The Italian Dom by N.J. Adel
PROLOGUE
Nicky
TEN MONTHS AGO
How could she be so happy?
The love struck face my eighteen-year-old sister had while she danced with her groom for the first time baffled me.
About a year ago, I’d danced with that man, and I, too, had a smile on my face, only because I thought he was our protector, our savior, a better father than the shitty one we had, not the reason we’d been living in fear for years.
My brother-in-law, my sister’s powerful, wealthy, handsome groom was Don Sebastiano Bellomo. Tino as he liked to be called.
A Mafia boss.
A killer.
A stalker.
A kidnapper.
A psycho monster creep with the face and body of an incredibly sexy, strong, beautiful man—even at forty—that made smart girls turn into brainless love-struck puppets.
To my sister, he was the hero that saved her. From our fucked up dad who liked to touch his own girls. From the miserable destiny awaiting an orphaned twelve-year-old with no family or future. From her ex fiancé—his own psycho fuck son.
To me, he was the thief that brainwashed my sister and stole her from me.
The dim lights brightened as the bride and groom’s first dance ended, and someone announced it was time for the rest of the wedding guests to join on the dance floor.
As mobster couples in glamorous dresses and dashing tuxes—the reception was swarming with Mafia families from every state and from Italy itself—took the floor, a prick that had flirted with me earlier and I’d brushed off approached my table.
What the fuck?
The nineteen-foot asshole with hazel eyes, plump lips and body straining his tux—that looked a lot like Massimo Torricelli only ten years older—had introduced himself as Domenico Lanza. The San Francisco Mafia boss’s cousin.
As if that would have enhanced his chances of getting me to drool all over him and flirt back. He didn’t know I avoided mobsters like the plague. I avoided all men like the plague.
Could you blame me? Every man I’d ever come close to was a monster in disguise.
Domenico put his left hand out, flashing a set of perfect teeth at me. “Shall we dance…Nicky?”
I blinked at the way he drawled my name in the end with his Italian accent. Once. Then I shook it off, rose to my feet and took a step back; I hated that I had to look up to meet his eyes and needed to level with him.
Unlike my sister, who looked like a kid in the arms of her husband and not just because of her age, I was five foot nine and worked my ass off in the gym to have this body. And in heels, I could look this Massimo’s doppelganger in the eye with zero intimidation. “Nope.”
“Nope?” he exclaimed as if he’d never been rejected before.
“Yeah, nope, and one more pass at me—”
“And what?” He interrupted. “What would a little kitten like you do to me?”
Little kitten? Little fucking kitten? I placed a hand on his shoulder, hiding the surge of rage bubbling up inside me under a fake smile. He smirked at my hand, and then at me, giving me a lustful once-over. I leaned in for a whisper, holding my breath so that the sexy as fuck scent of his expensive cologne wouldn’t mess with my head. “The little kitten will do this.”
As my knee clashed against his balls, he bent, muttering a few curses, his chin almost landing on my shoulder. I chuckled, patted his back and sauntered away.