Undressed By The Mafia God novel Chapter 16

Chapter 16: They Took The Wrong One

Commissioned grounds glowed. Floodlights illuminated the long driveway leading into the estate, where black cars rolled in. Money arrived quietly. Power arrived louder.

Marco stood at the entrance, overseeing the arrival of VIP guests.

His phone buzzed.

Scalese.

Marco stared at the screen. He had half a mind not to answer. Maybe the bastard had changed his mind.

Marco sighed and picked up anyway. "Yes?"

"Marco!" Vito’s voice boomed through the phone, so loud Marco instinctively pulled it away from his ear.

"What do you want?" Marco muttered.

"They took the wrong one! Oh my God," Vito continued, spiraling, "Luciano is going to kill me!"

Marco pinched the bridge of his nose. "What are you talking about?" he snapped, already dreading the answer.

"The men that came to the house," Vito babbled. "They took the wrong girl. I just found Valentina sneaking out of the house right now!"

Marco simply stared at nothing.

"Shit," he growled. He ended the call and broke into a run.

Commissioned blurred as he tore through it. His shoes pounded through the underground entrance as he burst into Luca’s office without knocking.

Luca was seated across from Bastardi, a glass of whiskey untouched at Luca’s elbow.

"Have you gone mad?!" Luca thundered the instant he saw Marco.

"Boss," Marco said, breathless, "we have a problem."

Luca’s eyes flicked to Bastardi, then back to Marco. "What is it?"

"Bastardi’s men," Marco said. "They took the wrong Scalese daughter."

Luca turned slowly toward Bastardi. "What have you done?"

"What the fuck do you mean what have I done?" he snapped. "I sent my men over there exactly as you instructed. The girl was waiting. All dressed up. Heels, thongs, everything. Little thing over her face like a goddamn costume party."

Luca swore under his breath.

Veronica.

"You fool," Luca growled. "She left with them willingly?"

Bastardi nodded. "Of course."

Luca stared at him, disbelief flashing hot and bright. "How many girls," he asked slowly, "have you ever sold that went with you willingly?"

Bastardi opened his mouth, then paused. He shifted in his chair, irritation blooming. "Well," he said, shrugging, "I wasn’t there."

"Shit. Stop the auction."

"I cannot. It has begun."

Luca stepped forward, fury radiating off him in waves. "Bastardi, stop the auction or I swear to God I will kill you right here, right now."

Bastardi rose slowly to his feet, meeting Luca’s glare. "Bring it on," he said. "I cannot. And whatever you decide right now, it better be wise or our deal is off the table."

The man eyed him suspiciously. Luca did not look like what he was. No tattoos creeping up his neck. No gold chains. No theatrical menace. He looked like someone who belonged in a lecture hall or a hospital corridor.

Still, the man answered. Commissioned security was legendary. That was the comfort people paid for. "Just one so far," he said. "They got her up there not long ago."

Luca exhaled slowly.

He took a seat in the shadows, forcing his body still while his mind ran feral. Women were brought out one after the other. Some young, some older. Some trembling, some eerily calm. Each introduction came with rehearsed words meant to sanitize horror. Education. Temperament. Background. Desirability.

Luca’s stomach twisted.

He had ordered men dead for less than what was happening openly in front of him.

Then the announcer’s voice changed. Smoothed. Lowered.

"And now," the man purred, "a rare offering. Eighteen years old. Untouched. A virgin."

Luca sat up .

The crowd stirred. Interest sharpened.

She walked out slowly.

Veronica.

Her wrists were cuffed together. Her head was bowed, hair cascading forward, but Luca would have known her anywhere. He knew the way she carried herself. Spine straight. Shoulders back. Even now. Especially now.

The crowd erupted at the mention of her virginity, a collective frenzy. Men shouted numbers, paddles waving, voices straining over one another, each trying to outbid the other.

Luca’s brain short-circuited. He had only ever seen Veronica in a pizza polo shirt, her jeans rolled up at the ankle, hair messy, and yet here she was—breathtaking, standing center stage, a defiance in her stance that made him feel furious.