Editing By: Kendra’s Editing and Book Services & Michelle Myers
Proofreading By: Michelle Myers
Cover Design By: TRC Designs
Formatting By: TRC Designs
Produced By: India’s Productions
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the author; except in the case of a brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
In Italy, there is a fairy tale that mothers tell their young daughters, known as The Angel of the Night. When a certain young man keeps finding himself referred to as an example of said story, he feels they are mistaken. He believes his path is set. He is to join the security team for the Giordano family. But everything changes the day the precious, long-missing Giordano daughter is rescued from her time in captivity.
Now home, this Giordano has tales of her own to share. And she will only share them with her Angel of the Night, Angelo.
This Dark Contemporary novel about the will to survive and the bravery needed to face the deepest of truths will gift readers with the chance to witness the truest of love stories, in so many ways.
Whether legend or man, Angelo will face his destiny.
This novel is a standalone, but is also the sequel and companion to the short story, The Girl Without Hands. This short story can be found in the Slay Belles and Mayhem Anthology until February 2021. Then it will be re-released in March.
To the hearts that understand there is more than one way to love.
I used to never have warnings for my books, but as my themes have approached an even darker sense, these warnings are truly needed. So, please, hear me:
I, India R. Adams, write very Dark books of all kinds.
Even my Young Adult books are of a darker nature. When I was that age, it is what I experienced. Darker times… mixed in with the light and gifts of life.
My New Adult and Adult books are the same. During my late teens and twenties, life continued to slice at my heart. That is why my books are a canvas for me. My stories are my way to express what is inside me. They are a way for me to find ways to heal.
The Man With A Treasure is fiction, but the emotions are real, as they always are in my work.
In this novel, readers will hear of abuse from the past, but not live through it with the character who suffered (except in the Prologue). In this book, you, the reader, will witness the after-effects of violence and destruction of the heart.
If you have triggers with rape or incest, stop.
Go no further.
In the cold and barren room, the woman held the child close. The only blanket she had to offer was the warmth of her love. That love flowed through her, just like the story she was whispering, “… His wings, so grand, they almost blocked out the dark sky…”
Gasp! The child was mesmerized by the tale her mother was sharing. On their torn and empty mattress, she whispered, “The Angel of the Night, Mamma?”
The woman wished she could finish the story, but knew time was running out. Not only was the moon shining through their only bedroom window, but the men who held them captive could be heard on the other side of the locked door. The lock was not for her protection. It was for her imprisonment, as were the bars on the window.
The sound of her drunk jailers struggling with the key in the door made her naked body tremble, but she still answered her child, “Yes, it was.” The woman’s heart pounded as she gently nudged her daughter to face the wall. To hide her fear, she softly said, “It is time to go to sleep, Vita Mia. Remember not to open your eyes or you will miss your dreams.”
The little girl—only about the age of five—faced the wall as she always did when told and closed her eyes. “I hope I dream of the Angel, Mamma.”
Seven sets of heavy footfalls echoed in the dark room as she replied, “As do I.” Mean hands pulled the woman from the bed and pushed her to the floor, as she cried in silence. “As do I.” Her body used to suffering the common abuse, she thought to herself, May he come and take you away, my Vita Mia.
In Italy within the Giordano family may have not been the ideal place to raise a teenager, but my father was the head of security, and so that is where I grew up. After my mother died, my twelve-year-old self was delivered to my father, a man I had rarely seen. Up to this point, he had only provided for me monetarily. Now that he was to be my full-time caregiver, I was nervous, hoping the larger-than-life stranger would accept me into his own life. Without my mother or her family, I felt lost.
The Mercedes that had picked me up from my uncle’s house looked and smelled more expensive than anything I had ever experienced. My aunt, my mother’s sister, cried terribly as they pried me from her loving arms, forcing me to leave behind all that I had known. As a man, I now understand her tears weren’t merely because she would miss me. They were also tears borne of fear. She knew the lifestyle in which I was about to be introduced and trained to live.
Italy is beautiful. Where I was headed was no different, just much more rural. There were no other houses, just hills off in the distance. Eventually, we pulled down a dirt and gravel road that felt endless. I stared at the rows and rows of grapevines. There was nothing else to do since the car’s driver hadn’t spoken a word to me over the last hour.
Finally reaching a clearing, I saw sizeable trees with canopies sheltering conjoined wooden tables, enough for large gatherings, all standing in front of a house that resembled a castle. Guarding the castle were several men in black suits, one of whom had a rifle casually resting in his arms. They all wore dark sunglasses and were watching our car approach.
As we parked, dust from the dirty road settled and the impressive front door opened. Exiting was the man I had seen at Christmas when his arms had been full of gifts. He walked toward me as I got out of the car. My eyes looked to the ground in a nervous manner.
“Eyes up,” in Italian, barked the man who had spawned me. “Always know your surroundings.”
His dominance had me doing exactly as he demanded. “Yes, sir.” I studied above me to avoid his heavy stare. There were strings of lights in the tree, making me curious as to what they looked like at night. My mother could never afford such things. I startled when noticing a boy my age staring down at me with golden brown eyes and lighter hair. I pointed up. “I am being watched.”
My father, now standing in front of me, dipped his chin. “Well done.” He peered up. “Come down and meet my son.”
The boy dropped from the tree and stood next to us. With a huge smile, he shared, “Hello, I am Sal.” He leaned back and proudly opened his arms. “Sal Rossi.”
Even at the tender age of twelve, Sal had swagger and impressive self-esteem.