Devil in a Suit: A Dark Mafia Romance (De Maggio Mafia Duet Book 1) Read online

  Devil in a Suit

  De Maggio Mafia Duet (Book One)

  Nicole Fox

  Copyright © 2020 by Nicole Fox

  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.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Mailing List

  Also by Nicole Fox

  Devil in a Suit

  1. Hazel

  2. Carlo

  3. Hazel

  4. Carlo

  5. Hazel

  6. Carlo

  7. Hazel

  8. Carlo

  9. Hazel

  10. Hazel

  11. Carlo

  12. Hazel

  13. Carlo

  14. Hazel

  15. Carlo

  16. Hazel

  17. Hazel

  18. Carlo

  19. Hazel

  20. Carlo

  21. Hazel

  22. Carlo

  23. Hazel

  24. Hazel

  25. Carlo

  26. Hazel

  27. Carlo

  28. Carlo

  29. Hazel

  30. Hazel

  31. Carlo

  32. Hazel

  33. Carlo

  34. Carlo

  35. Hazel

  36. Carlo

  Epilogue

  Sneak Preview (Broken Vows)

  Also by Nicole Fox

  Mailing List

  Mailing List

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  Also by Nicole Fox

  De Maggio Mafia Duet

  Devil in a Suit (Book 1)

  Devil at the Altar (Book 2)

  Kornilov Bratva Duet

  Married to the Don (Book 1)

  Til Death Do Us Part (Book 2)

  Volkov Bratva

  Broken Vows (Book 1)

  Broken Hope (Book 2)

  Broken Sins (standalone)

  Heirs to the Bratva Empire

  *Can be read in any order

  Kostya

  Maksim

  Andrei

  Tsezar Bratva

  Nightfall (Book 1)

  Daybreak (Book 2)

  Russian Crime Brotherhood

  *Can be read in any order

  Owned by the Mob Boss

  Unprotected with the Mob Boss

  Knocked Up by the Mob Boss

  Sold to the Mob Boss

  Stolen by the Mob Boss

  Trapped with the Mob Boss

  Other Standalones

  Vin: A Mafia Romance

  Box Sets

  Bratva Mob Bosses (Russian Crime Brotherhood Books 1-6)

  Tsezar Bratva (Tsezar Bratva Duet Books 1-2)

  Devil in a Suit

  I’ll keep her safe from everything… except myself.

  I’m a billionaire mob boss with a thirst for power.

  She’s a broken girl fleeing from a past she can’t escape.

  We were never meant to be.

  But fate wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  A one-night-stand lit the fire.

  An unexpected baby turned it into an inferno.

  Now, we’re both trapped by the flames.

  Trapped in this dance.

  Trapped in the darkness.

  She says she’s not afraid of me.

  But the more she learns, the more she realizes…

  She should be.

  1

  Hazel

  I’m sitting behind the teacher’s desk in my dingy little classroom, trying not to think about my past. But that’s the funny thing about it. The more I try, the harder it becomes.

  All too soon, I’m thrown back there. Like a gut punch, I feel it. Hard. And all I want to do is run away. All I ever wanted to do was run away. I succeeded, didn’t I? But if that’s the case, why can’t I shake these thoughts?

  In my mind’s eye, I see a little girl—naïve, stupid. It’s me, back when my nightmares first really started in earnest. I hate the way that I cried as I ran through the house. I hate the fear in my eyes. I hate the way I screamed as I scrambled like a fleeing rodent under the bed.

  Then I hear it.

  The rumbling of my father’s voice.

  He’s drunk, that bastard. That two-faced, hot-and-cold, Jekyll-and-Hyde bastard. For years, I was terrified that whatever craziness was in him was in me, too.

  Maybe it is, just a little.

  I’ve spent years pretending it’s not. But lately, I’m less certain than ever.

  In this memory, he wants to hit me. The alcohol always made his fists swing. But before he can find me, before he can let loose, my big brother lies and tells that snarling, heaving animal that I went out the back door.

  That was before my brother became just as bad. Maybe the craziness was in him, too. Maybe even worse. Or maybe—

  I’m jolted from my reverie by the arrival of my first student. Lucille is a Mexican woman with sass for days and hair that sits on top of her head like a halo.

  “You up in the clouds, girl,” she tuts.

  I can only nod and smile sheepishly. She’s caught me red-handed. “I’m up in the clouds.”

  “No good up there.” She shakes her head.

  I think she senses something off about me, which is not good at all. I’m supposed to be a regular woman living a regular life. Introducing: Hazel Conway, anonymous twenty-four-year-old and woefully underpaid teacher of an English-as-a-second-language class for adults at the local recreation center.

  That sounds so innocent and simple. I wish things were what they seemed.

  “Down here better,” she says sagely.

  “It is better down here,” I correct, taking on my instructor’s voice.

  She echoes me, chuckling. Her laugh is infectious. More students arrive behind her, some of them taking cookies from the little table at the front. I spent all last night baking, losing myself in the process. Life is simpler when I’m cooking.

  I shake my head to clear the thoughts and get started with teaching the class.

  Lucille, Max, Johnny, and Sofiya sit at the front. Max and Johnny are Korean twins who have refused to give me their real names, just laughing and telling me I’d never in a million years be able to pronounce them. They are black-haired and brown-eyed and move with eerie similarity, like they’re each other’s shadows. Sofiya is a Ukrainian girl who sits quietly and takes diligent notes.

  At the back is where the troublemakers sit, just like in high school. I guess some things never change.

  In my case, the troublemakers are four Italians wearing sharp suits and sharper expressions, without an ounce of desire to be here. They smack loudly on the cookies I made. Their leader, a vending machine of a man with a flat face and flinty eyes, starts dealing a hand of poker.

  I ignore them and keep teaching.

  They have done the same thing the last two sessions, just generally being pains in the ass. I’ve managed to get them in line a couple of times, but I sense that there’s something shady about them. I’ve got a good radar for that. Too good. So I’m wary about overstepping. I know what men like that are like. They could blow up this new life I’m trying to build for myself.

  Focus, I warn myself silently.

  “I love sook
er,” Johnny says.

  “Soccer, honey,” Lucille corrects, giggling.

  “Sooker!” Max echoes. Both of the brothers laugh.

  At the rear of the class, another Italian stands up. He’s tall and very, very thin, with combed-over gray-brown hair and a vague scar over his left eye. He looks worn-out. He keeps his hand near his hip, like there’s a gun there. I know that little nervous tic. I’ve seen it too many times. It’s like he’s expecting an attack.

  Sometimes he’ll walk in and out of the classroom—which is exactly what he does right now, not even bothering to look at me on his way out the door.

  I bite my tongue. Don’t make a fuss. Keep your head down. That’s the whole point of this fresh, shiny new life.

  But then one of the hard-eyed Italians lights up a cigar, grinning like he’s daring me to say something, anything.

  Consider the camel’s back well and truly broken.

  He thinks I won’t say anything. He probably believes my patience is never-ending.

  Wrong on both counts.

  The cigar smoke billows under the fluorescent lights. Sofiya, who has had a cough recently, throws a pained glance towards the back. She won’t say anything; she’s too nice.

  But I’m not. Before I know it, I march over there and stab my finger in his face.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap. “Why are you even here if you don’t want to learn? This is a no-smoking building. Just because you want to give yourself cancer, doesn’t mean we all need to go down with you. Put it out or get out.”

  He blinks at me, pretending not to understand. But I know for damn sure that he comprehends far more than he’s letting on.

  He mutters something to his pals in Italian. They all laugh. Behind me, I hear a chair scrape. I don’t have to look back to know that it’s Lucille, readying herself for war. It’s nice to know that she has my back, but right now, it’s not necessary. I’ve got this.

  “Out,” I snarl. “Now.”

  The thin man walks back into the class just then. He glances at us, chest-to-chest like wrestlers in a grudge match. His eyes narrow instantly. “What is going on here?” he demands.

  I throw my hands up. “Look, I haven’t said anything for the past two weeks, but this is getting ridiculous. He can’t smoke in here. And they need to stop disrupting the class. If they can’t focus, fine, go somewhere else. But I’ve got students here who actually want to learn.”

  The vending-machine man dispenses more drawled Italian. More laughter from his pals ensues. Lucille is at my shoulder now.

  “The fuck you say, pendejo?” Lucille aims her blood-red fingernails, freshly manicured, at him. They’re like weapons. I wouldn’t want them pointed at me. “If you think you got cojones, spit in English. I’ll make you my lapdog.” She flounders for the words, but I’m quite proud. It seems like anger makes her articulate. “Lick my boot, you will, motherfucker.”

  Absurdly, I hear the last in Yoda’s voice: “Lick my boot, you will …”

  “Bitch,” the Italian growls. “Mexican bitch.”

  “The fuck you—”

  The thin man steps forward as Lucille makes to leap at him and the Italian jumps to his feet. More hands stray towards more hips. It’s more of an instinct, I think—at least, I hope; I pray. They’re not really going to start shooting, are they?

  I feel myself go cold in anticipation of violence, the way I have many times before. My skin pricks. The air seems thinner.

  “Okay, okay.” The thin man steps between us. “There is no need for this. I understand that he has crossed a line, Miss Conway. I also understand that you need some order in your class. Believe it or not, they are learning.”

  I swallow a moment of surprise at the perfect, unaccented English flowing flawlessly from his lips, but I choose to take his support instead of asking why the hell he’s in an ESOL class if he already speaks the freaking language.

  “I don’t believe it,” I tell him. “Nor do I care. I just want them to stop being disruptive. That’s all.”

  The thin man waves a hand at the smoker. He barks something in Italian and, immediately, the man stubs out the cigar. But he takes a vicious pleasure in grinding it into one of my cookies and then tossing both into the trash. Trying to, at least. His aim isn’t as good as his ability to annoy me. They bounce and end up on the floor.

  “Pick that up!” I snap.

  The thin man shakes his head. “Don’t push your luck,” he mutters. “I think it’s best if you get back to your instruction.”

  I stare at them for a long time. A few violent thoughts go through my head, including a vivid image of stiletto heels coming into kissing contact with arrogant Italian balls. But in the end, I know I’ve been backed into a corner. Time to take my minor moral victory and go home.

  “If he lights up again,” I say, “I’ll shove it so far up his ass his liver will get lung cancer.”

  Lucille snickers and even Sofiya laughs. I make a mental note to start incorporating more humor into my lesson plans.

  I get back to my teaching, but the whole time I feel the Italian’s eyes on me. His beady eyes don’t fit in his face properly. They go back and forth as I walk around the front of class, never leaving me. I get the uneasy feeling that something bad is going to happen.

  Which, unfortunately, is a feeling I am all too familiar with.

  “You let me know if you want me to orchestrate that pendejo,” Lucille says with plenty of finger wagging.

  We are standing outside the rec center, the sun long gone now. The parking lot is pitch-dark in its absence, since several of the street lamps are broken. Johnny, Max, and Sofiya have already left, but the Italians are taking their sweet time. The thin man is ushering them into a black minivan like they’re headed out on a field trip, almost invisible in the night.

  “Orchestrate?” I ask, confused.

  She makes a snip-snip motion with her fingers by way of explanation.

  “Oh, castrate.”

  “Cut his balls off,” she says. “That clear enough? You want me to stay?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Too tough for your own good,” Lucille tuts, giving me a hug. “See you next week.”

  She struts away and I return to the rec center, winding my way through back to the classroom. I normally hang around for a little while to prepare for the next class. If I’m feeling particularly charged up, I’ll sometimes sketch a little. But tonight, I just want to get my things and go home. I throw my handbag strap over my shoulder, lock the door behind me, and head back towards the lobby to leave.

  No such luck.

  He’s waiting for me in front of the glass double doors—Mr. Lung Cancer, with a nasty gleam in his eye.

  “Rude lady,” he says, clearly trying hard to find the words. “Slut lady.”

  I reach slowly for my purse, which contains my pepper spray. I think, not for the first time, that I need to get a gun. Nothing drastic; a small caliber, something for defense. He sees me reaching for the flap of the bag and he waggles an eyebrow at me knowingly. He expects me to open it, and he wants me to know that he knows what I’m trying to do.

  So I do the exact opposite. I stride to the left, shove open the side door, and walk out into the night. That jerk can wait in there until the sun rises for all I care.

  “Rude lady,” I hear from behind me. He moves way too quickly for an ogre. In a flash, I’m somehow backed up against the exterior wall of the building, his bulk a shield I can’t get past. Thankfully, he’s not touching me. Yet. “Teach some respect.”

  I assess my options: a knee to the gonads, spit in his eye, rake his cheek with my fingernails. All viable, but I need to make sure it’s effective enough so that I can duck and run. And he looks intent.

  “Women need respect,” he goes on, sounding like a sexist caveman. Tarzan love Jane. Jane grovel for Tarzan. “I teach.”

  “No, what you’ll do is back the fuck off before I make you re
gret it,” I hiss. Miraculously, I sound calm. “I mean it. Back. Off.”

  Over his shoulder, I see a limo pull up. Wait, a limo? The sight is so strange in this rundown part of town that for a second, everything seems to stop. Mr. Lung Cancer glances at it. Something in him changes, melts.

  Who is in there?

  The back door swings open. The man who steps out and strides over to us is jaw-droppingly handsome. Over six feet, muscled, his thick arms filling out his steel-gray suit. Even in the low light, I can make out the glinting blue-green of his eyes, sharp and intelligent.

  As he exchanges words with the thin, scarred man, he barely glances at him. He stands like a man used to being in control. The only thing that moves is his hand, a tiny twitch in his fingers, as though he’s strumming an invisible guitar. He’s clean-shaven, with slightly smirking lips. A proud sneer in the set of his jaw. He must be thirty, maybe a little older.

  I turn away from him, a little unnerved by how flustered I’ve gotten. This is not the time to be swooning over good-looking strangers.

  “You have five seconds,” I tell the big Italian, “or I’m going to make you regret it.”