Knocked Up by the Beast: A Mafia Romance (Kingdoms Book 1) Read online

  Knocked Up by the Beast

  A Mafia Romance

  Aria R. Blue

  Copyright © 2020 by Aria R. Blue

  All rights reserved.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  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.

  Contains explicit love scenes and adult language. 18+

  Cover design by Perfect Pear Creative Covers

  Created with Vellum

  For the good girls who dream of bad boys

  “Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”

  RUMI

  Contents

  1. Belle

  2. Belle

  3. Leo

  4. Belle

  5. Leo

  6. Belle

  7. Leo

  8. Leo

  9. Belle

  10. Leo

  11. Belle

  12. Belle

  13. Leo

  14. Belle

  15. Leo

  16. Belle

  17. Leo

  18. Belle

  19. Belle

  20. Leo

  21. Belle

  22. Belle

  23. Leo

  24. Belle

  25. Leo

  26. Belle

  27. Belle

  28. Leo

  29. Leo

  30. Leo

  31. Belle

  32. Belle

  33. Leo

  34. Leo

  35. Belle

  36. Leo

  37. Belle

  38. Leo

  39. Leo

  40. Belle

  41. Leo

  42. Belle

  43. Leo

  44. Belle

  45. Belle

  Epilogue- Belle

  A Love Letter

  Newsletter

  Also by Aria R. Blue

  1

  Belle

  I’m positive of one thing:

  The woman with the wild red hair has been following me. I saw her way too often for it to be a coincidence.

  As I went about my day, I noticed a flash of red in every place I went to.

  From the bookstore to the farmer’s market, she was everywhere. Omnipresent.

  Silver Falls is a small town where everyone knows everyone. And I know for a fact that I’ve never seen her around here before.

  It’s possible that she’s just visiting our town, so I try not to think too much about it.

  I walk away from the town center, and towards the grass-covered hill. There’s a small white cottage that sits right on top. Home.

  That’s when I see that flash of red again. Right behind me, a little to my left.

  My throat tightens.

  I lick my dry lips, and turn around slowly.

  Even though I feel threatened, my first thought when I see her is that I know her from somewhere.

  She has a magnetic face: weathered skin, thick eyebrows, high cheekbones.

  Her milky green eyes hold a frenzy, like there’s a storm trapped within.

  She has me captivated. I’m frozen in place, even though I want nothing to do with her.

  “The Beast will be your end,” she says in a clear, ringing voice.

  “Pardon?”

  “The Beast will be your end, and he will be your beginning.”

  “Good to know,” I say, taking a step away.

  “Be wary of the man with the blue eyes. A time will come when you hold his fate in your hands. It will be up to you whether he lives or perishes.”

  The intensity in her eyes keeps me rooted to the spot. I become immobile.

  But it only lasts a moment. I mentally shake it off, letting her influence on me slide off like a cardigan.

  The woman in front of me is older than she looks.

  Probably in her late eighties.

  Her hair is too bright and too red for it to be natural. There’s a slight tremble to her voice when she speaks, and her bodyweight is supported on a wooden walking stick.

  She’s clearly harmless. Probably far from home. Maybe even lost.

  I should see that she gets home safely.

  I hold her bony shoulder, and lean down so we’re eye to eye. “Do you live around here, ma’am?” Are you lost, I think in my mind.

  Her jaw hardens when she hears the softness of my tone.

  “Belle,” she hisses.

  I let go of her shoulder like my fingertips have been scorched.

  “You know my name,” I whisper.

  She looks at me defiantly, like she knows much more about me than just my name. Like my past. And my future.

  Her mouth trembles as she says, “Your world will change this December. And by spring, a difficult decision must be made. Make sure that you choose wisely.”

  With that, she leaves.

  She fades away into the town, becoming one with it.

  A sense of foreboding swirls in the air above me, the weight of it pressing me down. I’ve heard this being described in the books I’ve read, but I never experienced it until today.

  Is this intuition or insanity?

  It’s a feeling like I’m standing in front of a fork in the road. And whichever way I go, my choice is going to have life-altering consequences.

  If I’m not mistaken, the red-haired woman just made a prophecy about my future.

  I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  Do I believe or do I dismiss?

  I remain frozen, processing all of the words she said. I commit them to memory.

  The Beast will be your end, and he will be your beginning.

  * * *

  Be wary of the man with the blue eyes.

  * * *

  Your world will change this December. And by spring, a difficult decision must be made.

  I wait until the wildfire in my head simmers down.

  And I come to a conclusion—there’s no point in me ruminating about what she meant by those words. There’s simply nothing to gain by overthinking.

  Maybe if I see her again, I’ll confront her about it. Maybe.

  I turn around, and look up at the white cottage sitting on top of the hill.

  The same old life.

  My older sister, Hazel, is sitting in her usual chair by the window, staring out at the world. Staring at me.

  She must have seen my interaction with the red-haired woman.

  When I catch my sister’s gaze, she averts her eyes. As always, there’s no acknowledgment of my presence.

  I’ve gotten used to it by this point. It still bothers me, but I’m used to her indifference.

  Pursing my lips, I make my way up the grassy hill, and stop before our cottage’s front door.

  Taking a deep breath in, I push it open.

  2

  Belle

  “I’m home,” I announce.

  Hazel doesn’t even look up.

  There was a time when we used to be close. When we used to share everything with each other and do things together.

  But it’s been two years since she last spoke. To anyone.

  It’s not that she’s incapable of speaking. She’s mute by choice.

  Two years ago, Hazel quit her job in New York City, packed up all of her things, and moved back home.


  I knew the second I saw her haunted face that something had gone horribly wrong.

  For weeks on end, she wouldn’t leave the bedroom.

  She didn’t eat, she didn’t sleep. She didn’t even cry.

  My older sister became the emotional equivalent of a blank wall.

  But with time, she got better.

  The color returned to her cheeks, and she seemed more lively. A fraction of the girl she used to be, but she was healing.

  We tried everything to get her to talk, but she refuses all attempts at communication.

  So even after two years, we’re still waiting for her old self to return.

  But she’s become a shell of the person she used to be. A ghost of my older sister.

  Now, she just watches with those golden-green eyes that are her namesake.

  Julie, my other sister, bursts out of the bedroom when she hears my voice. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I was starting to get worried.”

  I hand the grocery bag over to her.

  “I got held up,” I answer vaguely.

  I’m acutely aware that Hazel is watching me, but I don’t turn around to face her.

  I keep my eyes on Julie as she goes through everything I got at the market today.

  My books are stacked to the right side.

  She pulls them out one by one, inspecting their hardbound covers.

  “You need a boyfriend,” she declares, cocking her head at a particular cover where a woman has her eyes half-closed as a man kisses her neck. “There are plenty of boys in this town. Just pick one.”

  I snatch it away from her. “I’m not interested in anybody from this town.”

  “You can’t say that when you never go out and talk to any boys,” Julie sighs, now pulling out the bread loaf and the fruits and vegetables.

  She throws a green apple at Hazel, who manages to catch it just in time.

  “I do go out,” I defend myself. “Sometimes.”

  When her attention is back on me, she says, “My point is, dear sister, you never put yourself out there.”

  “When I find ‘The One’…”

  She chomps down on her own apple, and wags a finger in my direction. “That’s where you’re wrong, Belle. There’s no such thing as ‘The One’. You meet people, you find somebody who’s tolerable, and then you lock them down for life. Simple. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

  I know better than to argue with Julie, but I find myself shaking my head anyway.

  “True love,” I say. “I’m going to wait for true love.”

  She snorts. “You’re in love with love. You know that right?”

  I am. I am in love with love, I think.

  And I’m not even ashamed of it.

  “Is Papa home?” I ask, before we go down the rabbit hole that is my love life. Or my lack of one.

  “I called Papa last night. He said he’ll be home for breakfast,” Julie answers absent-mindedly, still digging through the contents of the bag.

  I know exactly what she’s looking for.

  “Did Papa’s meeting with the investor go well?” I ask, pursing my lips to hold back a smile.

  “I didn’t ask. Although now that you mention it, he did sound kind of nervous on the phone.”

  Our Papa is a genius. He’s an inventor.

  Unfortunately, most of the time, nobody wants anything to do with his inventions.

  I like to think of him as avant-garde.

  “I guess we’ll find out how the meeting went soon enough. Papa should be home any minute now,” I say, looking up at the wall clock.

  Julie painted a design of vines around the clock a few years ago, framing the clock semi-circularly.

  Her little paintings can be found all over the house.

  All of them are of vines, leaves and other green things.

  It was at a time when we couldn’t afford paint supplies, so Hazel and I made green paint for our youngest sister using wild spinach from the forest.

  Julie was elated.

  She made the most out of that natural paint. And now, half of our cottage walls are green.

  As the years went by, she added colors to it. Lavender and soft orange flower blooms dot the intricate vine paintings.

  She’s still digging through the grocery bag now.

  “Are you looking for something?” I sing-song, pulling out a set of paintbrushes from my skirt pocket.

  It’s covered in white wrapping paper, and a piece of light brown rope holds it all together.

  She can’t see what it is, but she recognizes the shape. And she immediately knows it’s for her.

  Julie gets back up on her feet.

  “You got the brushes for me,” she exclaims, clapping her hands together.

  Art is her whole life.

  Thankfully, she likes to paint outdoors now.

  I knew she wanted new brushes. Although she never asked for it, I knew that nothing would make her happier on her special day than some new art supplies.

  “Happy birthday, Julie,” I smile, hugging my little sister.

  I turn around to look at Hazel. She’s still sitting slumped in her chair, but there’s a small smile on her face.

  Out of the three of us, Hazel is the one who looks most like our mother. She looks so beautiful when she smiles.

  I wish she would do it more often.

  I turn back to Julie. She’s reaching for her birthday gift.

  I pull it out of her reach. “Uh-uh. Not until you apologize for what you said about me being a hopeless romantic.”

  “But you are a hopeless romantic.”

  I don’t like the title.

  It stings.

  Because for as long as I can remember, I craved something.

  I craved a feeling.

  It wasn’t until I was older that I realized that there’s nothing in this world that fascinates me more than love.

  I love love.

  It’s true.

  But every time my sister calls me a hopeless romantic, it makes me feel like all of my dreams are just that.

  Dreams.

  And I don’t want them to remain that way.

  I don’t want to be chasing a feeling for the rest of my life.

  “Okay, I take it back,” she laughs softly. “Can I please have my birthday gift now?”

  “You call that an apology?”

  She cocks her head to the side, and says solemnly, “Belle, I’m so sorry that you’re designed the way you are.”

  Before I can react, she snatches the gift from me. I pull away at the last second, leaving her with torn wrapping paper in her hands.

  She’s grinning wildly from ear to ear, and I’m pretty sure I’m wearing a similar expression.

  With the brushes still in my hands, I turn on my heel, and run. Julie lets out a squeal, and starts chasing after me.

  The front door is thrown open, and we run in circles around the cottage.

  Julie’s trying to get her hands on her paintbrushes, and I’m just trying to tease her.

  If anything, it’s fun.

  It’s a flashback to when we were younger. When the three of us used to spend all of our summer days outdoors.

  Hazel used to lay down on a blanket and read. Julie and I were a little younger, so we played make-believe and created fantasy worlds.

  My little sister grew up, but I haven’t.

  I’m still living in my own fantasy world.

  Julie tackles me to the ground. I yelp as the soft earth makes contact with my face.

  I’m laughing so hard that there are tears in my eyes. However, the tears could also be because of the sharp stabbing pain in my right elbow.

  Looking at Julie, I see that there’s a glow to her face too—the kind she gets when she’s painting.

  I hand her the rectangular box before she breaks my other elbow as well.

  “I can’t believe you actually got them for me,” she squeals, ripping off what’s left of the wrapping paper, and pulling out the brushes.


  There are four of them, all of them of varying sizes.

  I watch the wonder in her eyes as she holds them up to the sun, admiring them from every angle.

  Her eyes brim with tears.

  “What is it?” I ask, instantly on edge.

  “They’re just so beautiful,” she wails. “The wooden handles feel so perfect between my fingers. I can’t wait to use them.”

  I relax again. It’s just my little sister being her usual drama queen self.

  “I’m glad you like them,” I say.

  They were over my budget, but I found them at an antique store, and I just knew that they would be cherished by Julie.

  “How did you know that I wanted new brushes?”

  “You weren’t exactly subtle with your hints,” I laugh, leaning back on the grassy cushion of the hill and looking out at the town spread below us.

  September in Silver Falls is the most beautiful time of the year.

  There’s a slight chill in the air, but the sunshine is just perfect. It warms up the surface of my skin, but doesn’t make me sweat.

  Just how I like it.

  “But those hints were for Papa,” she says.

  I chuckle. “Sure.”

  Papa can be…forgetful sometimes.

  Even when all of us are having dinner together, Papa is lost in his own thoughts, solving complex math equations or doing whatever it is that he does.

  He smiles and nods sometimes, but we know he’s not really listening to anything we’re saying.