Machiavellian: Gangsters of New York Book 1 Read online

  Machiavellian

  Gangsters of New York, Book 1

  Bella Di Corte

  Copyright © 2020 by Bella Di Corte

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names of characters, places, and events are the construction of the author, except those locations that are well-known and of general knowledge, and all are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental, and great care was taken to design places, locations, or businesses that fit into the regional landscape without actual identification; as such, resemblance to actual places, locations, or businesses is coincidental. Any mention of a branded item, artistic work, or well-known business establishment, is used for authenticity in the work of fiction and was chosen by the author because of personal preference, its high quality, or the authenticity it lends to the work of fiction; the author has received no remuneration, either monetary or in-kind, for use of said product names, artistic work, or business establishments, and mention is not intended as advertising, nor does it constitute an endorsement. The author is solely responsible for content.

  Disclaimer:

  Material in this work of fiction is of graphic sexual and violent natures and is not intended for audiences under 18 years of age.

  Copyright © 2020 by Bella Di Corte

  Editing by: Alisa Carter

  Cover Designed by: Najla Qamber Designs

  To all the Mariposas of the world.

  11:11 belongs to you.

  Make a wish…

  “Men judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, for everyone can see and few can feel. Every one sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are.”

  Niccolò Machiavelli

  Contents

  Foreward

  The Fausti Famiglia

  The Scarpone Family

  Machiavellian

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  The End

  Preview of Marauder

  About the Author

  Also by Bella Di Corte

  The Rose Gazette

  VIP Access

  Acknowledgments

  Foreward

  Dear Reader,

  This journey began with the Fausti famiglia. (You’ll meet them soon in the pages of Mac.)

  When I first started writing the Fausti saga, I had no idea what kind of story I was (truly) writing until Book 2. Once I hit my stride, I couldn’t stop. The Faustis opened a door to a world that I was instantly taken with, and before long, they took over my world.

  By the time their saga was complete, I couldn’t wait to start writing spin-off stories. There are so many worlds connected to that one that have captured my attention, which is why, after I realized how many branches there were, I decided to dedicate an entire name to my criminal worlds only.

  From this point forward, all of my criminal-world books will be in one place, and most of the stories will connect in some way. The Faustis have long-reaching arms, they rule that world, and in some way, you’ll probably reconnect with one or two of them in each book, even if it’s set in a different criminal world.

  Enter Machiavellian.

  This story, like most of my others, completely captivated me. I had other books planned, books that revolved around some of the main men in the Fausti famiglia, but Capo & Mari had other plans for me. It was a wonderful change of pace to step into a similar but different world with them. And even though some of the Faustis make an appearance in Machiavellian, you do not have to read the Fausti saga before you read Mac (or any of the Gangsters of New York books). If you decide to, Mac’s timeline fits after Book 5 and before Book 6 of the Fausti saga.

  That being said, I put together a list of names for each family and how they belong so that it might be easier to keep track.

  Machiavellian has such a special place in my heart. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever written before. And now, given the unprecedented times we’re facing, I think we need more stories like this one. Stories that open a door to a new world and invite us in for a while. I’ve only said this about the Fausti saga—there are some books that feel like coming home.

  Machiavellian is one of those books for me. May it be the same for you.

  Much love,

  Bella

  P.S. All (3) books in the Gangsters of New York series are standalones, but each are set in the same world. Read on to find out who will be next!

  The Fausti Famiglia

  La mia parola è buona quanto il mio sangue. My word is as good as my blood.

  Faustis who are either mentioned or make an appearance in Mac:

  Marzio Fausti (deceased) was the head of the infamous Fausti famiglia in Italy. He has five sons: Luca, Ettore, Lothario, Osvaldo, and Niccolo.

  Luca Fausti (incarcerated) is the eldest son of Marzio Fausti and he has four sons: Brando, Rocco, Dario, and Romeo.

  Brando Fausti is married to Scarlett Rose Fausti (The Beautiful Years).

  Rocco Fausti is married to Rosaria Caffi.

  Tito Sala, MD is connected to the Faustis by marriage. He is married to Lola Fausti.

  Donato:

  Head Soldier

  Guido:

  Soldier

  * * *

  There’s a drawn-out feud between the Faustis and the Stones in the Fausti Family saga. It’s not truly explored in Mac, but it is worth mentioning because one of the Stones (Scott) makes an appearance in Mac— he’ll also be in Book 2 of the Gangsters of New York series in a more centralized way.

  The Scarpone Family

  I lupi; The Wolves

  Arturo Lupo Scarpone:

  He is the head of the Scarpone family; one of the five families of New York.

  He has two sons: Vittorio Lupo Scarpone (mother, Noemi) and Achille Scarpone (mother, Bambi).

  * * *

  Vittorio Lupo Scarpone:

  He is the son of Arturo and Noemi.

  His maternal grandfather, Pasquale Ranieri, was a world renown poet and novelist from Sicily. He had five daughters (who all, but Noemi, live in Italy): Noemi Ranieri Scarpone, Stella, Eloisa, Candelora, and Veronica.

  He has one brother: Achille Scarpone

  * * *

  Achille Scarpone:

  He is the son of Arturo and Bambi.

  He has four sons: Armino, Justo, Gino, and Vito (Only Armino and Vito are mentioned by name in Mac.)

  He has one brother: Vittorio Lupo Scarpone

  * * *

  Tito Sala (married to Lola Fausti) is Pasquale Ranieri’s first cousin.

&n
bsp; Machiavellian

  adjective

  1. cunning, scheming, and unscrupulous, especially in politics.

  noun

  1. a person who schemes in a Machiavellian way.

  Prologue

  Vittorio

  We were once the rulers of the world. Side by side, my father and I reigned over what I assumed would be mine one day: a kingdom of misfits and a throne built on fear and respect. Soon enough, though, I’d find out that ruling the world was only one reality.

  Reality differs from person to person, soul to soul, perspective to perspective.

  For instance, my father saw life as a game to be won—to be precise, a chess game. Move for ruthless move, he had become the king of New York by being brutal and cunning. No matter what he did, or what move he made, he did so with one objective in mind: win all, no matter who gets trumped in the end. Strategies, forethought, take no prisoners and show no mercy, not even to those closest to you—these were the three codes he religiously lived by.

  He made the right connections, married the perfect girl, worked all the lavish parties and schmoozed or killed numerous people from all walks of life. He proved to the reality we created, the world we ruled over, how competent he was and how vicious he could be. Even those who ruled the streets feared his name.

  Arturo Lupo Scarpone, the King of New York.

  No one could trump his moves. No one could get close to him. Not even his own flesh and blood. His son.

  Vittorio Lupo Scarpone, the Pretty-Boy Prince.

  Arturo stripped me of the reality, that name, and banished me from the kingdom he had so savagely prepared me for, and then, and then, he wrote me off as dead.

  There was a reason his men called him il re lupo. The king wolf. He’d kill his own offspring if it meant more power.

  There’s an old saying: Dead men tell no tales. I didn’t have tales to tell. I only had one gruesome story.

  This time the man who created me was going to pay. Because if I was already dead in his eyes, how could he see me coming?

  Boo, motherfucker. You called me The Prince. I’m back to rule your world as King.

  1

  Vittorio

  18 Years Ago

  Arranged marriages were not uncommon in our culture. I’d always known that someday I’d marry Angelina Zamboni. Her father was connected, and apart from mine, he was one of the most powerful men in New York. Angelo Zamboni, Angelina’s father, was in politics.

  Mine dealt more in fear and bloodshed, though hers didn’t shy away from that either. Angelo’s hands were clean even if his conscience was filthy. Arturo Scarpone was born without a conscience and grew into a man with palms full of blood—most people in our circle both admired and feared that about him. Angelo craved that sort of ruthless backing, so he agreed to the marriage before his daughter had a say.

  We were the couple that everyone admired and praised. We made a beautiful couple. We would make beautiful babies. We would make a beautiful life together, even if the shady parts of my life were hidden behind the seemingly perfect life we lived. When the day came for me to rule this ruthless kingdom my father left me, she’d be the queen next to me on this throne built on bloodshed.

  Angelina would also be my very own omertà. She’d be my vow of silence through thick and thin, good times and bad, sickness and health, through the most trying police interviews and adversaries attempting to put the fear of God into her.

  Loyalty was even more powerful than love in this life. It was imperative to know your enemies better than your friends. But I had learned early on that no one was truly your friend. Loyalty all depended on how much they depended on you, and you on them.

  Angelina grinned and then nudged me as we walked the streets of New York, bringing me out of my thoughts. It was dark out, but the many lights around us lit up her face.

  Her hair was the color of soft caramel, her skin tan, and her eyes brown. My brother once said she had wicked eyes. They were. When she wanted revenge, they narrowed to daggers and showed no mercy. She wasn’t taller than me even with heels, but she was tall for a woman. Her legs were long enough to wrap around me and pull me closer when we fucked.

  In a month’s time, I’d call her my wife—Mrs. Vittorio Scarpone—and years’ worth of business dealings between my father and hers would come to fruition. Arturo liked telling Angelo that the two families shared an olive tree. Angelo brought the tree from the old country. Arturo planted it in New York soil. To kingdom come, both families would enjoy the golden oil.

  “You’ve been quiet,” she said, her eyes glistening as she glanced up at me.

  “Can’t get much talking in during a Broadway show.” The breath rushed out of my mouth in a cloud of smoke.

  “I can’t read your mood.” She stopped walking. I did, too. She backed up a pace so we could really see each other. Her eyes narrowed. “Have you been having second thoughts?”

  Snow twirled between us. White specks landed on the dark material of my jacket. They collected for a few seconds, even on my lashes, before I spoke. “I’m returning the question.”

  She smiled a little at that. She shook her head. “This is a done deal.”

  In our world, it was always about the art of the deal, and making sure you paid for your sins if you went against the king. “Only God could sever this arrangement,” I said.

  “God or your father.” She stuck her long, elegant fingers inside the pockets of her expensive jacket.

  A man in a suit passed us, one hand on his briefcase and a phone stuck to his ear. I didn’t miss his eyes, though. They roamed over Angelina as he hustled to get out of the cold. It didn’t trouble me. What bothered me was the cold hand that seemed to touch my neck—and it wasn’t the weather.

  Angelina had been used as a pawn in this game before she could even string two words together. I was at her side since we were kids. We both understood that love had nothing to do with this arrangement, but I wanted this to be a great union, a powerful one, and I knew it’d be easier if we both held mutual feelings for each other. I expected the kind of respect from her that had its foundation in loyalty.

  Lately, though, I could sense something from her that felt off. It wasn’t the first time the cold hand seemed to touch my neck and make my instincts prickle.

  “You really are a beautiful man, Vittorio. You should have taken your father’s offer when you had the chance.”

  My eyes narrowed, as if I could see her better. See straight through her. These sorts of remarks didn’t sit right with me. Not one to mince words, she was getting better at the art of subtlety. I didn’t fucking like it. Especially when she started throwing words around that she had no business bringing out into the open.

  She was right. My father had once given me an out. A chance to live my life the way I saw fit while still doing his dirty work. Instead of being an integral part of the business, he wanted me to be the face of it. I’d own all of the fancy restaurants and grease high society to get them closer to his pocket. He said my looks and charisma would charm them. My brother, Achille, was better suited to be his right-hand man.

  It was the only choice my father had ever given me. However, it wasn’t truly a choice. It was a dare. Let my younger brother, who he called The Joker, control the kingdom with him, and what did that make me? A pussy that he’d have no use for. I’d be lower than the ten-dollar guys he hired to clean his tables.

  Angelina seemed to know that my father would never let me live it down. Once he found a weakness, he’d stick his finger in the soft spot until the sore refused to heal. Until it healed around him, so he could reopen it anytime he wanted.

  My father knew my mother was my only weakness. He still made asinine wisecracks about how beautiful I was, just like her family in Italy, just like she was.

  Arturo would never say it to their faces, though. My mother had ties to the powerful Faustis, and unless my father had an immediate death wish, he respected them. The last thing he wanted was for them to come
sniffing around. They didn’t, unless you included them in your affairs. Even though Arturo was the King of New York, he couldn’t touch the Faustis. They ruled his world.

  After I told my father that I’d rather be dead than let Achille have what was rightfully mine, he laughed like lunatics do and then went to the room he shared with his wife Bambi. Not my mother. Bambi was Achille’s mother.

  My father always felt that Achille was better suited for the ruthless part of the business. He was harder in the face, but that was about it. I had proved my worth, despite the reflection that stared back at me in the mirror. My blood and heart was made from the same flesh and bone. I killed just as savagely as he did.