His Fight (Mafia Made Book 4) Read online

  His FIght

  Mafia Made Book 4

  KL Donn

  Copyright © 2022 by KL Donn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design & Formatting by Alluring Write Productions

  Photographer: Lindee Robinson

  Models: Sam & Kyle

  Contents

  Blurb

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1. Amalia

  2. Santi

  3. Santi

  4. Santi

  5. Santi

  6. Amalia

  7. Cage

  8. Santi

  9. Amalia

  10. Santi

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Sneak Peek

  About the Author

  Also by KL Donn

  Blurb

  From USA Today Bestselling Author KL Donn comes the Mafia Made series, featuring novels from Award-Winning Author E.M. Shue.

  Her fight becomes his, and Santi won’t let her go.

  Dishonorably discharged.

  There’s a distinction between honor and betrayal, and my chosen country chose sides. Abandoning me after I gave them everything.

  Back in my homeland, I’m looking for purpose.

  For a sign that everything happens for a reason isn’t just a phrase.

  I need my life to have meaning again.

  And until the early morning hours after a night of drinking, I never thought I’d have it.

  She’s the one thing he never knew he was missing.

  Amalia Russo.

  Fire and rain.

  Bruised and broken.

  She’s trying to escape but prepared to die.

  And my meaning to live.

  In Amalia’s reluctant trust, I find my drive to accept my fate and show her what she could be missing if she gives in to her fear, in to his demands.

  Sicily thinks the Mafia has gone soft, that love has made its men weak. I’m about to show them love is only making us stronger.

  His Fight is a protector to lover’s romance with graphic violence, sexual and domestic abuse, and a bit of sexy voyeurism. Please read with caution.

  Introduction

  Welcome to the USA Today Bestselling Author KL Donn’s Mafia Made world, featuring E.M. Shue with 3 of her own books in the Mafia Made series.

  You can find complete details of the series here: MAFIA MADE WORLD.

  While the books are interconnected, each book in the series can be read as a complete standalone story.

  First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.

  Mahatma Gandhi

  Prologue

  Dear reader,

  I know this isn’t your typical prologue; however, I wanted to be certain you would have immediate access to the content warnings for His Fight.

  If you are familiar with my writing, then you know I write about real-world issues that are, at times, prevalent and, at other times, something that isn’t often dealt with.

  Given the recent events in Uvalde, Texas, I wanted you to know that I wrote the first five chapters of His Fight in June 2021, shortly after His Jailbird released.

  I am not insensitive to the tragedy that has taken place recently. However, there is a scene, short and slightly graphic in detail, about when our hero, Santi Cardarelli, was in the war in the Middle East, where children were harmed. The debate I had with myself to rewrite this scene, despite it being mentioned in Tortured Duchess, which came out prior to the Texas shooting, was a strong one.

  I never want to cause pain to any reader, but removing this scene, and the information associated with it, would not be true to who I am. What happens is what motivates Santi’s character and will be what helps build up Hendrix Adair in his upcoming book, Vengeful Pawn.

  What I can promise you is that there is minimal detail, but it makes the story of Santi and Amalia stronger.

  Thank you.

  All the love,

  KL Donn

  Chapter 1

  Amalia

  Florence, Italy

  Staring at the reflection of the alarm clock on the ceiling, I wait until one minute before it’s set to go off before leaving bed. I have a routine. Every day, it’s the same thing. Same time. Same…everything. There can be no deviance, or consequences will follow.

  5:59 a.m.

  Slipping from beneath the covers, I’m careful not to jostle the bed as I tiptoe into the bathroom. Shutting the door slightly, I face the shower. Just as the alarm goes off, I turn the warm spray of the water on, and like clockwork, as soon as the temperature is even, he walks through the door. Naked as the day he was born.

  I’m the same.

  I know better than to lower my eyes by now. He likes me to look straight ahead. I can’t hide any facial expressions this way. I can also see everything he’s feeling as soon as he walks into the room. Like now, as he stares at my nude form, the blood on my thighs, the bruises on my body, the bite marks on my breasts, he grins. Satisfied with himself for marking me.

  “Perfection,” he murmurs lovingly as he reaches a hand forward, grasping a nipple between two fingers and twisting until I flinch. The backhand quickly follows. I knew it was coming, but I’m never prepared. “One day, you’ll learn.” Bartolo’s grin is gone. In its place is a glare promising more retribution later. “Go make breakfast. Don’t screw it up.”

  Without a word, I wait until he’s enclosed in the glass dome before shuffling out of the room. Slipping on a shirt and pants, I resist the urge to hold a hand to my cheek. With each beat of my heart, it pulses with pain. Copper fills my mouth with the taste of blood.

  From the day we met two years ago and the first slap six months later, I’ve grown victim to his abuse. Bartolo Parisi had been charming with a handsome smile and quickly stole my young, foolish heart. With each backhand, each punch, every tug of hair, he broke me down into a meek woman and isolated me from the few friends I held onto after high school and pushed out my father’s best friend, who treated me like his own daughter from the time of my parents’ demise when I was sixteen. My father was never a very clever man; he broke too many laws. Schemed one too many times, and his life, along with my mother’s, was the price to bear when he couldn’t pay back a loan shark.

  I lived with Uncle Tomaso after their passing for two years, and then I met Bartolo. I was smitten and combative with anyone that told me he was bad news. Since becoming separated from everyone, I’ve had very little courage to try and gain freedom. The few times, early on, that I made an attempt, he beat me until I couldn’t move and was solely dependent upon him for everything. Now I’m obedient. I do as I’m told, when I’m told.

  I’ve learned how he likes things done. What’s expected of me as he works during the day. And beyond all else, dinner must be served as soon as he walks in the door. The outcome if I fail his daily checklist isn’t pleasant, and I do my best not to think about it.

  Placing a hot plate of eggs, sausages, croissants, and coffee on the table as he enters the kitchen, I offer a smile as he sits and inspects his food. A subtle nod is all I get, indicating I can retrieve my own breakfast now. Dry toast and a small glass of milk. He doesn’t like it when I put on weight, so I don’t eat nearly as much as I should, and more often than not, I feel the effects from my lack of nutrition.

  “I’ll be home late tonight. There’s a meeting at the firm I can’t miss. I’ll call when I’m on my way.” He looks up from his seat to e
nsure I’m listening. I nod and offer another smile, wishing he would stay out all night. Maybe if he were gone for longer than a few hours, I’d gain the courage to leave. “You need to run to the market today?”

  I stand straighter at his question. “Yes. We’re nearly out of milk, eggs, the bars you like. I made a list.” Picking it up, I wait for him to hold out a hand before placing it on his palm.

  Perusing the list, he offers it back before reaching into his pocket for his wallet and handing me a credit card that’s used for just this purpose. “Make sure you keep the receipt.” There’s a warning in his eyes as my fingers touch the plastic.

  “I will. If they don’t have something I need, I’ll take it off the list.” I once dared go to another store when the local one was out of eggs. I suffered broken fingers after he took a hammer to one hand.

  Finished with his breakfast, Bartolo leans over to kiss me on the cheek he slapped earlier and exits without another word. I take my first easy breath as I hear his car backing out of the driveway.

  With practiced motions, I clean up the minimal mess left over from breakfast before rushing upstairs to have a shower of my own. I watch as the blood from his version of loving—a fresh branding on my thigh—washes down the drain, and I see the multitude of scars on my thighs and lower stomach from where he drags the knife across my body every time he takes me. Then it hits me. Like a sucker punch, the breath is stolen from my lungs.

  He’s going to kill me.

  If I don’t leave now, he will end my life, and I’ll never experience a moment without fear.

  After quickly washing, I clear my thoughts and allow my body and instincts to take over. I need to set myself free, and the only way to do that is to quiet my mind. Packing the essentials and a few keepsakes, I grab my purse, phone, and keys and head out to the car. Backing out of the driveway, memory leads me to a familiar home.

  Uncle Tomaso has been the only family I’ve had since my parents died, and I wish so desperately that I hadn’t allowed Bartolo to cut me off from him. Parking the car in front of his house, I allow myself a moment of panic as I think on what I’m about to do.

  A knock at the window makes me jump and scream until I see the friendly face with concern in his dark blue eyes. Opening the door, Uncle Tom pulls me into a bruising hug while whispering, “You’re finally ready,” in my ear.

  The tears flow freely as I nod my head.

  “Good. Go inside. I’ll hide the car and put your things into your old one.” When I moved in with him, the first thing he did was buy me a car. Bartolo hated it and refused to allow me to bring it when I moved in with him. I’m grateful for that now.

  Waiting inside the front door, Tomaso slips in and, without any fanfare, explains, “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.” Turning to the table in the hall, he opens a drawer, hands me a pouch and the car keys. “This is enough money for a few months. The car is in working order, and I want you to go to Palermo.”

  “Sicily?” That’s not what I was expecting.

  “Yes. The Cardarelli family is there. Maso and Donato own a private investigator business. They help people in trouble. The other one, in the American military, Santi, he’s working with them now too. They will help you or die trying.” Tom’s eyes are wild as he explains this to me.

  “I don’t understand. Why can’t I just stay here with you?” It’s not as though Bartolo and I share a child or are married. I owe him nothing.

  “Because here is the first place Bartolo will look for you. You must go now. Do you have a cell phone? Any jewelry he gave you that he insists you wear all the time?” Nodding, I hand him the phone and a bracelet Bart got me when I moved in with him.

  “I’ll keep these. Here’s a new phone.” He hands me an old flip phone from the drawer. “My number and the Cardarelli’s are the only ones in there.”

  “You’ve been planning this?” I’m stunned at how prepared he is.

  “From the first moment he hit you. And looks as though I was right to.” He gives me a somber smile before pulling me in for another hug.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.” I can’t hide the pain in my voice as tears silently fall.

  “Nonsense. You’re here now, and we’re getting you out. That’s all that matters.” I wish I could believe him. “Leave now; don’t stop driving until you reach the ferry. Eat and rest there, then drive again until you’re with the Cardarelli’s. No using anything but the cash I gave you. Call me when you get there, and we’ll figure out times to chat later.”

  I nod vigorously, unprepared for the help I’m receiving. “Thank you, Uncle Tomaso. I love you so much.”

  Kissing me on the forehead, he pushes me out the door, where I begin the journey he’s laid out for me.

  Santi

  Palermo, Sicily

  Enraged and bitter, I chug back another shot of grappa, enjoying the smoothness of the gold liquid as it slides down my throat. Staring down at my discharge papers, I still haven’t decided how I feel. Being dishonorably discharged because of my family’s return to Sicily and their ties to the Morellos wasn’t something I thought would happen. When I learned my brothers were returning home, I had planned to stay in the states until my enlistment was over.

  Two years into that, and here I am.

  All my demanding work means nothing now. The lives I saved while serving my country are tainted. The missions were nothing. My Ranger family was livid when they discovered what was being done to me, but I faked disinterest by letting them know I could help more people working with my brothers than the restrictions the Army put on us.

  Staring at the setting sun over the ocean in the backyard of my family’s Palermo home, I’m trying to convince myself of the same thing. After my youngest brother, Domino, and his new wife Nicola, moved to Catania to be closer to the Morellos, I moved into the family home. It’s the only place I feel like I belong anymore.

  With Maso and Donato on a trip to Greece, our parents visiting in Catania, and Pace god only knows where, I’m alone in a home I should have grown up in. Life in America hadn’t been all bad, and if not for the danger in Italy all those years ago, we would have been here instead of only visiting for summer vacations. I don’t fault my parents for keeping us away; they did what had to be done. They always have.

  Now that Sicily is back under the control of the Morello family, I hear it’s safer than ever. The mafia is no longer a feared organization under the rule of an old regime. Natale and his father, Carlo Morello, have seen to that. New schools are being built where needed, and orphanages are no longer a place where children are forgotten. There’s a tranquility to our island that has been missing for centuries.

  As the sky darkens and the sun makes its final descent over the ocean, I head inside. Tossing my bottle in the recycling or risk our housekeeper Esme’s wrath, I pick up the remote for the sound system off the counter and hit shuffle. Music plays throughout the house as I begin locking up and cleaning my mess in the dining room.

  When I first received my papers, I had planned to fight the discharge. I contacted a lawyer and did the research, but now, after the last week alone, I’ve finally realized I’m done fighting for a cause I’m not even sure I believe in anymore.

  I will continue to help people along with my family, even on my own, but not for the purpose of a country to lord over their control. I won’t participate in pitting countrymen against each other any further. Now, I can pick and choose who I help and how. I have more means and opportunities to do so than ever before.

  Grabbing a bottled water from the fridge, I listen to the notes of music drift around me as I slump down on the couch in the den and lean my head back as I take a chug of cold liquid. Closing my eyes, I relax into the cushions and allow myself to release the stress from the last few months and drift off into a fitful night of sleep. Unprepared for the memories that assault me.

  “Hendrix, down!” I scream as I watch one of my best friends dive behind a barrel as bullets
penetrate the air he was occupying just seconds ago.

  “We gonna take these motherfuckers down or what?” he curses through the line. Hendrix Adair is a big bastard who moves like a man half his size.

  “You ready?” I glance over as I arm and aim my AK at the Taliban trying to infiltrate a village they’ve ravaged over and over. With little protection from the enemies, the women here have lost far more than they deserve after watching their husbands, fathers, sons, and other male relatives either be crushed by the Taliban or be recruited at an age so young they don’t have a choice.

  “Born ready, Cardarelli.” I can hear the smirk in his tone. “The count of three.” Holding up his fingers, we move together without thought and pop up and fire.

  Ten seconds.

  Three breaths.

  And the gunfire is over.

  Ten seconds.

  Ten children.

  Bloodied, bullet-ridden, dead.

  In three breaths, we killed nearly a dozen young boys with AKs in their hands.

  Initially, when we took cover, it was grown men firing at us. They ran, knowing we wouldn’t give up, and they left innocent boys to get slaughtered, knowing we would defend this village with everything we had.

  “What have we done?” Hendrix’s cracked voice as he drops to his knees at the side of a boy who couldn’t be more than twelve has me questioning every choice we made here tonight.

  Ten seconds.