Marauder (Gangsters of New York Book 2) Read online

  Marauder

  Gangsters of New York, Book 2

  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

  For the Connollys and Ryans of the world…

  “Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned. By those who are not entirely beautiful.”

  W.B. Yeats

  Contents

  Introduction

  The Fausti Famiglia

  Machiavellian

  Kelly Family

  Marauder

  Foreword

  1. Cash

  2. Keely

  3. Keely

  4. Cash

  5. Cash

  6. Keely

  7. Cash

  8. Keely

  9. Keely

  10. Cash

  11. Keely

  12. Keely

  13. Keely

  14. Keely

  15. Keely

  16. Keely

  17. Cash

  18. Keely

  19. Keely

  20. Cash

  21. Keely

  22. Cash

  23. Keely

  24. Cash

  25. Cash

  26. Cash

  27. Keely

  28. Keely

  29. Cash

  30. Keely

  31. Keely

  32. Keely

  33. Keely

  34. Cash

  35. Keely

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Preview of Mercenary

  About the Author

  Also by Bella Di Corte

  The Rose Gazette

  VIP Access

  Introduction

  Marauder is the second of three books set in the savage world of the Gangsters of New York series. Each book can be read as a standalone, but they are all based in the same world.

  Reading Order:

  Machiavellian

  Marauder

  Mercenary

  There are other families mentioned from other criminal world books, but those books do not have to be read to enjoy Marauder, either.

  For reference, a list of each family, along with important names and how they are related, can be found at the beginning of Marauder.

  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 Marauder:

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

  Rocco Fausti is married to Rosaria Caffi.

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

  Scarlett Fausti is married to Brando Fausti.

  There’s a drawn-out feud between the Faustis and the Stones in the Fausti Family saga.

  Machiavellian

  Gangsters of New York, Book 1

  Mac “Capo” Macchiavello

  Mariposa “Mari” Flores

  Kelly Family

  Marauder List

  Ronan Kelly:

  He was the head of the Kelly Family

  He has two sons: Cashel ‘Cash’ Fallon Kelly (mother, Saoirse/ser-sha) and Killian ‘Kill’ Patrick Kelly (mother, Saoirse).

  He was married to Molly O’Connor Kelly. Molly’s brother has a son, Rafferty (Raff) O’Conner, who works for Cash Kelly.

  Other important families and names:

  Ryan Family:

  Keely Shea Ryan and her four brothers: Harrison, Lachlan, Declan, and Owen.

  The O’Connell Family:

  Maureen O’Connell and her two grandchildren: Connolly (CeeCee) and Ryan.

  Father Patrick Flanagan was a family friend of the Kelly’s.

  The Grady Family:

  Cormick Grady was the head of the Grady Family.

  Brian Grady is the younger brother of Cormick Grady.

  Lee Grady is the son of Cormick Grady and the nephew of Brian Grady.

  The McFirth Family:

  Susan McFirth used to work for Ronan Kelly. She has a grandson, Colin McFirth.

  Colin McFirth is the grandson of Susan McFirth, and he works for Cash Kelly.

  If you are familiar with the Fausti Famiglia, then you will be familiar with the history between the Faustis and the Stones.

  Scott Stone lives in New York, but he has ties to the Stone Family in Louisiana. They are in the Fausti saga.

  The Fausti saga does not need to be read before enjoying the Gangsters of New York series.

  Marauder

  noun

  1.a person who marauds; a raider.

  Foreword

  Cash

  “Some men are born more animal than man. It’s just who they are, what’s running through their veins,” the old man used to say.

  He’d tell me that bad men don't know they're bad, and they usually don't believe it when they're told. In the eye of the beholder, the end always justifies the means. In our world, it is what it is.

  So let me ask you a question: Does the end always justify the means?

  Stealing to stave off hunger?

  Lying to protect the one you love the most?

  Cheating to win so your worst enemy doesn’t?

  Killing to save your life? Or hunting for the one life that means more than your own?

  You see, all of these scenarios have one thing in common.

  Stealing.

  Lying.

  Cheating.

  Killing.

  They’re all considered wrong. One is even a mortal sin.

  Yet, depending on the scenario, you are excused from this wrongdoing, the sin, in the eye of certain beholders.

  Reality—how different it looks through different eyes.

  Even Robin Hood was a fucking villain, depending on who you ask.

  Ask me. I’ll tell you.

  The world sees me as a marauder.

  You cross me, and I’ll return the favor by pillaging your village for whatever the fuck I want. I’ll find the one thing you hold dearest and rip it away from you like a babe from his mother’s breast. Then I’ll starve it. Let the one piece of you die a slow death, and
watch as you watch, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

  Is Robin Hood the villain or the hero? It depends on who you ask.

  Ask me. I’ll tell you.

  The Hood just knew how to spin the story.

  Now you tell me: How do you see me? Remember this question.

  I’ll give you time to see how I spin the story before you answer.

  I give you permission to begin now.

  Ready.

  Set.

  Fucking go.

  1

  Cash

  The cell rattled as the door opened, and I stepped out of the cage.

  “Make this the last time we see each other, Cash Kelly,” the guard said. “You’ve graduated with honors.”

  I grinned, and a few minutes later, I took in my first lungful of fresh air in three thousand, six hundred, and fifty days.

  This animal was finally relieved of rattling cells and steel bars. Or as the guard had said, I’d finished school, which meant that I’d served my time and was now a free man in the eyes of the law.

  It took me ten years to graduate. A detective by the name of Jeremiah Stone busted me on some bullshit charge of racketeering, when he knew damn well I should’ve been booked and charged for two counts of murder. I’d killed the two men—or as I called them, wasted space—that were in the car when my father, Ronan Kelly, was slaughtered in broad daylight.

  Charging me with the less honorable crime was Jeremiah Stone’s way of saying fuck you to the son of the man he despised—my old man, Ronan Kelly, or as he was known on the streets, Maraigh (MA-RAH, murder or slay in Irish). Stone had chased him relentlessly and could never catch him. Not until my old man fell to the cement, never to get up again. So Jeremiah Stone disgraced me by refusing to admit to the world that I killed the men who murdered my father in cold blood.

  Reminiscing about everything that led up to my imprisonment only brought me to the letter in my hand. I’d gotten it a week before my release, and it was the only thing I’d saved from my time behind bars. I read it every morning, every night, memorizing the words by heart like some sad poetic rhapsody.

  Killian, or as I used to call him, Kill. He’d written the letter, breaking the bond not only between brothers, but twins. He apologized in the letter for not coming to see me in ten years, for leaving without saying goodbye, and for the long goodbye that was going to follow.

  My twin brother, my blood, half of me, never wanted to see this sinner again because of what had happened the day my old man was killed. The bullet that was meant for me had paralyzed him. He’d never walk again. Instead of seeking revenge, though, Killian had decided to join the priesthood in our native Ireland. He wanted to save souls instead of stealing hearts.

  I didn’t have an issue with his life choice. A man should live his life as he wanted. My problem was with his hypocrisy. If there was one type of person I couldn’t stand, it was a fucking hypocrite.

  Killian had decided to use his new-found awakening to go from one prison to another—saving lost souls in Ireland—but his own flesh and blood wasn’t good enough to see in the light of day. He’d taken it to heart when our old man said that we were day and night; my brother sang while I stole the air from lungs.

  Still, he was out there saving sinners, and the dark half of his life—me—wasn’t even worth talking to. Maybe he felt I was beyond saving.

  He was right.

  Killian knew I wasn’t through with the world I belonged in, and it wasn’t through with me. I’d claimed my revenge on the men who killed my father, but I still hadn’t had the pleasure of getting my revenge on the men who set the wheels in motion. The downfall of my entire life.

  Two men.

  Jeremiah Stone and his son, Scott Stone.

  It wasn’t the older Stone that I had my sights on any longer. He had retired once his son had been promoted to detective. No. It was his son, Detective Scott Stone, who my eyes were on—eyes that belonged to a marauding green-eyed tiger. My spirit animal, the old man used to say. Our stripes were a natural part of who we were. Mine were earned in battle; his were given at birth.

  “If you want to hurt your enemy,” my old man had said to me once, nodding to the tiger basking in the sun at the Bronx Zoo, “you go after what he keeps locked in his heart. Death is not the worse fate he can face.” He chucked his chin toward the animal once more. “That fate—his heart being locked up, not able to run free with its instincts—is the worst fate for that animal. And our circle of men, down to our marrow, we’re nothing but a bunch of animals.”

  It was time that the marauder of Hell’s Kitchen, me, reclaimed the streets that belonged to us, and at the same time, find out what Scott Stone had been up to. Find out what he kept locked up in that heart of his.

  Once I did, I’d steal it from him.

  2

  Keely

  Only those who have tasted the saltiness of true grief can understand how sweet the other side is. But if bitterness lingers too long, the other side always tastes too sweet. Enough to turn the stomach.

  I could usually find balance between the two, but December… I sighed, and my breath billowed out of my mouth in a cloud. In December, I felt nothing but open wounds, and I tasted nothing but salt. Salt that never seemed to clean the wounds. No amount of tears could ever heal what I’d lost. Instead, they aggravated the old wounds, making them deeper and angrier.

  Leaning down, trying not to be too morbid, despite my surroundings, I placed a bouquet of lilacs and baby’s breath on the cold ground before the grave.

  Purple was her favorite color. Green was mine.

  It made sense back then, and it made sense in that moment. She was the twin who would always be victorious in life. I’d forever be the envious one. Of her. Even at five, jealousy had been a bitter pill to swallow.

  “I wonder if that’s true for all twins,” I wondered aloud. “One is this, will be this, will do this, and the other one is that, will be that, will do that.”

  “In my experience, that’s true.”

  I whirled around so fast that a gust of wind moved between me and the man suddenly standing close to me. Something that sounded like “shit-a-motha-fooker-wooooo!” left my mouth in a garbled rush. My heart felt like it was in my throat, and my hand shot up, covering the area so it wouldn’t jump clear out of my mouth. “You—” I was about to lay into the stranger, curse him even in a cemetery, but the words died in my throat.

  My eyes flew up—yeah, up—and crashed into the eyes of a green-eyed man who no doubt had trouble running through his veins. It was at odds with how well he was dressed, like a businessman. He wore a custom-made suit and a hat that looked like it came straight from another time. Even through the thick mist of a dreary day, his green eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief and something else, something predatory and dangerous.

  “I should punch you in the face for scaring me like that!” I whisper-hissed. Yeah, I might not be as big as this guy, but being a tall girl with curves gave me the courage to not back down. And being raised with four brothers didn’t make me timid, either. I was rough, and if I had my bow and arrow, I could take down any predator that was after me.

  Unfortunately, my bow and arrow were stowed in my junky-ass car parked across the cemetery. And this predator could take me down, even if he had to fight a little to put me out for the count.

  His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything for a minute or two. Somewhere between then, I realized a bottle of whiskey dangled from his fingers, along with two shot glasses. “Roisin Ryan was your sister.”

  That mouth of his was a mixture of Irish and New Yorker. He had a soft lilt, and when he said “Roisin,” it came out as “Ro-Sheen.” Which was the correct way to pronounce her name. Being in an Irish cemetery, I wasn’t surprised at his accent. Still, I wasn’t expecting him. At all.

  “Why are you ignoring what I said?” I wasn’t ready to answer his question, so I deflected.

  “About punching me in the face?”


  “What else?”

  He sighed. “Are you going to do it, darlin’?”

  After a shiver tore over me at the way he said, darlin’, I looked around. “No, only because this is not the time nor the place. I would, if we were anywhere else—”

  “But we’re not,” he said.

  I studied him for a minute; he seemed to be studying me, too. I wondered what his smile was going to be like. I just knew, knew, that his grin, or his smile, was going to be charming, at odds with those dangerous eyes. Men like him never made sense.