Ruined Kingdom Page 3

  Taking the dagger out of its sheath, I lie down on the bed and tuck it under the pillow. I keep my hand wrapped around it, pull the ratty blanket over myself, and close my eyes while I wait for my captor to return. I’m sure he’ll look through my clutch and find the pistol. He won’t be expecting another weapon. I wonder if he’d think me too squeamish to use a dagger. I hope he tests me.

  4

  Amadeo

  The sun has turned the sky a deep, fiery orange as it sets, the blue ocean swallowing it whole. It’s so beautiful here. I don’t know how my parents could have left it. Although beauty is a thing enjoyed by the wealthy. Men like my father wouldn’t have lived where I live now, and life is very different depending on how deep your pockets are. My mother’s reason for leaving is a different story.

  I bought this house a few months ago. Only a handful of people know about this location. For all intents and purposes, I live in the Naples house of my family. My mother’s family, that is. Nora Del Campo was once Nora Maria Caballero, eldest daughter of Humberto Caballero, the leading mafia family in Naples, Italy. My mother’s secret marriage to my father, an American-born nobody who served as a foot soldier for my grandfather, caused him to disown her. Even when the trouble with Russo came about, my grandfather wouldn’t have anything to do with it or her. He’d washed his hands of his daughter.

  It was when my father began his final decline into an alcoholic stupor he would never recover from that I sought out my grandfather, and my brother and I swore fealty to him.

  He took Bastian and me in, but we were punished for our mother’s transgression. We worked as the lowest of the low within the family for years. But I was the same age as Angelo, his beloved grandson, and Angelo and I became best friends. Angelo would have done well following in his grandfather’s footsteps. He was brave and fair. As good as anyone in this business can be. But he died. We were twenty-five when he and I were ambushed. I took a bullet to save him, but in the end, I didn’t save him at all. I survived. He did not. I may have the scar to show for it, but that hardly matters.

  Although it did for Humberto.

  Humberto had two children. My mother and her younger brother, Sonny. I gathered quickly upon my return that Sonny was a disappointment. His son, Angelo, however, was not. Angelo would be the one to rule once Humberto stepped down. Angelo would displace his own father.

  I’m not sure how much love there can be, truly, in a mafia family, when fathers can disown daughters and set sons aside, but my grandfather was not an easy man.

  After Angelo’s death and much to Sonny Caballero’s dislike, I became the beloved grandson, the golden boy who was not only born into the family but had proven himself by taking a bullet for Angelo. I took Angelo’s place as Humberto’s successor. I even took my grandfather’s last name, adding it to my father’s. It was important to be accepted by the family. I became Amadeo Del Campo Caballero. Bastian did the same.

  Not to say I came with the best of intentions because I have had one goal in mind for as long as I can remember.

  Vengeance.

  Make the Russo family pay.

  And I knew the way to do that was through my grandfather, even if it meant becoming the man my mother did not want me to be.

  But Sonny had support within the family, and my brother and I were American-born usurpers. When Humberto named me his successor, Sonny was not happy. He still isn’t. Although, that’s his problem as far as I’m concerned.

  As the driver comes to a stop at the front entrance of the villa, I see it again. The glances I sometimes get. I don’t care. Let any one of them stand against me if they dare. I have made examples of people, and I will again. My hands are bloody, as are Bastian’s.

  I glance over to Bastian as we step out of the SUV and climb the wide stone stairs toward the 18th-century door. It was taken from a church in Pescara Del Tronto, an ancient village devastated by an earthquake. I brush my fingers over the wood, thinking about all the men and women who have passed through it over the years. All those forgotten souls.

  “Where is our mother?” Bastian asks one of the soldiers as we walk into the house.

  “In the kitchen, sir.”

  “The girl?”

  “Upstairs in the room you had prepared.”

  “Good.”

  Bastian and I head toward the kitchen. “The Russo business is weaker now that Daddy is gone. It’s time to bring him to his knees,” Bastian says. “We don’t need the girl to do what we need to do.”

  “We made a plan, Bastian. We’re sticking to it. Why are you second-guessing it now?”

  He stops, and we face each other. “She’s going to make trouble. I feel it.”

  “I have no doubt. But it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

  He studies me. “I saw how you looked at her, Amadeo.”

  “Brother—”

  “She’s a fucking Russo. There’s only one place she belongs, and that’s with her father in the ground.”

  “Patience, Bastian. Trust me.” I continue toward the kitchen.

  “Fine. Gift her to the men,” Bastian says casually, too casually, as we near the door. “It would go a long way to gain their favor.” Since our grandfather’s death, our uncle has managed to split the family in two. My brother and I need to present a united front at all times. But fuck if I’m giving anyone a gift to gain favor.

  I set my hand on his shoulder. He is younger than me. His hate of the Russo family expresses differently. It blinds him. And if we are to win this the right way, he needs to see.

  “Fuck their favor. They work for the family. We are the family.”

  Bastian squares his shoulders and looks at me. He’s my height, my build. We could be twins but for the color of our eyes and the five-year age difference.

  “Besides, how would that make us different than Lucien Russo if we were to gift her to anyone?” I ask him.

  He glances away momentarily, then back, jaw set tighter. “Hannah,” he says as if I need reminding.

  “How would gifting Vittoria Russo to the men make us different than him?” I repeat tightly. In his heart, he knows what he’s suggesting is wrong. I know he does. “And why would either of us care about gaining favor with the men?”

  “Brother—”

  “No one touches her. She belongs to us now. And we look after what is ours.”

  He studies me, and I can see the wheels turning, his doubt clouding his vision. He’s wanted this for so long. We both have. And I understand what he’s saying. She will make trouble for us, this girl.

  “Are we on the same page, brother?” I press, squeezing his shoulder because I need to make this very clear now.

  He doesn’t answer for a long minute. I raise an eyebrow.

  “Bastian, we want the same thing.”

  He finally nods. “We’re on the same page,” he says. “I smell Mom’s tomato sauce. Let’s go eat.”

  I push open the swinging door to the kitchen to find Francesca and our mother. They’re busy at the stove stirring the bubbling tomato sauce Mom has been making since we were babies. It instantly puts a smile on my face.

  “Boys,” our mother says, beaming when she sees us. Bastian is first to go to her, hug and kiss her cheek. She looks at me, smiles, and I kiss her other cheek. “Where is Hannah?” she asks, looking over our shoulders toward the door.

  It takes all I have to keep the smile on my face. I glance quickly at Francesca, who gives a small shake of her head, which means it’s been one of those days.

  “Is that her friend who’s visiting?” my mother asks.

  She must have seen Vittoria. I’m suddenly not sure bringing her here was my best idea. I could have taken her to the Naples house, but I need to keep her hidden for now.

  “I told you, Nora, that wasn’t Hannah’s friend. She’s someone else,” Francesca says, turning Mom to face her. “Remember?”

  “Oh. Yes. I remember.” Mom looks back at us. “Are you hungry? We made your favorite sauce.”
br />   “With homemade pasta?” Bastian asks.

  Francesca gives him a look. “How much time do we have in our day?” she teases him, but I know taking care of Mom is a full-time job. Her decline began the day our sister, Hannah, died along with the baby she was carrying. Hannah was only fourteen. Her body wasn’t close to ready to deliver a child, even if it was premature. If we’d known about it, if we’d known she was pregnant at all, she would be alive today. But shame made her hide, retreating from her family and her life. I still can’t puzzle out what she’d planned to do if she’d managed to carry the bastard full term and give birth. What then?

  My throat tightens as it always does when I come back to this. It’s been fifteen years. Fifteen years and still nothing changes. Still, all I have are questions and few answers.

  My mind slips to the girl upstairs. Vittoria Russo. The little girl with the bunch of dandelions she thought were daffodils.

  “You get started. I have to take care of something. I’ll be down soon.”

  Bastian nods and distracts Mom as I walk out of the kitchen and down the hall to the library, where Bastian and I each have a desk. I remove my jacket, shoulder harness, and tie, then undo the cuffs and roll my sleeves up to my elbows, glancing down at the dandelions tattooed on my forearm. The time for our vengeance has come. I pour myself a whiskey and stand at the window to watch the last of the fading sunset as I drink. The stars begin to shine, the few lights of boats far in the distance visible from here. Amalfi begins to light up, as do several lone houses along the water’s edge. It’s beautiful here. Peaceful. The quietest, stillest place I have ever been.

  Today was a good day, I tell myself as I finish my whiskey and turn to my desk where Vittoria’s purse lies. It’s a small velvet clutch with a rich satin interior. I recognize the designer. I dump the contents and find lipstick, her phone, and a small pistol. No tissues, I notice. Did she not expect to cry at her own father’s funeral? Not that he deserved anyone’s tears.

  I run a hand over the lining to check for hidden pockets but don’t feel anything. I pick up the pistol. It’s small, made for a woman, but just as deadly as my Glock. The bullets are intact. Not that I expected her to have used it. I empty it and lock both bullets and gun in the top drawer of my desk. I pick up her phone, but it’s password protected, so I can’t get into it. I tuck that into the pocket of my slacks, put her lipstick back into her purse, and head upstairs with it.

  Time to properly introduce myself.

  5

  Vittoria

  My eyes open, and my hand instinctively curls around the handle of my small dagger. I hear the rumble of men’s voices outside the door, so I sit up, leaning against the headboard. I draw my knees up, legs slightly apart. I’m tempted to confront him with the dagger in hand just to show him who he’s dealing with, but I need the element of surprise. I don’t exactly have a plan of attack or escape, but I won’t be playing victim anytime soon, so I push the pillow to my side and tuck the knife beneath it, then face the door and watch as it opens.

  Steel eyes give nothing away as the man from the church enters, and my heart thuds against my chest. I glimpse the guard outside my door before he closes it. No one bothers to lock it this time. They’re not worried about me getting by, I guess.

  He keeps his eyes on me as he walks around the bed, only glancing at my discarded shoes on the floor. I track him, too. He’s taken off his jacket and tie. He tosses my clutch onto the bed, then tucks his hands into his pockets and watches me. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and on his forearm, I see a tattoo. Dandelions that have become wishes.

  I make myself look up at him, but it’s harder to hold his gaze than I like, and when that strange feeling of familiarity threatens to wash over me, I look away, grabbing my clutch. I open it to find only my lipstick. Of course, he’s gone through it and taken both my pistol and my phone. Kidnapping 101. Men like him learn that before they learn to walk.

  I set the bag aside and turn to him, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and slipping my shoes on before I stand. He’s a lot taller than me, so I need all the height I can get.

  Once I’m up, I face him.

  His gaze moves over my black funeral dress. I don’t hide myself. He meets my eyes again and takes my phone out of his pocket.

  “Password,” he says. It’s not a question.

  I smile and spell it out for him. “F. U. C. K. Y. O. U.”

  “That’s funny.” He cocks his head, then tucks the phone away. I’m not sure it’s a good thing or a bad one that he’s not going to force it out of me. He looks at my ripped stockings, hands casually in his pockets again. “Found your gun. Pretty little toy you brought to a funeral.”

  “If you give it to me, I’ll show you what kind of toy it is.”

  “I’m sure you would.” He looks me over. “Strip.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

  “Your clothes. Take them off.” He gestures with a nod of his head.

  I try to appear unbothered. Unafraid. All while my heartbeats slow to heavy drumming against my chest.

  “I don’t think so. I need to call my sister.”

  “You’re in no position to make demands. Strip so I can search you.”

  “She’s only five. She’ll be scared.”

  “Honestly, a phone call should be the furthest thing from your mind at the moment, given your predicament.” He steps closer, and I steel myself to remain where I am. He’s near enough that I pick up a hint of aftershave, the same as earlier.

  He studies my face while I study his. I’m unable to meet his eyes, though, so I focus on the scar that dissects his right cheek. The deep, white line is ten, maybe fifteen years old.

  “That must have hurt,” I say when I’m able to meet his eyes. I remind myself he can’t see the beating of my heart or hear the rush of blood in my ears.

  I’ve never really been afraid of men. My brother, Lucien, maybe, but it’s not quite fear that I feel with him. Maybe because our father always stood between us. He’s actually my half brother. We have different mothers. Emma and I share the same mom. But a palpable violence radiates off this man. A rage. Lucien doesn’t have that kind of passion.

  This one? He scares me. But I cannot let him see that fear. If I do, he wins.

  “Do you remember me?” he asks, surprising me.

  I glimpse the dandelions on the table over his shoulder but shake my head.

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Hmm,” he mutters. He reaches out, and I flinch, but he just rubs the pad of his thumb along the side of my face. It’s calloused. He’s a man who works with his hands.

  A strange sensation makes my stomach flutter, and I find myself standing still. I guess I expect him to hurt me. He looks down at his thumb, and I do too. It’s streaked a dark red. I must have missed it when I wiped my face earlier.

  He takes hold of my jaw. It’s not a tight grip, and it doesn’t hurt. Yet. But he tilts my head up and searches my eyes. “Funny you don’t remember me because I remember you, Dandelion girl,” he says. “You thought they were daffodils.”

  A flash of a memory unsteadies me as I pull free of his grasp. I have to catch myself with a hand on the bed. I straighten, pushing the image aside. Dandelions in a field. A cozy, small house. A family inside.

  I blink, look back up at him to find him standing exactly as he was, watching, watching, fucking watching.

  “You were young,” he says. “But I think a scene like that would have made an impression.”

  “What do you want with me? Why did you bring me here?” I don’t ask him why he desecrated my father’s body. I can’t focus on that.

  “Questions and demands are all I hear from you when you’ve been given one simple instruction.”

  “I’m not getting naked in front of you.”

  “You are. Question is more a matter of how. I can help you, of course.” He scans my body. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’ll fuckin
g kill you if you touch me.”

  “You’re welcome to try.” His arm shoots out, and he takes hold of mine, spinning me around. When I feel his hand at my zipper, I reach for the hidden knife, grab the handle, and twist back around to put the tip to his throat.

  The zipper is halfway down, so the dress hangs on one side, baring my shoulder, but I don’t move to adjust it. I have his full attention.

  “Step the fuck away from me,” I tell him, pressing the flat of it against his throat.

  One side of his mouth rises in a smirk. He snaps his fingers, and the sound makes me look. The instant I do, he grabs my wrist with his other hand. It was a stupid distraction. I push the tip of the knife into his skin, breaking it, watching a drop of blood slide along the virgin blade.

  He’s testing me like I wanted him to. And I’m failing. Because I may have grown up in a family heavily involved with the criminal underworld, but I’ve never so much as slapped a man. My father kept me well out of that side of life.

  “I’m warning you!” I say as his hand tightens around my wrist. He’s not pulling the knife away, but he has control now. I’ve just handed it to him on a silver platter.

  “Vittoria, let me teach you two things,” he says, dragging my knife along his throat, not even flinching when he slices a shallow line while I just watch like an idiot. “This here is the jugular. It’s what you want to go for to kill a man.” He presses the flat of the blade against the throbbing vein, and I swallow. He pulls my hand away, and even though I resist, it doesn’t seem to cost him any energy when it’s taking all of mine. He twists my arm behind my back until a whimper escapes me. Then he twists just a little farther.

  My eyes water, and it takes all I have not to beg him to stop.