“I would not leave Devils Ridge.”
“Humor me.” I dip my voice the way I know men like. “Please.” At his silence, I continue, voice smooth like silky sex hitting all the right spots. “I’m your child, Father. Your flock.” My lips part as I lean closer to the grating. I know he can see them as I whisper like I am begging for his cock, “Lead me.”
He bristles again. “The airport—”
“Will leave a trace.”
“The church ships supplies through a discreet entrance on Echo Street. I would use it to slip into the cargo hold of an outbound plane.”
It’s a long shot, but a better chance of escape than I had ten seconds ago.
“Thank you.” Not bothering to wait for my penance, I stand and gather the little belongings I own. A passport and wallet with a faded picture of me and my sister.
Father Luciano meets me outside the confessional, his eyes not distracted by my pretty packaging for once. “You cannot leave this town, my child.”
“You just showed me how, Father.” My lips curve into a smile. “You showed me, step by step, and I never would have known about the church’s access to the airport had you not shown me the way.” I toy with the top edges of my shirt until a flash of cleavage blinds him. Then, I fix his collar until he sucks in a breath at the touch of my fingers against his pulse. “A way only you and your brethren know of.”
When I leave the church, it’s to the sound of silence. I hop into my dinky car and take off with the feel of my Devil patting me on the back.
Well done, my Devil praises.
Self-preservation, I protest.
And because bad requires the balance of good, I stop for the man waving on the side of the road. His tire is flat, its bottom the shape of a pancake. I recognize him as I step out of the car Angelo bought me and our eyes connect.
I may fear Angelo De Luca, but I know this man deserves my fear more. Except I don’t feel fear.
“Miss Ricci,” he drawls in that Yankee accent, not offering his name. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things.”
I pat my belly on instinct. The movement betrays too much. His eyes dip down. He knows. He knows who I am. And judging by the cock of his brow, he now knows of my baby girl also.
“What a wonderful surprise.” He stretches a hand out. “Please, accept my congratulations.”
I stare at his hand before I take it. “Thank you.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“Says the man stranded on the side of the road.”
“True.” He shrugs as if every car that passed hadn’t ignored him. They knew who he is. Just my luck.
Not luck but Fate, my Devil suggests as if she understands the word.
“I have a spare in my trunk.”
He sends me a grateful smile that has my back relaxing. I can’t pin point what this is. It’s not lust. Nothing I’m used to encountering. It’s human decency. Perhaps even familiarity. When the tire has been replaced, he shuts my truck and nods his head to the song on the stereo. It’s an old one, where the Bhundu Boys sing about crazy things like Fate and Destiny.
He confirms my suspicions that he knows who I am when he says, “Dalia.” His lips wrap around my name like a present, as if something pleasant hides within. “The goddess of Fate. Do you believe in Fate?”
I don’t, but I answer, “Yes,” because the way he asks makes me feel like he does.
He nods his head and considers something for a moment before his eyes cut through pretenses and narrow on my belly. “Would you like my help?”
I’d like help, yes, but I’m not sure from him. He and Angelo can be two sides of the same coin, but at least there’s kindness in his eyes, and I’m not in the position to pick and choose which Devil to run from.
Mine or theirs.
“Why?” I finally ask.
“Fate,” he answers, as if it exists.
Chapter One
BASTIANO ROMANO
The Present
My cousin Asher tossed me the engagement ring like it didn’t cost more than a brownstone on the Upper East Side.
“Jackass.” I tucked it into the velvet case, slid it inside the inner pocket of my suit jacket, then threw him a clean shirt.
Blood clung to the fabric of his white tee, but it fazed neither of us. The Romano syndicate possessed no shortage of enemies, and Asher’s job as our fixer was to dispose of them when told. He swapped the soaked shirt for the clean button down, discarding the ruined material on my floor without a care for the stains on my hardwood.
“Ballsy,” Asher remarked. Like a true fixer, his footsteps made no noise as he followed me down the stairs of my penthouse to the open-plan living room, sidestepping Elsa’s lace panties by the piano with an arched brow. “Your dad won’t like it.”
Dad didn’t like anything to do with Elsa, so expecting him to like this proposal would be like expecting a virgin to fake a convincing orgasm.
I picked the panties up and pocketed them for later, already imagining them stuffed in her mouth as I slide inside her after she accepts my proposal. “My dad won’t know until it’s too late.”
“But Elsa’s not royal.” He shook his head. “Hell, she’s not even mafia.”
That was the point. Elsa was far from mafia with her Southern drawl, football obsession, and inability to eat any meal without a side of store-bought ketchup. She was also the smartest woman I’d ever met, fuck-hot, capable of script-worthy banter, and the first woman to make me fall in love. I had plans for tonight which included an engagement ring on her finger and my cock on her tongue.
Plucking my phone from my kitchen island, I shot a text to my assistant Lewis to confirm my plans. “Again. Dad won’t know until it’s too late.”
As far as I was concerned, my dad had no say in this. I’d done everything right. The top boarding schools. The Ivy League education. Learning the Romano businesses—legal and less legal—inside and out. Any fucker—my dad included—who got in between me and Elsa could acquaint himself with my fist and, perhaps, the jagged blade of the knife Uncle Vince had gifted me when I’d turned nine.
I hadn’t used it—that was what the enforcers were for—but I had the training and wouldn’t hesitate to. People saw me as the privileged, over-educated spawn of Giovanni Romano. I did little to alter their perception, mostly because I gave no fucks, but also because I enjoyed being underestimated.
Asher tucked his socked feet into his Jordans, still staring at me with those eery too-blue eyes of his. “Okay, Golden Child.”
He still didn’t believe I’d defy the syndicate. Dad expected me to marry another mafia royal. Not quite as drastic as his arranged marriage with Ma, but the daughter of an upper-level mafia figure of my own choosing at the very least.
Never once had I gone against my family’s wishes before Elsa. My Uncles Frankie and Eli didn’t have children. So, I’d been groomed to run the Romano empire from the business side, leaving enforcement to Dad’s twin Uncle Vince—and eventually Asher Black, Uncle Vince’s son by pseudo-adoption.
Asher got his hands dirty; I filled mine with business textbooks from Wharton. I graduated with my masters at twenty-two and came back with Elsa in tow, her Southern-belle eyes starstruck by the size of my penthouse and a lifestyle she never knew existed.