Chasing Karma

By C. Shell

My name is Karma Gallo. If you’ve heard of me, I am sure you're remembering a story about a police raid, missing person report, or an FBI probe into my family. My father is a Chicago mob boss, and I’m his little principessa—the heir apparent with no life of my own. But in twelve days my life will change.

College will do that to a girl. So will the frat boy and the bad boy—two panty-dampening guys throwing around a lot of testosterone. Neither is what they seem. While one wants to protect me and the other want to use me to force my father’s hand. I might be a princess, but I have claws and I’m not afraid to use them.

Once all is revealed will love be enough or will all the lies and deceit tear everything apart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Shell
• Release date: Apr 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311321657

C. Shell

C. Shell lives in the hot state of Texas with her husband and three beautiful girls. Romance books are her obsession. One that includes a bad boy or an alpha male who knows what he wants is her own personal version of heaven. She finds the happy endings and endless possibilities of books alluring and addictive. When she is not thinking up her next kick-ass character, she is working in the community rescuing dogs.

Book preview

Chasing Karma

by

C. Shell

Karma Series Book One

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Chasing Karma

COPYRIGHT © 2015 by C. Shell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

Publishing History

First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2015

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0159-4

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0160-0

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

I want to thank my wonderful family for sticking by me through the good, the bad, and the ugly. I love you all to the moon and back. A special thanks to my wonderful husband who encouraged me to follow my heart and continue to do what makes me happy.

You are all my rock.

PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

C. Shell

CHASING KARMA

This is an enjoyable read with some hot, sizzling action between Karma and Travis. Really makes me wish I'd tried harder to go to university now!! Oh, the stuff I missed! Looking forward to Part Two!

~Mandy, Picky Bitch’s Blog Reviews

~*~

Freaking brilliant! The hopeless romantic in me right now is swooning. I loved every single precious minute of this book! Romantic, funny, sexy, suspense glorious hot male that rules the roost. Hello baby! I had to be forced to put it down to do family every day stuff. lol C. Shell, please tell me I don’t have to wait long for Catching Karma. I don’t think my heart can take it! 5 huge stars! Hopeless romantics, you’re gonna love this one!

~Tracy, Stephanie’s Book Reports

~*~

Noooooo! I cannot wait for book 2, C. Shell. This is torturing me. I don’t think I can cope!

~Stephanie’s Book Reports

Chapter One

Karma

It is amazing how the promise of a new beginning can make a normal day extra special. Everything which was once bland is more colorful and full of flavor.

My father’s heavy gaze settles on me as I sit at the kitchen table eating my bagel smeared with strawberry cream cheese and drinking orange juice. Every bite and sip are better than the last and all the little happy noises flowing from my mouth are grating on his every last nerve. Eddie, my dad’s personal bodyguard, is shooting death glares my way, all but begging me to stop before my dad loses his shit and starts yelling. I ignore him and go on being way too chipper and loud as I savor my breakfast as if it were my last.

In a way it is. Today is my last full day under their thumbs and watchful eyes, and I plan to make the most of it. I have dreamt of this day for three long years, and I refuse to let any of them put a damper on my good mood.

What are your plans today, princess? Dad asks in his thick Italian accent.

Well, I have a few more boxes to get packed up and Trish said she was going to drop by later this afternoon. We are going to hit up a club or two tonight.

I watch as my dad’s brows twitch. It is a sign he is in deep thought. He does not say anything right away, but I know it is coming. He is always calculated in his strikes and properly prepared for any argument. If he ever drops all control and flies off the handle, you know it is time to run fast and never look back. He did not get the nickname Diavolo, which means devil, by being stupid or weak. He did it by always being one step ahead of everyone else and knowing how to handle any situation without blinking an eye. Whether it is keeping tabs on his wayward daughter, putting a hit on someone, or making a man bleed out slowly and painfully until he gives up information, my dad does it all with an unnerving, calm attitude.

Carefully folding his newspaper, he lays it on the table between us and turns his attention my way.

Here it comes.

You will have dinner with me here tonight, and then you and Trish can enjoy yourselves at one of my clubs after. Let James know which one you plan on visiting and he will make arrangements to have the VIP section reserved for you all night.

Like always, he does not ask but tells me how things will go. I sigh out loud while drumming my fingers across the wooden kitchen table. I don’t waste my time challenging him. I wouldn’t stand a chance of winning anyway. I learned a long time ago some fights are not worth fighting. Most kids would love the fact their father owns several of the hottest clubs and bars around, but I know the truth. They are nothing but a front for his illegal dealings and another way for him to keep tabs on me.

James is my dad’s right-hand man. I call him Uncle James, even though he is not a blood relation to us. He has been working for my father since before I was born and handles everything my dad throws his way. He is a jack-of-all-trades, as they say.

When I was eight, Derrick Smith down the street tripped me and caused my front tooth to chip. Uncle James went down to his house and had a talk with Derrick for me. I am not sure what he said to him, but it must have been awful, because Derrick peed his pants in front of all of his friends and later that day I found a note he left for me, apologizing for his dumb feet getting in my way and causing me to get hurt. Derrick never came near me again after that happened. To this day, if he sees me, he crosses the street and walks in the opposite direction.

What time is dinner? I try to shift the subject back into neutral territory. Today is my last day here and I refuse to let anything, including petty disagreements, spoil it.

Janice will have dinner ready and served in the formal dining room at six ‘clock sharp. Standing, he dusts the imaginary crumbs from his suit and waves a hand in Eddie’s direction, indicating it is time to leave. Don’t be late, princess. Leaning down, he lays a soft kiss on the top of my head before sauntering out the kitchen toward his office.

Watching him walk away, a cloud of sadness settles over my cheerful mood. I am going to miss my dad. He might be a control freak and hard to live with at times, but he means well. Since my mom died, he’s thrown himself into his work and taken more risks than he used to. His ruthless reputation has grown and over the last two years, his territory has grown with it.

Staring down at my half-eaten breakfast, I mentally make a plan for all I need to do today. I still need to pack, get my car to the shop to have the oil changed and tires rotated, and make a trip to the salon to have my hair and nails done before tonight.

A lot to do and not a lot of time to spare.

The story of my life, I mumble as I stand and return my dishes to the sink.

Walking back through the main part of the house, I take mental pictures of everything around me. I memorize every detail from the teardrop chandelier and authentic sixteenth-century Dutch art to the antique furniture and custom-hung drapes.

I’m being childish and far too sentimental. I will be back to visit for the holidays, but this has been my home since I was born, and every room holds a special memory for me.

My memory wanders as I skim my fingers across the smooth wood banister as I ascend the stairs to my room. When I was ten, I talked Uncle James into helping me make a sled out of trashcan lids. We slid all the way down them, over and over, until our housekeeper/cook Janice caught us and forced us to polish every step until it shined bright once again. She is the only woman I know who is strong enough to bring a large Italian man to his knees. Literally.

These are the memories I hold dear to my heart, and they are also the ones that help to drown out all the nasty shit I have seen. Most children are taught to fear guns and not to touch them. Not me. I was taught not only how to load one in seconds but how to shoot to kill without blinking an eye.

My dad calls it survival skills. At first, I did not understand the need to know such things, but after years of watching some of the most ruthless men come and go from our home on a daily basis, I understand why he made it a priority for me to learn to protect myself, and I love him even more for it.

Since then, I have also learned to drive as well as a racecar driver, change a tire (not lifesaving, but handy), and outrun a tail. I’ve also been training in Krav Maga for the past three years. You don’t grow up knowing mob bosses on a first name basis and not know the importance of protecting yourself. I might be a principessa, but I am no wilting flower.

Reaching my room, I inwardly groan at the sight of all the boxes piled up in the corner. I don’t want to take everything with me. I have seen pictures of my dorm room and it is small, but at the same time, I am nervous about leaving something behind and not being able to retrieve it for several months. Dad pulled a few strings and got me into a newly renovated dorm building with larger than normal dorm rooms and its own en suite bathroom. It just so happens to also be a co-ed dorm building. Score!

I’ve promised myself to always put my studies first and foremost, but from what I hear, hot guys and steamy sex are part of the whole college experience, so if one happens to appear before me, who am I to argue and say no?

From the handful of times I have visited Texas, I’ve learned that the weather is hot as hell and practically always humid, so most of my Chicago clothing will be staying here. I’ve already bought several new items to replace them and in the spirit of starting anew, I picked colors and textures I shied away from normally. I am excited about the opportunity to spread my wings and become the new me.

Turning up my iPod and dancing around to the sound of Katy Perry singing Roar and several of my favorite pop songs, I spend the next few hours finishing up the rest of my packing. Once done, I am shocked at how lonely my room looks without all my photos and mementos, decorating the walls. My room is a shell of its former self. Pushing back my emotions before they have a chance to overtake me, I dress in black skinny jeans and a black leather strapless peplum top with matching high heels. Pulling my hair up into a messy ponytail, I add a few strokes of mascara to accent my eyes, blush on my cheekbones, and strokes of pink lipstick to enhance my lips.

Staring at my reflection, I see a bit of my mom staring back at me. We have the same black hair, although mine tends to be wavier where hers was always straight. My dad says the best feature I inherited from her is my deep hazel eyes.

I don’t remember a lot about her. I was young when she died, but dad has photos of her around the house and has told me lots of stories about her. He makes her sound like an amazing woman with a heart of gold. I am sure she had flaws, but through his rose-colored glasses, she had none. I might have inherited her looks, but I got my dad’s fiery attitude and temper. Uncle James is always joking, saying I was created from a mixture of equal parts heaven and hell.

Throwing my phone into my purse, I hit the intercom button beside my bed and call for Riggs to meet me down at my car in fifteen minutes. Riggs is my appointed personal bodyguard. Assigned to me since I was twelve, he used to irritate the hell out of me, but over the years, he has grown on me. We have, to some extent, become friends. He answers only to my father and watches me like a hawk, which is why Trish and I learned at an early age how to lie and sneak around without getting caught. Practice makes perfect.

Grabbing my keys off the dresser, I head downstairs. Before I dart out to the garage, I make a stop at my dad’s office. Knocking lightly on the mahogany door, I wait until I hear his voice before entering. The rich smell of cigar smoke, leather, and bourbon assaults my senses. For as long as I can remember, my dad’s office has always smelled the same, and over time, I have associated those smells with him, along with the safety and love he provides. It is the smell of home.

From the grim look on the faces of the men surrounding my father’s desk, I have unintentionally interrupted something important. Everyone stops talking at once. A few men turn away from me, as though me seeing them here is a crime in itself. For all I know, it could be. I stand tall, hold my head up high, and walk across the room to stand in front of my dad’s desk.

What can I do for you, Karma? Dad asks, pushing the papers in his hands out of my line of sight. I am so used to the secrets surrounding him it doesn’t faze me anymore.

I am heading out for the afternoon, but I promise to be back in time for dinner. I need to take my car in to have it checked out before I leave tomorrow. Riggs will be driving the Mercedes today so I can leave my car in the shop while we run some errands.

This is not our normal protocol, so I thought it best to alert my father to the change beforehand. He does not handle change well and hates to be left in the dark on such things. As a rule, Riggs drives me around in my car, or we take the limo together. He has orders not to leave my side when we are out and about.

Fine. My dad grunts, sounding dejected. Just make sure to keep your car within eyesight of Riggs at all times and do not pull your usual tricks and make him get stuck at a light without you. Again.

Of course, Daddy. It is nothing I have not been told a million times before.

The men standing about are impatient and relieved to see me leaving the office. I cannot make out what they are discussing, but an air of urgency and importance permeates the room.

Riggs is already waiting for me in the garage when I enter. His stoic face sports a small smile as I hand him the key to the black Mercedes my dad keeps on hand for emergencies. Riggs is not a big fan of my choice of music or my driving, so I am sure he feels like a giddy schoolboy at the chance to take his own ride today.

Is it my birthday? The jerk asks, giving me a knowing smirk.

No, asswipe, it’s not. I am just tired of hearing you sing off key and ruining all my favorite songs, I shoot back.

I ignore his scowl as I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. I learned a long time ago that tough guys hate to be laughed at. Riggs is an ex-marine around the age of forty-five. To this day, he still refuses to give me his exact age. Between his height, buff build, and the noticeable large scar running down his right cheek, he is intimidating as hell to look at. Without a doubt, he is not a man you want to mess with.

I need to drop my car off at Leon’s car shop to have the oil changed and tires rotated. Follow me there and then I’ll ride with you and finish a few errands I have while he works on it.

Sure thing, Princess, he says in a singsong way as he walks to the far side of the garage toward his ride. I cringe at the dreaded nickname I have been stuck since I was a little girl. I hate being called Princess by anyone except my dad. Riggs of all people knows it, too.

I point an accusing finger his way. Asshat!

I open the door and slide into my beloved silver 911 GT3 Porsche—my baby. The buttery leather seats mold to my ass; I start her up, and she purrs like a happy kitten. I love this car. No lie, I am in complete love with it. Its power is addictive, and the way it can take a curve is a high all of its own.

Clicking on my iPod, I scroll through several songs before