Keeping Her: A Dark Romance (Keep Me Series Book 1) Read online

  "Nothing happened, Papa," Adeline says quickly, and I can hear the tremor in her voice. "I swear. I swear on Mama's grave," she whispers, her lower lip trembling as she holds back tears.

  Salvatore stares at her face, studying her, perhaps trying to see if she's lying. Then he releases his tight grip on Adeline's hair and pushes her to the floor. She falls on all fours and stays down like the good little doll he raised her to be.

  He turns to me and holds up a stubby finger. Salvatore is about as wide as he is tall with a huge paunch he carries around with the swagger of a much taller and thinner man. "No more mistakes, Giovanni. My daughter is not some toy to be played with," he barks.

  I almost laugh out loud considering he treats her exactly as such, keeping her up on a shelf and not allowing anyone to look and touch as if she's a prized vintage toy still in the original wrapping.

  Schooling my features, I nod and tell him, "It won't happen again. You have my word."

  Sal grabs Adeline by the arm and hauls her up, his grip no doubt leaving bruises. "I'll deal with you when I get home," he threatens in a low murmur. Then he pushes her towards his awaiting bodyguards, who escort her out the door.

  Salvatore motions for them to leave, so they do, but he decides to stay. He's not done with me yet. We both know I fucked up, and we both know what must happen because of it.

  "Honestly, Sal, she fell asleep and ---."

  But I don't get to finish my sentence before he socks me right in the jaw. I remain standing, though, not giving a fuck whether the stocky Italian before me keeps hitting me. I refuse to fall at his feet like a coward.

  But the second hit never comes. Instead, Sal curls his fat fist in anger and says, "You only have a few months until the wedding. I suggest you keep your dick in your pants until then. I won't have my daughter being a fucking harlot, not fit to wear white when she walks down the aisle."

  "Like I said, Sal…it was innocent."

  He eyes me once more before nodding in satisfaction. "Good, good," he says, standing up straighter and fixing his suit, which got rumpled in the process of him showing everyone who's the boss around here…as if anyone could forget. "I'll see you tomorrow before I leave for Cali."

  "Sure thing, Sal," I tell him, wiping the blood from my busted lip and giving him a final nod.

  I watch the older man leave, and then I lock the door behind him. I'm already second-guessing my decision to sell Adeline to The Big Bad Wolf, but the deal is already done. If all goes according to plan, Salvatore will have no idea what I did, and we'll both be richer after the whole ordeal is over. Adeline will be back in her gilded cage before her father even knew she was missing, and I'll be able to sleep a hell of a lot easier at night knowing I have the funds to keep myself and my boss happy.

  Still, the nagging feeling in my gut doesn't leave me as I toss and turn that night in bed. In the stillness of the night with only the sounds of my heartbeat to keep me company, I think I finally come to terms with what I've done to Adeline, the woman who is to be my wife.

  I fed her right to the wolf.

  And I just may regret that decision for the rest of my life.

  CHAPTER 1

  LUCIEN

  I AWAKE FROM a nightmare, jolting straight up in bed, drenched in sweat. After struggling out of the maze of tangled sheets, I swing my legs over the side of the mattress. Running my hands through my damp hair, I draw in deep, urgent breaths as I try to forget the visceral assault on my senses that just occurred.

  It's the smell that stays with me the longest. It's as if the overwhelming stench of cigarettes, booze, chemicals and cat piss somehow seeped into my lungs, drowning me in my sleep.

  Memories of my horrible childhood come to me almost every night in the form of petrifying, vivid nightmares. And no matter what I do, peaceful sleep always seems to escape me.

  Standing, I make my way to the en-suite bathroom, ready to begin my day even though the clock on the nightstand reads that it's three in the morning. As I walk, my body is coiled with tension, and I just can't seem to shake the nightmare.

  My childhood was something you'd likely hear about on the local news station. I could be one of those people that they invite on daytime talk shows to discuss their horrible pasts and how much suffering they endured as a child. Hell, I'd have enough material for a two-part episode, keeping the audience riveted to their seats and crying in pity.

  But my past was never discovered by talk show hosts or police officers or case workers, for that matter. I knew from a young age that no one was coming to rescue me or save me from my retched life like in all those godforsaken fairytales I read as a young boy.

  No. I had to suffer and endure as best I could until the age of twelve…when everything suddenly changed.

  My savior came in the form of my uncle, my mother's brother, whom I had never met before that day. William visited our single-wide trailer in the middle of the blistering hot summer to tell his sister that their father, my grandfather, had passed.

  I never knew my grandparents. My mother ran away from home when she was seventeen after getting hooked on heroin. Her family never heard from her again, and no one ever knew I even existed. She got knocked up with me at the age of eighteen and never sought the help she most certainly should have from her parents.

  And so after the death of their father several years after their mother, my uncle decided to hire a private investigator to find his long-lost baby sister.

  Imagine the shock on William's face when he saw me, a twelve-year-old boy covered in his own filth and weighing as much as a kid half his age.

  William saw me that day. He actually saw me…instead of looking right through me like I didn't exist and like I had grown accustomed to over the years.

  And then he saved me. Ripped me out of the clutches of that horrible life and brought me into his world.

  And what a world it was.

  My uncle was rich. Beyond rich. And he had things I only ever dreamed of, but never knew existed.

  However, I knew from the moment I stepped foot into the 12,000-square-foot mansion that I didn't belong there…and probably never would.

  I refused to sleep in the king-sized bed that smelled like fresh linen, and instead opted for the closet, never wanting to become too comfortable or letting my guard down.

  I snuck food constantly, so afraid that my next meal would never come and that I would once again feel the excruciating hunger that I used to feel when I was a boy.

  I think at that point I was waiting for the proverbial rug to be pulled out from under me at any given instant.

  And so I waited…and waited…and waited, but my uncle never sent me away. No matter how many times I acted out and no matter how many times I disappointed him.

  Eventually, I began to accept my uncle's help and kindness, along with that of his son's. Jackson, my newly acquired cousin, was the same age as me, but we couldn't have been more opposite. The biggest difference being that Jackson was…normal. And I was anything but.

  I was able to become a chameleon of sorts, however, hiding my obsessive compulsions and blending in to the point of normalcy. It took a lot of practice, but in time, people began to regard me with looks of respect instead of expressions of pity.

  Nothing came easy to me back then or even now, but I wouldn't want it any other way. Every single accomplishment is another fuck you to the nasty whore who brought me into this world.

  And as I glance at my reflection in the bathroom, I regard the man staring back at me in the mirror. The scared little boy I once was is gone now, hidden deep down in the dark recesses of my mind.

  My dark eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, and my chestnut hair is a complete wreck from running my hands through it a few moments ago.

  Letting out a frustrated growl, I turn the water in the shower on as hot as I can stand it before stripping out of my clothes and stepping into the spray.

  Once the scalding hot water cascades down my body, I instantly begin to feel be
tter. Lathering up my hands with an antibacterial soap that smells masculine and clean, I scrub my body for over an hour.

  Showering is like a ritual for me. When I'm in this glass-enclosed safe haven, nothing seems to bother me, and I can just simply focus on the task at hand. It's a very short reprieve in my day from my fucked-up thoughts and neurotic impulses.

  After my very long shower, I dry off, style my hair into a perfect coif and iron my shirt and pants before getting dressed. While I'm buttoning the cuffs of my dress shirt, my phone alerts me to a new email. It's the email I've been waiting for for weeks now.

  A wicked smirk appears on my face as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  My day just got a whole hell of a lot better.

  CHAPTER 2

  ADELINE

  "YOU'RE NOT CONCENTRATING, Adeline."

  The voice of my piano teacher makes me jump, and my fingers stumble over the keys, creating a horrible combination of notes and making him cringe in disgust.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Moreau," I tell the tall, lanky man hovering over me. He's older, in his sixties, and he's trained some of the world's best pianists. When he retired to New York City several years ago, my father hired him to give me lessons; thus, replacing old Mrs. Beaumont, who started teaching me at the tender age of five.

  To say Mr. Moreau is tough to please would be the understatement of the year.

  He watches my every move as I continue with the Chopin composition, his narrowed eyes still projecting his disappointment over my blunder.

  He's absolutely right about me not concentrating, and I inevitably stumble over the keys once more, much to his dismay as well as mine.

  "Stop," he says before sighing exasperatedly and grumbling under his breath as he reaches into his brown, leather bag on a nearby chair. He retrieves a metronome and places it on top of the piano. That's something I haven't had to use since I first learned to play when I was a little girl, when I was starting to learn the harder pieces of music.

  He's clearly trying to embarrass and undermine me.

  And it's working.

  I shift on the hard bench seat and cringe from the shooting pain that rockets up my spine. My back and bottom are covered in bruises from the beating my father gave me when we got home. He used his belt on me the moment we stepped through the front door. I thought when I got up this morning that there would be blood soaking my sheets from the severity of the beating; but, fortunately, he didn't break the skin…this time. I'm just severely bruised from my collarbone to my thighs.

  More bruises to add to the ever-growing collection on my body, I think to myself. It's not the first time my father has beat me for some minor infraction, and it certainly won't be the last.

  The piano teacher sets the metronome to a steady pace and says, "Begin again." And then he adds, "And try to keep the timing this time, Adeline." He says my name as if it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

  The rhythmic clicking threatens to drive me up the wall, but I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. And then I begin the Chopin piece again, keeping in perfect timing just like he asked.

  And that's something I always strive for --- to be perfect. Always.

  My whole entire life I have had people around me always demanding perfection --- my father, my teachers, my tutors, my dance instructors, my father's associates and so on. And I'm always quick not to disappoint and be the epitome of a perfect Italian mafia princess…so that I don't have to endure the consequences of attempting to be average.

  A knock at the door startles me out of my thoughts and breaks my concentration. I end up making a few sour notes on the piano before stopping altogether in frustration and balling my hands into fists on my lap. Mr. Moreau scowls at me and stops the metronome before going to answer the door.

  One of my father's guards peers inside and tells me, "Piano lesson's over. Your father's gettin' ready to leave, and he wants to say goodbye to you before he goes."

  I have to force myself not to roll my eyes. My father doesn't want to tell me goodbye. He wants to tell me not to mess up while he's gone. He wants to enforce his rules, ingrain them inside of my head until I can no longer think about anything else.

  But what he doesn't understand is that he's already done that. He's been doing that my whole life.

  Last night was a mistake. A careless mistake. I have a curfew, albeit a new one since I was never really allowed to leave the house before my father deemed Giovanni Morello a suitable future husband for me.

  Gio and I have been on three dates. Only three. And after a long day on the beach yesterday, I foolishly fell asleep on his couch.

  I'm sure normal twenty-somethings get in a whole hell of a lot more trouble than that, but they have the good fortune of not being under my father's rule.

  In a strange way, the beating was worth it, though, because it meant for at least one night I was actually living outside of this home, which is more like a prison to me.

  Sometimes I think that I'm nothing more than a living, breathing porcelain doll to my father. He takes me from my shelf to show off to his friends, but then I'm returned to the same spot when he's done with me.

  I'm forced to stay in this house under supervision, under lock and key almost twenty-four-seven. My father tells me it's for my own good because of who he is and how many enemies he has, but I'm starting to not believe that any more. I'm not the naïve little girl he raised by himself after my mother died shortly after I was born.

  And the more he lets me out of the house to be with Gio, the more I start realizing that my life is anything but normal, like I once believed it was.

  I bite back any hateful words that want to spit out my mouth and follow the guard downstairs, grateful to at least escape my torturous piano lesson. My father and his entourage are all standing in the giant foyer of the mansion, and all eyes connect with me as I glide down the stairs in seamless form.

  I'm wearing a long, dark gray dress with simple heels, and my hair is styled flawlessly off to the side on one shoulder. I did my makeup a little darker and heavier today in an attempt to hide my swollen eyes from the crying jags I had last night and this morning.

  People tell me I'm beautiful all the time, but my father beat the self-confidence right out of me years ago. I'm never good enough for him no matter how hard I try, and I'm made to constantly feel like I'm failing him.

  And so I always look my best, no matter the occasion, and don a mask of flawlessness in the hopes that one day it will be enough.

  I just want to be enough.

  My father stands proudly, wearing a dark, pinstripe suit, red tie and his signature fedora, looking very much like the mob boss that he is. When he glances at one of his goons, who looks like he wants to eat me alive and is literally starting to drool, he smacks him in the back of his head and mutters, "That's my daughter you're looking at."

  Immediately, all the eyes in the room focus on something else other than me…all of them except one pair of hazel eyes that I never want to stop staring.

  Giovanni is leaning against the wall in a casual dark suit sans tie and with a blank look on his face. When he sees me glance in his direction, though, a crooked grin instantly graces his mouth. And that's when I notice the bruise on his jaw and his cracked lip at the corner. I realize that must have been the punishment he received from my father last night. And it's all my fault. I'm the one who fell asleep on his couch instead of going home in time to meet curfew, but Gio received part of the blame.

  Feeling completely mortified, I stare down at the floor, no longer able to face my future husband.

  My father holds his arms outstretched, and I reluctantly go to him. He crushes me to his chest in a hug, pressing against my bruised back, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out in pain. Tears well in my eyes, and I gently sigh with relief when he finally lets me go.

  My father stares into my eyes and wipes a stray tear away from my cheek. "I'll be back before you know it, Adeline," he tells me, obviously convinced I'
m crying because I'm going to miss him.

  I glance at Gio, who is giving me an empathetic look. I wonder if he knows… It wouldn't surprise me if my father bragged to him about my beating. My father loves to brag about all the horrible stuff he does to me to "put me in my place"…even when he thinks I'm not listening.

  Giovanni steps forward. "Sal, would it be all right to take Adeline to dinner tonight?" he asks suddenly.

  I hold my breath as I wait for the answer. My father will no doubt be angry about the request considering what just happened last night. I wait for him to make a decision, and he takes his time glancing from Gio to me and then back again.

  "That's fine, but I'm sending Bruno and Dario with you. And don't even think about bringing her back here after her curfew this time, Giovanni," he warns.

  Gio nods in compliance and then winks at me once my father's back is turned. I can't help but smile. He certainly has become the only light in my dark, lonely world as of late.

  We watch my father and his men leave, and then it's just Giovanni, me and some other of my father's hired help milling about the mansion.

  Gio gently places a hand on my shoulder. "Did your father hurt you last night?" he asks in a low voice so no one else can hear.

  "Not any more than he usually does," I admit fretfully.

  Giovanni winces at my words. Then he takes my hand and pulls me into the study, closing the door behind us. "Adeline," he starts, but then pauses, his eyes searching the floor as if he's trying to find what he wants to say. When his hazel eyes meet mine, he says, "I know I may have seemed…reluctant when your father first arranged this relationship between us."

  Reluctant is a poor way of putting it. I remember when my father first tried selling him on the idea of marrying his youngest daughter, producing an heir and, consequently, taking over the family business. All three of us were in my father's study, and Giovanni had angrily slammed his fists on the desk, causing me to jump. He outright refused my father's proposal, saying he was too old for me and that he could never see me as anything more than a little girl.