Marrying the Mobster: American Gangsters 1 (Leave Me Breathless) Read online

  Marrying the Mobster

  A Black Rose Collection Novel

  Victoria Vale

  Dragonfly Ink Publishing

  Copyright © 2021 by Victoria Vale

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Leave Me Breathless

  Marrying the Mobster

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Afterword

  Sneak Peek: BREAKING DONATELLA

  Sneak Peek: THE SOUND OF SILENCE

  Sneak Peek: FORBIDDEN LOVE

  Sneak Peek: PROMISE ME TOMORROW

  Sneak Peek: TO CRAVE & COVET

  About the Author

  Also by Victoria Vale

  When the daylight fades and time stands still.

  The feeling of flying from just one touch.

  Moving slowly, kissing softly.

  The flash of fever, becoming lost in the flames.

  Surrendering.

  Going under.

  These are the moments that leave us breathless.

  Introducing a brand-new collection of romance books by independently published and USA Today bestselling authors whose words will leave you breathless! The Leave Me Breathless books promise to bring you stories of love, passion, betrayal, and hope...and always a happily ever after!

  Plus, each collection is themed so you can easily shop for what you're in the mood to read! Want a sports romance? Check out the Ivy Collection! Or how about a dark romantic suspense? The Black Rose Collection has you covered!

  THE COLLECTIONS:

  The Moonflower Collection

  The Moonflower symbolizes dreaming of love. These books feature enemies-to-lovers romance, insta-love, virgin romance, and romantic comedy.

  The Ivy Collection

  The Ivy symbolizes dependence, endurance, and faithfulness. These books feature sports romances, rockstar romances, military, and single parent.

  The Black Rose Collection

  The darker side of Leave Me Breathless…

  The Black Rose symbolizes rejuvenation or rebirth, but it can also symbolize death and farewell. These books feature dark romantic suspense, BDSM themes, true crime, dark military, dark MC, and Mafia.

  The Lilac Collection

  The Lilac symbolizes the first emotion in love. These books feature new adult romance, second chance romance, and prequels to an existing series.

  For more books and authors in the Leave Me Breathless Collection, please visit WWW.LEAVEMEBREATHLESSBOOKS.COM.

  Marrying the Mobster

  A Black Rose Collection Novel

  by Victoria Vale

  1

  Diego

  “Bless me Padre, for I have sinned. It’s been four weeks since my last confession.”

  Through the lattice of the confessional booth, I make out the profile of Father Moya. His shadow perks up when he recognizes my voice.

  “Tell me your sins, mi hijo,” he replies in a lightly accented voice. The sanctuary is empty except for us—a priest and a penitent. A saint and a sinner.

  “When I leave here, I will spill a man’s blood.”

  There’s surprise in Father Moya’s voice when he responds. “You confess to a sin not yet committed?”

  “The church is on my way. I needed to get this one off my chest before I go on with the rest of my week.”

  “I see,” the father replies. “It isn’t too late to change your mind. Murder is a mortal sin that grieves the heart of God.”

  “Ecclesiastes 3,” I recite. “‘For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heavens. A time to be born, and a time to die. A time to sow and a time to reap. A time to kill…’”

  Father Moya lets out a low chuckle. He knows better than anyone that despite the things I’ve done—what I’ve become—I know the words of The Bible from cover to cover. My mother made sure of it from the time I learned to read.

  “Tell me,” the priest says, shifting on his bench. “Why do you want to kill this man?”

  “I lent him money. He has yet to pay it back, despite my graciously offering several extensions.”

  I don’t add that my grace came with a side of intimidation and threats. No one steals from me and gets away with it. Santiago Aguilar has already signed his own death warrant.

  “Proverbs 11:4: ‘Wealth is worth nothing in the day of wrath, but righteousness delivers from death.’”

  Huffing a laugh, I adjust my position on the kneeling bench. “I think we both know I left the path of righteousness a long time ago, Padre. I’ve committed enough of the mortal sins to damn myself for several lifetimes.”

  “It is never too late for a man to give his life over to God … to repent and change his ways.”

  “You know that isn’t an option for me.”

  Confidentiality be damned, Father Moya knows me better than most. His history with the Pérez family is long and intimate. He was a close confidante of my father. My parents’ wedding was held in this very church, with him presiding. The priest also baptized both me and my little sister.

  “I understand,” Father Moya says. “But our Lord is a god of mercy. Before becoming an apostle, Paul was known as Saul, and his foul deeds were displeasing to God. If Paul can be forgiven, so can you.”

  “That’s all well and good, but I’m still going to kill this man. Letting someone get away with outright theft makes me look weak to both my enemies and allies. My father left his empire in my hands. It’s my duty to care for it.”

  “A true leader does what he thinks is right, and those who trust and follow him will understand. Those who don’t never respected him to begin with. Are you contrite about this deed?”

  “I’m sorry the man has to die. I don’t particularly enjoy killing, but I won’t ask another man to do something I wouldn’t. Sometimes killing is necessary.”

  “Are you resolved never to do it again?”

  “You know I can’t promise you that.”

  “Your penance is as follows,” Father Moya says. “You will show kindness and mercy to this man before touching your weapon. You must ask yourself whether there is another way to solve your problem without spilling his blood.”

  Frustration makes me grit my teeth. Show mercy to Santiago Aguilar? The man’s an oily cheat and a liar. Loaning him money in the first place was a terrible idea—one that makes me look like a fool.

  “Fine,” I grumble. I might be a sinner, but I never shun my penance.
/>   Father Moya then recites a prayer of absolution over me, then we both perform the sign of the cross.

  I stand up, looping my onyx and silver crucifix around my neck. “Until next time, Padre.”

  “Go in peace and with God, mi hijo.”

  I stride toward the open double doors and out through the vestibule. Pausing on the top step, I close my eyes and take a deep, cleansing breath. The humid Miami air floods my senses as I consider my penance. By the time I reach the black Rolls-Royce idling at the curb, I’m still not certain I’m up for it. I’ve given Santiago ample time to pay up—more than I typically allow for someone who has defaulted on their loan. The fact that he’s a father stayed my hand. My relationship with my little sister is more like that of a papa and his daughter, so I sympathized with the man.

  But my patience is even thinner than my soft spot, and there’s nothing left to do but send a clear message to anyone who thinks they can swindle me. I may not need the money, but principles guide my every action—depraved as they might be.

  Sliding into the backseat, I glance through the open privacy screen. My best friend, top lieutenant, and driver, Jovan Flores, meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. His hands—snug inside black leather driving gloves—are tight on the wheel, his index finger tapping in an impatient rhythm.

  “Let’s go,” I tell him, making myself comfortable in the plush backseat. The car is an indulgence, a need to reflect prestige and power to anyone I come across. When I want to feel the wind on my face and have a moment alone, I drive one of my other cars. But the Rolls is a symbol, a calling card. Anyone who finds it parked outside their home or company knows Diego Pérez has arrived, and he means business.

  Sensing I don’t want to talk, Jovan turns up the radio but leaves the screen down. Jovan is my most valuable asset, one of the few people I trust with every detail of my life. I didn’t make him my driver because he’s subservient to me—even though, as the head of the Pérez Cartel, he answers to me in all things. I trust Jovan with my life, whether it be behind the wheel of my car or at my back in a gunfight.

  Killing Santiago doesn’t have to be my burden; the family is filled with hundreds who would do it at nothing more than a word from me. But my mother taught me that a boss who can order a life taken should be man enough to do it himself. It’s another one of those things that makes me seem larger than life to those who either fear or follow me.

  I roll down my window and take up the glass I was sipping from before arriving at the church. There’s still a swallow of Scotch at the bottom, so I toss it back and then reach for the bottle to pour another. It annoys me to take time away from other pressing matters to deal with Santiago. I have more important things to worry about—like the pending alliance between my family and the Russian Yezhovs. There’s also the issue of the Armenians—a gang of bloodthirsty, unprincipled savages who have been causing me trouble for years.

  Knowing my time is better spent on those issues makes me want to stride right into Santiago’s house and put a bullet between his eyes. No talk, no negotiation. One and done.

  But Father Moya’s voice nags me, as it always does after a confession. I’ve given up on hope of redemption, knowing God would never allow me through his pearly gates. If my fate is already sealed, what’s the point in changing my ways? Putting aside my commitment to the family would have me dying of boredom—except for the rare occasion when some fuckwit decides to try to take me out. There is no such thing as a fully retired mobster. Someone out there is always thirsty for our blood, hungry for revenge.

  Eventually, we arrive at the Aguilar house—a sprawling bungalow in the High Pines neighborhood. How Santiago can afford to live in such an exclusive part of town is beyond me. When looking into his background and finances, I found out he’s heavily in debt and digs himself deeper by accepting loans from people like me. His mistake was using the money without knowing how he would pay it back. As I’m not the little prick’s accountant, it isn’t my job to help him figure it out.

  Jovan follows me from the car to the front door. We trade silent glances, then simultaneously reach for our weapons. Within seconds of knocking, we’re greeted by a plump housekeeper in uniform. She opens her mouth to scream, but snaps it closed when I level my silver, 9mm Smith & Wesson Glock at her chest.

  “Don’t scream,” I threaten, my voice only slightly higher than a whisper. “Mr. Aguilar is in, si?”

  “Si,” she replies in a shaky voice, tears filling her eyes.

  “Don’t cry,” I croon in a comforting voice. But I don’t lower my gun. In my business, everyone is suspect until proven otherwise. I once knew a man whose maid carried a .22 in a thigh holster beneath her uniform. “We aren’t here to hurt you. We just want Mr. Aguilar. Where is he?”

  The maid backs away as we advance, not bothering to put up a fight. She points down a hallway to her left with a trembling hand. “His office … third door on the right.”

  “Gracias.” I flick the barrel of my gun in the other direction. “Get lost. Call the cops and I’ll shoot everyone in this house in the head.”

  The maid’s orthopedic shoes slap against the tiles as she runs, muffling choked sobs. That she didn’t put up a fight is telling. It wouldn’t surprise me to know that Santiago is rude to his staff and stingy with their pay. He can hardly afford them as it is.

  “Remind me later to find new positions for all of Santiago’s staff,” I tell Jovan. “Well-paying ones.”

  “Got it, jefe.”

  We don’t bother to muffle our footsteps or slow our pace to go undetected. This place isn’t guarded and no one who lives here poses a threat. Santiago’s children are adults living away from home. There should only be him, the staff, and maybe one of the bimbos he parades around town.

  The office door is open a crack. Jovan goes ahead of me, peering inside before kicking the panel wide. The slumped form of Santiago Aguilar jolts upright at the slam of the door against the wall. The fucker had dozed off at his desk with a half-empty bottle of cheap booze and an empty glass at his elbow.

  He blinks unfocused eyes, which widen when he looks at me. Pressing himself against the back of his chair, he shakes his head like a dog drying off.

  “M-Mr. Pérez!” he exclaims, holding his hands up and out—as if it would be enough to stop a bullet. “I was just getting ready to call you.”

  “Save it,” I snap, as Jovan strides to the desk and hauls him up by his shirt.

  Santiago is a small man, rail thin and swarthy-skinned. His dark hair is slicked within an inch of its life, and gaudy Cuban link chains decorate the opening of his floral button-up shirt. The man is a walking stereotype; a tacky shit-stain no one will miss once he’s gone.

  “Shut the fuck up!” Jovan roars as Santiago pleads and begs for his life.

  He’s a pitiful sight as he’s pushed to his knees at my feet, snot and tears running down his face.

  I cock my gun and aim it between his eyes. “Your time is up, Santiago. I didn’t want to have to do this … I really didn’t. But you forced my hand. Your loan is so overdue, it would take the rest of your life just to return the interest.”

  “I-I have five thousand in the safe right now!” Santiago stammers, inclining his head toward an ugly landscape painting. He’s even unimaginative when it comes to hiding a goddamn safe.

  “I’ll have the five thousand as compensation for the inconvenience of having to come all the way to High Pines to kill you,” I tell him, pushing the gun against his forehead. “It’s over, Santiago.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth. Girlish whimpers escape the back of his throat, and he trembles in Jovan’s hold.

  I grind my jaw as I wrestle with Father Moya’s voice in my head. It’s annoying, when I’ve never hesitated to kill in the past. Not even at the age of eleven when a pistol was forced into my hand as my father knelt at my feet. Even knowing his sorrowful eyes would haunt my dreams for life, I pulled that trigger without flinching.

 
I’ve just made up my mind to stop dicking around, when a loud gasp and then a scream sounds from the doorway. Jovan and I whip around in time to get an eyeful of a half-naked woman.

  A fucking gorgeous half-naked woman.

  2

  Elena

  When Anita came running onto the back deck looking like she’d seen a ghost, I barely took the time to dry off after leaving the pool. I had no thought for the scrap of a bikini I was wearing, pausing just long enough to slip into my sandals and yank a cover-up over my shoulders. She didn’t have to say much for me to gather that my father has gotten himself into some kind of trouble. Again.

  “There are two of them, Señorita Elena,” the maid wailed. “They said if I called the police, they would kill us all.”

  Taking hold of Anita’s shoulders, I gave her a little shake. “Stay calm. Go to the kitchen and don’t come out until I call you. I’ll take care of this.”

  My voice held more confidence that I felt, and it was a good thing Anita didn’t ask me what I planned to do. In the time it took me to run to my father’s office, I still had no fucking clue.