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“You’re mine, Esmeralda.”

His amber eyes track me as I move away from him slowly. He’s a predator in the wild and I am his next meal. His scent and presence are so overpowering that it makes my knees tremble in anticipation.

Never have I been this attracted to a man, especially a man that I should hate. Especially from a man who’s taken everything from me.

Esmeralda isjust one semester away from graduating college and on her way to opening the restaurant of her dreams. Dante is a ruthless mafiamonster that walks in the daylight. Neither of them would've ever crossed paths until Esmeralda's mother makes a dire mistake that leaves them both merciless to the cartel and the whims of it'scaptivating leader.

Blood and Beauty is a dark, modern-day, mafiaspin on Beauty and the Beast. This is the first book in the new 'Owned by The Don' Trilogy from author Callie Vincent.

Chapter One

Esmeralda

The house is dark, but I hear the faint buzz of the television echo quietly onto the porch. As I place my fingers on the door handle, I steady my hand and inhale the cheap metallic smell from the fake plating.

I take a deeper breath and prepare myself for what's inside, though my feet stay firmly planted on the ground beneath me.

It's like this most times.

Every time I decide to come home, whether from a friend's house or college, it's always a preparation. A steady brace for the war that awaits me in the living room.

She's there most times as well. Although there have been a few occasions where I've picked her up from the bathtub or kitchen floor, it's almost always the cheap blue couch that sits in our tiny living room. Television blaring and a cigarette dying in her hand, while I'm left wondering if she's actually dead or not.

Twenty years of my life have been composed of these moments, these deep breaths and planted feet. I should've taken the chance when I first went away for school to wash my hands clean of this woman, but she is blood and I'm beginning to think I have a savior complex.

I run my nose along the crack of the front door, trying to catch any other scent besides old metal. Maybe weed, maybe the biting fumes of meth, or maybe the silent stench of blow. It's mysterious, this house. Much like the woman who owns it.

I'd like to say it wasn't always like this. I'd like to say I'm the typical bastard child that had a single mother who gave everything she could to her daughter, but I'd be lying. And if that woman has taught me anything, it's to not be a shitty liar. And she's made me nothing but a bastard child by both her and my absent father. She's made me a single mother since my birth.

I catch my reflection in the window, the shades are down and I stare absently at the woman before me. She is young, but tired. Her green eyes bright, but haunted. Her dark hair is a veil of shadows around her.

I guess you could say it's a blessing that I don't look like her, my mother. Though we share the same eye color, I am the exact replica of a man I've never known. Which is my curse. One of many to be exact.

I've never asked her the story of this shadow man, this hole in our lives that is always gaping and pulling her into its abyss. If I've ever even tried to mention this mystery sperm donor, it's a swift smack to the jaw or a missle of curse words that billow out with stale cigarette smoke.

She sounds like a ray of sunshine, right? A queen in her own castle of misery. I'm not a slave to this house, not its keeper or ghost. I'm not even its caretaker. I'm hers. As much as I hate to be, I've been hers and I always will be hers. Her captive, her child, her mother, her blood. As much as I try to escape and rid myself of her, I can't. Because she's the only thing that's ever been mine.

I look away from my reflection and decide against my better judgement to open the door, waiting to see what new hell awaits me.

Immediately I'm overwhelmed with the smell of both bleach and Marlboro lights, a stench I've spent months trying to forget. The living room is empty, its small and dark corners vacant except for a couch, a couple of end tables and an old television that's set to the local news station. I drop my keys on the table by the door and set my bag on the couch, walking through to the kitchen while my ears pick up the news report.

"Welcome back Los Angeles, today on News channel nine we have a special report on the ever-present drug epidemic."

I look over my shoulder to the chubby man on the screen, he is grey and balding, but his voice sounds like he could control a room within seconds.

"Local authorities have seized control of a building on the fifth block of Skid Row in downtown LA today and the findings are enough to attract even the attention of our beloved President."

I linger for a second longer to finish the report before I continue the search for my mother.

"Yes, today at around three in the afternoon, the LAPD arrested over twenty-five fugitives and obtained almost four million dollars in contraband that included several pounds of cocaine, heroin and over two hundred firearms."

The camera pans over to a blond woman in a red blazer, her cherry lipstick matching it almost too well.

"Yes, Joe, that's right. Our local authorities completed one of their biggest operations yet against the ever-growing battle with the Columbian drug cartel in over a decade. The authorities are saying that they may even lead to finding the head of the illegal operations, none other than the notorious El Oscuro."

She looks smug, proud even, as if she was a part of the crew involved in the bust. I roll my eyes and find the remote on the floor next to the couch, noting ashes on top of the buttons. I turn the volume down and set it on the cushion that's filled with both my mom's cigarette burns and my soda stains from when I was a kid. I still feel the sting of her palm on my shoulder from the incident and it was nearly ten years ago.

I hear the back door slam open and brace myself for the headache that is my mother.

"EMMIE!"

Her speech is slurred, but her movements to me are quick. I see a flash of red hair and then I'm being choked by both her clumsy hug and the stench of vodka. She pets my hair and starts humming enthusiastically.

For a moment I let myself fall into her. For a moment I let myself feel like a normal kid coming home from school to a mother that missed her. For a moment I let myself lie.

She pulls back and grips me by the tops of my shoulders. She's smiling but it doesn't reach her tired green eyes. I notice that more wrinkles have formed since I last saw her over six months ago. She's only thirty-six, but both the drugs and liquor have aged her another ten years.

I swallow the lump in my throat and put on a tight smile, trying to not let my annoyance show.

"Hi, Mom. It's good to see you. Have you eaten?"

I want to distract myself with cooking, my only joy in this house, but I already know her answer.

"No, baby I'm already on my afternoon cocktail, don't want to mess up a nice buzz while it lasts!"

She's on her fifth afternoon cocktail, not her first. I search her eyes to see if maybe she's dabbled in something else, but I only see a drunken haze. My eyes glance over her arms quickly, not noticing any new marks or sores.

I make my smile tighter as she releases my shoulders and grabs a beer can from the table closest to the kitchen. She tilts it toward me in offering and I shake my head slightly, already picking up my bag from the couch and making my way towards our small yellow kitchen.

I look around at the walls that are colored from both paint and smoke, smiling slightly to myself in remembrance of the first time I cooked pancakes on my own, to the time when I made my own twist on a traditional Tres Leches cake.

My mother is not the same as me in many ways, but one of the biggest is heritage. Though my Hispanic roots come from my biological father, her Irish genes have culturally taken over my upbringing.

My best friend Ricky was born in Polanco and moved to America when he was three. His family is the closest thing I have to both my ancestry and a family itself. I've spent many nights at his house, flipping through his mother's cookbook and memorizing recipes to take home.

My mom, of course, never ate anything unless I forced it down her throat after another late night at the bar or God knows where, so I never got a real opinion on how my home cooking tasted, but Ricky was always happy to oblige.

I realize that now, standing in our small kitchen, is probably the best time to tell her why I'm actually here. Why I've decided to disrupt my peace with the personal hell that is this woman and this house. I need a signature to continue my third year of school, the tutoring program I did in high school has lasted me until my junior year of college and this is the last time I'll ever need to ask her for anything, which I know will already be an issue.

"Mom, there's a reason why I've come home early. I need you to sign off on my last tutoring installment so I can continue this next semester."

She immediately chokes on her sip of beer, and I want to rip my hair out in response, but I maintain my composure.

"Let me just grab a pen really quick. I have it all right here, and when you're done I'll make some dessert."

Maybe if I bake, I can get through this one night of bullshit and be on my way back to my new life, back to my blossoming future that I've fought tooth and nail for.

I set both the paperwork and a pen on my table and looked up, not liking the sight before me. She looks paler, her balance faltering and her face full of arrogance and maybe a twinge of...guilt.

What the fuck now?

"I've been meaning to tell you, Emmie. Some things came up and I needed to dip into your USC fund a little bit."

I feel the heat rising to my face and coming out of my ears. I clench my fists and nod for her to continue.

She throws her hands up, exasperated by my short and silent response.

"I needed it for bills honey, no worries. You'll be fine, the market down the road is still hiring and would love your help for the summer, I'm sure!"

Her words were slow and slurred. I maintain my composure, though I'm dying to combust at this given moment.

"How much did you take?"

She looks down and shrugs. Throwing her now empty can of beer in the overflowing trash can, she turns to grab a new one from the fridge. I rush in front of it, forcing her to stop and look at me. What I see, I don't like.

"How much did you take, Mom?"

She rolls her eyes, because she's the one that should be annoyed.

"How. Much. Did. You. Fucking. Take. Mom?"

Her face is flushed and there's a fire in her green eyes. I notice that I'm shaking now, my anger and weariness mixing in the pit of my stomach.

Please, please don't say it, Mom.

She looks up, her chin jutting out in defense.

"All of it."

I realize now that this is the moment when I will commit my first murder.

I can't hold it back, the rage. It's an ugly monster rearing its head and rushing out after twenty years of this bullshit. Of her bullshit.

"WHAT!?"

I push her back against the kitchen wall, slapping at her like a mad woman, knocking down the calendar behind her.

She's defenseless and drunk, a shit opponent to say the least, which works well in my favor because I'm about to kill this bitch. I'm about to beat the life out of my mother because she just confessed to ruining mine. Once. Again.

"Esmeralda May! You're assaulting your own mother!"

She sounds lifeless to me, her voice a void of no emotion. I'm shaking and crying and screaming and slapping. I want to kill her. I want to die. I want it all.

This was my last year. My last trip back home to her. My last stop before I sailed away to a life without her, towards a life with peace.

I should've known it was too good. There's no escaping this monster, this plague of a mother that God punished me with.

I'm about thirty slaps in when we hear a sudden pounding on the front door, stopping both me from hitting and her from screaming.

I release her and she runs to the door, letting me fall to my knees in despair. I am about to lay my head into my hands when I hear her scream again.

Two large men in black suits and sunglasses are in the living room, their hands holding my now unconscious mother.

I back away slowly, my heels tripping over one another. I'm on a rollercoaster of emotions that started with anger and have now led me down the path of fear in its purest form.

The men have a powerful air around them. They practically ooze fear itself and I'm praying to God to both save me and not let me piss myself.

I bolt for the back door, but only make it five steps before something hits my head and everything goes dark.