Facade

By Lara Norman

In the dangerous world of organized crime, where trust is a luxury and deception runs rampant, FBI agent Riley Hunter finds himself caught in a web of lies and forbidden desires.

As Riley goes undercover, delving deeper into the twisted labyrinth of the Marino empire, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to Wren De Luca, the sultry stripper entangled in the dark mafia underworld. Yet, as their passionate connection deepens, Riley soon realizes that Wren is far from an innocent bystander. With secrets of her own and knowledge that could shatter everything he believes, she becomes more than just a distraction—she becomes a dangerous ally.

Soon, he realizes that in this treacherous game of cat and mouse, both their lives hang in the balance. As Riley struggles to maintain his cover, he finds himself torn between duty and desire. Can he trust Wren, or is she just playing another role in this dangerous game?

In Facade: A Forbidden Mafia Romance, author Lara Norman weaves an enticing tale of passion, danger, and deception. With its gripping storyline and sizzling chemistry, this captivating novel will leave readers breathless until the last page. Brace yourself for a thrilling ride through the shadows of the mafia underworld, where the line between right and wrong becomes blurred and love can be the ultimate facade.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lara Norman
• Release date: Mar 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005773984

Lara Norman

Lara used to scribble her fictional characters down on legal pads in high school, and then not show them to anyone. In recent years, she started posting her work in public forums for feedback, which gave her the courage to publish professionally.She needs copious amounts of coffee and chocolate to survive. She enjoys eavesdropping on the character conversations in her head, which she has been assured doesn’t make her crazy. She always gets the best ideas while in the shower, driving, or about to fall asleep.Though she’s a Florida girl at heart, Lara currently resides in the Blue Ridge Mountains with her husband of twenty years and their three children, where she is living out her own happily ever after with the boy she met at age fifteen.

Book preview

Trigger warning for violence, gore, explicit sex and profanity, as well as the discussion of domestic violence and sexual assault.

If you or someone you know is in need of help, the National Domestic Violence Hotline is 1-800-799-SAFE(7233). If you would prefer online chat or want to help, their website is thehotline.org.

Generally, it is the tortured who turn into torturers. - Carl Jung

Chapter One

How I came to be living with a mafia princess turned stripper.

"The target is Armando Marino, but any information you can get out of Roman or Rocco Marino would be useful. They own the strip club, Façade, located in the downtown area known as the warehouse district. Demetri got you an in, vouching for you as having come from the D'amico family out in Chicago. Don't leave him swaying in the breeze, Hunter."

Got it, sir. My undercover assignment is to pose as a bouncer at the club, yeah? I pushed around the papers on my desk until I found the pictures of the girls that danced at Façade. Not the cream of the crop, exactly, but there was one girl who drew my eye every time I looked at the surveillance photos. Dark doe eyes glared out at the camera, her hair a combination of pink and blonde. She looked like she could use a decent meal, and her makeup was heavy, making her look tired. Something about her made me want to swoop in and protect her from the shit she must see on a regular basis.

Right. Don't be gettin' all cozy with anyone, either, slick. Unless it furthers the investigation, I don't want you making friends. That's how you blow your cover and get caught, and that's the last thing you need.

Michael Kline was my Squad Supervisor and contact with the FBI when I went undercover, or UC for short. My latest assignment was to gather as much intel as possible to bring down the Marino crime organization. Rumor had it they were the most ruthless family in Jersey since Grady De Luca was killed and left the business to Armando Marino. The details surrounding De Luca's untimely demise were still a mystery, but all signs pointed to an inside job. Demetri Falconari was a fellow UC Agent out of the Chicago Division, my hometown and the place I'd supposedly just moved from. He’d vouched for me as one of the D'amico foot soldiers under his watch so I could insinuate myself into the Marino crew without suspicion.

It's been almost a year since De Luca bit the bullet, and we're no closer to finding out who did it. Let's get this case closed and put away a few mob guys while we're at it, Kline said in his curt manner.

Absolutely, I agreed. I left my service weapon and all my true identification as Riley Hunter with my superior. After accessing the safe and gathering my UC identification and a couple of unregistered weapons, I headed out.

First, I went back to my apartment to prepare for my evening at my new job. I had to report to Rocco Marino at nine, ready to take control of all the losers who wandered into the nudie bar with ugly intentions. It was up my alley to protect those girls, of course, so I was confident with my ability to accomplish that task. Staring at myself in the mirror, I noted the stubble I'd been growing over the past few days successfully hid a faint scar running along my jaw. My hair could lean toward blond if I spent too much time in the sun, so I was lucky it was the dead of winter and I'd been indoors studying case files. I had no tattoos to leave me vulnerable to identification, but my eyes were a bit of a beacon. I slipped in my lightly tinted brown contacts, giving my green eyes a more hazel appearance. It would be a simple thing to claim they were corrective if anyone asked. The resemblance to my undercover driver's license was identical.

This case required a complete undercover existence; therefore, I was residing in one of the bureau's undercover residences. It looked lived in, shit every-fucking-where, clothing that would fit my cover in the closet and dresser. The bathroom was stocked with typical male shit, scents I didn't usually use in the aftershave and cologne department, razors and toothpaste and any bullshit I'd need for now. My bureau-assigned bank account in my UC name was set up with a modest amount of cash to get me by until I started earning at the club. My POS car was parked out front, so I grabbed my keys and headed out to get the night started.

There was only street parking, which kind of sucked, but it was to be expected in this kind of area. I doubted anyone would want to steal the mostly rusty 1984 Cadillac DeVille with Chicago plates I was currently stuck with. The air was as cold as my last girlfriend's heart as I climbed out and flicked the collar of my leather jacket up closer to my face, walking the few blocks to get to the club. I spotted the blinking red neon sign that said Façade, and wondered who the genius was that thought they were being ironic with that name.

Stepping up to the giant redwood of a man guarding the entrance, I stuck my hand out from my pocket as I walked up. Alexander Moretti, looking for Rocco Marino.

The bastard stared me down like a mouse running up for a bite of cheese that just fell off the dude's beard. Like I'm some chump looking for a handout. Fucking asshole.

Look, it's my first night on the job. Maybe you could cut me some slack, man.

Finally, some expression appeared on the dick's face as he raised his left eyebrow. You ever see a gorilla in a three-piece suit? Me either, until now.

The boss will see you. His voice was like a dead body after it’s been drug across gravel for ten miles. It completely fit him.

What, you got telepathy or somethin'? He'd never so much as moved except for that eyebrow. It was tempting to tell the monkey to dance, but he'd probably smash me into next week like Donkey Kong.

He stepped aside, pulling the door handle as it buzzed. I could only assume they'd been waiting for my arrival, but I wasn't naïve enough to expect the welcome wagon.

It was like walking through a time machine into the seventies. Black leather couches, thinning red carpet, and red wallpaper with black swirls were the first things I noticed. The putrid smell hit three steps in; smoke, and not merely from cigarettes, sweaty bodies crammed into a warm room, and the melted fur smell that comes off heaters sometimes in the winter.

Gee, I couldn't wait to get to work.

Next thing I saw was the stage, with three scrawny women gyrating to the stripper typical, Pour Some Sugar On Me. It was C shaped with a pole at each end and one in the middle, and I couldn't help but imagine their stilettos sticking to the floor as they walked. The lights were low, of course, but I made it out to be seven customers, two bartenders, and at least five armed 'bouncers.' If there is one thing these types of assignments require, it's to know your surroundings, and the surveillance package had truly prepared me for this evening. Then the second largest man I'd ever seen in my life was walking toward me, a huge smile on his face. His hair was thick and wavy, dark brown, with a full beard covering his face. I took him to be six-five, sporting two seventy-five worth of muscle.

He stuck out his hand as he grew closer. Alexander, right? Rocco. I hear you're a friend of ours.

You can call me Alex. Nice to meet you. Shaking the slab of beef masquerading as a hand he thrust at me, I mentally high-fived him for not squeezing too hard. I didn't want to show him up on my first night, and his size certainly didn't intimidate me. My muscular build hid pretty well under my clothes.

Well, Alex, let me show you around.

I followed Rocco dutifully as he showed me all the areas suitable for the public. Throughout the tour, I kept alert for the other Family members, but I had yet to spot either Armando or Roman.

Um, work attire . . . he started. I'd noticed his fancy, well-tailored suit, though it wasn't a three piece like the goon out front.

I'm, uh, used to wearing black jeans and a leather jacket back in Chicago. I can see you're better dressed out here, I offered. He nodded curtly.

Tomorrow, something more upscale, he said—well, demanded.

Of course, I replied, barely resisting a snort. Like the strippers would become classier, the clientele less trashy, if the employees wore tuxedos.

Okay, for tonight, just do a walk around and make sure nobody is roughing up one of the girls. They can get hands on, as long as the girl is okay with it. No actual sex in the club; on their own time, it’s whatever. Got it? He threw the words at me like a deck of fumbled cards, floating out haphazardly over his shoulder as he walked and I followed.

Yes, sir. We exited the back room onto the main floor again after I made a note of the four locked doors I had not been allowed to access. The girls on stage had rotated, and I stopped in my tracks as the girl from the picture caught my eye. Covering my stumble, I kept her in my periphery as I continued after Rocco until he brought me to a stopping place. I could see the entire club from there, so I understood the reason for him bringing me to that spot.

As Rocco walked away, I took my post. The girl was fucking mesmerizing. Her hair was turquoise now, long and flowing out behind her as she spun around the pole, and my mouth went dry. Her body was lithe, a little fuller than in the photo I'd studied until my eyes blurred. She looked healthier, and she damn sure looked fine as her tits hung upside down with her on that fucking pole. All that hair swept the floor, one leg kicked out, and she spun back to right herself.

Those big doe eyes zeroed in on me as the song ended, and I had to force myself not to squirm. Her gaze pinned me to the spot, and finally I had to wipe the sweat from my upper lip.

Then the new song came on and she went back to dancing, and I went back to sweeping my eyes around the room like nothing had happened.

~F~

When I woke the next morning—okay, the crack of noon—I reminded myself that sleep was for the weak. I was relieved to find a coffee maker and a stash of sub-par ground coffee, which would have to do. My cover story would not mesh with fancy dark roast coffee. Those were the things I must sacrifice for the greater good.

The rest of my night at the club, I busied myself doing walk-arounds, watching for signs of persons of interest. I didn't recognize anybody, and I'd seen plenty of photos of the players in the Marino mafia. It was mostly a bust, including the very end of the night when I had to escort a few ladies to their cars. While escorting them, I tried to spy the vehicles the surveillance team had tagged, coming up empty.

We walked in a group to each girls' car, and my doe-eyes was in the talkative gaggle. They thoroughly enjoyed taking turns holding on to my biceps as though they couldn't take one more step without the support. Despite feeling her eyes on me constantly—and more than once catching her staring—doe-eyes never touched me. Pity.

Mentally, I noted she left with another girl whose name I hadn't gotten, instead of having her own car. I found myself wanting to know everything about her; then she was gone and there was nothing left for me but getting in my car and heading home.

I couldn't sleep, memories of her plaguing my overtaxed mind. Names and faces and aliases flashed through my brain as I struggled to fall asleep. Details of my UC life crowded in, my subconscious not allowing me to forget anything, however miniscule. Finally, I slept fitfully, hot and kicking the twisted sheets to the floor. They were scratchy anyway, some ugly pieces of shit they'd picked for the place.

So here I was, drinking my third cup of coffee and debating what to do for the daylight hours. I finally decided I couldn't stay cooped up here and dragged my ass out of the apartment. I stepped into the nearest bodega for orange juice and a donut that had probably been around since the first world war. As I walked back out, I noted the twenty-four-hour laundromat, the small gym, and the pawnshop. Deciding to brave the cold for a bit, I walked north from where I was, hoping to find something entertaining. The bureau didn’t exactly ensconce me in the Palace of Versailles, so the pickings were slim.

Someone rammed hard into my shoulder, the feminine expletive making me laugh and soften my initial ass-kicking stance of defense. The first thing I noted was turquoise hair; lots and lots of it tumbling around the woman from the club as she attempted to stand up straight. My hand shot out to steady her as she tripped over her sneaker and plowed into my chest.

Wow, I am so sorry, she muttered. Her cheeks were a fabulous shade of red as those deep brown pools looked up at me.

It's fine, I murmured, stroking a hand lightly down her hair and placing a firm hand on her back to steady her.

I wasn't watching where I was going, and then my two left feet caught up to me.

I stared at her face; the black eyeliner that was apparently ever-present, the clear brown eyes and nude lips. Something about her just called to me. A-are you going somewhere in this cold?

She dropped her eyes and gazed back at me from under her lashes. Jesus. Such a simple action, and I had to reboot my brain to speak coherently. I was thinking of getting warm in the coffee shop around the corner. Wanna come?

Did I want to come? You're damn skippy. Yes—yeah. Sure. I shrugged, trying to play it cool. Too late, idiot.

I followed her as she picked her way through the crowd of people who always seemed present on the sidewalks in any busy city. She rounded the brick building I thought housed the utility company and opened the door to a bakery cafe.

The smell coming from inside was enough to make my mouth water. I knew Alex wouldn't order what Riley would order, so I purchased a black coffee and a bagel, insisting on paying for doe-eyes. She protested half-heartedly, then blushed when she ordered a latte and a croissant.

Call it an afternoon pick-me-up, she said, glancing away from me as she bit her plump pink lip.

My cock loved the idea of a pick-me-up with her at any time of the day or night. Though this disappointed him, I told him to stand the fuck down.

We sat, and I finally got the chance to talk to her, to ask her name. She pulled her coat off and hung it on the back of her chair, revealing a white sweatshirt that kept slipping off her shoulders. She was so fucking sexy without even working at it.

My name is Wren.

Thinking I knew that name from somewhere, I replied, Alex. I just moved here about six weeks ago from Chicago, where I was born. It's certainly different.

I suppose it must be, she agreed, pursing her lips to blow on her hot coffee before taking a sip.

My eyes were glued to her every move, and I had to work to distract myself. So, how long you been here?

All my life. My dad was Grady De Luca, she whispered, glancing around again.

My eyebrows shot up; I couldn't help it. "The Grady De Luca?" I asked quietly.

Wren nodded, and I watched her mouth as she bit into her pastry. She chewed for a minute before answering. He died, and I've been stuck doing things I'm not terribly proud of in order to make ends meet. Like having to work at the club.

So you went from high on the hog to the gutters of Jersey City? I hissed, trying desperately to keep my voice down.

She dropped her head, staring at her lap as she shredded a napkin. I guess so.

Why weren't you given respect and a place to live, at the very least?

One creamy shoulder rose and fell. Dad left everything to Armando, and he lets his sons run the business the way they see fit. He makes money, but he doesn't work for it.

So, the two of them are the reason you . . . dance? I demanded.

Wren inclined her head slightly. I've been trying to find a place to rent around here, you know, to get out of the place they pay for. There are so many girls there, it's never quiet. They're always fighting; there's never any food because they eat it without replacing it. It's awful.

There's gotta be something we can do.

I watched the tear tremble on her lower lash before she swiped angrily at it with her thumb.

And that's how I came to be living with a mafia princess turned stripper.

Chapter Two

How I wound up with a bullet hole in my shoulder.

Wren only had one duffle bag full of clothes and another bag for toiletries. The place the dancers lived was a shithole compared to the 'luxuries' of my rundown one-bedroom. There were so many of them living there that they shared beds, and beds was a loose term, since it was really mattresses thrown down wherever. They had repurposed the dining room into a bedroom with two mattresses and a clothing rack, and the living room was overflowing with girl junk.

We hauled ass as soon as she threw her bag into the backseat of my Caddy. I wasn't a complete buffoon, so I offered her the bedroom and said I'd sleep on the couch, which was pretty stupid of me considering the couch was six inches shy of six feet long, with me being six-two. Sadly, I also knew I couldn't go sticking my dick in the first stripper who gave me her sob story, or I'd be in deep shit with the boss. In regard to their reactions to Wren living with me, I was already more than a little scared of both my current bosses, the legitimate and the illegitimate.

Since she didn't have a car, I offered Wren a ride into work that night. It was so fucking cold the heater couldn't even make a dent before we got there, my breath puffing out every time I breathed. I tried hard not to look over at her, because she looked so fucking hot. She’d painted her mouth a deep red, standing out against her pale flesh. The constant black liner was there, and she'd added some kind of eye makeup to make it all dark and hot as hell. I could only be thankful that whatever she was wearing was covered up under her heavy black coat. If I could actually see that she went to work dressed in stripper gear, I'd probably jump her in the car and end up with a broken nose.

After I parked, I suggested she walk separately, but she said it would be no big deal. Nobody cares who I ride with, she insisted, climbing out and heading to the door.

Maybe, but I'm new here, and King Kong will probably smash me into the concrete if I break a rule. Not to mention Rocco coming in as a close second in the Goliath department.

The muscle in her jaw tightened at my words. Andrei would be smarter if he kept his thoughts to himself. Her jaw relaxed. After all, opinions are like assholes; everyone has one. She winked.

Uh . . . I'd lost my opportunity to respond, as she was already dragging me up to the door and the bouncer who was apparently named Andrei.

Open up, Mickey Mouse, she demanded, hands on her hips.

I'll be damned if he didn't just swing the door open without a word or an eye twitch.

We made our way to the back room, and she moved over to a locker, stowing her bag before shrugging out of her coat and scarf. My mouth went dry as she slowly untwisted the purple knit, her back to me. Her ass was shapely, curved in a perfect upside down heart, and perky as hell. That ass deserved unholy things done to it, and I wanted to be the one to do them. I needed to divert my attention immediately unless I wanted her to catch my obvious erection, so I pretended to be messing around in my own locker.

See ya, slick, she said as she breezed by me.

Yes, she wore her stripping outfit under her coat. Yes, it was a flimsy excuse for clothing, consisting of sheer black material showing off a thong in siren red to match her lips, and nothing else. Oh, except for the needle thin high heels that might be the nail in my coffin. Trying to catch the saliva pooling in my throat before I drooled, I ended up choking instead.

Ah, fuck.

So we continued for days that turned into weeks, the cold turning rainy and slushy. It was miserable outside, and it seemed every businessman in the city wanted to warm up in the titty bar. I was frustrated in more ways than one, because I'd seen nothing at all at work, not even the code to get into one of the rooms that had to be offices at the very least. Rocco came and went, speaking frequently with the bartender, a short, stocky man who had more neck than brains, named Liam. I figured easily that he served as the eyes and ears for the boss. The boss who must spend his time with his feet up in his penthouse or some shit, cause he sure as fuck wasn't ever here. I was actually starting to believe he must not put in any work, like Wren had said.

A time or two, I had to tell Wren I was running errands so I could head to my meet-up with SSA Kline on a jogging trail. We could basically be alone, and he always waited for me well past the busier beginning and end section of the trail. It was good to get a jog in, since the meeting was a bust; at least I wasn't wasting my time.

The other source of my frustration was Wren, obviously. She changed her hair color pretty regularly; most recently, it was blonde. It surprised me that I liked it as much as I did, but holy fucking hell, she made a dynamic blonde. Unfortunately for my foot soldier, she had a terrible habit of walking around in long-sleeved shirts just barely long enough to cover her ass and knee high or thigh high socks. I was dying, literally a man on his last legs, because pounding it into my hand in the tiny cell of a shower was not working. I kept picturing her full mouth wrapped around my cock, or the legs that went on forever wrapped around my face, and I'd have to hide in the bathroom for twenty minutes to either calm down or jack off. The girl musta thought I had toilet issues.

The worst day of my entire twenty-eight years came when I was trying to jerk a quick one without getting in the shower for the third time in one day. My pants were around my ankles, and I was standing in front of the toilet, bracing one hand on the towel rack. Just as I was coming, I tried to grab the hand towel to catch the jizz when the towel bar came off the wall and sent me flying ass-first into the cold water of the bowl. Shouting and cussing, I jumped up and then slipped when my bare foot caught the water I'd splashed out. I fell again, this time stuck between the porcelain god and the tub. Naturally—because fuck my luck—Wren came knocking on the door to ask if I was okay. No, I was not okay, but I couldn't tell her that, now could I? Instead, I told her I'd ripped the fucking bar off the wall and that I was just fine, but did that stop her?

Spoiler alert: no, it did not stop her.

Long, creamy legs came into view first, until I shoved the towel and the offending bar out of my face. Then I saw that long blonde hair in a ponytail spilling over her shoulder, her eyes bright as she tried not to laugh at me. My ass was on the cold tile, the cracks and uneven parts digging into my flesh, my cock was laying scared and tucked into his friend the ball sack, and my knees were in the