Brutal Betrayal (Caruso Cosa Nostra #2)

Chapter 1

Lucia

As I leave the dentist’s office, I run my tongue over the once jagged edge of my front tooth and wince.

I spent the last hour under bright lights, being patched up by a dentist’s gloved hands.

I didn’t feel an ounce of pain, as I made sure a chipped tooth wouldn’t stop me from shining under another blinding light tonight, but now the anesthetic is wearing off.

The dull ache in my jaw reminds me of last night’s mishap. A careless knock from an overeager patron led to an emergency appointment at a clinic that required my real name. I haven’t shared my birth name in so long that I nearly forgot it.

Over the past three years, I’ve tried to reinvent myself as someone who won’t have to look over her shoulder. Today, with my real name on the intake form and echoed by a dental assistant, I can’t avoid displaying the woman I used to be.

All day I’ve been on edge. I hate it. The clinic must honor patient confidentiality, so my records are secure. Even so, an oppressive weight clings to the air, choking me. It’s thick enough to cut with a knife and has kept me walking on eggshells since I arrived in Palermo.

I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Given my childhood, my unease is understandable. My stepmother would have a heart attack if she knew how I earn a living. Alas, when I suggested going to a shady, revoked-license dentist, my employer rejected the idea and paid for today’s expensive appointment.

I’m thankful I didn’t pay out of pocket for dental work I wouldn’t have needed if a client hadn’t been so rough-handed, but I’ve seen greats go down from a measly paper trail.

My only comfort is that Mother’s judgment would be hypocritical. She raised me to be exactly this way. I just accept money from strangers now instead of men with titles like fiancé, husband, and baby-daddy-to-be.

With my mouth tingling and my confidence just as bruised, I double the length of my strides, eager to get home and wash off the funk before another brutal all-night shift.

The streets between the clinic and the train station quieten around me as the late-afternoon sun casts long shadows, bathing the historic city in a golden glow.

Tucking my hands into my tattered coat pockets, I slow my pace.

The city’s beauty is a perfect distraction from the persistent ache inside me.

Palmero proudly displays its history. Old sandstone buildings hold stories no one will uncover—some wonderful, others painful. Every experience leaves a memory. What hurts most is how deeply we feel it.

Flaring my nostrils, I enjoy the smell of fresh bread from the corner bakery instead of the antiseptic scent of the dental office.

With my senses alert, I hear a commotion at the front of the dental clinic.

A little girl, maybe four years old, grips the doorframe of a large black SUV.

Her knuckles are white, and moisture is flooding her eyes.

She remains silent while struggling to break free from the brute’s grasp, but her distress is clear. It radiates from her in silent waves.

I hesitate for barely a second, but the guilt is gut-wrenching. My instincts yell at me to keep walking and mind my business. I’ve spent my life bowing down and sidestepping trouble, but the girl’s desperation won’t let me walk away.

I can’t abandon her. My determination to help, even if it hurts, is deeply ingrained.

Still fighting my self-consciousness, I drift my eyes between the spectators circling the little girl and the man breaking her heart one finger peel at a time. Her cheeks are ashen, and salty blobs threaten to spill down them, but no one seems to notice.

No one but me.

After shimmying my shoulders, shifting the thumps of my pulse from my ears to my fingertips, I move forward faster than my hesitation should allow.

The man is tall and broad-shouldered, meaning he faces no issues keeping the girl contained with only an arm curled around her waist. His dark hair has that two-hundred-dollar haircut all my clients seem to have.

He keeps his beard thick but neatly trimmed, and even with his eyes narrowed into slits, I’m certain they’re deep brown, almost black.

He’s attractive—very much so—but also intimidating.

When the girl notices my approach, her grip on the doorframe loosens as relief filters across her adorable, dimple-blemished face.

A mixture of protectiveness and old fear rises within me. I barge myself between her and the man ready to force her to submit—like my father always made me.

The stranger towers over me, easily six five, with a presence that could make anyone shrink. Still, I refuse to back down. Not this time. I could have avoided so much heartache if I’d stood my ground years earlier.

“Walk away. Now.” My tone wavers but still conveys confidence.

The man’s jaw spasms as our gazes collide. My knees wobble when I’m subjected to his furious glare, but I can’t help but admire the way sunlight highlights his face and how his expression shifts between concern and frustration the longer we undertake an intense stare-down.

His beard gives him a rugged appearance. Yet his piercing eyes and prominent brows create a captivating facial structure that commands attention even in tense moments.

After bridging the gap my shove created with one step, he raises his hands in a placating gesture. I don’t want to lose any leverage, so I jab my finger into his chest firm enough to shove him back three places.

He smirks, amused, but his voice still displays agitation. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” I cock a brow and cross my arms over my chest. He glances at my cleavage, then returns his eyes to my face.

I see the glimmer my clients get before spending their last dollar on a private dance.

He likes what he sees, but that changes nothing.

“She doesn’t want to go with you. Can’t you see that? She’s terrified.”

When I wave my hand at the little girl watching our exchange with shiny but tear-free cheeks, he opens his mouth, ready to speak.

I cut him off. “No. You don’t get to talk right now. She’s crying and clinging to the doorframe like her life depends on it, yet you’re more worried about arguing with me than helping her.”

“I—”

I shove my hand in his face before crouching next to the girl.

Looking into her tear-streaked eyes eases my anger.

She’s adorable, with dark hair, flawless skin, and two perfectly placed dimples.

Her dress is designer and her shoes shine brightly in the afternoon sun, but she still appears vulnerable.

“Hi there.” Despite the daggers piercing my skull, I muster a friendly smile. “Are you okay?”

The wetness in her dark eyes wobbles as she shakes her head.

As I scoot closer, ready to protect her with my body, I crane my neck and glare at the man scalding me without words.

“Do you know him? Is he your father?” Again, the stranger tries to reply.

Again, I cut him off. “I wasn’t talking to you.

I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.

That wasn’t my intention. I was simply returning your undetonated missiles while pondering why Armani-clad brutes always make communication their last resort. ”

He frowns, his jaw tightening. “Look, I—”

Ignoring him, I refocus on the girl. Even with a new spark of tenacity brightening her nearly black eyes, she’s still trembling. “Do you feel safe with him? It’s okay if you don’t. You won’t get in trouble for telling me. I just want to help.”

Although hesitant, she reiterates her refusal with a sheepish headshake.

“Someone call the police,” I say loudly, hopeful that one of the many people around us will listen. “This little girl needs help.”

People stare, and a few eyeball me like I’m crazy, but no one moves. Even those recording the incident don’t use their phones for their intended purpose. They keep recording, unfazed that a child is scared.

Disgusted by society’s ignorance of abuse, I take the girl’s hand and rush toward the busier part of Palermo. Surely someone there will be more willing to help.

I barely get two feet away before the man blocks my path. He’s brooding and intimidating yet so undeniably handsome that I forget the first two points after one glance at his panty-wetting face.

If there weren’t a child present, I’d be tempted to use the skills I’ve picked up over the past two years to distract him from his anger. That’s how fast his handsome face speeds up my heart. It foolishly makes me believe I’m invincible.

Even his thick timbre is more riveting than scary. “You’re making a mistake.”

Blonde locks slap my red cheeks as I shake my head. “How can helping a distressed child be a mistake? She’s scared of you, not me, yet I’m apparently the one in the wrong.” My pfft fans his meaty lips with ghastly dental-sterile breath.

For a moment, something filters through his eyes. It might be hurt—or perhaps even regret—but he pushes forward again, as stubborn as ever.

Confident I’m not a challenge for a man who exudes the command to rule an empire, I sidestep him, determined to get this little girl somewhere safe.

“Come on, let’s go find someone who can help.”

As I lead her away from the SUV, the man looms behind us like a heavy, unyielding shadow. Each step I take to widen the gap my speed should provide, his long strides erase.

My pulse pounds in my ears as I squeeze the girl’s hand tighter. I have no desire to harm her. I merely want to ensure my grip is strong enough so the man can’t snatch her away if he tries to yank her out of my grasp as he did with the SUV’s doorframe.

“It’s all right, sweetheart.” My tone is confident, though I’m unsure if I am aiming to reassure her or myself.

The strange sensation I mentioned earlier is back, stronger than ever, but it isn’t thudding solely in my heart this time.

It thumps several inches lower as well. “We’ll find someone to help us soon. ”