The Mafia’s Obsession: The Damsel’s Ruin

I faked my death, and after four years, I’d love to have a little fun.

That was the excuse I gave myself as I peeled away the fake features that made me Elizabeth Grant. The brown contacts. The jet-black wig. The full face makeup that blurred out the real me.

Rosie Eleganzo.

Yes, the infamous heiress of I Lupi Neri. One of the most brutal mafia families in Italy. I was spoiled rotten but I wasn’t important. Not to my papa, no mafia lord wanted a female heir. Not even to my mama. To her, I was a disappointment, because of me, she lost my father’s favor and definitely not to Berlo, my psychotic possessive fiance.

Why did I fake my death?

Well, after my dad got sick and tired of my presence roaming the estate, he sold me to the highest bidder. The son of the mafia’s consigliere, Berlo Rodrigo.

But Berlo had a problem.

According to him, my beauty was a sin and I was to be trained into his little submissive pet.

Not the silk ropes and blindfolds kind of bondage women fantasize about.No, Berlo loved to see blood on my pretty skin, he fed on my whimpering and begging. I got punished for every man’s glance.

He isolated me from my friends, forced me to eat only greens, changed my entire wardrobe and when I rebelled, he threw me in a dark cold cell meant for his traitors.

A shiver racked through me even now. His tortures left permanent marks on my skin that were yet to fade but thankfully they were hidden by my clothes.

Fortunately for me, my guardian angel came in the form of my step brother, Deniz. He was the one who helped orchestrate my “accident”.

He found me a new identity and smuggled me into a new country where I could be free from the mafia world. Maybe he did it to move me out of the way for my father’s will, but I didn’t care.

Freedom was freedom.

I just needed to be away from the violence, the bloodshed, the twisted kind of love they called loyalty and be my own person.

Unfortunately that also meant leaving behind luxury.

Haaa..

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror of my cubicle apartment. My red, blazing curls, the sharp oblong structure of my face, my blue fox-shaped eyes and my star dust freckles I used to hide. Every little part of me was attractive and it had been my downfall.

I smiled at my reflection, elated to indulge in a decision that might very well get me killed. But this was who I’d been before my life got ruined. High-end parties. Illegal car races. Champagne drenched charity events. Business luncheons with sharks in suits. So, just for tonight, I wanted to be that girl again. Just this once.

I wore a gorgeous champagne-colored, figure-hugging gown with a daring thigh-high slit and halter neck design. Dangerous, in so many ways. It would draw men to me like bees to honey and make me unforgettable, hardly the “low profile” I’d been struggling to keep.

But did I care?

No. Not Tonight.

Tonight, I would have so much fun, I'd forget my past, present and future.

I fluffed my curls with my hands, sprayed perfume over my skin like it could erase my existence, and slapped on some cherry-red lipstick. The girl in the mirror was so hot it was almost unbelievable how I ended up in this situation. No, no, no…I gave myself a slight shake to dispel the negative thoughts and slipped on my dark, frameless shades.

I gave the mirror one last smirk before I grabbed my keys, strapped on my cheap fake louboutin heels and strutted out.

The driver in the cab kept trying to make me talk, asking me if I had a kid. I shot him a look that said, “Do I look like I have a kid?” God forbid.

This dress was tight, I thought I’d lost a massive amount of weight since I began my new life as a pauper. Apparently not. I’m so glad, asides my great look, my banging body was a plus gift that it would be a shame to lose it completely.

Luckily for me, my ride was free. The driver was feeling generous and in appreciation, I blew him a kiss. It almost gave him a stroke. Yeah, I have that effect on people.

Neon lights flashed across the street, I climbed the pavement and grabbed the attention of every single person on the street. The ones still in queue, the guys smoking by their cars, the underage teenagers caught for using fake IDs and the bouncers. It all happened in slow motion and I reveled in it.

My hair fell over half my face, I made no move to adjust it as I made a fake attempt to join the long ass queue. I never queued and I won’t start now.

“Mamacita,”

A frail-looking, possibly a druggie, multi-colored hair dude approached me with a cigar playing loosely between his lips. His car keys dangling from the belt loop of his sagging jeans.

“A model like you shouldn’t queue, come lemme take you in.” he rasped, half his voice gone, probably from smoking and drinking.

Acting coy, I dipped my head low and tilted it to the side. My lips pouted as I whispered,“I don’t want to be a bother.” my voice was low, sultry. It was a specialty of mine, talking like I expect the world to silence itself to hear me speak. But since I began working like a slave, I've had to give it up. Nice to know I still had it.

“A girl like you?” He grinned. “You can bother me all you want.”

I welcomed the noise, the blinding lights, the smell of booze, drugs, sweat and sex. He led me to the bar. We sat, and he ordered. I caught the secretive signal he gave the bartender.

Fools. I scoffed inwardly. I am no newcomer.

Our drinks arrived, and the bartender disappeared so he wouldn't have to be responsible when I collapsed. I rose from my seat, glass in hand, and leaned close to the fool. He tensed, but when I slipped my shades off, he relaxed.

Rookie mistake.

I bent close, lips brushing his ear. He shivered, just as I swapped our glasses. “Do you speak Italian?" I asked.

He stammered, then shook his head.

“Shame,” I let a smile curl across my lips. “You’ve reminded me of an old friend from school, sciocco.”

By the time I retook my seat, he was already drooling on the counter. When he realized what I'd done, his eyes flared with fury. He lurched at me, hands raised.

“You bitch-”

He didn’t get to finish.

A man intervened just before I reached for the empty bottle on the counter to smash on the fool’s head. I paused then withdrew my hand back to my glass of martini.

My saviour was a giant. His back flexed, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he caught the fool and slammed him, gentle but brutal, onto the bar. It looked almost like the idiot had fallen asleep.

I watched, fascinated, as my savior straightened and turned toward me. My pulse ricocheted. I averted my gaze and sipped my martini, forming indifference.

“That was smart, signora bellissima.”

His  voice almost made me choke on my drink. His voice was velvet over gravel-deep, rough and sinful. And when I looked up at him, my hand shook around my glass.

Damn.

High aristocratic cheekbones, full mouth, unsmiling, the kind that would whisper sinful words against your skin. Unnerving green eyes framed by long thick lashes too dark for his messy gold blonde hair. He looked like sin in flesh, hooded eyes, sharp jaw and body of a greek god.

Rosie! Snap out of it! You're staring.

I blinked twice. It was hot all over. He smirked and I noticed the faint scar that dragged over the right side of his mouth. “You speak Italian?” My voice was dry but I managed to let those words out.

He got closer, his height towered me like a shadow. Ugh, he smelled so clean, woody, black current and an undertone of citrus maybe. It made my head spin.

“A little,” he smirked.

I had nothing else to say. My heart was beating way too loud to hear myself think. I became frozen when he reached for my drink and paced it on the counter. My lips willingly parted when he held my face and rubbed his thumb over my lips.

He tilted my head back, his eyes dilated. My thighs squeezed.

His voice was rough silk, thick with heat. “Let’s see if you moan as beautifully in Italian as they say you do.”

My lashes lowered. Slowly, deliberately, I dragged my tongue across his thumb.

“I’m sure you'll scream before I do.”