His Fight: Mafia Made, #4

By KL Donn

From USA Today Bestselling Author KL Donn comes the Mafia Made series, featuring novels from Award-Winning Author E.M. Shue. His Fight is book 4 in the Mafia Made Series.

Her fight becomes his, and Santi won't let her go.

Dishonorably discharged.

There's a distinction between honor and betrayal, and my chosen country chose sides. Abandoning me after I gave them everything.

Back in my homeland, I'm looking for purpose.

For a sign that everything happens for a reason isn't just a phrase.

I need my life to have meaning again.

And until the early morning hours after a night of drinking, I never thought I'd have it.

She's the one thing he never knew he was missing.

Amalia Russo.

Fire and rain.

Bruised and broken.

She's trying to escape but prepared to die.

And my meaning to live.

In Amalia's reluctant trust, I find my drive to accept my fate and show her what she could be missing if she gives in to her fear, in to his demands.

Sicily thinks the Mafia has gone soft, that love has made its men weak. I'm about to show them love is only making us stronger.

His Fight is a protector to lover's romance with graphic violence, sexual and domestic abuse, and a bit of sexy voyeurism. Please read with caution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KL Donn
• Release date: Jun 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201884314

Book preview

Prologue

Dear reader,

I know this isn’t your typical prologue; however, I wanted to be certain you would have immediate access to the content warnings for His Fight.

If you are familiar with my writing, then you know I write about real-world issues that are, at times, prevalent and, at other times, something that isn’t often dealt with.

Given the recent events in Uvalde, Texas, I wanted you to know that I wrote the first five chapters of His Fight in June 2021, shortly after His Jailbird released.

I am not insensitive to the tragedy that has taken place recently. However, there is a scene, short and slightly graphic in detail, about when our hero, Santi Cardarelli, was in the war in the Middle East, where children were harmed. The debate I had with myself to rewrite this scene, despite it being mentioned in Tortured Duchess, which came out prior to the Texas shooting, was a strong one.

I never want to cause pain to any reader, but removing this scene, and the information associated with it, would not be true to who I am. What happens is what motivates Santi’s character and will be what helps build up Hendrix Adair in his upcoming book, Vengeful Pawn.

What I can promise you is that there is minimal detail, but it makes the story of Santi and Amalia stronger.

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Thank you.

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All the love,

KL Donn

CHAPTER 1

Amalia

FLORENCE, ITALY

Staring at the reflection of the alarm clock on the ceiling, I wait until one minute before it’s set to go off before leaving bed. I have a routine. Every day, it’s the same thing. Same time. Same…everything. There can be no deviance, or consequences will follow.

5:59 a.m.

Slipping from beneath the covers, I’m careful not to jostle the bed as I tiptoe into the bathroom. Shutting the door slightly, I face the shower. Just as the alarm goes off, I turn the warm spray of the water on, and like clockwork, as soon as the temperature is even, he walks through the door. Naked as the day he was born.

I’m the same.

I know better than to lower my eyes by now. He likes me to look straight ahead. I can’t hide any facial expressions this way. I can also see everything he’s feeling as soon as he walks into the room. Like now, as he stares at my nude form, the blood on my thighs, the bruises on my body, the bite marks on my breasts, he grins. Satisfied with himself for marking me.

Perfection, he murmurs lovingly as he reaches a hand forward, grasping a nipple between two fingers and twisting until I flinch. The backhand quickly follows. I knew it was coming, but I’m never prepared. One day, you’ll learn. Bartolo’s grin is gone. In its place is a glare promising more retribution later. Go make breakfast. Don’t screw it up.

Without a word, I wait until he’s enclosed in the glass dome before shuffling out of the room. Slipping on a shirt and pants, I resist the urge to hold a hand to my cheek. With each beat of my heart, it pulses with pain. Copper fills my mouth with the taste of blood.

From the day we met two years ago and the first slap six months later, I’ve grown victim to his abuse. Bartolo Parisi had been charming with a handsome smile and quickly stole my young, foolish heart. With each backhand, each punch, every tug of hair, he broke me down into a meek woman and isolated me from the few friends I held onto after high school and pushed out my father’s best friend, who treated me like his own daughter from the time of my parents’ demise when I was sixteen. My father was never a very clever man; he broke too many laws. Schemed one too many times, and his life, along with my mother’s, was the price to bear when he couldn’t pay back a loan shark.

I lived with Uncle Tomaso after their passing for two years, and then I met Bartolo. I was smitten and combative with anyone that told me he was bad news. Since becoming separated from everyone, I’ve had very little courage to try and gain freedom. The few times, early on, that I made an attempt, he beat me until I couldn’t move and was solely dependent upon him for everything. Now I’m obedient. I do as I’m told, when I’m told.

I’ve learned how he likes things done. What’s expected of me as he works during the day. And beyond all else, dinner must be served as soon as he walks in the door. The outcome if I fail his daily checklist isn’t pleasant, and I do my best not to think about it.

Placing a hot plate of eggs, sausages, croissants, and coffee on the table as he enters the kitchen, I offer a smile as he sits and inspects his food. A subtle nod is all I get, indicating I can retrieve my own breakfast now. Dry toast and a small glass of milk. He doesn’t like it when I put on weight, so I don’t eat nearly as much as I should, and more often than not, I feel the effects from my lack of nutrition.

I’ll be home late tonight. There’s a meeting at the firm I can’t miss. I’ll call when I’m on my way. He looks up from his seat to ensure I’m listening. I nod and offer another smile, wishing he would stay out all night. Maybe if he were gone for longer than a few hours, I’d gain the courage to leave. You need to run to the market today?

I stand straighter at his question. Yes. We’re nearly out of milk, eggs, the bars you like. I made a list. Picking it up, I wait for him to hold out a hand before placing it on his palm.

Perusing the list, he offers it back before reaching into his pocket for his wallet and handing me a credit card that’s used for just this purpose. Make sure you keep the receipt. There’s a warning in his eyes as my fingers touch the plastic.

I will. If they don’t have something I need, I’ll take it off the list. I once dared go to another store when the local one was out of eggs. I suffered broken fingers after he took a hammer to one hand.

Finished with his breakfast, Bartolo leans over to kiss me on the cheek he slapped earlier and exits without another word. I take my first easy breath as I hear his car backing out of the driveway.

With practiced motions, I clean up the minimal mess left over from breakfast before rushing upstairs to have a shower of my own. I watch as the blood from his version of loving—a fresh branding on my thigh—washes down the drain, and I see the multitude of scars on my thighs and lower stomach from where he drags the knife across my body every time he takes me. Then it hits me. Like a sucker punch, the breath is stolen from my lungs.

He’s going to kill me.

If I don’t leave now, he will end my life, and I’ll never experience a moment without fear.

After quickly washing, I clear my thoughts and allow my body and instincts to take over. I need to set myself free, and the only way to do that is to quiet my mind. Packing the essentials and a few keepsakes, I grab my purse, phone, and keys and head out to the car. Backing out of the driveway, memory leads me to a familiar home.

Uncle Tomaso has been the only family I’ve had since my parents died, and I wish so desperately that I hadn’t allowed Bartolo to cut me off from him. Parking the car in front of his house, I allow myself a moment of panic as I think on what I’m about to do.

A knock at the window makes me jump and scream until I see the friendly face with concern in his dark blue eyes. Opening the door, Uncle Tom pulls me into a bruising hug while whispering, You’re finally ready, in my ear.

The tears flow freely as I nod my head.

Good. Go inside. I’ll hide the car and put your things into your old one. When I moved in with him, the first thing he did was buy me a car. Bartolo hated it and refused to allow me to bring it when I moved in with him. I’m grateful for that now.

Waiting inside the front door, Tomaso slips in and, without any fanfare, explains, I’ve been waiting for this for a long time. Turning to the table in the hall, he opens a drawer, hands me a pouch and the car keys. This is enough money for a few months. The car is in working order, and I want you to go to Palermo.

Sicily? That’s not what I was expecting.

"Yes. The Cardarelli family is there. Maso and Donato own a private investigator business. They help people in trouble. The other