A Debt Created

A DEBT CREATED MJ MASUCCI CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 2023©MJ Masucci This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. ISBN 978-1-950175-43-7 Trigger Warning: This book is for 18+ and contains verbal abuse, attempted assault, kidnapping, blackmail and steamy sex scenes. “A ruler must remember that whatever brings success is due to power. Men look at power as a success.” Niccolo Machiavelli CHAPTER 1 Vivienne I moved around the room with my arm firmly locked around my husband’s. This was not a place for a woman to be alone—especially one not part of organization life. The men spoke in hushed tones around us as Angelo sidled to the bar. I waited a few steps away as he ordered a scotch and a white wine for me. We were required to attend this event. It was the reception for the christening of Pasquale Toscano’s grandson. Pasquale is the consigliere of the Greco crime family, where my husband is a soldier. I’m on my best behavior, keeping my mouth shut unless spoken to, which is rare. It was not too long after he’d returned with our drinks, Angelo unwound his arm from mine. “I have to go.” I looked up to see Squale gesturing to my husband. “I don’t want to be alone,” I whispered. “You’ll be fine. It’s my duty.” He hurried away, and I stepped back, looking around the room for a familiar face. Unfortunately, I’m new. Our marriage is new—just a few months old—and as an outsider, I hadn’t been introduced to the family until now. We married at the city court and enjoyed an intimate dinner with my parents. I back up against the wall as if I could sink into the golden velvet wallpaper, all the while nervously sipping my wine. I know my place. But I feel so uncomfortable that I head for the door, stepping out into the blue-carpeted hall to sit on a padded bench several feet away from the room I just exited. “Signora?” I glanced up and saw the Don himself, Alessandro Greco. Steps behind him are two large men dressed in black. I’m unsure of the protocol, so I quickly stand up, sloshing wine on my hand. Without hesitation, the don removed a black handkerchief from his black suit pocket and wiped my hand dry. “Thank you, sir,” I said as I swallowed hard. He laughed. “Sir is not necessary. You’re Angelo’s wife, are you not?” he asked in a slight Italian accent. “I am.” Alessandro frowned. “I was disappointed not to be invited to your wedding. One would say it was disrespectful.” Fear grips me. According to Angelo, people had been killed for disrespect. I stammer out, “I’m, I’m, sorry.” He again laughs. “I forgive you.” My vision is momentarily filled by a lock of my hair that must have escaped a pin, and he gently brushes it back from my face. “Bella,” Alessandro said with a smile as he flicked his finger to his security men and walked away. I gaze after him as he enters the room I just came from, and I realize I’m barely breathing before I drop back down onto the bench. When I do, the scent of Don Greco’s cologne is on my skin, and my face burns were his finger touched my skin. He’s not what I expected from a don. Alessandro Greco is handsome and young, younger than I anticipated, with inky black hair and a small scar above his eyebrow. Angelo told me he took over two years ago when his father was gunned down in the street. My mind wanders, but I’m torn from my daydream when Angelo grabs my arm. I hadn’t even heard him approach. “What are you doing out here?” he growled. “I was uncomfortable.” “Get used to these people. This is my family.” He hauled me up and practically dragged me inside. Dinner is being served, and our table is at the back of the room where most of the low-level soldiers sit. The other women at the table are overdressed and drenched in perfume, which assaults my nose. “So, you’re Angelo’s new wife,” the bleach blonde beside me said. “I’m Vivienne,” I said and offered my hand. She doesn’t take it as she shoves a piece of bread in her mouth. “Lila Torrone. I’m Benny’s wife,” she said as she pointed to her balding husband next to her. “Nice to meet you,” I said as I sipped my water. Angelo ignored me most of dinner, but the one thing I noticed was the constant gaze of Alessandro Greco. Each time I looked up from my plate, Alessandro was staring at me from several tables away. After dessert, Angelo tapped my arm. “We’re leaving. I gotta job tonight, so I’ll drop you home.” He stood, joking with the men at the table, as he helped me out of my chair. As we approached the don’s table to say goodbye, Alessandro rose and wiped his mouth with the linen