Light My Fire (Sex. Rock. Mafia. Book 1) Read online

  Light My Fire

  A Sex Rock Mafia Novel

  Jessica Ruben

  Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Ruben

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.jessicarubenauthor.com

  Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Editor: Nicole Bailey, Proof Before You Publish

  Proofing: Sarah P, All Encompassing Books

  Publicity: Autumn Ganz at Wordsmith Publicity

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

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN paperback 978-1-7334751-1-2

  ISBN e-book 978-1-7334751-0-5

  To Leigh Raines, a talented author and friend I simply couldn’t live without.

  Contents

  Blurb

  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

  Epilogue

  Connect with Jessica Ruben

  Also by Jessica Ruben

  Acknowledgments

  Preview of Rising (Vincent and Eve Book 1)

  Blurb

  He saved me from war.

  Fed me when I was in too much pain to eat.

  Smuggled me and my family into America when it became too dangerous to stay.

  But, Nico didn’t flee with us.

  While I began elementary school in the United States,

  He was building the greatest and toughest Mafia of the century.

  The Mafia Shqiptare.

  Nico is now King of all underground trades.

  Sexy. Aggressive. Brilliant.

  After years of nothing but silence, he’s back in my life,

  Ready to do whatever it takes to bring me into his universe.

  He isn’t leaving until he takes me with him.

  Prologue

  Kosovo, 1998

  Jakup sits with his legs crossed, cigar smoke leaking from his pencil-thin lips as he howls, “We cannot fold! The KLA will win this war in the end. It has to.” His voice reverberates through the home like thunder.

  My hands clutch themselves together like magnets.

  The top of my wooden staircase has a direct view of the living room. Hiding behind a large green plant mother recently brought inside, I watch the conversation unfold.

  My father leans forward in his chair. “Serb police need to all be gunned down, once and for all. Over thirty of our children were killed this week. In the streets! They’re animals, Jakup. We need independence. We need freedom. These atrocities cannot stand.” Father’s voice shakes with emotion. “But when will the US intervene? All they talk about is Monica Lewinsky, and meanwhile, the stakes here”—he points to the ground with a firm finger—“are rising.”

  I shift, the words children … gunned … killed bang against my head.

  Father must hear my stressful thoughts because he calls up, “Elira, come down now.”

  Mother told me to stay upstairs today. “You’re only ten,” she said. “Your place is by my side.”

  But mother is not home; she’s at the market, gathering food with my older brother, Agron. And as Father always says, I’m his right hand when mama isn’t home.

  Step by step, I move downstairs. Nerves envelop me, but thankfully, my legs do as they’re told.

  Over the last three months, men have been coming and going from our home, using our farm to train. We’ve been cooking the biggest meals.

  “Like there’s a party every day,” mama said.

  We’re freedom fighters and members of the KLA, the Kosovo Liberation Army. My father along with Jakup are the two main party leaders. Albanians in Kosovo want to be free from Serbian rule. We want to govern ourselves. And my papa is going to bring us there.

  “Jakup, this is my daughter, Elira.”

  I sit on the chair beside his, sitting tall and strong, just like he taught me.

  Rubbing my back with his warm hand, his touch says, Don’t be nervous.

  I turn to him and nod. I’m not scared.

  Jakup puts out a hand, and I do the same, hoping I look adult.

  He laughs. “I can see it in your eyes; you’re smart. You’ll go places one day. And your father and I will clear the path for—”

  The front door is kicked open. Gunfire. I turn my head to hide in my father’s chest, but he throws me beneath the table. I curl up by a wooden leg, ducking my head low. Shots ring loud. Stomping and then yelling coming from the kitchen, too.

  There’s a war in the house! Can they see me? Will they get me? My entire body shakes. Do I stay, or do I run?

  Suddenly, a hand grabs my leg like a vise, dragging me out from beneath my wooden cave. I want to scream and kick, but nothing comes from my mouth. My legs are lead. My voice is gone; it’s vanished.

  I’m forced to stand when a gun is brought to my temple. It’s hard and cold. Wetness leaks beneath the pink flowery dress my mama sewed last week, dripping down my leg like a broken faucet. Suddenly, mama is before me. My father is lying on the floor, his head shattered. My brain turns to chaos and buzzes with light. Something within me floats from my chest.

  Has God come to take my soul?

  The gun is pressed harder against my head. He’s screaming, “Where are the men hiding, Blerina?”

  She doesn’t reply, sweat soaking the front of her black hair.

  He chuckles darkly. “Tell me, or I’ll blow your daughter to bits.”

  Her mouth opens and shuts before her green eyes turn resolute. She stands taller, steadfast in her beliefs. My throat stings because my mind knows. The most important men in the resistance meet and train here. Their deaths could mean the end of our freedom, which everyone tells me is more important than the lives we’ve lost. She will never fold. My heart sinks, knowing my end is here and now.

  Children in the streets …

  Children in the streets …

  My body will be among them.

  BOOM!

  My mother screams. I’m on the ground with a huge man on top of me. Blood and bone against my skin. From the corner of my eye, I see Nico, huge and looming, shooting his gun.

  BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

  I don’t take a breath as the chaos re-erupts around me.

  Silence and stench. The room spins. I’m nailed onto the floor, something unmovable crushing me under.

  Mama is down on her haunches, pushing the weight off my body and lifting me in her strong arms. She walks up the steps.

  Am I a corpse, watching from above?

  Her tears drip onto my face, telling me I’m alive.

  Methodically, she turns on the bath before stripping me of my dress and underwear. I put my thumb in my mouth, a soothing habit I broke years ago. She places me in the bath and scrubs my skin until it’s raw. I don’t dare move.

  The steam tells me the water is hot, but I can barely feel it. After a few minutes, she p
ulls me out, wrapping me in my towel, still damp from last night. Pink pajamas are slipped over my head. It’s still morning, but we continue our nightly rituals until I’m tucked into bed.

  “Now, don’t move, Elira. Rest until I return.”

  “Don’t leave me!” I finally cry as she reaches the door. My voice is loud, but it doesn’t sound like mine. It’s rough and too high-pitched.

  Her eyes widen, like I just made a big mistake. I cover my lips with my hands.

  Did the Serbs hear me? Are they back?

  Before she can exit, my door swings open, and my mouth poises to scream. It’s Nico, taking up my entire doorway.

  “I’ll stay with her, Blerina.”

  Mama trembles, folding herself into her own arms. He’s eighteen but much bigger than she is. Nico is the biggest.

  “Nabergjan is next on the Serb radar. This wasn’t just a single hit but the start of terror in our village.” He folds his heavy arms across his chest. A gun hangs around his waist, and I know there’s a knife on him, too.

  I hold my breath, listening.

  “I will find arrangements for you to take Elira and Agron out as soon as possible. Your work is done.” His voice is measured as he gives his decree.

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue with me. It’s for your safety.” He cracks his knuckles. “Bring Elira tea. Now.”

  She nods in obedience. Father always said Nico is young but brighter and crueler than the rest. When Nico speaks, everyone listens and follows his orders. He fights for our freedom like the other men, but he is different, too. He’s unlike the others in the way he carries himself—with so much strength and determination. Nothing can get in his way.

  Mama’s pale lips quiver, like she wants to say more. She leaves.

  He comes next to me when I ask, “Why is she g-going down?” My voice is a whisper as I clutch on to him.

  His white shirt is damp. Instinctively, I tuck my head into his chest. It’s instant relief.

  He pulls me closer, allowing me to take him in. “She’s got to clean up the mess downstairs. You saw your father, didn’t you? And Jakup?” His voice is firm and honest.

  I look up into his deep, dark eyes. For me, Nico brings only truth. He holds my shoulder, like I’m a friend he’s trying to comfort. From his touch, my heartbeat slows.

  “They’re dead now. But don’t worry. I will find and kill the Serbs who got away. You have my word.” He pauses, eyes narrowing into slits. “I’ll never let them get away with this.” His voice is harder than I’ve ever heard it.

  A knock at the door. I freeze, but it’s only my mother entering with a cup in her hands. Mint leaves float at the top, sugar already melted. She leaves it on my bedside table, and Nico gestures for her to leave. I should say I want my Mama, but I don’t. He’s all I need.

  He stands, and I whisper-beg, “D-don’t leave me.”

  The cup looks like a toy in his hands. “I will not leave your side. Not yet.”

  I sit up, my legs still beneath the covers. Gazing at him, not breathing, I watch as he gently blows the steam. He lifts the cup to my lips, and I slowly drink. It’s hot and sweet. When it’s finished, he leaves the bed to place it on the small table by my window.

  How can the sun be shining when my father is dead?

  I move inside my covers, feeling physically comatose from my internal pain. My feelings and thoughts are scattered like dead bodies in the streets. Life’s leftovers for anyone to poach.

  He sets himself next to me, the sheet a division between us. We’re separate, but I can feel his body heat. He hugs me to his broad chest. I nestle my head beneath his chin as his hands move around my body like a vise. I like when he holds me like this. There’s no way I can move, but why would I want to? He’s hard, but nothing can hurt me when I’m in here. Slowly, I feel myself settling into safety. The warm tea has coated my stomach, softening the pain.

  I try to calm my body, remembering yesterday. Nico chased me around the house and threw me over his shoulder and tickled me until tears dripped down my face. Before dinner, he told me about democracy. We reviewed my English words. Bed. Chair. Pajamas. Slippers. Toothbrush.

  Nico is sort of like my father but not. He’s kind of like a brother or a teacher but not that either. He’s the man I love. Some girls know their favorite color. I know the man I will marry one day. Still, he’s always out of reach. Too old. Too handsome. Too powerful. But one day, I won’t be a child anymore. And I’ll show him I’m worthy to be by his side, as his queen.

  Mother tells me, when I was born, he came with his father to bring some fruit to celebrate my birth. I had been crying, seemingly inconsolable, and he asked to hold me. The moment I went into his arms, I calmed.

  “She likes you,” his father said.

  After his family was killed by Serb forces, he came around to help my father with the KLA.

  He whispers, “You were so brave, Elira.”

  He kisses the top of my hair, still damp. It reaches down my back in black waves. Sometimes, it gets knotted at the bottom, but I normally keep it in one long braid. Mother forgot to fix it after my bath. Anxiety returns to my chest. I lift my face, so I can see Nico’s eyes. They’re darker than night.

  “My hair,” I start. “It’s always braided when I rest. Mama forgot!”

  “Sit up. I used to do this for Elsa when she was small.”

  He separates my hair into three sections and begins to braid. When he’s done, I lie back down, feeling better.

  His skin is tanned from spending days in the hot sun. My white hands are pale compared to his. I trace the planes and angles of his face, memorizing his hard-looking, prominent cheekbones and straight black hair. I should feel shy to touch him in this way, but I don’t. He never gave me permission to, but I have it. If I didn’t, he would stop me. Nico isn’t a man who ever lets things happen without his permission.

  Just last week, Zamir didn’t follow Nico’s protocol when finding a Serb officer on the street. Nico had him beaten, threatening to never let him near the KLA again. Some people were scared, saying Nico shouldn’t hurt one of our own. Others said Nico did right; he can’t have a team who doesn’t listen to their commander. Plus, Zamir’s actions could have resulted in many people’s deaths.

  He shuts his eyes, a smirk filling his lips as I draw.

  Women always giggle and smile around Nico, even when he doesn’t try to make them laugh. Especially Bardha. Her huge breasts are always pulling against her shirt. And she tries to stay outside to get bronze on her face even though she should be helping in the kitchen. She talks about Nico. How “big” he is and how “good” he is in bed, but I don’t see why that’s special. Everyone can see how big he is. And, of course, he’s good in bed. Aren’t we all good when we sleep? So, why does she say it like it’s a secret?

  A few weeks ago, me and Bardha were rolling out dough for the lunch pies.

  I asked her, “Why do you laugh when Nico is near? Why does your voice get squeaky like a mouse in the attic when he speaks with you?”

  But she just rolled her eyes and told me I couldn’t understand—yet.

  “Nico is the kind of man who doesn’t just talk about change. He makes change,” she said. “Just last week, he organized ten of our men against fifty Serbian police, and Nico won! He leads like no one else. He’s going to be the one to win our independence. I can feel it.”

  “Is he nice to you?” My hands balled into fists as I silently prayed the answer was no.

  “No.” She shook her head and smiled as though my question were silly. “Nico is a warrior. He fears no man on this earth. He is not the eldest, and yet he has earned the greatest respect because of the battles he’s won on our streets. He has no great family lineage, but he has the confidence of a king. A man like Nico will never be nice. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t good … in other ways.” She winked.

  Before I could respond that Nico was nice to me, she kissed my cheek and walked away. For days, I thoug
ht about what I could say to her. I still haven’t had the chance. I’m not sure I ever will. Without Papa, nothing can be the same.

  From my chest, the words, “I’m not safe here anymore,” bubble out from my mouth.

  His eyes flit open. “You will always be safe. I swear it. And my oath is my bond, Elira.”

  “What if those men come back for me?” The reality of this hits me, and panic begins to build.

  “They can’t. Those men are now in hell, where they belong. When you move into the afterlife, there is no return. And the ones who ran, I will find.” A sneer mars his face.

  Into his chest, I ask, “What if their children come for me?” My heart beats faster. Revenge is the natural order.

  “I’ll kill them, too.” He shifts, so he can hold me closer. “Don’t you know I will kill anyone who tries to hurt you?”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod quickly, eyes wide.

  He’s scary right now, eyes with such undisguised hatred and maliciousness that, for a moment, my voice fails me. This is the Nico men fear. I want to give myself up to crying convulsively, but Nico’s strength holds my emotions up like a pillar. I won’t cry. Not in front of him.

  “Okay.” I swallow hard, maintaining eye contact.

  He holds the back of my head, as though to make sure I listen intently. “You are allowed to grieve for your father, and you should. You are allowed to be afraid, too. Giving yourself time to hurt will make you resilient. If you don’t, the pain will eat at you and weaken you. When mourning is over, you must emerge to be the strong girl I know you to be.”