. Benedetti,” he corrects.
I wait.
“My brother screwed up, but it’s fixed. The girls are back home. No harm, no foul, right?” He attempts to smile but it fails and his lips droop.
“In whose territory do you live?” I ask. It’s been a long fucking night already and it’s not close to over. I’m tired, so I’ll get to the point.
“Yours, sir,” he answers.
“In whose territory do your families live? Mothers, sisters, wives, daughters.”
Lance’s face, which was pale when I got here, goes gray. “Yours, Mr. Benedetti. Benedetti territory.”
I nod, shift my gaze to Joe. “To whom has your father pledged your family’s loyalty, Joe?” His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t answer right away, Lance clears his throat to, but I stop him. “I’m asking your fucking brother.”
“Benedetti,” Joe says through gritted teeth.
“DeMarco’s were once loyal to us too, until they weren’t,” I remind them. What happened to that family should be enough warning. What is happening and still will happen to Lucia DeMarco, most precious daughter, should be enough. My father’s right about fear. But there’s more to it. Ruthlessness. It’s what truly gets you respect in this business.
He is ruthless.
And I am my father’s son.
“You have a sister, don’t you?” I ask. “Anna, right? How old is she now?”
Lance just stares back at me, his eyes wide with fear.
I may not agree with how my father is handling the DeMarco girl, but I understand it. “Lucia DeMarco’s age, am I right?”
“She’s only sixteen, sir,” Lance says, his voice a little quieter.
“Yeah, Lucia DeMarco’s age when they lost the war they started with us.” I don’t need to say more.
“Sergio—” Lance starts. “Mr. Benedetti—”
I raise my hand to halt him. “Let’s just be clear. I’m going to give you a warning. One chance, because I know your father. He’s been a friend to my family. But if you overstep again, the consequences will be more…permanent.”
Lance swallows.
“Benedetti’s do not deal in flesh trade. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Lance says quickly.
I look at Joe. If looks could kill, I’d be dead right now.
I grab a handful of Joe’s hair and tug his head backward. “Is that fucking clear?”
One of my men cocks a gun and Lance whimpers like a fucking girl.
“You the tough one?” I ask Joe. “Sucks to always be in big brother’s shadow, doesn’t it?” He exhales, shifts his gaze away from mine, but not to his brother. I’m right. Like Dominic, my youngest brother, he knows he’ll never be boss and it fucking kills him. “Am I fucking clear, Joe? Or do I need to make an example?” I squeeze the handful of over-gelled hair and if I twist just once in the wrong direction, I’ll snap his neck. Quick and clean. No blood on my suit. And he knows it.
“Clear,” he says.
I release him, wipe my hand on my pants and decide I’m not done yet. “Now, show me your loyalty. Your gratitude for my family’s generosity in this unfortunate event.” I step backward, giving him space. He knows what I want and it’s going to kill him to do it.
But he’s going to do it.
I wait. I’m patient.
“Joe. Just fucking do it,” Lance orders his brother when a full minute passes and Joe hasn’t moved.
Joe’s face is a fiery red and his eyes are filled with rage. But soon, the leg of the chair scrapes across the concrete floor as he drops to his knees at my feet.
I look down at him. Give him more space. And my smile widens as he prostrates himself and his lips touch the toe of my shoe.
I want to kick the son-of-a-bitch, but I don’t. I’m a man of my word. I will give them one more chance.
A sound comes from the metal ramp that runs along the perimeter of the large office forming a second level. I look at it. It must have been an observation deck to oversee the plant.
I don’t know if anyone else heard it. A glance at Roman tells me he did, but the others haven’t noticed. I nod to him. He steps out of the room and two men follow.
When I return my gaze to the spectacle in front of me, I’m very aware of my periphery. I want to catch any movement because that sound was too loud for a mouse.
“Get them out of here,” I say to the two soldiers behind the brothers.
“Yes, sir.”
I watch as Joe and Lance are walked rudely out of the room. After a few moments, I turn to my men. “Let’s go,” I say loudly. They walk out. I hang back, switch out the light, listen to the footsteps echo as they vacate the building. I reach for the handgun in its holster beneath my jacket and walk silently toward the direction from where the sound had come.
2
Natalie
It’s been silent for a while, but I’m too scared to move. I can’t believe what I saw. What I heard. Benedetti. I know that name. And the one in the suit, the man who once saved my life, I think he heard when my boot caught the screw on the floor. Although I’m maybe overthinking it. He didn’t say anything, just carried on with his business.
My knees creak when I finally dare to straighten. I’ve been hiding, crouched for too long. I’m holding my breath, m
y eyes wide. It’s pitch-black here, but I’m too afraid to use the flashlight on my phone.
I take two steps, peek around the machine that shielded me from their view. The room is empty. I creep to the top of the stairs. My heart is still racing as I grip the ice-cold banister, my knees not quite steady as I make my way down. I tuck my phone into my purse. I’m at the bottom of the stairs, my foot poised to step onto the ground floor when I hear it. The cocking of a gun. Twice in my life now, I’ve heard a gun cocked at too close a range. It comes in the same instant as the arm that wraps around my throat, that presses my back against a chest of steel.
I scream as the light goes on and three men come into view. The older one in the suit. Two others. And the one who’s got the barrel of the gun at my temple.
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