A Very Mafia Christmas Read online

  A Very Mafia Christmas

  Eagle Elite

  by Rachel Van Dyken

  Copyright © 2016 RACHEL VAN DYKEN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  A VERY MAFIA CHRISTMAS

  Copyright © 2016 RACHEL VAN DYKEN

  Cover Design & Formatting by Jill Sava, Love Affair With Fiction

  Table of Contents

  Front Matter

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  About The Author

  Also by Rachel Van Dyken

  Rachel’s New Rockin’ Readers YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING!!!

  Thank you so much for all that you do, for the support, and for just being the greatest group in the world,

  if you are looking for a fun place to hang out RRR is that place.

  We're family, blood in, no out, this is for you! :)

  Blood in

  No out

  Dante

  “I’M NOT GOING to ask you again.” Nixon’s jaw clenched as he braced his hands against the doorframe, his massive body just daring me to pick a fight. Hell, the guy was probably itching to torture me — but I knew better than to mess with a sleep deprived assassin. Dark circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes. A wail erupted in the tense silence.

  “Better get that.” I said with a smug smirk.

  “She has a name.”

  “Most babies do.”

  “God you’re a cocky shit.”

  I shrugged, “We can’t all be Nixon Abandonato, now can we?”

  He leapt from the door, in seconds his right hand was wrapped around my neck, slamming me backward against his dresser, his house, his room, his dresser, I had nothing.

  Nothing.

  “You’re going and that’s final!” He hissed, his fingers digging into my neck harder. My teeth clenched together with such force it felt like my head was going to split in two. But that was part of the mind games they played — all the bosses — they wanted to break me, to get me to lose my temper, to crack. Hell, I’d probably get my own house if I pulled a gun on one of them and tapped the trigger.

  I was a loose cannon that they didn’t know how to train.

  There were rules about the shit they did, and they hated that I knew them all, almost as much as I think they hated me. The outsider who had a dynasty at his fingertips — one he never asked for and sure as hell didn’t want.

  Maybe the last part was a slight exaggeration — I wanted it — I just wanted it my way, not theirs.

  Nixon finally released me.

  I smiled.

  Pissing him off more.

  The crying intensified in the other room.

  I arched my eyebrows and crossed my arms.

  Finally, Nixon hung his head and whispered. “It’s Christmas. Our first Christmas as a family — we want you there.”

  “Bastard.” I shoved against his chest and turned around in a small circle, running my hands over my freshly buzzed dark hair. “That was a low blow and you know it.”

  His laugh made me want to drive a knife between his ribs. “Yeah well, I’m a parent, apparently, we have to play dirtier than mob bosses… At least it sure as hell feels that way.”

  I snorted. “I’ll go, on one condition.”

  “Dante—”

  I shook my head and stared down at the hard wood floor that decorated the room that would never feel like mine. “I don’t want to talk to her.”

  “She lives here.”

  “And that’s my problem? My fault?” I felt the rage boiling beneath the surface, the anger that we had the enemy underneath our rooftop — the person that I still held responsible for my father’s death even though she was loosely associated with the real murderer.

  I blamed her.

  Because I had nobody else to blame.

  And I had to blame someone. I had to. The blame kept the anger fanned — and as long as I had anger — I would never be sad.

  “Look, I’ll talk with Ella, but I can’t make any promises she or the kids won’t approach you.”

  I groaned.

  The kids.

  They spent a year in hell under Xavier’s household, one of the most rotten bastards I’d ever met in my entire life — Russian — batshit crazy and abusive, just to name a few fun attributes.

  “Whatever.” I shrugged. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Try not to handle anything without talking to me or one of the guys first, I’d hate to see blood on Christmas.”

  “What’s a good Christmas without a little violence?” I asked honestly.

  “Yeah, I’m not letting you train with Tex anymore.”

  “Tex isn’t near as bad as Phoenix.” I muttered.

  “Yeah well Phoenix has a lot of…” Nixon frowned. “Just a lot.”

  “No shit.” I shuddered, the guy had locked me in a small box and dropped a tarantula inside just to mess with my head and see if I snapped.

  I didn’t.

  I never would.

  “A lot.” I repeated. “Well, good talk as always Nixon, dinner?”

  He eyed me up and down, his disapproval was evident with the way his nose lifted. “Wear clothes, Dante.”

  “I’m in clothes.” I pointed to my low-slung sweatpants and wife beater.

  “You look like a punk. And when I see a punk it makes me trigger happy — besides, that’s one of the rules.”

  “Hell you guys shouldn’t have a dress code.”

  “And yet we do.” He rolled his eyes. “For obvious reasons.”

  “Not so obvious to me.” I just had to argue, didn’t I?”

  “We’ll have this talk after I send you out and you get shot at because you look the part. Wear a suit and tie, wear a leather jacket, name brands, expensive shit and people assume you belong. Dress like a gangster and you’ll get a nice bullet to the shoulder, but that’s your choice, after all, gunshot wounds are like trophies, collect enough and people won’t give you anymore shit.”

  “So get shot enough and I can dress however the hell I want?”

  “Your choice.” He snapped, then walked out of the room toward the wailing baby.

  “In three, two one,” I whispered to myself, and suddenly little Serena stopped crying. Of course she did. Because she had a dad who loved her, who held her close and sang to her in Italian when he thought nobody was listening. She had love.

  Which was just another reminder.

  That while everyone had someone.

  I no longer did.

  Ella

  DINNER WAS GOING to be bad.

  So bad.

  I still didn’t know how to act around everyone and I still had trouble with the nightmares that Xavier was back torturing me again, hitting me with his gun, trying to touch me with his hands.

  I shivered.

  And then felt like puking.

  He’d forced himself on me more times than I could count, thankfully, he never followed through — he was usually so drunk he passed out.

  So rather than get raped.

  I g
ot beat.

  I sometimes wondered which was worse, both?

  I dipped my spoon into the soup and tried to stomach the broth but still felt like gagging — it’s why I never ate in front of everyone. I wasn’t a picky eater, but when I got nervous, I threw up.

  It always pissed off Xavier.

  Then again, I’d think puke would piss anyone off.

  Frank Alfero called it a defense mechanism — he was the only one I trusted enough to talk to — because after living as a slave — he’d rode in on a white horse shaped like a gun — and saved me and the kids.

  They weren’t my kids.

  But they were defenseless and under the same torture that I was under. I tried to protect them as much as I could from their biological father — but it never ended well for me.

  Rather me than them.

  I had scars on my back to prove it.

  And I’d do it all over again.

  Frank decided it would be safer to let them stay with his family in New York, splitting us up, dividing the family once again, the only family I’d ever known.

  So, I was excited that for Christmas — they’d all flown back.

  The only thing that wasn’t exciting?

  Dante.

  With his whiskey colored eyes and cruel taunting smiles — he reminded me of a man with too much physical strength and even more intelligence.

  In a word. He terrified me.

  Sometimes the nightmares shifted and it was Dante choking me.

  Sometimes when he looked at me — I think he imagined he was.

  Every time we locked eyes, it felt like a storm was surging beneath the surface of his stare, like he wanted me to push him, to test him, to break him.

  But the joke was on him.

  I’d rather die than touch another guy.

  I shivered again and tried to grab a piece of bread, stupidly not looking where I was reaching, but I knew the minute my fingers buzzed with awareness who I’d clumsily collided with.

  “Sorry.” I jerked back so fast I dumped water onto my lap.

  Talking at the giant table stopped altogether, which wasn’t normal for these guys, they drank wine like water and shouted things that any sane person would whisper.

  They were Italians.

  I wasn’t anything.

  I was, what Xavier liked to call a whorish mixture of Russian and Spanish heritage. Then every time he said it, his eyes heated.

  So many days — I used to stand in front of the mirror and beg for something horrible to happen to my face so that he wouldn’t look at me like that anymore. Maybe that’s why I took the bruising — it marred what he saw as perfection.

  “Take it.” Dante barked, while I patted my lap dry with my napkin. “You obviously need it.”

  He wasn’t giving me a compliment.

  I felt my face heat.

  Too embarrassed to look up.

  “Dante.” Sergio’s low voice caused a chill to run over my body. Why did they all have to be so terrifying? If I thought living with one mob boss was stressful — living amongst five was downright unimaginable.

  They were nice.

  But I was biding my time until I did something wrong.

  Xavier had been nice too at first.

  Meaning, he gave me a roof over my head, and food.

  I gulped and shook my head, trying to find my voice. “No thank you.”

  “What?” Dante surged to his feet, slamming his hands on the table, silverware rattled I reached for my knife just in case something happened. “I’m being nice!”

  “This?” Tex’s booming voice mocked, “Is you being nice? Hell, I think I know what your problem is.” He chuckled. “Our boy here needs to get laid. It’s sexual tension, now sit down, little virgin before I shoot you in your special place,” I could feel the anger boiling from Dante’s body.

  “I would really like to see you try.” Dante challenged.

  “Boys!” The sound of Trace standing and scooting her chair back made my ears ache. “I’ll send every single one of you outside to freeze your asses off if you don’t stop fighting. I’m running on no sleep! And it’s Christmas! So, sit your asses down and act like men!” Tears, I heard her tears.

  Dante hated tears.

  Probably because I usually had them filling my eyes on a daily basis.

  “Sorry.” Dante mumbled.

  “Yeah,” Tex was still laughing. “Sorry Trace, you know you’re my favorite.”

  He made a noise.

  “Other than my lovely wife, put the knife away Mo, I get the point — literally.”

  I kept my head down.

  I kept my shaking hands at my sides.

  I waited to be dismissed.

  Finally, everyone was done eating.

  I bolted out of the room and into the family room where the giant Christmas tree, with its twinkling lights and massive presents loomed.

  For some reason it made me feel more calm.

  Maybe because it reminded me of happier times.

  When I still had a family.

  When things were normal.

  Before Xavier killed them all.

  Dante

  I WAITED FOR her to leave before I even stood.

  The guys looks of disappointment said it all. I was a jackass; I would always be a jackass and I was going to die alone. Great.

  Val, my twin, waited with me at the table, Sergio gave her a kiss on the head then locked eyes with me and sent a mental, “I’ll cut your hand off if you make her cry” sort of look that had me believing he’d do much worse if I as much as made her flinch.

  “You’ve changed.” Voice sad, tears filled her eyes. “Aren’t you happy here?”

  Happy? That I was getting tortured by the guys? That they liked to torture me? That Sergio, her own husband, had already nearly killed me three times? Sure yeah, that was definitely worth celebrating. I’d asked for training, not realizing I’d been asking for ways to learn how to survive some of the worst torture the human brain could come up with.

  “I’m… content.” The word tasted weird, sounded even weirder coming out. When the hell have I ever even used that word?

  “How’s school?” She asked.

  “Wow.” I kicked my chair back, “Really, Val? Are you suddenly my mom now? How’s freaking school? It sucks. I go to school with people who are too afraid to even look in my direction. I have no friends. More enemies than I can count. And while I’m in business class — trying not to bleed all over the floor, I can barely keep my eyes open enough to learn — and then I come home. To absolute hell. Granted, this is the life I chose, I just didn’t know that the road there would be lined with concussions and knife wounds.”

  “The mafia isn’t pretty.” She looked down at her shaking hands, then hid them behind her back. “I’m afraid he’s going to die — like pretty much all the time.” More tears filled her eyes. “And lucky me, now my brother’s going to be in the line of fire. My twin. So maybe, you should stop thinking so much about yourself, and ask how people who love you feel about the choices you’re making.”

  “What damn choices? I haven’t been given any!” I raised my voice.

  “Well,” She eyed the other room. “You could start by actually being nice to Ella.”

  Hated her. Hated her.

  “You want me to be nice to Ella.” I repeated, reining it in. “How is that going to help anything?”

  “Do it for me. Please.” Her voice pleaded. I hated it when my sister was sad, I’d rather die than make her sad. “She’s been through so much.”

  So had I.

  But telling Val all of that shit would only piss her off.

  Telling her that I was still fighting.

  Telling her that I was still allowing myself to get used, just in a different way. It wouldn’t fix anything.

  “Fine.” I snapped. “In honor of Christmas and my annoying little sister by three seconds, I’ll be nice. Do we have any damn cookies or something?”

  Val smirk
ed. “That’s your plan? Bring her cookies?”

  “She’s starving.” I hated that I noticed. Almost as much as I hated that I was probably the reason she was so shaky, so hesitant. I hated the fear I saw in her. I hated the shame I recognized in myself. I hated that when I saw her I saw so many things that kept me up at night — so many fears that I refused to acknowledge. She was a reminder. And reminders had no place in my life.

  She was too thin.

  At least the bruises had healed.

  But most days I prayed they’d come back.

  I really was that sick of a bastard.

  Because those bruises.

  They hid her age — and most importantly they’d hidden the beauty of her full pink lips, russet eyes, and sharp jawline. They’d hidden so much that I’d have to be blind not to notice how striking she was — or how fearful she was of her own beauty.

  “Just give me the damn cookies.” I held out my hand.

  Val got out of her seat, went into the kitchen, then came back with a plate of Christmas cookies. “Yeah good luck with that.”

  “Shut up.” I shared a smile with her, the first in at least a week, and kissed her temple. “Go find your husband.”

  She winked while I walked off toward the living room, the plate suddenly felt heavy in my hand.

  Nixon put up the tree two weeks ago and every day, Ella sat underneath it like she’d never seen an ornament — smelled pine.

  At least she made it easy to avoid her — I was thankful for that.

  Be nice. Be nice. Be nice.

  I knew how to be nice to family, to people I loved, ones that needed protecting, but everything and I do mean everything about Ella set me on edge. Friend? Enemy? I mean how did we even know we could trust her?

  I swallowed, “Hey.” It was the best she was going to get. No wonder Tex thought I needed to get laid.

  Ella didn’t look up.

  In fact, I could count on one hand the amount of times she’d looked at me, really looked at me. Twice.

  It wasn’t something I could easily forget — and I had a feeling that she felt exactly the same way.

  Shit, was she really just going to sit there? Shoulders hunched, silky hair draped across her olive skin.