by Roxie Wilde
Killer Curves (Protective Alpha Male Curvy Gal Book 3)
by Roxie Wilde
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events reside solely in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters are eighteen years of age or older.
© 2019, Roxie Wilde. No portion of this work can be reproduced in any way without prior written consent from the author with the exception for a fair use excerpt for review and editorial purposes.
This title is for adults only. It contains explicit sex acts, adult themes, and material that some folks might find offensive. Please keep out of reach of children. All characters involved in sexual activities are consenting adults age 18 or older. Cover models appear for illustration purposes only and have no connection with the fictional events of this story.
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Table of Contents
Killer Curves
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Thank you for reading!
Killer Curves
Chapter 1
Francesca
City of Angels my ass.
The bass was a heartbeat in the middle of the club, lights low enough to alert me every time the pop and hiss of a flashbulb went off. I didn’t even mind— I was rocking the hell out of a little beaded Givenchy dress with a plunging neckline. Let the paparazzi eat cake. It’s not like I hadn’t already given every one of my 259,873 Insta followers a sneak peek at my goodies before setting out for the night.
Smoke— some deliciously heady combination of rich cigar tobacco and the distinct musky scent of quality California weed— permeated the club air. LA was wall to wall sin, and that’s exactly what I loved about it.
“Frankie! Frankie over here!”
There’d been a time, not so long ago, when the sound of my shouted name followed by the telltale click of a camera would have been enough to make me want to shrivel into a ball and disappear forever. Those awkward teenage years when ruthless “reporters” would hang out around the gates of St. Teresa Catholic High School, cameras poised to catch any shot they could, no matter how unflattering. But the chubby, awkward teen had grown into her curves— and I’d grown into the cameras, too, much to my father’s dismay.
When your father is Stefano Il Lupo Moretti, there are certain rules you’re expected to follow. As it turns out, I have a natural affinity for breaking rules.
The driving beat of the music drowned out everything else, and I gave myself up to it. I felt someone come up behind me on the dance floor, a big pair of strange hands gripping tight at the curve of my hips, and the thrill of it drove me. Not that I’d let it go past some harmless flirting and enough dancing to leave me in an exhausted heap at the end of the night. Beneath the pulsing glow of the club lights, the massive diamond ring on my finger gleamed like a beacon, and I smiled.
“Francesca! I’ve been all over the place looking for you!”
Well, so much for that.
I blinked hard, hoping the pink club lights and the Armand de Brignac still fizzing around in my head were just making me see things. Nope. My brother was still standing there on the crowded dance floor, glaring at me.
“Cristian, what are you doing here?”
It was odd enough to see Cristian out at a club on a Saturday night when he could be working or home brooding instead. But it was the drawn, tight look on my big brother’s face that really gave me pause.
Suddenly, the popping of camera flashes going off all around me took on the invasive, menacing tone I’d hated as a girl.
Cristian’s long fingers found their way around my wrist, his darker olive complexion somehow all the more obvious in the dimness of the club.
“We gotta go, Frankie. Now.”
His tone left no room for my usual argumentativeness. He saved that voice for one thing only:
Family business.
The Wolf’s office was everything you’d expect from a man that wielded the kind of power and influence that my father did.
Normally, this room calmed me, cooled my hot temper and lightning reactions. I’d grown up amongst the wood paneling and leather-bound books of this room. Cristian and I had spent countless hours playing cops and robbers on the plush carpets as children, chasing each other beneath Daddy’s heavy mahogany desk while he brokered deals and set plans in motion.
He’d never hidden the realities of his world from us, always explained to me what growing up as the daughter of the Moretti family boss would entail. I’d grown into it, grown to love what he’d built, what we’d built. Would Cristian prefer I kept a lower profile sometimes? Sure. My older brother had always been the traditionalist.
These walls had been a reprieve from the hoards of people that had flocked to Mama’s funeral when Cris and I were still so young. Then, last year, it had been a clean slate. The start of the happiest months of my life.
I could still remember the way my heart had been pounding in my chest. Dio Romano had walked through the doors of my father’s office and turned my world upside down. I’d been prepared to marry the oldest Romano son to secure an alliance between our two families, regardless of who he was. It was good business, and business always came first.
I hadn’t been prepared for Dio Romano to walk into my life and sweep me off my feet with his fast-talking charm and warm smile.
Now, just like that, he was gone.
“Who did it?”
I was surprised at how steady my voice was.
The smell of smoke still clung to the dark hair that cascaded over my shoulders, only now it made me irrationally angry. I’d been dancing, enjoying myself while Dio had been bleeding to death. Dying alone.
My father slid a heavy crystal glass across his desk to me, and I took a long swallow of the amber liquid inside. The burn was comforting. It reminded me that I could still feel something besides the icy emptiness spreading through my chest.
“The Alexeev’s,” my father said simply.
Cristian looked sharply from Daddy to me. Everyone knew the Russians hadn’t been happy about our alliance. Especially not since it would put a major squeeze on their Los Angeles operation. None of us had expected… this, though.
I twisted the engagement ring on my finger, the thought of having to take it off unbearable.
Chapter 2
Giorno
My father always said to me, “Blood is thicker than water, Giorno.”
Family always came first for him. The son of first-generation immigrants, he had built an entire empire with his own hands. We didn’t have the lineage that some of the other families had. He started from scratch, doing jobs for a Las Vegas mob boss. He’d risen through the ranks and, when the time came, he had assumed control of crime in Sin City.
Growing up on the strip had been an education in vice, in all of its various forms. The family had its fingers in pies of all flavors. From the merely less ethical ventures — gambling, stripping, prostitution — to the illegal. Protection rackets and loansharking were the tried and true methods for the refined criminal organization.
I had never taken to it. Maybe I saw too many cousins getting sloppy drunk and making mistakes that got them an early retirement in the grave. Maybe I just hated not being in control, especially of myself. Not like my brother, Dio.
Dio was the extrovert, the loud one. He was older than me by two years, but he acted like the younger brother. Maybe it was because he looked it. He had always
been thin, scrawny. Puberty hit me like a ton of bricks, but Dio ran his mouth off like he was the one who was bigger than everyone else. In school, it had been my job to look after him when he inevitably bit off more than he could chew.
Maybe dear old Dad knew, even then, that I’d always need to be cleaning up Dio’s messes. I’d like to think he hoped his eldest son would mature if he was given enough time, but if anything, it was the opposite. Dio got worse as we got older. Having me around to constantly babysit him and pull him out of scrapes, it made him reckless. Overconfident in his ability to come out of any situation smelling like a rose.
Now they were lowering Dio into the ground next to our father. Mama was sobbing, wailing. She stood up from her seat and flung herself across the distance between her and the coffin. The men operating the winch paused, unsure of what to do as my mother scratched at the coffin, as if she could save him by stopping the lowering of his casket.
I grimaced, stepping forward. I wondered if Mama would be so inconsolable when it was my turn to rest. I somehow couldn’t picture it. The thought wasn’t very charitable, unworthy of me. I knew she was grieving, knew Dio had been her favorite. He had her spark, her joie de vivre. I didn’t blame her for it. Dio had been easy to love.
I glanced over at Francesca Moretti as she dabbed at her eyes. She had certainly found Dio easy to love. They had been birds of a feather, peacocks preening under the constant adoration of a captive media audience. Even at his funeral she looked stunning, perfectly coiffed and poised. Black Dior hugged her curves in a way that gave me incredibly inappropriate thoughts for such a morbid setting.
I didn’t blame her. It was what Dio would have wanted. He had always been a fan of showmanship. I’d always thought he didn’t quite pull it off. He came across to me as insincere and tacky, whereas Francesca shone like a star. Maybe it was just jealousy. When she walked through the door six months ago I had been struck with envy. Yet another thing that Dio got that I wanted for myself.
Now he would have nothing, and although she was incredibly attractive, it was hard to look at Francesca. I maintained my composure — “Never let them see you sweat, Giorno” — but inside I was conflicted, confused, a sea in storm. I had pushed my feelings for Francesca down, buried them deep and assumed they would pass in time like all crushes did.
They hadn’t, and now I was trapped. Guilt was the predominant flavor of my emotions, guilt over so many things. I had let my father down again, just as I had on the day he died. I hadn’t kept my promise, hadn’t kept Dio safe. Most of all, I was guilty over how a small, secret part of me was elated. Glad.
I helped my mother stand, pulling her away. “Come on, Mama. You’ve got to let him go now.”
She nodded, taking my hand. She was quivering all over, shaky as she stood. Her face was a mess, make-up streaked and smeared. Francesca started forward to help, bless her, but I shook my head.
This was my duty.
“I know, Giorno. I know. It’s just so hard. First your father, and now your brother, and now you’re all that I have left.”
Her voice cracked on the last word as she collapsed against my chest, sobbing. She wasn’t wrong. I was the last man standing, the de facto patriarch of the family. That wasn’t saying much. We were a shadow of what we’d been under my father’s leadership. Dio had flattened us with his ineptitude. I had been so busy cleaning up messes and fixing things that I hadn’t been able to reign him at all.
Now it was down to me, and I had only one way forward. We couldn’t afford a fight with the Moretti’s, not now. Not with the Russians breathing vodka down our necks. I couldn’t afford to make any more enemies. Not when I was still in the dark as to who had killed my brother. I walked Mama back to her seat, retaking my place next to Francesca Moretti. My brother’s fiancee. Even in death, Dio was laughing at me. One last mess of his to clean up.
Blood is thicker than water, but either one can drown you.
Chapter 3
Francesca
The cannoli table called to me.
There’s just something about the combination of cream and fried dough and chocolate that makes for the ultimate comfort food. No matter what the situation, it’s hard not to feel better with a mouthful of chocolate to console you. Besides, as long as I was chewing, I didn’t have to answer any questions. Or worse, pose for any pictures. Luckily, my oversized shades did a damned good job of keeping a barrier between me and the press.
Dio and I hadn’t gone public with our engagement yet. Ironically, my boisterous fiance had been worried enough about my safety to keep our relationship a secret. We’d been planning our big reveal at an engagement party next week. A plan that seemed crushed beneath the bloody heel of the Alexeev family now. Nevertheless, the presence of so many Morettis at Dio’s funeral was causing quite a commotion outside the lavish walls of the Romano estate.
“You sure about this, Frankie?”
Cristian’s quiet voice cut through my thoughts. Tall and lean where I was short and compact, you’d be hard-pressed to know just how close my older brother and I were at first glance. Not just physical opposites, Cris and I often butted heads when it came to how we thought the family should be run, too. Traditional to the point of old-fashioned, my brother wasn’t one for change. He didn’t like taking on new ventures and preferred playing things close to the vest. I was the risk-taker. Willing to try new things, always looking to expand. All of the Moretti’s ventures into young Hollywood had been my idea, and daddy had mediated more than one heated fight between Cris and I over the deals. Deals that had turned out quite well, I couldn’t help but reminisce just a little smugly.
He’d always been closer to mama than I was, too. Two years older than me, our mother’s death had hit Cris him particularly hard at eighteen. But no matter our differences, my brother and I always had each other. He was the one constant in my life.
I gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.
“Yeah. I need to. For Dio. For the family, too.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. I knew he understood.
“Ok. Here, you’re going to need this.”
I watched Cristian reach into his Armani jacket and pull out a small plate. Two plump cannolis were perched on it, decadent cream and mini chocolate chips spilling out of the sides.
Filled with renewed resolve and contraband dessert, I set off across the reception.
I found Giorno Romero in the kitchen, scowling at a stack of empty bottles as if he’d never seen a sink full of dishes before. Not for the first time, I was struck by just how different my late fiance and his own brother were.
Everything about Dio had been long and light and playful. From the warmth in his brandy eyes to the easy way he smiled at me. He’d been quick to laugh, the first to snap a selfie. I’d only met Giorno a handful of times, and everything about him struck me as distant. Sicilian blue eyes, inky black hair. Broad and tall where Dio had been lean and limber. Something about the sharpness in those cerulean eyes left me feeling unsettled.
“Giorno? Can we talk— alone?”
His broad hand found the small of my back as Giorno guided me into a quiet study off the kitchen. It reminded me of a smaller version of daddy’s office.
“Francesca, I’m sorry. I know you and Dio were…” his voice trailed off as Romano searched for the words. I offered him a crimson-lipped smile, taking off my sunglasses in the dimness of the room. He was grieving a brother as much as I’d lost my fiance. Regardless of my personal feelings for Giorno, he’d lost family, and my heart hurt for him.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry too. He was your brother.”
Something dark and unreadable clouded Giorno’s black eyes for a moment, and I took a deep breath.
This is what we do, I reminded myself. Family first. Always.
“Giorno, I— my father and I— we have an important matter to discuss with you. I’m sorry it couldn’t wait for another time.” I felt the sting of tears threaten at having to treat
Dio’s death as family business. Unfortunately, that’s what it had become when the Alexeevs decided to make my fiance a pawn in their power move.
The seams on Giorno’s impeccably tailored suit threatened to reach their limits as he crossed his massive arms casually. He said nothing, only motioned towards one of the deep leather chairs in front of the desk. I decided to remain standing, though. Lord knew the man had enough of a height advantage on me as it was.
“We all know who was behind this.” I met the blueness of his eyes with my own unwavering dark stare.
“I’m here to offer the Romano family a deal. The alliance stands.”
“Francesca what are you saying? The alliance hinged on blending our two families through—”
I watched the kaleidoscope of emotions chase across his face when the realization struck him. It took everything inside of me to keep the tears at bay this time as I looked down at the diamond, still glistening like ice on my finger. Something about this was made harder by the niggling doubt in the back of my mind that Giorno had never really liked me much.
Now was not the time for sentiment, though.
Family first.
“Nobody knows,” I said quietly.
God, what a heartless cunt he must take me for.
“Nobody knows, beyond some quiet rumors that a Moretti is engaged to a Romano. I know what I’m asking, Giorno. But step into your brother’s shoes, at least until after the wedding. Save your family. Bring me Dio’s killers. Give us justice. Help me end this. For both our families.”
“You’re asking me to be your replacement fiance?”
Icy fire flared in his cerulean eyes as Giorno took a step closer to me. It tore straight through me with the precision of a guilt-tipped spear.
“No, Giorno. Not a replacement. You are not your brother. The Romano and Moretti alliance was important to Dio, and it’s important to my father. We aren’t them, though. I’m asking you to step in and take over, on your own terms. I’m asking you for a partnership.”
