Filthy Marcellos: Lucian

By Bethany-Kris

Lucian Marcello is aware of the expectations following him as the oldest son of one of North America's most infamous Cosa Nostra Dons. Family in his world is more than blood and sharing a last name. It's the honor, respect, business, and the life. Being a Capo is just a stepping stone until it's time for him to take on the role of underboss but a chance meeting with her could be the one thing he'd risk it all for.

She is exactly what he didn't know he was looking for.

Jordyn Reese spends her time trying to stay under the radar of a man who wouldn't think twice about killing her. Unwillingly affiliated with a dangerous MC gang, her life is dominated by the men surrounding her and her future rests solely in how useful she can be for them. The last thing she needs is some Mafioso gaining her more unwanted attention from the club.

He is everything she should stay away from but can't.

Notoriously violent when it comes to getting what he wants, Lucian will stop at nothing to make the target on Jordyn's back disappear. But sometimes the worst threats are the ones you can't see until it's too late. The truth behind Lucian's history is about to take center stage in more ways than one, and it'll either save him … or kill him.

This world leaves everyone a little filthy. 

****

Filthy Marcellos: La Cosa Nostra is not just a choice of regime and routine, it's a culture. Born as mafia royalty, the Marcello brothers were raised ingrained with the beliefs and rules of what it meant to be a Mafioso prince. It is for life. Their status is considered a given right. They will always be these people. They will always be Marcellos. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bethany-Kris
• Release date: Feb 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9780993779725

Bethany-Kris

Bethany-Kris is a Canadian author, lover of much, and mother to three very young sons, one cat, and two dogs. A small town in Eastern Canada where she was born and raised is where she has always called home. With her boys under her feet, a snuggling cat, barking dogs, and a spouse calling over his shoulder, she is nearly always writing something ... when she can find the time. 

Book preview

Chapter One

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Crouched low, eight-year-old Luciano Grovatti hoped no one passing by the dark alleyway could see his small form resting beside the restaurant dumpster. The roadway and sidewalk seemed busy tonight, but he risked it anyway. It was the best place to find food, even if it was dangerous. On more than one occasion, he’d heard shouts coming from inside the business. He always made sure to hightail it as quick as possible when that happened.

The alley smelled awful, like garbage and death. But it was warm, and the sloped roof above provided shelter from the wetness of spring in the city. It was also relatively warmer because of the heating vents blowing out a steady stream of hot air from inside the business.

Soon, he would turn nine.

This was not how he thought he would spend any birthdays.

How many birthdays had passed since he’d been on the streets, now?

Holding up his dirty hand, Luciano ticked off the seasons he’d watched come and go. Spring, fall, winter, and summer. They repeated twice by his count and memory. Two years, he thought. It was an awfully long time for a little boy to be on the streets of New York, slumming it in alleys to find food, and struggling with older squatters for a safe shelter to sleep.

Luciano knew no other way.

At least it was warm enough to keep the shivering at bay tonight.

Are you hungry, child?

The voice came from nowhere. It was dark and deep, that of a man. It was also vaguely familiar. He spoke in Italian, not English, though Luciano would have understood either language. Luciano’s eyes popped open to darkness, fear saturating his insides. Instantly his gaze swept the opening of the alleyway to see if someone slipped in and saw him when he let his guard drop down.

How stupid could he be?

Looking back over his shoulder, Luciano stared directly into the green eyes of a man who kneeled down to his level. Something warm smelling and sugary wafted under the spicy tones of the man’s cologne. In his clean, pressed suit, the man seemed almost regal to the dirty, tiny Luciano. Even his shoes shined in the dank alley.

Holding out a package, the man said, Take it.

Luciano hesitated. No, thank you.

It won’t hurt you, I promise. It’s just cookies. Chocolate chip. Fresh from the oven. My favorite.

Luciano still refused to take the package. Locked in a staring contest with the unknown man, the boy felt like he was being visually searched by the eyes looking him over. Carefully, a hand reached out and brushed the too long hair from Luciano’s forehead with a tenderness that frightened him.

Like a skittish mouse, Luciano moved back quickly, his spine slamming into the dumpster. The man frowned at the obvious display of fear. I won’t hurt you, child. I could never hurt you.

What did this man want from him?

Your name? the man asked in Italian.

Luciano whimpered. Please don’t hurt me.

I said I wouldn’t. Your name, child.

Luciano.

Your surname? he pressed gently. Please, tell me the name given to you by your father.

Luciano shook his head wildly. It was something he knew he should never tell, not to anyone. His mother had been adamant, his last name was not a safe thing to speak out loud. There were people who would hurt him just for knowing where he came from.

Sighing, the man rubbed at his forehead. How long have you lived like this, then?

Holding up his hand once more, Luciano held out two fingers.

The man flinched. And your mother?

She told me to hide.

Of course she did. The man stood, brushing off his pant legs. You thought you were being careful, child, but my men have seen you digging around here more than once. I own this restaurant, you see. The only thing that stopped them from scaring you away was the fact they heard you muttering about in Italian. When they described you ... I had to see for myself.

See what?

Luciano couldn’t hold the man’s gaze any longer. It turned from seeking, to sadness and pity. Please, sir, if I promise not to come back here, would you let me go?

No.

W-what? Why?

I knew your father, child. He was my very best friend. He would be sorely disappointed in me if I let you continue on like this.

Luciano forced himself to swallow the bad taste in his mouth. My father?

"My name is Antony. I was, like your father was, a caporegime. I am the boss, now. The boss, child. Do you understand what that means?"

Faint memories bubbled up to the surface. Words from men Luciano didn’t understand well enough, though he knew his father was one of them. La Cosa Nostra. The family. His mother, a goomah for his father.

Antony was speaking again, bringing the boy from his thoughts. I knew of your mother, but I didn’t know about you until after. And for that, I am so sorry.

"Momma?" Luciano managed to ask.

Antony gave a single nod in response, smiling tightly. Would you like to sleep in a bed tonight, Luciano?

I ... Could he trust this Antony?

I have two little boys of my own, Antony continued, his tone growing softer. Dante and Giovanni. Dante just turned eight. Gio is six, going on seven. I bet they would love to meet you, and have someone new to play with.

She told me to hide, Luciano said quietly, needing the man to understand. I shouldn’t.

"You don’t have to hide anymore, okay? I made the men who hurt your madre and your padre go away. I am boss, remember?"

Boss, Luciano echoed.

A bed? Antony asked once more.

Please.

Antony’s smile grew to a brilliant grin. Then, two men slipped into the mouth of the alley, shadowing the bit of light the street afforded. One held a blanket, while the other simply stood silent and stoic with his arms crossed. With a snap of Antony’s fingers, the man with the blanket came further in and handled the article over. Antony used it to cover Luciano without a word.

Want me to take him, Boss?

No, Antony said firmly, barely glancing at the other man. He will be raised as my son, now. I will take him.

My son.

Before Luciano could say a word, he found himself picked up by Antony as if he didn’t weigh a thing. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around the man’s neck and his legs around his waist. Antony let out a shaky breath in response, but said nothing about the smell lingering on the boy, or the dirtiness staining his pristine suit.

From now on, we will call you Lucian. Lucian Marcello. Do you understand?

Luciano nodded. "Sì."

Let’s go home, Lucian. My wife has waited a long time to meet you.

• • •

Lucian awoke with a jolt. Sweat slicked up his skin, leaving beads of perspiration dotting across his naked chest. For a brief moment, he struggled to adjust his eyes to the dark room, but it didn’t take long for him to remember where he was, or for the familiar space to seep comfort into his suddenly aching muscles with their old memories.

It wasn’t often he dreamed of that night in Brooklyn, not anymore. Sometimes it would creep into his mind and it wouldn’t let go. The memory itself wasn’t a nightmare. Antony taking him off the streets, giving him a home, brothers, a mother and a father, had been the very best thing for Lucian. It was everything else surrounding that night, the things that came before ... those were the nightmares, now.

Lucian released a heavy breath, raking his fingers through his hair as he sat up in his old bed. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t come up with a good reason for why he was dreaming of that night. It wasn’t like his biological parents were on his mind lately.

He had parents—ones who loved him very much.

There wasn’t a thing Lucian wanted for when he grew up in the Marcello home, although it took him an entire month of sleeping in a closet before he felt comfortable with the size of his new bedroom. His hesitance to trust Antony or Cecelia—Lucian’s adoptive mother—had broken their hearts, but they gave him space and time until he was ready for all that love, support, and care they gave to him.

His new brothers had been the most welcoming, and probably the most frightening. As funny as it was now, the two boys full of nothing but piss, energy, and an abundance of Italian cuss words scared the living hell out of Lucian. They liked to rough house then just as much as they did as adults. Dante was the largest of the three Marcello boys, though Lucian towered over him by a couple of inches in height now. Giovanni—Gio to his family and friends—was definitely the smartest and most cunning of the three, always leading them into some kind of trouble and then managing to get himself out of it when they were later caught.

Lucian had good memories of his later childhood. Antony and Cecelia had given him all that he lost, and even the things he didn’t have before his mother’s death.

They never hid the truth from him, either.

The mother he so adored was for all purposes, his father’s mistress. Someone he loved, yes, but not someone he was willing to marry or leave his wife for. After all, marriage was for life in their world. It didn’t have to be about love, and his father’s marriage certainly wasn’t for that.

John Grovatti married his wife on an agreement made between his own father and his wife’s father. His wife, Kate, was a vicious thing in more ways than one. She lied about Lucian’s father to her daddy, telling him how awful her husband treated her, how he beat her, and how he wouldn’t share her bed because he was much too busy in the bed of another woman.

Well, at least that last one wasn’t a total lie.

Needless to say, there were consequences for John’s actions.

A boss didn’t need to have permission to make the call for a hit, no matter who it was for.

"Cazzo, Lucian cussed under his breath, kicking off the sheets and moving his bare feet to the cold wood floors. Damn it."

Those were not the memories or things he wanted to think about tonight. It was Saturday and the Marcello brothers always spent the night at their parents’ home and attended Mass the next day as a family. Their mother always made a large breakfast feast, they’d go to Mass, and then spend the day together, ending the evening with a family dinner and drinks. It was something they did ever since the first son moved out, following through until the last one did, too. There was no business on Sundays, but there was no rest, either.

Here, Lucian didn’t have his punching bag to beat out his frustrations on until he was too exhausted to stay awake for one more second. Instead, he settled for digging through the bedside table in hopes his mother hadn’t cleared out his stash of vices.

Of course, Cecelia had.

Lucian was surprised she hadn’t lectured him yet if she found them.

More agitated than before, he clambered out of the double bed, grabbed the sweats he’d tossed off earlier in the night, and pulled the pants on. It didn’t take him long to begin his silent trek through the upstairs of the three-level home like he’d done so many times before. If there wasn’t anything to calm his overactive nerves in his old bedroom, he’d find something in his father’s office.

After all, Antony liked his whiskey and cigars, too. Besides that, being twenty-seven didn’t do a whole lot for Lucian’s restraint when he wanted something. Much like the rest of the men in his family.

Maybe it was a Marcello thing.

Lucian stumbled, still reeling from the aftereffects of his dream, into his father’s office and found exactly what he hadn’t expected to. Antony sat behind his desk, sipping from a tumbler half-filled with amber liquid, while Dante was stretched across the leather couch, nodding at whatever his father had said before Lucian arrived.

Antony barely glanced up over his glass. Don’t you have clothes to wear?

Lucian shrugged, not caring he was half-naked. Didn’t think anybody was awake.

I hope you brought something better to wear to church in the morning other than sweats and those jeans you like. Your mother will not appreciate you going to Mass in dark wash denim again, Lucian.

Dante snorted quietly. Mom makes sure he’s clothed. His closet now sports six more custom made Armani suits, and I think she had some sent over here so he couldn’t act like he forgot his at the condo.

Well, this conversation was going nowhere, Lucian decided.

"Vaffanculo, Lucian muttered, effectively telling his brother to fuck off. Leave me alone. It’s not normal to wear a suit every day of the week, all right? I wear one Monday to Saturday, anyway. The least I could have is Sunday to wear what I want."

It’s good to be dressed appropriately, his father added from the side. And watch your mouth.

Whatever.

What are you doing up? Antony asked, placing his glass to the table.

Lucian’s nerves grew under the scrutiny of his father and brother. Nothing. Something woke me, a noise, maybe. Where’s Gio?

It wasn’t like his father to have a meeting with one brother and exclude the others. Lucian didn’t like that at all.

Dante waved one hand in the air, uncaringly. Sleeping off the drinks he slammed back before crawling into bed.

Lucian caught his father’s cringe out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t exactly a secret that the youngest Marcello son had his issues. Most of them revolved around his taste for alcohol and sometimes things a little harder than booze. Being the baby of the boys afforded him a little leg room to move more than the other two, but Lucian knew Antony was two steps away from shipping his youngest son to a rehab out of country to get his shit straight if he couldn’t shape up and do it himself.

Was it bad? Lucian dared to ask.

He didn’t drive himself home, and he came here for church tomorrow, Antony said. That was better than last week.

Maybe I should keep an eye—

No, do nothing, Dante interrupted firmly. Not yet. Give him a chance to handle it.

Lucian shot his father a look that silently asked if that’s what he wanted, too. Antony said nothing, only shrugged before picking up his glass and taking another gulp of what Lucian suspected to be whiskey.

I’m just saying, I could keep him a little closer is all.

Sure, Antony said, nodding. But what good will that do, Lucian? So far, he’s kept the issues away from business. I’m hoping it can stay that way. If it doesn’t ...

Lucian frowned. But—

But nothing. He’s twenty-five going on twenty-six, not a little boy anymore.

Yeah, but Gio was still his kid brother, too.

Lucian looked towards the large, ornate grandfather clock in the corner of the office. The time was well after two in the morning, letting him know it was early Sunday. Now, he was really curious as to the reason for the late night meeting in Antony’s office that didn’t include him, or Gio, and was obviously about business in some way.

No business on Sundays. It was a rule.

Just like dressing well, no matter what public opinion was. Even if they were on the Department of Defense’s list of major organized crime families in North America for their influence in the drug and weapons trade. Not to mention racketeering, extortion, smuggling, gambling, money laundering ... The list went on and on.

There were quite a few rules, actually.

Being an Italian, Cosa Nostra born family was everything when it came to living life as a Marcello.

Family. Honor. God.

La famiglia. Onore. Dio.

Greed. Money. The business.

It all needed to be handled just so. Appearance was important. Family was everything. Pride and fearlessness were expected. As was the ruthlessness their syndicates and enemies had come to expect when a Marcello was crossed. They were to keep their heads on straight, no matter what situation they came in contact with. Never were they to leave their home without a gun on hand. Cops were not to be talked to, associated with, or trusted.

Lucian understood how to work and use his own handgun by the time he was twelve. At thirteen, he was disassembling and reassembling assault weapons. As a child, he knew the basement and attic weren’t places he was permitted to use or explore like any other room in the house because his father had a large collection of illegal guns in one, and kept multiple incoming and outgoing shipments of drug substance in the other.

They weren’t good people. Lucian didn’t want to be, either.

But he was proud of his family. It was just who they were.

"Business on Sunday, Papà?" he asked, nodding at the clock.

Antony scowled at his desk. Wasn’t given much of a choice. Sit, we can talk now, I suppose. Just don’t tell Cecelia.

He did as he was told, resting his frame down into one of his father’s high-back business chairs that always sat across from his desk. You want me to go and get Gio up?

No, he’s likely too damn drunk still to understand the seriousness of this. I’ll talk to him after Mass.

Lucian sat up a little straighter in the chair. Those words didn’t bode well at all. What’s going on?

You know, I wish you’d quit marking up your skin with that awful ink, Lucian.

Smirking, Lucian shrugged. He had many tattoos. They were all important in their own way. His newest tattoo rested across his chest, from one collarbone to the other in elegant script. It read: This Thing of Ours. It was, essentially, La Cosa Nostra in English. Usually, his father peered over his tattoos with the disregard of a man who disliked ink, but he rarely said anything. This vocal disappointment was new.

Giving his brother a cocked brow over his shoulder, Lucian wondered what in the hell was up with his father tonight. Dante had come to sit up on the couch as well, a seriousness darkening his otherwise friendly features. Not that Dante was particularly friendly with anyone outside of their family and business.

Is it pick on Lucian night, or what? Lucian asked sarcastically.

At least you can cover them up, I suppose, Antony said, ignoring his son’s remark. If Gio gets another tattoo on his neck where I can see it when he’s wearing a dress shirt, I’m going to burn it off with a hot knife and blow torch. See how he likes the pain, then.

Lucian shivered, but hid it well enough. Antony did not make idle threats. Even if it was directed to his sons.

I’ll keep the ink to a minimum, Lucian said to appease his father.

You do that.

Or I’ll just keep my shirt on so you can’t see, he thought silently.

So, what’s up?

Antony finished off his glass of whiskey before speaking. About ten after twelve tonight, there was a shootout between the authorities and the motorcycle gang The Sons of Hell I’ve been keeping an eye on.

Lucian’s interest was definitely peaked, now. Oh?

"Outside my casino."

Damn.

That’s ridiculous.

Antony nodded shortly, anger clouding his face. I don’t mind their business. I’ve let them do their nonsense on my territory because really, it’s not hurting me. They pay a healthy due to the Capos to keep their peace and place, just like every other drug or weapons dealer working inside my territory does. They follow my rules. I don’t fault them on that.

But? Lucian pressed, knowing it was coming.

But this is different, Dante said from behind. It puts us in a spotlight we don’t need right now. We do all of our business on the low, and the last thing we need to be, or even thought to be, is affiliated with a motorcycle gang famous for their bloodshed and drugs.

Like we’re not? Lucian asked.

Antony chuckled. At least we’re well-dressed sinners.

Well, money did give them that.

Lucian still didn’t feel like he was getting the whole story. What am I missing?

They’ve gone too far this time. Antony sighed, a weariness reflecting in his green eyes. This war they’ve declared on the NYPD has certainly kept the police off our backs for a little while. But it’s bad, Lucian. A young couple was picking up a friend at the casino. They had a baby in the back seat of the sedan. The young family was killed, as were three police officers, and one MC member.

Oh, shit. Lucian felt a sickness rise in his gut like a poison. Dad, you can’t blame your—

They aren’t the first innocents to be killed in this mess the MC created, Antony continued, unaffected. And while we all understand that collateral damage happens, they clearly don’t know when to quit. I will not have my businesses and family affected from their mess.

We’re going to make them quit, Dante said, coming to stand beside his brother’s chair.

What, pull a Montreal?

A couple of decades earlier, an Italian crime family in Montreal, Canada stepped in during turf wars between rival gangs to put a stop to the bloodshed and violence. Oddly enough, it worked.

Antony gave him an unhappy look. I wouldn’t say that. This isn’t a couple of kiddy gangs tossing lead at one another. This is the police, and a well-known, well-organized motorcycle gang that has over one-hundred-fifty clubs all across the United States and some in Canada. It’s not exactly going to be an easy thing, but it needs to stop.

Fear was a great motivator.

The Marcello family was surely big enough to pull weight here.

No, probably not easy, Lucian agreed. But what is?

I want it finished, his father said finally, a sadness coloring up his tone. Let’s sit down and make a list of names—important ones. We can easily set something up to meet with the President of the club and whoever else he wants there.

"And if they don’t take your ... advice ... seriously?" Lucian asked.

We’ll start crossing off names until they do, Dante finished for their father.

Sounded simple enough, didn’t it?

It rarely ever was.

Chapter Two

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Church was always a fucking spectacle.

Lucian understood the importance his mother and father held for religion, respected them for it even, but that didn’t mean he particularly liked it. Mass on Sundays was a four hour—at least—event because the congregation of their church was massive. It never ended.

But, why Lucian disliked the event the most, was because he felt like a flea under a microscope. The Marcello family had attended this church ever since Antony’s great-grandfather stepped off the boat from Sicily ninety-something odd years earlier. They were big donators to the church, not to mention the many charities it funded.

After all, they had so much money when others had so damned little. Apparently the church didn’t give a crap where the money came from, or how it was made, so long as pockets were always filled.

The congregation knew, though. Or it sure seemed like it.

It probably didn’t help that without question or prompting, the very front pew was reserved only for Antony’s family. No one ever took their place. By the time they arrived to the church, it was nearly filled. Walking past row after row of people who couldn’t help but stare and whisper was annoying.

They were recognizable faces. Each Marcello son toted a fortune behind his name and an aura of danger mixed in with a heavy dose of charisma and charm. It didn’t seem to matter their name also carried the weight of organized crime and a Cosa Nostra legacy. Good looks, a cocky as hell smirk, and a nice car fixed all the concern right up. They were a handsome bunch; fit, and tall. Always with fitted suits that cost more than what most people who attended the church made in a month.

Socialite magazines labeled them all as three of New York’s finest bachelors. Rarely were they photographed with women when they did go out, but that was of their own choosing. It was easier to let the public speculate on the more private accesses of their lives than give a full show. Besides that, none of the women they did mingle with were the kinds of females any of the boys wanted the public eye to consider as anything but exactly what they were.

A fuck. Something dirty and quick. One hell of a fun time.

Definitely not a woman they’d take home to Antony or Cecelia. And if they wouldn’t take her home, it was a well-known fact their mother and father didn’t want to be reading about the extracurricular activities their sons may or may not be having with said females. It was a respect thing.

Another rule to add to the pile.

Pretty damn simple.

Resting back into the pew, Lucian sighed, frustrated. The seating arrangement for their family always followed the same order every Sunday. His mother would always sit to Antony’s left, while Dante sat to his father’s right, followed by Lucian, and finally Gio. It was, basically, the family’s hierarchy.

It didn’t matter that Antony was the Don—the boss of the Marcello crime family—Cecelia was the boss of their family. In no way was the hierarchy meant to denote anyone’s importance in the family, so to speak, but it showed very clearly who was who.

Cecelia was the wife and mother. The very most important person to all of the Marcello men. She was Antony’s chosen partner, his equal. Dante, both in the mafia business and private affairs, was his father’s right hand man—the underboss to the family. Lucian, a capo, was his brother’s. Gio, also a capo running his own crew on the west side, came at the end. It wasn’t that the youngest son couldn’t handle being given more responsibility but what he did, he did especially well. His young age gave him the ability to relate to the younger men in his crew. They respected him a hell of a lot more than some of the older guys.

Everybody knew when Antony would finally hand over his position, his title of boss would go to only Dante. Lucian, on the other hand, would second his younger brother as his underboss. Gio’s fate was still undetermined, but that was his own choice. It had always been that way, even when they were all children.

Today, however, the seating arrangement in church was different.

Lucian was sitting at his mother’s side, while Gio was sitting where Dante usually would beside their father. Dante, seemingly unbothered by the change in scenery, sat at the end, giving the very bare minimum he could manage of his attention to the priest.

It wasn’t the change of seating that put Lucian on edge. He didn’t give a flying shit where he sat, really. He was sure many people in the congregation were curious about the sudden change after over a decade of the family sitting in exactly the same order, but he didn’t care. It was the fact that sitting two seats down from his mother like he usually would, Lucian could at least stare at the intricate paintings covering the walls, or the high vaulted ceiling. There, he could lose himself in anything other than the drawling drone of a priest who was preaching to a man who cared very little for the words being spoken.

But no. Sitting beside his mother meant Lucian’s attention was being thoroughly monitored.

He was going insane.

A gentle touch of his mother’s hand to his knee drew Lucian from his thoughts. She had given his distracted mind just enough time to hear Father Peter ask for the congregation to stand one last time and join him in a final prayer. As he stood, Lucian gave his own silent prayer of thanks for the long morning coming to an end.

Damn, he was hungry as hell.

The prayer, as familiar as the church he stood in, was spoken quietly and surely. Making the sign of the cross with two fingers across his chest, Lucian echoed, Amen.

Unfortunately, when he turned to leave like everyone else was doing, Cecelia blocked him in her own motherly way, her hand coming to rest on his arm. Sit, dear, his mother murmured softly.

Lucian frowned, glancing over his shoulder, watching his brothers and father begin filing out with the rest of the congregation. They didn’t even look back to notice the other two members of their family were staying behind. Not bothering to argue, as there was no point in doing that when it came to Cecelia Marcello, Lucian sat back down into the pew.

She looked as she always did on a Sunday morning. Her hair was pinned back in a flawless chignon, not a single strand of the chocolate colored strands out of place. Cecelia didn’t wear much makeup, as she didn’t need to, but the bit she did have on was perfectly applied and sparingly used. Despite the dress she wore being a dark, navy blue, something that seemed simple but still very stylish and appropriate, Lucian knew for a fact that article of clothing cost five grand easy.

Reviews for Filthy Marcellos

[Bec · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Well written and interesting characters.