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

  Maddox, The Ride Series Second Generation

  Copyright © Megan O’Brien 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

  www.gopublished.com

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  I awoke with a start, covered in sweat, as I had so many nights over the past year. It was as though I could still smell the smoke, still hear the loud boom that had signaled the explosion that had taken my parents’ lives.

  I stared up at the ceiling of my grandparents’ house that, though familiar, still didn’t feel like home. If my parents were still alive, even at eleven I would have been welcomed into their bed for a reassuring snuggle. But my grandparents had to be up soon to open the family bakery and at their older age, they didn’t need anything hindering the little amount of sleep they got. They already had another kid to raise that they hadn’t bargained for.

  They tried their best to hide it but the strain of losing my parents, of raising me and keeping the bakery running wasn’t lost on me. And I couldn’t lose them. They were all I had left.

  With that thought in mind, despite it being before dawn, I got up, prepared to work a few hours at the bakery before school.

  I’d had to grow up quickly over the past year, memories of a carefree childhood like a distant dream that had happened to someone else.

  “No, no, tesoro,” my nonna chided gently, showing me just how to roll the dough between my fingers a few hours later as we prepared to open the bakery for the day. She’d been calling me her treasure in Italian since I was born.

  I nodded dutifully, knowing it was important to her that I learn how to bake, that I take on the family business someday.

  I was at the counter, my grandparents in the back when they walked in. My uncle Angelo, followed by his right-hand man, Bruno.

  Pure hatred and fear quickened my pulse in equal measure as they watched me with cunning eyes. I knew my uncle was evil, had known it for as long as I could remember, just as I knew he’d killed my parents. There was no proof, not that it would have done anything anyway. He had the whole city of Las Vegas under his twisted thumb.

  “Francesca, you’re looking well,” he greeted coolly, his dark eyes assessing and cruel.

  “Growing up so fast,” Bruno noted as his gaze remained on me a beat too long.

  I was scared of my uncle but I was downright terrified of Bruno. He looked at me as though I was a woman as opposed to a child. I always avoided them both as best I could.

  “Angelo, what are you doing here?” Nonna’s voice was tight as she greeted her son. She knew what he was, what he’d done. I could see it in her eyes when she looked at him.

  “Can’t a son come by to visit his mother and niece?” my uncle replied easily. “Plus, there’s nowhere else in town to get a decent cannoli,” he added.

  She nodded stiffly; it was obvious even to me that he scared her. “Francesca, time to get to school,” she told me under her breath.

  She didn’t have to tell me twice. I swiped up my backpack, all too ready to be rid of them.

  “Francesca, you’re turning into a beautiful young woman,” Bruno praised.

  “It’s Frannie.” I somehow found the voice to speak. I hadn’t planned to create a nickname for myself, but hearing my full name on his lips had soured it, despite it being given to me by my parents.

  He cocked a brow, seemingly amused. “Is it now? For a pretty Italian girl like you? I like Francesca much better.”

  I knew better than to argue further, and with a quick nod made for the exit.

  I looked back at my nonna, watching her observe her son with a guarded expression. She couldn’t escape him. She was stuck, trapped really, in more ways than one.

  I couldn’t help but feel as though I’d already been given the same fate.

  Chapter 1

  PRESENT DAY, FRANCESCA

  The familiar smell of coffee and sweet dough tickled my nose as I slid the last batch of cannoli into the display case. I’d been up long before the sun and had been daydreaming of getting off my feet since lunch.

  It would be a while yet before that happened.

  After my grandparents passed, the bakery had fallen to me. Now, five years later, I was struggling to run things on my own. The Vegas Strip had grown exponentially over the years, with large chains bringing more and more competition to the area. I was barely making ends meet.

  But I loved to bake. I loved to experiment in the kitchen. Sometimes it went so wrong but more often than not it went deliciously right. As it turned out, under my nonna’s tutelage I’d turned into a skilled baker. But talent in the kitchen didn’t translate into being able to pay the bills. At least not for me, not anymore.

  The bakery had been struggling before my grandparents passed. But at least there had been two of them, and I’d helped as much as I could. Now, it was only me and I struggled to stay afloat.

  I was near broke and desperately lonely.

  I longed for companionship, someone to share in my passion and my struggle. A lover, a friend, either would be leaps and bounds above what I’d had in recent years. But I’d long since written off the possibility.

  I bristled as the very reason for that walked through the door.

  My uncle stepped into the quiet space, his dark eyes landing squarely on me. “Francesca. You’re looking well.”

  I nodded cordially, doing all I could to mask my true feelings. I might have been lonely, but I still valued my life. And my uncle had the power to eradicate it altogether. I was very aware of that fact. He made sure of it.

  The Rossi family, myself excluded, had once been one of the most feared mafia organizations in Las Vegas. I’d picked up from my eavesdropping that their power had diminished over the years, but nevertheless, with my uncle at the helm they were ruthless, cunning, and cruel.

  I hated my uncle with a passion that had only grown over time.

  Though I did everything I could to avoid him, he knew exactly where to find me when the urge hit. As it apparently had today.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked stiffly.

  “I’d like you to come for dinner tomorrow night. Marcelle is cooking up a feast,” he shared, referring to his latest wife.

  I fought hard to control my reaction, knowing it was useless.

 
His gaze dropped to my neck, no doubt zeroing in on my pulse that had quickened in fear. He was like a predator honing in on a kill. He could smell weakness from a mile away, and I still had yet to build up my full armor against him.

  “Thank you, but I have plans,” I murmured.

  He cocked his head to the side as though amused I would attempt to defy him, even in some small way. “Let me rephrase. Dinner is at seven; we will see you then.”

  With that he turned on a heel and strode from the bakery.

  Shit.

  ****

  The next evening I pulled through the gate and up the drive of my uncle’s mansion with the same trepidation I always felt when I was summoned here. Luckily that didn’t happen all that often. Mainly when his new wife, who was close to my age, got a wild hair to host a dinner party and wanted me to bring a dessert. The tiramisu I’d made sat on the seat next to me. It had turned out beautifully, its delicate layers in stark contrast to the harsh reality that awaited.

  I stepped out of the old hatchback I’d had since high school and straightened my blouse. I’d dressed as casually as I dared, not wanting to draw attention to myself.

  Especially if Bruno was around.

  Miraculously, he’d kept his distance for the most part over the years. I had a feeling that had something to do with my uncle, perhaps one small glimmer of fondness for me that had protected me from what Bruno had in store.

  Or maybe he was just biding his time. I shuddered at the thought.

  I rang the bell, the sound echoing through the grandiose interior, followed by the fierce but thankfully distant barking of the guard dogs. They were kept out back for such occasions.

  “Francesca,” Marcelle greeted, her overdone lips forced into a tight-lipped smile as she opened the door and ushered me inside. She was my uncle’s fourth wife and the youngest, only two years older than my twenty-three years. I believed he’d been in love once, or as close as a man like him could get, with my aunt Sharon. They’d had a son, my cousin, and had been married for close to a decade. When things had soured, he’d allowed her to leave him and to relocate up to Hawthorne, Nevada, a small town north of Vegas.

  His other wives hadn’t been allowed to leave on their own terms. Exactly what that meant, I’d never wanted to know.

  “Hi, Marcelle,” I greeted, carrying the dessert in my arms and following her through the marble entryway to the kitchen just beyond.

  I bristled at the sight of Bruno standing at the counter, a tumbler of brown liquor in his hand. He eyed me as he always did, with a mixture of lust and contempt.

  A quick glance around proved this would be a small dinner, with only my uncle, Marcelle, Bruno, and his latest arm candy.

  I was relieved he had someone with him. Hopefully it would keep his attention off me.

  “How nice of you to join your family, Francesca,” Bruno sneered as I sat stiffly at the table.

  I bit my tongue against pointing out that he wasn’t a Rossi. Not by blood. Both he and my uncle took it as a slight that I avoided family functions, that I very clearly rejected the family business.

  To me, the family business was baking and that was the dream I was trying with all my might to see through.

  I sat stiffly through dinner, forcing smiles when they were warranted and dutifully cleaning my plate.

  “How is the bakery?” Angelo wanted to know as we moved on to dessert.

  “Fine.” I nodded despite it being anything but. I didn’t want his blood money, never had. I’d rather see the bakery fail.

  His expression darkened. “I very much doubt that, based on how empty it is every time I visit. We are family, Francesca. I’m your only family.” He pointed out, inciting a wave of fury to rise in my chest. “If you need help, you ask.”

  Was it some sort of guilt that caused him to offer? He’d taken my parents from me and now wanted to make some sort of amends, no matter how small? Or was it simply family pride, that no Rossi should financially struggle? I never understood what motivated him in conversations like this.

  “I will ask,” I lied quietly, pushing my black-rimmed glasses further up my nose. It was a nervous gesture that I’d been working to control.

  “You do that.” How he managed to make his response sound like a threat I wasn’t sure, but a threat it was.

  When dessert was over, I tactfully bid farewell, eager to escape the lion’s den. There was part of me that always wondered if one of these days I wouldn’t be allowed to leave.

  It was only after I was safely in my car, guiding it through the iron gate and onto the road beyond that I released the choked sob I’d been holding in, my hands shaking as I gripped the wheel.

  My only family was a monster of a man who only wanted me in his life to wield his power over me. Even after all these years I longed for the warm embrace of my parents, of my grandparents. I hadn’t been held, comforted, in so long. My life was one of survival.

  Despite my best efforts, I was just as trapped as Nonna had been all those years before, and my parents before that. They’d paid with their lives in trying to break the shackles of my uncle’s metaphorical prison.

  This would not be my fate. I would get out.

  Somehow.

  Chapter 2

  FRANCESCA

  “Frannie, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Anita called the next morning, rising from her regular table by the window. She and a few others came in every day without fail, determined to see one of the few remaining Italian bakeries in Vegas remain in business.

  Unfortunately, buying a cup of coffee and sitting for two hours wasn’t going to move the needle much.

  The bell over the door tolled moments later, signaling the entrance of the most heart-shatteringly gorgeous man I’d ever seen. I nearly dropped the coat I was in the process of helping Anita put on. His muscular frame filled the doorway as he stepped through, his captivating gray eyes meeting mine before landing on an empty table by the counter.

  “You’re such a dear.” Anita smiled sweetly, unaware that my hands now shook and breath hitched as I finished putting her coat on her. “Are you sure you don’t want to meet my grandson? You two would make such a lovely couple. He’s a looker.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I assured her, not for the first time. “But no, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I waved as she made her way slowly out the door.

  I could feel the man’s eyes on me as he sat, waiting patiently, his large hands clasped on the table, his leather vest stretched over his muscular frame. My eyes cut to the Knights Motorcycle Club insignia on the back of his vest, feeling afraid of its potential meaning and a bit curious. With the life of crime the majority of my family was embroiled in or had been lost to, I had no interest in welcoming more violence into my life. But oddly enough, something about this man appeased that initial fear.

  His head lifted, his eyes on mine as I walked over to his table. His gaze roved my face, studying me with an intent that had me shifting my weight on tired feet.

  “What can I get you?” I asked, impressed with myself when my tone was measured instead of the breathy, fluttering mess I felt like on the inside.

  “Coffee, black,” he replied, his voice a low timbre that went straight to my core.

  “For here?” I asked.

  His eyes held mine. “For here.”

  I turned on a heel, eager to escape his gaze while at the same time wanting to soak in it.

  “Quiet day?” he asked, looking around the empty bakery.

  Always.

  “There’s a bit of a midmorning rush that’ll likely pick up soon,” I explained as I placed his coffee in front of him.

  “Thanks.” He accepted the cup, taking a sip, his eyes on me over the rim. “That’s good fucking coffee,” he complimented.

  I nodded, my cheeks hot as I quickly turned away, eager to appear busy.

  For the next thirty minutes he sat quietly, his large hands engulfing the mug he drank from. He didn’t pull out his phone, didn’t fidget
. He just simply sat, watching me occasionally, assessing the bakery but also appearing deep in thought. There was something so refreshing about a man comfortable in his own skin.

  When I came over to offer a refill, he looked up at me and pointed toward the seat across from him. “Why don’t you take a load off for a few?”

  My cheeks blazed at his directness. “With you? I mean, I’m working,” I blathered.

  He made a show of looking around the empty bakery. “Looks to me like you can take a break.”

  I bit my lip, liking the idea of sitting with him more than I should. “Okay,” I agreed, replacing the coffeepot before sliding tentatively into the empty seat across from him. “I don’t think I’ve ever sat in one of these chairs,” I murmured, more to myself than him. “They’re not that comfortable.” I shifted in my seat.

  His answering chuckle made my heart pound. “No, darlin’. They’re really not.” He eyed me over the rim of his mug. “Damn good coffee though.”

  I blushed again at the compliment, pushing my black-framed glasses up my nose.

  “I’m Maddox Black,” he introduced, extending a hand across the table.

  “Francesca, but most people call me Frannie,” I replied as his large, callused hand enveloped mine.

  He pulled back, grimacing at the grease that had transferred from his hand to mine. “Shit, sorry. Had some trouble with my bike.”

  “That’s okay.” I shrugged, unperturbed. “Do you need to call someone?”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Call someone?”

  “You know, to fix your bike.”

  He chuckled. “I think my club would strip my patch if I couldn’t fix my own bike, babe.”

  “You’re in the Knights?” I asked hesitantly, curiosity getting the better of me. I knew about the Knights Motorcycle Club through conversations I’d overheard my uncle have during his trips to the bakery. I’d been able to surmise that my uncle wanted to use the Knights’ territory up in Hawthorne and that he’d run into challenges.

  “I’m a Knight.” His slight correction spoke volumes. “How have you heard about us?”