Ruthless
A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Lauren Landish
Contents
Copyright
Ruthless
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 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Preview - Revenge: An Enemies to Lovers Romance
About the Author
Also by Lauren Landish
Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Landish
All rights reserved.
Cover design © 2016 by Love N. Books.
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 book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
All characters are 18+ years of age and non-blood related, and all sexual acts are consensual.
Ruthless
By Lauren Landish
Men like me don’t get happy endings.
Until her.
With her jet black hair and intense eyes that hypnotize me, Carmen takes my breath away. There’s something dark about her, something that draws me to her like a moth to a flame. Like me, she’s haunted by the demons of her past, but I’m a man who loves a challenge.
One way or another, I’m making Carmen my wife, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop me.
**Ruthless is a full-length Mafia Romance with an HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger!
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Relentless: Bertoli Crime Family Book 1 (Adriana & Daniel)
Reckless: Book 2 (Luisa & Tomasso)
Ruthless: Book 3 (Carmen & Dante)
Chapter 1
Dante
I slammed my fist on the dash of my car, wishing the damn thing would start up. I was already paying through my nose for the ten-year-old used Mercedes, though, and when you had the finances I did, things sometimes had to be delayed . . . things like a new battery for a car that already had a hundred thousand miles on the odometer. Sighing, I savagely twisted the key in the ignition until it finally turned over and caught. I sighed again, knowing that for the rest of the night, I'd have to leave the air conditioning off and drive with the windows down in order to maybe, just maybe, have enough battery charge in order to not look like a complete idiot having to call a fucking taxi to get home.
That night, my work was pretty easy, even if it was frustrating to have to be nothing more than a glorified errand boy. In the trunk of my car were seven modified AK-47s, cheap Yugoslavian knock-offs, but after what the Bertolis had done to them, you most likely couldn't have noticed until you tried to shoot the damn things. The old wooden stocks had been replaced with synthetics, and there were a few more purely cosmetic changes. They still fired the old Russian caliber cartridges, and being the Yugoslavian reproductions, they would most likely jam if they were fired a lot without cleaning. It didn't really concern me, as I doubted the gang I'd be delivering them to would be taking good care of them anyway, nor would they have a reason to fire them all that often.
I headed out toward Tacoma, where I was supposed to be making my delivery. Tacoma is part of the Bertoli territory, even though they are based in Seattle, but as with any situation, there were groups that were able to operate underneath the Bertoli umbrella as long as they paid their dues and didn't raise too much hell otherwise. This group did just that. They paid their dues on time and kept their operations out of the public eye, which made them both prime Bertoli customers and the most difficult delivery of the jobs I did.
In all honesty, I hated the Vietnamese gang that was based in Tacoma's International District. It wasn't that they raised hell. I didn't really care about that. From everything I knew, they were relatively quiet, doing most of their work through intimidation and behind the scenes work. I knew if they made any problems, Carlo Bertoli would send his men—unfortunately, not me—and they'd be wiped out in a hail of gunfire that would make the Tet Offensive look like a minor dust-up. The Vietnamese knew how to keep their territory on lock, and they knew how to use their cultural differences within the community to maximum effectiveness. And they were pretty good customers, too, from what I knew.
No, what pissed me off about the them was their mouths. Now, I understand that Vietnamese is one of those languages that only a tiny percent of the population speaks and that they could exploit that fact to their advantage in communicating while other people were around. But you have to be a total idiot to have a group of people call you the same thing over and over each time you come by and not take the time to at least try and figure out what the hell they're calling you. In my case, I was being called âm hộ lớn, or "The Big Pussy." It wasn't the worst nickname I'd been called in the years I'd worked for the Bertolis, but it was the most persistent.
Pulling up in back of Huynh's Lucky Star Restaurant, I left the engine running as I got out. Sure, it was a neighborhood that I shouldn't have, but I'd already been spotted by a dishwasher who was taking a smoke break out back, and the Vietnamese knew me well enough to not risk the wrath of my employer.
"Hey âm hộ lớn, long time no see," the first gangster to come out, Danny Huong, said. "Not long enough though."
"You want the fucking product or not?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.
"You tryin' to step to me, boy?" Danny asked with a smirk. I knew why the Vietnamese called me Big Pussy, and it had nothing to do with The Sopranos. When I was sixteen, I had gotten into a fight in high school, and quite honestly, I got my ass kicked. I allowed myself to be pulled into a fight with one of the biggest brawlers in my high school after he said a few things about my dad. Chalk it up to another in a long line of mistakes I had to atone for, and since then, I'd been called a pussy in varying degrees by lots of different people. I’m not that same guy anymore though. One day, someone’s going to find out.
"If I were trying to step to you, you’d know it, Danny," I replied, sighing. I really didn't need this tonight. "I'm just saying, do you want to see your delivery or do you want to talk shit?"
He considered it for a second, then shrugged. "Fine, whatever. Show me the goods."
"You got the money?" I asked, heading around to my trunk. Yes, I was riding dirty as hell, but that was the risk I was willing to take. Besides, I wasn't on anyone's radar. I was so low that the cops probably wouldn't have cared if I'd had the guns sitting openly in the back seat of my car. "The Don won't like it if I come back without the cash."
Danny said something in liquid, nearly unintelligible Vietnamese, and another one of his boys came out, carrying a briefcase. Setting it on the trunk of my car, he opened the lid, and I saw the stacks of cash inside. Ten thousand dollars. Not too bad a deal, really. "They're fully modified, right?"
&nb
sp; "Yeah," I said, closing the case and setting it on the ground. "Just like you asked, nine pieces."
"And ammo?" Danny asked. I didn't want to tell him he was being retarded, as you can get AK-47 ammunition off the Internet cheap, but it didn't matter to me. "My boys can't do nothing without ammo."
Your boys can't do nothing with ammo either, not without the Don's permission, I thought, but I nodded. "Each comes with one full clip, a gift from the Don. He says that if you want more, get in contact with us, and he'll make the arrangements."
"In other words, I get to see you again,” Danny commented, shaking his head. "Fuck, I should get a discount just dealing with your ass."
I wanted to slam his head into the trunk of my car. But I know better—there’s too many of them, and even after they kick my ass, the Don would do it all over again. He doesn’t want trouble unless he says so. In the end, I just shrugged. "Price of doing business, Danny. The Don likes the way I do things out here in Tacoma. I'm not a fan of Pho myself, so there's a tradeoff either way."
Danny shook his head again and pointed to his boys, snapping his fingers. The AKs disappeared inside the restaurant in a flash, and I put the briefcase of cash into the trunk of my car. Slamming the lid, I looked at Danny. "Anything else? I can take a message to the Don tonight if you want."
"You'd probably forget, âm hộ lớn. If you were smart enough to take messages too, you'd be doing more than this bitch work. Get the fuck outta here."
I stewed some more getting into my car, and driving out of the Vietnamese area and heading back toward Seattle, I let loose a stream of curses and yells that would have certainly gotten me into a fight if Danny had heard them. But it helped. I still had another delivery to make, and I needed time to calm down.
As I got on the Interstate heading back north toward Seattle, I fumed about the unfairness of it all. One fuckup as a teenager, and now I have to deal with this shit. I'd learned my lesson well from that, though, and now, nobody got to see the real me. Sometimes I wondered if the real me even existed anymore.
Reaching Seattle, I went to my pickup point, a bar that, if anything, was another slap in the face. The Lucky Clover was the place that the Bertolis would meet only with the least trustworthy men in their employ, most often the men being associates instead of actual Bertoli men. Associates like myself. Sighing, I shut off the engine, sending up a small prayer to the heavens that I'd be able to start up my car when it was time to go.
Inside, the patrons were about what you'd expect for a Wednesday night at a semi-Irish pub. I looked around and saw Julius Forze, the man who was my connection to the Bertoli family, sipping at a whiskey while listening to the music, which at least wasn't a bunch of Paddy-rock.
"You made your delivery?" Julius asked when he saw me, all business. I knew Julius didn't like me, but more than that, he didn't trust me. But at least he was professional enough to not let his dislike show when he was working. He wasn't the highest ranked of the Bertoli men. However, he was part of the inner circle, and he was exactly where I wanted, and I was sure I deserved, to be. "How was the bahn mi?"
"Didn't have a chance to sample the wares tonight," I said, sitting up straight. I wanted Julius to know I was a true professional, regardless of what all these assholes think of me. "And the briefcase is in the trunk of my car. You want it now?"
"After my drink," Julius replied, sipping at his whiskey. "In the meantime, I have another job for you."
"Whatever the Don needs, I'm there," I said, trying but failing to keep the eagerness out of my voice. I needed the work, not just for the money, but knowing that each job I did gave me another chance to prove myself and to maybe, just maybe, get noticed the way I deserved.
Julius's face gave a quick clench of disapproval at the subservient tone I was unable to keep from my voice, and I kicked myself, knowing I'd fucked up yet again. Still, he hadn't gotten up, so maybe there was still a chance. "All right, here's the deal. You know Mrs. Bertoli, right?"
"I've never met her, no," I said, trying to relax and be nonchalant. Margaret Bertoli was literally a member of the Bertoli household, living in the mansion along with the Don himself. Doing something for her would be the biggest chance I'd ever had to try and reestablish myself in the family. "But I know of her, of course. What's up?"
"Her birthday is coming up next Friday night, and the Don would like to throw her a party. After all, the family has many things to celebrate over the past few years."
"They have," I said, thinking that if luck had smiled on any Mafia family over the past few years, it had been the Bertolis. "What am I to do?"
"The Don needs people to work the party," Julius said simply. "Now, most of the Bertoli men are going to be in attendance, so the Don has agreed to let some . . . lower ranked men work the party."
“I’d be happy to,” I replied formally. "What time should I be there?"
"I'll send you a text message, but most likely around six. Tomasso is in charge of planning it, and he didn't give me a hard start time yet. This won't interfere with your regular work, will it?"
"Doesn't matter if it does," I said, thinking of my part-time job I had to take to keep ends met. “Nothing’s as important as Mrs. Bertoli's birthday. I'll call off sick if necessary."
Julius looked at me carefully for a minute, then nodded. "Okay. You know, Degrassi, this isn't the sort of job that comes around every week. There's going to be a lot of the right people there."
"I know," I said carefully, trying to balance a certain expected nonchalance with a measured seriousness. “I’ll get the job done.”
Julius nodded and threw back the rest of his whiskey. "Okay then. Well, you've got another delivery to make tonight, right?"
"Yes sir. I need to stop by the docks and get a package to take over to the airport. They're expecting me in an hour or so."
Julius nodded and got up. "Okay then. Let's make sure your trunk is clear then. Come on."
Outside, I felt sweat pop out on my forehead as the warm night air smacked me in the face after the bar's air conditioning. I didn't want to wear a suit for work on hot nights like this, but I didn't have a choice. Bertoli men wore suits for work, and if mine happened to come from JC Penney instead of being custom tailored, well, that would change. I just had to keep working and give it time.
"Here you are," I said, handing Julius the case. "You want to count?"
"Do I need to?" Julius asked quietly, then shook his head. "You know what happens if you come up short."
"I haven't touched a bit of it," I promised, trying to suppress my anger at being questioned. I wasn't a cheat, no matter what Julius may have thought of me. "I'm an honest man."
"There are no honest men in our line of work, Dante. Here's your pay for tonight," Julius said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out an envelope.
I tucked the envelope into the inner pocket of my suit coat. "Thanks, Julius. Well, I’d better get going if I'm going to complete my work for the night. Thank you again for the word about the party."
I got into my car and said a quick prayer before putting the keys in the ignition. I didn't want to look like an idiot in front of Julius. Thankfully, my car started without too much of a problem.
As I drove, I couldn't help but feel both excitement and anger at Julius's offer. Yes, it was an offer to at least go onto the Bertoli property, something I hadn't been allowed to do since I was seven years old. On the other hand, despite the fact that I was allowed on, I knew I'd be kept isolated, and I probably wouldn't get any closer than seeing Don Bertoli at a distance that night. My pride told me that I should have told Julius to take his offer and shove it up his ass.
But I needed the money, and I needed the opportunity.
Chapter 2
Carmen
I was sitting at my desk/reception area, sighing as I looked at the pile of bills that were sitting in front of me. I glanced at my computer, a used laptop that had been a gift from Daniel Neiman that worked well, even if it wasn't t
he coolest looking box in the world. Currently, it was displaying my bank account. After roughly three years of being in business, Dreamstyle Dance Studio was still barely keeping its head above water.
"Guess it's another month of doing massages to make ends meet," I said to myself, sighing. I'd wanted to stop having to do massages for money numerous times over the past three years, but every time I got close, something happened that made the couple of hundred bucks I got from massages essential. I glanced to my left at the curtain that separated the front of my shop from the back and shook my head in frustration. In order to keep my costs down and still be able to afford my studio, I'd quietly moved out of my apartment and set up a place in the back, where originally, I’d had a changing area for students. I had a hot plate back there, along with a microwave, my fridge from my old apartment, and my old sofa. It was enough, but after four months, things were getting tiring.
It wasn't that I wasn't enjoying teaching dance—far from it. I loved working with both the children who came into my studio and the moms who sometimes wanted to learn on their own as well. I loved working with each of them, and I had a very good retention rate, with over half of the students who'd started with me three years ago still with me. The problem was that I had no bling to hang on the wall. The dance studio a mile down the street had a head instructor I could dance circles around, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that they had a big pile of ribbons, trophies, and pictures adorning the walls in the entrance area.
I didn’t. I couldn't. After all, few parents wanted to have their child taught by the former headline stripper of the Starlight Club. When I'd been a dancer, I hadn't regretted a minute of it. If you asked me now, I would repeat that line. I knew what I was doing, and I never was forced into doing anything I didn't want to do. However, there were challenges that I had to still overcome, and one of them was that I couldn't be as up front about my past as some instructors. Until I was able to get some of my students into competitions that won some award, I was struggling uphill. Deep down, when push came to shove, I was feeling regret about my former choice in profession.
Ruthless: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 1
