Trapped: A Dark Mafia Romance, page 1
TRAPPED
SINNERS OF BOSTON
BOOK 5
VANESSA WALTZ
Copyright © 2024 by Vanessa Waltz
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.
Cover by Kevin McGrath
Photography by Michelle Lancaster @lanefotograf
CONTENTS
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Content Warning
Delilah
1. Delilah
2. Santino
3. Delilah
4. Delilah
5. Delilah
6. Delilah
7. Santino
8. Delilah
9. Delilah
10. Delilah
11. Delilah
12. Delilah
13. Santino
14. Delilah
15. Delilah
16. Delilah
17. Santino
18. Delilah
19. Delilah
20. Delilah
21. Delilah
22. Delilah
23. Santino
24. Delilah
25. Santino
26. Delilah
27. Santino
28. Delilah
29. Santino
30. Delilah
31. Delilah
32. Delilah
33. Delilah
34. Santino
35. Delilah
36. Santino
37. Delilah
38. Delilah
39. Delilah
40. Santino
41. Delilah
Epilogue
Chapter One
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Thanks for Reading!
Acknowledgments
Also by Vanessa Waltz
About the Author
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CONTENT WARNING
CONTAINS SPOILERS
This story contains themes that some readers may find upsetting: dubious consent, possessive behavior, sexual exploitation, birth control tampering, alcohol addiction, violence, emotional abuse (from villain), and murder. It also has kinks like knife play and breeding sex.
DELILAH
I hurried down the church steps.
The wind kicked up my dress, the long train billowing toward the bright sky. A couple strolling down the street stopped, staring at me. Faint organ music played behind me from the church I’d just fled. My now ex-fiancé stood inside, waiting at the altar. In a few minutes, he’d realize something was wrong.
I reached the bottom and raced down the sidewalk past the Just Married BMW decorated with streamers and white balloons. As I scanned the street, panic gripped my throat. Santino’s friend was supposed to be here. Where was my escape?
A car pulled onto the tree-lined street, halting in front of me.
The invisible hand on my throat tightened as a man in a jean jacket exited the driver’s side and opened the door. He gestured with his head.
“Get in, Miss Romanov. Santino sent me.”
I’d never seen him before, but I barely glanced at him as I stuffed myself in the backseat. I seized the handle and yanked. It didn’t close—damned dress. I opened the door again, yanking the fabric inside. Then I slammed it shut.
“Name’s V,” said the man as he got behind the wheel.
“Delilah.” I buckled my seatbelt. “Get me the hell out of here.”
The car accelerated, knocking my head back. A black fear swept through me as the church doors opened. Men in suits spilled out, one of them wearing the white lily boutonniere I’d picked from a catalog.
I raised my hand in a mock salute.
Goodbye, Dimitri.
ONE
DELILAH
FOUR WEEKS EARLIER
I sat on a barstool, my gaze glued to a man I’d only heard rumors about. I wasn’t the type to stalk a man. It felt weird, but my situation called for desperate measures. Men hunted women all the time. At least I wasn’t planning to hurt him.
Santino Costa had no idea I’d been watching him for the past hour. From his corner of the VIP section, he lounged in a chair, his drink barely touched. His face was hard to make out in the dim club light, but his magnetic presence lured more than one woman to his table. His bodyguards hung around him, radiating menace.
“Need a refill?” asked the redheaded bartender.
“Yeah, please.”
I pushed my empty glass toward her, looking away from Santino as a girl my age prepared another vodka on the rocks.
“Do you know Santino Costa?”
She smiled. “A little.”
“You dated him?”
“He doesn’t date. Just flings. Which worked for me until it didn’t.” She sighed and garnished the cocktail, sliding it in front of me. “He wasn’t interested in taking things further, so I moved on.”
“So, he’s a player.”
The bartender leaned in, her red curls spilling over her shoulder. “Player is putting it nicely. He doesn’t take no for an answer. Knows what he wants and gets it. If you want a serious relationship, I’d keep my distance.”
“What does he want?”
A pitying smile spread across her face. “A girl to call his for a while. He’ll make you feel like the only woman in the world but by sunrise? You’ll be yesterday’s news.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy.”
She arched a brow.
I wasn’t after love, just a man dangerous enough to protect me from my fiancé. I’d spent weeks studying the Costas, no easy feat considering they were the most powerful mafia family in Boston. I’d done my homework, weeding out the married guys first. I had no interest in becoming anyone’s side piece. Then I sorted through the single ones by rank and status. I hated it, but I had no other way out.
“What do you think he’d say if I asked him for a favor?”
Her brows shot up. “Depends on what it is. But trust me, nothing comes free with Santino.”
Not surprising. I’d grown up around men like him. They never gave without expecting something in return, and the price was always steep. But if I was going to survive, I had to be willing to pay. Staying with Dimitri was no longer an option.
I glanced at the broad-shouldered silhouette bathed in shadows. I had to make my move soon.
Glasses clinked as the bartender loaded a dishwasher. She closed the door, the snap jolting through me. Her wary gaze settled on mine again.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re planning, but be careful. He isn’t easy to walk away from.”
I forced a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Walking away was the least of my problems.
I took out my phone, scanning the list of missed calls from one number. Dimitri was supposed to be at a poker game with his friends. He must’ve found out I’d ditched my guards because he’d left me a string of colorful messages.
Dimitri
Did you forget who you belong to?
Don’t make me come find you.
This is your last warning.
Just wait until you get home.
I rolled my eyes and paid for my drink. Soon, I wouldn’t have to deal with this asshole. My fingers shot off a quick text, and I slid off the barstool and headed for the exit.
I drove back to Providence.
I lived in a duplex owned by Dimitri. Months ago, I’d moved in with my father’s encouragement. The ceilings were low and it was thirteen hundred square feet, small compared to my father’s mansion. Barely any sunlight touched the dreary walls. It felt like a dungeon.
Ivan, one of my fiancé’s henchmen, waited in the driveway. He bristled when I got out of the car. It probably stung that I’d outsmarted him again. I hurried past him and approached the front door. I dug out my keys and unlocked it.
Pushing it open, I stepped inside. My heart thudded as my gaze swept over Dimitri’s bland furniture. My breathing hitched as I dropped my purse onto the kitchen counter and dashed into the living room.
Oh no.
Racks of clothes I’d collected over the years—sourced from estate sales, thrift shops, and online auctions—were ripped to shreds.
All of it.
Metal stands and hangers were scattered on the floor. My hands shook as I kneeled, running my fingers over strips of ruined fabric. The air smelled faintly of something burnt. My throat tightened.
I rushed to the bedroom, praying he hadn’t destroyed everything. I threw open the closet door, choking back a cry. The shelves holding boxes of carefully preserved vintage fabrics, accessories, and handbags were bare. Only a few tattered pieces lay in the corner, half crumpled as though he hadn’t cared enough to finish his destruction.
A deep anger settled in my chest. The hours I’d spent building this collection, dreaming of my boutique, my escape, my future—all of it, gone in one vicious sweep.
And I couldn’t do anything about it.
Because I’d agreed to marry Dimitri.
It had always been about pleasing the Pakhan of the Bratva. My father had orchestrated this engagement like a business deal. He made it sound like an honor. Marrying Dimitri would keep the family strong, reinforce alliances, and cement my place in
But I hated Dimitri.
I hated the way he looked at me. How he flaunted me to his friends but never respected me behind closed doors. How he used my father’s power as a leash.
The door creaked, and footsteps clicked over the hardwood floors. Dimitri walked in, wearing a smug smile. Dressed in a tailored suit, he didn’t bother looking at the mess he’d created. His cold eyes shot at me.
“You’re home,” he said, as if he hadn’t just demolished everything that mattered to me.
“What did you do?” My voice cracked, but I stood up.
“I did us both a favor. This—” he gestured lazily to the empty racks, “was a distraction.”
“A distraction?”
“You’ve spent more time on this bullshit than on your fiancé.”
Heat bubbled in my throat. “This was my collection. It was my future. My boutique—”
His mouth twisted, and he waved his hand. “Drop the little girl dreams and start acting like a woman. Your only job is being my wife.”
His venomous words were wrapped in velvet. He always made his control sound so reasonable, but he destroyed anything that gave me independence. He wanted me to rely on him.
So did my father.
Dimitri is perfect for you. He is a very strong man, he’d said months ago. You’ll learn to be grateful for that. You’re not some American girl who gets to run wild, Delilah. You marry for the family. Dimitri knows how to keep his house in order, and you will be part of that.
My father respected men like Dimitri, who saw love as something to conquer. A good husband wasn’t measured by kindness but by how well he controlled his wife. Turning me into a demure Bratva wife had been my father’s plan for years, but I’d never been the obedient type. I fooled myself into thinking I could embrace it, hoping to buy a fraction of my father’s love. It was a terrible mistake I couldn’t take back.
Dimitri stepped closer. “You didn’t think I’d let you go through with that ridiculous little shop, did you?”
“I never asked for your permission.”
His lips curved. “I don’t need you to ask. I make the decisions now.”
“You don’t decide anything for me!”
“The sooner you accept that I’m in charge, the better off you’ll be.”
“These were one of a kind. Irreplaceable.”
“Maybe next time you’ll answer my calls.”
My eyes burned. “You had no right. They were mine.”
“Nothing is yours,” he said smoothly. “Not the slutty clothes you wear. Not even you. Don’t forget that, kotyonok.”
I fucking hated him.
Dimitri smiled. “You’ll thank me later.”
He patted my cheek and left the room.
I stood in the wreckage of my dreams, my stomach boiling. The tears I held back dissolved. Dimitri thought he’d won, that he’d crushed me, but he was so wrong. Destroying my boutique didn’t break me—it only lit a fire.
I couldn’t live like this. He would strip me of everything I cared about. I needed to escape, and I knew exactly how.
Santino Costa.
He wasn’t a good man either, but he could free me from Dimitri’s grip. Tomorrow night, I’d go to him. I didn’t care what I had to do. Santino was my way out, and I’d trade my soul to take it.
I’d turn into a woman he liked—beautiful, willing, and in need of something only he could provide. Then I’d offer him the one thing he couldn’t resist:
Me.
TWO
SANTINO
Vitale shoved the man forward.
Joe caught himself on the back of the chair, wincing. His shirt was torn. His lip, busted. Blood dripped onto his chin. Pathetic.
I’d seen that before too many times. My father used to stumble through the front door after losing everything at the poker tables. He’d head straight for the bottle. The electricity bill would sit on the kitchen table, unpaid, while my mother cried in the bedroom.
The sound of the door slamming meant my father was home. I’d take my little brother, Kill, into the closet and hide while my oldest brother, Romeo, took the brunt of my father’s rage. When Dad sobered up, he’d promise the big score was around the corner. It never was.
This guy was another loser who thought he could talk his way out of a hole he’d dug himself into.
I watched Joe mop up his face. “You remind me of my father.”
Joe perked up. “Oh yeah?”
“That’s not a compliment.”
Joe said nothing. He shifted in his seat like he knew the noose was tightening.
I looked him over. “You know what your problem is? You think I’ll forget that you fucked up. Somehow, you’ll convince me that things will get better. This is just a rough patch. I’ve heard that before, Joe. I grew up listening to it.”
Joe swallowed hard, but I wasn’t done.
“My old man used to come home like you. Face fucked up. Disheveled clothes. Talking about how he’d almost won thousands of dollars. Always the same shit. You know where he ended up?”
Joe paled, his head shaking.
I leaned back again. “I’m not in the business of giving second chances. Make this right, or I’ll take everything.”
If I learned anything from my dad, it was to never bet on people who couldn’t pay their debts. This was my favorite part of the job. When it dawned on them that it didn’t matter, the game was over, and I held all the cards.
I didn’t have to raise my voice for this guy to sweat bullets. I broke men like him, and they still came back to kiss the ring. That’s what it meant to be Santino Costa.
“I just need ten more,” Joe begged. “I have an opportunity lined up. Luxury goods. Double the investment, I swear. Just give me a little more time.”
“What’s your backup plan when your deal goes sideways?”
He wiped blood off his cheeks. “It won’t.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’ll—I’ll get it. I’ve never been late before, have I?”
”No, but I don’t trust people who bet on things they can’t control.”
His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. I watched him squirm, making sure he understood how thin the ice was beneath him.
“You want ten grand, fine,” I said after a long pause. “But it’ll cost you.”
He blinked. “How much?”
“Twenty points.”
Joe’s face fell. “Twenty points? Mr. Costa, that’s—”
“That’s the deal. Twenty points on top of what you already owe. You miss one payment, and I own everything. Your business, your car, all of it. Take it or leave it.”
He hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded.
Desperate fool.
I smiled, standing up. “You’ll have the money by tomorrow.”
Giorgio shouted.
What now?
I glanced at the velvet rope separating the VIP section. A beautiful girl walked past my bodyguard, ignoring his shouts to come back. Didn’t even glance at him.
Giorgio caught up to her.
I held up a hand. “It’s okay. Let her through.”
She wrenched out of his grip, smirking, and marched toward me. Confidence poured off her in waves. She knew exactly where she was going. A woman like her didn’t need permission to jump the line. Her looks were the ticket. Her bold eyes locked on me. They grabbed me by the balls.
I sat up straighter.
She stopped in front of me, beside the tool I’d made a deal with. I waved him off, and he disappeared. She wore a tight gray skirt that hugged her curves, cutting off above mid-thigh. Her legs seemed to go on forever. A black belt cinched her waist, accentuating her hourglass figure. But it was the top that got me. A polo shirt, of all things—something that would’ve been conservative, except she’d undone the buttons to tease her cleavage.
“I need to speak to you. Privately.”
Her frigid tone caught my attention. I leaned forward, taking her in. Most women who came through here wanted money. They’d flash me their tits, smile, and try to sit on my lap. She acted like she already had what she needed.
