THE BEAUTIFUL MAFIA BOSS

PROLOGUE

Alessandra Franco POV

Of all the things on my to-do list today, getting myself kidnapped was not one of them.

I count five of them. Maybe six, but I can’t be sure. Three guards watch over me today because this was supposed to be a routine cash pickup. My men are quickly incapacitated. Before I even have the chance to blink or draw the gun hidden in my jacket’s inner pocket, someone throws a bag of thickly woven black cloth over my head and disarms me.

I can’t see a thing. The bag smells sour with sweat. My hands are forcefully bound behind me with what I can only assume are thick zip ties. I scream bloody murder, kicking and thrashing with all my might as someone grabs me by the arms, lifts me off the pavement, and promptly throws me into the back of a—car. They slam the door and the noises of the city become muffled, barely audible over my frantic breathing. Did these sons of bitches seriously throw me into a trunk? Do they know who I am?

The rumble of a car engine, the squeal of tires against the concrete, and a few panicked honks from nearby traffic. We’re on the move, driving so chaotically I’m jostled around like nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

A sane person would panic if they were in my shoes. They’d scream, cry, maybe even throw up. But I’m no stranger to this kind of pressure. Dad has trained me my whole life to remain cool, calm, and collected for situations like this. Right now, I need to focus. Time is not on my side and every second counts.

Ultimately, it comes down to figuring out what they want. Are they trying to traffic me? No, that can’t be it. Why go after a woman who has security details when they could easily nab a lone girl off the street? This must be a targeted kidnapping, then. I’m going to give these assholes the benefit of the doubt and say they don’t know who I am, just that they wanted someone of my apparent standing.

Poised and put together. My guards would have given the impression of a certain level of importance. The image of class, power, and wealth. I’d bet Aunt Adelina’s horses these clowns are after my family’s money. They’re in for a sore surprise. Intentional or not, you don’t fuck with the Franco Family and live to tell the tale.

These sorry suckers will be dead by nightfall. Dad will make sure of it. All I have to do is bide my time.

Since my hands are bound, I feel around blindly with the bottom of my boot. I kick at what I think is the trunk lid. It’s sturdy, and reinforced. There’s supposed to be an emergency escape latch built into all vehicles, but it doesn’t seem like this car has one. They must have modified it, which tells me one thing: I’m dealing with professionals.

It’s difficult to tell how long we’ve been driving, but when the vehicle finally comes to a stop, it’s an abrupt lurch that sends me flying into one of the walls. Outside, I hear chatter. Low voices, snappy orders. Hurried footsteps and shoes squeaking against the floor. The next thing I know, the trunk lid flies open, bringing with it a sudden rush of cool, fresh air. I didn’t realize how stuffy and hot it was in there.

A pair of strong hands grabs me and throws me over their shoulder. I am just a sack of potatoes to them. I don’t bother struggling because I’d much rather save my strength. If they wanted to kill me, they would have done it already. Why go through all the trouble just to shoot me elsewhere? Besides, if my suspicions are correct, they need me alive and well so they can use me as a bargaining chip.

“Why isn’t she moving?” a man grumbles. “You didn’t knock her out, did you?”

“Don’t think so,” says the guy carrying me.

“Better not have,” someone else adds. “The Boss will kill you. He doesn’t want a scratch on her.”

My ears burn. The Boss? Who could this walking dead man be?

I guess I’m about to find out.

I’m placed harshly in a chair, solid and heavy, barely moving when it takes the brunt of my weight. The hood over my head comes off with a quick yank, a blinding light above me burning my retinas to a crisp. I blink and blink again, my vision slowly coming into focus. Apart from the pendant light above, the room is cast in almost total darkness.

I scan the room, picking out five distinct faces. Men in suits. In passing, they’d easily be mistaken as run-of-the-mill office workers. But upon closer inspection, I can see this uniform of theirs is by design. They want to be forgettable—just another passerby in an endless sea of people. They all have black hair and dark green eyes, as well as similarly shaped noses. Are they brothers?

I take them in one by one, noting the details of their faces. One of them is particularly distinct, a nasty scar running straight through his left eye. There’s no color in it, the iris clouded over and grey. My uncles Emmanuel and Montero are covered in all kinds of scars, and I’ve watched Aunt Natalya stitch up some of the gnarliest of injuries, so I’m used to seeing these sorts of things.

The next man is large. Huge like a mountain and wide like a fucking bulldozer. Tattoos crawl up the side of his neck, his arms, all the way down to his knuckles sporting fat gold rings. I can tell in an instant his jewelry isn’t a fashion statement. These rings are meant to hurt. In place of brass knuckles, they’d be a perfect substitute.

The third guy is by far the most impressively dressed. Modest silver cufflinks, his hair swept back. His smile is warm and charming, but the wicked glint in his eyes warns me not to be fooled. He reminds me of Uncle Craig, charismatic and bold—deceptively so.

My fourth captor is smaller than the others and less confident. He stands to the side, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to shrink in on himself, but that doesn’t make him appear any smaller. His expression is bitter, a permanent scowl etched onto his face. Unlike the others, he isn’t looking at me, but at the fifth and final man in the room—almost as if searching for approval.

Alexander Mancini is the man on whom I focus.

XXX