Savage Secrets: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance (Mafia Elite, #4) (paperback)

Chapter One

Elena

I ran as if the hounds of hell were on my heels. My enemies, the Russians or perhaps the Italians, were coming for me. I wasn’t positive which faction would hunt me first. The Bratva, the Russian Mafia, was a sure thing and always a threat, whereas the Chicago arm of the Italian Mafia’s intentions were unknown. I’d lived among one of the ruling Five Families for most of my life. I was one of them.

After my mother, Daniela —a distant cousin of one of the Italian families—was murdered, Nicole Caruso pressured her husband to adopt me. She’d wanted a daughter. That very day, I became Elena Caruso, something I never regretted as I assumed the role of Mafia princess. She’d taught many things, taking over where my mother had left off. One of the most important was how to change my appearance, to be a chameleon.

A horn blared as a car passed in front of me, and my surroundings snapped back into focus. Chilly fall air gusted off the Hudson River as I crossed the street from my studio in Maxwell Place. A shiver raced along my spine.

I’d been uneasy since five o’clock that morning, when the shrill sound of my alarm shocked me awake. I’d rushed through getting ready, laced up my gym shoes, and hit the pavement not even ten minutes later. A heavy dose of dread had settled on my shoulders, increasing in weight with each minute that passed.

My mind was chaotic, making it difficult to enjoy the beauty of running along the walkway with markets and trendy shops on my left and the river on my right. The area would bustle with activity soon, as festivals and fairs were a constant during the fall in the popular North End of Hoboken, New Jersey. I loved that about the location, but the ominous vibe I carried with me made it hard to enjoy.

The influx of people so near to where I lived only increased my sense of trepidation. Triggered by an elusive ghost that haunted my dreams, I let my mind wander to the skills my birth mother had taught me—how to create a disguise through hair, makeup, and carriage. I’d used those lessons from the onset of detection by the Bratva, the day my mother was killed and Nicole saved me.

I had cut my unusual dual shade of warm-brunette and caramel hair so that the ends brushed the tops of my shoulders instead falling in waves down my back. I’d dyed it black, and brown contacts hid my light eyes. My natural blue-green color had gotten me into trouble more than once, and I needed to blend, fade into the crowd, and become unnoticed—forgettable.

The makeup I wore was to help me look older, not to enhance any particular feature. My hair was a drab black, not shiny and healthy. As for clothes, the baggier, the better. Even the jewelry I chose was costume, the style so far from what I normally would have worn. Put everything together, and I was just another person in a crowd. Nothing about me was memorable, which was exactly how I wanted it.

But underneath my sloppy attire, my body was toned and strong. I increased my pace, weaving around fellow joggers, my earbuds keeping the pretense that music pumped through them. It didn’t. That would have been a rookie mistake. I needed every sense on alert when I was in public. The ripple of the water I ran adjacent to and the strenuous rhythmic motion of running both helped to calm the itchy sensation of my enemies closing in on me. Only two people knew that I was alive, and they would never tell. I was safe. It’d been four years. There was no reason things would change.

With each mile that dissolved under the relentless pounding of my feet, the tension eased, and I was able to push aside the waking paranoia and enjoy the run. Bricks paved the walkway, and a wrought iron railing separated the people walking and running from the river along the tree-lined expanse. Not far across the water, New York’s skyline reached for the clouds, complete with a view of Lady Liberty.

Hoboken itself was vibrant and packed with cafes, bars, and shops, and I had easy access to New York with several modes of transportation, but my favorite was hopping the ferry that took me to Manhattan, where I worked during the day at a bookstore. If possible, I tried to work the morning shift—there weren’t as many customers—but today had landed me an afternoon slot. At least I could grab a coffee and pastry from the café in my building after showering. It was something to look forward to.

In the four years that I’d lived there, I’d kept to myself. I had acquaintances but no close friends other than Danny, whom I’d met in college, but that was more of a working relationship. Granted, it doubled as a way to keep my skills in top shape and gave me an adrenaline high in the very uneventful life I’d been leading, as I helped him some nights to find blind spots in the security systems he designed for commercial and residential properties. He was a hacker and had access to security feeds, and we were a good team. People knew me as Chloe James, and aside from having classes together here or there, no one had any information about me. It was better that way.

A peek at my black running watch told me I was at the halfway point of the distance I wanted to cover. I glanced over my shoulder to ensure no one was close then turned around to head back as my phone, strapped to my bicep, buzzed. It wasn’t the first time that’d happened so early in the morning, as the sun was just cresting the horizon. Many times, my manager would call incessantly, knowing I was usually free, as he scrambled to rearrange the schedule when someone called off an early shift.

It looked like I would have to take that coffee and pastry with me onto the ferry. I increased my pace to get home sooner and return the call. Not that I couldn’t do so there, but no one else would agree to come in early, so there was no rush for me to respond until I finished my run.

Soon, I was sprinting. A few more missed calls came across from the vibrations along my arm, and I grinned at his persistence. As I neared Maxwell Place, I slowed my pace so I could cool down. I would have to forgo stretching until I got upstairs and returned the call.

When the crosswalk signal changed to allow pedestrians to go, I hurried to the other side then made my way into the building. The studio was paid for in full by a bank account owned under the guise of Chloe James’s mother, Rachel James. Chloe was the benefactor and co-owner. It was another layer to deter detection.

The elevator ride to the fourth floor was quick, and as soon as I was in my apartment, I undid the Velcro securing my phone to my arm. Slipping it from the clear plastic sleeve, I glanced at the screen, expecting to see missed calls from my manger. But instead, my phone lit up with several calls from Sofia, the only person from my old life who knew my number or where I was. That alone was disconcerting. But my blood froze at a text from Katya: If I can find you, they can. It’s time to go home.

I tightened my grip on the phone and warily glanced around the apartment. I could hear the blood pumping in my ears as I strained for the sound of a floorboard creaking. I took in every detail of the space before me, which was a mixture of wide-plank hardwood floors, stone, and brushed metal. Oversized windows framed the Hudson River and New York skyline. I swept over every detail, checking for the slightest thing out of place, but it was as I’d left it, complete with the blue-gray throw hung in a haphazard mess across the back of the couch and my glass of water on the quartz island.

I lurched forward, the coffee table a couple of feet away. In a hidden compartment on the rear of the table were my escape bag and weapons. I traced the bottom of the wood until I felt the trigger pop the cabinet open.

As soon as the door swung wide, I swiped my bag and palmed the 9mm. My heart beat against my ribs in a furious tempo, and the heightened awareness of the ticking clock bit at my heels as I tore my running clothes off then replaced them with a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved black shirt, and a nondescript black hoodie. I slipped on black gym shoes then tied them securely. In my emergency backpack, I kept a change of clothes, more ammo, money, a water bottle, a dishwater-blond wig, a first aid kit, and most importantly, IDs with a different identity.

I slung the backpack on and tightened the straps before sliding the gun into the waistband of my jeans. I pulled the hem of the hoodie down to cover it then rushed to the front door. I would miss the place, especially the private rooftop terrace, where I’d spent many evenings reading or studying. It was a luxury I hadn’t been able to resist.

I grabbed the doorknob, and I yanked it open, ready to sprint to the stairs—only I couldn’t. I was too late. I nearly slammed into a man with dark hair, eyes as green as a lawn in the springtime, and a body that promised hours of sin. Marco La Rosa, the most infuriating man I’d ever met, had found me.

He stood, all six foot two inches of him, blocking my way with wide shoulders that filled the doorframe—and I wasted precious seconds taking him in. Sofia’s oldest brother, boss of the La Rosa family, was probably the reason why she’d called repeatedly. He was terrifyingly beautiful, fierce, loyal, and from what I’d been told, a total man-whore. All I cared about, though, was escape and where his loyalties lay.

The absolute deadly stillness that surrounded him triggered my reactions, and I used all my strength to slam the door.

He stopped it then pushed it wide and stepped across the threshold and into my space. “Found you, little thief.”