Wicked Truths

Wicked TruthsAn Enemies To Lovers Mafia RomanceLila Sharp Copyright © 2023 Lila SharpAll rights reservedThe characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.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 publisher.ISBN-13: 9781234567890ISBN-10: 1477123456Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309Printed in the United States of America Contents Title PageCopyrightAuthor's NoteChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41Chapter 42Chapter 43Chapter 44Chapter 45Chapter 46Chapter 47Chapter 48About The Author Author's NoteWicked Truths is Book 1 of the Wicked Truths and Lies Duet. Sebastian and Selene's story will conclude in Book 2, Wicked Lies, with a guaranteed Happily Ever After.This is a dark mafia romance and therefore contains darkthemes. Enjoy!-Lila Chapter 1I weighed two identical melons in my hands while watching a man in his twenties strut by with his wallet hanging out of his pocket. His oversized Rolex jangled on his wrist as he tilted it. Quickly, I set down the melons and brushed by him.One moment his wallet was jutting from his perfectly tailored suit pants and the next moment a hundred-dollar bill was in my wrinkled sweatpants. Before he could even notice the weight difference, the wallet was back in his pocket.That Rolex tempted me. The amount I could pawn it off for would make a dent in this week’s payment to the loan sharks. But it was too risky. A hundred dollars was an amount that man would be unlikely to miss. He’d probably think he’d overpaid his coke dealer, because he’d never suspect someone would snatch his wallet in Williamsburg. Everyone thought they didn’t need to look over their shoulder once a Whole Foods came into a neighborhood.I gritted my teeth as I visualized swiping the Rolex off his bony wrist. But the last thing I needed right now was to have to deal with the cops when they were no longer under my payroll. Everything had been so much simpler when I could just utter my name, and the cops asked what I needed.Instead, I stepped back into the bodega’s produce section and examined the melons again. Was there even a difference between the two? I could tell the difference between a counterfeit bill and a real bill with hardly a glance: thickness, color, and ridges were some obvious tells. But when I stared at these two melons, for the life of me I couldn’t differentiate between them. It probably also didn’t help that until recently, I’d had a personal chef who handled that shopping.God, I missed Grace’s soda bread.Without looking away from the overpriced fruit, I could feel eyes burning into my back. Instinctively, I set down a melon and reached for the knife in my pocket. I stroked the handle for comfort as I glanced up at the mirror that was supposed to keep shoplifters at bay.Late twenties. Over six feet tall. Armani suit that was filled out by his muscular frame. Square jaw, lightly bronzed skin, a clean shaven face, and lips quirked up into an arrogant smirk. It was a face I unfortunately recognized from my research. Sebastiano Amato: Underboss of the Amato family. The most powerful of the Italian gangs in New York City. Two bodyguards stood a short distance away, trying to appear as if they weren’t all together.With a sigh, I set down the other melon. Seriously though, how could you tell what was on the inside of melons? They both appeared good from the outside. But who could tell if they had already begun to inwardly decay while maintaining perfect appearances? Too bad I couldn’t ask Grace. In my father’s typical controlling fashion, he’d evicted me from my penthouse apartment when I left the Irish Mob. And there was rarely gas, let alone a functional kitchen in the places I squatted in now.I took a few steps towards a coupon dangling from a shelf. The coupon was advertising 50 cents off organic celery. I kept my focus on the coupon as I waited for it. There. The smack of Prada leather loafers against linoleum. Then two more identical steps.Stepping away from the coupon, I made my way out of the florescent lights of the bodega and into the blindingly bright summer sun. The footsteps stayed in sync with my own as the humid air threatened to suffocate me. God, I wish I could afford to stay somewhere with central air.Without glancing behind me, I could hear the footsteps maintaining a safe distance as we moved along the increasingly yellowed and cracked sidewalk. First we passed by a vintage store. A woman smoking a cigarette outside glanced disdainfully at my terry cloth sweatpants with sparkly rhinestones on the butt.I kept my face neutral, so Sebastiano couldn’t judge my reaction to the slight. But internally I was exasperated. A year ago, I would've been wearing a Chanel power suit on my way to scold underperforming men. Now, I didn’t have any reason to wear a suit let alone the ability to afford it.I ran my finger over my Chanel duffel bag, noticing the threads beginning to come undone. It was the last relic of my previous life. I’d shoved some outfits in it when I’d left behind my old life. The ready-to-wear couture was long since pawned off, but I couldn’t bring myself to let go of the bag.The three sets of footsteps stayed in sync with me as we moved deeper into Brooklyn. From linoleum to gum dotted sidewalk, the footsteps never lowered their pace. Five minutes later we passed by a Goodwill where I’d stolen the sweatpants I was wearing. Five more minutes later,