Savage Royals

Chapter One

Sienna

My gloves smacked into the boxing bag. Left, right, uppercut. Right, left, right hook. Over and over, the gloves beat out a steady rhythm against the bag’s thick exterior. Sweat dripped from my temple, slipping down the back of my neck, but I didn’t care. I felt more alive than I ever had before. Right here, right now.

My training had finished for the day, but that didn’t stop me. This was all I had. All I was. What my father wanted me to be.

“Sienna? Are you in here?” Gemma’s voice echoed around the empty gym my father had built for me.

It had been constructed on the second floor of our New York penthouse, high above the city. Yet, while my father had built the exterior, the interior had been all me. Black mats covered half the floor, with a rich birch covering the rest. Weights were lined up perfectly against the floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, while machines and a boxing ring had been set up on the other. It was my safe haven. My home inside my home.

I paused, letting my hands fall to my sides. “In the corner!”

I heard her shoes clicking against the wooden floor and flinched. Her heels would leave marks, but hey, it was Gemma. She’d been my best friend since we were in diapers. Her father was my father’s consigliere, his right-hand. There was nothing Gemma could do wrong.

She turned the corner, catching sight of me immediately. Her long, dark hair fell in perfect curls around her shoulders. A classic gray suit clung to her curves, the pressed pants falling just over her black suede boots. Gemma’s teeth flashed as she stopped just at the edge of the mat.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Gemma said, tossing her curls over her shoulder. “Let’s go out tonight. Just us and the girls.” Her Jersey accent was still thick, even though she’d lived in New York City for most of her life.

“Can’t.” I started ripping off the Velcro from my wrists, tossing the boxing gloves on the side of the ring. “There’s an important meeting tonight. My dad needs me.”

She sighed dramatically, rolling those big, brown eyes of hers. “You can’t get out of it just for one night?”

“You know I can’t.” The wraps around my wrist fell away, dragging on the ground as I went to grab my water bottle. It was a lie, but she didn’t know that. It wasn’t an important meeting. It was an induction.

I wasn’t invited to the induction ceremonies because I was a woman. Women weren’t allowed to any of my father's meetings or any other mafia boss. That’s just how it was, and Italians were nothing but traditionalists. Still, I had my ways, and I’d never been the best at following the rules.

Her eyes narrowed. “So, what? We just never see you anymore?”

A pang of guilt shot through me. I knew I hadn’t been spending time with Gemma as much lately. But my training came first. It had to. My father depended on me. As his only heir to the Rosania family, it was up to me to…well, survive.

I chugged the water, giving myself time to reply. “I’m sorry,” I said finally, managing at least some sincerity. “I wish I could go. Really, I do. The club sounds a lot better than watching some Italian man promise his soul to my dad.”

Gemma sighed, inspecting her bright red nails. “Fine. But, just so you know, you’ll be missing out tonight. We’re going to Red’s.”

“Really?” I couldn’t help but smile. “Tell Gio I said hi.”

“He’d probably prefer it if you told him that yourself,” Gemma replied, a cat-like smile tugging at the edges of her perfectly painted lips.

Ah, Gio. Even more of an incentive not to go with Gemma tonight. Gio was an old fling. My father helped with the contract planning of his club a few years back, working with the zoning rights and what not. Because that’s what the Rosania family did—has done for years and years. Rosania Development and Construction is our life’s blood. The family business.

Gio thought having an affair with the boss’s daughter would be his ticket to a swanky club that brought in good money. He wasn’t wrong, but he was lucky that I never considered him a big enough threat to get revenge. He was lucky I never cared that much about him or his fish lips.

Gemma gave an impatient huff. “Okay. Fine. Don’t go. But when you see all of our stories tonight having a blast without you, you’ll regret it.”

I highly doubted it, and she knew that too. It was just something we always said to each other. A game. She’d invite me out for a girl’s night. I gave one excuse or another. She’d act upset and then turn up in my bedroom at two A.M in the morning piss drunk.

But tonight, there was no excuse. I’d meant what I had said about going to the meeting. I just didn’t tell her what type of meeting it was. Usually, I’d be forced to sit in with the contracting and development planning, but inductions were different.

More serious.

I waited until the clack of her heels was in the elevator before heading towards the door. My rooms were on the floor above—the penthouse. Father said he didn’t like being too high above everyone else, that it just reminded him of how far he could fall. But I loved it. Being this high above New York City, watching the people pass by like ants…that’s what I loved.

My father would claim that my floor was an absolute mess, something I got from my mother. But I couldn’t help it. I liked it when places felt homey, and bare, trendy New York apartments just didn’t do it for me.

The walls were made of red brick, though most of the red had faded and chipped away, leaving behind swaths of cement. White-oak floors were draped in dark red and black Persian rugs. A simple leaning bookshelves is pushed up against one wall, the floor-to-windows bringing in as much light as possible. 

There were throw pillows tossed haphazardly over the soft velveteen gray couch. Hanging plants hung on either side of the windows. I even had a small patio next to the kitchen, complete with some painted white chairs and a small, round coffee table. Father had thought I would be happier up in the penthouse, which he was right. But I also knew he’d given it to me to keep me close to the family business.

I hurried to the showers. If I wanted to get to my spot in time, I had to rush things. Which, it didn’t really matter what I looked like since no one would actually see me.

I’d found the small crawl space just within the walls of my father’s study a few years ago. The vent opened up just beside my father’s large desk, giving me a pretty clear view of the entire room. Women weren’t allowed during inductions, but what the men didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

Changing into comfortable leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, I pulled my dark hair into a ponytail. The elevator ride down two floors below didn’t take too long, and I was still early. The hallways were empty as I stepped out.

The crawl space entrance was carefully hidden. I think it was some sort of safety room, or maybe the developers had made a mistake. Either way, I was pretty sure I was the only one who knew about it.

Checking to see if the coast was clear, I rapped my knuckles along the rocky walls. My father loved the old look of Sicilian buildings—going back to our family roots. Finally, I heard the tell-tale sound of hollowness. The secret door blended in so carefully with the pale rocks that you could barely even notice the crease. I pushed in slightly, letting the door pop open before I slipped through it.

Pulling out my phone, I switched on the flashlight. I could just make out the thin beams up ahead, the light filtering through the vent. Turning sideways, I inched towards my little space. Over the years, I made it my own when I realized my father held even more important meetings in this room than I knew about.

There were a few pillows from my own apartment on the floor, complete with a blanket. I used to have some snacks in here, too, until I found a rat.

Thank you, New York.

I checked the vent, ensuring my erratic father hadn’t dragged some bust of some old guy or another in front of my hiding spot. He didn’t, thank God. Leaning against the wall, I settled in to wait. The ceremony shouldn’t be long. It was almost nine. Whoever they were inducting tonight would be coming soon.

Wasting time, I scrolled through my messages. Pictures and videos from Gemma were starting to roll in. I paused when I noticed the photo of her and Gio. He was hot, but in an obnoxious way. As in, he knew he was hot and wasn’t afraid to flaunt it. But I still remembered those plump lips feeling like raw fish. Shuddering, I slipped my phone into my sweatshirt pocket just as my father’s study doors opened.

My father walked in, followed by Gemma’s. I’d known Mateo Ciardi for as long as I could remember. Not only was he my godfather—actual godfather, not Godfather—but he’d been part of our family even before Gemma or I was born. The two had been best friends since childhood, and they could not be any more different.

My father was a short, stout man with a round face. While he didn’t exactly look friendly, he did have that certain charming air about him. Which was important considering that’s how he snagged all the best contracts in the city. Rosania Development and Construction had been around even before the people started to unionize . Still, it was my father who had launched it into fame in the last decade.

Giovanni Rosania’s dark hair was starting to recede, balding a bit at the back. He kept his face clean, not a whisker in sight. His large, dark eyes were hooded. Like most Sicilians, he had that nice, Roman nose that somehow didn’t look out of place or too large.

Mateo Ciardi was a slim, tall man with a slightly hooked nose. He still had a full head of hair, but it had gone gray the past few years. He kept his beard neatly trimmed. Most would have said he was a silver fox—and did—much to Gemma’s horror.

Where my dad was round belly laughs and loud speech, Mateo was soft smiles and stiff nods. They were like night and day. I never understood how they were friends. But then again, Gemma and I weren’t exact reflections of each other either.

I straightened as two men followed my father and Mateo into the study. They were new and definitely looked Italian as shit. Their olive skin was even darker than Mateo’s, and they had a distinctly southern Italian look to them. I guessed these were the new inductees from the Sicilian branch.

I recognized a few of the other men trailing in. They were all board members or union heads—most in the electrical or construction branches. There was some small chit-chat before my father cleared his throat.

The men silenced immediately. I had always been in awe of how my father did that. He didn’t look like the type to be able to command a room full of men. But I guess that’s why they called it a dark side—most people never saw it.

An induction rite was simple. Whoever was being inducted would prick their finger, smearing a few drops of blood on a card bearing the likeness of a saint. For the Rosania family, it was St. Michael, the Archangel.

My father was nothing if not obvious.

I watched as my father began the ritual, motioning for Mateo to step forward with the needle. The two men pricked their fingers, pressing down on opposite ends of the card. As soon as they were finished, Mateo took out a lighter. The card burned slowly as it passed from the hands of one man to the next.

And so began the Omerta.

The code of Silence.

I knew the words by heart.

Whoever appeals to the law against his fellow man is either a fool or a coward. Who ever cannot care for himself without police protection is both. To betray the Family is an offender to justice.

We weren’t the only ones to change up the Omerta to fit our own familial beliefs. It was different for the different families; the Irish, the Russians. Even the Japanese. But ours had been the same for centuries, from our roots back in Sicily.

One other Italian family had been here as long as we had. The Scaranos. I didn’t know their own Omerta—no one knew the pledge until they spoke the words. But if it was anything like their family motto, then it was pretty intense.

If you live, I will kill you. If you die, you are forgiven.

When the ceremony ended, the men filed out one by one. Only my father and Mateo stayed. Mateo closed the door softly behind the last of the stragglers as my father took the decanter from the shelves lining his study walls. Pouring two glasses, he passed one to Mateo with a sigh.

“Each year, we induct less and less men,” my father muttered. “And each year, they look less and less capable of being competent.”

I rolled my eyes. My father loved nothing more than to lament about the softness of the century. He sank into his chair behind the desk, brandy in hand.

“How is Sienna?” Mateo asked, tactfully changing the subject.

“She’s well. Though she spends too much time in that gym of hers instead of the boardrooms where we need her.” My father took a sip of his cognac. “Especially now that the Scaranos pulled a son out of whatever back alley they were hiding him in.”

I frowned. From what I knew, the Scaranos only had one son, Killian.

“Apparently, he went to Columbia,” Mateo offered helpfully.

“Pah,” my father’s hand waved in the air, “It doesn’t matter where the boy went. There’s a good reason why the Scaranos hid him all these years—why we never knew of him.”

“You think they wanted to pull a wild card?” Mateo asked, frowning.

“He just took up an important position in the Scarano family business, did he not? Coming out of nowhere? That couldn’t be a coincidence. Do we even know if this boy went to Columbia?”

“We could always find out.” Mateo grinned.

“Maybe we should.” My father looked thoughtful. “What’s his name again?”

“Dante.”

My father snorted again. “Dear God. How tacky.”

I backed away from the vent, feeling confused. I knew the Scarano family back and forth. They were our greatest competitors and often tried to steal our shipments from the docks. Father had made sure I understood every inch of those bottom feeders. And I had never heard of them having another son. An older son.

Killian was their only child. At least, that’s what we’d thought all these years. Killian was constantly in the tabloids and gossip columns. Drinking, doing drugs, questionable companions. He was the classic rich boy socialite stereotype. And he wasn’t a threat.

But this son…Dante. I didn’t know anything about him . I had never even heard his name in the underground. Dante was like an apparition, a ghost who had appeared out of nowhere. And I didn’t like surprises.

From the sound of it, he was nothing like his younger brother. I couldn’t imagine Killian getting accepted into an Ivy League without some heavy donations from the Scaranos under the table. Which meant this Dante—whoever he was—could be a threat.

A real threat.

One we didn’t know about just yet.

But we would. I would make sure of it.