Bound to the Mafia (Bound to the Bad Boy Book 2)

  BOUND TO THE MAFIA

  ALEXIS ABBOTT

  © 2017 Pathforgers Publishing.

  All Rights Reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Wicked Good Covers. All cover art makes use of stock photography and all persons depicted are models.

  This book is intended for sale to Adult Audiences only. All sexually active characters in this work are over 18. All sexual activity is between non-blood related, consenting adults. This is a work of fiction, and as such, does not condone or encourage illegal or immoral activities that may happen within.

  More information is available at Pathforgers Publishing.

  Content warnings: mafia violence, human trafficking, murder. This is part 2 in a 3 part series.

  Wordcount: 76,000 Words

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  CONTENTS

  Bound for Life

  1. Serena

  2. Bruno

  3. Serena

  4. Bruno

  5. Serena

  6. Bruno

  7. Bruno

  8. Serena

  9. Serena

  10. Bruno

  11. Serena

  12. Bruno

  13. Serena

  14. Bruno

  15. Serena

  16. Serena

  17. Bruno

  18. Serena

  19. Bruno

  20. Serena

  Bound in Love

  Also by the Author

  About the Author

  Romance Novels to your Email

  Before you read this, make sure you’ve read Bound for Life. This is a three book trilogy. Bound to the Mafia is Book 2.

  SERENA

  7 YEARS AGO

  “Drop me off up at that corner, please,” I tell the cab driver, leaning forward to point at the crossing of two residential streets. I tuck my hair behind my ear before it has a chance to fall across my eyes as I settle back into the plush leather seat. I’m flanked on either side by glossy shopping bags in various shades of pink, white, and green, and when the hazy late afternoon sun glares through the tinted windows, I tip my designer shades down over my eyes.

  The taxi pulls to a stop and I pay him, giving a hefty tip, as I always do. My mother rolls her eyes at how easily I spend money, particularly when I spend it on other people, but Dad is always sure to remind me that there’s no use in having money if you keep it all to yourself. And what can I say? I’m a daddy’s girl.

  I carefully hook my arms through the handles of my shopping bags and climb out of the cab, giving the driver a little wave as he drives off. I had the cabbie let me out at the corner because our driveway and the street in front of our new house are both crammed with construction trucks and piles of building materials. It’s just easier to walk through that obstacle course than have some poor taxi driver try and maneuver through it.

  I make my way down the street to the construction site, gingerly stepping over the upturned, muddy bits of lawn and stacks of perfectly-sawed dark lumber. I just know the bottoms of my Manolo Blahniks are going to be caked with reddish mud by the time I make it across the yard to the front door. Luckily, I think to myself with a smile, there’s a brand new pair from this season in one of the bags I’m holding right now anyway.

  The only part of the house which is even remotely livable at the moment is the first floor den, which is currently serving as a sort of operations base for the construction job. My father spends most of his free time here, having set up a makeshift office in order to keep tabs on how things are going. He’s a hands-on kind of guy, and I think there’s a part of him that really wishes he was out there helping build the house himself. He’s more of a numbers guy, I think, though. I’ve never been one-hundred-percent certain as to what his work consists of, but I know he makes good money and he goes to a lot of private meetings. He keeps secrets sometimes, and he does everything in his power to keep his work separate from my mom and me.

  Occasionally I do worry about him. Despite his attempts to keep it all under lock and key, sometimes I can see the stress of his job bleeding through into his interactions with Mom and me. He tries to be a jokey, good-natured guy and most of the time that’s exactly what he is. But now and then I can see something else going on underneath the surface, like maybe things aren’t quite as rosy as he makes them out to be. Still, I can’t complain. Our life — my life — is amazing. I have never wanted for anything in all my years, and I know at the end of the day my dad can take care of absolutely anything the world throws his way. He’s a strong man, that much I do know.

  And besides, this whole construction thing has definitely made him happier. I catch him still awake late at night in his study, poring over blueprints and running numbers on his calculator, a look of feverish joy on his face. I think he must have been an architect in another life or something. It’s always fun to come with him to the new house and watch him boss the construction guys around. He’s never cruel about it, but I can tell he means business. Everyone can tell. He has a booming voice and his checkbook always in his hand, ready to write out another big number and hand it off to whomever he thinks he can trust to get shit done. My mom says he’s too showy with his money, but I think he’s just honest. Why hide it? Everybody knows we’re rich. Everybody knows my dad. I don’t know for sure what his reputation is, but I do know that he has one.

  I push open the front door and slip inside, my arms starting to ache with the weight of my shopping bags. I squeeze through the skeletal wooden archway and into the den, where a cheap plastic desk and office chair sit in the center of the room. My dad is sitting on a couch on the other side of the room, his cell phone pressed to his ear. His face lights up at the sight of me and he gives me a wink.

  “Hi pumpkin,” he mouths at me. I wave back before carefully setting my shopping bags down on the desk, covering the mish-mash of blueprints and contracts. I grimace at the state of my expensive shoes, debating whether to try and wash them off in the one barely-functioning sink or just wait until I can ask our maid, Janet, how to take care of them.

  “Si. Bene. Parliamo più tardi,” my dad says quickly into the receiver, then promptly hangs up and sets the phone down on his lap. His expression turns from vaguely grim to bright and joyous as he grins at me, holding his arms wide open for me to come hug him. I smile and walk over to embrace him, then settle into the couch beside him.

  “How is mia principessa?” he asks me warmly. “I see you did a little light shopping,” he adds with good-natured sarcasm.

  “Fifth Avenue was full of tourists today,” I lament with a sigh. “I mean, it always is, but today was especially annoying. I think a couple of people even snapped photos of Katie and me while we were walking down the street. I mean, that’s got to be illegal or something, right?”

  It happens more often than I would like. Sadly, when you’re an immaculately-manicured, fairly attractive young woman wearing flashy designer clothing walking around with your equally well-dressed and pretty friend, people are bound to stare. It’s not something I would consider a point of pride. It’s just the way it is. There are always photographers out on the street in the city, trying to snap a new, magical iconic photo that might propel their portfolio to stardom. My best friend Katie and I are both exactly the kind of fashion mag street-style editorial muses your everyday Joe Schmoe with a high-definition lens go looking for. And today the lighting is beautiful. It’s June, warm, and just the right amount o
f clouds in the sky to filter the sunlight. All the girls like me, with money and means, are dressed in our best summer dresses, heels, and sparkly jewelry.

  I guess I should have expected the attention I got today. It’s nothing new. And if I’m being totally honest, it doesn’t even really bother me all that much. It’s flattering to think that some people find my look photo-worthy, even if it’s kind of superficial.

  “Don’t let some low-life photog rain on your parade,” my father says, giving my shoulders a squeeze. “I hope you had a good afternoon anyway.”

  “I did,” I answer truthfully.

  “Good. Well, I’m probably going to finish up here in about an hour if you want to just sit tight for a little while, pumpkin. Just got to go talk shop with the crew and set some things straight and then we can go home. Sound okay?” he asks, standing up.

  “Mmhm. Sounds fine,” I answer absent-mindedly, already trying to figure out what to do to pass the time until we leave.

  “Just make sure you stay out of the guys’ way, alright? Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “Good girl. Won’t take long, I promise.”

  I like hanging out with my father, and going to visit the construction site is always exciting. I enjoy seeing what changes have progressed since the last time I saw the house. Riverdale is a ritzy neighborhood, full of old money and high-class reputations, and I know rebuilding a house in a place like this is a huge deal for my dad. He’s always looking for that next step up the ladder, clawing his way to fortune. He wants my mom and me to have comfortable lives and give us the very best, and I know this new house means a lot to him.

  As soon as my dad disappears, I get up, too antsy to just sit here in silence for the next hour waiting on him to finish up. I know he wants me to stay out of the way, but I’m sure there’s something interesting happening.

  Besides, my shoes are already mud-stained. What’s a little more dirt going to do?

  I creep out of the den and back out the front door, taking note of my dad standing at the end of the long driveway talking to the foreman sitting in his big white utility truck. I sneak around the corner to the back of the house, where the guys are working on building a luxurious, massive back porch and sunroom. The sun is sinking a little closer to the horizon, making its slow, long descent across the sky. I know the sun won’t actually go down until much later, because it’s summer and the days seem to last forever. But the sun hovers in that orange, lazy space overhead, sinking the world into magical light. The bugs are starting to buzz around a bit more now that the unbearable noon heat has relented. In a couple hours, it’ll be evening, and the residential neighborhoods will start to smell like barbecue smoke and domestic bliss.

  I’m sixteen, and the world is full of potential at every turn, like I’m standing in a room with a hundred unlocked doors. Behind every door is another world waiting for me, mine for the taking, if I can only choose which door to open first. It’s almost overwhelming how easy life is, how smoothly everything flows along from one season to the next.

  Sometimes, though, I do wonder if it’ll end eventually. Everyone tells me these are the best years of my life, and I’m scared that maybe I’ll waste them by being too good, by staying too on-track. After all, I’ve always made perfect grades and followed the rules to the letter, staying away from drugs and partying and all those dark temptations my parents have warned me about. Katie and some of my other friends go to those crazy rager parties in Brooklyn every other weekend, and even though I’m always invited, I don’t go.

  I always tell myself it’s just not the right time, that next time I’ll feel up to it. But deep down I know I’m kidding myself. I’m just not cut out for that kind of thing. I like to shop and hang out with my friends and sometimes I’ll go to parties, but I don’t get wasted and black out like everyone else seems to. I don’t know if I’m just too afraid or if I’m just of really strong moral caliber or whatever. Either way, I’m fully aware that I’m curating a stick-in-the-mud reputation for myself by abstaining from all that crazy stuff. I don’t want to be known as the good girl, but as the same time, I don’t think I have what it takes to be a bad girl, either.

  Most of the time when I do go to the party, I end up pretending to laugh at people’s dumb jokes and taking sips of my water while telling everyone who asks that it’s vodka and Sprite. In the back of my mind, I’m always just tallying up how many books I could have devoured instead of awkwardly loitering around the kitchen in some stranger’s loft in Midtown. According to my mom, my curfew is midnight, but my dad says as long as I keep in touch and look after myself I can come home later than that.

  I rarely stay out past my mom’s assigned curfew, though. I just get bored and take a cab home before the party even starts to really warm up. There’s nothing like the feeling of coming home, changing out of my form-fitting party dress and into soft pajamas, then eating cereal in bed while reading a book and listening to my dad’s old vinyl collection until I conk out and go to sleep.

  But this summer, I’m starting to feel different. I’m starting to get restless. I want something more to do, something new to try out. It’s like I’m outgrowing this version of myself and I’m ready to be somebody else for a change.

  I’m so lost in thought that I’m not even paying attention to where I’m going, and as I start idly turning around to walk back to the front of the house I nearly walk smack into a stack of wood coming my way. I jump backward, startled, and realize that there’s a man standing in front of me with a half-amused, half-concerned look on his face.

  His extremely handsome face.

  “Whoa,” he says, shifting the wood planks on his shoulder and giving me a roguish grin. “Damn near took your head off just then.”

  “Sorry, I kind of zoned out for a minute,” I apologize quickly, feeling my face start to flush pink. The guy seems to immediately take notice, but to his credit, he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, time seems to slow to stop all around me as all of my attention zeroes in on the hot guy in front of me. His biceps bulge through the thin fabric of his white t-shirt as he balances the wooden planks on his shoulder effortlessly. His skin is a golden, ruddy tan and he’s clearly no stranger to working hard outdoors. He has dark hair and an intoxicating smile as he towers a head taller than me.

  And his eyes. Bright, vibrant green eyes piercing right through me, like he can see into my thoughts, into my heart, see it pumping furiously in my chest as I try to get ahold of myself. It’s not like I’ve never seen a gorgeous guy before. Hell, I live in New York City. There are actors, underwear models, musicians of all flavors walking the streets every day. I’ve been hit on by so many attractive boys at school, and sometimes older men flirt with me when I’m out and about because my makeup and my high heels make me look more mature than I am.

  But god, there is just something about this guy that’s throwing me for a loop.

  “You alright?” he asks, puncturing my thoughts and bringing me back to the present.

  I nod vigorously, letting out a nervous laugh as I tuck my hair back behind my ears. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. It’s—it’s the summer heat, I guess. Making me a little dizzy,” I lie quickly.

  “Oh, it’s definitely getting hot out here,” he replies, just a twinge of double meaning in the flash of his smile. “Let me set this down over there and I’ll get you something cool to drink.”

  “Oh no, you don’t have to do that,” I interject, but it’s too late. The guy has run across the yard to deliver the gigantic wood planks to the crew, taken a bottle of water out of a red cooler on the ground, and is now jogging back to me, all rippling muscle and boyish charm.

  I try to regain my composure, reminding myself who the hell I am. I’m Serena De Laurentis, new money princess who’s moved on up from the Bronx to Manhattan and soon to the affluent neighborhood of Riverdale. I wear this season’s designer clothes and I have friends in high places. My dad is a powerful man and my mom is a noto
riously snobby socialite.

  I should absolutely be able to keep my cool around this construction guy.

  But as soon as he gets back and hands me the bottle of water, I nearly forget my own name. It’s like he’s putting out some kind of dumbing fog which turns me into a speechless, star struck little girl. Be cool, I tell myself firmly.

  “Thank you, that’s so sweet,” I comment, taking a sip of the water.

  “It’ll cool off a bit when the sun finally goes down,” he replies, standing with his hands on his hips as he looks me over. Now that I’m starting to chill out a little bit, I can detect an accent bleeding through his words, a faint one, like he’s trying his best to suppress it. “So, is this gonna be your house?” he adds.

  I nod. “Yea. My father’s talking to the foreman right now. This house is kind of like his passion project or something. His baby.”

  “And how do you feel about it?” the guy asks, surprising me. I didn’t expect such a weird question. It’s my future house, but it has nothing to do with me. I just go where I’m told.

  “Um, I mean, it seems very nice,” I answer haltingly. Then, when the guy’s green eyes stay locked on me, clearly expecting a longer answer, I go on. “I don’t know. I like our apartment in Manhattan. It’s close to my school and all my friends and stuff. So moving out here is going to be… different, I guess. I’m a little worried that I might get lonely sometimes. But it is what it is.”

  I’m shocked at myself for sharing so much with this complete stranger. I’m usually better about keeping my cards close to my chest. I don’t let just anyone in, and I’m always careful not to overshare with anybody, even with my close friends. But there’s something about him that just makes me feel secure, like anything I say is safe with him. Besides, who is he going to tell? He’s not from the same side of the tracks as I am, and I know for a fact he runs in very different circles. Hell, I’ll probably never see him again after today.