Twisted Loyalties (The Camorra Chronicles, #1)

by Cora Reilly

A predatory grin curled his lips. Not Fabi anymore, she thought. That man in front of her … he was someone to be afraid of. Fabiano Scuderi. Enforcer of the Camorra.

I stared up at the night sky and began reciting the oath I’d memorized months ago, in preparation for the day of my induction. The Italian words flowing from my mouth filled me with loss and despair. I repeated the oath over and over again. It had been my destiny to become a Made Man. There were voices to my right. Male voices in a foreign language. Suddenly a black-haired guy stared down at me. He was bruised, though not as badly as me, and dressed in fight shorts. “They say there’s a crazy Italian fucker outside, spouting the Omertá. I guess they meant you.” I fell silent and studied him. He’d said ‘Omertá’ like I would say it, like it meant something. He was covered in scars and was probably a few years older than me— eighteen, perhaps. “Talking that kind of shit in this area means you’ve either got a death wish or are bat-shit crazy. Probably both.” “That oath was my life,” I said. He shrugged, then looked over his shoulder before turning back with a twisted smile. “Now it’s going to be your death.”

“Why did you help me?” There was that twisted smile again. “Because I like to fight … and kill. Because I hate the fucking Bratva. Because my family wants me dead, too. But most importantly, because I need loyal soldiers who will help me take back what’s mine.” “Who are you?” “Remo Falcone. And I will be Capo of the Camorra soon.” He opened the door to his truck and was halfway in when he added, “You can help me or you can wait for the Bratva to get you.” I got in. Not because of the Bratva. Because Remo had shown me a new purpose, a new destiny. A new family.

She hadn’t abandoned me on purpose, hadn’t sealed my fate by helping my sisters run away, but sometimes the things we caused by accident were the worst.

“Perhaps one day you’ll find someone who will love you despite what you’ve become, and she will make you want to be better.”

I had no clue how to survive on the street or on my own. But Remo knew. He had been born a fighter. It was in his blood, and he’d showed me how to fight, how to survive, how to kill. Remo had let me live in the shabby apartment he shared with his three brothers. He’d put food on our table with money he won in the fighting cages, and I paid him back with loyalty and the fierce determination to become the soldier he needed at his side to help him kill the fuckers laying claim on a territory that was rightfully his.