Monster Inside Me: Volume I (A Dark Mafia Romance Book 1)

  MONSTER INSIDE ME

  VOLUME I

  FAYE BYRD

  Edited by Christine V.

  Cover Image from @Lukatme1 - Deposit Photos

  Special thanks to all the following women who took some part in making this story become what it is:

  Ceara Therrien, Cheryl Edmonds, Fran Walsh, Ankita Kaul, Mana Liz, and last but certainly not least, Cecilia Rene

  Copyright 2020 © Faye Byrd

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author.

  All trademark references mentioned in this book, including movies, movie characters or television shows, are the property of the respective copyright holders and trademark owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons is entirely coincidental.

  *****Warning!

  This book contains graphic violent scenes and harsh language throughout. Please take this into account if you have triggers related to violence. This book is a romance, but it’s a romance set in the mafia world and mafia-like showdowns will occur—as well other not-so-pleasant scenes.

  Faye Byrd’s Books:

  Wanted: A Western Outlaw Romance

  SHARP TURN SAGA: (A Switched at Birth Romance)

  Sharp Left Turn

  Sharp Right Turn

  Final Sharp Turn

  MEN OF RAPTURE SERIES:

  RUSH

  ACE

  NIKO

  Table of Contents

  ONE—THE ARTIST AND THE RAT

  TWO—ALLEY-STAINED HAIR

  THREE—UNIQUE RELATIONSHIPS

  FOUR—GAME ON, MOTHERFUCKER

  FIVE—EVEN MORE PATHETIC

  SIX—THE BROTHER CARD

  SEVEN—TWO OF HER?

  EIGHT—FLAVOR OF THE MONTH

  NINE—BLOODTHIRSTY

  TEN—FINALLY FUCKING HOME

  ELEVEN—MONSTER INSIDE ME

  ONE

  THE ARTIST AND THE RAT

  I pause at the entryway mirror to straighten my navy-blue tie. The custom inky black suit fits like a glove, and the white shirt beneath it is crisp and bright. Dolce and Gabbana always has worn well for murder.

  After smirking at my reflection, I turn for the elevator. The doors open as I approach, and once inside, I place my thumb to the print scanner and select the garage. The ride is quick and quiet, delivering me to my concrete cavern in no time.

  “Mr. Simone.” Lorenzo, the trusted guard of my most treasured possessions, greets me as I enter. “Do you have a particular vehicle in mind?”

  He knows me well. “I’m headed to the warehouse; surprise me.” I shrug, and he retreats into the small cement guard room.

  I remove my suit jacket and roll the sleeves of my shirt to my elbows, intent on ignoring the incessant vibrations coming from my phone. I leave it in the inside pocket as I fold it over my arm. I’m a man on a mission, and I’m uninterested in being sidetracked.

  “Here you are, sir,” Lorenzo says as he returns with a ring. “A most appropriate vehicle for a night such as this.”

  I chuckle as I take the fob to my Range Rover. “Thank you, Lorenzo. This will be perfect.” I hand him the blazer. “Save that for when I return.”

  I start for the neat row of carefully selected vehicles. Each step I take soothes me more and more. Pride swells as I pass my first purchase—a fully custom 1969 GTO convertible. A pang of sadness flits through me when I see the yellow Porsche—a gift for my pseudo-aunt Anna, who’s fighting cancer with her every breath. My thighs ache to grip my unrestricted 1999 Suzuki Hayabusa GSXR 1300, and my hands itch with the need to shift all seven gears of my Lamborghini Aventador.

  As I slip into the Rover, I smile at the plastic that covers the driver’s seat and floorboard. Lorenzo’s been with the family since I was a boy, and he’s one of my most trusted and competent made men. It almost feels as if he should be doing more, but I nix that thought when I think of anyone else touching my babies.

  When I arrive at the dilapidated brick building nestled into a dark corner near Lake Michigan, there’s not a soul in sight. The sky overhead is pitch black, with no moon to shine on my wicked deeds. The door whines in protest as I push it open, and the smell of stale dust and mildew fills my lungs.

  A shiver runs through me, but it’s the fucking good kind. The quiver of anticipation you get right before opening the throttle, releasing so much power that you’re not sure if you can handle it until the moment is upon you.

  Quietly, I use my key ring flashlight to slip through the dark interior, my Salvatore Ferragamo loafers not making a sound. When I hear a noise, I step around a corner and pull out my piece. Clumsy footsteps follow a wide beam from a flashlight. I jump out and tighten my forearm around the idiot’s throat, my barrel up against his temple.

  “Make one move and you’re dead,” I say in a low growl.

  “Boss?” comes the reply, and I roll my eyes, loosening my arm and pushing the body away.

  “Ya fucking idiot! Guardi dove va!” I snap, telling Angelo to watch where he’s going. “I thought you were in charge around here.” I widen my arms to the ruined building around us. “I could’ve been anybody sneaking in!”

  “Sorry, Boss. I was just going out for a smoke,” he says with a shrug. “I wasn’t expecting ya here.”

  I cock my gun and point it at him. “Well, maybe you won’t care if I take you out right now, then?”

  His eyes widen so far the whites glow. Shaking his head rapidly, he falls at my feet and wraps his arms around my legs. “Don’t kill me, Boss. I’ll quit smoking. I swear.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and look upward, my patience already on a knife’s edge. Angelo is one of my Caporegimes, along with his brothers Matteo and Carlos. He’s good at running a crew, but he has a fucking screw loose. While Matteo is cool and calm and Carlos has a mean streak, Angelo’s neither. He goes about life as if he lives in another realm, completely wrapped up in his own head, but he’s effective. The guys in his crew always take care of business.

  Not wanting to ice a Capo, I breathe deeply and let it roll off my shoulders before kicking my legs out of his grip and moving away. “Get the fuck up and take me to the rat.”

  Instead of going to the basement like I expect, Angelo leads me up four flights of stairs and into an old corner office. Two of his soldiers guard a pathetic form, zip-tied to a chair, naked, aside from his cheap shit-stained tighty-whities.

  My eyes narrow as they scrutinize the associate who flipped and sent one of Angelo’s soldiers up the river. Anger surges through me, seeping into my blood and soaring through my limbs. Pure adrenaline rushes through my muscles as they coil tight with barely repressed energy.

  I walk over and kick the snitch in the shin. He reacts with a loud scream as he lifts his drooping head, but it’s immediately obvious the second he realizes who’s standing before him. His eyes almost pop out of his fucking head.

  “Jason Fucking Matthews,” I say, kicking his shin again just because I like hearing him yell. “You’re one lucky motherfucker to get my personal attention. Sporco cazzo di ratto.” At me calling him a dirty fucking rat, Angelo erupts into a belly-shaking laugh.

  I pin him with murderous eyes. “Sta 'zitto.”

  He does as I tell him and shuts the fuck up, while I focus back on Jason. Usually, an offense such as this would be dealt with solely by Angelo, but the
monster is rattling his cage, begging to be set free. Who the fuck knows? Maybe I can make him squeak before I whack him. Even fucking better.

  Cracking my knuckles, I pull a knife from my cashmere socks and flick open the blade, a sinister smirk aimed at the traitor. My steps are slow and measured as I approach him, the fear in his eyes feeding the monster inside me.

  I reach up and push the blade into his forehead, digging a crevice across it, reveling in the blood that pools and runs into his eyes. His body starts struggling, twisting and rocking, anything to escape the torture, but I haven’t even fucking begun.

  When his scream fills the silence, I turn to Angelo. “Duct tape his mouth.”

  My Capo rubs his hands together swiftly. “I like yo style, man.”

  Even though I tolerate Angelo’s quirks, disrespect is unacceptable. I snatch him up by the front of his shirt. “Never call me man again,” I grit, enunciating each word slowly. “I’m your fucking Boss, and you’ll do well not to forget it.”

  The fear that flashes in his eyes is unmistakable—as it should be. On a night like tonight, a comment like that could cost him his life. “Now get the fucking tape.” I shove him away and turn back to the blood-covered man in the chair.

  Pacing before him, I wait as Angelo loops the tape around his head. “You know, Jason,” I start absently, “I might be willing to give you a chance to die quickly. You could talk now and skip the incessant torture you’re about to endure.”

  He starts shaking his head rapidly, which is no surprise. It would’ve been a huge fucking letdown if he’d agreed so quickly. A sinister laugh bubbles inside me, the giddiness of what I’m about to do uncontainable.

  Stepping closer, I push the knife against where his palm and thumb connect and meet his eyes as I press down. His muffled screams are the only sound as I rock the blade back and forth, severing his thumb completely and thumping it to the floor.

  “Torch.” It’s the only word I utter, and this time, Angelo snaps into motion, hurriedly lighting the butane flame and passing it over.

  I move it around in front of the snitch’s face, allowing him to hear the powerful roar of the fire before I point it at his bleeding appendage. His skin sizzles and shrivels as the smell of burning flesh fills the air. His agonizing screams are cloaked by duct tape, and the monster in me rejoices.

  By the time I get to his fourth finger, his eyes plead with me to ask the question again. But I’m too far gone; the evil motherfucker that I keep contained has been released. Instead, I pull a sawed-off shotgun from the harness on my chest and push it against his knee, pulling the trigger.

  The flesh explodes from the blow and blood splatters everywhere. Repulsed by the red specks that dot my white button-up, I step back and take several deep breaths, the monster fading.

  “Rimuovere il nastro adesivo,” I order, and watch as Angelo unwinds the tape, pulling it off with chunks of hair still attached.

  The rat is barely conscious, so I kick him in the shin, right below the knee I just blew to hell. A scream fills the air, but his angry eyes snap to mine. “Just fucking kill me, Simone.”

  “Not until you tell me what I want to know,” I say calmly. “We can continue our games, or you can die with some dignity intact.”

  He has the audacity to laugh, but it sounds slightly deranged. “You call spilling my guts dignity?”

  I walk over and lean down to look him in the eye. The smells of singed wood and burned flesh fill my nose. “Dignity is returning to your roots, righting a wrong you committed. You ratted on someone in the family. You owe a debt. The least you could do is tell me how they got to ya.”

  “And you’ll put a bullet in my head?” he asks, a spark of hope lighting his eyes.

  I nod once. “I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

  “What do ya wanna know?”

  I take a step back and start pacing. “How’d they get to ya, and what do they know?”

  With a heavy groan, he says, “Special Agent Tate.”

  My brows lift at this interesting development. Henry Tate is the head of the Organized Crime unit here in Chicago, and his target has been painted on my family for decades. This is especially interesting because I didn’t think he worked the field anymore, much less to go after small-time associates and soldiers.

  “One of his men had Tito under surveillance and caught a couple of buys between us on film.” He pauses to catch his breath, and I briefly consider Tito, a soldier I grew up with, who’s doing a dime now thanks to this snitch. “Instead of using it to go after Tito, Agent Tate came at me. Ya gotta understand, he threatened my wife. So for the next buy, I wore a wire.”

  I bark an incredulous laugh. “And you never considered the Outfit would come looking for retribution?”

  “Agent Tate told me he had it under control. He swore I could go back to my life and no one would come after me,” Jason says between heavy pants, and the funny thing is, I believe him.

  “That’s it? He didn’t want you to work for him, get more info?” I ask, already suspecting that Agent Tate has another motive, an angle I’m unable to see right now.

  “That’s it. I swear,” he says. “Kill me. Please.”

  “Where’s ya wife?” I ask instead.

  He starts shaking his head rapidly. “Please, no. No. I only did it for her in the first place. Please.”

  I pull a Glock from my waistband and aim it at his head. “Ci vediamo all'inferno,” I say, telling him I’ll see him in hell as I pull the trigger.

  Gathering my weapons, I turn to Angelo. “Get this sorted; then find his wife and offer our condolences.”

  By the time I pull back into my garage, a calm has settled over me, the rage from earlier having dissipated. I pull the Rover all the way into Lorenzo’s station, where he’s already standing with a large plastic bag. After getting out of the SUV, I strip down to my black silk boxers, depositing each item into the bag as I remove it—including the weapons.

  This may be an expensive route, but it’s a guarantee that my fingerprints will never appear on a murder weapon, nor will a victim’s blood ever be found on my clothes. Lorenzo will deposit each item, along with the plastic from the Rover, into the building’s incinerator, a perfectly sinister addition that exists outside of the architectural blueprints—as do many other features of my building.

  My eyes flash to the Busa before I head to the elevator. “Soon, baby.”

  The following afternoon, I’m in the executive area above my brother’s club, and the steady thrum of music reverberates through the walls. I sit at Madeline’s desk, sipping my Glenfiddich and going over the club’s income statement. Dark Star is a completely legitimate enterprise that I like to dangle in front of the Feds. They spend so much of their focus here that the rest of Chicago is like a wide-open playground.

  A tap sounds at the door, and I set my whiskey on the desktop. “Come in.”

  A svelte fake-blonde slips inside and closes the door behind her. With a lift of her perfectly sculpted brow, she conveys exactly what she thinks of my drink on her workspace, but she won’t dare say the words.

  “Maddy.” I chuckle, enjoying her silent anger. “Can I help you?”

  Her eyes narrow but only slightly. She’s no fucking fool. “Do you have time for an audition?”

  I tilt my head and shrug. “I suppose I could make the time.” Standing, I stalk around to the front of the desk and stop before her, picking a piece of lint from her crisp red suit. “This one better fucking measure up, though. I have no interest in littering Dark Star with trash like you paraded before me last time.”

  “Yes, sir,” she says, tilting her head before exiting the office.

  I like Madeline—she’s good at her fucking job—but it’s imperative she knows her place. And that place is subservient to me. Her job is to run this club to the letter of the law. Otherwise, she’d be just another useless twit with great legs.

  Dark Star sets the standard for young and hip while providing the mo
st self-indulgent atmosphere possible. Our dancers are displayed throughout the main floor on raised platforms. Both male and female bodies twirl in sinuous displays, completely lost to their own beat. Our patrons come because it’s the place to be, but they stay for an experience unlike any other.

  It’s for this reason that I’m the only person who can approve someone for the floor. Our dancers aren’t the average fifty-dollar fucks you get at low-ball joints spread throughout town. I consider them to be artists, sculpting an erotic free-flowing masterpiece that’s constantly evolving before our patrons’ eyes. Our ultraviolet lighting, just perfectly placed, in combination with the heavy beat from the music creates a heady ambiance as the backdrop to their performances.

  I grab my whiskey and kill it before settling back at the desk and opening the small laptop. Just as I’ve logged on, a knock sounds before the door pops open and Maddy peeks her head around the corner.

  Lifting my hand, I flick two fingers, giving her the go-ahead to enter. She straightens and struts into the room with a scantily clad woman trailing behind her. After only a glance, I lift a dubious brow at Madeline, but instead of appearing concerned, she simply passes the jump drive over and holds my eye with a steady gaze.

  I glare until she looks away. Because let’s fucking face it, she damn well better. I curl my lip and push the drive into the USB, instantly uploading all the information for this prospective artist straight to my younger brother, Ivan. Later this afternoon, he’ll know everything about this girl, down to her favorite color of nail polish.

  Taking my time, I pour a fresh glass of whiskey and rock back in my chair. “What’s your name?”

  “Dante, this is Pi—”

  The glass smacks against the desk and precious caramel liquid sloshes over the rim. “Did I ask your name, Madeline?” The ice-cold barb is delivered with a scolding stare before I flick my eyes back to scrutinize the dancer.

  Her whole demeanor screams small and timid—slumped shoulders, eyes to the floor, withdrawn. My expectations decline rapidly, but I refuse to pass judgment prematurely. I’ve seen excellent artists in the past whose only confidence lies in their performance. In real life, they’re shy and sometimes even clumsy.