The Promise

By Candace Gold

Lucia Pallacio falls in love with Anthony Falco. Her mobster father, Vincent, forbids her to see Anthony. When she disobeys, his goons beat and leave Anthony for dead. Vincent then forces Lucia to marry Carlo Guerriero, who keeps her a prisoner, expecting her to meet his every sexual desire. Her life becomes a struggle to survive and discover the reason behind her arranged marriage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Candy Caine
• Release date: Oct 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311512536

Candace Gold

With nearly 200 short stories, numerous anthologies and 15 published novellas and novels, whether she’s writing contemporary romance as Candace Gold or spicy hot interracial erotica as Candy Caine, her alter ego, Candace keeps her husband, Robert, on his toes in their Long Island, NY home. Supportive with her writing career, he’s always willing to help her add authenticity to the scenes in her stories. And their yellow Lab, Sammy, keeps them both in line. When asked why she began to write, Candace says: “Reading has always been an addiction for me and my biggest thrill is to bring the joy of reading to others. To me, that’s what writing is all about.”

Book preview

Chapter One

My father always wanted to be a wise guy. As a young boy, he read everything he could get his hands on about the Mafia. He idolized men like Al Capone and Frank Nitti. When his friends pretended to be soldiers, he pretended to be Lucky Luciano. Grandpa Joe tried everything in his power to dissuade him, knowing well the dangers of such an obsession. But even then, at such a young age, nothing could deter my father once he’d set his mind to something.

By the time he was twelve, he was running small errands for the local Family. He practically lived at their hangout. Whenever my grandfather found him hanging around there, he’d drag him home by the ear and beat him with a leather strap. Siete asino del cavallo, which translated roughly to something like you’re a horse’s ass, he’d tell him, but it went in one ear and out the other. This went on for the next two years, until my father experienced a growth spurt and surpassed my grandfather in size. It was then that my grandfather knew he’d lost his son to the devil for good. My grandmother refused to give up on him, though, and went to church each morning to pray to the Blessed Virgin for her son’s immortal soul.

In time, my father ably proved his loyalty and worth to the Family. Being a full-blooded Italian, he was welcomed with opened arms. His first important job, one he often accomplished with more than the necessary enthusiasm, was the collection of protection money from the local storeowners. He eventually graduated to more important tasks, performing them well enough to be noticed by some big shots in the Organization. From that point on, he steadily rose up the Mob’s ladder of opportunity without missing a rung.

My father met my mother at the local deli, which her parents owned. Coming over from Sicily, Salvatore and Bella Curcio had saved every last dime to set up shop. My mother, Marie, and her older sister, Josephina, helped work the counter after school. Although Marie had dreamed of becoming an actress, her parents didn’t feel it was an appropriate occupation for a nice Italian girl. They viewed Hollywood as a den of iniquity. All good Italian girls had one goal in life—to marry and raise children.

As for my parents, it was love at first sight. Amore a prima vista. The rest of the story would have been history, except for one thing. My mother’s parents disliked my father from the moment they first laid eyes on him and forbade their daughter to see him. Mom was just as headstrong as my father was and disobeyed her parents whenever the opportunity arose. The more they forbade her to see him, the more she wanted to be with him. Finally, as a last resort, Grandpa Sal decided to ship her off to relatives living in Chicago until she got over her craziness, which was how he referred to my father. When my mother found out she was going to be sent away, she told my father. Did I mention he had a terrible temper?

One night, just before the deli closed, some of my father’s friends paid a visit to my mother’s father and brother. Making them an offer they couldn’t refuse, they were able to persuade the old man to change his mind. By the next week, everyone was planning a wedding. They married two months later, with some of the most influential men in the Mafia in attendance. Six months later, I was born and given the name Lucia, after my mother’s saintly grandmother.

As a child, I never actually knew what my father did. I would often see strange men coming and going to and from our house. Then there were the times my father would be gone for weeks. My mother told me he was a private contractor who people hired to put up buildings and houses. As a young woman, I still wasn’t certain what he did. And, to tell the truth, I was glad. The little I did know scared the hell out of me. I would have been happier had he been a firefighter or accountant like other fathers.

We lived in a beautiful brick house in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn. Inside looked like a page right out of House Beautiful. My mother had filled every room with the finest of imported furniture and antiques. Decorating was my mother’s passion. I think my father indulged her, allowing her to buy whatever she desired for the house, because it kept her out of his hair. I was forever hearing him ask at our dark, mahogany dinner table that could open to serve two families comfortably, How much did you spend today, Marie?

My father conducted all his business dealings in his study, a small, oak-paneled room with a fireplace that reeked of cigar and cigarette smoke when the door was opened. Sometimes, as I passed by, I heard strange voices. I often tried to picture the faces that went with them. Never allowed to go inside, I dared trespass only once. Somehow, my father found out, and my bottom was sore for a week. I never went inside the room uninvited again. Thus, I learned at an early age how painful it was to cross my father. You never answered him with a no. His punishment, though swift, was often unjust, for he acted as both judge and executioner.

My birth turned out to be a great disappointment to him. I didn’t realize how desperately he’d wanted a son until I witnessed a terrible argument he and my mother had one night when I was five years old. His shouts were loud enough to wake me from a sound sleep. I slipped out of bed and went to their bedroom to see what was going on. The door stood open, so I peeked inside. I saw my father towering over my mother. She sat cowering on the floor, trying to make herself as small a target as possible, as my father slapped her to emphasize each point he made. He called her names and shouted terrible words I soon learned not to repeat. She’d failed him as a wife for no other reason than she’d only produced one child, a girl. Had it been a boy, everything would have been okay. He’d wanted a son—needed a son. What good was a girl? Hadn’t she known it had to be a boy? What good was she to him?

Seeing the rage in my father’s dark green eyes and the fear in my mother’s, I knew I’d find no comfort in that room and ran back to bed. I pulled the blanket over my head and cried myself to sleep. That was only the first of the many times I would do so. Too bad my sobs couldn’t drown out those terrible, hurtful things my father said. His words continued to echo in my head over and over again. He hadn’t wanted me; he didn’t love me. I didn’t understand why he didn’t want me, but I promised myself I’d be such a good girl that he’d have to love me.

As I got older, I realized being the daughter of Vincent Pallaccio had its drawbacks. The greatest one concerned my social life. Only a handful of the guys at school would dare ask me out because they feared my father. I soon got the reputation of being untouchable. I had plenty of girlfriends, but they all dated while I stayed at home. A leper got more dates than me. In my senior year, I was voted the prettiest girl in school. Yet what good did it do me? I didn’t even have a date for the prom. No one wanted to tangle with my old man. They were all afraid of him.

When I would try to talk to my father about it, he’d merely shrug it off saying, What’s your worry, Lucia, eh? When the time comes, you’ll be married.

I figured he knew something I didn’t, and if some stranger from another town didn’t show up to sweep me off my feet, I was never going to walk down the aisle of a church dressed in white.

As for my mother, most of the fiery feistiness she’d once displayed was all gone by then. I was certain my father had a great deal to do with it. Disagreeing with him was a dangerous thing to do. In our house, he always had the last word, giving new meaning to being the king of his castle. In essence, he was nothing more than a bully. If his vicious words were not enough to reduce my mother to a sobbing mass, his fists eventually did. I hated him during those times. She tried to hide it from me and the rest of the world, but I knew. Makeup couldn’t always hide her bruises. Over the years, the arguments grew less in number, not because my father had mellowed, but because my mother had merely realized the futility of disagreeing. Then again, the pain was probably very convincing.

Chapter Two

High school was finally over, and summer vacation began. I’d graduated with decent grades. Although I was no A student, I could have gone to college had I wanted to. I didn’t. All I wanted to be was a secretary and would be attending secretarial school in the fall, but that was in September. Right now, it was time to hang out at the beach and get a great tan. And maybe, if the fates were with me, I’d meet a nice guy.

I put on my new two-piece bathing suit and looked at myself in the full-length mirror. I was no Marilyn Monroe, but I didn’t look bad, either. I pulled on a large T-shirt to hide what I was wearing from my father’s eyes and left the room. The way he acted, sometimes you’d think it was the Dark Ages and not 1959.

My mother sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and thumbing through a copy of The Ladies Home Journal. As I grabbed my purse and car keys, she realized I was there and said, Did you have any breakfast?

Not hungry. I’ll catch something at the beach.

Have at least a glass of orange juice.

To make her happy, I poured myself a small glass of juice and chugged it down before saying, See ya later.

I was out of the house and in the car before she could even reply. As I backed out of the driveway, I looked to see if Mr. Garvy’s cat was lurking behind me. I’d narrowly missed hitting him the other day. I swore that idiot cat was playing chicken with me. After seeing the coast was clear, I was safely on my way to Cindy’s house. She surprised me by being ready for a change and came outside when I honked. Together, we piled her things into the trunk of my Chevy Bel-Air and drove from there to Marilyn’s house. She was waiting at the door and came out as I pulled into her driveway. Next stop, Coney Island.

The three of us had been friends since we’d started grade school. Cindy’s full name was Cynthia, but no one called her that unless they wanted their face rearranged. She hated the name with a distinct passion. Tall and blonde with deep, cornflower-blue eyes and a model’s sleek body, she was a regular boy magnet. Marilyn, slightly shorter than Cindy, was a brunette with hazel eyes that matched her every mood, not to mention whatever she wore. Marilyn was paranoid about her weight, fearing she’d add to her ample hips, driving both Cindy and me crazy with every nutty new diet she decided to try. One time, she spent a full week eating nothing but rice; another time, she ate nothing but meat. Then she tried a diet consisting of no meat and only certain vegetables.

Cindy and I were the same height—five-nine. I had waist-length, jet-black hair like my mother, which usually ended up clogging the bathroom drain. Because of this, the plumber paid us a visit every few months. With my olive skin, I could have been mistaken for a native Sicilian. But unlike my mother, who had brown eyes, I had inherited my green ones from my father.

The minute Marilyn got into the car, she changed the radio station.

Hey, what did you do that for? Cindy asked. I liked that other song.

I didn’t, Marilyn answered. I like Elvis Presley better than The Platters.

Who cares? I’m changing it back, said Cindy.

Come on, you two. Stop arguing. It’s a gorgeous day. Let’s enjoy it, I said, putting on a totally different station as a compromise.

"Do you know who Raymond Maffucci asked out?" Cindy asked.

Who? I asked.

Roberta Cusack.

Roberta Cusack? What does he see in her? asked Marilyn.

Her father’s got money, and she does have a nice figure, I said.

You mean big boobs, don’t you? Cindy jumped in.

My face heated with embarrassment. Even though we’d been friends forever, I still couldn’t talk about sexual things as easily as they did.

I do believe you’re blushing, Lucia. We’ve got to get you past that, don’t we, Marilyn?

Marilyn just laughed and gave me a playful punch.

It was a perfect beach day. The sun was a large fireball in a huge, unending sea of blue. Not a cloud marred the sky for miles. The water wasn’t too cold, and the waves weren’t breaking too high. The only thing that could add to the day’s perfection would be to find the beach filled with gorgeous guys.

I pulled into the parking lot a few minutes after ten, and despite the early hour, I had a hard time finding a parking space. We carried our stuff from the car and walked onto the beach, looking for the right spot to settle down. Only one thing made one spot better than any other spot: the number of eligible guys in the vicinity. After picking the section of sand with a view of the most males, we planted our blanket and dropped our stuff on top. Cindy turned on the radio and tuned into WCBS, and we caught the tail end of Love Me Tender. Then we broke out the tanning lotion and began our labor of love with the sun.

A short time later, Marilyn wanted to go to the bathroom. Cindy decided to go with her, while I remained behind to watch the blanket. After someone stole Cindy’s radio the previous year, we took turns going to the bathroom or the refreshment stand. I didn’t mind staying this time; I was in the middle of Peyton Place, a new novel by Grace Metalious, and with the other girls gone, I’d finally have some peace and quiet to read. For some reason, Marilyn was being a real motor mouth today and hadn’t shut up for five minutes. I had a hard time reading when I had someone constantly jabbering in my ear.

I lay stretched out on my stomach and very comfortable when out of nowhere something hit the sand directly in front of me and a ton of sand exploded in my face.

Of all the—!

I’m so sorry. I heard a deep, male voice say.

I took the hand the man held out and allowed him to help me sit up.

The volleyball got away from me, he said.

Blinded by sand, I couldn’t actually see him; I felt like I had half the sand from the beach in my eyes and mouth, and I futilely swiped at my face.

Just a sec. Don’t move. I’ll be right back, he said, before he disappeared.

I sat there, eyes closed, covered in sand, and waited.

Moments later, he returned and said, Here, don’t open your eyes yet. Let me wash the sand off first.

He applied what felt like a wet towel to my face. My eyes weren’t as bad as I’d thought, and I was soon able to see again. When I blinked to look at the man responsible for my momentary blindness, I found myself gazing into the most beautiful pair of blue eyes I’d ever seen. They belonged to a guy with a head full of ebony-colored, wavy hair and a deep dimple in his chin. I caught my breath. But for a small, white, jagged scar bisecting his top lip and giving him a tough-guy look, he would be perfectly drop-dead gorgeous.

Can you see all right now? he asked. Kneeling before me in the sand, he continued to wipe my face.

I told him yes, despite the fact I didn’t want him to stop. He had such a gentle touch for such a big, muscular guy.

Listen, I’d like to make this up to you. Maybe I can get you a beer at the snack bar.

It’s really all right; I’m okay. Accidents happen, I said, shaking the sand out of my book.

You sure?

I nodded.

He broke into a 150-watt smile and said, My name is Anthony Falco.

Lucia. I didn’t tell him my last name for fear it would scare him away.

What a beautiful name. It fits you. You look like a Lucia. But, how’s about a drink or something anyway?

Before I could answer, some guy shouted. Hey, Anthony, whatcha doin’ over there? We’re waitin’ on ya.

He held up both hands. Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.

I watched him run off, his bronzed, muscular body gleaming in the sun. Go away? Not a chance. Actually, I could hardly wait for him to return. I wanted to know everything about this guy. Knowing my two friends, he was the type of boy they’d kill for. I was glad I met him first.

Then I realized how fast my heart was hammering. If he could have this effect on me by just talking, what would happen if we got closer? The thought scared and thrilled me at the same time. My mind began to drift. I wondered what it would feel like kissing his lips. Would I feel the scar?

Cindy and Marilyn came back, interrupting my thoughts.

Anything happen while we were gone? Marilyn asked as she plopped down on the blanket.

I fell in love.

It must be that book she’s reading, Cindy said, rolling her eyes.

And the heat, Marilyn said.

My heart skyrocketed as I saw Anthony returning with two friends. They joined us, and Cindy and Marilyn sat up, wearing duplicate looks of amazement. I smiled to myself. Cindy, at least, didn’t shock easily, and I could tell by her expression the sight of those three hot guys surprised her.

Lucia, these are my friends, Lou and John.

I beamed and introduced Cindy and Marilyn. It took little time for everyone to hit it off, and soon we had some heavy conversations going. But I had eyes and ears only for Anthony. I no longer heard the rushing of the waves as they crashed onto the shore or the joyful shrieks of the children running into them.

Anthony turned to me. Would you like to get that drink now, Lucia?

Yes, thank you, I said, suddenly wanting to be alone with him.

Would anyone else like something to drink? Anthony asked.

Just a beer, Lou answered.

Hey, man, as long as you’re going, I’ll have one too, John said.

How about you girls?

Okay by me, Marilyn said.

I guess I’ll have one, also. Cindy dug her feet into the sand.

Okay, be back in a bit, Anthony said as we began our trek to the refreshment stand. We had to navigate our way around a mosaic of blankets filled with people and noisy babies.

I stopped off at the ladies’ room to wash the last remnants of sand off and to see if I was the disaster I thought I was. One look in the mirror confirmed my worst fears. I had sand everywhere. There was a ton of it in my hair. I was surprised the girls hadn’t mentioned how bad I looked. Well, there was really nothing I could do, short of taking a shower, to make myself more presentable, so I washed my face and dried it off. I hoped there’d be a next time with Anthony when I’d have the chance to look better.

He smiled as I came out of the bathroom. You look fine. Don’t sweat it.

Does he read minds as well? I wondered as we continued our walk to the refreshment stand.

When we got there, we joined a long line that snaked halfway around the building. I didn’t mind the wait; it gave us a chance to talk. I wanted to learn everything there was to know about him.

Anthony was studying to be an architect. He came from Philadelphia and was attending school in Manhattan, where he shared an apartment with Lou and John. They had advertised for a roommate, and Anthony had fortunately read the ad. The three hit it off well, and they’d been rooming together now for over two years. Lou was a student at New York University, while John was an apprentice at a printing firm.

No one had a serious girlfriend. Lou had been engaged up until last month, when his fiancée ran off with an older man who just happened to have lots of money, not to mention a yacht and a mansion.

And you, Lucia. What secrets can you tell about the exotic life you must live?

Did he have to phrase it like that? If he only knew how difficult it was to be a mobster’s daughter. I searched my mind for something to tell him.

Trust me; I live a far from exotic life. I just graduated from high school and will be starting secretarial school in the fall. And I’m not seeing anyone special.

I couldn’t believe I actually blurted out such an intimate detail. It made me sound so hard-up. He probably thought I was an idiot who couldn’t get a date.

So, I’ve met up with a career girl. And, luckily for me, an unattached one.

Nicely put, I thought, relieved.

We finally reached the counter of the snack bar. Anthony ordered the drinks, and we each had to carry a cardboard tray that held three cups of beer.

Walking back to our friends, we continued our conversation.

I know this is kinda sudden, but I feel like I’ve known you for ages. Do you…would you like to go out Friday night? he asked.

I smiled. This was just what I was hoping to hear. I’d like that very much.

Good. If you look great with sand all over your face, I’m sure you’re going to be gorgeous without it.

I bet you say that to all the girls.

Nope. Only the ones I wallop with sand at the beach.

I laughed, and he joined me.

I hope we get back with this beer before it gets too warm and tastes like piss, he said.

As we threaded our way around blankets and beach chairs, it looked like someone had claimed every available spot on the sand. Surprisingly, we made it back to our friends with a minimum of spillage. Unfortunately, though, the beer would have tasted a lot better had it been colder.

We seemed to have been gone long enough for everyone to get to know one another and pair off. Lou was sitting close to Cindy and still pouring his heart out over his broken engagement. She seemed to be offering him sympathy and a soft shoulder to cry on. As for John, he was busy telling Marilyn all about his souped-up Pontiac that could go from zero to sixty miles an hour in four seconds flat. Knowing Marilyn didn’t know squat about cars, I was sure she was real interested. If anything, John’s good looks held her attention, not his car.

The guys challenged us girls to a volleyball game. Eventually, they grew tired of chasing the ball, and we evened up the sides. But no matter how we changed the sides, we spent more time chasing after the ball than sustaining volleys. Hot and tired, Anthony and I collapsed on the blanket, while the others ran into the water to cool off first. Watching the blanket was still a priority, but I didn’t mind it while Anthony was there. We lay close, nearly touching, and I could feel the heat of his body. It warmed me in places I didn’t think possible.

When the others came back, wet and dripping, Anthony and I took our turn running into the breaking waves. He took my hand in his, and electricity seemed to arc from my fingertips right through my entire body as we raced into the water. The next wave knocked me down. He grabbed me and swept me into his strong arms, where he held me snugly until it was safe to put me down. I drank in his manly scent, which combined with suntan lotion and salt, and played havoc with my senses long after he’d released me. We stayed in the water, enjoying relief from the heat a little while longer before running back to the blanket to rejoin the others.

Lou and John decided to make another beer run. Anthony and I offered to stand guard over the blanket so Marilyn and Cindy could join them.

Anthony told me more about his family in Philadelphia. They sounded close-knit and loving, a far cry from my own.

Being the youngest of four children and the only boy was not easy. My three older sisters treated me like a doll. They constantly changed my clothes and brushed my hair. I’m surprised I’m not bald today.

I looked at him and thought how lucky his sisters were to be able to brush and run their fingers through his thick, black hair.

My dad’s a carpenter. He’s got steady work, but my mom does sewing to supplement his income when things get slow, Anthony said as he sifted sand between his fingers.

Listening to Anthony talk about his