The Mafioso’s Promise : An Enemies to Lovers, Arranged Marriage Multicultural Sports Romance, page 1
The Mafioso’s Promise
THE FALLEN ANGELS ALLIANCE
BOOK ONE
JADE STYLES
Copyright 2024 by Jade Styles - All rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher.
All rights reserved.
Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.
This book contains graphic, sometimes gory violence coupled with plenty of steam and angst.
Reader discretion is advised.
Contents
Prologue
1. Lucas
2. Serafina
3. Lucas
4. Lucas
5. Lucas
6. Serafina
7. Serafina
8. Lucas
9. Serafina
10. Lucas
11. Serafina
12. Lucas
13. Lucas
14. Serafina
15. Serafina
16. Serafina
17. Lucas
18. Dominic
19. Lucas
20. Lucas
21. Serafina
22. Lucas
23. Serafina
24. Lucas
25. Serafina
26. Serafina
27. Serafina
28. Serafina
29. Lucas
30. Lucas
31. Lucas
32. Serafina
33. Lucas
34. Lucas
35. Serafina
36. Serafina
37. Dominic
38. Lucas
39. Lucas
40. Serafina
41. Serafina
42. Serafina
43. Serafina
44. Nora
45. Lucas
46. Serafina
47. Lucas
48. Lucas
49. Lucas
50. Dante
51. Lucas
52. Serafina
53. Serafina
54. Lucas
55. Serafina
56. Lucas
57. Lucas
58. Serafina
Epilogue
Prologue
LUCAS
"Lucas," my mother's voice, frail and cracked, breaks the silence of the sterile hospital room. Her hand, once strong enough to hold my entire world together, now feels like paper in mine. "Promise me something, mijo."
"Anything, mamá," I whisper, choking back the lump in my throat. The beeping machines echo her fading heartbeat, each sound a cruel reminder that time is running out.
"Promise to stay away from the gangs, the cartels. Oakland's underbelly. I sacrificed so much for you to live a clean life." Her eyes, still full of fire despite everything, locked onto mine. "It’s the least you can do for your dying mother."
"Te lo juro, mamá," I say, tears blurring my vision. "I swear, I won't get involved with them. I promise." My voice cracks, heavy with unspoken fears and regrets. "But you have to promise me something too."
"Qué quieres, hijo?" Her breath comes in shallow rasps as she asks me what I want, but her curiosity is piqued.
"Tell me who my father is, mamá," I grip her hand tighter. "I need to know."
"First, go grab a nurse, mi amor. I'm feeling a bit flushed," she replies, a hint of mischief playing on her lips.
"Claro, mamá," I agree, rushing out into the hallway. The fluorescent lights above buzz dimly, casting long shadows as I hurry to find help. The sterile smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint scent of despair that lingers in the air.
But when I return, nurse in tow, the room is eerily quiet. The machines have stopped their rhythmic beeping. I stand frozen in the doorway, my heart pounding in my chest. The nurse rushes past me and checks for a pulse, but her expression says it all. My mother is gone.
Tears spill down my cheeks as the reality sinks in. She's really gone. I collapse into a chair beside her bed, feeling like the weight of the world has been placed on my shoulders.
The nurse places a hand on my shoulder, offering words of comfort that I don't even hear. My mind is too busy trying to process this loss, this deep ache that fills every inch of me.
A part of me wants to blame myself for not getting help sooner, for not realizing how serious her condition was. But another part knows that this was inevitable. My mother had been battling cancer for years, and even with all the treatments and medications, we both knew she didn't have much time left.
Now all that’s left are all the promises, all the questions - vanished in the stillness that envelop the room. I clutch her lifeless hand, its warmth fading rapidly.
"She... she promised she'd tell me," I choke out, my body wracked with sobs. "Who my father is."
"Lucas, I'm so sorry," the nurse says again, but her sympathy can’t fill the void left by my mother's death. It can’t answer the questions that will now remain forever unanswered.
But maybe it’s for the best. How much more heartbreak can one person endure before breaking completely?
CHAPTER 1
Lucas
Ten years later:
Gloves up, I dance around Nora, light on my feet. She's grinning, that punk-rock spark in her eyes to go with the blue highlights against her mid-length black hair.
"Come on, abogada," I tease, jabbing the air. "Show me that legal left hook."
"Keep talking, patron," she quips back, ducking under a lazy swing. "I'll have you begging for a recess."
We dance around each other, a violent ballet—two childhood best friends who speak in jabs and hooks instead of words. I throw a one-two combo, and Nora counters with a smirk.
"Your honor," I pant, "I object to that last hit."
"Overruled!" she laughs, bobbing away.
She's fast, but I'm fueled by adrenaline.
Suddenly, the door to the gym creaks open. A draft whispers through the room, carrying with it a shift in the atmosphere. We both look toward the door, our fists still raised in anticipation of the other's next move. But mine drop to my sides as I take in the woman standing in the doorway.
She's stunning, with long black hair cascading over her shoulders and piercing green eyes that seem to see right through me. She's dressed in a tailored black suit that hugs her curves in all the right places, starkly contrasting our sweaty gym clothes. Nora and I exchange glances, silently acknowledging that this woman doesn't belong in a place like this.
"Watch your six, Lucas," Nora warns, feinting.
"Always do," I reply, but it's a lie. Because right now, all I watch is the beautiful woman who's quickly approaching my ring.
And then it happens.
Nora's fist rockets into my jaw—a powerful, unforeseen blow. The world blurs as I stumble, legs turning to water. The crowd gasps, a collective breath held.
"El patron is finally down!" Escapes someone in the audience.
My back meets canvas, stars exploding behind closed eyelids. As I blink my vision back to the real world, I see Nora standing over me; concern etched between triumphant blue eyes.
"Lucas? Are you okay?" she asks, offering a glove.
"Damn," I groan, accepting her help. "Didn't see that coming."
"Clearly," she chuckles, patting my shoulder. "Next time, don't let pretty girls distract you."
The gym erupts in cheers and whistles, a mix of shock and awe at the unexpected knockout. I shake my head, clearing cobwebs, a grin splitting my face despite it all.
"Next time," I promise, but we both know my focus isn't likely to improve—not with that beautiful girl standing just a few feet away from me, distracting me completely.
Bouncing back to my feet, I shoot Nora an appreciative nod. "I've taught you well."
"Yeah, yeah," she says with a wink. "Now go. I know you're dying to talk to her," lowering her voice enough this time so only the two of us can hear.
"Me, dying?" I quietly scoff, rubbing my jaw—not because it hurts, but to buy time, stall my racing heart. "Just a potential client, that's all."
"Uh-huh." She doesn't buy it, and neither do I.
Shoulders squared, I stride towards the mystery woman, trying to look more boxer than beat-up. Her green eyes track my approach, and I swear there's a storm brewing in them.
"Hey," I start, voice not as steady as I want. "I'm Lucas. You new here?"
"Sì," she replies curtly, her light Italian accent painting the word in colors of old country and warmth. "Serafina."
"Nice to meet you, Serafina." My tongue trips over the syllables, a clumsy dance of nerves. "You come to watch or to train?"
"Both, maybe." A corner of her lip quirks up, a hint of intrigue. "Your gym always this welcoming?"
"Only on days when I get knocked out." I laugh it off, hoping to spark more than polite interest.
"Good to know." She leans against the wall, arms crossed, a masterpiece framed by peeling paint and sweat-stained posters.
"Look, if you decide to train..." I clear my throat, "We'd be glad to have you here. And I'd—uh—I'd offer personal lessons."
"Is that so?" H
"Absolutely." I flash what I hope is a winning smile. "Half price for new customers. Consider it ... my way of making up for today's show."
"How generous," Nora's voice cuts in, full of mirth, as she strides over with a towel draped over her shoulder.
"Shut up, Nora," I grumble, but I can't help the grin.
"Sounds more like a sweetheart deal to me, Lucas." Nora winks at Serafina, who watches us, a hint of amusement in her guarded gaze. But I can see the blush creeping up her cheeks, letting me know that Nora's comment has affected her as much as it has me.
"Don't mind her. She's always looking to stir up trouble," I stand taller as I lock eyes with Serafina. "So, what do you say?"
"Take it, chica," Nora chimes in. "He's not so bad when he's not flat on his back."
"Thanks for the endorsement," I deadpan, rolling my eyes.
"Anytime, my friend." Nora punches my shoulder lightly before sauntering off.
"Maybe." Serafina pushes from the wall, steps close enough for me to catch a hint of lavender mixed with gunpowder—a scent as complex as the woman wearing it. "I'll think about it."
"Take your time," I say, but every fiber in me screams for her to stay.
She nods, her full lips pressed in a line of unreadable thoughts, then turns to leave. I watch her go, my mind already spinning plans for round two.
"Who was that?" Nora strolls up to me, her curiosity piqued by the mysterious angel.
"My future wife," I murmur, ensuring only she can hear me.
CHAPTER 2
Serafina
Pulses dance a rumba in my chest as I push through the gym door, Lucas' card a solid weight against my palm. The cool evening air does nothing to chill the flush on my face or slow my racing heart. I'm out, but the heat from his gaze lingers, branding me with every heavy step toward my car.
I slide the card into my pocket like a stolen treasure. My fingers tingle from the contact, and it's not just from the rough texture of the paper.
My white Maserati waits, sleek and silent — my momentary escape from a life that's more a cage than anything else. I click the fob and she chirps back at me, lights blinking a welcome. I slide into the driver's seat, smooth cream leather embracing me like a long-lost lover.
I pull out the business card once again. Gym Owner – a title that carries weight, much like the belts that hang on his gym walls, each a testament to his skill.
"Owner, huh?" I muse to myself, tracing the embossed letters. The card is simple, with no frills or fancy fonts.
His image flashes in my mind — that rugged jawline, the dark tousled hair that begs fingers to run through it. That rock-hard midsection that begs to be touched. Hell, even licked. And those grey eyes, damn, they're like hooks, pulling you into depths you know you should avoid. It's more than physical; there's a pull, an invisible thread tugging at something deep within me.
My mind's a whirlwind, images of Lucas' gym replaying like a highlight reel. Those belts — damn, they looked good on the wall. Symbols of power, strength... freedom. Each one tells a story, and I can't help but wonder about the fists that fought for them. About his fists.
I fire up the Quattroporte's engine. She purrs, a predator ready to pounce, and for a second, the sound drowns out the chaos in my head. I grip the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, feeling the connection to something tangible, something real.
This is the only way. I have to be my own protector. The constant attacks from the Fabietti family have made it clear that I can no longer rely on my family's power and influence to keep me safe. I must learn to protect myself, even if it goes against my family's wishes to stay hidden.
Out of harm's way.
Lucas is more than a pair of grey eyes I could get lost in; he's my ticket to survival. The best boxer in the city, they say. And I need to be the best to make it through the battles that come with my family name.
Whether I like it or not.
But before shifting my car into drive, my fingers dance over the screen of my phone, a waltz of necessity over want. His number is already saved — an act of rebellion or foresight, I'm not sure which. The message has to be just right, nothing that betrays the tremor in my hands or the pounding in my chest.
Serafina
Hey Lucas, this is Serafina. I'm interested in those one-on-one boxing lessons. Let me know your availability.
Send.
It's out there, floating in the digital ether, a plea wrapped in indifference.
I lock the phone before I can second guess the words. The Maseratis don't show weakness, especially not to men who have no part in our world. Even if his eyes lingered a little too long, even if his smile stirred something reckless deep within.
I throw the car into gear, and she leaps forward, responding to my touch like we're one being. As I drive away, streetlights streak by in a blur.
I don't get very far when, out of my peripheral vision, I catch the screen's glow as it springs to life with his reply, the tiny vibration against my palm sending a jolt straight to my heart. I let my car's system vocalize the text: "Tomorrow, 6 AM sharp. Don't be late, Serafina." Lucas's message is curt and professional, but my name at the end feels like a secret handshake.
I continue to drive, watching the city blur past me, a mosaic of shadow and light. I grip the steering wheel tighter, each turn taking me further from Lucas's gym – and closer to the life I'm chained to.
Numbers, figures, ledgers. That's where I've lived for as long as I can remember, in the cold precision of accounting for the family longshoreman business. It's a necessary aspect of laundering money from our less legitimate ventures. But numbers never screamed like my mother when they came rushing into our home without so much as a warning, didn't bleed like Papa's face. No, numbers don't teach you how to survive.
I dream of days when my life is consumed by simplicity. By plants. I imagine my hands in the soil, not bloodstained money. Fenestrated and variegated foliage, not vendettas. But dreams are a luxury, and I'm a Mancini – and I'll be dammed if I'm ever going to let someone make me feel as helpless as I did that day.
Tomorrow, I step into the ring. Lucas's world. Where fists speak louder than last names, where I can be just Serafina, not a pawn in a mafia chess game. Where my curves will do more than attract powerful men my family insist I marry. Where my not size-zero jeans have no place to be judged by people who make up their minds about me before they even get to know me.
I should be used to being looked at as a pawn in someone else's game. It's always been that way. Even in college, when someone found out my family had a little money, they changed how they treated me, as if I were a free meal ticket.
Had those individuals known who my family was, they would have never dared look my way. But I fought tooth and nail for my family to allow my college experience to be somewhat normal. Even if it meant lying to school friends about my family's real business. Even if it meant not being a part of school functions out of fear that someone might recognize them and, in turn, put us in harm's way.
A small part of me knew that this would be the only time in my life that I would ever have the chance to at least pretend to be normal, so I took it. And I'm glad I did.
The moment college was over, though, I got sucked back into the mafia world. Only this time, talks of me being the daughter who would one day have to marry into another powerful family for the greater good of the business were a daily conversation. For our family legacy to live on through me and my future children.
What I would give to live a life that's all mine. A life with the choice to do whatever I want. Which is another reason I have to learn to fight.
The sun dips low, painting the horizon in hues of orange and purple by the time I pull into my family's estate. My fingers drum against the steering wheel, an anxious rhythm to match the flutter in my chest. Excitement buzzes under my skin at the thought of tomorrow's lesson, mingling with a thread of trepidation. Lucas—my boxing coach, or so I must keep reminding myself.
No need for the skipped heartbeat when his name crosses my mind.
Stepping out of the car, I let the evening breeze kiss my heated cheeks. The scent of lavender hangs heavy in the air, a perfume meant to soothe. But it can't quite calm the storm within me—the whirlwind of emotions swirling deep within me. From the anxiety of keeping the boxing lessons a secret from my family to how my heart skips a beat whenever I think about a man I barely know.
