Trapped by the Mob (Detroit Mafia Romance Book 1) Read online

  Detroit Mafia Romance Book 1

  Trapped by the Mob

  by

  Tami Lund

  Cover Artist: Rebekah Ganiere

  Editor: Julie Sturgeon

  Published by: Tami Lund

  Copyright: 2019 by Tami Lund

  License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer.

  Thank you for your support.

  All entities, locations, businesses, etc. in this book are strictly figments of the author’s overactive imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Questions, comments, or desires to seek permission to use any part of this book for your own purposes should be directed to [email protected].

  TRAPPED BY THE MOB

  Sure, Antonio Sarvilli is the money man behind his brother’s criminal empire, but that doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy. He’s not the one out there killing people. All he does is make greenbacks and enjoy the fruits of his labor.

  That attitude changes when his brother assigns him to get to know Phoebe Cavanaugh, a Good Samaritan who witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to.

  Now, all Antonio wants is to get out so he can be with Phoebe.

  Except that’s not how it works when you’re part of the mob.

  Chapter One

  THE GOOD SAMARITAN

  “I swear, I’ll never do that again,” Phoebe Cavanaugh muttered to her reflection, which stared back at her with mussed hair—and not the sexy bedhead kind, either—and bags the size of Lake Michigan under her eyes, accentuating a horribly pallid complexion.

  “I am not a bad girl,” she added before shoving the toothbrush into her mouth and attempting to scrub away the cotton and lingering taste of tequila. Or maybe that was worm. God, the end of the evening was hazy, but she suspected her evil co-workers had convinced her to eat the damn thing when the last shot had been poured.

  “Why did I think I could keep up?” She hadn’t been a heavy drinker when she had been in college, let alone in the five years since graduating. “And on a weekday, no less.”

  She trudged back to her bedroom and huffed out a sigh. The digital clock on her bedside table flipped to 8:02.

  Phoebe should have been to work an hour ago, and she hadn’t even showered yet. Hell, she was still wearing the jeans and boatneck, striped shirt she’d worn to the bar last night.

  Not to mention the roiling in her stomach. Ugh. How the heck did one cure a weekday hangover?

  She kicked a running shoe out of her way, and for the first time since dragging herself out of bed, something inside her body perked up. “I’ll sweat it out.”

  She nodded, stripping out of last night’s clothes and reaching for her favorite pair of running shorts. “Thirty-minute jog, ten-minute shower, bare minimum makeup, and I’ll stop at McDonald’s on the way to work. I’ll be two hours late, but at least they won’t be able to say I couldn’t hang.”

  Hell, she was feeling better already.

  A swath of oak trees with massive, sprawling branches lined up on either side of a narrow, winding drive that separated Phoebe’s apartment complex from the main road. The natural barrier helped cut down on the city noises that slammed into her as soon as she hit the sidewalk, running along the road that normally took her to her job, the grocery store, the nearby bar she never intended to step foot into again.

  She passed a gas station and hung a left, running along the gravel shoulder of a residential road that cut through a swampy area, which meant it was underdeveloped and thus much quieter with far less traffic. Lots of school buses, though. Usually she was already at work by this point, so she didn’t have to share road time with the big yellow vehicles with their flashing red lights and the stop signs that popped out from the side every time the gears ground to a halt to take on yet another kid.

  The bout of nausea hit when she was jogging through a particularly quiet stretch. A wall of eight-foot tall cattails swayed in the gentle breeze to her left, and a gravel path jutted from the main road to her right. A two-story house with dust-covered, white siding stood sentinel, with a smaller cottage tucked behind it, like maybe it was a servant’s quarters or, more likely, a guesthouse. A dark-haired girl stood at the end of the dirt road, presumably waiting for the bus. She kicked pebbles while fiddling with the straps on her purple backpack.

  “Oh God.” Phoebe’s stomach had about two seconds before she expelled whatever contents were left from last night, so she dove through the wall of cattails. She preferred to puke in private, thankyouverymuch. Her running shoes sank into muck as she bent at the waist and hacked up what looked like she might very well have eaten that damn worm from the bottom of the tequila bottle.

  Sucking in deep breaths and wiping the snot from her nose with the back of her hand, she remained doubled over at the waist until the sound of a car door caught her attention. Glad for the distraction from the grossness at her feet, she gingerly pulled her shoes from the mud and separated the foliage with her hands so she could look out at the road.

  A newer model black town car had stopped near the young girl still standing across the street. That was weird. Phoebe glanced up and down the road, but there were no other cars. Or buses. She didn’t see someone who might resemble a parent either. And that guy climbing out of the driver’s seat didn’t look like any father Phoebe would want. Not that she knew her own father or believed they all should look a certain way, but this guy, he would be a better fit in a mafia movie than in, say, a Disney princess book.

  Unless the story was about kidnapper dads.

  “Holy shit!” She stared through the gap she’d made in the cattails as the guy walked around the car, grabbed the kid by the strap of her purple backpack, and tossed her into the backseat of his car. Okay, maybe it didn’t happen exactly like that, but that little girl had definitely not intended to go with that guy. She was waiting for the bus, wasn’t she?

  “Ohmigod, he’s kidnapping her!” Phoebe leaped from her hiding place, waving her arms and shouting, “Stop! Stop! Help! Police! Somebody call the cops!”

  The kidnapper’s head snapped up, and for a second she was afraid he was about to pull out a gun and aim it at her. Maybe she watched too many movies. Except the guy was kidnapping that kid, for crying out loud!

  Instead of shooting her, he hustled around the car and hopped into the driver’s seat, the tires spinning and kicking dirt and pebbles at her as she raced across the street like she thought she was going to be able to stop him.

  “Nina?”

  Phoebe jerked her attention to the woman jogging toward her on the dirt road. She must have come from the smaller house tucked behind the big one. The woman wore a pale pink, scoop neck T-shirt and a pair of khaki capris. Her hair was dark, pulled back into a ponytail, and her features were dainty and elfin. Just like the little girl who was speeding away in the backseat of a black sedan with some creepy mob guy.

  “Nina,” the woman said again when she reached Phoebe. “Did the bus come?” She sounded on the edge of panic, like she needed Phoebe to lie to her.

  “Some guy just kidnapped her,” Phoebe said. “At least, I think so. That was your daughter, right? Dark hair, purple backpack, looks just like you?”

  The lady twisted her head back and forth, looking up and down the road. “Yes. Nina. What do you mean, some guy just kidnapped her? Who?”

  Phoebe tugged her phone from her shorts pocket and diale
d 9-1-1. “How the hell do I know who he was? But I can describe the car and him, although damn it, I didn’t think to get the license—hello? Yes, this is an emergency. I just witnessed a kidnapping. Yes, I’ll—”

  “No!” The woman jerked the phone from Phoebe’s hand and pressed the red button on the screen to disconnect the call. “Don’t involve the cops.”

  “Don’t what? Are you crazy? Some mafia-looking guy just kidnapped your daughter, lady.” She enunciated the words the way people did when they were speaking to someone who didn’t understand English very well.

  “Which is why you can’t involve the police.”

  Phoebe’s phone rang. Emergency dispatch flashed on the screen. She took a couple steps away from the crazy lady and answered the call. “Yes, hello? Yes, I did just call and yes, I did witness a kidnapping. I’m at” —she glanced up at the street sign—“the corner of Hiller and Dirk Avenue. Yes, I’ll stay here until the police arrive. Thank you. Uh-uh. Bye.”

  She disconnected the call and glanced at the woman who was now frowning at her like she’d done something wrong instead of try to help her get her daughter back. “Are you going into shock? Is that the problem?”

  The lady flung out her hand and stormed away, heading down the road that, now that Phoebe got a good look at it, was actually a long, winding driveway. The mother of the year muttered as she walked. Something about ruining everything and now Gino was going to be a complete ass and probably punish her even though she wasn’t the one who called the cops and why couldn’t people just mind their own damn business.

  “Hey,” Phoebe said, chasing after her. “If I hadn’t noticed that guy taking your kid, you wouldn’t even know she was gone until she didn’t get off the school bus this afternoon.”

  The lady sighed and turned around. “Yes, I would have. I’m sure Gino will call, probably within the hour. He didn’t take her because he actually wants to see her; he took her because I went out on a date last night. Apparently he can screw anyone he damn well pleases, but I can’t even go on one lousy date. And that’s the best part: It was a lousy date.”

  Phoebe canted her head and furrowed her brow. “What are you talking about?”

  The lady flapped her hand again. “Gino. My ex-husband. I’m sure that’s who took Nina. Well, one of his minions, at any rate, since he never does his own dirty work.”

  “Oh. I take it he’s her dad?”

  “Of course he is,” she snapped, like the answer was obvious.

  “So he won’t hurt her?”

  “Doubtful. I mean, I’m pretty sure Gino isn’t actually capable of love, but whatever passes closest to it in his mind is what he feels for Nina. So no, he won’t hurt her. He only did this to torment me.”

  “Yeah, you said that. Because you went on a date last night. But didn’t you say he’s your ex-husband?”

  “Yes, thank God.”

  “Then how is it he has any say over your life whatsoever?”

  “Trust me, once you get caught in Gino Sarvilli’s web, you never truly get out again. Even though he granted me the divorce two years ago, the ground rules were clear. I’m only allowed to do whatever Gino says I can do. And having a life, enjoying the company of another man, isn’t on that list.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  She shrugged. “It does in Gino’s world.”

  “You make the guy sound like a dictator or something.”

  “You said it,” she said as a police cruiser slowed and turned onto the dirt road, inching toward them. “And this”—she pointed at the cop car— “just made it ten times worse.”

  Thanks to an unfortunate situation last fall—which, by the way, hadn’t been her fault—Phoebe had lost her job as a wedding planner. One career change later and she wasn’t quite to the ninety-day mark in her current position. Now she had no idea if she’d even be able to make it in today.

  Not the way to impress the new boss.

  Chapter Two

  THIS AIN’T KANSAS, TOTO

  “Oh great, it’s you.”

  That’s how Margot Sarvilli answered the door when the second police officer showed up.

  Margot knew the cops? And she had the kind of relationship that allowed her to act snotty toward them? What the hell had Phoebe gotten herself into? She never should have jogged this morning. She should have just sucked it up and gone into the work. Now she still felt like shit, she desperately needed to get rid of the taste of puke, her favorite running shoes were probably ruined, and nine o’clock had come and gone.

  But she didn’t leave, because, for some strange reason, this woman refused to cooperate with the police, who were trying to help get her kid back. Since Phoebe had been an eyewitness, she was determined to see this through to the end, despite Margot’s weird attitude and the fact that Phoebe’s boss had a zero-tolerance tardiness policy.

  “Long time no chat, Marge,” the tall, dark-haired police officer said as he tipped an invisible hat and stepped into her kitchen without an invitation. He wore a wrinkled, plaid, short-sleeved button-down shirt and a pair of Wranglers that looked brand-spankin’ new. Phoebe didn’t see a badge anywhere on his person, but since he and Margot obviously knew each other, she could assume he was another police officer.

  How was it Margot knew the cops so well?

  “You know I hate that name,” Margot said through clenched teeth. “And it’s only been, what, a day or so since you’ve cruised by my house, creepily stalking me?”

  “It’s call surveillance, and it’s not creepy at all if you’re innocent.”

  “Oh for God’s sake.” Margot rolled her eyes and turned her back to him. “I suppose you expect me to offer you coffee.”

  He gave a pointed look to the cup in front of the uniformed officer who sat at the round, wooden kitchen table. “That’d be great, thanks. You know how I like it.”

  “You are the most disgusting person I have ever met, and that’s saying something considering who I was married to.” Margot moved away from the coffeepot. “Get it your damn self.”

  Wow. Phoebe had absolutely no personal experience dealing with the police until today, but if someone had spoken to Donnie Wahlberg like that on Blue Bloods, he would have cuffed the gal before she could say, “piss off.”

  “Speaking of your ex, how’s he doing?” The newest officer added a dollop of cream and a whole lot of sugar to his cup.

  “No idea.”

  The cop leaned against the counter and shifted his attention to Phoebe. Which was really uncomfortable, frankly. He widened his dark eyes in that way guys did when they saw a girl they thought was hot, except usually it happened in the bar, not during a kidnapping investigation. Okay, she didn’t have any experience with kidnapping investigations, but it certainly didn’t seem the appropriate time and place to ogle someone.

  Not to mention, she couldn’t imagine she looked anything remotely close to attractive. She was sweaty, she probably smelled like tequila—possibly the worm—and she’d puked her guts out a short time ago and hadn’t brushed her teeth afterward. The best she’d been able to do was rinse her mouth with water from Margot’s kitchen sink.

  “Detective Joseph Proctor,” the cop said, extending his hand. “You can call me Joe. And you are…?”

  “Phoebe Cavanaugh. Nice to meet you.”

  “Yeah, it is.” His gaze swept from the blonde ponytail perched high on her head down to her muck-covered tennis shoes. Margot had insisted she not bother to take them off when she came inside, since the cops were just going to trash her floor with their disgusting shoes anyway.

  Phoebe cleared her throat and not only wished for a toothbrush but also a longer pair of shorts.

  “So what’s your connection to Gino Sarvilli, Phoebe?”

  “Uh…”

  “There is no connection,” Margot interjected. “She doesn’t know him. She doesn’t have a clue who he is. This entire thing is a giant misunderstanding.”

  “That’s been her line from the beginn
ing,” the other cop said, pointing at Margot and then shifting his finger to Phoebe. “But this one says she saw the daughter get tossed into a black town car by a guy who”—he paused and glanced down at his notepad—“looked like he was straight out of a mafia movie.”

  “Describe him,” Joe barked.

  Before Phoebe could open her mouth, Margot said, “She wasn’t kidnapped, you moron. Gino took her for his visitation. That’s all.” She threw Phoebe a glance that she suspected was meant to tell her to shut the hell up, which didn’t make any sense. Why didn’t this woman want her daughter back?

  “As I understand it, Gino doesn’t have visitation. You have full custody.”

  “And full custody means I can allow him to see his daughter anytime I please. Now, if you don’t mind, I really need to—”

  Her phone, which was lying on the table, started vibrating and rattling. The police officer glanced at it and then at Joe. “Might be him.”

  Phoebe, too, looked at the phone. “Asshole” flashed on the screen. Margot frowned and crossed her arms and made no move to reach for the device.

  “Answer it,” Joe suggested. “Unless you want me to?”

  Margot hesitated for a split second longer, and then, with a muttered curse, snatched up the phone and barked into the receiver, “What?” She started to walk away, but Joe grabbed her arm, keeping her in the room.

  Not at all how Phoebe imagined a police investigation would go down.

  “No,” Margot said into the phone. “It didn’t go well.” She turned her back and lowered her voice, but Phoebe still heard her say, “He was an asshole.” Then, louder, “Apparently I’m only capable of surrounding myself with one sort of man.” She glared at Joe, who smirked back.

  Margot paused, presumably listening to whatever “Asshole” was saying, and then she said, “No, no one’s here,” without looking at any of the people in the room. “Of course I didn’t call the cops. Do you think I’m stupid?”