Ruthless Possession: A Dark Mafia Forced Marriage Romance (Dark Enemies Book 1), page 1
Ruthless Possession
Dark Enemies Book One
Zoe Delaney
Ruthless Possession (Dark Enemies)
Copyright © 2023 Zoe Delaney (Jen Katemi)
All rights reserved
First Edition
Published by Flourish Books
Edited by Lindsey Loucks
Cover design by Covers by Combs
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
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
Ruthless Betrayal
About the Author
Books by Zoe Delaney
1
“Weak men wait for opportunities. Strong men make them.”
Orison Swett Marden
Rio
I live for the business. I kill for the business.
Everyone says I’m an emotionless monster. And they’re right.
That’s why Danelli’s standing in front of me now, delivering the news I’ve been waiting for.
My second-in-charge pushes his dark hair back out of his eyes. “We found the missing Carlotti girl. You were right all along, Boss. She’s alive.”
To hide our conversation, the thrum of DJ music, muted by the soundproofing in the offices of my club, rises up through the exotic African hardwood flooring, the background noise and hum of the crowd one of the advantages of the club’s location.
I crave those sounds when I’m not in the office. They mask the emptiness inside me; the space where my heart should be. And the sophisticated women gracing the dance floor below provide endless fodder for my sexual appetites.
Most of them will do just about anything to spend a night with me… Gregorio Agosti, head of the combined Agosti-Carlotti crime syndicate.
All of them discover, too late, that my appetites are dark and rarely sated in a way that brings pleasure without the pain.
I stare at my second who has just delivered the golden opportunity I’ve been waiting for. I’ve been looking for Bianca Carlotti for the past seven years.
Mafia princess.
Loose end.
One I need to eliminate.
I don’t trust myself to speak without betraying my excitement, so instead, I simply hold out my hand for the file clutched in Danelli’s fist.
Emotion is a weakness in our world. My position is not so set in stone that I can afford to show even a hint of anything other than what they all expect: coldness. Dispassion.
But the photo on the front of the file Danelli hands me is not what I expect.
The woman has long dark hair, not immaculately styled but instead gathered into some kind of messy knot atop her head. Her brown eyes are crinkled at the edges, because the photographer obviously snapped her mid-laugh. A wide mouth with generous lips and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose give her an air of innocence.
She’s wearing no makeup that I can discern, and her T-shirt above the jeans is gray and almost shapeless.
Is this really her?
Not that she would be aware of her heritage, necessarily, but surely, if it is the Carlotti girl, something of her birthright must remain. She looks nothing like the women who inhabit my world.
“Are you sure you got the right woman?”
Danelli flinches at my frosty tone, his shadowed eyes flicking to the photo in my now-clenched fist and his skin not tan enough to hide a sudden pallor. He should flinch. If his team got this wrong and raised my hopes for nothing, there will be dire consequences.
“Yes, Boss. A hundred percent. We took some of her hair and swiped her toothbrush. The DNA came back a match. It’s her.”
I turn away and pour a whiskey into one of the crystal tumblers from the antique set behind my desk, then take a couple of sips while I flip through the rest of the file and process the information therein.
Current alias: Bree Walker.
Current address: Franklin Park.
Place of work: Lots of Paws Animal Rescue Center.
A short bark of laughter escapes me. Not far from where she would’ve ended up if she’d stayed in the life she was born to. Only, she’d have been dealing with human animals instead.
Danelli’s dark eyebrows lower. “You want her dead, Boss?”
I rest the tumbler against my lips, staring down at my desktop. Elimination of this final loose end would be the quickest and easiest option, but something stays my order.
I frown, not understanding my own motives.
Maybe I want to meet her before I have her killed.
Maybe I want to see if the innocence in her eyes is real. For her sake, I hope it’s not.
Innocence brings out the worst in me.
“Not yet,” I say slowly. Carefully. “Grab her and bring her to me. Do it before sundown tomorrow.”
Bree
Clubs are not my scene, but it seems like Shelley’s not going to take no for an answer.
“Bree, you have to come out with us tonight. It’s your birthday. You’ve got no choice, girl!”
Shelley waggles her fingers in my face as we wait for Dave to lock up. The evening staff have already clocked in, but they’ll go in and out the back entrance. The front is locked up tight every afternoon at four, when the rescue shelter closes to the public.
Which means I don’t have any reason not to take up Shelley’s invitation to celebrate my quarter century with espresso martinis.
“We can really dress up for once,” she says, nudging Dave as he joins us on the sidewalk. “You coming too? Bree’s twenty-five today. Tell her. She can’t just go home and sit on the couch with a book like she always does.”
Dave spears me with a look that seems unusually serious for a guy who values laid-back quiet time above all else. “You should do something other than work all the time, Bree. It isn’t healthy.”
“Ah…” I blink at the unexpected comment from someone I thought was just as introverted as me. “Don't you hate clubs and the night scene as much as I do? Traitor!”
He grins at me, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll go if you do.”
I release a sigh, but I’ve already decided. What the hell, why not? The incident with the spiked drink was three years ago now.
Besides, there's something in Dave's expression when he stares at me. Something new that gives me a gentle squiggle in my belly and makes me want to explore it further. “Okay. I guess you’re both right. It’ll be good for me to get out for once. I mean, twenty-five is pretty momentous, isn’t it? All downhill from here, or so I've heard.”
We’re all still laughing when a sleek black car mounts the curb and pulls to a stop beside us.
“What the…” Dave drags both me and Shelley back out of its path, as two of the doors pop open and guys who look like twin gangsters jump out.
They’re both wearing suits and have dark sunglasses jammed on their faces, despite the fact that the November weather is overcast and ready to drizzle.
But it isn’t the redundant shades that capture and hold my attention.
It’s the big black guns in their hands.
My mouth drops open, and my heart shoots up into my throat.
“Holy shit.” The expletive leaves my lips involuntarily, and I stumble into Shelley, who clutches at my arm.
She's obviously just as terrified as me.
Is this some kind of attack on the animal shelter?
They don’t look like activists. They look like caricatures of criminals. Really freaking scary ones.
Is it a daylight robbery?
My brain is going a million miles a minute, trying to figure out who they are and what they may want, and whether me and my two work colleagues are about to end up dead.
One of the thugs looks at the other. “Which is it?”
“Dark hair.” The second one gestures at me.
Oh, hell. Shelley’s a redhead, and Dave is a tousled blond.
Despite the guns, I open my mouth to scream, but one of the thugs shoves his hand roughly across my face, then picks me up as easily as if I'm a child.
Someone inside the car must pop the trunk, because I barely have time to struggle before I
I’m being kidnapped?
The trunk muffles Dave and Shelley’s yelling and screaming on the outside, then a sharp pop, pop, pop sound strangles my voice and sends a wave of nausea rushing through me at the sudden silence from outside.
Oh my God oh my God oh my God…
Did they just kill my friends?
I realize I’m gasping and sobbing, and I wrap my arms across my middle, trying to hold in the panic.
This has to be some kind of sick joke.
A birthday prank that will end any minute, and result in me drinking a whole shit-ton of whatever cocktail gets handed to me to come down from the adrenaline rush.
It has to be a joke. This can’t be real.
The car takes off, and I bump my head on something as we crunch down, presumably off the curb.
I hope that crunch broke something underneath the car. I hope they leak so much oil the cops pull them over.
Cops. A thought penetrates my fog of panic. I recall seeing something on TV once about punching out a taillight if you ever find yourself in the unlikely situation where you’re kidnapped and shoved in a car trunk.
Because, you know, facing that situation is so likely.
I hold back a burst of hysterical laughter, and shuffle my way to the back of the space, feeling for the taillight… There it is.
I make a fist and start to punch, realizing quickly I don't have enough strength. I need to kick it out.
I scream again, releasing all the fear of my situation, then find I can’t stop screaming.
The vehicle swerves and then screeches to a halt. Before I can kick at the taillight, the lid opens, and the same guy who picked me up leans in, staring at me. “Shut the fuck up.”
I don't even think, just launch at him with my foot, getting him square in the face.
He reels back, and then rushes forward again, the gun suddenly appearing in his hand. “You fucking little whore. You’ll pay for that, bitch.”
I freeze, staring at the tiny black hole as he shoves the weapon right up in my face. I’ve never seen a gun in real life, let alone been this close to one, until today.
It’s all I can do to stop my teeth clattering as I fight to keep from losing it.
Without warning, he clicks a lever—the safety? And then he hits me with the barrel, right across my left cheek. I fall backward into the trunk space, stunned.
His twin goon steps up next to him, carrying a big roll of gray duct tape.
“This’ll shut her up till we get there,” he says, his tone annoyed.
Oh no. Duct tape means rape. Death. No escape. The thoughts roll around my brain in a loop, and I begin to thrash and punch, heedless of the gun, but it's no use.
One holds me down while the other tapes up my mouth. Then they flip me over onto my stomach and smoosh my face into the carpeted base of the trunk, while the other drags my arms behind my back and lashes my wrists tightly together with the tape. They do the same to my ankles.
"We should teach the bitch a real lesson. Fucking cunt bloodied my nose." A rough hand shoves between my legs from behind, fingers poking and prodding, and I whimper into the carpet.
Not that. Please, not that.
Then the other one says, "Boss wants her intact. You willing to risk his rage by sampling the goods ahead of time?"
The hand is promptly removed, and even though I hate the "boss," whoever he may be, a little part of me is thankful for his intervention.
Even in absentia, his goons are obviously scared of him.
Then the lid slams shut, leaving me in darkness, and the car takes off again. I roll around among God knows what debris while I listen to the smooth purr of the car engine and hang on to my sanity by a thread.
Hot tears sprout and fall, unchecked, down my cheeks. My nose starts to drip uncontrollably, too, and numbly, I wonder if I’ll suffocate before their “boss” gets the chance to rape and kill me.
Try not to think about your friends, who may or may not be dead.
Try not to hyperventilate.
Try to stay alive.
2
“Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.”
Stephen King
Rio
The red welt across her left cheek stands out, because the rest of her face is so pale. Is she about to faint? Not that it will have much impact if she does, because she’s already lying on the floor of the guest suite, trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
Her long dark hair spills every which way, and her glare above the duct tape covering half her face could probably bore a hole through metal.
Those eyes, almost golden in this moment, are like treacle, with a darker hue around the edge of the irises that gives her a seductive air. The photograph in the file did not do them justice.
Slowly, I turn to Danelli. “You brought her here and left her like this? Who hit her?”
He swallows, staring down at the Carlotti woman with a slight frown. “No, sir… Boss, I mean… No. Two Delta team members brought her in. This is the first I’ve seen of the situation.”
“I gave explicit orders not to touch her. That will be my prerogative, if and when I choose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you intend to do about it, Danelli?”
“Talk to the team. Find out who touched her, and deal with it.”
“Ensure you do. And then consider how my orders, and the actions that ensued, did not match. I will not tolerate that situation again. This is your first—and only—warning. Out.”
My second scurries from the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Danelli makes a good right hand. That’s the only reason I cut him slack in this instance. I will consider how to punish him later.
I turn my attention to the woman on the floor. Even now, with her tearstained and snot-covered face, she is glaring at me as if she wants to kill me.
A smile threatens to lift my lips. Perhaps the Mafia princess is buried somewhere deep inside her, after all.
I squat down in front of her. “I am going to remove the tape, and you will remain quiet and not fight me. If you do, I will call my second back in, and tell him to put a bullet between those beautiful golden-brown eyes of yours. Understand?”
The eyes in question widen briefly, and she nods.
There is no easy way to remove duct tape. I rip the gray material from her wrists first, then her ankles, leaving her face until last.
“Ready, Bianca?”
She sits up, rubbing her red-marked wrists. After a moment, another stiff nod gives me my answer. I rip away the tape. The second I do, she scurries backward across the floor in a crab-like move until her back hits the edge of the sofa.
She swipes a hand over her face, attempting to clean herself up, before she speaks. “I don’t know who you are, but my name is not Bianca. You have the wrong person.”
Her voice is low and raspy. She wasn’t bound long enough to become dehydrated, so the hoarse effect must be from stress.
I stand and tilt my head, studying her. That welt across her face is starting to swell. Fear is evident in her taut features and the way she folds her arms across her middle, and yet she raises her chin and stares back at me with a defiant expression.
There are not many who would meet my gaze so boldly.
“I am Gregorio Agosti.”
The simple sentence has the desired effect. Her lips part slightly before she drops her gaze.
Good. That recognition means I don’t need to explain the danger she’s in if she doesn’t do what she’s told.
