Taken by the Enforcer (Taken: The Lucchese Family #1)

Chapter 1

D onatello

“Donatello, we should kill the asshole. Get it over with already,” the dick tap dancing on my last nerve pipes up.

This fucker right here.

As if he can decide for the Lucchese mafia family—the head of La Cosa Nostra .

The most omnipotent crime family in the world based in Sicily with capos throughout Europe, Canada, and the United States.

Now under Luca’s control as Boss, the primary focus is arms dealers.

Lucchese S.r.l.—known as an import/export company—provides the largest assortment of top-quality weaponry.

Individuals and organizations seek us out for pistols to missiles, adding to the family’s billions of dollars every hour.

And they don’t want to miss one euro. Or else.

“What made you think you could steal from the shipment and get away with it?”

I ignore Aldo and step closer to the fool dangling from the darkened warehouse ceiling.

Naked, bruised, and bloody, his wrists swell in the chains wrapped around them.

As he sways from the last punch to the gut, his toes draw trails in the filthy mixture of broken teeth, piss, and blood on the cement floor.

A floor all too familiar with similar body fluids and guts.

My footsteps stop when the tips of my shoes reach the puddle.

I cock my head to the side and study the fool’s unrecognizable face.

One eye swollen shut—I always leave one open so they can see what’s coming next—nose smashed, lip busted.

Not even his mother would know her son. And she’ll never see him again.

I may not be a Lucchese. But for generations, the Romano family’s role as top-level enforcers and assassins made us closer to the family than any of their capos. We take it personally when someone dares to go against the Luccheses—family or money.

“Donatello! Did you hear me?”

In an instant, I spin and backslap Aldo across the face. He grunts and stumbles sideways, eyes wide, clutching his reddened cheek. My obsidian eyes narrow on him, flashing with danger.

“Unless you want to hang beside this fool, shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

He crumbles further beneath my withering stare, backing away in silence. Not until he returns in line with the other two soldiers do I refocus on the hanging man.

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

His one good eye flicks behind me.

“I-I’m s-s-sorry, Donatello,” he stutters around broken teeth. Blood mixed with saliva dribbles down his wobbling chin. He chokes and spits. “I-I never would have. Swear. Please…”

My fists pummel his stomach in rapid succession of blows.

Blood expels from his mouth. Splatters stain my white dress shirt rolled up to my elbows.

More blood from the open cuts in his torso covers my bare forearms. The fucker is lucky a bundle of fresh shirts remains on hand in the trunk of my Bugatti. My lip curls in disgust.

“You failed to answer my question. My patience ends.”

I stride to the table. A variety of instruments line its surface. My eyes scan the pliers, brass knuckles, scalpels, pinchers, and more to extract answers from the unfortunate. This one cries for God when I lift the handsaw.

“You’ll meet the devil soon enough. But first, I take the hand that dared to take from the Luccheses. Get him down.”

Aldo and the soldiers rush forward .

“Wait! I’ll tell you,” the fucker cries, wild-eyed. At their approach, he thrashes, head swivels, and his chest heaves. “I’ll tell you all!”

The strength only a dead man walking possesses has his arms flailing.

“No! It was?—”

Bang!

A gunshot pierces the air, followed by two more close-range blasts.

Aldo kneels over the still body of the thief. Three holes gape open in his chest. Blank eyes stare unseeingly.

“The fuck you think you’re doing?!” I thunder at Aldo. The two soldiers who jumped to their feet at the first gunshot glance between us warily. They know I do not tolerate disobedience. “I didn’t give the order to kill him. You tried the last of my?—”

“He reached for my gun. It was self-defense,” Aldo says, staring at the dead man. He stands and faces me as he holsters his weapon. “My apologies, boss.”

I assess his face and body language.

His eyes lower in respect. Beyond the change in demeanor, he remains unnerved. No sweat beads on his forehead, or eyes blink rapidly. Even his jaw remains relaxed. He stands before me, composed.

I flick my gaze to the other two. They shake their heads and raise their hands up, palms out. My gaze returns to Aldo. He brings his gaze to mine. My eyes narrow. He’s unflinching.

I replay the scene in my head and recall nothing that would contradict his self-defense answer. If he were lying, I’d kill him on the spot. But the code stays my hand.

“Clean this shit up,” I snarl and pivot, stalking to the sink as I peel off the shirt. My muscles ripple with the movement. I toss the ruined shirt to the floor and twist the spigots angrily. The water splashes up from the basin to soak my shirt. A growl simmers in my chest.

As I wash blood from my hands and forearms, I watch them through the mirror’s reflection. My gaze tracks Aldo’s every move. He doesn’t waver. But I can’t stop the niggling in my gut. Then again, it could be because I can’t stand the dick.

I dry off and ball up the shirt, careful not to get blood on me.

Before I leave, I watch them clean up. They hose blood and gunk towards the drain at the center of the room while the fucker’s body melts in a drum of hydrofluoric acid.

Satisfied with their progress, I stride for the door, only pausing to wipe the soles of my shoes on the mat they’ll dispose of.

“ Buona notte , D.”

“See you, D.”

I jerk my chin at the soldiers standing guard throughout the empty warehouse.

It’s one of many owned by the family. A burly soldier opens the door for me.

His sharp gaze assesses the potential for threats in the night’s shadowy surroundings of the warehouse.

Only after he steps back with a nod, do I exit .

With a fresh shirt on, I slip into my suit jacket and slide behind the wheel of the supercar.

“ Dammit! ”

This is the second theft in four months, and I will find the backstabber.

The engine purrs to life. I shift gears and peel away from the warehouse, leaving Catania’s port behind. Time to meet up with Marcello and Faustino at Club Petali.

I drive through the ancient streets of Sicily’s second largest municipality until I pull up to elaborate black wrought-iron gates. A guard in a black suit steps from the security house at the entrance to the high-end men’s club.

“ Buonasera , Signore Romano,” he says as he glances through my open window. I nod. Stepping back, he raises his left hand to signal for the guard in the security house to release the gates.

They swing outward, and I drive through.

Cypress trees line the long driveway leading to a sprawling villa built millennia ago by a Roman prince for his mistress.

The secluded estate and its provenance prove perfect for the luxury members-only club where the women willingly work to fulfill every fantasy.

This location is one of many around the world owned by the Luccheses for the pleasure of the wealthy elite.

A valet—alerted of my arrival by the guard—waits to open my door as I stop at the foot of the villa’s entry stairs. I jog up the stone steps to the front doors. A butler greets me as the glass and wrought-iron door opens .

The ceiling soars between twin staircases in the grand marble entrance.

Prisms from the crystal chandeliers dazzle on the walls, drawing the eye to the themed salons.

They flank the stairs with the gaming rooms beyond.

The three upper floors serve as entertainment areas and as private suites, while the lower level and the cellar host darker fantasies.

The seductive scent of vanilla and ylang-ylang wafts through the air.

Sensual rhythmic music plays from a hidden surround-sound system, capturing the erotic ambiance of the villa.

The club embodies the Lucchese’s sense of old-world grandeur and luxury.

Even a Mafia family prefers the best in life.

Waitstaff carry trays of prosecco and whiskey or of hors d’oeuvres in case the members prefer not to eat in the dining room or not to order drinks at the bars. I need a stronger drink. Food is the last thing on my mind. I shake my head as they approach.

Dozens of gorgeous, scantily clad women mill about on the arms or in the laps of men dressed in bespoke tuxedos.

Not wanting their partners for the evening to notice but not wanting to miss their chance, the beauties wink surreptitiously at me as I pass.

Mary I’ve bedded. Others want their chance.

My reputation as a skilled lover runs rampant among them.

But tonight, I’m here for business, not pleasure. I ignore their clandestine offers.

As I weave through the clusters, the members offer me their salutations. However, I don’t linger. Marcello and Faustino await my arrival. Two soldiers stand outside the office. They nod as I stride past them to the door.

My older brother—by a year to my twenty-six—glances up from his mobile where he sits on the leather sofa. Eyes like mine scan my face for answers to the questions Marcello will have for me.

The youngest of the four Lucchese sons, he rose from an assassin to a family capo. Best friends since we were little, he brought Faustino and me on as his second and his third. He too studies my face.

“Nothing,” I answer their silent query as I stride to the wet bar and pour two fingers of whiskey into a tumbler.

I throw it back. The amber liquid burns down my throat but does little to dull my anger.

It’s not enough to displace the shitshow interrogation.

I refill the glass, then face them. “I was about to relieve him of his hand when Aldo shot him dead. In self-defense.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

I shrug an eyebrow, still pissed.

“Aldo says the fucker reached for his gun as he and two soldiers loosened him from the chains. It happened fast, and neither of the other two nor I can dispute it.”

Faustino sucks his teeth and sighs. Marcello leans back in his leather chair and rubs the nape of his neck.

“Luca wants answers,” he states flatly. His mink brown eyes bore into me with an unspoken warning. The stare cuts deeper than any scalpel I use during my interrogations. Message received loud and clear .

I finish the whiskey in one gulp, slamming the tumbler on the bar’s smooth mahogany surface. I nod.

“He will have them.”