Savage Betrayal: An Age Gap Dark Mafia Romance, page 1
SAVAGE BETRAYAL
A DARK MAFIA AGE GAP ROMANCE
DARK REDEMPTION
BOOK 1
IVY THORN
PNK PUBLISHING
CONTENTS
1. Tia
2. Tia
3. Leo
4. Tia
5. Leo
6. Tia
7. Leo
8. Tia
9. Leo
10. Tia
11. Leo
12. Tia
13. Leo
14. Tia
15. Leo
16. Tia
17. Leo
18. Tia
19. Leo
20. Tia
21. Leo
22. Tia
23. Leo
24. Tia
25. Leo
26. Tia
27. Leo
28. Tia
29. Leo
30. Tia
31. Leo
32. Tia
33. Leo
34. Tia
35. Leo
36. Tia
37. Tia
38. Leo
39. Tia
1
TIA
“We must put an end to this Moretti scourge,” Don Valencia states, slamming his fist down onto the table, his fork held like a sword he would like to spear through Leonardo Moretti’s heart right about now.
His plate of pasta jumps with the force of his displeasure, the china clinking as it finds the surface of the dinner table once more. Next to him, his grown son, Tony, remains focused on his food, tearing off a large chunk from the garlic roll served with his meal.
Father doesn’t even seem to notice as he studies our dinner guests with dignified understanding. “That’s one of the reasons I invited you all here tonight,” he confesses, scanning the table of prominent families that haven’t collapsed under the Morettis’ pressure. Yet.
The numbers are dwindling from just a few months ago, when my father last hosted a dinner to assess the potential of forming alliances while we still can—and how marriage is the best way to do so.
“My daughter Tia comes of age in just over a month, and I think each of the eligible men in this room would make a fine match for her.”
Next to my father, my mother looks on with patient resolve, her face neutral and accepting. Their marriage was arranged, she often reminds me. So, why wouldn’t I be as happy in my marriage as she has been in hers? It might not be a fairy tale romance, but it’s more pragmatic.
“Joining the great Guerra household with another family that’s rooted in Piovosa’s rich history,” Don Fiore observes, placing his utensils on his plate and leaning back in his chair.
“Indeed,” my father says.
Don Fiore’s eyes scan down the length of the table to land on me.
My heart skips a beat at his scrutinizing gaze, the way he seems to consider me like he would a prized horse he’s considering adding to his stable. Never mind the fact that the widower is well over twice my age and supposed to still be in mourning—or at least he would be if he cared at all for his wife of twenty years, whom he lost just months ago.
“With your daughters’ reputations of refinement and modesty, I’m sure it would be an honor to take Tia as a wife,” he says, his voice dripping with lecherous pleasure.
Beside me, my sister Maria makes a not-so-subtle gagging noise, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling. Only after Don Fiore returns his attention to the head of the table do I dare glance Maria’s way.
At age sixteen, she’s probably the only one of my four younger sisters who can fully comprehend what’s coming for each of us eventually. And it’s coming to me far sooner than the rest. Marriage—likely to some gross old man like Don Fiore. Because that’s the only thing a houseful of Guerra daughters is good for. Our family name.
Seeing as Don Guerra was cursed with five daughters and not a single son, an alliance made through marriage is the only way my father can protect his legacy. Especially now, with the Moretti family’s seemingly insatiable appetite to conquer and rule our thriving Italian settlement sequestered in the Allegheny Mountains.
We need help.
And marriage is the perfect way to guarantee it.
“It would establish an unbreakable bond between two families who might not be capable of stopping the Morettis on their own but, when joined together, could send them running with their tails between their legs,” Father says.
“Yes, I would like to see that arrogant bastard brought down a few pegs,” Don Valencia states.
“I’m ready to wipe the smug smile off Leonardo’s face,” Don Russo growls. “It’s as if he thinks he’s already won the town. The way he’s throwing parties nearly every other week, pretending like we’re not at war.”
“So low class.” Don Amici scoffs.
“I’ve heard the balls he hosts are a new level of sophistication,” Lorenzo Valencia says, a hint of awe in his voice.
His statement triggers in me a curiosity, a thirst to understand, that’s been growing inside for weeks now. I want to know what it is about the Morettis that drives people to such extreme emotions. Love them or hate them, it seems everybody’s talking about the Morettis, and I want nothing more than to know what all the fuss is about.
Which is why I intend to sneak out. Tonight. After our dinner guests leave. I plan to go to a party hosted by Leonardo Moretti—the leader of the Moretti family, in all but title, and the rabble-rouser that my father speaks of as if he were the Boogeyman himself. From the way my father makes it sound, the Morettis are capable of unspeakable atrocities, and with Leonardo at their head, they have become all but an unstoppable force.
But as much as my father hates Leonardo Moretti, my cousins don’t seem to think it’s too dangerous to crash his house parties. Apparently, the guy rarely even makes an appearance at them. So, why can’t I?
Just this once.
My sisters and I live such sheltered lives, being home-schooled, residing on the family estate, and only entering the town with escorts. It’s a comfortable life, and one that’s so entirely dull. I don’t think I can stand another evening of reading by the fire. I want to see some of the world before my father marries me off to some gross old perv like Don Fiore.
I glance sideways at the three Valencia men in attendance just in time to catch Don Valencia giving his younger son a thunderous scowl. This is not the household to be handing out compliments to the Morettis. Even a harmless one like Lorenzo’s.
But the older Valencia son seems too preoccupied with the meal to have noticed the tension in the room. “This tagliatelle is delicious,” Tony Valencia says around his mouthful of pasta.
I try not to cringe as the stray noodles hanging from his lips are sucked into his maw with such force that sauce splatters across his chin and the napkin tucked into his shirt.
“Of course, I’m open to negotiations and would like to ensure the match with my daughter would be… agreeable on both sides,” my father says.
I sincerely hope the hint of disgust in his tone means he’s less inclined to marry me off to Tony. The sloppy eating, I could probably learn to live with. But the gluttony of gambling debts the Valencia heir has accrued? He’s well on his way to spending every last penny of his inheritance before his father’s even in his grave.
No, I don’t think I could stomach living with a man so willingly a victim to his vices. And while his brother Lorenzo might not be nearly so bad, he’s not much better.
“My son Valentine would make an excellent match for your daughter,” Don Russo states with a sure grin.
“But isn’t Valentine just twelve?” I ask, boldly meeting the don’s eyes. “He can’t possibly be ready for marriage.”
“I hardly think you should concern yourself with matters you clearly don’t understand. Obviously, he would grow into his role as your husband. And I would think you should consider yourself lucky not to be strapped with someone… older,” Don Russo states dismissively, giving Don Fiore a sidelong glance before turning his eyes to my father.
The silent look states that Don Guerra should get his unruly daughter under control before I embarrass him further.
“Tia.”
That’s all my father needs to say. I know that hint of warning too well. If I don’t hold my tongue, I will very much regret provoking the punishment that will follow our guests’ departure.
I bristle at the perfunctory way they discuss my nuptials as if I were nothing more than a piece of dining room furniture to be traded away. But as I’m little more than a pawn to these great men, no one cares to tiptoe around my feelings.
The end game—the victory over the Morettis—is all that matters.
Still, I’ll count my gentle scolding as a small blessing. Because it’s given me a window of opportunity to bow out of the stifling negotiations.
“Pardon my ignorance, Don Russo. Of course, you would know better about the workings of these types of arrangements. If I might be excused, father? I’ll leave the conversation to those who understand such things.”
“Take your sisters with you,” he agrees, sending me off with a wave of his hand.
Delicately wiping my lips, I set aside my napkin, then take Maria by the wrist and pull her out of her chair and toward the dining room door. Anna, Vienna, and little Sofia follow without a word.
“Blech,” Maria says as soon as we’re out of ears
I cringe internally. “Me too.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I feel terrible for you. But just think, if that’s what the options are, and you have first pick, who might I get stuck with as the leftovers?” Maria shudders visibly.
“Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to land Valentine Russo,” I tease.
Maria gives me a playful shove with her shoulder. “I’m not really interested in babysitting. Thanks.”
I laugh, appreciating that I have at least one person to commiserate with.
Still, I haven’t even told Maria about my plans for tonight…
It’s well past sunset, and the house lights have already started to darken as I ease my bedroom window open. Not daring to breathe, I watch and listen to see if any of my family’s guards made note of the soft shuffling noise, but if they’re in the vicinity, none seem to be drawn my way.
Slowly releasing my breath, I ease my shoulders through the window and look to my left. The ivy-covered lattice that creeps up the side of our oversized home looked a lot less intimidating to climb down in the daylight—when I was concocting my elaborate escape.
Now, I just hope the wood hasn’t started rotting after the century’s worth of plant growth that creeps up the side of the picturesque New England mansion. But I’m not about to chicken out now.
I have been hearing about the extravagant Moretti house parties for months now. And tonight, I intend to see what the fuss is all about. After having spent my entire childhood following the rules, I am determined to have at least one good adventure.
A shiver races down my spine at the wood’s agonized groan beneath my weight as I scale the siding. But I press on, clinging to the vines even as they scrape my palms and snag the skirt of my flirtiest dress. I’m more than a little grateful when I’ve climbed down far enough to drop the last few feet onto solid ground.
Crouching, I turn quickly to make sure no one saw me.
Looks like I’m in the clear.
Keeping low and moving fast, I head for the trees that line either side of our long drive.
The air is crisp for a night in late April, but I don’t mind. My destination is a bit of a walk, which will keep me warm. As soon as I’m safe from view, I hunker into my fleece-lined Italian leather coat, cram my fingers into its pockets, and pick up a nice pace.
Giddy excitement bubbles in my veins as I head toward the historic downtown of Piovosa. I make it into town on rare occasions and never unsupervised—like we’re some family out of the Dark Ages.
But I know it’s because, in Piovosa, our family name is worth its weight in gold, and my father is only looking out for our safety. I just wish he weren’t quite so overprotective. It’s not like kidnappers are waiting around every corner to snatch up a Guerra girl and ransom her off for some exorbitant amount of money.
Against all odds—or so it would seem based on my father’s extensive warnings not to leave the house unaccompanied—I arrive safely at my destination without a single abduction attempt.
It’s not hard to find the party. Not when fancy cars line the pavement all the way from the street to the far end of the Morettis’ winding drive. The flashy Corvettes and sleek Porsches accompany me all the way up to the backlit fountain at the center of the circular courtyard.
Few houses in Piovosa can rival mine. But as I stare up at the striking gothic architecture of Don Moretti’s home, I think we might have met our match. The towering monstrosity is something between a mansion and a castle in both size and shape, with countless spires and haunting gargoyles protecting the corners of each eave.
Music spills through the grand double doors at the top of the front steps, and lights illuminate the windows with a golden glow that accentuates the structure’s silent dignity. The elegant display of warmth somehow makes my mission all the more exciting.
Here, there appear to be no rules saying I must wait for an invitation. The atmosphere says all are welcome. And the thrill of meeting new people not preapproved by my father’s stuffy expectations fills me with a sense of giddy anticipation. This promises to be a night of adventure.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I comb my fingers through my thick mahogany locks, checking to make sure they’re in place after my rather brisk night stroll. Then I square my shoulders and climb up the sweeping front steps and into the home of my family’s sworn enemy.
The grand entry steals my breath away as I take in the open space with a marble staircase curving down either side. The back wall is made entirely of gilded mirrors that catch and reflect the sparkling lights bouncing off the decadent crystal chandelier.
Like an ornate version of a disco ball, the fixture dripping with jewels occupies the very center of the vaulted room. Visually, it’s stunning, with so many rainbow refractions glimmering from its countless angles that I can’t tell where the light starts or ends.
But what really catches my attention is the sheer number of bodies that fill the space, some dancing, some laughing, some standing close together in deep conversation.
Pulse quickening with the lively energy that envelops me, I stop to take it all in. I don’t quite know where to begin. I’m party crashing—there’s no doubt about that. But the distinct lack of bouncers or guards makes me think it doesn’t matter to anyone here.
“Has he spoken to you?” one girl asks to my left, her tone almost dreamy in its breathlessness.
“Leo Moretti? I wish,” her friend adds.
I glance in their direction to see three girls clustered together, their hair perfectly coiffed, dresses about as short as they can get without being scandalous, eyes scanning the room hungrily.
“I don’t need him to speak with me. I just want him to look my way.”
“Screw that. I want him to take me to bed. The man looks like a god, and I’ve heard he fucks like one too.”
My cheeks heat at the lewd topic of conversation the girls are holding right there in the middle of the crowded room. And I can’t help the juvenile giggle that bubbles up my throat. My father would never allow me to keep company with girls who would even think something like that, let alone say it.
And though I have no experience when it comes to men or the activities that go on between two people in a bedroom, it exhilarates me to think that I’m stepping outside of my safe little world to get a better understanding of this side of society.
Even if I have no clue where to go from here.
Stealing myself, I take several tentative steps toward the center of the room, hoping I don’t look too out of place. But I can’t help keeping my head on a swivel as I take in the luxurious decor and the lavish partygoers—it really does scream a sophistication my father has never once mentioned when talking about the Moretti heir.
“Are you lost?” someone asks in a sinfully smooth, masculine voice.
My heart skips a beat, and I turn to meet a pair of intelligent hazel eyes. The man before me is tall, well over six feet, with a sharp jawline darkened by the perfect amount of five-o’clock shadow.
Possibly the bouncer I was looking for, who stops gate crashers before they get too far into the hall?
But that’s not what wipes my usually quick words from my mind. It’s the fact that he might just be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
His black curls fall across his forehead in chaotic perfection. His broad shoulders fill out the mint-green dress shirt he’s rolled up to his elbows in a casual display of comfort. And his collar is unbuttoned just enough to show the hint of dark chest hair that tells me he’s several years my senior.
Dressed in only the finest brand names, his Italian leather shoes and black slacks crisp, clean, and tailored to perfection, he looks worthy of the front page of a magazine. And all together, the package gives him an air of silent confidence that says, without a doubt, he has the authority to end my night of fun before it’s even begun.
He looks down his proud nose, and a slow, subtle grin tells me he knows I shouldn’t be here. One dark eyebrow forms a sharp and artistic arch as I continue to stare at him, open-mouthed, at an utter loss for words.
“Did you come here with someone tonight?” His deep baritone makes my stomach quiver as his eyes shift to the door behind me.
