Rotten Girl (A Rotten Love Duet Book 1) Read online

  By

  Ivy Fox

  Copyright

  Rotten Girl – Rotten Love Duet Copyright © 2019 Ivy Fox

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of all word marks, products, brands, TV shows, movies, music, bands and celebrities mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Editing by Heather Clark

  Cover image, formatting, and edit courtesy of:

  X-Factory Designs

  For more information, visit:

  Ivy Fox - Facebook

  Ivy Fox - Official Website

  ISBN: 9781796751703

  Dedication

  To the women who made this book a possibility:

  Heather Clark

  Courtney Dunham

  Victoria Schaefer

  Amy Naylor

  Briana Michaels

  I’d be lost without your loving support, hard-work, and guidance.

  Thank you for your friendship.

  I will treasure it always.

  Caution

  Dear Reader,

  Although I feel this book does not fall under the dark romance category, and more under suspense—as it is a mafia based book—there are some elements to it, such as violent scenarios and abusive behavior, where more sensitive readers might feel uncomfortable.

  Therefore, I thought it best to bring to light that Rotten Girl may contain scenes, where impressionable audiences may struggle with its content.

  This book, in its whole, is still very much a love story, however unconventional it may be, so if you’re still on the fence, read reviews, and get feedback before giving it a go.

  I truly hope you enjoy this Rotten Love Story.

  Sincerely,

  Ivy

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Caution

  Table of Contents

  Glossary

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Ivy Fox Novels

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Glossary of Terms and Definitions

  Amore — Love.

  Bambinos — Children.

  Bastardo (plural bastardi) — Bastard.

  Bella — Beautiful.

  Bratva (Russian organized crime or Russian mafia) — A collective of various organized crime elements originating in the former Soviet Union.

  Capo (short for caporegime or capodecina) — Rank used in the Mafia for a made member of the crime family who heads a “crew” of soldiers and has major social status and influence in the organization. Caporegime is an Italian word, which is used to signify the head of a family in Sicily, but has now come to mean a ranking member, similar to captain or senior sergeant in a military unit. In general, the term indicates the head of a branch of an organized crime syndicate who commands a crew of soldiers and reports directly to the Don (Boss) or an Underboss or Streetboss.

  Capo dei capi — Captain of captains.

  Cara mia — My dear.

  Cazzo — Dick.

  Ciao — Bye.

  Commilitoni — Fellow soldiers; brothers-in-arms.

  Consigliere — A position within the leadership structure of the Sicilian, Calabrian, and American Mafia. He is an advisor or counselor to the boss, with the additional responsibility of representing the boss in important meetings both within the boss’ crime family and with other crime families. The consigliere is a close, trusted friend, and confidant—the mob’s version of an elder statesman. He is an advisor to the boss in a Mafia crime family and sometimes is his right-hand man. By the very nature of the job, a consigliere is one of the few in the family who can argue with the boss and is often tasked with challenging the boss when needed, to ensure subsequent plans are foolproof.

  Consorte – Husband or wife, consort, spouse.

  Cugina, cugino (plural cugine) — Cousin.

  Famiglia — Family.

  Figlia — Daughter.

  Goomahs (Italian-American slang) — The mistress of a Mafioso.

  Idioti — Idiots.

  Joie-de-vivre — A keen or buoyant enjoyment of life.

  Made Man — In the American Mafia and Sicilian Mafia, a made man is a fully initiated member of the Mafia. To become “made”, an associate first has to be sponsored by another made man. An inductee will be required to take the oath of Omertà, the mafia code of silence. After the induction ceremony, the associate becomes a “made man” and holds the rank of soldier in the Mafia hierarchy.

  Mafioso — A member of the Mafia.

  Mammà — Mom.

  Mastrolindo (Italian slang) — A big, bald guy.

  The Outfit (also known as The Chicago Outfit, the Chicago Mafia, the Chicago Mob, the South Side Gang, or The Organization) — Italian-American organized crime syndicate based in Chicago, Illinois, which dates back to the 1910s. It is part of the American Mafia originating in Chicago’s South Side.

  Papà — Dad.

  (Il) Porco — The pig, swine, or hog.

  Principessa (plural principesse) — Princess.

  Pronto — Ready.

  Rosa — Rose.

  Sposo, sposa — Husband, wife.

  Soldato (plural soldati) — Soldier, which is the first official level of both the American Mafia and the Sicilian Mafia in the formal Mafia hierarchy or cadre. The promotion to the rank of soldier is an elevation in the chain of command from the associate level. The associate must prove himself to the family and take the oath of Omertà.

  Tesoro mio — My treasure.

  Ti amo cosi tanto, tu sei la mia vita — I love you so much, you are my life.

  PROLOGUE

  Selene

  All my life I haven’t lost sight of who I truly am because they are with me.

  Not an easy feat, since the life that surrounds us all can distort our own self-perception. It can make any image in the mirror unfocused and destitute, offering an ugly, imperfect reflection, only enhancing flaws and inadequacies, tarnishing any beauty or innocence.

  You wouldn’t think that if you were on the outside looking in, though.

  To the untrained eye, I have everything a girl could wish for.

  I am the only daughter of one of Chicago’s most successful restaurant entrepreneurs and was dubbed one of the wealthiest young heiresses in the making, right from birth, predestined to lead a life most young women only dream abo
ut.

  I’m supposed to be living a fantasy—a real-life fairy tale.

  And in most fairy tales, when the story involves a beautiful princess, you assume her life is full of enchantment and magic. But not all princesses share this same lot in life.

  In the real world, my world, being a principessa holds a very different meaning, and wearing a crown means being pricked by thorns every second of every day. Knowing you are not free to choose your destiny, and that your life is in the hands of those more powerful than you. The crown on my head is not a symbol of entitlement and good fortune, but a prison sentence where powerful made men hold the key to the locked shackles which incarcerate me to this life.

  My privileged existence is one big fabricated lie.

  I do not have the world at my feet; quite the contrary—I have chains binding me to a fate I do not want or care for.

  We may have fancy clothes, cars, and houses, but still, the brass iron cuffs tether me to a future worse than death. One I can’t outrun, and that I am expected to accept willingly, wearing a graceful smile for all to bear witness to, even if inside my soul rots in disgust and anguish.

  My only saving grace is the rebellious boys of my youth. The only ones who give me comfort and hope that I may one day escape my misfortune and lead a free life, filled with love and kindness, even if hidden within four walls inside their embrace.

  But with so many lies and deceits polluting my reality, clinging to the frail ribbons of hope might be the worst deception of all. Because just like me, they too have their future already foretold and none of us can escape what our birthright has already put in motion.

  You see, they are destined for greatness, too. Each one preordained to follow in the footsteps of their predecessors, but taught and trained to aim higher. An ugly, cruel life filled with nothing but bloodshed and vengeance is all that awaits them. Yet, in our world, only the worthy are entitled to such a damned existence and deem it as a reward.

  However, much like me, my unruly boys wish for a simpler way of being, where our only concern is the happiness we can provide each other. Their only thought is the preservation of the love we all share, with my name eternally engraved in their hearts.

  If this was a true bedtime story, in my fairy tale the principessa would be able to choose and love her misbehaving heroes till the end of her days, and they, in turn, would cherish her with every breath they had.

  But I know exactly who I am—a princess without the possibility of a happily ever after.

  Love is a foreign concept to which the cards I’ve been dealt do not hold, and it would be foolish to give hope to such credence.

  In my world, love is a weakness that can kill and maim the very object of your affection.

  Loving them will be our downfall in the end, and I for one refuse to watch it die a slow, painful death.

  Yes.

  I know exactly who I am.

  A rotten girl bound to a rotten life.

  ONE

  Selene

  Twelve years old

  I fidget in my seat, thankful that Papà isn’t in the large living room to see how restless I am. He wouldn’t appreciate my anxiety, and no doubt would punish me the minute we got home, with his all-too-familiar slap to the cheek or worse—his trusty belt.

  But as much as I try to act the well-behaved young lady he expects me to be, these social gatherings always make me jumpy. I should be accustomed to them by now; every month or so, Papà is invited to these events and, as such, it would look improper if the consigliere of the Chicago Outfit didn’t make an attendance with his wife and daughter trailing behind. Especially if said event is being held by Salvatore ‘Big Sal’ Romano himself—Papà’s boss and the head of the syndicate. He is probably the only man alive my father respects and fears.

  Sitting quietly in my corner seat, I’ve been able to attest that he’s not the only one—every guest tonight has greeted Big Sal with the same trepidation in their spine. I for one don’t understand how anyone could be uneasy around such a jolly-go-lucky man. He’s always welcomed me with a smile on his face and given me hard candy that he keeps in his pockets. His larger-than-life laugh and red cheeks always remind me of Santa Claus—if Santa was a big bald Italian who only wore the best-tailored suits—and he lets me come play with Vincent whenever Papà is away on business. Still, whenever I hear someone say Big Sal’s name, it’s always with a hint of dread as well as esteem in their voice.

  I don’t know why they don’t use the same tone for Papà, though. He’s the one they should be frightened of. Mammà and I sure are.

  “Selene? Do you want another piece of cake, piccolina?” my mother asks me, leaning down to my eye level.

  Mammà looks like an angel tonight, with her floor-length, cream-colored dress. While my red hair is in loose curls down to my shoulders, hers is carefully styled in a French bun. She looks majestic even while crouching down, placing her soft hands on my knees, and ending my nerves, if only for a little bit.

  “No, Mammà. I’m not hungry,” I reply, offering her my first genuine smile since we arrived here.

  “Hmm. My little principessa is bored, am I right?” she teases, softly giving me a nudge on the tip of my nose with her finger. I scrunch my nose and lips, and lower my eyes to my feet.

  “I’m sorry, Mammà, but these grownup parties are never any fun,” I answer truthfully, hoping my honesty doesn’t disappoint her as much as it would my father.

  “Do you want to know a secret, piccolina? I don’t think they’re too much fun either.” She grins brightly, warming my heart with her tender smile.

  She stands up and looks around the loud, crowded room, filled with people dressed to the nines, engaged in the latest gossip of whatever faux pas happened recently. Mammà gives me a discreet wink and takes my hand, walking us out of the busy room toward the patio overlooking the lush green yard in the back of the mansion.

  I immediately see Giovanni and Dominic goofing off by the large stone fountain. I let out a small giggle as Gio runs away with a clip-on bowtie in his hand behind his back, which must belong to Dom by the way his face is turning all shades of red in his fury. My restless feet start to hop from one foot to the other when Mammà places her finger to her lips as if we’re about to share a secret before she opens the patio door.

  “Your father is going to be busy for an hour or so, which means he won’t be checking on you anytime soon. If you promise to be good, to neither get in any trouble nor dirty up your dress, I don’t see the harm in you having a bit of fun with your friends,” she explains in a hushed breath.

  I clasp my arms around her waist, ecstatic that I no longer have to stay at the stuffy party, and thrilled to be able to enjoy myself with my best friends this evening, even if just for a short period.

  “Thank you, Mammà,” I gush out, feeling my whole body alight with joyous energy. I hear my mother chuckle at my glee, and she gives me a quick kiss on my forehead.

  “Go and play with your friends, figlia, but be back in thirty minutes just in case your father returns sooner than expected,” she warns in a low tone.

  I nod in understanding, promising to be back on time without fail, since I wouldn’t be the only one punished by my father if he found out Mammà had let me leave the party without his consent. Although I doubt my mother is able to escape his wrath tonight either way. Every time we come to the Romano house, Papà always seems to find an excuse to hurt Mammà when we return home. He’s always adamant that both of us should act as proper Italian ladies, but somehow, we always fall short of his expectations. Mammà is the epitome of elegance and poise, yet in social gatherings like these, Papà is never happy with how she behaves, always finding fault in the littlest of things. Of course, even when there is nothing he can point the finger at, he still has me and my restlessness as his backup reason to ensure my mother’s discipline by his hand before the night’s end.

  I bite my inner cheek, not wanting to think of s
uch things, and instead focus on the half hour reprieve Mammà gave me. I run out to where Gio and Dom were a minute ago, but don’t see them anywhere. The only people still on the patio are four men dressed in suits, smoking cigars and barely talking to one another. I pass them by, and one of them gives me a little wave, while the others ignore me completely, just like the men at my house in similar garb and armament do.

  I run past the fountain as best I can without dirtying up my ballet flats too much and see the tip of Dom’s dirty blond head walking further into the forest to the side of the house. Mammà didn’t say anything about not leaving the patio, but I hope wherever my friends are going isn’t too far, especially since the sun is setting and soon it’ll be too dark to see our way back. The Romano estate is ludicrously massive, and anyone could easily get lost if they don’t know their way around it—which I don’t.

  I only have two options.

  Either run after my friends before I lose sight of them completely or walk back to the party defeated and endure another tedious evening of cheek pinching when my presence is acknowledged, followed swiftly by the inevitable low whispers of adult talk, utterly disregarding my existence altogether.

  “Dom! Gio! Wait up,” I yell, holding the tulle dress up from around my shaky knees as I speed up my pursuit

  “Jesus, Selene, you scared the fuck out of me! Just what do you think you’re doing?” Dom yells back, stopping in his tracks the minute he hears my voice.

  “Don’t curse, Dominic. I know you think it makes you sound cool, but it only makes you sound like a big, ignorant gorilla,” I scold, but my smile is too wide for him to take me seriously.

  “Yeah, yeah. Still didn’t answer my question, though. What are you doing out of the house?”

  “Following you guys, of course,” I reply with a patronizing grin at Dom’s obvious question.

  I add a little snicker when I see he still doesn’t have the bowtie Gio stole from him. Dom is big for a thirteen-year-old, making most boys his age—and maybe even older—think twice before messing with him. But although Gio is my age and much shorter than Dom, he’s still quick on his feet and never one to miss an opportunity to play tricks on any one of us, without exception. Tonight, Dom seems to have had his fill of Gio’s roguish pranks.