Vengeance in Blood

Vengeance in Blood Sons of the Mafia E.R. Whyte, Vi Carter Copyright © 2023 by Vi Carter & E.R. Whyte All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. Contents 1. CHAPTER ONE 2. CHAPTER TWO 3. CHAPTER THREE 4. CHAPTER FOUR 5. CHAPTER FIVE 6. CHAPTER SIX 7. CHAPTER SEVEN 8. CHAPTER EIGHT 9. CHAPTER NINE 10. CHAPTER TEN 11. CHAPTER ELEVEN 12. CHAPTER TWELVE 13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN 14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN 15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN 16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN 17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 19. CHAPTER NINETEEN 20. CHAPTER TWENTY 21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 22. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 25. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 26. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 28. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 29. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 30. CHAPTER THIRTY 31. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE About the Authors CHAPTER ONE LULU The relief I feel when the last clod of earth falls on my father’s casket doesn’t speak particularly well of me as a daughter. I guess that’s what happens, though, when said a father raises his children in the eye of the American mafia, privy to all its machinations, violence, and corruption. Not very much has the power to faze us. When I turn from the gravesite, Damon Papparado is there, a bit separate from the men assigned as guards, even here on our property. He’s a steady, silent presence with indigo eyes that follow me wherever I go. Since the day he was hired, he’s always been there, my father’s second, his made man. Waiting. Watching. He makes me nervous, even though he’s always been decent to me. Lately, he feels like more than just my father’s man. My stomach tumbles when he levels his steady, assessing stare on me, and I can’t figure out if it’s from butterflies or the need to puke. I think it’s butterflies. I think there’s this tiny spark between us, waiting on one of us to either nourish or douse it. But that’s crazy talk. With my father’s death, I want to finally free myself of this life, even if I may have to take the reins for a while, just to keep everything balanced and running smoothly. I want no part of the corrupt legacy he leaves behind, and Damon is in it up to the dark hair on his head. “Everything all right, miss?” I turn at the question and spy Gianni, one of my father’s lower-ranking soldiers. He’s always been around, sometimes used for protection details for me and Vivi; at other times just a quiet presence in the background of our home. “I’m fine, thank you, Gianni.” He gives me a little salute in exchange for my tremulous smile, and I resume walking toward the car. A few feet away from Damon, I inhale a deep breath, his aftershave tickling my senses before I exhale and allow my gaze to roam the small knoll on our property where my family’s cemetery is located. Most everyone in attendance has left by now, drifting away after the final words were said rather than waiting for the mechanism to bear the casket down into its concrete vault beneath the earth. I hung back, morbidly fascinated with the entirety of the procedure. Moreover, I needed to see Father completely buried. Completely gone. It isn’t that he was a bad father. He was never violent with me or my siblings, and always provided us with every need. He was apathetic at his worst, viewing all of the members of his family as cogs in a wheel, existing solely to help solidify our position within the famiglia. He was careless at his best. An inveterate gambler in the poker games he ran throughout the city, although he tried to keep that part of his life hidden from his children. I always felt as though I was waiting with my breath held, balanced on the wire edge of beloved daughter and useful asset. My fortune—my fate—could fall either way, depending on his whim. With my brother gone, my mother an alcoholic, and my younger sister too young to be of much help, I had to be the practical one. The one who made sure the staff was functioning and the estate operational. It was exhausting. I’m not sure which is worse—the stress while he was alive, the sense of relief now that he’s dead, or the guilt I feel over not being more saddened. I should be grieving, not planning how quickly I can get out of this dress and pantyhose and lock myself in my room. I sigh. Unfortunately, there’s still the reception to get through. Damon extends his hand, halting my reverie. “Ready?” I place mine in his, nerves buzzing at the sensation of his warm skin closing around the chilled flesh of my fingers and look past him at the massive white stone mansion in the distance. “Ready.” Damon settles me in the back of the waiting limousine and then climbs in behind me. The drive back to the house is brief, but I’m conscious all the while of his bulk beside me, his restless movements I see in my peripheral vision as I stare out the window. Unlike the cemetery, the house I grew up in swarms with activity. Guards flank either side of the entrance, semi-automatic rifles held loosely in their grips. Their eyes follow the movements of the mourners, members of my own family, along with key players in other syndicates. They spill out into the courtyard and the steps of the entryway. They’re unmindful of the bitterly cold air and the cruel wind that whips my hair in my face as I step from the car. Damon takes my arm, but I balk at the staring faces, the false masks of sympathy. The hungry eyes of carrion birds, waiting to pick over the leavings. “I was wrong. I’m not ready for this, Damon.” His grip slides from my bicep to