A Debt So Ruthless E-Book

Vero Heath

• Herausgeber: Peace Weaver Press Inc.
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Money has no mercy. And neither does he...
At the stroke of midnight on my twentieth birthday, he comes in darkness and in blood. Elio Titone, underboss of Toronto's most brutal Cosa Nostra famiglia.
Turns out my father is massively in debt to the Sicilian mafia. Elio has come for one thing and one thing only – to claim what he is owed.
And what he's owed is me.
My captor is dangerous and demanding. Tortured, possessive, and wealthy beyond belief. He traps me in his gilded, violent world and offers me no hope of escape. But the longer I spend with him, with his dark eyes and scarred hands, the less I want to claw my way out of his cage.
When new enemies threaten me, I see a side of Elio I didn't know existed – a ruthlessly protective side. He forces me to do the one thing that guarantees my safety, even if it means I'll forever be his prisoner.
I'll no longer be shackled by debt, but by marriage vows.
Because he'll make me his bride.

A Debt So Ruthless is a steamy age-gap mafia romance featuring a morally grey mafia boss hero who becomes obsessed with the innocent, inexperienced heroine. Themes include captivity and forced proximity, hate to love, older hero younger heroine age gap, enemies to lovers, forced marriage, and other dark romance tropes. It is part one of a complete duet.

Leseprobe

A Debt So Ruthless

A Dark Mafia Romance

Titans and Tyrants

Book 1

Vero Heath

NOTICES

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, used, transmitted, or shared via any means without express authorization from the author, except for small passages and quotations used for review and marketing purposes.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and incidents in this novel are fictitious and not to be construed as reality or fact.

A Debt So Ruthless Copyright © 2023 Peace Weaver Press Inc. President Veronica Doran

Cover Design by Sylvia Frost at The Book Brander Boutique

Created with Vellum

Contents

Content Notes

1. Elio

2. Deirdre

3. Deirdre

4. Elio

5. Elio

6. Deirdre

7. Deirdre

8. Elio

9. Deirdre

10. Elio

11. Deirdre

12. Elio

13. Deirdre

14. Elio

15. Deirdre

16. Elio

17. Deirdre

18. Deirdre

19. Elio

20. Deirdre

21. Elio

22. Deirdre

23. Deirdre

24. Elio

25. Deirdre

26. Deirdre

27. Deirdre

28. Elio

29. Deirdre

30. Deirdre

31. Elio

32. Deirdre

33. Deirdre

34. Elio

35. Deirdre

36. Elio

37. Deirdre

38. Elio

39. Deirdre

40. Elio

41. Deirdre

Content Notes

This is a dark age-gap mafia romance with themes that may disturb some readers. The hero, Elio Titone, is not a good man. Nor is he a particularly reasonable man, especially when it comes to getting what he wants – namely the heroine Deirdre. If you would like content warnings, please visit my website.

Chapter1

Elio

“What about collateral? There’s the house.”

“I don’t care about your fucking house.” I don’t care about this deal at all really. O’Malley’s in deep with one of the three most powerful Camorra clans in Toronto and he needs money, fast. Clearly, he thinks he can try to play one Italian crime organization against another, begging on his knees to La Cosa Nostra to bail him out when Severu Serpico’s soldiers come knocking, which they will.

But the Titones aren’t in the business of bailing people out. We’re in the business of making money. By any means necessary. And even this sprawling gingerbread house of a Thornhill mansion behind us now isn’t enough temptation. Everyone knows the Irish bastard is sinking fast.

A bead of sweat rolls down from O’Malley’s temple, dampening his thinning hair. His hair still has the slightest sheen of rust, a memory of red beneath the grey. Another bead of sweat follows the first, and he swallows noticeably, his ruddy throat bobbing.

Despite the August sun beating down, I know the heat isn’t why he’s sweating.

He’s sweating because he’s come to me – the last and most ruthless resort.

And I’ve turned him down.

No more options, O’Malley.

I stand, doing up the button of my suit jacket. The sun drenches my black-clad shoulders and the leather of my gloves, heating my skin beneath the fabric.

Fuck. I can’t wait for winter.

“Sell the house if you need money,” I say. “You’re not that old yet. Sell a kidney. I know someone who’ll pay.”

O’Malley jumps to his feet, his cushioned monstrosity of a patio chair clattering over backwards to the perfectly landscaped stone.

He starts blabbering, half angry, half desperate. Telling me about how he’s good for the money. How this is just a temporary blip. How we could…

I lose track of it all. All the words. All the bullshit flying like spittle from his mouth.

That isn’t like me. To lose track of anything. I haven’t gotten to where I am today, helping my uncle Vincenzo turn the Titones into one of the richest and most feared crime families in the country, by tuning out the details.

I got here by paying attention. Relentlessly.

That, and a whole lot of blood.

But something else has cut into the conversation. A scattered drift of notes.

Music. Violin?

The notes grow louder. Become almost solid. Like if I squint hard enough, I can see them catching the summer light.

Ignoring O’Malley completely now, I start walking, leaving the stone patio area. My black shoes crush the springy, well-watered blades of grass as I stalk over the lawn.

I scan the broad back of the brick house, searching for the source. I can’t say exactly why I need to find it. I just do. The music is somehow both sharp and sweet. It pricks at my skin. Hooks into my ribs and makes my teeth grind.

Near the top of the back wall, I find the second-floor balcony. And on that balcony…

An angel.

I blink stinging sweat from my eyes, dragging my hand through my hair and slicking it back. I don’t believe in angels. Never have.

A glossy mane of red hair tumbles down a slender back, the curling ends brushing the slightly flared skirt of a yellow sundress. Two pale arms float in the air, one still, the other sawing back and forth over what has to be a violin I can’t see from down here. Every time she moves, the sunlight catches on her hair, setting it ablaze, a glittering inferno. My scars burn under my gloves, the ruined skin on my neck tingling. The scent of smoke from nineteen years ago fills my nose while screams echo in my head, and I’m reminded why I can’t fucking stand red hair.

But the music distracts me from the past, from pain. It’s deafening, yet somehow not loud enough. So soft it makes my throat go dry. So powerful it slugs me in the temple. Leaves me reeling.

Elio Titone. Fucking reeling.

Instincts jerk to life inside me. Instincts that have never once led me astray. Instincts telling me to cut and run. To leave, right fucking now, and never look back.

I ignore them.

I start walking again, circling around towards the left side of the house so that I can see her face.

From below on the lawn like this, I can only just see her profile. Thank fuck that’s the only glimpse I get. Because even that one sliver of her face ruins me.

It isn’t just her physical beauty. The high, round cheekbones or the shadows cast by thick, long lashes – I’ve seen it all before. I’ve been with women more alluring, more sensually appealing than her.

It’s the expression shaping those features that does me in.

An expression of pure, deeply human joy. Something I wasn’t entirely sure actually existed until now.

Her soft lips are drawn into a sublime half-smile. Her eyes are closed, her chin balanced delicately on the violin as her long, deft fingers spirit over the strings. Her other arm pushes the bow through the air with surprising force.

“What’s that song?” I mutter. I almost don’t want to speak. Don’t want to make a single noise. But I have to know. Her song is strangling me.

O’Malley comes to a stop beside me, huffing and puffing, having followed me across the lawn. I shoot him a brutal glance, wanting to wring his neck for breathing so fucking loudly.

He pants, bending to place his hands on his knees before straightening.

“It’s Irish. An Eala Bhàn. Was one of her mother’s favourites.”

My eyes crawl up the brick to the balcony once more. The girl’s smile has contracted. Her brows furrow slightly. Tension creeps into her jaw and neck as her fingers fly faster, grinding the notes out harder.

The joy in the song, in her, darkens. Becomes edged with pain. But even in that pain, there’s beauty. Beauty I want to peel back, layer by layer. To understand.

To own.

My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to clench into fists around something. The bow. The violin’s neck. Hair the colour of fire I’d rather forget.

My next words come without thought and without hesitation.

“That’s it,” I say to O’Malley, my eyes glued to his daughter. “The collateral.”

“What?” O’Malley asks. “The violin? It was her mother’s. It’s worth a fair bit now, but it’s nothing like-”

“Not the violin.”

If not for the music, there would be a long beat of silence before he explodes. His Irish accent, dulled by years in Canada, grows suddenly sharper.

“You want my daughter?” he sputters. “What, that the only way ye can get a woman, ye ugly piece of shit?”

My pistol finds his forehead before he can even blink. His cheeks, so red with rage a moment before, drain of all colour, turning ashen.

“Watch yourself, O’Malley,” I murmur softly, already imagining the spray of blood and brains on the manicured lawn. I’ve killed men for less insult than this.

The music stops.

The softest tremor of sound, the call of, “Dad? Are you down there?” on the summer air has me hunching into myself, slipping the gun under my jacket. My breath shudders out of me. My guts burn with something I haven’t let myself feel in years.

Shame.

There’s something terrible about being a monster in front of a pure little songbird like that.

It almost makes me hate her.

“That’s the deal,” I hiss savagely, too quiet to be heard from the balcony above.

O’Malley scowls at me. But I can already see him cracking. Even his earlier rage didn’t come from the place of a protective father but was the irritation of a man who didn’t want to give up a prized possession.

“Fine,” he grunts. “But it won’t come to that,” he adds quickly. He turns away from me, running a hand down the back of his neck. His next words are so quiet I almost miss them. But that torturous music has stopped, so I catch them despite the whisper.

“God help me.”

My eyes dart up to the balcony.

But no one’s there.

There’s relief in that. No wide eyes watching me. No music clawing at the scar of something that might have once been called a soul.

“God can’t help you now, O’Malley,” I say, keeping my voice cold and steady. I mask the disgust I feel for him, so greedy and pathetic he’d offer up his daughter, a lamb to slaughter, to save his own skin. There’s repulsion, too, for my own unexpected weakness. For my wanting.

But stronger than any of that – the disgust, the loathing – is the beat of that fucking music in my blood.

And I already know without a shadow of a doubt that even if I slit my own throat and bleed to death right here on the grass…

I’ll never get it out.

Chapter2

Deirdre

New Year’s Eve 1.5 years later

“You’re so lucky your birthday is on New Year’s. Always guaranteed an awesome party,” Willow says, grabbing a flute of champagne from the table beside us. “Welcome to your twenties, Dee!”

“It’s not midnight yet. Technically my birthday is tomorrow,” I remind her. “And I’m not sure I would call my dad’s usual New Year’s Eve bash an awesome party,” I add with a snort, grabbing my own glass of champagne and taking a fizzy sip.

“Bitch, how would you even know what a good party is? You never want to go out with me. I told you I’d take you clubbing for your birthday and you said no!”

I smirk and roll my eyes at her. For my best friend, “bitch” is a term of endearment. Her name may be Willow, but there’s nothing willowy about her. The only things sharper than her tongue are her cheekbones and the piercing crystal green of her eyes. Tonight, her jet-black hair is tied in a high ponytail, accentuating her bare neck and the plunging neckline of her curve-hugging black dress. She’s actually a year younger than me, only just turned nineteen, but no one would ever guess that I was the older one between us.

She takes another sip of champagne and then tosses her ponytail over her shoulder.

“Fine. I’ll grant you that this isn’t the coolest New Year’s party I’ve ever been to. It isn’t even one of your dad’s best, to be honest. Weren’t there a lot more people last year?”

She’s right. The crowd is thin this year, mostly comprised of my dad’s clients and their wives milling around our large living room, picking away at the fancy cheese and pastries the catering company brought. Willow’s dad, Paddy Callahan, is among them. He runs an Irish pub, Briar and Boar, in downtown Toronto. My dad is his business accountant.

“For a room full of mobsters it’s actually kind of boring, to be honest. And they’re all at least thirty years older than us. Which wouldn’t normally be a problem, except none of them are hot.”

My gaze cuts back to Willow, my lips pursing. I ignore her comment about older men – that’s pretty much par for the course with my best friend – instead snagging on the other thing. The thing about the mobsters.

She raises her brows questioningly at me over the rim of her champagne flute, and I blow out a sigh. I can’t even argue with her because it’s true. My dad’s an accountant. It’s easy to pretend that he runs a normal firm and that his clients are all upstanding citizens. But the reality is that he helps clean money for businesses that funnel funds to the Irish mob.

It’s something I don’t like to think about and that I’ve largely been protected from. Willow, on the other hand, doesn’t give a shit. She embraces the life Paddy’s a part of, taking everything in high-heeled stride. But even so, neither of us have any real standing. We aren’t part of the ruling Gowan family. Our dads are at the bottom of the mafia ladder, and so are the other guests here. No one truly important to Toronto’s crime scene has come tonight, and that’s just fine with me. Willow’s right – I don’t care about parties, and I care even less about having some of the city’s most lethal men in my living room.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say with a laugh. “You can still hit up the club after this and get laid.”

“Oh, you know I will, Dee. But I was more thinking about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes! How am I supposed to act as a wing woman and get my best friend’s sweet little cherry licked, sucked, and popped if there’s no one here good-looking enough to qualify?”

Mr. Byrne, who runs Byrne’s Butcher Shop, nearly chokes on a macaron beside us. Mrs. Byrne pats his back then glares at us while Willow smiles innocently back.

“Jesus, Willow,” I mutter before taking a huge swig of my drink. Willow is my ride-or-die, but sometimes being around her requires vast amounts of alcohol.

“What? Someone’s gotta do it properly now that Brian turned out to be a giant asshole.”

I cringe at his name. The name of my very recently ex-boyfriend.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. At least he’s been gone all Christmas break. He’s back in Ottawa with his family.”

“Good,” Willow says, nodding with satisfaction, eyes crackling. “Because if he keeps up this stalker boy routine, I’m going to have to sic Ronan on his ass.”

Ronan looks like a dishwasher at the pub, but he’s actually there as security, one of Darragh Gowan’s enforcers. He’s a brooding, tattooed mountain of a man, and I can’t help but picture him punching Brian in the face with his meaty hammer of a fist.

I dated Brian for the first half of this school year, from September until right before December exams. He’s a law student at the University of Toronto where I study music. I thought he might actually be the one I’d lose my virginity to.

Until he tried to take it before I was ready.

I clench my teeth, my stomach twisting when I remember that night in his apartment. The beer on his breath as he caged me in with his body and told me he’d waited long enough. The hunted, animal fear that made me freeze, that left me unable to move, unable to fight back, unable to say a single fucking word. It was only when he clumsily undid his belt and knocked a glass from his bedside table to the floor, stepping on the broken pieces and stumbling, that I could move again. I bolted from his apartment and completely ghosted him after that.

Only problem is that he’s developed an infuriating habit of turning up everywhere I go, begging for forgiveness and promising to be better. I’ve found him lingering outside classrooms and exam halls and even, once, outside the small music school where I teach violin to kids. In all honesty, I’m kind of surprised he went back home for Christmas at all. I thought he’d stick around just to keep following and pressuring me, and I’m beyond grateful for the distance his absence has created.

Willow must be sensing my mood, because her expression softens.

“Hey, I’m sorry, Dee.” She draws me into a perfumed hug. “I’m not trying to be insensitive. What happened with Brian was fucking shit, and if he ever crosses my path, he better fucking watch himself. I just want your first time to be good. To be on your terms.” She pulls back, staring at me steadily with serious green eyes. “If you give something away, no one can take it from you.”

“Something can always be taken from you,” I whisper bitterly. It’s a lesson I’ve burned into my brain for ten years, starting the day my mother died.

Willow looks like she’s about to say something else, but as her mouth opens, the resounding shout of “Ten!” makes us both jump.

“Already?” I ask, looking around in shock.

“Guess so! Happy birthday, babe!” Willow clinks her glass against mine and then drains it. I do the same, losing myself in the rosy feeling of champagne’s warmth spreading through my body. I need the drink – I know what comes next. It happens every New Year’s Eve. A requirement of my father’s. I can already see him beckoning to me from across the room, ready for me to dazzle his friends and clients by playing Auld Lang Syne.

I love playing, but absolutely hate performing. My father likes it, though. Likes having the talented daughter he can put on display since he no longer has the talented wife. Mom was always the performer, the star. Not me.

Willow already has another drink in her hand when I set down my glass. As the people all around us chant together, “Five, four, three!” I grab my violin and head for the centre of the room.

I’m just setting my bow to the strings when bitterly cold air hits my skin, making goosebumps prickle. Somewhere in the house, a door is open, or a window. Which doesn’t make any sense, because this is January in Ontario.

The sound of fireworks split the air, but even though it’s New Year’s that doesn’t make sense, either, because it sounds like it’s coming from inside this very room. It’s only when screaming breaks out, and the sound repeats and intensifies, that I realize it’s gunfire.

Chapter3

Deirdre

I crouch to the floor, hugging my violin underneath myself, the most precious thing I have. Which is probably stupid. Really, really stupid. I should drop it, protect my head, and crawl to safety. But this violin was my mother’s, and I can’t let it go. Swearing, my heart slamming, I keep it tucked underneath my body, the bow in my hand like a blade, and army crawl under the nearest table of abandoned food. I tuck the violin and bow against the wall, then spin on my hands and knees, trying to make sense of the scene before me.

Only there’s barely a scene left. Almost everybody is gone. Relief pours through me when I see Paddy dragging Willow out of the room towards the front door. She’s fighting him, though, and through the ringing in my ears I distantly hear her screaming my name. Suddenly, her eyes find mine, our gazes locking, and she fights her father harder, but he loops his thick arms around her waist and hauls her out into the winter night.

Tears stream down my face, my throat contracting. I’m so happy she’s gone, that she’ll be safe.

But now I’m alone.

Where’s Dad?

New terror grips me. If someone came into this house to attack, who else would they be looking for but the owner of that house?

No! My dad’s just an accountant. He’s not an enforcer, a soldier, an assassin. He’s not a boss someone would have any reason to take out. So why the hell is this happening?

And where the hell did he go?

I’m not the only one with that question. I realize I’m not truly alone. Mr. Byrne is slumped over on the hardwood floor, clutching at a profusely bleeding shoulder, while a pair of black shoes approaches him. One of the black shoes presses against Mr. Byrne’s crotch, hard.

“Where’s O’Malley?”

I can’t see the man’s face, only hear his voice. My blood turns to ice in my veins. So, they are looking for my father.

And what will they do when they find his daughter instead?

I can’t stay here.

My pulse races so hard in my throat that I can’t breathe. Lungs on fire, I glance around the room to see if there’s any easy way out. So far, I only see one guy with a gun. Whoever else was firing seems to have left the room. Unless it was Mr. Byrne who was the other person shooting. I notice with a swallowed gasp he’s trying to reach for a gun that’s slid away on the floor.

There’s no way he’ll reach it like this, with that other guy’s foot bearing down on him. From this angle, I can see that man’s black pistol shining, perfectly aimed, in the pretty golden lights of our living room.

No, the gun is too far from Mr. Byrne.

But it’s close to me. Really fucking close.

“Where’s O’Malley?” repeats the voice. “Mr. Serpico wants his money.”

“Serpico… Severu Serpico?” Mr. Byrne pants.

Severu Serpico… I may be shielded from most of mob life, but I know who the major players are, and Severu is the leader of one of the most violent Camorra clans in the country.

The shoe presses harder, and Mr. Byrne howls, the muscles of his legs jumping beneath his dress pants.

“No questions. Only answers. Where is he?”

“I… I don’t know! Fucking hell, man! I don’t know!”

“You Irish really don’t know much, do you? Did you know O’Malley’s been siphoning money away from Mad Darragh’s businesses? That he got cornered and then came begging on his knees to us for funds to cover it all up? The time on his loan is up, and unless you can tell me where he is you’re going to pay the interest in blood.”

“Fuck. Outside! He went outside!”

Oh my God.

My world tilts, everything I thought I knew about my father, my family, my life, evaporating in an instant. Dad was stealing? Lying? Betraying his own clients, his own boss?

This can’t be real. This has to be a mistake.

But mistake or not, there’s a man with a gun hellbent on finding my father. Without another word, he leaves the room, heading for the glass French doors that lead to our backyard and stepping through them.

He’s going to kill my dad.

That thought gives me enough strength to get up and get out. To fight through the fear that’s frozen my limbs. Without thinking, I grab the gun and sprint across the living room, tripping over broken glass and smooshed food that’s scattered all over the floor. Thank God I’m wearing shoes. For a second, I wonder if I should stop and check on Mr. Byrne, but I know I don’t have time. I’m not going to watch my father die on my birthday, and if I’m going to do something, it has to be now.

What I’m going to do, I have no idea. I’ve never even touched a gun in my life, let alone fired one at someone. Panic rises when I see my father running across the snow, the man heading straight for him, gun raised.

“Stop! I’m armed!”

The scream rips from my throat, splitting the air. The man stops and swivels. He sees me. Sees the gun I hold in my shaking hands. And starts to fucking laugh.

“Drop it, bella,” he says, advancing towards me, his own gun raised to meet mine.

My toes are numb, snow seeping through the silk of my flats. Bitter wind buffets my hair. My teeth chatter, but I don’t think it’s from the cold.

My fingers cramp as my brain screams at me to pull the trigger.

Now. Now! Fucking now!

But I don’t. I can’t. I’m too weak, too afraid. I should have tried to shoot him when his back was turned before I saw his eyes. His eyes aren’t laughing now. They’re lethal. And I realize that everything I’ve heard about the Italian mafia not killing women and children is dead fucking wrong.

“Stop,” I say, but this time it’s a whisper. Not a command, but a prayer. I’m begging the man, the universe, maybe even God, to make this all stop. To go back to how things were fifteen minutes ago, when my life still made sense and I knew who I was, who my father was.

But he doesn’t stop. And the fear has me again, tightening its jaws around me until I can’t speak or think or breathe. I am completely immobile as he bears down on me.

But… I’m not immobile. Suddenly, I’m grabbed from behind and spun with such dizzying, catastrophic force that my feet leave the ground, my shoes flying off and my gun dropping down to the snow. Two shots ring out, one chasing the other. Whoever’s holding me grunts and grasps me tighter against his broad chest with one arm. For a split second, I wonder if it’s my father, somehow come back to save me. But no, this man is huge, far taller than my father. And there’s no way Dad could have made it all the way back across the lawn by now.

I don’t have time to figure it out, because before I know it, I’m slung over the man’s shoulder and carried back into the house. I wriggle and kick, not knowing what else to do, but it’s useless. The hand on my hip is like iron, holding me in place. I plant my hands on the man’s back and crane my neck to see the other man, the one who was advancing on me, crumpled on the snow, the moonlight shining on a river of blood that streams from his head.

Did I get shot, too? I wonder in a daze, noticing that moisture is soaking the front of my dress, sticky and warm liquid coating my breasts.

The man carries me through the living room, something I only see in bits and pieces through the curtain of my hair hanging down and obscuring my vision. I don’t see Mr. Byrne anymore. I wonder where he’s ended up. And where my father is now.

The man takes me into the kitchen. It’s bright in here, but a moment later we’re plunged into darkness as he flicks his hand over the light switch on the wall. He doesn’t stop walking until we’re swathed in the shadows of the pantry built into the wall. Finally, he puts me down, and I can try to get my bearings on who he is and what the fuck is happening.

I’ve dimly pieced together that it’s probably one of Darragh’s men who’s saved me. Word must have gotten out about the Camorra being here and the reinforcements have come. But I don’t recognize the man before me, and when he tells me not to scream it’s not with the kind of accent I’d expect. It’s a mostly Ontario accent, but there’s something else edging it. Something vaguely Italian.

Oh, God. He’s one of them. One of Severu’s men. Camorra.

“Don’t scream,” he says again just as I open my mouth to do it. He obviously senses I have no plans to obey, so he claps a huge, leather-gloved hand over my mouth, guiding me backwards until my spine hits the pantry’s shelves.

“There might be more of them.”

More of them? More of Severu’s men?

So… he’s not one of them? He did shoot that other guy, after all.

His eyes are so black they obliterate me. It’s a gaze that feels like abyss. My own gaze tracks over his face, my nostrils filled with the scent of leather, blood, and the clean, luxurious spice of cologne. Dark, thick hair is slicked back from his broad forehead. One rebellious piece flops forward, curling, seeming almost boyish in stark contrast to the grim darkness of his face. There’s nothing else boyish about him. About the hard, muscled frame of his body, the commanding grip of his hand on my mouth, the drowning black of those eyes. He has to be at least thirty-four or thirty-five, maybe even older, his bulk packed into a perfectly tailored suit.

As I look at him, my eyes snag on an area of skin at his jaw and neck that looks wrong. Mottled and scarred. Like he’s been burned.

And with sudden, breathless fear, I know exactly who he is. I’ve heard the stories – the stories of the man with the scars who never takes off his leather gloves.

He’s not one of Severu Serpico’s men.

He’s not Camorra at all, but Cosa Nostra. And he’s not a simple henchman, but the underboss of the most ruthless Sicilian family in the country.

Holding me tightly in my own kitchen, blocking me in with his massive body and watching me with an intensity that makes me shiver, is the tyrant of Toronto. A titan of bloodshed and king of crime. Vincenzo Titone’s oldest nephew and heir.

Elio Titone.

The man who rules most of Toronto, of Montreal, and everything in between. The man who almost died in a fire as a boy back in Sicily, but who instead walked right through it, defying nature and death, defying God himself even as the good Lord tried to send him straight back down to hell.

His eyes roam downwards, and his nostrils flare when they get to my chest. I follow his gaze, gasping against his glove at the sight of all the slick red marring the white satin. I felt that blood, knew it was there, but the sight of it is still shocking smeared against the fabric of the dress and my pale skin.

Elio doesn’t move his hand from my mouth. Instead, he shoves his gun lengthwise between his teeth, biting down on it the way an office worker might hold a mundane object like a pen when his hands are full. With his free hand, he pulls the front of my dress so hard it rips. The satin falls downward, the dress’s straps ruined, until my entire front is bared to him.

Humiliation, rage, and fear all churn together, heating my skin and making my stomach clench. His gloved hand skims over my skin, poking, prodding. Pushing on the hand across my mouth, he forces my head back so he can inspect my throat before moving lower. He slides his hand over one breast, then the other, lifting each one and examining my abdomen. When my nipples harden under the hateful, arousing pressure of the leather, I start to squirm. With a grunt, he shoves his thick thigh between my legs, halting my movements. He takes the gun from his mouth and lays it on a shelf above my head.

“Stop moving,” he growls.

His movements are quick but methodical, and I soon understand what he’s doing.

So, he has the same question I did, then. Wondering if I had somehow been shot. But I know by now I haven’t been. His thumb glides across my navel, indicating his inspection might move even lower.

I shake my head rapidly. His gaze narrows. Then he rolls his left shoulder experimentally. His expression tightens.

It’s him. He’s bleeding. The other gunshot…

I don’t see any blood on his front, or a hole in his suit jacket indicating an exit wound, so the bullet must still be in there somewhere. His jaw works, and he looks pissed, but not overwhelmingly so. The guy looks like he just hit a patch of bad traffic on his way to work, like this is an annoying but daily occurrence for him.

Hissing out a sigh, he taps his ear, activating an earbud I hadn’t seen before.

“Update, Curse?”

I can’t hear whoever replies.

“Alright. Any sign of O’Malley?”

My mouth opens under his glove at the sound of my last name. He has to be talking about my dad.

But Elio completely ignores me, listening intently to whoever’s speaking to him. Infuriated at the dismissal, I open my mouth even further, then snap my jaws shut, catching the pad of his middle finger between my teeth. I know the glove must dull the impact, but I bite down hard, and even so the bastard doesn’t even flinch. Just raises a dark brow at me as he replies to the other person, telling them to take the bodies and move out.

Bodies? Plural?

Elio lowers his hand, yanking his finger from between my teeth, and I know this must mean there’s no one left to hear me scream.

“What bodies? Where’s my dad?” I ask, my words breathy and broken. I swallow hard, then cross my arms over my chest.

“Three Camorra goons. Dead now.”

“And my father? Where is he?”

“If he’s got any brains he’s on his way out of the country.”

What?

“No. No way. He wouldn’t leave me here. And Darragh Gowan’s men will be here soon to help. In fact, they’ll be here any second. You should go before you get another bullet in your back.”

I’m rambling. I know I am. And I’m probably being stupid as hell to threaten Elio fucking Titone with bullets. But he doesn’t seem to particularly care about my words. He makes an odd expression. I can’t tell if it’s a smirk or a grimace. The scarring along his neck and jaw makes one side of his mouth pull lower than the other.

“Mad Darragh won’t be sending anyone to help your father now. Or you, for that matter. Word’s started getting out about O’Malley’s penchant for skimming off the top. Your father may have paid back the money he took from the Irish, but Darragh’s not going to forgive a betrayal like that. And judging by Sev’s men here tonight, he still owes money to the Camorra.” He leans closer, his breath tingling along my ear and neck as he whispers, “He owes money to me, too.”

“But… you saved me!” I stammer. Why would he let my father or me live if we really owed so much? Mercy is not something Elio Titone is known for. “You got shot protecting me!”

“I didn’t save you,” he mutters darkly, so close that his lips brush the shell of my ear. He pulls back so I can see the ruthless darkness of his gaze. I’m horrendously aware of the hard length of his thigh pressing against my pussy and the scant protection my arms provide over my bare, bloodied breasts.

“I’m not your hero, Deirdre O’Malley. I’m your debt collector.” He gives me a wolfish, crooked smile, and it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. “And tonight I’ve come to claim what’s mine.”

Chapter4

Elio

This is the closest I’ve ever been to Deirdre O’Malley and I’m hard as a fucking rock. Heat seeps from her cunt, warming my thigh as she pants.

“I’m not yours,” she whispers raggedly.

“You are now.”

Her mouth tightens, and she shakes her head over and over again, as if she can shake herself right out of this reality. I take hold of her jaw, forcing her head into stillness. Her large eyes grow even wider. There’s fear there. But defiance too.

“Let me make your situation perfectly clear,” I say. My pulse throbs in my bleeding shoulder and my dick. “Your father owes me a great deal of money. He had until the end of the year, last year now, and he hasn’t fucking paid. Now, that debt is transferred to you.”

She swallows, delicate throat bobbing.

“We can pay it. Sell the house-”

“Not enough,” I growl.

“Not enough?” she breathes. “How is that even possible? How much does he owe you?”

“Five point two million. With interest.”

Her already pale face grows whiter in the gloom. I almost want her to fight me on this. Want her to command me to go track down her piece of shit of a papà instead of trapping her when she’s completely innocent in all of this.

But she doesn’t. She’s too fucking good. Trying to protect the man who should have protected her. Sweet little Songbird. I am going to cage you.

“What are you going to do to me? How… how are you going to make me pay?”

She’s trembling, and the defiance in her gaze wanes, replaced with terror. Her knuckles are white as bone as she clutches her own chest, hiding herself.

I let go of her jaw and ease my thigh out from between her legs. She gasps and nearly collapses with the lack of support. When her knees buckle, I grasp her waist, pulling her upright against my body.

“I may be an ugly bastard, but believe it or not, I don’t need a whore.” I inhale against her hair, smelling sweet vanilla. “Besides, I don’t fuck redheads.”

She’s quiet for a moment before she whispers, “Then what do you want from me?”

What the fuck do I want from her? It’s not like I haven’t imagined turning her into my whore. Imagined what her pussy tastes like, what she’d feel like wrapped around my cock, my rule about redheads be damned.

I’m not sure I can even put it into words. The ache I have for her. Something far more than physical need.

“There’s something inside you I need to understand,” I murmur.

Something I saw on that balcony a year and a half ago. Something I’ve witnessed at every single one of her violin performances since then as I sat watching alone in the very back row. “You’re going to play for me until I can figure it out.”

“Play for you?”

I release her waist, and she remains standing this time.

“Violin, Songbird.”

Confusion, then understanding, crystallize in her gaze.

“You want me to… to be your own personal musician?”

“Live-in musician,” I correct her. “Let’s go.”

“No. No way! I’ll play for you, but I’m not living with you!”

“This is not a fucking negotiation,” I grunt. Merda, my shoulder is really starting to throb. At least it’s finally distracting me from my hard-on.

“I can’t. I-”

“You’re not staying here,” I cut in sharply. “You will live under my roof until your debt is paid in full. That is the deal I struck with your father. If he doesn’t pay, I take you. He didn’t pay. Now I’m taking you.”

“No,” she says hoarsely. “He wouldn’t-”

“He did,” I inform her flatly.

For the first time, I see her large eyes fill with tears. She’s actually held it together pretty well so far considering everything that’s happened. But cracks are starting to show. A single tear rolls from one eye, and I halt its progress with my thumb. Before it can absorb into the leather, I raise it to my mouth and taste its sweet salt.

She watches me with horrified fascination, her shock at my action stopping her crying.

“Time to go,” I tell her. It’s not a good idea to stay here after Curse and I have killed three of Sev’s men. There’s a chance Mad Darragh will send soldiers, too, and when they don’t find O’Malley they’ll want Deirdre. Just like I do. Those are problems I’m going to have to deal with later. I take my gun from the top shelf, and when Deirdre sees me do it, she purses her lips and takes a shaky breath.

I don’t hold the gun to her head. I don’t have to. She knows she has no choice but to follow me as I lead her out of the kitchen. If she doesn’t walk, I’ll just carry her.

I do end up carrying her though, cradling her against my chest this time, when we reach the disaster of the living room.

“Put me down! I’ll walk,” she says, fighting against my hold.

“Glass,” is all I say. She’s got no shoes, and the floor of this room is a sharply glittering mess.

“I don’t care. I’d rather slice my feet open,” she hisses. I feel myself smile at that. My little Irish Songbird has a spine, that’s for sure.

I clutch her closer as I stride through the room and out the front door.

“You’re mine now, Songbird. And I won’t let anyone damage what’s mine. Not even you.”

Chapter5

Elio

Outside, I see my younger brother Accursio. Though no one calls him his full name except our aunt and uncle. To everyone else, he’s Curse, the Titone family’s most feared assassin, deadly as a plague. As I approach with Deirdre, he shoves the corpse of the man I shot along with two others into his black Escalade’s trunk and slams it shut before turning towards us.

He knows what we’ve come for tonight. He knows Deirdre is mine. But when his dark eyes dip, ever so briefly, to her bare upper body in my arms, jealousy tightens in my gut.

It’s an absurd feeling. Curse is my most trusted man. My only brother. He’ll be my consigliere when I fully take over this family. I’ve literally walked through fire for him, and money can’t buy loyalty that an act like that earns. And besides that, he’s only ever wanted one girl, even though he hasn’t seen her since we were kids in Sicily. But even so, even knowing all this and seeing that there’s not a hint of lust in his gaze, I want to slug him just for looking at her.

I walk past him to my own black SUV, unlocking it and opening the door with Deirdre in my arms. My shoulder screams as I place her in the passenger seat. I don’t miss the way she shakes, and I shrug out of my suit jacket, holding it out to her. She glares at it as if it’s a venomous snake. I remember her comment about how she’d rather slice her feet open than be carried by me, and I know she’s too proud, or too angry, to take anything from me now.

But it’s too late for that. I already paid for the satin that sags, ruined, around her waist. Paid for the shoes lost somewhere in the snow. Paid for her whole fucking life the past year and a half, through the millions I loaned her father.

I stare down at her while she stares at the jacket, both of us unmoving, locked in a standoff.

I want to say, fine, and drop it. Let her be cold. Let her be proud and refuse me, even while she’s naked and trembling, even while she has absolutely nothing left in this world without me. Who cares if she takes the jacket? Who cares if she’s warm enough?

Apparently, I do.

Dio fucking help me. Even if you’ve never once helped me before.

I bend down to her, and she recoils, hunching against the leather seat. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck, forcing her forward enough so that I can slide the jacket between her spine and the seat. She’s tense under my hand, already straining backwards and away from me. I let go. My sudden lack of restraint on her makes her cry out with surprise, and the back of her head bounces off the cushioned headrest. I do up the jacket’s button at the front, my eyes catching on the blood smeared across her perfect pale skin. My blood.