Black Skies Riviera: An Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance
Page 1
The Santiago Trilogy
Hearts of Darkness
Hearts Divine
Hearts on Fire
Grayson Duet
Shadow Man
Reckless Woman
Standalones
Devils & Dust
Hot Nights in Morocco
Unwrapping the Billionaire
Black Skies Riviera
Anthologies
Men of Valor
To Sammy B,
This book wouldn’t exist without you.
Thank you for pulling it back from the brink…
Black Skies Riviera
They call this place the Billionaires’ Playground.
I, Aiden Knight, staked my claim the minute I arrived.
I crossed every line.
I painted their Rococo ceilings with blood.
Now my casino is the hottest church in town,
And vice is the only confession required.
My house.
My rules.
Until the past comes calling with an offer I can’t refuse:
One week to seduce and break her,
For the names of the men who killed my father.
Issa Dubova is the queen of cloudy diamonds:
She’s a hard truth concealed beneath a pall of lies.
I’m an Armani black suit of spades:
Determined to bury both her and my demons.
I never asked to see the shape of her heart.
I never asked for her to fill the blank spaces of mine.
But the mafia wants her secrets.
I wasn’t the first she betrayed.
And Issa? Sweet, not-so-innocent Issa?
She’s gone and left me with a debt no sinner can pay.
Welcome to Black Skies Riviera...
Where the good die young, and the bad live forever.
Playlist
Paris - Chainsmokers
Somebody Else - The 1975
Drunk in Love (feat. Jay-Z) - Beyonce
My My My - Troye Sivan
On My Mind - Disciples
Down By The Water - PJ Harvey
False God - Taylor Swift
Dreams - Fleetwood Mac
Copyright © 2020 by Catherine Wiltcher
www.catherinewiltcher.com
The moral right of the author has been asserted. 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 in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, the author shall not have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.
ISBN: 978-1-8380448-5-5 (eBook)
Cover design by: Steamy Designs
Photographer: Wander Aguiar
Model: Andrew Biernat
Editing by: Light Hand Proofreading
Proof by: Amanda Marie Edits
Contents
A Note from the Author
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Hearts of Darkness
Also by Catherine Wiltcher
About the Author
A Note from the Author
Black Skies Riviera is my very loose interpretation of The Count of Monte Cristo. If you are familiar with the story, you will recognize nods to certain character names and circumstances.
Please note that Ielena/Issa Dubova’s surname is spelled differently to her father’s name—Dubov. This is deliberate. In Russian, adding an 'a' or an 'ova' to the family name means that the female 'belongs’ to that family…
… But not for long.
“Hatred is blind; rage carries you away; and he who pours out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught.”
Alexandre Dumas
Prologue
Aiden
Fourteen Years Ago…
There is a town in Sicily where the streets are paved with sin, and where the air hangs heavy with bad intentions.
It’s the place to go when you’re hung, drawn and desperate. It’s a gateway to the Underworld, and my ferry crossing was a budget flight from London Heathrow. I landed at one p.m., and by two p.m. the Devil himself was requesting a meet and greet.
Tommaso Zaccaria.
Don of the Zaccaria family, and a single extortion away from becoming Capo Dei Capi, boss of all bosses, of the Cosa Nostra.
Or so says Wikipedia.
Four days ago, I knew nothing about the mafia. I was a punk kid of sixteen from Brixton who cared more about spending money than making it. Then life happened. A whole lot of life
Murder.
Pain.
Vengeance.
Three shit-smeared fists grabbed a hold of my heart, forcing me to grow up hard and fast. Now I’m sitting opposite the most notorious crime boss in the world, in a backroom of a run-down trattoria, next to a sweet-smelling stack of Sicilian lemons, with a faded poster of the Italian 1990 World Cup soccer team taped to the wall above his head. We’re not alone. Two of his men are standing guard. Black sunglasses. Black weapons. By rights, I should be scared, but grief has gone and punched that emotion right out of me.
Zaccaria runs his finger over the crumpled note I traveled fifteen hundred kilometers to show him, smoothing out the creases and tracing the dark bloodstains. I count the seconds as he pores over the words for the hundredth time, the silence painful and dragging.
Eight hundred and fifty-six…
He’s younger than I expected: late fifties, or thereabouts. He’s not as kingly sadistic or as gentrified as Hollywood would make you believe, except when he’s pointing his empty gray eyes at you like the twin barrels of a loaded gun. He looks like the skinny old uncle who everyone’s afraid of. The one who never married, and who enters a room under a cloud of suspicion. There’s no throne of bones for him either, just a cracked wooden chair with a missing spool, that creaks whenever he shifts position.
Despite my age, I see him for what he is: a killer, an oppressor, a wide deceiver. His disguise is the rattling of a trap door beneath your feet, right before his hangman pulls the lever.
“How old are you now?” he barks suddenly, his heavy accent adding extra indolence to his words and making all the dust particles scatter.
“Now?” I frown. “‘Now’ implies that we’ve met before, Mr. Zaccaria."
“Haven't we?” He
aims those dead gray eyes at their target—namely, my face—and holds firm.
Somewhere in my head I hear the click of a safety.
“Sixteen.”
“You seem older.”
“Past the age of consent, but it’s a bitch to get a drink around here.”
Even after everything, I'm still a cocky little shit.
A ghost of a smile quirks his lips. “That’s something we shall have to rectify.” He casts his gaze to his men and a bottle of Limoncello and a couple of glasses are placed on the table between us. “Your father was a good man,” he declares, pouring out two generous shots. “A loyal man, who will be mourned.”
“I have no fucking idea how he’s connected to you, though,” I retort. “I was hoping you could help with that.”
My expletive produces more of his sinister smile.
What? They don’t curse in the mafia?
Without asking for his approval, I take the glass closest to me and tip the contents down my throat. Regardless of what I just said, I’ve done more drinking in the last four days than I have in a lifetime.
“Jacob Knight did me a favor a long time ago,” he informs me, “and a favor for me is a favor for life.”
“Does that favor tarry on down the family tree?” I pour myself another. Extra-large. “Because four night ago, Mister Big-Shot Mobster, someone murdered my parents, and the only fucking clue I have for any of it is that note in your hand.”
“Ach. Your generation throw curses around like blunt knives,” he says with a wince. “You’ll learn, soon enough, that with age comes refinement.”
“And with youth comes perception.” I pour myself a third. “The minute you heard about that note you sent a happy hello to my roach motel. It tells me that my father, a broke car mechanic from South Shields, meant more to you than the rest of your favor whores.”
Zaccaria chuckles. “You are fearless, but you are reckless. Tell me, what really brings you to Sicily?”
“Justice.”
He cocks a graying eyebrow at me. “Would you care to be more specific?”
“I want the names of the men who killed my family.”
“And what makes you think I’d know?” He takes a casual sip of his Limoncello. Just a sip, mind you. He’s practicing the refinement thing he mentioned.
“My father had that note stuffed into his mouth the night he died. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”
I watch him glance at it again. “Are you rich? Because this kind of justice comes with a price that few are willing to pay.”
I lean forward over the table with three shots worth of thirty-percent proof firing up my veins. “Try me.”
But for all my bravado, my instincts aren’t forewarning. This face-to-face will either solve my riddle or leave me pushing up daisies with all the other corpses in this town.
The tension builds and strains before Zaccaria relaxes back into his chair. I’ve impressed him. I’m guessing he doesn’t have many grief-stricken, ballsy-as-fuck, sixteen-year-old kids up in his face very often.
“Have you heard of La Società Villefort?” He delivers the name with a respectful flourish, as if it’s some kind of Illuminati bastard child.
“What do you think?” I cock my own eyebrows back at him. “Where I come from we have a cafe called ‘Dick’s Chips’ and a nightclub called ‘The Fridge’.”
“Careful,” he warns, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. “I’m indulging your disrespect because of your loss, but my reserves are not infinite.”
I force a swallow down. “What’s this got to do with my father?”
“I believe the man who ordered the hit is under the protection of La Società Villefort. And that same protection will have filtered down to the soldiers who carried out the deed. If that is the case, you may never have the justice you seek.”
“You’re the boss of the Zaccaria family,” I grit out. “Codes and rules don’t apply.”
“La Società Villefort would disagree. They’re an international organization, established to safeguard politicians, the rich, the supremely powerful... Once you are under their protection, there isn’t a law or a grudge that can touch you.”
“There must be a way—”
“There is one.” I watch the muscles flexing in his hollowed-out cheeks as a hard decision is considered. “Until now, I’ve resisted affiliation with Villefort. I am old fashioned,” he adds with a shrug. “I source my protection from loyalty and fear. But for Jacob.” His fingers move to the note again and his expression tightens. “For Jacob, I would be willing to infiltrate it. I will find the men responsible for this crime.”
Relief has me pouring out a fourth shot and raising it in toast. “I want to pull the trigger myself,” I say, trying to sound like a hard-ass when the most I’ve ever butchered is road-kill. “I want them dead by Christmas.”
Zaccaria laughs—a full rasping tenor, as if his own depravity has somehow forced its way inside and claimed Squatters’ Rights. “I wasn’t being coy when I inquired about your wealth, Mr. Knight. It is not money I seek for this. It is servitude. Your servitude. You will be an associate to La Famiglia for as long as it takes for me to source these names. From now on, you work for me.”
The decision is easy, as far as I’m concerned. London is tainted, and I was drifting into a life of petty crime anyway.
“How long will this ‘servitude’ last?”
“It takes fourteen years for approval to La Società Villefort. I expect the same from you.”
“Fourteen years?” I bang my shot glass down on the table in shock.
“Villefort is a retirement insurance policy for a particular… generation, which excludes me at this time. As corrupt men grow older, they grow weaker. They make mistakes—mistakes that can cost them a life’s work, reputation and fortune. There are no wrongs that Villefort cannot put right. Murders go unsolved. Illegal bank accounts remain hidden. Tax evasion becomes a game.”
“Fourteen years,” I whistle again. “How much is membersh—”
“An amount that a smart young man like yourself will earn for me one day. First, you will receive a proper education, and then I will teach you how to gut a man like a fish.” He flashes his white teeth at me. “Revenge is a dish best served cold... It is a long game. It sits on the table marinating in violence until you’d do anything to get a taste. The skills I will teach you over the next fourteen years will bring about your satisfaction. Your soul will be stained, but your black heart will be full. You will want for nothing more in life than this.”
I try to stand up, but shock, age and alcohol pitch me sideways. I ignore the laughter echoing all around me as I steady myself against the wall.
“Tell me something, Mr. Zaccaria,” I slur. “What the hell did my father do to earn this kind of gratitude from you?”
The don’s expression sobers and his men’s laughter follows suit. “The greatest gift that a father can ever receive,” he replies smoothly. “He saved my son’s life.”
Chapter One
Issa
Fourteen Years Later…
“All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his.”
I shut the slim book with a decisive thwack, and slide it back into my purse.
Not me.
Never me.
This isn’t a statement of fact from Oscar Wilde. It’s my motivation to prove him wrong.
I may not know the names of all the presidents who have walked the corridors of the Élysée Palace, or why macaroons from Paris—only from Paris—ignite in your mouth like mini explosions, but I know I’d rather die than become like my mother.
“More Sancerre, mademoiselle?” The waitress pauses by my table on her way to the bar and I catch her glancing at my fingers. They’re clenched around the stem of my glass so tightly the whites of my knuckles are showing.
“Non, merci,” I say, loosening my grip.
“Are you sure?” She arches a knowing
eyebrow.
“Oui,” I say firmly. If I’m absent from my father’s house for much longer, there’ll be hell to pay.
“As you wish.” She drifts away and I glance at my watch.
Ten minutes.
Ten more solitary minutes to inhale a sonnet and exhale the dirt.
This time it’s a Karina turn of phrase, a quirky burst of a thing, because that’s what my sister is to me—the bright curve of a smile whenever I’m sad or act too serious.
I miss her. I forgive her. Even though she’s left me standing on the edge of something that's black and terrifying.
Drink your wine, Issa.
Exhale.
It’s been four weeks since we last spoke, but she’s forever catching in the filter of my mind. Like the time she said she hated men who snapped their fingers for service in restaurants. Like the guy in his fifties at the next table in the beachfront bar, the one who’s leaning back in his chair with his fat legs crossed awkwardly to the side as if they’re all set to spring apart at any moment.
Lifting my Sancerre to my mouth, I sip and study. The pain in my chest is a thousand, sharp, stabby knives today, and I’m grateful for the distraction. He’s American, as far as I can tell. The creases in his cream linen suit match the lines gathering at the corners of his Wayfarers, and his wine carafe is sitting empty like a threat in front of him. He looks like a washed-up movie producer on the tipping point of some ugly PR scandal.