Prince of Carnage: An enemies-to-lovers, mafia romance (Boston Bloodlines Book 4), page 1
Prince of Carnage
Boston Bloodlines
Book Four
Ivy Wild
Contents
Author’s Note
Playlist
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
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
One Small Request…
Connect with Ivy
Also by Ivy
You are beautiful
Copyright © 2024 by Ivy Wild
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.
To my sister
Listen up -
This is my story and it’s pretty messed up. Some shitty stuff happens that could be triggering for some people. So, if you’re not into that sort of thing, stop reading now or go look at the warnings on Ivy’s website instead of reading it, being triggered, and leaving a shit review.
We good?
-Constantino
Read trigger warnings here
Playlist
"Shut Up and Dance" - WALK THE MOON
"Stubborn Love" - The Lumineers
“Sedona” - Houndmouth
“I Will Wait" - Mumford & Sons
"Ho Hey" - The Lumineers
“Something Good Can Work" - Two Door Cinema Club
"All These Things That I've Done" - The Killers
“First” - Cold War Kids
“Love Like Ghosts” - Lord Huron
“Home" - Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros
Listen on Spotify
Time is
Too slow for those who Wait,
Too swift for those who Fear,
Too long for those who Grieve,
Too short for those who Rejoice,
But for those who Love,
Time is not.
— Henry van Dyke, Jr.
Chapter One
The stench of sweat and blood fills the air as I stand at the center of a street fight. My opponent's breath is ragged, his eyes wild with fear, but he won't back down. The crowd around us roars, hands waving money and booze like it's their last night on earth. The chaos of it all makes my heart pound and my muscles tense in anticipation. A lone street lamp flickers above us, casting shadows that dance and twist across our bodies.
My opponent lunges in, throwing a sloppy right hook that I easily counter, smirking as I do so. I'm only toying with him to keep the crowd happy. There's a lot of money riding on this fight lasting a certain amount of time, and I intend to collect every cent of it.
"Come on, you can do better than that!" I taunt my opponent, dodging another clumsy swing.
I look over at him - some young kid, maybe 21 at best, with a lot of energy but no formal training. His movements are sloppy, and he's got gaps wider than a whore's legs on payday.
Easy prey.
And, easy money.
I always bet on myself, and I always win.
It's pretty fucked up that I'm even in this situation. Dad got himself thrown in jail because he was too busy chasing young tail to see that her father and new business partner was screwing him over. When the feds showed up, the bastard folded like a cheap tent. Now, he's rotting in a federal prison for the next twenty years.
Primo, my eldest brother, thought he could take over the family business after Dad's arrest. Sure, he's older by age, but we're all first-born sons of legitimate marriages – Primo, me, Giovanni, and Teddy. Any one of us had the right to take the reins. Primo wasn't fit to lead, and I knew it. I've known it since we were kids. He cares too much about what people think. When you run the sort of business our family runs, you can't give two flying fucks what people are saying behind your back, as long as they're not conspiring against you. Something Primo completely missed because he was too wrapped up in his own sob story.
I saw it, though. Fucker was so blind to all of it that he couldn't even see that the person closest to him, the one giving him advice, had turned against him. There's no use trusting advice from people when you're in the mafia. There is no honor among thieves and anything they tell you is going to be entirely self serving. Everyone thinks people in the Mafia live by some code, but that's bullshit. Sure, there's a code. And, they change it to suit their present needs.
Come to think of it, Mafiosos are a lot like lawyers. Maybe Primo can learn something from his new wife.
I stepped in before shit hit the fan. It resulted in me killing a made man, though. Another inane rule that only applies some of the time.
Could I have explained myself?
Maybe.
Would they have listened?
Hell, no.
The entire family's got a stick so far up their ass it's coming out their ears. They were too stubborn, too stuck in their ways. Maybe I should have just let the fucker kill Primo, but that would have been another hit to the family name and legacy. Something I seem to be the only one to care about.
Better to just take care of it myself and figure out what to do after.
"Is that all you got?" I ask, catching my opponent's fist with ease and twisting his arm back.
The pain in the guy's face almost makes me feel sorry for him. Almost. This fight is nothing compared to the battles I've faced in my life. At my age maybe I should have figured it all out by now, instead of fighting some punk kid in a back alley for money. But, life doesn't always work out the way you want it to.
I learned that lesson when I was just a child.
"Enough playing around," I mutter under my breath, preparing to end this fight.
I deliver a swift uppercut, sending my opponent reeling backward. He crumbles to the ground as the crowd erupts in cheers and jeers.
Taking advantage of my opponent's disorientation, I take a one-two step and land a solid punch right to the kid's jaw, mirroring the sloppy hook he threw earlier. Except this time, it was done right.
Maybe by seeing me do it, he can learn a thing or two. Probably not, though. There are no rounds in this fight; it's just fight until you pass out or die.
And that works for me.
I hate this shithole place I'm in. I thought my father had legitimate contacts in Argentina, but that turned out to be a lie. What he had were smugglers and a name that's as common as dirt on this continent. It didn't get me anywhere.
I don't even know what country I'm in right now, but each one is as bad as the next.
It's hard to travel around when most of your assets are tied up in legitimate enterprises. That's the one thing the mafia is good at: laundering money.
Except, now I can't get at it because if I did, it would give away my position, and there's a lot of people who want me dead right now. So, I have to make my own way. Which is fine. I'm more than capable of doing so.
I gotta give the kid credit. He tries to get back up to his feet. The people near him are as dumb as he is, though. They help him stand. He really should just stay down. It'd be safer for him, because I'm not about to hold back. As the seconds tick away, I manage to catch a glimpse of someone's watch. Perfect. I've drawn this fight out long enough. Now it's time to end it.
I move in to finish him.
In a blur of calculated violence, I deliver a series of brutal blows, each one connecting with a sickening crunch. The kid's eyes roll back in his head as his body crumples to the floor. The crowd erupts in a mixture of cheers and boos, some clearly thinking I went overboard. Others curse in whatever language they speak in this godforsaken place.
I don't give a shit about any of it. I don't even give a shit about my own life. Maybe that's why I chose fighting as a way to make end's meet. I keep hoping there's someone out there who can put all this to rest. But, so far, the entire world seems to filled with pussies.
There's really not much to live for these days. I often wonder what the point of it all even is.
I grab my bag and make my way through the crowd, their bodies parting before me like frightened sheep. Fear and reverence are hard to distinguish sometimes, but I kn
"Money," I snarl, approaching the bookie – a greasy, unattractive man with a face only a mother could love. He sneers at me and spits on the floor, as if that's supposed to signify his refusal to pay up. I chuckle bitterly and swing at him, landing a punch to his temple. He crumples to the ground, unconscious.
People around me gasp, some taking a step back, others whispering, but I don't care. I rifle through his pockets, grabbing his wallet and all the cash he has on him – a hefty sum. It's probably more than what I was owed, but that's his fault.
We all make our choices in this life, and we all need to live by their consequences.
With nowhere to sleep and no desire for rest, even though it's about two in the morning, I head to a local bar. The shithole of a neighborhood is good for something – it understands that people want to drink a lot and at all hours to forget that they're here.
The bar is barely lit, crowded with lost souls seeking solace in the bottom of a glass. A few guys sit hunched over a table, nursing their drinks, while another lies passed out in the corner. The only redeeming quality of this place is the bartender – a pretty, Hispanic woman with dark curly hair.
As I walk up to her, she flashes me a warm smile. "What can I get you?"
"I'd like to have you," I reply, returning the smile.
It's been a few weeks since I've had a good release. That's not to say that I haven't had any, but none of them have been particularly memorable. Even women seem to bore me these days, but there's something about the chase that I do love. Maybe it's the hope that they'll end up being worth it.
I'm always disappointed, though.
"Sorry, I'm not on the menu," she retorts, unfazed by my advances.
I chuckle and am about to say that I'm not against hunting for my dinner when my phone buzzes in my pocket. She walks off to fetch my drink, and I pull out the device. My eyes blink in surprise as I look at the sender. It's Teddy, my youngest brother. His message is simple, but I know it can't mean good news.
We should talk.
Chapter Two
I sit at the bar, nursing a whiskey that burns my throat with every sip. I can't believe I'm back in Boston. At least South America was warm. This godforsaken place is a fucking freezer in the winter. Why people continue to live here is beyond me.
I'm risking my life by being here. I don't know the amount, but I know there's a bounty on my head. Hell, a lot of people would relish the idea of killing me just to say they got a Maldonado. We aren't exactly sitting at the popular table anymore.
But Teddy's plea for help was too obvious to ignore. Giovanni and Primo, both idiots, left him in charge, knowing full well he wasn't up for the challenge. He had always been the smartest one among us, realizing early on that power and control came with a price he wasn't willing to pay. Teddy was always such a soft soul, even growing up. Him and I were at each other's throats a lot, but he's about the only one I can stand among the four of us.
Including myself.
The dive bar around me is a testament to Boston's underbelly—the smell of stale beer and sweat clings to the air, mixing with the faint scent of cigarette smoke. The low hum of conversations competes with the tinny sound of an old jukebox playing classic rock tunes. Yellow lights cast eerie shadows on the cracked leather booths, giving the place a sinister atmosphere.
"Another round?" the bartender asks, a gruff man with a scruffy beard and a stained apron.
"Sure," I say, swirling the last of my whiskey before downing it. My eyes scan the room, taking in the mismatched clientele—bikers in worn leather jackets, businessmen with loosened ties, and women with too much makeup and not enough self-respect. They all blend together in a twisted mosaic of desperation and debauchery.
"Here you go," the bartender places another glass of whiskey in front of me, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light.
"Thanks," I reply, raising the glass to my lips as I brace myself for the burn that's about to follow. This city, this bar, and even this whiskey feel like a trap I can't escape.
But, to be fair, my entire life feels like that lately.
My gaze drifts lazily across the room. This bar is well into Westies territory. I know it's dangerous for me to be here. The Irish and the Italians are pretty much at war now. Me crucifying two men in one of their cathedrals probably didn't help smooth relations, but what else are you going to do on a Tuesday evening?
It's in this moment that the door swings open, allowing a gust of cold air to invade the warmth of the bar. A man saunters in, his eyes scanning the room before landing on me. He's tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a scuffed leather jacket over an equally worn-out t-shirt. His sandy hair is slicked back, revealing a face with sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline, marred only by a hint of stubble. It's obvious he knows me, but I'm struggling to place him.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath, taking another sip of my whiskey.
He makes his way toward me with purpose, his two equally large goons flanking him like a pair of menacing shadows. I can't shake the feeling that things are about to go sideways, but I've never been one to back down from a challenge.
"Are you Tino?" he asks, his voice dripping with contempt. That's the name I give to people when I don't want them knowing who I really am.
"Who's asking?" I reply, trying to buy time as I rack my brain for any hint of recognition.
"Did you defile my sister?" he snaps, his face reddening with anger.
And then it clicks—a family photo of the last girl I'd bedded.
"Defile is a strong word," I retort, smirking despite the danger. "If you mean 'did you fuck my sister because she was begging for your cock?' then my answer would have to be 'yes.'"
"You piece of shit," he snarls, lunging forward to grab my shirt.
My instincts kick in and I dodge his grasp. "Come on then," I taunt him, my voice low and dangerous. "Let's see what you've got."
With a smirk, I dodge his second clumsy attempt at grabbing me, spinning to the side and laughing in his face. "That all? No wonder your sister was so desperate for something better."
"Shut up!" he roars, his face crimson with rage as his two goons step forward, fists clenched.
"Aw, did I hurt your feelings?" I taunt, weaving between their lumbering swings and landing quick jabs on each of them. As they stumble back, I continue to mock the main guy. "You know, she was pretty forgettable in bed. Barely worth the effort, really."
"Enough!" the main guy shouts, his voice cracking under the strain of his fury. The tension in the bar crescendos as other patrons begin to notice the brewing fight and edge away from the confrontation.
I can feel my heart racing, the thrill of danger coursing through my veins. My thoughts are a whirlwind, but beneath it all, there's a quiet voice that wonders if maybe I've taken this too far. But I shove that thought aside, focusing instead on the fight and the adrenaline fueling me.
"Come on," I challenge him, watching as he grits his teeth and lunges at me again. This time, however, I don't dodge. Instead, I catch his fist, twisting his arm behind his back and forcing him to his knees. I lean in close and whisper, "You should be thanking me. Not many men would fuck something so ugly. I showed her the best time she's ever going to have. But, then again, I was really drunk."
"Get off me!" he snarls, struggling against my grip. But before I can reply, one of his goons catches me off guard, landing a heavy blow to my side.
"Shit," I mutter through gritted teeth, releasing the main guy and stepping back to reassess the situation. They're angry and sloppy, but their sheer size and strength make them dangerous opponents.
"Enough!" the main guy bellows, clambering to his feet and pulling a gun from his waistband. He aims it directly at me. The room falls deathly silent, all eyes on us as my heart skips a beat. Shit just got real.
Which is perfect.
A normal person who valued their life would try and deescalate the situation. Maybe put their hands up in surrender and apologize. But, I'm not that guy, and I couldn't give two shits about my life these days.
So, I let out a booming laugh and say, "Don't tempt me with a good time."
"Should've known when to quit, Maldonado," he sneers, his finger tightening on the trigger. It should bother me that he knows who I am, but I'm too far gone at this point. Wrapped up in the scent of violence, the feel of adrenaline coursing through my veins, and the pounding of my heart against my chest.
