His Promise: Gruco Crime Family

By Nicole Cypher

It was just a one night stand… 

 

I should've known it was a mistake to crawl into the councilman's bed, especially since he clearly believed I was someone else. But I never could've imagined the repercussions. I never could've imagined it'd send the mob after me.

 

They think I know things. 

 

They think I need silenced. 

 

And I think I need the councilman's help… Even though he's the last person I ever want to see. 

 

A note about Gruco Crime Famiy:

This is an 18+ standalone mafia romance series with varying tropes and heroes with diverse personalities, intentions, and tolerances for violence. Because of this, each book can be very different, and it's perfectly okay to hop around! Here's a brief breakdown of the series. 

 

His Promise - Gritty and spicy but not very dark with an alphahole hero and a fake relationship. 

 

His Pet - DARK. Lorenzo is out for revenge, and he's going to get it. 

 

His Prize - Gritty and spicy but not very dark with an alphahole hero and a forbidden love. 

 

His Puppet - Mid-level dark with a captive heroine.

 

His Property - DARK. Hero is a sadist who loves pain play. 

 

His Passerotta - Low-level dark with a captive heroine and a hero who is soft with her.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Cypher
• Release date: Apr 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201820442

Book preview

1

Abi

C an I get another tray of crab puffs, please?

Jeremy, the chef of this shindig and the man not so happy to have given me a job, glances up from the hors d'oeuvres he’s preparing. His eyes are held in a permanently narrowed state, so I try not to take the glare he gives me personally. He snatches the metal tray from my hands and spins to the counter that has the crab puffs sitting right there. If he didn’t have the ridiculous ‘no invading his space rule’, I would get them myself.

He arranges the puffs and shoves the tray at me as soon as the last one touches metal, and before I can thank him, he turns back to the hors d’oeuvres. The kitchen is buzzing with equally anxious staff, working as quickly as possible to ensure the guests have a constant stream of champagne and appetizers more expensive than my allotted grocery budget for a week.

Plastering a smile on my face, I balance the tray on one hand and walk through the swinging door into the dining area of the fancy estate. I can’t tell which of the people dressed in tuxedos and ball gowns owns the place. They all have a glow of confidence that could belong to a candidate for councilman, so I stopped trying to pick out the host a while ago.

Crab puff? I ask a slender man with salt and pepper hair. He’s listening in on some anecdote another man is telling, and he waves me off without giving me a glance.

My smile falters some, but as I walk away, I tighten it and continue making my way around the room.

I wish I could hate them. With their haircuts costing more than my rent in my rundown apartment, and their straight shoulders that scream superiority.

Elegance.

Poise.

Esteem.

That’s what Devin always used to say to me. It was a gentle reminder whispered in my ear at events like these. I stiffen as I feel the phantom touch to my lower back, his breath skate over my ears.

These parties are all the same. Different faces, different stories, but the same aura of superiority swallowing up the room. The same tense smiles and high pitch tones that scream fake. I wish I could hate them for it, but I can’t. I used to be one of them.

How’re you doing? Kirsten, my friend who helped me get this gig, asks when both our trays are empty and we end up in the kitchen together for a brief minute. She smiles encouragingly.

This was a mistake. I whisper so no one else will hear, but with as chaotic as it is in here, I doubt anyone would turn their head if I screamed the admission.

Kirsten frowns and hands off a tray to another staff member. What? Why?

I open my mouth and consider telling her the truth. That it’s too familiar, too haunting. I don’t like labeling my ‘conditioning’ to certain things. It makes me sick that my estranged husband could have enough power over me to give me a disorder like PTSD. However, the shiver that runs down my spine every time I catch a whiff of his same expensive cologne in the crowd doesn’t care about my pride. I’m paranoid he’s here. Paranoid someone here knows him and will somehow recognize me. It doesn’t matter how illogical that thought is, considering Zeke and I are four states away from Devin.

But I don’t tell her those things. I can’t. She doesn’t even know I’m married.

I’m just worried about Zeke. He isn’t used to me not being there at bed time.

Didn’t you just pick up a shift at Neon Nights? She raises a brow at me.

Yeah, but the tips there are too good to pass up, and he understands. This is… I try to think of a way to end my sentence that isn’t a simple ‘not worth it’. We both know that’s a lie. It’s true, the Las Vegas night club earns me killer tips, even on weekdays, but I’m getting one hundred and fifty dollars just for serving rich people here for a few hours. That’s enough to buy Zeke the telescope he’s wanting for his birthday in a few weeks.

It’s the rich dudes, isn’t it? Kirsten rolls her eyes but gives me a teasing smile. Don’t be intimidated. Most of them are honestly harmless… and boring.

I give a tight smile and take back my tray as she hands it to me. Right.

Just a couple more hours, and we’ll be packing up, okay? Hang in there.

Kirsten balances her tray in the air and sashays from the kitchen, her hips swaying a bit more than necessary. I wonder if she knows how invisible she is to these people.

I take in a deep breath and step toward the door, but I halt and swing my head to my left when a hand plants on my shoulder. I must have a look of panic etched into my expression because Jeremy’s glare eases and he quickly removes his hand. He nods toward the door. Mr. Gruco is about to give his toast, so stay in here. He doesn’t need any distractions with people exiting the kitchen.

Mr. Gruco? The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place where I know it from. For some reason, I don’t think it has to do with this party.

His brows pinch, and he tilts his head as if he can’t figure out how I managed to even get myself here. The candidate for councilman of Ward Four. The person who’s house you’re at, and the reason you’re taking home a paycheck tonight.

Right, I say, a bit of my pride chipping away when I lower my head on instinct. I lift my chin and make a point to look Jeremy in the eyes, but he turns and steps away.

I wait around with the kitchen staff for a solid twenty minutes, my eyes wandering to the clock on the wall intermittently in between mentally going over my grocery list for tomorrow. I’ll get some things to make Ms. Gordon a pecan pie as a thank you for watching Zeke so much this week. I think I remember her saying it’s her favorite.

My eyes drift to the door when laughter filters into the kitchen. Sounds like Mr. Gruco knows how to butter up a crowd, which I guess is typical for a politician.

Jeremy cracks open the door and peeks out a few minutes later. When he turns around, he gives me the nod, and I take my tray of food and finish out the rest of the evening.

It surprisingly isn’t as bad as I expect it to be. It still feels familiar, but eventually I appreciate the fact that no one is paying attention to me. I don’t have to make polite conversation with my husband’s colleagues or impress anybody. It’s like I’m watching my old life from the outside, protected by an invisible barrier of social class differences. I can’t say I totally hate it.

I’m picking up half empty champagne flutes from a table when I feel the hand on my lower back.

I gasp and jerk forward, sending the champagne flutes balanced on a tray spilling onto my shirt and crashing to the floor.

Shit! I flick a glance at Kirsten standing behind me with a stunned expression and then I crouch to the floor. I throw the tray on the carpet and hurry to pick up pieces of glass. Kirsten bends and helps.

I’m so sorry, Abs. I didn’t mean to scare you.

It’s fine, I mutter. I go to pick up a piece of glass too quickly, and it slices my finger. I curse again and curl my fingers into a fist to keep blood from slipping to the already soaked carpet.

Well, I’m done. There’s no way I’m getting hired again by this company.

Hey, Kirsten grabs my wrist gently, and I turn my head to meet her gaze. Are you okay?

Yeah, it’s a small cut, it isn’t a big⁠—

"No, I mean are you okay? You’re acting kind of, I don’t know, jittery tonight."

The concern in her voice makes me notice my tense muscles, and the pain in my hand is suddenly too familiar. All of this is.

My throat clogs, and the back of my eyes begin to burn.

What the hell is this? Jeremy barks after he shoves through the kitchen doorway. Someone must’ve told him I stained the good councilman's carpet.

I’m sorry, I say, going back to the glass. I can feel him coming up behind us and Kirsten’s stare on me.

Go clean up, she says, bringing my hand away from the glass. I’ve got this.

There’s a look of pity in her eyes that makes me want to suck it up and shrug her worries off, but I find myself standing anyway.

Sorry, I say again to no one in particular, and then I rush from the room.

I hear Kirsten’s voice as I exit but don’t make out what she says.

Other staff for this party outside of the catering company litter the rest of the estate, cleaning up and taking down Gruco for Councilman banners off the walls. None of them seem to notice me as I pass by. I consider asking someone where the restroom is but figure there’s enough in this house that I’m bound to run into one eventually.

A couple of people arguing about candlesticks block my way just beyond a large marble staircase, and instead of awkwardly waiting for them to step aside, I slip up the stairs to the second floor.

Voices carry up the stairs, and I walk until I can’t hear them anymore. It’s only now that I realize blood is rushing through my ears, and the swoosh it makes in my head makes me dizzy. I come to a door at the end of the hall and throw it open hoping it’s a bathroom.

It’s not, but I hurry in and shut the door behind me anyway, slamming my back into it and taking a deep breath. And then another. I close my eyes and focus on calming the whooshing. I don’t think about my racing heart or the numbing sensation in my fingertips because they would only make my panic worse.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

I am not home.

I am far, far away from home.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Slowly, my eyes flutter open, and I can’t hear the blood any longer. My eyes adjust to take in the four-poster bed, sparkling with an impressive gold that my gut tells me isn’t plated.

Fucking rich people.

Liquid drips from my fingertip, and I jerk my hand up to my jacket while taking in the droplets of blood that have now stained the white carpet.

Shit, I mutter, hurrying across the bedroom into the adjoining bathroom. I turn on the sink and shove my hand underneath the cool water, closing my eyes as the cut stings but sweet relief comes a few moments later.

Pink-tinted water gathers in the sink, and I open my eyes to watch it. Once it’s half way full, I shut off the tap and take my champagne dampened blazer off and bring the material to the jagged gash on my palm and apply pressure.

Jeremy is going to be so pissed when I return this to him. It’s the only piece of the uniform I was supposed to wear tonight to signal that I’m a server, and I managed to soak it in both champagne and blood. Maybe he’ll let me have it dry cleaned before I return it. I squint at my white blouse, and when I spot the pink wet spots, I sigh. At least my skirt is black.

I wait for the bleeding to stop, and then I study myself in the mirror. I swipe underneath my eyes to clear smudged mascara, and then I pull the hair tie holding my bun. Red, wavy locks spill around my face, framing it and taking away the attention from my baggy eyes and pale complexion. I hate wearing my hair up.

My head whips to the doorway when I hear the bedroom door knob turn. My eyes go wide and my heart begins to pound against my rib cage. I panic and shove the blazer into a trash can beside the toilet without thinking about what I’m doing.

Footsteps, muffled by carpet, sound outside the doorway, and I jerk upright and fix my skirt while searching my mind for some lie as to why I’m in here.

I got sick.

This was the only bathroom I could find.

I’m an idiot.

Okay, that last one might not be a lie. I bite my lip and wait.

Black shoes enter my vision first, and I follow a trail of black up until I lock on to seafoam green eyes. Instantly, I’m trapped. I let go of my lip and stand there, entranced like a fucking deer in the headlights, and it takes a deep baritone voice breaking through my concentration before I blink and focus on the man’s face.

What? I ask.

His cold eyes narrow, and he takes a step into the doorway. The sharp line of his jaw is even more pronounced with him closer, and the dark hair slicked back over his forehead makes him appear more deadly than handsome.

"I said, you’re an hour early."

I stare at him for a moment, stunned. There’s a chill in his voice that lags everything he’s saying, and by the time I figure out he thinks I’m someone else, one side of his lips lifts into a crooked grin, and he takes another step toward me.

I grip the marble countertop and hold my breath as he closes the distance. His gaze rakes over me, pausing for a moment on the top buttons of my blouse. My throat dries up, and I search for a way to explain the blood, but he lifts his hand to my collar and I’m struck motionless as his knuckles graze my skin.

Heat flares over the patch he touches, and I suck in a breath. It’s been ages since a man has touched me like this. The last person who⁠—

No, I’m not going there.

His touch leaves my skin, and he lifts a lock of my hair, studying it like it’s some sort of mystery.

I could’ve sworn I asked for a blonde.

I um… My face heats, and I try to take a step back but almost fall when my heel catches on the tile. He grips my shoulders to steady me, and when my gaze meets his again, his smile is wider.

It’s okay. This is better.

I don’t think that I’m⁠—

Come on. He nods over his shoulder then takes my hand to lead me back into the bedroom. I stumble behind him, but my clumsy feet have nothing on my brain right now.

He thinks I’m a prostitute. One he ordered, apparently.

He. I’m not even sure who he is.

I stare at his back, and my eyebrows knit. He looks like he’s in his mid-thirties, about my age. Is that old enough to be a councilman? Devin was, is, young for his success, but he’s still ten years older than I am.

Are you Mr. Gruco? I ask because I can’t fend off my curiosity. My embarrassment melts as my curiosity grows, and I forget that I’m a prostitute in his mind. I forget I’m not supposed to be up here.

He picks up a glass on a drink cart at the edge of his bed and turns his head to scold me. "Part of the agreed terms are that you’re to refer to me as Sir. You’re not to say my name."

Right, I say, shaking my head as if I forgot. Then I remember I couldn’t have forgotten, and I take a breath to tell him this is a misunderstanding, and that I’m not the person meeting him tonight. Listen, this is really awkward, but⁠—

Don’t tell me this is your first time. He sets the glass down and sighs. He seems disappointed, and the engrained response to avoid disappointment swoops in like a shadow I can’t get rid of.

He’s that type of man. The kind that can make you feel as if you’ve done something wrong with the narrowing of his eyes. A slight frown. He’s the kind you don’t want to disappoint, and you can’t help it.

I was a sucker for that type of man when I was eighteen years old and met my husband while I was waiting on his table. I was a sucker for that type when I married him, and I was a sucker when I let it all unravel into the hell it became.

I hate that type of man.

Not even close, I mutter, without thinking through what I’m saying. I may not have been a prostitute technically, but he’s not the first man like this I’ve dealt with. It’s not my first time.

My ears burn with both anger at myself and embarrassment, and I open my mouth to try yet again to explain the misunderstanding, but I pause and watch as he takes out his wallet.

Great. A thousand, right?

Air sticks in my throat, and my lungs begin to burn.

A thousand.

A thousand dollars.

Yes? he asks again when I don’t answer. He has the bills out now. Ten crisp Benjamins dangle in his grasp carelessly. It’s nothing to him. It’s paper.

But it’s everything to me.

My eyes don’t move away from the money in his hand, the week’s worth of bartending at a shitty nightclub for men more perverted than him. The rent payment that would put me ahead for the first time since leaving Devin. That would put us ahead.

My son’s image flutters into my mind, and the words are out of my mouth before I can think about what this will make me. Officially.

For the hour.

He gives a curt nod and places the stack of bills on the cart like this is no big deal. Like I’m not about to sign away my dignity for the gold he thinks is crumbs.

It’s just sex.

One night.

One hour.

…

What the hell am I doing?

2

Abi

A re you all right?

I blink and Mr. Gruco seems to materialize in front of me. His brow is furrowed in a questioning stare, and his hand is extended toward me with a drink in it. It’s brown, and I assume it’s scotch because that’s what Devin drinks. They might as well be the same person.

Of course, I say, a nervous tinge to my voice. I take the glass and bring it to my lips before downing a gulp of the liquid courage. I was wrong, it’s bourbon.

I cough and bring the glass down, blinking away the sting in my eyes.

He takes the tumbler from me, holding both our glasses expertly in one large palm, and he leads me back over to the cart. He sets my drink down, then swallows the rest of his bourbon before slamming it down on the metal cart as well and turning his attention to me.

His eyes morph from cold to dripping with lava as he takes me in, making me feel as if I’m already naked. He wipes away the leftover bourbon that’s collected in the corners of his lips, and then steps close to me.

His hand glides my hair over my shoulder, and I shudder but don’t take my eyes off the black tie hanging from his neck. I can’t look into his eyes right now because I’m terrified of what I might see. There’s a glint when someone wants to hurt you, a sadistic twinge that can never be covered up.

It haunts me every time I close my eyes.

What’s your name? His fingers trail up my neck, and he cups my chin, tilting it up to look at him. The look is there. Clear as day.

Sadistic.

Demented.

Hungry.

Abi.

Abi, he echoes, running a thumb over my jawline in a gentle caress that’s like a cobra’s dance before it strikes. You’re beautiful, Abi.

My lips part on their own accord, and his thumb glides over them. The pad of his thumb is rough against my lips, bare from my lipstick rubbing off hours ago, and it feels so odd. I wait for his touch to turn rough, closing my eyes and paying attention to each of his movements.

It feels good. I hate that it feels good, and I won’t let my guard down in spite of it, but it does.

So beautiful, he whispers, bending so his breath skates over my ear. His palm rests heavily on my shoulder, and he plants butterfly kisses down my neck, just above my collar, and then back up to my ear.

He presses his thumb down on my lower lip and slowly inches it inside my mouth. I know what he wants, and so does my tongue. I roll it over the nail and suck him farther into my mouth, moaning as I do. I tell myself it’s an act, remind myself of all that’s at stake for a short while of pretending to be a pro, but when he undoes the buttons on my blouse and slides the material off my shoulders, my body’s response is real. My nipples pebble against the thin material of my boring beige bra I’m certain a prostitute wouldn’t be wearing, and cool air kisses my skin, sending goosebumps over my flesh.

He slides his thumb out of my mouth and tucks it under the top of my bra, finding my nipple and using my saliva to lubricate the circular path around it.

I close my eyes and bite down hard on my cheek. He uses his free hand to work my other nipple, this time his own saliva as the lubricant. I try to ignore the buds hardening to the point of pain, but I can’t. I can feel him, this stranger, pressing against me, feel his quickening breath kissing my skin, feel his touch hungry and intimate. It hits me that this is the first time I’ve been with someone who isn’t my husband since I was eighteen.

It feels good.

Too good.

Blood coats my tongue as I bite down on my cheek harder, but I use the pain to distract myself