The Vilenzo Family Book 1: Omertà

LUCCA

Rocco slides another drink my way. I give him a nod of gratitude. Valerius and Marcello emerge from the elevator, their subtle nods in my direction signaling that the job is done.

One less thing on my plate.

I take a sip, my gaze sweeping over the room from behind my glass. This so-called party is just another one of Lewis Stanton’s attempts to butter us up. He wants us content and on his side.

Can’t say I blame him; we’re not the sort of folks you want against you.

Stanton owns the biggest private port around, so it’s key that he’s in my pocket. That way, I can make sure my shipments get through without any hassle.

I don’t like associating myself with rich pricks like Stanton, but I need my guns, and I need my drugs, and I need them without the pesky inspections that take place at commercial ports.

I don’t mind his attempts at flattery, but he knows better than to try it with me. But this party is boring. The usual women circle us like desperate sharks, their eyes filled with dollar signs and dreams of fame.

They’re looking for a sugar daddy, someone to fund their designer wardrobes or land them a role in the latest blockbuster. I don’t hold it against them. They’re just trying to survive, but I won’t be their golden ticket.

Everyone wants something from me. It’s tiring. I find myself constantly fending women off and struggling to find someone genuine.

It doesn’t help that my parents are on my case to settle down. They want me hitched. I’m twenty-five, and apparently, that’s the perfect age to pick a wife.

If only it were that simple.

I’m not like my associates; I don’t enjoy bedding just anyone. Don’t get me wrong, I love sex, and I’ve had my fair share of fun. But it can be so…empty. Meaningless sex has done nothing for me except leave me feeling hollow and unsatisfied.

I yearn for someone to come home to. Someone who will listen to my problems, stand by me, and have real conversations.

My men can’t hold an intellectual discussion to save their lives. There’s only so much I can take of these buffoons I call my caporegimes. I’m bored, and though I’d never admit it out loud, I’m lonely.

My attention is drawn to two women who’ve just entered the upstairs part of the party. They’re younger than most here but, alarmingly, not the youngest. They must be legal, which means they’re over eighteen—thank God.

My gaze lands on the regal blonde. She’s too much of a daddy’s girl for my taste. I know her; she’s Lewis Stanton’s daughter, and that’s a definite no-go. I may not like Lewis, but I’m not about to make an enemy out of him by sleeping with his daughter.

My eyes shift to the brunette beauty beside her. I recognize her instantly. We’ve crossed paths twice before, and she’s not easy to forget.

The first time was over a year ago. I visited Lewis one evening when his daughter and her friends came tottering down the stairs in skimpy dresses and sky-high heels. The brunette, the same one standing before me now, was wearing an eighteenth birthday sash.

The second time, I met Lewis at a restaurant for a meeting. His daughter showed up with the brunette, wanting the helicopter for a shopping spree. The brunette looked uncomfortable the whole time, like she didn’t belong.

Lewis wasn’t pleased that his daughter had interrupted our meeting. I think he only gave her permission so she’d be out of his hair.

That was a month ago. I was just as smitten then as I am now.

Just like at the restaurant, tonight she looks nervous and out of place. Her eyes scan the crowd, and she bites her bottom lip. She looks like a fish out of water.

She’s wearing a pricey dress that clings to her curvy figure and showcases her long, model-like legs. Her chestnut hair is straight and so long it reaches her waist.

God, she is gorgeous.

I can’t make out the color of her eyes in the club’s dim lighting, but I remember them being a mesmerizing shade of blue. She has delicate features and high cheekbones.

She’s clearly younger than me but carries herself like a mature woman. I can’t seem to take my eyes off her.

I shift in my seat, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks when I realize I’m aroused. This woman has managed to fluster me from ten meters away.

Damn.

I wanted her a year ago, I wanted her a month ago, and I want her now. I shouldn’t pull an innocent nineteen-year-old into my dark world. But I’ve killed tonight, and I’m on edge. I’m not in a generous or selfless mood.

I want her.

I know it’s not right; a better man would leave her be. But I’m not a better man. I’m the damn don, and I get what I want.

I wait a moment for my arousal to subside, and then I approach Mr. Stanton. Seeing my face, he quickly wraps up his conversation and excuses himself.

He steps toward me with a nervous smile on his face. He’s afraid of me, and I like it.

“Who’s that woman with your daughter?” I ask, cutting to the chase.

His eyes follow my pointing finger and widen. “Th-that’s my daughter’s friend, Illaria.”

Her name piques my interest. “That’s an unusual name,” I casually remark.

Mr. Stanton nods. “Her parents are artists, quite eccentric. They live in France.”

I nod in acknowledgment, my eyes never leaving the beauty. “Tell me more about her.”

“U-um, they became friends at Birley Grammar, she’s nineteen, Georgina’s age. I’m not entirely sure what her job is, but I know she’s not going to university with Georgina,” he rattles off. He’s probably eager to escape my presence. “She’s a nice girl, incredibly smart, very polite. She’s good to my daughter.”

“Thank you, Lewis.” I dismiss him.

“Anytime, Mr. Vilenzo,” he stammers, looking relieved to be done with me.

I return to my table, where my men are waiting. I’ll let the beauty settle in with her friend before I make my move.

I’m going to have this brunette.

ILLARIA

“Don’t look now, but one of my father’s business associates can’t take his eyes off you,” Georgina whispers, her eyes fixed on the bar to avoid being obvious.

“Is he hot?” I ask without turning around.

I don’t want to give away that we’re talking about him. I’m not a novice.

“Definitely. But he’s also one hundred percent Mafia. I’ve seen him at my house before, and he’s got four bodyguards with him.”

My eyes widen at the revelation, and I take a large gulp of my cocktail. “Is it safe to turn now?”

Georgina considers it and then says, “I’ll introduce you to my friend since he’s near him. You’re looking for a man in a black tux, Italian, scar down the left side of his face. He’s in the middle booth.”

I take note of her description and nod. We rise from our seats at the bar. Holding our drinks, Georgina takes my free hand and leads me across the club. I scan the crowd, and my eyes land on a man who fits her description.

I almost forget how to function. My legs move on autopilot, but my eyes remain locked on him, my breath suddenly uneven.

He’s watching me just as intently. Seated with two bodyguards on either side, he’s leaning back in his seat, looking confident and relaxed. He’s beautiful.

His striking good looks draw me in. His coal-black hair is swept back off his face, undercut and short on the sides, revealing patterns tattooed onto his scalp.

His chocolate eyes follow me as I cross the room. His full lips look so damn kissable. He must enjoy my staring because they pull up into a smile, revealing white teeth that glint in the light.

I force myself to break eye contact and look away just as Georgina pulls us up to a man about our age.

“Henry, this is Illaria,” Georgina introduces us.

I’m polite and make small talk, but I can’t stop thinking about that man. I can feel his gaze on me too. My skin tingles under his watch.

He’s so handsome. But there’s something familiar about him… I just can’t place where I’ve seen him before.

In my dreams, maybe?

After a while, Georgina and Henry start a heated discussion about university, and I quickly lose interest, examining my nails instead.

I’m not going to uni because I’m way too indecisive. I could never pick a degree; I can barely even choose a career.

“I’m getting a drink,” I whisper in Georgie’s ear and head for the bar.

I order another cosmo and take a sip. I hesitate, considering my options. Joining Georgie’s conversation doesn’t interest me, but I don’t know anyone else here. No amount of alcohol can give me the courage to strike up a conversation with a stranger in a room full of Mafia men.

A tap on my shoulder startles me. I turn and feel a pang of disappointment when I see one of the handsome man’s bodyguards standing beside me.

“Excuse me,” he says in a gruff voice, “Mr. Vilenzo would like you to join him for a drink at his table.”

I frown in confusion.

He can’t even be bothered to come over and ask me himself?

“Well, if that’s what Mr. Vilenzo wants, he can come and ask me himself. Thank you.”

I turn back to my cocktail, my heart pounding. The bodyguard returns to the table, and suddenly, I’m terrified. I’ve just rejected and reprimanded a member of the Italian Mafia through his bodyguard.

Oh God, what have I done?