Salvatore: a Dark Mafia Romance Read online

  Salvatore

  A Dark Mafia Romance

  Natasha Knight

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About This Book

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Lucia’s Epilogue

  Salvatore’s Epilogue

  Thank you!

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Natasha Knight

  Beautiful Liar (Excerpt)

  Retribution (Excerpt)

  Deviant (Excerpt)

  Theirs To Take (Excerpt)

  Given to the Savage (Excerpt)

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 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.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and as such, any similarity to existing persons, places or events must be considered purely coincidental.

  This book contains content that is suitable for mature readers only. 18+ please.

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  I want to take a minute to say a special thank you to KR Nadelson whom I FB met at Retribution’s release. She messaged me one day to tell me she was nervous to read Adam’s story and I told her not to be a weenie.

  Well, not quite, but sort of, and she took a chance on it, and has ever since then been this crazy awesome friend who has shared her love of reading and her gift for making a romance the best it can be.

  Thanks KR for beta reading Salvatore’s story for me. Your comments were invaluable and what better way to say thanks than to dedicate Salvatore’s book to you. So there you go—he’s officially all yours! Well, sort of… I mean, you still have to share him with other readers but…

  About This Book

  Lucia

  It all started with a contract signed by him, then by me, while our families watched. While my father sat silent, a man defeated, giving his daughter to the Benedetti monsters.

  I obeyed. I played my part. I signed my name and gave away my life. I became their living, breathing trophy, a constant symbol of their power over us.

  That was five years ago.

  Then came the time for him to claim me. For Salvatore Benedetti to own me.

  I had vowed vengeance. I had learned hate. And yet, nothing could have prepared me for the man who now ruled my life.

  I expected a monster, one I would destroy. But nothing is ever black or white. No one is either good or evil. For all his darkness, I saw his light. For all his evil, I saw his good. As much as he made me hate him, a passion hotter than the fires of hell burned inside me.

  I was his, and he was mine.

  My very own monster.

  Salvatore

  I owned the DeMarco Mafia Princess. She belonged to me now. We had won, and they had lost. And what better way to teach a lesson than to take from them that which is most precious? Most beloved?

  I was the boy who would be king. Next in line to rule the Benedetti Family. Lucia DeMarco was the spoils of war. Mine to do with as I pleased.

  It was my duty to break her. To make her life a living hell. My soul was dark, I was hell bound. And there was no way out, not for either of us. Because the Benedetti family never lost, and in our wake, we left destruction. It’s how it had always been. How I believed it would always be.

  Until Lucia.

  Author’s Note: Salvatore and Lucia’s story is a steamy standalone romance with a happily-ever-after. No cliffhanger and no cheating. It is intended for mature readers.

  Prologue

  Salvatore

  I signed the contract before me, pressing so hard that the track of my signature left a groove on the sheet of paper. I set the pen down and slid the pages across the table to her.

  Lucia.

  I could barely meet her gaze as she raised big, innocent, frightened eyes to mine.

  She looked at it, at the collected, official documents that would bind her to me. That would make her mine. I wasn’t sure if she was reading or simply staring, trying to make sense of what had just happened. What had been decided for her. For both of us.

  She turned reddened eyes to her father. I didn’t miss the questions I saw inside them. The plea. The disbelief.

  But DeMarco kept his eyes lowered, his head bent in defeat. He couldn’t look at his daughter, not after what he’d been made to watch.

  I understood that, and I hated my own father more for making him do it.

  Lucia sucked in a ragged breath. Could everyone hear it or just me? I saw the rapid pulse beating in her neck. Her hand trembled when she picked up the pen. She met my gaze once more. One final plea? I watched her struggle against the tears that threatened to spill on her already stained cheeks.

  I didn’t know what I felt upon seeing them. Hell, I didn’t know what I felt about anything at all anymore.

  “Sign.”

  My father’s command made her turn. I watched their gazes collide.

  “We don’t have all day.”

  To call him domineering was an understatement. He was someone who made grown men tremble.

  But she didn’t shy away.

  “Sign, Lucia,” her father said quietly.

  She didn’t look at anyone after that. Instead, she put pen to paper and signed her name—Lucia Annalisa DeMarco—on the dotted line adjacent to mine. My family’s attorney applied the seal to the sheets as soon as she finished, quickly taking them and leaving the room.

  I guess it was all official, then. Decided. Done.

  My father stood, gave me his signature look of displeasure, and walked out of the room. Two of his men followed.

  “Do you need a minute?” I asked her. Did she want to say good-bye to her father?

  “No.”

  She refused to look at him or at me. Instead, she pushed her chair back and stood, the now-wrinkled white skirt falling over her thighs. She fisted her hands at her sides.

  “I’m ready.”

  I rose and gestured to one of the waiting men. She walked ahead of him as if he walked her to her execution. I glanced at her father, then at the cold examining table with the leather restraints now hanging open, useless, their victim released. The image of what had happened there just moments earlier shamed me.

  But it could have been so much worse for her.

  It could have gone the way my father wanted. His cruelty knew no bounds.

  She had me to thank for saving her from that.

  So why did I still feel like a monster? A beast? A pathetic, spineless puppet?

  I owned Lucia DeMarco, but the thought only made me sick. She was the token, the living, breathing trophy of my family’s triumph over hers.

  I walked out of the room and rode the elevator down to the lobby, emptying my eyes of emotion. That was one thing I did we
ll.

  I walked out onto the stifling, noisy Manhattan sidewalk and climbed into the backseat of my waiting car. The driver knew where to take me, and twenty minutes later, I walked into the whorehouse, to a room in the back, the image of Lucia lying on that examining table, bound, struggling, her face turned away as the doctor probed her before declaring her intact, burned into my memory forever.

  I’d stood beside her. I hadn’t looked. Did that absolve me? Surely that meant something?

  But why was my cock hard, then?

  She’d cried quietly. I’d watched her tears slip off her face and fall to the floor and willed myself to be anywhere but there. Willed myself not to hear the sounds, my father’s degrading words, her quiet breaths as she struggled to remain silent.

  All while I’d stood by.

  I was a coward. A monster. Because when I did finally meet those burning amber eyes, when I dared shift my gaze to hers, our eyes had locked, and I saw the quiet plea inside them. A silent cry for help.

  In desperation, she’d sought my help.

  And I’d looked away.

  Her father’s face had gone white when he’d realized the full cost he’d agreed to; the payment of the debt he’d set upon her shoulders.

  Her life for his. For all of theirs.

  Fucking selfish bastard didn’t deserve to live. He should have died to protect her. He should never—ever—have allowed this to happen.

  I sucked in a breath, heavy and wet, drowning me.

  I poured myself a drink, slammed it back, and repeated. Whiskey was good. Whiskey dulled the scene replaying in my head. But it did nothing to wipe out the image of her eyes on mine. Her terrified, desperate eyes.

  I threw the glass, smashing it in the corner. One of the whores came to me, knelt between my spread legs, and took my cock out of my pants. Her lips moved, saying something I didn’t hear over the war raging inside my head, and fucked up as fucked up can be, she took my already hard cock into her mouth.

  I gripped a handful of the bitch’s hair and closed my eyes, letting her do her work, taking me deep into her throat. But I didn’t want gentle, not now. I needed more. I stood, squeezed my eyes shut against the image of Lucia on that table, and fucked the whore’s face until she choked and tears streamed down her cheeks. Until I finally came, emptying down her throat, the sexual release, like the whiskey, gave me nothing. There wasn’t enough sex or alcohol in the world to burn that particular image of Lucia out of my mind, but maybe I deserved it. Deserved the guilt. I should man up and own it. I allowed it all to happen, after all. I stood by and did nothing.

  And now, she was mine, and I was hers.

  Her very own monster.

  1

  Lucia

  Five Years Later

  Calabria, Italy

  The last time I walked down the aisle of this cathedral had been my confirmation day. I’d been a child. I’d worn a beautiful white dress, and my mother had wound a rosary through my fingers, binding my hands in prayer.

  I hadn’t prayed, though. Instead, I’d thought of how I looked in my dress. How it was the prettiest of all the girls. How I was the prettiest.

  Today, I wore black. And I no longer cared who was the prettiest. Today, I followed my father’s casket to the front of the church.

  Black lace hid my face, so I could take in the audience without them seeing me. The pews stood empty until we reached the front rows, where ten were occupied. Fifteen mourners on the right—my family’s side. Double that on the left. Did soldiers count as mourners, though? Because that’s what the Benedetti’s had brought.

  I ignored them and looked at each of the fifteen faces who had dared show up on my side. My father did not have many friends. In fact, of the fifteen, two were his brothers, my uncles, and one, his sister. The other twelve made up their families. Only the women sat in the pews, though. My male cousins carried my father’s coffin.

  As the procession neared the front pew, I prepared myself for the moment I would see his face. The face of the man who had, five years ago, sat across from me in a cold, sterile room and signed a contract, declaring his ownership of me. A vow, like a marriage vow, perhaps. But the words cherish and love had been absent from the pages; take and keep having taken their place.

  No, we had a different sort of contract. My life to spare my family. Me as the sacrifice, the payer of the debt. Me to show anyone in the DeMarco family who had any fight left that the Benedetti’s owned their daughter. The Benedetti’s owned the DeMarco princess.

  I hate the Benedetti family. I hate every single one of them.

  The procession halted. My sister, Isabella, stood close enough behind me that I felt her there. At least she wasn’t crying. At least she knew not to show weakness. In fact, no sound came from her at all.

  Seeing her today, it had surprised me.

  Seeing my niece, Effie, for the first time, it twisted my heart, reminding me of yet another thing that had been taken from me.

  Six pallbearers laid my father’s coffin down on the table arranged to receive it. It would be a closed-casket funeral. No viewing. He’d blown half his head off when he’d shot himself in the mouth.

  My cousins turned to me. Luke, who was the adopted son of my uncle, looked just beyond me, though. Beyond me and to my sister. His eyes, a soft, pale blue I remembered from childhood, had hardened to steel. I watched, wishing I could turn back and look at my sister, see what her eyes said. But then his gaze shifted to me. He looked very different from the boy I’d grown up with. But he was very different or had become so over the last five years. We all had. Through the lace shielding my face, I met his eyes. Could he see the rage simmering inside me? He gave me a quick, short nod. An acknowledgment. I wondered if anyone saw it. He could be killed for it. The Benedetti’s took no prisoners. Well, apart from me. But a woman. What could a woman do?

  They would see.

  A man moved into my periphery and cleared his throat. I knew who it was. Standing up straighter, steeling myself, I forced my heart to stop its frantic pounding and turned to face him.

  Salvatore Benedetti.

  I swallowed as my gaze traveled from the black silk tie he wore upward. I remembered him. Even though we’d only met once before, I remembered him clearly. But the suit seemed to stretch tighter over muscle now, his chest broader, his arms thicker. I forced my gaze higher, pausing at his neck, willing myself to slow my breathing.

  I could not show weakness. I could not show fear. But that day, when they’d forced me onto that table—I still shuddered at how cold it had felt against my naked thighs—he hadn’t spoken. Not a single word. He had looked at me, watched my struggle, watched me bite my tongue as they shamed me.

  But I also remembered something else, and that gave me the courage to raise my eyes to his. He’d turned away first. Was it that he hadn’t been able to look at me? To witness my degradation? Or could he not stand the thought of me seeing him for what he was?

  Our families had decided. I’d had little choice. I wondered for a moment what choice he’d had, but I wouldn’t consider that. It didn’t matter. Salvatore Benedetti would one day rule the Benedetti family. He would be boss. He would become what I vowed to destroy five years ago.

  I masked any emotion as I turned my gaze up to his. I’d learned to hide my feelings well over the last few years.

  My heart stopped for a single moment. Everything seemed to still, as if waiting. Something fluttered inside my belly as cobalt-blue eyes met mine.

  Not steely but soft.

  I remembered how I’d thought that five years ago too. How, for just the briefest moment on that terrible day, I’d thought there was hope. That he’d stop what was happening. But I’d been wrong. Any perceived softness, it only deceived. It hid behind it a coldhearted monster, ready to take.

  I would need to remember that. To not to allow myself the luxury of being fooled.

  Salvatore blinked and stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter the pew. His father and brother stoo
d watching me, his father’s expression screaming victory. He gave me a cruel grin and held out his hand to the space beside him. I moved, my legs somehow carrying me even as I trembled inside.

  I would turn my fear to hate. I would make it burn hot.

  Because I would need it to survive what lay in store for me. I’d been sixteen when I’d been made to sign that contract. I knew well the true terror of what it meant was only about to begin.

  I took my place beside his father. Salvatore resumed his seat to my right. I had the feeling he took as much care not to touch me as I did not to touch either him or his father. I didn’t turn to look at my sister when she was ushered into a pew across the aisle. I paid no attention to the Benedetti soldiers lining the perimeter of the church just as I hadn’t paid any to the army the Benedetti’s had assembled outside. Instead, I watched Father Samson. He’d been old when I’d been confirmed. Now he looked ancient.

  He blessed my father, even though he had taken his own life. He prayed for his soul. After all this time, I didn’t think I cared anymore. But that kindness, it gave me some small comfort.

  No one cried. How strange that no one would cry at a funeral. That fact impressed itself upon me, and it felt wrong.

  The service ended one hour later. My cousins once again circled the casket and lifted it. Once it passed us, Salvatore stepped out of the pew. He waited for me to go ahead, and I did, stiffening when I felt the slight touch of his hand at my lower back. He must have felt me stiffen because he removed his hand. We emerged from the darkness inside the church out onto the square, the bright Italian sun momentarily blinding. My father would be buried in Calabria. It was his wish, to be returned to his place of birth. Both the Benedetti and the DeMarco families were well-known here, and for once, I was grateful for the soldiers holding the press at bay, even as camera’s clicked in quick succession, capturing everything from a distance.