Wicked Angel
Book One
He’s a blood stained monster, but one look at her and he knows … she will be his.
Gaven Belmonte is a cold-hearted killer. A hitman. Now, he’s my jailer.
Even though he’s twice my age, I’m being forced into an arranged marriage to secure Gaven’s position as the next head of the Price Family Syndicate.
Marriage or war?
Pain or Pleasure?
Murder or love?
It doesn’t matter that Gaven makes me burn for him. I’m simply a means to an end, a pawn for him to gain everything he’s ever wanted. Well, I won’t let this be my end. I’ll take back control.
If he wants my hand in marriage, then he’ll have to fight me for it.
For the readers who use trigger warnings as shopping lists.
This one’s for you.
Prologue
Angel
11 years old …
Black cloaked bodies moved in sync as they surrounded my father, my sister, and me—leading the three of us from the limo we’d just stepped out of towards the hill where several more figures dressed in black waited. Dry, slightly cool air slapped me in the face. I turned to look up at the clouds hovering overhead, threatening this already dreary day with more rain. At the sight of more men in black stationed around the cemetery, my insides rolled. Nervous, I reached out for Dad’s hand, pausing when he pulled away.
“Remember the rules, Angel,” Dad said.
As if to prove that she was better, Jackie leaned around his back and scowled at me. “You know better,” she snapped before falling back into place. I bit my lip so hard I swore I could taste blood. She was right, though; I did know better. I’d just hoped that under these circumstances we could be a little different … we could benormal. Apparently not. Even at Mom’s funeral, we weren’t allowed to show affection.
There were so many rules. Where we could eat—never anywhere Dad hadn’t yet approved. What we could wear. Where we could shop—only the best brands and only from certain stores that would allow extra security while we were inside. Who was allowed to pick us up or drop us off at school—never anyone we hadn’t been expressly introduced to before. Who was allowedinthe same school—certain family’s children were never allowed within a certain distance of us. I never understood any of it until this moment.
All those secrets. All those times when I couldn’t understand why we had so much security detail and so many people living in the mansion. It all became clear here. We weren’t a normal family, and we never had been. We were different, and the things my father did … they weren’t good. He had enemies and as his blood, so did we.
My flat, black Mary Janes slid through the dirt of the ice-cold ground. Everything was numb. My eyes were sore and raw from the amount of tears I’d cried. They felt swollen, and whenever I reached up to touch them, it only hurt more. I felt all cried out. I was so drained of tears I wondered if I’d ever be able to cry again. The dark, itchy dress I wore was a stark contrast to my fair skin. My shoes were quickly getting dirty from the light rain misting our faces as we trudged through the cemetery. Mom was being buried today—in the mud and rain and cold wintry air. I could hear the dull thud of raindrops when one of my father’s men opened an umbrella and held it over our heads as we finished making our way up the hill. It only made the sadness I carried weigh heavier, and I felt as though my heart had cracked a little more with each passing moment.
My footsteps slowed as I saw the dozen or so wide-chested men crammed into suits, looking like overstuffed penguins standing around the casket. Dad didn’t look back as he moved forward, and the men that came today reached for him, offeringtheir hands in condolences. I guess the funeral of a beloved mob wife was a pretty big deal. I looked around for somewhere to tuck myself away so I wasn’t in the way but could remain close to Dad and his bodyguards.
“What are you doing?” My sister’s sharp voice startled me, disrupting the quiet in my head. Jacquelina scowled at me as she hovered nearby. Her thin lips tightened with the sharp look, making her face appear even more bird-like than it already did with her slightly larger-than-average nose and the widow’s peak at the top of her forehead. She looked more like our dad with her dark hair and olive skin, but me—I looked like our mom. Softer, rounder, and shorter.
At nearly seventeen, Jackie was almost six years older than me, and other than our similarly shaped eyes—though hers are brown to my hazel—the reality of being related to her seemed near impossible. There were few other similarities, both physically and personality-wise. I had emotions, but she … well, even at her own Mom’s funeral, her makeup was completely untouched, no tears or mascara smeared down her cheeks. It was as if it was just a normal day.
Whereas I’d typically duck my head and apologize for the unseen insult. Today, I was different. I was tired and angry and sad. I found a chair in the first row and sat on the edge before looking up at her expectantly waiting face. “Sitting,” I snapped back.
Jackie’s eyes widened at my tone. She stepped back and folded her arms across her chest. “Touchy much?”
I bit my lip again but didn’t reply. Instead, I turned my gaze to the casket. Closed, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? There’s nobody inside. From what I’d overheard from Dad’s men, Mom’s body had been so badly beaten, it was hardly recognizable. No eleven-year-old should have to hear that, but I had only myself to blame. I’d been eavesdropping near Dad’s office, and whenI wasn’t in their direct line of sight, Dad’s men weren’t all that great at tempering their words.
Swallowing the lump that formed, I tried not to flinch when people moved around and between Jackie and me. My heart felt like it was hammering at a million miles a minute. Sweat collected in my palms even as I tried to squish my fingers into them to stop it. Jackie’s stare continued to bore into me for several moments until she seemed to get bored and finally gave up. I was thankful when she flipped her hair off her shoulder and headed across the space toward our dad. That was just who Jackie was, and it wasn’t like we’d ever been particularly close.
Closing my eyes and resting back against the seat, I sucked in a breath and then slowly released it as I thought about the fact that despite the big mouths of my father’s bodyguards, Jackie was the one who’d told me the truth about how Mom had died.
I’d been crying in my room several days ago when she’d popped inside and leaned against the jamb, watching me with cool, unbothered eyes. It always freaked me out when she did that. Sometimes, Jackie would just show up somewhere, and instead of saying anything at all, she would stare at you. Watch you. Then she’d ask strange questions like, “Does it hurt when you cry?” or “Why do you feel bad about lying?”
