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

“You stink.” Mom turns her nose up at me. I’m slumped on my bed, zoning out, my mind obsessing over my lack of progress as usual. “Take a shower.”

When she pulls the curtains apart, bright sunshine spears into my cold skin. It crawls over the expanse of my messy room, exposing the proof of my decay: credit cards and dollar bills strewn on my desk beside a faint dusting of white powder traces leftover from yesterday. Rubbing my eyes, I hobble to my feet, hoping to distract my mother.

I shouldn’t have bothered. Mom’s unsuspecting, too busy adjusting her pearl necklace to pay attention to the evidence staring at her. She’s a good mother, but she thinks she knows me. That’s why she ignores the signs. In her mind, her daughter is a good girl who loves art, has nice friends, and is happy and fulfilled.

Sometimes, I wish I could be that person.

“It’s afternoon already?” I mumble. Why does it feel like I fell asleep only minutes ago?

“Francesca, dear, what are you doing? The charity gala for the Marini Foundation is today. You have two hours to get into your dress on put on makeup.”

A groan wells up in my stomach.

I briefly consider feigning sickness. But I don’t want to spend the entire day staring at bleak nothingness. Today’s Sunday so I didn’t even have to go to college. Which means I haven’t seen Gabriele, either. When I looked out of the window earlier, his usual black Mercedes wasn’t there.

“Sorry.” I rub my nose, trying to catch any stray powder before Mom notices. “My thesis has been intense this semester.”

Mom runs her fingers lovingly over my hair. “You’re so dedicated. But remember to take care of yourself, too. Want to go to the spa tomorrow?”

“Nope.” I tumble into my bathroom, groggy.

These days, I only scare myself by looking in the mirror. The person I’m transforming into isn’t something I can handle.

By the time I’ve slipped into a designer dress and covered every crack in my façade with a thick foundation, I almost look like the daughter my mom believes she has.

My heels tap against the marble floor as I drift through a parade of gorgeous dresses and tailored suits. Champagne flutes on silver trays are carried past me by crisply dressed servers. Shiny hair glints beneath soft lights, the smell of money and perfume wreathing the air. The charity gala is for nonprofits fighting blindness. It’s filled with the who’s who of New York high society.

Mom located her friends among the guests and started chatting with them as soon as we entered, leaving me to wander as I please.

My older brother Ethan haunts the periphery of my vision, looking handsome and deadly as usual. Clad in a black suit that seduces with its sophistication, he stands out of the crowd with his height and powerful physique. His girlfriend Ella is not by his side tonight. Ella hates social events and I can’t blame her for it. They suck.

“Francesca.” His dry, humorless voice curls around the base of my neck like a dark vise. “I thought you’d moved to another continent without telling any of us.”

One of Ethan’s most unnerving qualities is that nothing escapes him. I thought he didn’t notice me, but apparently he did.

“Sorry.” I duck under my brother’s friendly pat, avoiding him. “I’ve been busy with assignments.”

Ethan exhales, a long line forming between his brows. He’s nonverbally calling me out on my bullshit. As I said, he’s perceptive. But I’m stubborn, too. I don’t budge. “The commission I received has been so taxing. Plus, there’s the spring thesis.”

“Wasn’t the commission six months ago?”

“Great art takes time.” My fingers tighten around each other. I can feel how clammy my skin has gotten despite the cool air circulating inside. Lying used to come so naturally to me. Just like art. Now both feel impossible.

“Elliot’s not here?” I ask, craning my neck over the crowd looking for my other brother.

“He’s at work.” Ethan shrugs.

Elliot has become more reclusive than a hermit ever since he started working for Sharma Ventures, a venture capital firm headquartered in the financial district. Boy, his boss must be a slave driver because he doesn’t even have time to call his family anymore.

Not that I’ve tried calling him, either.

Warmth flickers in Ethan’s dark eyes. Elliot and I have blue eyes like our mother, but Ethan is from Dad’s first marriage so he had darker features.

“Ella misses you.” His voice is laced with gentle concern. “She’s lonely. You guys used to be inseparable.”

“Shouldn’t you be keeping her company if she’s lonely?” I ask.

“It’s different,” he says. “You’re her friend.”

The sliver of affection in his voice is a sign of how much he has changed compared to six months ago. Before he met Ella, Ethan used to be such a cold-hearted prick that he didn’t think friendship meant anything. But look at him now. He has broadened his horizons.

I’m happy I played matchmaker. It was my lie about going to London that made them both travel to the UK. And they ended up spending time together, which led to feelings blossoming between them.

Like I said, I used to be a Grade-A liar in the past.

“I’ll try,” I dish out, noncommittal before a man in a gray suit shows up to demand Ethan’s attention and rescues me from being grilled by my brother.

I clamber to the garden outside the venue which is also decorated for the charity event. Breathing in large gulps of air, I try to return to my equilibrium. Except there is no balanced center inside me. There hasn’t been in a long time.

Even the freezing air can’t rescue me from me. I knead my temples, looking around until I spot a familiar form—that of my ex-boyfriend. I swivel immediately, hoping to escape. Unfortunately, his gaze latches onto me before I can move.

“Francesca!” The last person I wanted to see tonight sashays up to me, his blonde curls bouncing like bed springs. On paper, Mason Turner is attractive. He has the clean-cut good-boy looks that no mother could find fault with. Including my own, who has been encouraging me to get engaged to him.

But I don’t like men with no hard edges, no imperfections, no depth. No darkness.

Nothing calls out to me like danger and ruin.

And the most dangerous thing about Mason Turner is his low IQ.

“You’ve been MIA, Francesca.” His voice is dripping with accusation. My stomach tightens in defensiveness. “What’s wrong with you?”

I evade when he tries to touch me. “I was busy painting.”

“That again?”

“We broke up. Why are you even calling me?”

“Because I miss you.” He slides his foot between my feet. Crowds my space. His head tilts down, hot breath swooshing over my cheeks. “We were so good together, Francesca. The perfect couple. We both come from the same world. We can have a future together. Don’t you see it?”

“I don’t care about your money or your family name. Besides, I’m more interested in being an acclaimed painter than getting engaged at twenty-one. So excuse me if I don’t see the appeal in your offer.”

“Do you have to be so stubborn?” His arm snakes around my waist.

“Yes.” I elbow him in an attempt to assert my space. “I told you I’m serious about being an artist. What about it is so hard to understand?”

His features crumple in exasperation. A sigh heaves out of him, depressing his chest. “It’s not easy to make it in a competitive field like that, Francesca. Being a struggling painter might seem romantic now, but what do you even know about real struggle? You’ve been pampered by your parents all your life. People like us should simply stay where we belong.”

“I belong in…” My throat closes up as the chorus in my head rises.

Liar. 

Impostor. 

Worthless.

You don’t belong in the world of art.

You don’t belong anywhere.

Despair pounds against the walls of my chest. Who am I lying to? Mason? Or myself?

I feel like vomiting when I look at the canvas nowadays. Violent churning starts up in my stomach, the sickness traveling all the way up to my head, pricking my skull with a headache.

Is he right? Am I deluding myself by thinking I can do this forever? Will I eventually get exhausted by the struggle of forcing myself to commit my emotions to the canvas?

If I’m being honest, art has me feeling drained most days. No matter how hard I try, I can’t come up with anything worthy of being called a masterpiece.

There’s nothing beautiful left inside me anymore. No visions or dreams worth turning into art. Nothing but emptiness and the obsessive desire to be recognized. I was so greedy for fame, for success. But am I ready to pay the price for it?

People’s expectations are drowning me. No matter what I do, I hear the voices of my professors and critics in my head insisting I need to be better—more shocking, more magnificent, more than a twenty-one-year-old girl trying to figure herself out. I must show people the ultimate fantasy on canvas, one that will take their breaths away. Something so grand, my mind can’t even imagine what it would look like.

“Whatever you say.” Mason drags an impatient hand through his hair. “Will you at least come to dinner with my parents next Friday? It’s been two weeks. Haven’t you had enough of your tantrum?”

I should kick him in the balls. I have explained to him enough times in simple English that we broke up but he simply refuses to listen. He’s the type of entitled guy who has been spoiled so much, he thinks everybody secretly wants to marry him.

His finger meets the curve of my neck. He caresses my throat, trailing his fingertip all the way up to my lips. “You always had the most beautiful lips. I can’t forget how they feel against mine.”

A moment of weakness pulls me under. I should back away. Spit on his face.

But I suddenly remember why I started dating Mason even though he’s shallow, self-absorbed, and dim-witted.

He’s a great kisser. Great at convincing me I’ll be just fine if I give up on my dreams. He makes me forget how hollow and ugly the parts of me I can’t bear to face are. My tortured mind longs to sink into the dream he paints with his voice, the one where I’m perfect, we’re perfect, and everything is perfect.

“Get away from her,” a deep, wild voice shatters my dream.

My blood, flesh, and heart all freeze at the same time. the whole world crashes around my ears when a large, male form tracks past me to slam a hand down Mason’s shoulder.

I see him in pieces. The navy suit. The big, rough hands. Tan skin. A hint of ink peeks from under the crisp white collar of his shirt.

The lump in my throat expands like a cancerous tumor.

No way. Gabriele Russo is here.

He’s looking all polished in his suit with his hair tamed. What the hell is a gangster doing at a charity event?

Mason clamps his teeth, grabbing Gabriele’s arm. I spot the vein popping in the mobster’s forehead, sensing the violence that catches in the air like the first spark of fire.

Damn. No. 

“Leave,” Gabriele orders him. “And I don’t want to see you bothering her again. Understood?”

A curl falls over Mason’s squinting eyes. “Who are you to butt in between my girlfriend and me?”

“Someone you should be afraid of.”

“Francesca—”

“Mason, don’t,” I warn. “He’s dangerous. And he’s right—we broke up. You shouldn’t be pestering me. I’m not your girlfriend.”

With a mask of self-righteousness, I bury my moment of weakness, the shameful awareness that I was about to kiss a guy who has never respected my goals and dreams. All because I’m too weak to endure the self-defeating thoughts inside my head. They exhaust me. And when I’m drained, I turn to escapism. And if I can’t escape through drugs or alcohol, I’ll take it through any means possible.

Sometimes, I’m scared of myself. Of how low I can fall without realizing I’m falling.

“Fine.” Mason huffs, staring down at Gabriele. The mobster is unfazed. “But I’m telling Mother that we’re not getting engaged. You can forget about being part of my family now.”

“I never wanted to be part of your family,” I say. “I don’t know where you got that idea.”

Pride snuffed, Mason flares his nostrils.

Gabriele releases his grip on my ex. “Go now. And don’t look back.”

Mason has the sense to do as he’s told. He takes off. Once his silhouette vanishes from sight, Gabriele glares at me. I begin walking ahead without a word. He opens the door to the main hall for me like he’s a gentleman. All the while, his eyes pin me with a glare that is borderline threatening.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic. He was my ex. We were only having one of our usual arguments.”

My fingers are coated in sweat. I hope Gabriele didn’t notice how I almost leaned in for a kiss with Mason. I mean, there’s no reason I should care about what he thinks. But I do. I can’t explain. I don’t want him to think I’m pathetic.

“No need to explain. I was listening,” he says.

“Why am I not surprised? Eavesdropping and stalking are your hobbies.” I rub my thumb against the strap of my black satin mini-dress. “Why’re you at a charity gala anyway?”

“To meet someone.”

“Who?”

“None of your business.”

Despite having guided me back safely to the crowd, Gabriele stands in front of me like a wall, not budging despite my best eye roll.

“Are you going to stand here all night?” I ask.

“If I want to.”

“How about what I want?”

“It’s my body, my feet, and they listen to only me.” His breath is like a gust of wind as it blows over my face. “Unlike you, I have great control over my body.”

“What do you mean?”

Gabriele’s dark eyebrows form a V. “Are you so desperate for a kiss that you’d kiss that slimeball?”

Shit. He saw it. And now he’s going to hold it over me. I like when we banter. It’s fun and it takes my mind off darker thoughts. But tonight, I just want…warmth. Not electricity. Not verbal sparks. Not mental stimulation. Just the heat of another human to assure me I’m still needed, wanted, and desired, despite how terrible I am at art.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I move away, but Gabriele moves with me. Looks like he has decided to play Stalker tonight.

 I sigh the longest sigh ever.

“What are you thinking now, Francesca?” His gruff, seductive voice shoots into my blood as if he injected it.

I spear him with my meanest glance. “That I wish I hadn’t come here.”

“What would you have done at home? Drugs?” His opaque, dark gaze is making me feel claustrophobic. How does he know so much about me when he has only known me for a week? Has he been paying so much attention to me? Why does that warm my heart? “Alcohol? Would you have slept alone? Cried? Painted?”

All of it. I’d have done all of it.

“Guess you wouldn’t have painted, since you can’t,” he corrects himself.

Liar. 

You have no talent. 

No future. 

Nothing. 

Gabriele retreats and the space between us suddenly floods me with even more anxiety. The itch to get closer to him is as intense as the need for oxygen.

“Don’t make fun of someone else’s pain,” I retort.

I grab his jacket sleeve to push him out of my way, but he seizes my hands. Even though his touch only lasts a minute—before he puts distance between us—I feel the imprint of his roughness against mine like a brand.

Lust licks over my skin. I must have lost it after my professor said my thesis painting wasn’t up to par on Friday. Maybe my anxiety is flaring again and I need something mindless to turn my attention away from the clawing thoughts inside my head. That’s why I almost let Mason kiss me. A distraction is all I need to bury the acidic downpour of self-criticism pelting my brain.

And the biggest distraction of the century is standing right under my nose, wearing a suit and promising me something dangerous with his silence.

Gabriele smells like a moonless night. Heat inflames my senses.

How long has it been since I felt something other than fear, anxiety, and numbness?

Forever. 

“Well, can you make yourself useful and get me a glass of wine at least?” I’m not sure why I say that.

“Do I look like a server?” Gabriele rolls one eyebrow up, folding his arms over his chest.

“Why did I even bother asking?”

Not like I’m incapable.

I wander over to the bar where a cute female bartender pours me a vintage pinot grigio. I try to talk to her, but there are too many people demanding her attention. Defeated, I scurry back, careful to avoid attention from my family.

Ethan’s busy talking to some guy and with the back of his head to me, it’s easy to slip by unnoticed. I scan the swarm of people for Mom. She’s still happily nestled in a small group with her old friends. I suppose most of them are talking to her again. The hotels announced profits this quarter again and the types who only care about money and prestige probably realize that the Astor family isn’t going to be reduced to poverty by a small scandal.

I debate returning to the spot where Gabriele is standing like a statue made of marble. I shouldn’t go near him. But at the same time, I want to. I have no friends here and I can’t cling to Ethan without inviting more uncomfortable questions. Eventually, he’ll crack me open and I’ll spill my secrets. I can’t have that.

So I crawl right back to Gabriele. Funny how he’s the only one here who knows about my addictions and demons, even though we’re simply captor and captive.

He scrutinizes me wordlessly, studying my wineglass. “Sorry, didn’t get one for you,” I smirk.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“What, you don’t drink?”

“Not tonight.”

“You’re here for a job?” That could be the only possible reason he wants to remain sober. “Who are you going to kill? Who’s your target? Please say it’s not my brother.”

The mobster stays silent. He only talks when he wants to. Too bad I need him to talk now. I could use some pointless banter.

My mind is eating away at my self-confidence.

Being a struggling painter might seem romantic now, but what do you even know about real struggle? You’ve been pampered by your parents all your life. People like us should simply stay where we belong.

Mason’s words haunt my heart. I don’t know where I belong. I don’t feel at home with other old-money kids. I’m different from them. But I’m not like my classmates at NYU, either. Maybe I’m just a freak.

I’m getting a headache from overthinking, so I mindlessly reach for another class of wine, hoping to numb my brain altogether. I want silence, not this endless conflict, this endless fear that I’m not good enough to do the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.

When I drain the second wineglass and charge for the third, Gabriele wrenches my arm back.

My ears ring with the sound of his terse command. “Stop.”

“Huh?” I slur. “What’re you doing?”

“You’ve had enough. If you continue, you’ll faint and I’ll have to carry you out over my shoulder.”

Curse him. Why did that visual he painted right now seem so hot? Even though it shouldn’t. Damn, the alcohol was a bad idea after all. It has made me forget that Gabriele is someone I should fear, not someone I should want.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I yell.

His eyes narrow into slits, magnifying the shadows inside his black pupils. “Escaping what you don’t like won’t make it disappear, Francesca.”

With one statement, he turns me inside out, exposing the festering, grotesque feelings I avoid with intoxicants.

My pulse jumps in my wrist. “I’m not scared.”

“You are.” Gabriele’s voice turns into a hard rasp. A ripple of unease rolls down my spine. “Not of me, though. Of yourself.”

I bristle at his confidence. “What gives you the authority to say that? Do you have a Ph.D. in psychology?”

“Snap all you want. But you’re only digging your grave deeper.”

“Excuse me?” I hiss.

“You’ve bullshitted everyone and yourself so much, you’re scared it’s all going to unravel someday. Then you’ll have to face the truth.”

His words crowd my chest, clawing at the barrier I’ve erected to protect my sanity. Stealing my shield away piece by piece.

I haven’t moved an inch from my spot, but I’m breathless when I say, “What’s the truth, Gabriele?”

That one split second of silence, before he answers, perforates my skin like a needle. Anxiety blooms under my skin before he even opens his mouth.

“The truth is that there’s no light without darkness. No growth without suffering.” Gabriele’s mouth squeezes into a thin, malevolent line. “And no art without self-doubt.”

Though I’m shaken to my core, I manage to retain my bravado. Years of training. He can’t take that away from me. “Didn’t ask for a philosophy lesson, Professor.”

“Wasn’t giving you one.”

Yet, he has stripped me naked with his words.

Seen through my lies.

Scratched every bruise.

Stabbed at my greatest weakness.

Goosebumps flare on my skin.

As the corrosive, hollowing sensation builds in my bones, my face immediately whips in the direction of the wine. I am powerless against the heavy emotions that well up in the bottom of my heart. I take the only escape route I know. My legs direct me toward the alcohol like a GPS pointing to its destination.

Something heavy wraps around my midsection. Gabriele pulls me back, his physical strength an inescapable force.

“Don’t do it,” he warns. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume that the gangster was actually concerned for me. That seeing me struggling in my studio must have made him care.

I shake my head violently, curls slapping his face. “There’s no other way.”

I wish there was. Something less dangerous. Less destructive.

He doesn’t release his tight grip on me. Not even when I make an effort to pull away from him.

Thick tension envelops us. His sideways glance settles on my skin like the edge of a knife, threatening to cut away the last link I have to sensibility. A complex game of strategy is unfolding inside his head; I can sense it.

He sighs.

Then opens his mouth and fucks up my brain with one simple sentence.

“Ride my fingers, Francesca.”

Fire roars inside me, obliterating the years of cold, dead nothing. I’ve always craved mindless excitement. It’s why I abuse drugs. But this is more than a thrill. It’s dangerous. Seductive.

And it’s calling my name.

The knowledge that Gabriele could wound me, hurt me, only sharpens the edge of my desire.

“You can’t be serious.” Someone help me. Even my collarbones are hot at the thought of this sexy tattooed mobster touching me so who am I kidding?

Gabriele sees through my flimsy argument instantly.

He plants a hand on my hips, thumb probing the swell of my ass through the thin material of my dress. “If you want to forget, I’ll help you.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.”

Perfume and sweat collide in the air between us. My nipples pebble into hard, aching points, poking through my satin dress, begging for his touch.

He scans my obvious arousal through narrowed eyes.

Taking a step back, he holds his outstretched hand in front of me. “Come on.”

It’s clear what he’s offering.

Not comfort.

Not compassion.

Not even a guaranteed good time.

But a way out of the loneliness and self-doubt that chews me up from the inside.

A momentary break from the incessant worries in my head.

I take it.