Dynasty to Destroy (Stolen Obsessions #3)

Prologue

GIANNA

15 years ago

“Thanks be to God,” the congregation speaks in unison, and the sermon finally concludes, ending yet another impossibly long High Mass. I check my watch, not daring to touch my phone in case I have a text from Niko. It was only an hour and fifteen minutes this time. Our priest has been known to go for a full hour and a half, so I suppose I should count my blessings.

The cliffside monastery and abbey holds one of the oldest cathedrals in the continental US, and our priests take that responsibility seriously. Father Ramos says each ritual is to be revered, each prayer and hymn to be savored. I’ve read enough about my religion to know it's simply an exercise in the divinity of suffering. If pain brings you closer to God, we could all kiss the man’s feet with pew-numbed asses.

A brief rustle passes through the room as people head toward the door, murmuring conversations as they exit their pews and discuss their plans for after Mass. Our family sits back down, maintaining our positions until the room clears. Most of the passersby incline their heads toward my father in silent acknowledgment.

I glance to my right to check my bodyguard Carlo’s expression. He doesn’t notice my inspection since his focus is trained on the ones who don’t incline their heads. His distraction is a good sign. If I rouse suspicion, I’ll never get out of here.

To my left sits my brother, Dante. He’s three years older than me and way too cool to admit he’s my best friend, but I don’t know what I would do without him. Next sits my mother, perfect and elegant as always, then my papa, strong, handsome, ten years her senior. We’re not the only family who retake our seats and wait for the church to clear. The two other crime bosses who operate in this region also wait for everyone to go.

“How long will it take this week, Stefan?” Mom has plans after church to introduce Dante to a girl she hopes he’ll marry, and she doesn’t want my father’s business holding her up. She’s friends with her mother, and this marital scheming is an integral part of being a mob wife.

“As long as it takes, Leonora.”

“Maybe we should offer to take the other bosses out for lunch, then,” Dante supplies, having made his opinion of our mother’s matchmaking efforts clear. I giggle.

“Hush, Dante,” my mother scolds him and slaps my hand without even looking in my direction.

This area has been run by organized crime for a long time now, and our family is one of three that came out on top, divided the area, and added order, but we still fought bitterly for who would take complete control of the territory. About forty years ago, the heads of our three families decided we were better off tolerating each other. This Mass is a part of that, a sign of acceptance and peace before God, because if anyone can keep violent men honest, it’s Him.

My mother glances at me out of the corner of her eye, her threat implicit. I’ve taken off after church the past three weeks, never admitting where I went. The grounding is worth it, and I don’t care. I’ll do it as many times as I need to before I turn eighteen and go off to college in a year. My mom and I have never gotten along anyway, even when I was little. I’m not sure what I ever did to piss her off, but I’m used to it. I have Dante and my papa—when he’s not being mean.

The church doors close, and the priest says a word to each of the bosses before stepping away and leaving us alone. The moments before we meet every Sunday are the most tense I ever see my father. I’ve often wondered if he’s hiding something big from us.

All three of the leaders stand.

“Wish me luck, little sister.” Dante playfully elbows me as he rises and tries to go with our father.

“Sit down, Dante,” Papa says before leaving us to meet with the other heads.

The tips of his ears practically glow.

“Tough luck, big brother.”

Gregorio Medeiros, Alexandre Bouchard, and my father look at one another for a long moment, sizing up the competition. With a silent switch, fake smiles break out across their faces. They approach each other on neutral territory to shake hands, exchange words unsuitable for the women and children, and hopefully assure peace for another week.

I watch my father’s broad shoulders, waiting for my chance, not paying much attention to the younger children who have gathered to play. That changes when Pax, the ten-year-old Bouchard psychopath, laughs before intentionally tipping over one of the candles, lighting the Medeiros girl’s skirt on fire. She screams as the flames climb. There’s masculine shouting and some stomping. The little girl cries in Portuguese. I know enough to recognize the word she repeats—hurts.

Heated accusations fly.

“He did that on purpose. You put him up to it.”

At this point, no one is paying any attention to me or Niko—Alexandre Bouchard’s oldest son—except Dante, who only thinks I like to go on walks unsupervised after church. He’d never support my troublemaking if he knew what I was really up to.

I slightly incline my head toward Niko.

“Wish me luck, big brother.” I smile at him before edging backward to the side door to escape. Maybe I should care more about what’s happening around me and less about myself and my needs, but that’s not really my style these days. I tried to be a good daughter, but how far did that get me? I still don’t have any real friends or freedom, so I might as well steal some for myself.

I slip out of the church without being noticed, but the flash of sunlight is so bright I worry I’ll grab their attention. The heavy door closes softly behind me, and I’m operating on supremely limited time. I’m not essential for any part of these meetings, especially not now. If anyone asks, Dante will play dumb long enough to buy me some time. He won’t lie for me, which I find stupid. Niko, however, will be missed. He’s next in line to take his dad’s position, and his brother lit the fire they’re currently fighting about.

Thirty seconds later, the door opens, and for a split second, I worry it may be Niko’s or my father. It opens fully, and Niko steps through the door into the warm summer air. I admire his soft brown curls, gray eyes like flint, full lips, and a dimpled smile. He’s so damn pretty, but strong too, tall and masculine enough to keep the taunting about his almost feminine beauty to a minimum.

My heart leaps into my throat every time I see him and has since I was about ten. It’s gotten more intense since I lost my virginity to him at our lake house a few weeks ago. He knows how to use all that beauty too. Sex with him was unbelievable. It’s all I can think about.

He looks around us once, not wasting any time before his hands are in my hair and his lips are on mine.

“Gi,” he groans against my skin. “That skirt is not appropriate for church.”

“Niko,” I answer as he slides his tongue into my mouth. “I was hoping I could show you what’s under it.”

“We’ve got two minutes tops,” he warns me with a throaty groan. He’s always the responsible one, but he’s tempted.

“I can work with that.” I shove my body tight against his, hoping the press of my tits might convince him to make an even worse decision than we’re currently making. Kissing within range of our parents is no better than suicide, but that only makes it more exciting. I want him inside me with them on the other side of the wall. I want to feel just how wrong we are for being together.

“Fuck, we’re not doing this right now.” But he grinds his hips into mine, pinning me to the wall of the church, and it’s so close to what I want. I have his full attention. He just needs a push.

“It feels like we might be.” I give him a suggestive wiggle, slightly hating how sex-obsessed I’ve become. I thought finally doing it would make me think about sex less, but it’s had the opposite effect.

“No, Gi. After the stunt Pax just pulled, we’re not. I don’t have the time right now. Trust me, I want you so bad.”

“When, then?” I demand with a pout, his rejection stinging. I understand why things have to be this way, but people always tell me I’m spoiled and used to getting what I want.

“Thursday, I can get away. I have classes and other shit all week I can’t miss.”

“Thursday, Niko,” I complain, staring up at him through my lashes. “That’s four days.” I can tell it’s working. His face softens, which tells me he’s just as into this as I am.

“Should have fallen for someone more appropriate for you, princess,” he says just before he pops a kiss on my lips.

I grind my teeth. He knows exactly how to piss me off. He likes me ready for a fight, and I hate being called princess. He presses more heated kisses against my lips, and I fight him for control, but he’s so strong I don’t stand a chance. I lose the battle of wills and melt against his chest.

“Nikolai!” Alexandre Bouchard’s voice carries a heavy French accent, reaching us from somewhere in front of the church. An incomprehensible stream of French follows.

He kisses me once more. “See ya Thursday, princess.” And with a wink, he runs off.

But I don’t see him Thursday, and he doesn’t answer any of the texts I send nor the two calls I manage to get out while slipping Carlo’s intense scrutiny. When Sunday rolls around, I’m sure I’ll see Niko at Mass, and even if I only get two minutes of his time, he can at least explain to me what’s going on. Why the hell is he suddenly ignoring me?

When we arrive, I find the Bouchards in their normal place even though Niko doesn’t offer me a single of our normal stolen glances.

“Where are the Medeiros?” I ask my brother, but he doesn’t answer me. He just holds up a hand for me to be quiet.

We all sit, and people fill in the rest of the empty spaces. Tense chatter swells all around us.

“Did you hear what happened to Estella Medeiros?”

I certainly hadn’t, not unless they meant Pax lighting her skirt on fire last week.

“She’s dead.”

Someone else joins the conversation, and my heart drops. She was just a little girl.

“Good heavens, no!”

“Not just her but one of her older cousins too. There was some kind of accident.”

“God help them!”

“What happened?”

“They were murdered.”

The conversations all blur into one as I consider who could do something so sick and cruel. The wet smell of the old stone church overwhelms me, and I’m going to throw up. I turn to my father, hoping he’ll offer me some answers, but he turns his chin in the opposite direction.

“Dante, what does this mean?” I whisper in my brother’s ear.

“The truce is over, Gianna. I’m not sure we should be here anymore.” He says it loud enough for the surrounding people to hear him, which is very unlike my intensely careful brother. I realize he wants them to hear, but why?

At exactly that moment, I look toward the spot where Niko’s seated and find his eyes on mine, already watching my face. The dreadful churning in my stomach mashes with my hope, and I know he sees it because he frowns in response to my expression. Instead of offering me a lifeline, he gives me one stern shake of his head, like a surgeon letting you know your loved one didn’t make it. Then he turns away from me for the last time.

My heart splits in two as I watch for another second, waiting for him to turn around and change his mind. He has to give me more than that. We love each other. My lips form around his name, but I don’t dare utter a sound. A little girl is dead. The truce is over. Niko is done with me.

A new priest steps up to the altar, and at first, I don’t recognize him because of my own distress and the intervening years since I last saw him. We only visited him occasionally during our summers in Italy, but my father always sought his counsel when he did. The familiarity clicks like the hammer of the gun that would always sit on his shining leather belt.

“Why is?—?”

Dante pinches me before I can finish my sentence. The annoyance in his expression tells me he knows.

“Welcome, congregation. My name is Father DiMarco, and I’m new to this parish. I’ll be leading Mass from here on forward. But first I have to ask that Stefan Gemelli and his family leave. They are no longer welcome.”

There’s a murmur and rustle as everyone turns toward us. I sit stock-still for one full minute before my father stands, and we do as my great-uncle Marco asks. He smiles at Alexandre Bouchard like they’re old friends, and they shake hands as his family moves to the frontmost pew.

My father notices me staring and yanks my hand hard, forcing me to turn away before I can draw more attention to what’s happening. My shoulder burns, but the question plays on repeat in my head. Why is my uncle up there?

“You will not ruin this for me. You will never speak of this again,” he grits as he pushes me into the back seat of Carlo’s sedan. The door slams with my dress still hanging out, and I ride home without my family.

I don’t dare ask anyone for any further clarification later that night or the next day. I don’t even mention it when we suddenly begin attending a new church as if it were the one we’ve gone to all along.

My already boring life shrinks smaller and smaller. With Niko gone, there’s nothing to focus on but school and all the ways I’ve been disappointed. People tease me for having everything, for being a pampered princess, but I hate it. I pray as hard as I can that when I’m a lawyer, my father will finally take me seriously, and I won’t have to sit in the dark like this.

But over the next few months, every last member of the Medeiros family is murdered, leaving only two crime families warring in our area.