Love that Binds: Cosa Nostra Series: Book Three Read online

  Love that Binds

  Cosa Nostra Series Book #3

  A.J. Wyatt

  Contents

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Prologue

  Amelia

  1. Amelia

  2. Neal

  3. Amelia

  4. Neal

  5. Amelia

  6. Neal

  7. Amelia

  8. Neal

  9. Amelia

  10. Neal

  11. Amelia

  12. Neal

  13. Amelia

  14. Neal

  15. Amelia

  16. Neal

  17. Amelia

  18. Neal

  19. Amelia

  20. Neal

  21. Amelia

  22. Neal

  23. Amelia

  24. Neal

  25. Amelia

  26. Amelia

  27. Neal

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright © 2022 AJ Wyatt

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  [email protected]

  Cover by Pretty Little Design Co.

  Photograph purchased from Deposit Photos.

  Created with Vellum

  No matter how hard it gets, wear your crown and be the Queen

  Prologue

  Neal

  Their faces are burnt, their shirts ripped open and searing marks left on their torsos. The bullet holes in their skulls are the source of the pool of blood that fills almost the entire hallway, stark red against the clean white floors. Dorian’s eyes are still open. Open and empty.

  “These burn marks, Boss—”

  “Christiano Lucchese,” I finish Hunter’s sentence. The smell of blood and burnt skin fuels the exasperation inside of me, turning it into frustration and rage. I step around my men’s bodies toward Amelia’s empty hospital room. They were supposed to stay out of sight—I didn’t want her to know I was still guarding her, looking out for her. I needed her to take up that fucker of an ex-boyfriend’s offer and get the fuck out of the city.

  Now, two of my men are dead and Amelia is missing.

  Her room is empty.

  The sheets are crumpled on the bed while the alarms on the monitors are beeping in the darkness, unable to pick up a heartbeat.

  This can’t be happening.

  “She is supposed to be here, getting the best medical care possible, safe from any harm,” I say as Hunter steps closer while Killian investigates the room to see if he can find anything. “That is why I called the fucking ambulance instead of taking her to our Family’s doctor.”

  I risked my life, our Family, for her safety. That is why I pushed her into the arms of her ex-boyfriend, instead of holding on to her and never letting go.

  “We’ll find her,” Killian says, his eyes scouring the place but there’s nothing to find.

  How the fuck did this happen?

  I send the monitors and machines crashing against the walls, rip them from their stands and throw them across the room before kicking at the bed, sending it tumbling to the other side of the room with a loud clatter. My chest is heaving, my blood pounding in my ears as I try to calm down. Because burning down the hospital won’t bring her back, although it might make me feel better.

  A glint catches my eye between the sheets scattered across the floor.

  “Is that—” Killian walks closer, picking up the object and turning it over and over in his hands before handing it to me.

  Her dagger.

  My blood turns to ice as fear tries to take root. But I can’t allow it. Not for what’s to come next.

  I’m coming for you, Amelia.

  Amelia

  Everything is a big blur of darkness, pain, and discomfort. I’m not sure if the darkness is because I’m stuck in a dark pit of Romero’s making, or if it’s because I’m stuck inside my own mind. Uncertainty and fear are the only companions I have right now—that and the pain.

  The pain never stops.

  “The wound has ripped…”

  The only piece of hope I keep clinging to is that Neal will find me somehow. But the fear keeps gnawing at the hope, making it smaller and smaller every day. Turning the once bright inferno into a small flicker of light, fighting against the darkness threatening to consume it.

  “Internal bleeding… More surgery.”

  I’m not a particularly religious person. But I find myself praying. Praying it will stop. Whether by death or by Neal finding me. Because I’d rather die than belong to Christiano Lucchese. I’d rather die than wake up to Romero Castellano hovering over me, taking from me what he’s always wanted.

  I’d rather die.

  “I’ll take her…”

  Neal, please save me.

  1

  Amelia

  Salty air washes across my face.

  A cool, fresh breeze carries the smell of the ocean.

  How can that be?

  My eyes flicker open to a room bathed in white. White walls, white window frames, and white curtains framing the open bay windows, giving me a clear view of the white foam forming on the blue water as the waves crash onto the white sand. The sound of the rhythmic building and breaking of the waves momentarily fill my chest with a feeling of contentment. It’s so clean, so clear.

  A stark contrast from the black pit I’ve been stuck in for…

  How long have I been here? Where am I?

  Uncertainty starts to creep in as I take in the strange bed I’m in that is big enough for five people. I’m comfortably set up with a warm goose down duvet and pillows, and as I lift the covers, I find I’m dressed in pajamas I’ve never seen before. The room is spacious and beautiful; the dancing flames in the stone fireplace on the other side fill it with warmth.

  Someone must’ve been in here, opening the window for fresh air and lighting the fire to stave off the cold. Dressing me and making sure I’m set up perfectly. Despite the warmth and comfort this place radiates, hesitancy crawls into my mind.

  Would Romero do something like that?

  I try to sit up, and an uncomfortable sting moves through my abdomen.

  Right, I forgot about my surgery. I was taken from the hospital before I could fully recuperate. Where the hell am I?

  Lifting my shirt I inspect my stomach, finding I’ve at least been taken care of while I was unconscious. I have clean bandages covering my wound, and the pain has substantially lessened from what I remember last.

  My eyes scrunch in confusion since it all feels too much at odds with what has happened. The room doesn’t look familiar in the least, and looking out the window doesn’t help me much in terms of possible locations either. Sure, we’re next to the ocean, but that could be anywhere in America—or the world. The overly optimistic side of me wants to believe I’m in the Hamptons estate, that Neal might have already killed Romero, found me, and brought me here to recuperate.

  The cold air blowing through the window at least tells me I’m still somewhere where it’s wintertime. At least I know I’m not on the other side of the equator. Small victories.

  A part of me wants to stay underneath the duvet, keep warm, and pretend. Pretend my life is not in danger, pretend there might not be people outside the bedroom door who want to kill me, or worse. Pretend that Neal is close. That he came for me, and I no longer have to fight.

  But I can’t. I can’t just pull the covers over my head and hide.

  Right. Just do it, Amelia.

  I flip the covers open and move my legs to the side of the bed, trying my best to take it slow, to sit up without hurting myself in the process. Luckily, being a nurse, this is something I do every day—help people get up without causing any further injury to themselves. I get up carefully and wait, bracing myself against the bed just in case I fall back down. No dizziness, my feet seem steady, and the pain that was crippling the last time I remember is now nothing but a numb presence in the background.

  Walking toward the window, I breathe in the fresh ocean breeze, filling my lungs with cold air that wakes up every cell in my body. The sun is setting over the ocean, bathing the water in orange hues as far as the eye can see. Scanning the surroundings, it’s clear we’re on some kind of estate. There’s sand everywhere, small little dunes covered in greenery. There aren’t any houses to either side of this one. It seems like I’m on the third floor, and the piece of yard that’s visible is clear of any people. As are the beach and the private walkway that leads back to the house.

  That can either be a good thing or a bad thing. Perhaps everyone is waiting downstairs.

  I turn away from the beautiful view, taking in the room I’m in. It’s neat but mostly empty. There’s nothing but the bed, a wooden dresser and a comfortable wingback chair situated in the corner. A little blanket is resting, neatly folded, on top of it. I make my way to the door, slowly and careful not to make any noise. I don’t wa
nt to alert any other occupants of the house that I’m awake and moving around. Carefully pressing my ear against the door, I listen to any sounds coming from the rest of the house.

  I’m met with quiet, so I grab a hold of the handle and slowly turn the knob. Relief floods me when it clicks open. Across the hall is another bedroom, and I immediately close the door slightly, sucking in air as I hope that there’s no one occupying it. Slowly, I open the door a little, leaning around it to sneak a look. The room looks clean and unused—the bed is made, the windows closed. Leaning around the door, I peer into the hallway, finding it clear of anyone and any sounds.

  I take a deep breath in, trying to calm my already shattered nerves. Tiptoeing into the hallway, I make sure to softly close the bedroom door behind me, in case someone comes by and finds it open. At the end of the hallway, there is a big window to my right, overlooking the front of the house. The gravel driveway is empty of any cars, the drive leading up to it disappearing around a bend, making it impossible to see anyone coming up to the house or if there’s a gate at the end or not.

  Am I alone here?

  I try to extinguish any fluttering of hope at the possibility. Better to expect the worst and be ready for it than to think things will go easy and find myself sorely mistaken. Knowing Romero, he wouldn’t leave me alone. I’m at the top of the stairs, staring at them for a minute before figuring I have to go down sometime. The top floor is empty, and I won’t find out where the hell I am by staying up here. The answer is down there.

  But so is the danger. I can feel it.

  My stomach is tingling with nerves, my fingers gripping the top of the railing as I’m battling with my body to make it obey orders. There’s no other way. I need to go down and see what—or who—I’m dealing with. I’ll have the element of surprise. Maybe even enough time to find a weapon or something to defend myself with. I might even find a phone. Whereas if I stay up here, I’d be a sitting duck.

  Move, Amelia.

  I can’t help the shiver that runs down my spine. I’m sure it’s from the cold, and not the fact that it feels like someone is behind me. Which can’t be because the floor I just came from is empty. Yet I can’t make myself look over my shoulder, just to make sure.

  No, it’s the cold. It’s wintertime, my feet are bare, and I’m wearing nothing but pajamas. That’s all there is to it.

  I will myself to keep moving down the stairs, not wasting any time on the second-floor landing before I move further down. Keeping my pace slow and steady, I strain my ears to listen for any sign of someone else in the house, to hear anything that might be going on on the ground floor.

  The sound of shoes shuffling along the floor causes me to freeze on the spot. Sucking in a breath, I plaster myself against the wall, hoping they can’t hear my heart pounding against my chest. It doesn’t sound like they’re getting closer, but they’re moving around and whoever it is might just decide they want to come upstairs and check on the woman occupying one of the rooms.

  And there’s no way of knowing whether it’s friend or foe.

  Sure, I’ve been taken care of, but in the world I’ve lived in these last couple of months, that’s not saying much. Whether you’re in a well-kept room or a pitch-black dungeon, a prisoner is a prisoner.

  I shake my head to ward off the thoughts of it possibly being my worst enemy down there. I refuse to be that unlucky.

  I’ve come this far; I’m not running now.

  Holding my breath, I place my foot on the final step, hoping it doesn’t creak with the sudden weight, alerting the downstairs occupant of my presence. To my right is a small room, which looks like a downstairs guest bathroom. And to my left is the rest of the house—the room that’s not empty. I know I’m going to find someone there; I can hear them moving around. I may as well just step down and face whoever it is. I’m going to have to do it sooner or later. This way, it will be on my terms.

  “Come down, Amelia.” An amused and familiar voice cuts through the debate I’m having with myself. “It’s not polite to hover in doorways.”

  Fuck.

  Bracing myself, I take a deep breath and steel my features. I won’t appear weak or afraid, regardless of the man waiting downstairs. Even if the anxiety is causing the muscles in my shoulders and neck to tightly bunch together. Stepping down the final step, I’m faced with an open-plan living room. Large white couches fill the space, with soft blue accents in the pillows and rugs. Giant glass doors cover the walls on one side, putting the darkening backyard on display.

  The man who called me out is standing behind the kitchen island, his dark hair glinting in the light from the modern chandelier lighting up the entire living area. Christiano Lucchese is dressed in a suit, an amused smile spread across his lips as he takes me in.

  Friend or foe?

  “You didn’t bother getting dressed?” he asks, his dark eyes moving up and down my body in a way that’s much more personal than I’d like.

  “I didn’t exactly have time to pack,” I say, my voice coming out steady and firm despite the confusion about the situation. Last thing I remember, I was taken as his prisoner. Romero drugged me, and Christiano helped him take me from the hospital and left me somewhere—in pain. And now, I’m set up in a fancy room with an ocean view?

  His eyes rest on my braless breasts before he gulps and turns away from me, delving in one of the cupboards. “Why didn’t you just check the dresser? There’s some things in there you can wear.”

  Christiano doesn’t turn back towards me, but instead takes out pots and pans from the cupboard before placing one of each on the gas stove in front of him. I use the opportunity to check the doors, but they’re all closed. I can’t be sure that we’re the only ones here, although I don’t hear anyone else in the house. With all the windows in here, it’s easy to see if there are people outside, but everything seems quiet and abandoned except for the two of us. The house is impeccably clean, and the white décor adds to the beach house feel. There’s a bowl of fruit on the counter and next to it, a wooden block with knives.

  Hope stirs in me again as I measure the steps it would take for me to get to one. It’s obvious it’s not close enough for me to get to before he does, but it’s a chance I’d have to take. I know how to handle a knife, and even with my injury, I’m sure I’d be able to hurt him enough to get away. Sitting here, waiting for them to decide what’s going to happen to me, is not an option.

  “Don’t even think about it.” His voice causes my head to jerk in his direction. Christiano has turned around and found me staring at the knives like they’re my last lifeline. Which I suppose they are.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I swallow down my desperation, attempting a small smile. Although, the smirk on his face tells me he doesn’t believe me for one minute. “Where are we?”

  He doesn’t answer me immediately, but instead continues to rustle around in the kitchen cupboards and the fridge, taking out ingredients that he lines up on the counter.

  “You must be hungry,” he says as he takes a knife from the wooden block and starts chopping chillies and garlic. When he realizes I haven’t moved, he points the knife to the stool at the counter, indicating for me to sit before he goes back to his chopping. As if this is the most normal situation in the world.

  Restlessness stirs in my stomach at his avoidance of my question, but I take him up on his offer. I take a few steps toward the chair, effectively putting myself in arm’s reach of the knives. “Where are we, Christiano?”