Page 1 of Ruthless King
CHAPTER1
SOLD TO THE MOB
Stella
Sold to the mob.
Sold to the mob.
Sold to the mob.
Cazzo. Fuck my life. How did this happen? I glare at my father, tears welling in my eyes. Three guys in black suits with matching red pocket squares stand across the table from us. The taller one in the middle, Tony, hands my father a stack of papers.
Another man stands behind us. He’s the one with the keys to the handcuffs digging into my wrists. The keys jingle in his slacks’ pocket, a sickening taunt. He takes the keyring out, the clanging of metal cutting through the tense air, and unlocks Dad’s cuffs.
“Sign on the dotted line,” says Tony, as Dad winces at the angry red marks on his wrists. “All your outstanding debts to the Kings will be forgiven in exchange for your daughter, Stella McKenzie, within the time period previously discussed.”
What the hell does that even mean? I’m not property. I am a damned person. I couldn’t be sold, could I? I struggle against the cuffs, the chair legs squealing against the cement floor.
My father’s eyes dart to mine, and for an instant, he actually looks ashamed. For that one crappy moment in my life, he seems sorry for all the shit he put me through. I almost feel bad for him. Almost. That’s how stupid I am.
Dad reaches for the packet, flips to the last page, and scrawls his initials along the line. He doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t inquire what the hell will become of his only daughter. Then he leaps up from his chair, tosses the papers at Tony and darts out of the room. He doesn’t even spare me a passing glance as he jets out of there with his tail between his legs.
Liam McKenzie is a piece of shit.
I struggle again, but two firm hands press on my shoulders, shoving me down on the chair. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart. You’re now official property of the Kings.”
Seconds pass, hell, it could have been hours. Everything is a blur, muddled by the roar of my pounding heart.
The door swings open, and a dark shadow looms in the threshold. An electric presence fills the small, murky space, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of every single heartbeat. Piercing midnight irises rake over me, and goosebumps spill across my arms.
* * *
One Week Ago
“Buongiorno, Stella bella!” Mrs. DeVito’s warm smile greets me as I stumble down the stairs of our fourth-floor walkup.
“Morning, Mrs. D.” I haul my backpack strap over my other shoulder.
The cute little old lady is our long-time neighbor and like the grandma I never had. My own passed away before I was old enough to remember much about her. Technically, Mrs. D is also my boss atNonna Maria’s Pasticceria. She barely works at the Italian bakery anymore, but her name is still above the red and white awning which she reminds her son, Giuseppe, of when she stops by daily. She reaches for my cheek and gives it a pinch before I can scramble away. I used to hate it when I was little, but now, it reminds me of a happier time. Before Mom and Vinny… I press my hand to my chest and picture the two small hearts tattooed just over my real heart. I bury the thoughts before they threaten to pull me under.
“You getting so big,bella. You got a fancy job lined up after you graduate?”
“It’s just an associate degree in business, Mrs. D. Once I get that, I’m out of here. I’ve already applied to the University of Florida, and I’m just waiting to hear if I get in.” At twenty-one, it was about damn time to live on my own.
“Oh, Florida? What are you gonna do so far away without my cannoli?”
I laugh. “Probably die of starvation.”
She pats my cheek with a warm smile. “No worry, bella, I send you some in the mail.” Her pale gray eyes turn wistful as she regards me. “You know, you look more and more like your mamma every day.”
“Thanks. That’s what I hear.” My throat tightens, the pang of loss still acute despite all the time that’s passed. I glance up at my reflection in the cracked mirror over the mailboxes in the rundown foyer. It hangs askew, the frame chipped but still, if I close my eyes just right, I can see her in me. The long, dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. Some of the light has dimmed in the past few years, but I held on as best I could. For her memory. “I gotta run,” I rasp out. “Don’t want to be late for my last month of class.”
“Of course, bella. Go, go.” She pats my cheek again, a little rougher than necessary. “I make spaghetti and meatballs tonight. I make extra for you.”
“Grazie, Mrs. D.,” I call out over my shoulder as I barrel through the door. The rusty hinges whine in protest. I can still hear them squealing as I dart down Mulberry Street, weaving between the tourists.
Little Italy is nothing like it once was. Most of it has been overrun by China Town, but still a few treasured blocks remain. We are one of the few Italian families that still reside in this neighborhood. Most had moved on, moved up in the world. Not us. Dad was never the same after Mom, and then after Vinny … well, things went straight to hell.
