Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)

A scream wells up in my raw throat. The man pinning me down is strong, though Scar Face, who is still pointing his weapon at me, looks a lot older and meaner than him. He’s in his fifties, I’d guess.

As Scar Face tightens his grip on his gun, taking aim at me, the younger man pinning me seizes my arm and pulls me to my feet so fast, it gives me whiplash.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous snaps his fingers. “No, Antonio. Don’t.”

“But—”

“Her brother has as many policemen in his pocket as us,” he says. “There’s no need for pointless bloodshed. We’ll monitor her for now.”

Monitor me? Is that shorthand for stalking?

“But—”

“I’ll handle her.” He cocks his head to the man with the scar on his face, the guy he just called Antonio. “You follow me.”

Then he taps the back of my knees, pushing me into a forward trot. “Unless you want me to toss you into the trunk, get your ass moving, Francesca.”

“Go to hell,” I spit out.

“Too boring there.” A vicious glow lights his eyes. “I like darker places.”

The rasp, the undercurrent of a warning, starts a tremor under my skin. An ember sparks in my groin. This man. There’s something both magnetic and scary about him. The look he gives me is dyed with wickedness and promises nothing but suffering. Yet, his rough and authoritative manner sets off a sweet burn between my legs.

“Move.” Irritation coats his voice. “I don’t have all day.”

When I resist following his orders, the barrel of his gun digs into one of my ass cheeks. The shock of having something so hard and cold in an expected place short circuits my brain. The uncomfortable heat between my legs gets slicker, coating my inner thighs with moisture.

New kink unlocked, I guess. I seem to have a thing for dangerous weapons.

Thanks goodness I’m wearing a long sweater so Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous can’t see my inconvenient reaction. I squirm, pushing my shoulders back forcefully. “Can’t you at least point it at my head like a proper criminal?” I say in a scathing tone.

He sinks the lip of the gun deeper into my flesh in response. ““I would, but you’re quieter when you’re nervous. I like you quiet.”

“You can’t kill someone by shooting their butt, though.”

“Giving advice to a mobster on how to murder?” His smile is broader now, almost friendly. “I’ve killed more people than you have teeth, baby.”

“What’re you trying to do, then?”

“Scare you.”

“It’s not working,” I whisper.

“You’re not scared?”

“No.” I lick my lips, feeling reckless as I blurt out, “I’m turned on.”

Scar Face Antonio releases a loud breath, joining his hands in prayer. “This is why I can’t stand college girls. They’re always horny. Can’t we just kill her?”

Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous considers me through narrowed eyes. I’m not sure what his assessment is, but his features stay blank and impassive—except for that smug smile drilled into his lips.

“Patience, Antonio.” He sighs. “We don’t need trouble right now. We’re already tied up in enough problems with the feds.”

“But look at her.” Antonio flashes a disgusted look at me. “Do you think we’ll be able to stand her long enough to monitor her?”

“It’s just a job. Do it right.” Mr. Tall, Hot, and Dangerous suddenly shoves my body toward Antonio who catches me fast then presses his bent elbow against my neck.

This one holds the gun to my head like a proper, upstanding mobster ought to. And just like that, my arousal freezes and vanishes. It would seem like I’m not as into danger as I thought. Perhaps I’m into a very specific kind of danger, one with a sense of humor and dark eyes.

My heart wrings out every beat with apprehension as my feet thud on the road. The car with Luca is gone and so is the woman I gave my coat to. I twist my head to search for her, but I am shoved aggressively into one of the remaining two cars. My nostrils flare at the smell of leather mixed with metal. Mr. Tall, Hot, and Dangerous gets in the driver’s seat.

Antonio straps on my seatbelt. “Have a good trip, Missy,”

I unbuckle my seatbelt. “You should’ve handcuffed me because I’m going to escape.”

“Try it,” Antonio challenges me with a thick eyebrow raised.

Before I can make a sound, cruel hands grab my seatbelt and snap it back in place.

“Stop that or I’ll have to knock you out,” Mr. Tall, Hot, and Dangerous informs me in a bored voice. “The concussion will be bad and you’ll have a headache for days. Trust me, it’s best to avoid that.”

Despite how disinterested he looks, the dagger-like edge of his unhinged jaw compels me to obey. I shiver at the recollection of how swiftly he pressed me into the ground earlier, how powerfully he loomed over me.

“Can I ask your name?” I say when he turns his keys in the ignition.

The bellow of the engine swells in my ears. “Aren’t you a curious girl.”

“It’s not curiosity. I just don’t want to mentally call you a fucker in my head while I cuss you out.”

I expecting a shove or a slap for that line, but one corner of his lip twitches in a mocking smile. “You’re already thinking of me that much?”

There’s no sexual undertone to his words, creepiness or lust. He sounds tired, if anything. For a gangster whose job is intimidating people, he has got a real way of putting me at ease and making me forget that I could lose my life in the next few hours if I’m not careful.

“Got no choice,” I reply. “You’re making my life hard right now.”

“Gabriele Russo.” He grabs the water bottle from the glove box and empties half the water in it. “That’s my name. You can call me Gabriele. Coincidentally, it rhymes with all the cuss words. Lucky you.”

Russo. That’s one of the big five crime families in New York. They’ve been around for generations. They’re so famous even I have heard of them.

The revving of the engine purrs in my ears and I lose my last chance of escape when the car blazes away from the spot where it was parked, streaking through the night. It’s a good thing I’m wearing my seatbelt or I’d have my head banging against the windshield by now.

Even when we’re on the road, Gabriele Russo doesn’t slow down. Blurry lights, shops, snow, cars, and clouds all flit in and out of my vision. I want to jump out of the window but he’s speeding so much, I’ll certainly die if I attempt that.

“Did you drive racecars before this?” I snip at him. “You have an odd concept of speed.”

“Nobody ever complained before.”

“Perhaps because they were all dead when you gave them a ride?” I suggest helpfully.

Gabriele’s lips tick up in a smile. “Could be.”

Relief trickles through my pores when he finally slows at a red light. Mostly because there are other cars around us and not even a Russo can mow them down without consequences.

I beat my knuckles against the glass frantically, hoping one of the other drivers will notice me and call the police. God knows these guys don’t have good intentions. Mr. Tall, Hot, and Dangerous has the kind of aura that suggests he’s very familiar with torture. His talkative nature and willingness to exchange quips with me is likely a mask to throw me off.

There’s every chance I’ll get sold into prostitution or chopped up into pieces and thrown into the Hudson River by the time tonight is over. I wish the prospect of death pumped my blood with adrenaline and fear. Instead, all I can think is: will the agony finally be over then?

My suicidal ideation is halted when Gabriele Russo twists my head around and crushes my face between his fingers. The pressure of his fingers is so powerful, I’m afraid he’ll break my jawbone. This guy doesn’t mess around. “How much did you take?”

“What?” I sputter, confused.

“The drugs,” he says, his tone softer than before. “How much?”

I blink, sawing my bottom lip with my teeth. Oh god, oh god, oh god, how can he tell? “Don’t remember.”

I’m sweating, panic slicing me in wave after nauseating wave. This mobster has easily sniffed out my biggest weakness, baring a part of me that I’ve managed to hide so well from everyone else.

“Was it good?” Gabriele Russo holds my stare with a look of mild amusement mixed with disgust. The smile hugging his lips is in contrast to the darkness growing in his eyes. He’s not impressed.

“Yeah,” I say.

Perfect white teeth sneer when he pulls his lips back. “How good?”

“Really good.”

“And now that the high is gone? Is it still good?”

That question wasn’t surface-level. His wary gaze slides over my skin like a caress. I need him to stop looking at me like that—like he’s seeing right into my ugly, fucked-up head. Like he actually understands what I’m going through.

I grimace, hating how sounds pinch the inside of my head. “It feels like my skull’s going to split open. I can’t stand the pain.”

“How unsurprising. Do you know why most people get high?” The three quiet seconds where he’s expecting an answer from me pummel my gut. “To avoid facing the truth. To run from pain. Ironically, when the high wears off, agony is all they feel.”

The truth in his words is a needle pricking my skin. It stirs up the uncomfortable feelings lodged in my belly. The string of memories that have marred my existence for the last six months pelts me at once.

Canvases full of ugly, meaningless lines of paint.

Cherry red. Indigo. Lemon yellow.

Colors that used to mean something, that used to be vibrant before they turned grey.

My forlorn sobs as I sit in my studio, clawing my skin and screaming at the empty void that refuses to go away.

The lies, the pretenses, avoiding everyone for the fear they’ll see through me.

The passion that’s become a curse rather than a blessing.

My mind scrolls through the negative comments on social media like I’m physically scrolling through my phone.

You’re just using your parents’ money and influence.

Privileged.

You don’t deserve to be here.

People like you make the world rotten.

Stop. I have to stop. I drag my attention to the man beside me, to his smoke and copper scented body.

“You’re a gangster.” I croak, because continuing this meaningless conversation with a guy who might kill me is the only way to keep my thoughts away from the darkest abyss. “Don’t you do drugs?”

“I’d rather hurt than be numb.” A shadow caresses one side of Gabriele’s face. “Of course, my favorite hobby is hurting others. Knives, garrotes, cement shoes, water torture, cutting off fingers one by one. I have a varied skillset.”

It’s at that moment that I know with absolute certainty; he has done all of it. For pleasure. But that’s not all. The tight set of his features and the faded scar marks poking from under the folded-back sleeves of his black shirt tells me he has had some of that done to him, too.

The soft, irrational part of my heart squeezes in pity.

“That got way too gruesome for small talk,” I mutter.

“You wanted small talk? Should’ve said so earlier.” His voice pitches high, thick with fake cheer. He steps on the pedal to accelerate. I have stopped praying to God already because not even God has the power to save me from the inevitable car crash Gabriele Russo’s speeding will get me in. “So, what college do you go to? Let me guess—Columbia?”

“NYU,” I correct.

“What do you study? My bet is on something related to arts or fashion.”

“Fine arts.”

“Throwing paint on canvas and shit?”

“I can definitely tell that you’re a great connoisseur of the arts.” I exhale, unable to contain my sarcasm. “Which is why you use such specific technical terms like canvas and shit.”

His thick hair sweeps across his forehead when Gabriele shakes his head. “Most days, I can’t even tell blue and green apart.”

Neither can I. Because I’m too stoned. I scratch the hem of my sweater, once again poised at the edge of spiraling into self-hate.

“Don’t feel like you have to continue asking me personal questions unless you’re actually interested,” I say, because who could stay quiet with a criminal watching them so intensely as if he wants nothing more than to hear your sweet voice? “Or do you need the answers to plot my murder?”

“I don’t plan murder; I simply do it.” Tremors snake down my spine. I believe him. “I’m going to keep an eye on you starting today, Francesca. So I want to know everything about you.”

I scoff. “Like what? My shoe size? Bra size?”

“Six and 34C.” At my surprised gasp, he screws an eyebrow upward.

He got it right. Gabriele Russo acts dumb and cocky but I can sense that he didn’t get this far in the mafia by being stupid. His observation skills rival Sherlock Holmes. He could even tell I did drugs. Not even my mom can tell.

“Anyway, let’s talk about your college,” he continues. “You like drawing? Is that what you do in your classes?”

The atmosphere grows dense and claustrophobic as the loaded question settles on me like a paperweight.

Do I like drawing? I can’t even draw anymore.

“I’m supposed to be a painter,” I reply after a minute. “But I haven’t created anything decent in a long time.”

“Despite being in a fine arts program?”

The voices from cyberspace screech in my head: Privileged. Worthless. Waste of space.

I don’t like where this is going, so I turn the question on its head. “Have you been to college?”

“Never.”

“Ever wanted to go?”

“What kind of question is that to ask a mobster?”

“A normal one,” I reply. “I’m curious. If you had a chance, would you have gotten a degree?”

“I never considered it. Didn’t have that kind of luxury. And I don’t see the point.”

“The point of college is doing what makes you happy,” I say. “It’s to become better at what you’re passionate about.”

He grunts. “You don’t look very happy to me, Francesca.”

I close my fingers into fists so hard, the crunch of my bending bones echoes inside the car. My entire family thinks I’m content with my life. What gives him the right to see through my lies?

The Mercedes is zooming ahead at an illegal speed. But Gabriele’s eyes aren’t on what’s ahead—they’re squarely on me. This guy is hands-down the worst driver I’ve ever seen.

Digging my nails into my thighs, I try and fail to catch my breath. “Can you focus on the road? I don’t want to die at twenty-one.”

“I said I’m not going to kill you.”

“I wasn’t sure you meant it.”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” Gabriele’s breath hits my bare collarbones when he releases a long, steadying exhale.

Uncertainty about my future chafes under my chest. I want to know where he’s taking me, and what awaits at the end of his rash driving.

“Are you planning to do something bad to me?”

“Very.” He smiles but his eyes don’t. “Very bad.”

“Will it hurt? I’m afraid of pain,” I confess. I live with enough mental torture as it is.

“Don’t be.” Gabriele pauses, letting the silence silk into my pores. Then he folds back the sleeves of his shirt to expose the raw scar marks on his hand. “Let me tell you a secret, Francesca: the more you’re broken, the stronger you become.”

“That’s BS,” I retort.

My pain isn’t like the pain he’s talking about. It’s not inflicted on me by physical weapons.

The mean assessment from critics, the whispered jealousy of my classmates, the way people on social media judge me more than they judge my art.

Every word is the slash of a blade against my heart.

I can’t help feeling other people’s emotions strongly. Ella says I’m an empath. That’s why, before I knew it, I started to believe that I was simply a rich, lucky girl who doesn’t deserve to exist because I don’t add anything of value to the world.

Art is my way of justifying my existence, of convincing everyone that I’m talented, too. I’m not a generic privileged girl who rides on a father’s coattails but a one-in-a-generation artistic genius.

I hate the burden of defending my right to breathe. I hate the self-doubt that sets in when people resent me for having a life they think I don’t deserve.

I hate it when I can’t push the voices down.

So I do the only thing I can. I run from them using a miraculous white powder. Because if I become who they think I am, then they can’t hurt me for trying.

“Francesca?” Gabriele’s voice calls out to me in the depths of my personal hell.

“You’re wrong,” I scream. “About pain making you stronger. You have no idea how unkind people can be on social media since you’re not on social media.”

“How do you know I’m not?”

“Because you are too self-confident.”

The truth is, the moment you realize that you’re resented and hated by people, that they would tear you down without caring for how hard you try, that’s the moment your confidence shatters.

Gabriele offers me an arched eyebrow in response. “Was that a compliment?”

“If it strokes your ego, take it as one.” I lean back, folding my arms and falling silent. This conversation has stirred up everything I wanted to forget.

I’m glad when exhaustion grips my muscles. My eyelids droop. Consciousness fades and flickers like a candle in the wind. I’ve had a long day. My head is woozy.

I can barely tell where we’re headed since I haven’t been looking outside the window. My attention has been focused on Gabriele. I wonder what he’ll do to me. If he’ll hold me captive in a dark dungeon or torture me. Maybe he’ll show me mercy and kill me quickly.

I jerk forward violently in my seat when the car starts to decelerate. What? We’re already there?

I absorb the scene outside the window in panic. It’s a familiar street, lined by familiar trees and familiar buildings.

Gabriele pulls up in front of my family’s Brooklyn townhouse and parallel parks so badly, I feel sorry for the neighbor whose headlights he just smashed. I hope my mom doesn’t have to pay for that.

“How in the world did you get a driving license? You can’t even park properly.” I shake my head in disgust.

“The same way you got yours. Money.” His smile is full of teeth, even in the dark. “And connections.”

I roll my shoulder in a shrug.

The click of the door unlocking startles me, elevating my pulse. His body tilts toward mine. What now? Is he going to hit me? Spit on me? Cut off one of my fingers after making me promise to stay quiet? I read somewhere that the yakuza still do that. I have no idea what the New York Italian mafia does. If possible, I never want to find out.

Blood surges in my head. Every passing moment heightens the tension that’s spun between our bodies like a single, frail thread.

Gabriele tears off my seatbelt. “Hurry home now before your Mama starts missing you.”

“You’re letting me go?” The sudden relief chokes me, making me sputter and cough. “I don’t understand. I thought you were planning to cut me in pieces and throw me into the ocean. But you just dropped me at my front door like a good boyfriend after a date.”

Gabriele grins, bemused. Then points to the other badly parked car on the opposite side of the road. Antonio is glaring at me through the window.

“I’m putting you under surveillance,” he informs me. “You so much as sniff in the direction of the police, Antonio will shoot you.”

I swallow. “So he’ll be my bodyguard from now on?”

“Not bodyguard. Leash. He’ll be your leash. Don’t test me, okay?” He ruffles the hair on top of my head like this is a playful threat. But the tone of his voice leaves no room for doubt. I’ll be dead if I take advantage of his mercy. “Get lost quickly before I change my mind.”

I scramble out of my seat quickly. “Um…thank you. Gabriele. I’d appreciate it if you kept the thing about me doing drugs to yourself.”

“Trust me, I’m not in the business of tipping off the police about wayward heiresses.” He yawns. “But this is an exchange, you understand? I keep quiet about your pastime and you forget what you saw tonight.”

“Okay, I will.”

“Behave yourself, Francesca,” he reminds me. “And we’ll never have to cross paths again.”

I nod, dashing to my front door. Our housekeeper, Ivana, furrows her eyebrows at my sudden arrival after staying out all night but she doesn’t comment on my disheveled appearance and missing coat. Mom must be asleep. The lights are switched off. I pad up the staircase to my room quietly. When I check the street outside through my window, Gabriele’s car is still there. His elbow is planted against the window, chin angled toward my window.

I quickly draw the curtains.

Call it sixth sense or whatever, but I know deep inside that this isn’t the last I’ll see of Gabriele Russo.