Mobster's Gamble, Chicago Mob Series Book 1

By Amy Rachiele

“I can’t change it. Sometimes you just have to live with it.” ~Anya, Mobster’s Gamble

Carlo Caruso runs the family businesses. The son of mob boss Ennio Caruso, Carlo knows his place and he is up to the challenge of taking care of both the casino business and the not-quite-legal “other” business, all without drawing unwanted attention from the authorities. But when a group of cult extremists, headed by a guy who calls himself Priest, decides to target his family’s casino as a den of sin while attempting to recruit for their cause, Carlo may be in for a challenge he has never been trained for.

Anya was born inside the walls of a cult and has never known anything different. Anya’s beauty has always stirred the wrong kind of attention from the leader and then, when he was gone, his son. Anya has had a complicated and volatile relationship with Priest since she was a little girl toddling around in the religious commune. She knows she deserves better but has no idea how to go about getting it.

Can Carlo and Anya overcome their upbringing and find love?

Mobster fiction, Mafia Romance, Organized Crime, New Mobster Fiction, Mobster Series
Visit www.amyrachiele.com/free-ebook/ to sign up for my monthly newsletter and get Mobster's Angel (Mobster's Series Book 4) for FREE! #mobsterfiction

new book 2016, mobster fiction, mafia romance saga, organized crime suspense, mafia thriller, mobster romance fiction,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Rachiele
• Release date: Jan 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310213427

Book preview

Mobster’s Gamble

(Chicago Mob Series Book 1)

By

Amy Rachiele

*****

Copyright © 2015 Amy Rachiele

Edited by Christine LePorte

Cover Art by Eden Crane Designs

Photographer Paul Henry Serres

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

Prologue

Anya

I cover my ears and run. The cellar door is open and I trip down the stairs, gouging my bare leg on a splinter jutting out from the decaying railing. Blood trailing across my leg doesn’t stop me, and I take the last few steps, landing on the dirt floor. It seeps in between my toes—dry, powdery, and old like someone trapped it in a bottle, suffocating it. I jump over discarded broken chair legs and scattered junk, my dress tangling between my legs. I hide behind the fragments of a rundown cabinet. Spiders, shadows, and the musty odor have kept me from coming down here until now. I crouch down and hug my knees to my chest. The screaming from upstairs is muffled but it rings in my ears just as loud as if it was beside me. I crush my hands over my ears again and rock back and forth, wishing it all to be over.

The cellar steps creak and my tear-streaked face pops up. My heart thumps wildly while I peek out from my hiding place.

It’s him!

He is a silhouette descending the stairs. I watch in the eerie dimness as his darkened hand slips along the rail as he plunges deeper into the cellar.

He is coming for me.

There is nowhere to go.

I stuff myself tighter behind the wooden slab, wondering if my heart can burst from fear. I run my hand down my calves in an attempt to comfort myself and the wetness from my wound reminds me of it, making it prickle with pain.

Seconds pass and he is here, standing over me, colossal. He squats down and my hand snakes out, slapping his arm. A bold, defiant move fueled by the rebellion in my veins. The flesh of my fingers stings, hurting me more than any damage my ten-year-old body could do to him. I can’t see his face but I can imagine what his face looks like, contorted when mad.

No one leaves during a cleansing, not children, women, or even anyone who is sick. Everyone must be present for it. It is a ritual to remind us of our allegiance to the Anointed Heavens. It’s silly and I don’t want to do it.

His beefy hand reaches out to take me by the arm but I slap it away. Anger is vibrating off of him. I crouch down tighter, making myself as small as possible, hoping this will keep him from reaching me.

No!

The word didn’t come from me. It is coming from someone on the stairs. There is a thunk of someone running down the rickety steps.

Don’t hurt her!

Get back upstairs, Jonah! The fire in his voice resonates, and I clamp my filthy hands over my ears again and slap my eyes shut, crunching the lids together and praying for him to go away.

No!

My eyes snap open and the dream that comes to haunt me at least once a month flits by like annoying moths that buzz around a light in the dead of night.

Chapter 1

Anya

I hate how he keeps the room so cold that I have to burrow under the covers. There is always a spot on my back that gets a chill no matter how deeply I bury myself. The alternative is using him as a shield from the breeze. I’ll never do that. I don’t want to be close to him. I won’t let him take everything from me. He already has almost all of my free will.

On my side with a pillow caressing my head, I can see his back. A fine canvas of porcelain skin decorated with blackened ruins—etched and beautiful on the flesh of Priest. I guess when you’re in control you can call yourself anything you want. Nothing is more powerful than fear. That is one shred of wisdom I will take with me into eternity. It is a sad lesson to learn over twenty-one years.

He really is beautiful with his jet black hair, finely chiseled cheeks, and sexy five o’clock shadow. I never get over that fact: he is part angel and part fiend. Can you admire a person and hate them at the same time? It must be possible.

He stirs; he’s going to be turning over. That’s my cue to flip over as well and hope that he is just shifting in his sleep. I don’t want to look him in the face. I readjust the covers and pull up my knees to my chest in a comforting position, looking out the window on the other side of the room. Bare tree branches line the panes, making everything seem one-dimensional, like my life.

A hand touches my arm and I stiffen immediately.

Let me look at you. Priest nudges me to face him. I purse my lips in frustration and allow myself to ease onto my back. He slips the covers away and my nipples harden immediately from the icy air. He runs his fingers gently over them. My body betrays me as a slight shock of white lightning rocks my belly. What has he done to me? His hand smoothly dances over my sensitive skin to my face until he finds my long brown hair. He tugs on the wavy locks just enough to move me closer to him. He leans down and sucks my breast into his mouth—his hot breath mixes with my cold skin and I can’t help but lean into him for warmth.

That’s right, Anya, he mumbles against me. Give yourself to the Priest.

He forces his arm around my waist and pulls me in until all of me is touching all of him. Acid builds in the back of my throat as his hardened dick flops against my bare leg. He is getting ready. It’s going to happen. I just have to get through the next few minutes. Once it starts, he doesn’t take long. That is one thing I can be thankful for. I make a huge mistake by opening my eyes and see his sharp blue ones inches away. He is a tried and true lover. But there is only one lover in this room. The one who loves only himself.

He settles on top of me and spreads my legs with his own. For some reason, I am braver today and keep my eyes open. I stare at him, the blue chilling me more than the air, and realize I am wrong. There is no lover in this room. He doesn’t know what love is and for myself, I will never love anyone. He has broken me. He has chipped away everything that I would have ever been bit by bit, year by year, decade after decade. I was born into this life—a prison of the most wicked kind. My crime?

Being born beautiful.

*****

The hot spray of the shower is wonderful. It warms up my cold body and washes away the traces of him left behind. I step out onto the plushy rug beside the tub and dry myself slowly, stalling. This rug is one of the few luxuries I have been given by being Priest’s consort. I saw it when we went on a run for supplies at the local department store. It’s truly pretty with long shaggy fibers that tickle your toes. I asked to purchase it but Priest gave me a firm no. I never mentioned it again but a week later I went to the bathroom in Priest’s suite off the main house and there it was lying flush against the white tub with the tag still on it.

It’s Priest’s messed up way of apologizing. The whole previous week before I walked around with two bruised ribs and a gash under my eye from when he hit me. His ring cut my face. That was the most I have ever bled. It just kept coming—red pouring out from the tender layer of skin. That frightened me more than any other injury over the past years. I thought I was going to bleed to death. Priest sort of freaked out too. I’ve never seen him get like that. He actually looked remorseful and worried. In the end, I needed six stitches and have a tiny scar left behind. When you are close to my face, you can definitely see it. I was lucky that an Anointed member knew how to stitch up skin—a plain needle and a fine thread did the trick.

On the bed is our only acceptable clothing for a woman of Anointed Heavens—simple white blouse and pants. I dress quickly, not wanting to be punished for being late for the gathering downstairs. Over my clothes, I lift my blue robe off the bed and slip it over my head. In the mirror, the embroidered letters that read Anointed Heavens is backwards and distorted in the reflection.

I hate the demonstrations. After being trapped here for so long, I have decided that everyone should live the way they want. Let them face the maker on their terms; why should we be the ones to get involved? We parade ourselves in front of less savory establishments, ones that go against the beliefs of the ministry like clubs, casinos, bars. Priest wants me to hand out pamphlets today to see if we can recruit right off one of the main streets in Chicago while keeping people from submitting to the bewitchment of the charlatans that own the casino, which has been our mission for the past few days.

La Bella Regale is one of the most popular and revered casinos in Chicago. It’s beautiful too, with a European elegance mixed with a contemporary flair that makes it pleasing to the eye. I have always craved to go inside. I bet it’s amazing and glorious in beauty. It’s sort of a tease to have to stand outside it and rally against its principles.

Chapter 2

Carlo

I see him. Alex points toward a tiny mom-and-pop grocery store; the sun is barely up. He’s over there. I stop the car and the slam of our car doors thunk against the chassis of our black SUV. We take quick steps while reaching into the back of our waistbands and slipping our hands over our guns, ready to yank them out if necessary. There aren’t too many people out this morning because it’s so fucking early. I’m not worried about anybody seeing us carrying and causing a panic. Alex trots two steps behind me, watching my back and scanning the area while I keep my gaze firmly rooted on the piece of shit who owes us money.

Hey, Ricco. I stretch my arm out to grab him by his jacket and pull him behind the building when I realize standing in the shadows is someone else. Caesar!

Ricco’s hands immediately fly up, surrounding his face, and he freezes. I am stunned by what I see but I recover, narrowing my eyes.

What the fuck are you doing here? I spit, probing the situation.

Caesar smiles at me in that way that makes you want to slap the shit out of someone.

I’m just having a conversation with my old friend Ricco. He slaps him on the back, and Ricco looks like he is going to piss his pants. My scowl was answer enough that I didn’t approve of what they were doing on our turf.

I narrow my gaze. I think that Ricco did a bad thing. I think he borrowed from both sides of the street.

I can pay it back. His voice rattles, stuck.

It seems we have two problems right now, I reveal, ominously. Ricco, I want my money now. Not later. And Caesar knows better than to lend you any. I cross my hands over my chest and feel the weight of Alex’s pistol arm resting on my shoulder pointed at Ricco’s temple. The guy is visibly shaking with his eyes slapped shut.

Wait… Wait… he pleads. Alex, I’ve got some right here. I have a grand… Hold on… His wobbly hand reaches into his pocket and he hands to me the green rectangular papers. A quick flip reveals one thousand dollars.

Thank you, I sneer. You are paid up for the next two weeks. Good job, Ricco. I slap him on the back for good measure.

Now to the next problem. Are you borrowing from Caesar, Ricco? Ricco darts a glance at Caesar but addresses me."

No, Carlo. That would be wrong. Against the rules. I wouldn’t fucking do that.

Alex’s gun is trained on Ricco, unwavering despite the fact I got the money.

I stare at Caesar. Yes, Ricco, that would be wrong. Follow the rules and no one gets fucked up.

The elderly storekeeper comes outside to lift the metal door protecting his glass-fronted shop, ready to start the day. He startles, surprise widens his eyes, and he grows still. Alex quickly takes his gun out of view.

Good morning, I offer congenially.

Caesar and Alex mumble good morning too. Ricco can’t