Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)
Wicked Fame: Chapter 1

I open my eyes to an unfamiliar blackness for the third time that week.

Something glistens at the edge of my vision—a dark stream of water with the bright glow of street lamps licking its shiny surface.

I sit up on a hard surface. A slow realization dawns on me as I make sense of my surroundings. I passed out on a bench this time.

Unprotected. Alone. Stoned. Anyone could’ve done anything to me. Yet, when I pat down my coat, my wallet’s still there. As is the rest of me.

It doesn’t fill me with any relief to know that I’m okay. Instead, my ribs close around frustration and emptiness. Fear and hopelessness and a thousand strange voices telling me I’m a mess are eating up the inside of my brain. My stomach wails in hunger.

The high wore off. Damnit. Now I’m squarely back in hell.

With a groan, I swing to my feet and check my phone. Mom didn’t call. I must’ve lied to her and said I was staying over at Ella’s.

Stories are so much easier to create than art. Sometimes, I wish I’d become a writer instead of an artist. Maybe then I’d be less broken.

“Are you okay?” My neck snaps to the left at the newly-materialized voice, burning a trail of pain behind my eyes down to the base of my spine.

Blurry splotches of a woman’s face thread into the black void of my vision. She’s shorter than me but beautiful—even if the beauty is hidden under shadows and scars and eyes gone cold with despair. Her teeth are chattering, which is no surprise given that it’s January. Now that I think about it, the jacket she has wrapped around her petite frame isn’t warm enough for this icy weather. As my gaze moves further down, it snags on her socks. They have a hole in them and she’s wearing slippers, not shoes.

My shoulders slump in sympathy for this stranger.

A homeless person. That’d explain what she’s doing here late at night.

“I’m sorry for hogging your bench,” I mutter, swaying on my feet. I can’t even stand still or I’ll faint. I really need to cut back on the alcohol. “Is this where you usually sleep?”

The brown-haired woman wipes her wet cheeks. A tiny sob infiltrates my ears. I didn’t realize she was crying. I was so lost in my inner drama as usual that I forgot to be sensitive to the people around me. Sure, I didn’t know the bench belonged to someone else and I needed it at the time. Thanks to that, I’ve killed half her night’s sleep.

“Really, I’m sorry,” I say, wondering if she won’t die sleeping out in the cold. It’s not snowing today, but the temperature is low enough to numb my fingertips.

The lady shakes her head. “Don’t worry.”

“You’re shivering,” I note from the way she has her arms wrapped around her torso. The tip of her nose is red. “Take this.”

Shrugging out of the $7000 woolen armor wrapped around me like a warm blanket, I settle it over her shoulders. Mom bought it for me when I bagged the commission to paint two pieces to be installed in the brand-new luxury residential development Hudson 241. It has been six months since then and I haven’t produced a single artwork. Guilt cracks inside my veins.

And just like that, the blackness that I’ve held at bay all night cuts my head open once more.

Liar.

Worthless.

Impostor.

I bite down on my lip, my jaw trembling in anticipation of the worst.

“I can’t take something so valuable.” The homeless woman’s voice saves me from getting sucked into the vortex in my head. She fingers the luxurious material that I draped on her and swallows, every crease on her skin giving away her desire. A silvery glint flickers in the depths of her dark brown eyes. “It’s freezing tonight. What will you do if you give this to me?”

“I’m immune to the cold. You can keep it.” I rub the exposed flesh of my palms. The stranger notices the goosebumps peppering my skin, but she must be desperate because she slips into my coat anyway.

She deserves it more than me. I can buy another one with the money I have. Or I could freeze to death, ending my short and miserable life. Either way is fine.

“Thank you. You’re so kind,” she says as she buttons the coat. It reaches all the way to her ankles. “By the way, I’ve never seen you around before. What are you doing here?”

“Don’t know.” I rub my temples in frustration. I’m made of nothing but ache and hangover right now. Not one coherent thought buzzes inside my useless head. “Where exactly is this place?”

“Howard Beach.”

I’m in Queens?

Anxiety crowds my chest. Memories come roaring to explain the disorientation that hangs like a veil over my senses.

The club. Booze. Then the shady guys I got drugs from. After that, I was so high, I raced through the streets before deciding to ride on the subway. Can’t remember which train I took, though. I walked for miles when I got out at the last stop because I had so much energy and needed to let off steam. The vague recollection of seeing a few nice houses on my path hits me. I also recall collapsing on the bench. Long story short, I ended up at my present location, which is a place I’ve never visited. And I’ve lived in NYC for all twenty-one years of my life.

“Howard Beach?” A groan wells up in my throat. “Isn’t that, like, a bad area? They say the mafia still operates there.”

The woman sniffles. “Yeah, there are rumors like that. But I’m here with you.”

Why do her words fill me with concern rather than reassurance? She didn’t deny anything. I must be hyperaware because of the adrenaline still lingering in my system.

The danger is licking the back of my neck. It’s late at night; I’m in an unsafe place. But there’s no need to panic. All I have to do is order myself a Lyft ride and I’ll be out in the blink of an eye. I clutch my phone, flicking my finger over the screen hunting for that familiar icon.

Another sniffle breaks my concentration.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you crying?”

She presses a hand over her hair, flattening the strands. “It’s the cold.”

“You can come with me,” I offer. Her fragility calls out to something in me. “My house is pretty big.”

Confusion ripples through her features. Shaking her head, she points at a house in the distance, one that’s similar to all the other well-maintained, ranch-style homes surrounding it. Lights peek through the upper windows.

“I live there.” Her quiet voice is spiked with warmth.

Surprise steals a breath from me. “I thought you were homeless.”

“I might be soon. But for now, I still have a place to go to.” She coughs out a hollow laugh.

Before I can ask her for an explanation, the shrill whiz of a crash ripples through the frosty air. It came from the house. The woman charges toward her home and I follow her without thinking. My phone dangles in my grip, and the Lyft app opens without a destination. My teeth carve a swollen line on my lips, sawing back and forth.

Intuition tells me that the woman is in danger. Therefore, I can’t leave her alone. Never mind that I might be in danger, too, if I stick my nose into her affairs. The last trace of the drug haze from earlier is pumping courage through my veins. I arrive outside the yellow-painted house before my companion.

Three black cars are parked outside. Badly parked, I may add, like the drivers don’t care about anybody else on the street. Moonlight illuminates the silver metallic logo on the front.

Mercedes Benz.

I curl my fingers. Those are expensive.

“Why were you walking around alone if you live here?” The question squeezes through my breathless voice. “And what was that noise?”

The most likely scenarios flash through my mind: domestic violence, robbery.

“I can’t go home right now.” Her chest swells under the layers of clothing. A single tear slides down her cheek. “I’m scared.”

Her thin form trembles. I wrap my arms around her, hating how useless I feel just watching her be miserable. Despite being a black hole of angst, I can’t stand seeing other people unhappy. All my instincts scream at me to do something.

“What are you afraid of?” I whisper.

“Them,” she answers.

“Who are they?”

The thud of her front door slamming open has the two of us breaking apart. Her face goes pale as a ghost as three dark figures spill out of her doorstep, all wearing black suits. Confusion spurts in my mind as the images slot together. One of the men in suits has a man’s body thrown over his shoulders.

“Luca…my husband…” A breathless cry leaves the woman’s lips as she crumbles to her knees on the dirty road.

It takes me a beat to realize that she’s talking about the unconscious man thrown over the shoulder who is now being tossed into the trunk of a car.

Realization clinks against my skull. He’s dead. Or he’s going to be. This is not domestic violence or robbery. This is a kidnapping.

Luca’s body, lying motionless in the trunk of the car, catches a stray beam from the streetlight. Something red is on his face. Blood.

An invisible dark hand squeezes my lungs. Unconscious knowledge licks the inside of my brain like a reptile in the night.

Not a kidnapping. Something worse.

The woman presses a hand to my knee, nudging me in the opposite direction. “You should leave. It has nothing to do with you. Get out of here quickly.”

My fingers scratch the screen of my phone. Should I call the police, my brother Ethan, or a Lyft ride? What’s the better option in this situation? “I can’t leave you. Come with me—”

The dizziness that has my blood in its grip intensifies. The drugs are still tripping through my system, pumping me with artificial highs and lows. My heartbeat trips. Awareness prickles in every nerve. The sound of keys turning in the ignition of a car rents the air.

Two men are still planted in front of her house. One of them has a scar running along his left cheek. His face is lined, wrinkled, and worn. He’s carrying a gun that is casually pointed at Luca. The other one’s taller, and leaner, and though his face bears no marks, the very cut of his jaw looks threatening. When his dark eyes flicker over mine, I know I’m in trouble.

He saw me.

I punch my brother’s phone number. Ethan’s well-connected to unsavory characters in the city so he’ll probably get here faster and be more useful than the police. I feel guilty about begging him for help after ignoring him for six months, but I can’t afford to get stuck in my conscience right now. Ethan owes me one, anyway. I got him together with the love of his life.

Uncertainty fizzes through my blood. I swallow the lump in my throat. I scroll through my contacts for his number. “I’m calling—”

“Go. Quickly. Hurry up.” The woman pokes my thigh. A sharp pain shoots in the wake of her touch. She pokes me again, harder this time. “Run. If these men catch you, you’ll be dead.”

My head lifts, just in time to catch the threatening duo twisting their bodies in my direction. The dangerous guy from before bares his teeth in displeasure at my fingers playing over my phone screen. He strides in my direction, moving a lot faster than I expected from someone of his size.

A helpless scream rises in my throat, smothered by the fear that chokes my windpipe.

The icy wind whooshes in my ears.

Shadows darken.

Footsteps stab the ground like knives.

I feel it in my bones: whoever they are, they’re dangerous.

So I do what I’m best at—running away.

My feet claw against gravity, hands trying to grasp for safety. My pathetic lungs heave with exhaustion. I glance backward. The two men are drawing closer, their strides long and supple, their every step equal to three of mine.

“Stop! Put the phone down!” The one with the scarred face calls out. His gun is pointed at me.

In the blink of an eye, the other man in a dark suit gains on me. As his scent floods my nostrils—cigar smoke mixed with musk and danger—the air crackles with the premonition of catastrophe. Before I know it, a strong, biting grip cuts into my wrist. He spins me around with terrifying speed, making me drop my phone.

A squeal punches through my tight throat. Panic inflates against my ribcage as I come face-to-face with the tall stranger.

Glass-cutting cheekbones and bottomless dark eyes give way to unforgiving lips that send a tidal wave of fear cascading down my spine. Impossibly broad shoulders and defined arms with a hint of black ink peeking over his wrists register in my hazy perception. His presence overpowers me like an invisible force stamping its mark on my skin. The intimidation and lust for power that radiate off his skin are inescapable. But under the cold expression, I sense someone who is as deeply broken as me.

“Get away.” I shove at his chest. It’s as useless as banging against a solid wall.

Rough hands graze over my clothes.

I drag my nails across his face but my attempt at scratching his eyes out ends in failure when he easily twists and pins both arms behind me. Terror oozes through my veins. Blackness lashes across my vision, flaring between pinpricks of lights.

I kick my captor’s knee. The dark-haired bastard doesn’t even wince. Instead, he smiles as if I tickled him—before effortlessly flattening my body onto the ground.

“You need to stop hurting yourself, baby. There’s no way you’re overpowering an armed man twice your size.” His muscular legs straddle my hips, pinning me down. Thick, cruel fingers play with my hair before pulling them back from my face.

“Let me go!” I wriggle, hoping to throw him off. I’m hungover, every nerve foggy and laced with too much alcohol. It has dulled my reflexes.

I’ve never been so wholly, completely dominated by someone’s power in my life. His presence is so loud, it eclipses the moon and the stars in the sky, reducing my world to a single black point of hopelessness.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” I say.

“Not yet,” he replies.

“This is illegal! It’s assault.”

“Yes, missy, I know it’s assault.” I’ve known this thug for all of half a minute but the smirk on his face is already annoying me. “I have been doing this job a lot longer than you’ve been alive.”

A cold sweat breaks over my brow as I stare at the slits of his pupils ringed by dark brown. His gaze consumes my body. He assesses me with a mixture of interest and suspicion.

The shattered, staccato notes of my pulse explode in my ears. Sludge is all there is inside my head. Fear has already paralyzed my body. I can’t wait for this nightmare to end.

Except, I don’t think it’s going to stop.

“Take your hands off me!” I cry.

The press of his touch against the hollow of my throat launches a new wave of panic into my bloodstream.

I whimper in response. “Don’t hurt me.”

He grazes his thumb over his gun. A wordless warning.

“I won’t if you tell me your name,” he rasps.

My lungs jerk. Breath leaks out of me in a hoarse moan. I remain silent, not sure whether I’d be digging my grave deeper by giving him personal details.

“Your name.” Impatience roughens his voice.

My lips wobble, resistance leaching from me. “Francesca Astor.”

A deep line forms between his eyebrows. Maybe he has heard my last name before. That wouldn’t be surprising, given that my father and brother made headlines for criminal charges against them six months ago. It was on every news channel. Ethan managed to get the charges dropped, but my father is rotting in prison right now. I wish I could say I’m sad for him, but he deserves it.

“I’m the heiress of Astor Hotels,” I fill in when the thug keeps mulling my name over. “My brother is Ethan Astor Jr. He’s currently the CEO.”

“I remember now.” The luxurious material of his black pants slides over my leg as he shifts his leg. “Your family is upper class.”

The knot of anxiety in my stomach loosens. “Correct. We’re rich, so my brother will bury you in lawsuits if you lay a hand on me.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” The irreverent laugh that eases out of him only serves to heighten the alarm that’s stuck to my every cell like super glue. Does nothing rattle this man? “You’re cute.”

I expel a shaky breath at the slide of his thumb across my lips. It ignites something in me, something I thought I’d lost a long time ago along with my muse.

Anticipation.

“Will you let me go now?” I ask. “Or are you going to kidnap me and demand ransom from my family because I’m rich?”

“We’re going to kill you.” The other man I saw earlier emerges from the shadows and holds his gun toward me. He’s the one with the scar running across his face.

I’m barely audible when I squeak out, “Kill, like homicide?”

“Yes, like homicide,” he replies. “You watch a lot of crime shows, don’t you?”

This is getting a lot worse than I imagined.

I inhale. Try to replace my calm. It’s useless. All those Zen meditation videos? They lie. There’s no such thing as inner peace. Inner emotional meltdown on the other hand is perfectly real.