Beneath The Surface- Book 3 of the Paradox Series (A Mafia Romance)

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Prologue

The ten commandments of the fuckin' mafia.

Numero uno: no one can present himself directly to another one of our friends. There must be a third person to do it.

This also implies to you pretty boy. If I find out you're trying to play it tough, bragging to your puny frat friends that you're one of us, just to hype up your debilitated ego, I will hunt you down and fuck up your entire piteous world. And I guarantee that you will enjoy it.

Numero due: Never look at the wives of friends.

Well.

Numero tre: Never be seen with cops.

I may have fucked one or two. Or maybe several.

Numero quattro: Don't go to clubs or pubs.

My brother owns eighteen.

Numero cinque: Always being available for Cosa Nostra is a duty —even if your wife's about to give birth.

Unless I'm the one who knocked her up—then you're an exception.

Numero sei: Appointments must absolutely be respected.

Numero sette: Wives must be treated with respect.

Clearly my father didn't get the memo.

Numero otto: When asked for any information, the answer must be the truth.

Numero nove: Money cannot be appropriated if it belongs to others or to other families.

Coughs in 1.6 billion.

Numero dieci: People who can't be part of Cosa Nostra: anyone who has a close relative in the police, anyone with a two-timing relative in the family (my cousin Vinnie), anyone who behaves badly (heavy weighs the crown so they can all suck on my juicy dick), and doesn't hold to moral values.

Now that I've rattled your brain a bit with these boring commendments, allow me to introduce you to my wonderful family.

Let's start from the very beginning. Back when my father wasn't food for the snakes and still held the throne to this non law-abiding kingdom.

Antonio Montanari I. Leader of one —if not thee most dangerous organizations that was created to roam this earth and head of the Montanari hierarchy. Husband to a beloved wife —woman of value, father to three very handsome sons and one strikingly gorgeous daughter.

Maria Montanari. Up-keeper to the entire legacy and caretaker of five children, including my father. Never shown the credibility or love —well deserved by her unavaling husband.

Antonio fucking Montanari II. Dickhead. Ugly as fuck. Demon infested misogynist. Ruthless and cold-blooded. Hot headed, whore magnet but can't last over three minutes in bed. Next in line to the hell throne.

Niccolo Montanari. The sexiest man alive. Bone crusher. The fucking grim reaper. Takes pleasure in rearranging your organs and giving you a nice open casket funeral. Will give your mother a good reason to cry for. Right hand man to dickhead.

Luca Montanari. Momma's golden boy. Upholds a soft pretense but not one to be taken for granted. Don't underestimate the veracious persona that lies beneath his facade.

Aurora Montanari. The princess to this domain. The sweetheart of the family. Heavily guarded by three abundantly minacious brothers. Not a single hair on her head shall be threatened or will be attending a personal meeting with yours truly.

An outsider would perceive the mafia as an illegal, immensely violent and formidable organization. Which is understandable from a normal, downbeat angle to be reserved upon meeting one such as myself.

But if you happened to come across one, then unfortunately your days are numbered.

The sole purpose of encountering a made man is either strictly business affiliated or you were summoned to suck a dick. Which in my opinion, is an incredibly difficult position to attain. You'd be privileged.

We don't buy girls to fuck. They are either in the circle or passed around within the brotherhood.

As my uncle Tom would have said, —may his squalid soul rest in pieces— we keep it in the family.

Which means that if ol' Antonio here decided to ditch a whore and pass her to the next willing candidate, every fuckin' man in this family got the chance to screw her legs off.

Have I lost you yet? Stay with me baby.

Sisters are off limits. That would commence a war among us and sadly end in bloodshed from both sides.

Therefore the regulations are drilled in from the early days of training.

Torturing methods. They are practiced to this day. If you end up in the chamber then pick your balls up from the floor and hand them over, for you will be recollecting them at the far exit. That is, only if you've outlived the barbaric consequences of your stupidity and made it to the end.

Don't be a moron. Identify your limits and never allow anyone, under any circumstances to break through them.

Loyalty. Omerta is your bible and the mafia is your religion. Under one ruler.

Respect. That is earned and cannot be taken.

The Russians. My father has kept the peace between both parties for decades and we don't fuck with the other's affairs nor their people.

The Albanians. Now that's a completely different story. We've always had an understanding and close ties with them but somehow, somewhere down the years, the threads began to loosen.

That was when I discovered my father's weakness. They don't call me sharp eyes for nothing.

Antonio never gave a flying fuck about these things. Too preoccupied by his money thirst.

A woman. Possession of the opposite side and strongly infiltrated in the human trafficking industry that the Albanians used to import their merchandise.

Never in my nineteen years on this earth had I witnessed a downfall initiated with the utmost precision, lead by one highly intelligent and immensely attractive female.

I will never forget the way my father's eyes sparkled when layed upon her. I am still able to pinpoint the exact moment I realized that she, would undoubtedly become the death of him.

Bringing him down to making the fatal, lifespan mistake and end in his ultimate conquest.

Her presence had lingered for years throughout my childhood, for as long as I could remember.

All the men knew her and were aware that she was the one breaking the bondage between us and the other side.

My father was no longer sleeping in his bed and many nights were spent at the M-house where only men were allowed, accompanied by the woman in towering heels and skimpy outfits.

I left my boyhood at that very house by the age of fifteen, with the help of a busty redhead who my father entrusted to make sure I was a man by the end of that evening.

But Hazel eyes was what captured my attention and had my young self captivated by her long legs and the breathtaking aura that shadowed her voluptuous appearance.

I watched her on my father's lap most nights and admired their twisted attraction towards one another until the very evening that all erupted in flames.

My father was furious and I not comprehending the reasoning behind it, assumed it was another business brawl, for we had many of those.

But one day she was out of the frame and mysteriously swept under the rug. I wasn't entirely convinced that this woman had been granted her freedom out of generosity and knew, like the back of my hand that there was far more to this situation than displayed.

There was something about her sudden departure that made me want to investigate deeper into.

I knew just the source to turn to and was certain that she would give me leading answers.

Giada. The bold torch. She had been brought into the family during my ripe preteens and had helped me through the stages of my heavy duty preparation to becoming what I am today.

As loyal as one could be to my father, she loved us as her own and couldn't refuse offering the information that I demanded.

It took a great amount of persuasion to crack her but in finality, I got what I wanted.

The name and address to the mystery woman that was hiding in a small apartment, in an ugly beatdown neighborhood in New York.

It was time to move to the United States.

I was on a mission. To get revenge for all the tearshed nights that my mother had spent sulking over an abusive husband that showed no regards to her sentiment.

And I was adamant to obtain it.

The rain was pouring when I reached her shitty apartment on that gloomy night. Twisting the silencer around the barrel as I watched the movements from their ground level window, I prepared for my sweet vengeance.

But oh how sweet it would be.

Once the lights were off, I crept into the living room. The musky scent of alcohol and cigarettes invaded my nose, seeping through the thick mask covering my profile.

No face. No case.

The floorboards creaked underneath my feet which not one soul took notice to. The woman lying on the worn out couch was still, staring up at the ceiling. The once mesmerizing pigments in her lifeless eyes were murky and faded. The markings on her inner arm were fresh from a recent shootup, the syringe lying an inch further from her side.

A skeleton man emerged from one of the rooms wearing nothing but his underwear and a filthy grin that faltered. His hands flung up in surrender when I aimed the gun at his throat.

He looked like the wind could blow him away and luckily didn't attempt any resistance, preventing him from receiving a bullet to his bony head.

Muffled cries traveled from the direction he had come out from. The nasty fuck tried to charge at me but was startled by the end of my pistol which I smashed into his forehead.

I waited for his scrawny bones to hit the dusty floor before taking vigilante steps towards the sounds.

That's when I saw her.

A delicate figure of a young girl with pale features and light brown hair that was drenched in sweat. Those identical hazel's had been engraved into my memory for years. They looked up at me as I stood in between the frame, frozen, immobile.

Her breasts were barely developed and I took note of her chest rising and falling, the chains around her tiny waist digging into her battered flesh.

The purity in her gaze heightened the lump forming a knot inside my stomach.

I gulped at the sight before me. She was my sister's age, possibly even younger. As I took in her fragile state and the surroundings, I dreaded her brutal misfortune.

It was too late.
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