by Kara Hart
RIDING DIRTY: A BAD BOY MAFIA ROMANCE (LUCIOTTI CRIME FAMILY)
KARA HART
Contents
Copyright
Author’s Note
Prologue
1. Dahlia
2. Lucas
3. Dahlia
4. Lucas
5. Dahlia
6. Lucas
7. Dahlia
8. Lucas
9. Dahlia
10. Lucas
11. Dahlia
12. Lucas
13. Dahlia
14. Lucas
15. Lucas
16. Dahlia
17. Lucas
18. Dahlia
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Bad Boy Books by Kara Hart!
Copyright © 2016 by Kara Hart
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 is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
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PROLOGUE
L ucas:
T here’s nothing I wouldn’t do. Pain and suffering were just words. I had spent years in the Luciotti district. I had given my life to the family, bowed my head and knelt on one knee. I spilled my blood for their approval. They lit the paper effigy and made me swear on my life. The only people that mattered in my world after that were those that claimed the family name. And if you pissed those people off, you dealt with me.
I looked out the back mirror of my white van. He was right there, in front of the tan colored house with the white-picket fence. I waited for close to two days, just sitting in this van, hoping someone would be stupid enough to come out and analyze the scene. Well here I am, buddy. Ready to make your day.
“Julian McCallister?” I asked the man, rolling down my window. The man starts to run. Yep, already showing off his guilt. Sad sack.
I jumped out of the van and ran at full speed. Lucky for me, he’s yelled to his buddies that I’m on the premises.
“He’s here! He’s here!” He cried out, amongst his own hurried footsteps.
“Fuck off. Nice joke,” one of the guys said. How anyone could think I was a joke escaped me. And when they saw the other end of the barrel, they saw things a bit differently.
I stalked toward the voices, gripping my pistol. With practiced ease, I took the silencer from my pocket and screwed it on. The neighborhood was empty, but no need to make more of a scene than we already had. An American dressed in a black running suit was assumed either CIA or FBI by the Spaniards. Fun fact: I’m worse than both combined.
The guy continued yelling, although I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t run faster. Didn’t he know I came to kill him?
“I am your angel of death,” I announced in the hallway. “Come into my arms.”
“Shit! Who is that?” Another voice called out.
“I’m your new friend,” I said, outstretching both hands, gripping the pistol.
I slid from the corner of the hallway into the living room and found my man. He fumbled at the back door, attempting to unlock the five latches that kept the place “secure.” I opened fire. One shot in the back shoulder, so he couldn’t fire at me if he tried, two in each leg, and one in the ass for good measure.
“Alright, you sons of bitches,” I called out. “Everyone to the back wall, now! Hands where I can fucking see them.” I loved this part. This was the part where I announced I was going to make them suffer and seize all their property. And if they didn’t pay up in one week, there would be worse repercussions. Weird thing was, they almost never paid on time. And when they didn’t, there was over a thousand excuses for why.
“I’ll pay,” he whispered, tears falling from his eyes. “I was just about to go to the bank, I promise you!”
“That’s why you were tip-toeing on your lawn?” I asked him, setting my gun on the table in the middle of the room. I stretched my arms and took off my jacket. “It’s hot in here. Don’t you have A/C?”
“I was going, I swear.” He pleaded.
I laughed and sat down, propping my black boots up on the seat in front of me. “Look, spare me the details. We all know you weren’t going anywhere. You came outside to look for me, the boogeyman. Well, you’ve found me. You only get three wishes.” I smiled and pulled out a small bat, big enough to be palmed. Then I pulled out a sharp knife with a corroded blade and a pair of clippers.
“What shall it be gentleman? Three wishes, three choices. Pick your poison.” I kept my gaze on them.
“God dammit, Julian. You didn’t pay the guy?” One of his friends asked him, panic written on his face. “Sir, we didn’t really play any part in his bullshit. We would never do anything to disrespect you, so can we please go home? We won’t tell an—”
I waved for him to shut the fuck up. “Did you shoot up any of that junk into your veins? Better yet, did you even look at those bags he picked up?”
The guy slowly and innocently shook his head. “So you really have no idea what I’m here for?” I asked him. He knew and he would admit it, in time. I just needed to get him to break. I lived for these kinds of games.
I got up from the chair and began walking around the living room.
“I’m tired,” I said, opening a cupboard where some expensive china sat, waiting to be used. I took the plates out and threw them against the ground, one by one.
“Hey.” The guy whispered. I gave him a sharp glance and he quickly shut up.
“I’m tired of walking into houses and hearing the same damn story every time. How is it that no one knows about the money?” I opened another cupboard and threw out the contents. Puzzles, some old pictures, a couple loose toys. “And yet, they always talk eventually. Because I’m the best at what I do. And I’m intuitive. Do you know what that means?” I had turned to Julian who was now trembling against the wall, particularly bloody now.
I turned around and saw the big piano that had been collecting dust for years. I walked over to it, slowly, gazing at Julian and his gang of morons. “I used to play, you know,” I said, running my finger along the dust of the piano. “A few concerts here, a few concerts there. I was actually very good.”
“Just pay him, man.” Julian’s friend whispered to him.
“Shut the fuck up!” Julian hissed. “Can you let us go, sir? My ass, it hurts a lot!”
I opened the back of the piano. Inside was at least five kilos of pure and unadulterated heroin. Alongside the big bags were bricks of cash. “It’s Christmas, after all!” I yelled out, turning around.
“Look, sir, we don’t know what the hell Julian has been up to. We just want to go home and forget this all ever happened.” One of them pleaded.
“Right. You are just innocent bystanders. It’s unfortunate that I don’t care, isn’t it? Now you’re all involved. Wrong place, wrong time. And so it goes.”
“Please, don’t do this!” Julian yelled. “Take the money! Take the drugs.”
“I don’t want your filthy drugs. Do I look like a drug dealer to you?” I grabbed the knife and set it against the back of
his neck.
“No! You don’t! You don’t!” He screamed.
“That’s right. I’m not a drug dealer. Now that we’ve figured out where my father’s product is, I think we’re almost done here. Don’t you?” I smiled, running my hands over each choice of weapon.
“Now, you have three wishes. We have the knife. I promise it’s as sharp as can be. We have a pair of wire-cutters and lastly, we have my little mini bat, which is one of my favorites actually. The gun won’t do. Pick a card, any card.”
“What do you want from us?” Julian asked me turning his head.
“I came to kill you. As a warning to anyone else who wants to fuck with my family. I came to take your life.”
“Oh, God,” he whispered.
“Okay! Wire-cutters it is.” I smiled.
1
DAHLIA
“O uch!” I muttered, jumping back from the surprise pain. I looked down at my finger. I small prick of blood trickled out. “Dammit, I always do this,” I said. The house was quiet and empty. Jen had left for school already. Of course, she left without waking her mother up.
I set the roses I was trimming down on the table and walked to the bathroom to get a Band-Aid. It was just a small puncture, nothing a little peroxide couldn’t handle. I walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. I noticed my face turn pale as I opened the mirror-like door. “Shit,” I mumbled, feeling dizzy. I grabbed onto the toilet for balance, but soon gave way to the feeling and sat down.
“Come on, Dahlia. You’re okay. You can get through this. Just breathe.” I whispered aloud. Since coming to this town, I had no one in my life. No one, except for my daughter. We left Seattle for a better existence, but Monroe, Michigan was a bit of an adjustment. Leaving family behind wasn’t exactly the breath of fresh air I hoped it would be. But leaving the ones who wanted me dead was a necessity.
Did Jen really leave without telling me again? She was getting to be that age where she would just run off to explore without telling me. Still, it wasn’t safe for her to just walk to school. Sure, this was a small town, but every small town had its set of delinquents. And for whatever reason, she wasn’t well-liked by her classmates. Some new girl from the outskirts of Seattle? They took one look at her and scoffed. City girl.
I picked myself back up, grabbed a band-aid, and walked back into the kitchen.
“Stupid roses,” I said. I had gotten them for everyone at the café. I had been working there for a few months and I thought it might be nice to give everyone flowers for their hard work. Okay, maybe it was a weird idea, but I was trying to set my life straight.
Back in Seattle I rubbed everyone the wrong way. I had a boyfriend who stole literally everything from everyone, and I was too inside my own head to be a good person. Put it like this: I loved to watch people suffer. I wouldn’t physically hurt people. That was up to Cade, my ex. No, I would con people and leave them out on the curb. It wasn’t just in Seattle either. I’d lived in Phoenix, St. Louis, New York City, and Oakland. Monroe was just the smallest town to get me back to normal. Or so I had hoped.
“Morning George!” I shouted on my way to work. My morning run was a new habit to get my blood pumping in the morning. I heard it helped people deal with depression, though it didn’t do much for me. In fact, it messed with my asthma more than anything. Okay, it was a bad habit. In my right hand was the bouquet of roses, wrapped in a plastic bag. The café was just a mile or so up and I could see it in the distance.
Cars passed me as I ran. I waved to the ones I knew. To the ones I didn’t know, I simply smiled and hoped they didn’t judge me. As the new person in town, single without a solid career, I was sure my situation looked a little strange to outsiders, but I was trying my best. A car, black and raised, sped by me going at least 70 miles per hour down a residential street. The car swerved from side to side, taking no heed for pedestrians.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Slow the fuck down, asshole!” The man honked and swerved by, until his engine made a loud noise. He was forced to pull off to the side of the road. I could feel my throat tensing up as my anger seemed to exacerbate my lungs. I’m fine, I keep telling myself. Just breathe and you’ll be fine.
I shook my head and laughed to myself, headed toward the car. “It’s my lucky day,” I said, ready to give this guy my worst. The man got out of the car and opened the hood. Steam rose from the engine and the man shook his head and shielded his eyes from the smoke.
When I was nearer, I called out “Hey!” He turned and looked at me. “This is a small town and you’re speeding like a reckless maniac,” I said.
“And?” He turned back to look at his engine, going through it with his bare hands and a tool. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself.
“And there are nice people who go on walks! Children and the elderly. And here you are, driving like a total douchebag, without a care in the world.” The man paid no attention to my ramblings. I grew even angrier. “You know, I ought to take your license plate and report you. I know the Sheriff, you know.” It was a lie, but I didn’t like the idea.
“You got kids?” He asked me. His voice was deep and masculine, and it rumbled as if the sound waves ricocheted off the bottom of a whisky barrel. I found myself stepping back.
“No, I don’t,” I lied. “But other people in this town do. So watch it, okay?” He grabbed his shirt from the bottom of the fabric and lifted it up.
“You know anything about engines?” He asked me, standing there shirtless, wrapping the cotton around his right hand. He twisted a knob and poured some fluid in the opening
“No, sorry.” I mumbled. Was he seriously missing the point here? I looked him up and down. His pecs were covered in tattoos. In fact, his whole body was scattered with them. Tattoos, small bruises, and a few scars. I didn’t even want to know where he got those.
“Then get off my case. This isn’t my day.” he said to me, leaning into his engine some more. “Fuck. I’m going to have to call a mechanic now.”
“You’re going to have to do more than that because I’m calling the police!” I yelled, making my voice heard.
He crawled out from under the hood and dropped his tool on the road. He walked forward, as close to me as he could get, until his chest practically touched mine. His words hit my face like a ton of bricks. “What do you want from me? You going to bust my balls all day? Am I going to have to force you to leave?” He asked me, clenching his fists.
He was built like a statue and I didn’t want to know what forcing me to leave felt like. “No,” I muttered. “It’s just that this is a nice community of people. We protect each other here.”
“Cute,” he said. His dark eyes pierced right through me. Now that he was closer to me, I could see the tattoo on his right side. “Z” with a knife coming down right through it. It looked like one of those mafia prison tattoos I saw in one of those History Channel shows a while back.
“Yeah, so watch where you’re driving,” I whispered, feeling my throat tighten up with fear, but also a strange kind of attraction that kept me standing there.
“How about a compromise? Why don’t you take a different route in the mornings so you never have to see me again? Because I know you’re a little Sherriff friend. And turns out, he’s a good friend of mine too. We should all get dinner sometime. I think that would be fun.” He smiled, though his eyes remained dark and determined as ever.
“I was just saying…” I gulped. I was flustered and embarrassed. I really didn’t want him to see that I had been staring at that “Z” for at least a minute straight. What did it mean? It was clearly some kind of affiliation to something. Let it go, Dahlia, my instinct told me.
He started to smile as his gaze fell downward. “You're pretty small, huh?” He asked me.
I took a slight step back. Maybe I shouldn't have stopped. Maybe I should have just went straight to work. “Why the hell do you care?” I found myself getting defensive. I glanced down at my chest and realized my cleavage was fall
ing out a bit too much. I adjusted myself and remained still.
“It would be fun to take you for a ride,” he said, smirking. “Next time though.”
“Excuse me?” I replied, shocked he had the audacity to say such a thing. “Do you talk to your mother like that?” I asked him. It was an old lady thing to say and I realized how much I sounded like a mom.
“My mom’s been dead for years. I don't talk to her at all these days,” he replied. He turned around and began fiddling with his engine again. “Quit looking at my chest,” he said, shaking his burly head at me.
As he moved away from me, his scent enveloped the whole area. It smelled like cologne, foreign cobblestone, and old cracked leather. I couldn't help but feel intrigued, yet the way he spoke to me was repulsive. I pegged him for one of those patriarchal men’s rights type of guys.
“I wasn't looking at your chest, you pig,” I spat out. “I actually don't have time for this. I have work. Just stay off our roads if you're going to max out your stupid engine.” I huffed, making my way toward the café once again.
“Sure thing, honey. Catch you on the flip side,” he said with such arrogance I could have turned around and socked him. Before I started running, I turned my head slightly to get one last look at the guy. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw specks of reddish-brown around his bruised and injured left hand. One of his gold rings was practically painted with it.
“Is that blood?” I asked him.
“It's nothing,” he said, quickly covering it up. Though it was kind of out of the ordinary, it didn't necessarily mean anything. He could have gotten into a fight, or fell down somewhere. Who was I to judge? I shrugged it off and ran to work.
Of course, I was late. I ran through the front doors, as the bell above me loudly rang, and clocked in.
“You're late,” Carmelo Gelsone, my boss, said to me. He stood next to the bar, arms folded, and he did not look too happy. “And why do you reek of cologne?” He said suddenly, with a sour look on his face.
