Damaged Bride: Blood Empire, #1

By Blake York

Nobody will touch what belongs to us, including the women we claim.

Brutal. Fierce. Relentless.

Everything I do I do for my family name.

Now they're giving me another task—take the bride my father chooses for me. They call it business. I call it revenge. Only one empire with mafia ties can rule.

I'll use her as a pawn. Break her down. She's already damaged from the life she's led. But then something happens.

She rises from the ashes…and learns how to break me too.

**A hero with an out-of-control possessive streak and the woman forced to be his bride. The claws come out, but the surrender is so sweet… DAMAGED BRIDE is a novella-length romance and first in the Blood Empire Series. Happily Ever After? You'll have to take a chance.**
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blake York
• Release date: Feb 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215296844

Book preview

Nobody will touch what belongs to us, including the women we claim.

Brutal. Fierce. Relentless.

Everything I do I do for my family name.

Now they’re giving me another task—take the bride my father chooses for me. They call it business. I call it revenge. Only one empire with mafia ties can rule.

I’ll use her as a pawn. Break her down. She’s already damaged from the life she’s led. But then something happens.

She rises from the ashes...and learns how to break me too.

**A hero with an out-of-control possessive streak and the woman forced to be his bride. The claws come out, but the surrender is so sweet... DAMAGED BRIDE is a novella-length romance and first in the Blood Empire Series. Happily Ever After? You’ll have to take a chance.**

Damaged

Bride

The Blood Empire Series Book 1

A picture containing dark, plant, flower Description automatically generated

Chapter I

Anders

My name means strength. So do all my brothers’.

Yeah, my father’s a twisted bastard, a piece of work, cut from a dirty bolt of cloth—and I want to be just like him.

Dad sits at the end of the table, forearms stretched across the gleaming wood. Even though there’s enough food here to feed a dozen orphans for two days, nobody moves to eat. Dad has to address us first—me and my four dickhead brothers.

Nothing can go wrong, I think before he opens his mouth.

Nothing can go wrong, he says.

There’s no room for mistakes.

There’s no room for mistakes.

We’re Rossis, goddammit.

We’re Rossis, goddammit.

Opposite me, my youngest brother Warrick, mouths the words in time to my father’s speech. At least I have the mental capacity to only think them.

Dad’s eagle eyes center on Warrick.

The kid doesn’t know when to quit. He grins at my father. At eighteen years old, he hasn’t earned all the blows we have from our father’s iron fists, but he’ll learn.

The Rossis don’t know right from wrong. Good from bad. All we know is blood and pain, because that’s what it takes to claw our way to the top in one of the most cutthroat cities for organized crime in the United States.

We’re building our empire one drop of blood at a time. But our battle will soon be over, and we’ll reign at the top of the food chain on the Chicago streets.

I feel more than see my father’s muscles coil. The air’s thickened by tension. The rest of us hold our breaths, but Warrick laughs.

The kid actually laughs.

Wrong move, son.

Wrong move, son. You little punk ass.

Dad surprises me—I wasn’t anticipating the last line.

Dad grabs the bottle of red wine from the table in front of him and whips it at Warrick.

The kid jerks to the side at the last minute as if he’s dodging a train. That’s what our dear old pops is—lethal with fists of iron and a will of steel. He’ll never go down in this city, which is why I’ll follow his every word.

The glass hits the floor behind Warrick, and red wine sprays all over the white wall. A servant rushes in and begins to pick up the shards and mop the spill before it stains something like our honor.

Warrick cocks his head. Damn, Dad. That was a good year.

Then Dad does something else unexpected. He calmly sits back in his seat. He reaches for the new bottle of wine that magically appears on the table when he wants it. As he pours the deep burgundy from the cellars of our Italian ancestors, he appears calm on the surface.

He’s not fucking fooling me, though—it’s the eye of the storm.

My phone dings with a text.

Dad’s eyes lift very slowly to mine. You serious?

Ignoring him, I glance at the screen. It’s Dub.

I don’t give a fuck if it’s the Pope. Throw your phone out the fucking window.

My brothers start to chuckle, but Dad’s dead serious.

You heard me, Anders. Get rid of it. Mealtimes are sacred.

Which is the Rossi equivalent of ‘no electronics at the table.’

I look at him. No.

Now who’s inciting the old man’s wrath? Warrick starts laughing.

I shove my chair away from the table and stomp through the glass and wine the servant is still on her hands and knees cleaning up. I whip open the window and toss my phone out into the darkness and snow.

It’s a burn phone anyway. Even if it was the most expensive model on the market, I’d still take Dad’s order.

As I stroll back to my seat, carrying glass and wine with me on my boots, Warrick grins. What did Dub want? he asks.

Dub’s our dead mother’s Irish cousin, straight from the underworld of Dublin. While she was an Irish mafia princess, our father was the prince. And that makes the Rossis royalty. As with all royals, blood stains our hands. Seas of it.

While Dad sips his wine, my brothers fill their plates. I notice my younger brother, Ryker, is wearing a polo shirt like the douche he is. He’s big time into rowing and all the chicks cream over him, but he has a small dick. You can’t grow up with four brothers and not see it and compare.

My brother, Kenzo, wants to go to Europe. Tour Italy and Ireland and learn from the men who trained my father in his ways. And our grandfathers before him. What Kenzo could learn is nothing compared to what he can get right here. Weapons and drugs are small compared to what we do.

As my other brothers pig out on steak and lobster tail—an almost nightly meal in our house—I finally pour myself a glass of wine and contemplate my plans to meet up with Dub after dinner. That is, if the old man ever gets around to telling us what’s on his mind.

I can see him holding back. That vein in his forehead pulses away the seconds, counting down to the moment he gives us directives for the next day. I only hope he doesn’t want shit done tonight, because Dub’s going to help me with my motorcycle. We’ve been rebuilding the engine on the vintage bike, and I’m more than ready for the weather to turn so I can get out on the streets.

There’s nothing like the open air on my face. A close second is a fine wine or some hot pussy.

My father sets his glass on the table and looks up. We all pause, because we have to pay attention or else shit goes sideways, and we can’t afford to fuck up in this battle for power.

Who are we going after tonight, Dad? Warrick asks. Nikolai?

The Russian mafia leader.

Ungers?

Germans.

A common misconception about America is that we’re all equal. That’s not true—not in the yard I play in. Each group is fighting to be on top, but in the end, they’ll all lose to the Rossis.

My dad shakes his head. O’Connors.

Irish. And even though our mother came from the Irish and Dub’s our ally, not all Irish are. Their group is still pissing on our territory on a nightly basis, and that has to stop. We’ll put a stop to it.

Are we going after them? I ask.

No. My father tops off his wine glass. We’re going to unite with them.

I stare at him, and feel my brothers tense up again.

How are we going to do that? I lean closer to the table.

My father’s black eyes drill into me. Through marriage.

My brothers explode in laughter, and even I chuckle. But something deep inside me is waiting for the next bomb to drop.

You gotta be kidding, I say.

I see he’s as serious as a round of AK-47 ammo to the chest.

When the old man doesn’t look away from me, that deep-seated burn of awareness spreads inside me.

I explode to my feet, my wine glass clattering over. What’s really going on?

Your bride has been chosen for you. My father sounds bored as he goes at his lobster tail.

Jesus Christ. Bride?

Who? I grate out through my clenched jaw.

The daughter of Malcolm O’Connor.

I know he has a daughter. Estranged, last I heard.

Does she agree with this deal you’ve struck? My voice sounds gritty, like I gargled some of that glass on the floor.

She doesn’t know yet. Dad’s hard, dark eyes penetrate through me, and I know what I have to do even without him saying it. You’re going to find her, bring her back here and marry her.

Not even Warrick’s laughing, probably because he knows he’s next. All my brothers are—the graffiti’s on the wall.

I drop to my chair, breathing hard. Wanting to lash out and hurt someone, to inflict pain. I clench my fist on the table, feeling the muscle tremor to life.

There’s no use in fighting me, Anders. It’s settled. If you marry O’Connor’s daughter, we’re one step closer to ruling the North and Midwest both.

I see it now, mapped out in front of my mind’s eye...Irish territory forged with the Rossis’. Then we pick off the Irish one by one until we own everything.

Even O’Connors’ daughter would be nothing more than one more piece of the chessboard to own. A pawn.

I smile. Warrick shifts in his seat, uneasy, and it’s because of how wolfish I must look.

I slick my fingers through my black hair and look at my father. Where do I find her? I ask, as if taking a wife is no big deal, like acquiring a new Glock or a condo in the islands.

Where is she? I ask.

Dad’s eyes gleam with approval. Her name’s Avery O’Connor. She lives in a Chevy Malibu near the industrial complexes in North Lawndale.

I shove away from the table, my stomach still empty, which is good because I don’t like getting violent on a full stomach.

I’m going to find my bride and edge my game piece one space closer