MARRIAGE & MALICE

UNDERWORLD KINGS
TRISHA WOLFE
LOCK KEY PRESS
Copyright © 2021 by Trisha Wolfe
All rights reserved.
Lock Key Press, LLC
Cover created by Najla Qamber Designs
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
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 CONTENTS
Free Book
Quote
1. Blood & Thorns
2. Family & Debts
3. Beauty & Scars
4. Passion & Blades
5. Ballerina & Beast
6. Tempt & Torment
7. Touch & Surrender
8. Horns & Wings
9. Sinner & Saint
10. Possess & Ruin
11. Hearts & Madness
12. Cloves & Pirouettes
13. Flowers & Bullets
14. Lightning & Crash
15. Devils & Angels
16. Goddess & Villain
17. Crowns & Vows
18. Reap & Forever
19. His & Hers
20. Love & Ash
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Darkly, Madly Duet
Also by Trisha Wolfe
About Trisha Wolfe
Acknowledgments
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featuring your favorite dark romance couple, London and Grayson, from the
Darkly, Madly Duet .

We weren’t born the day we took our first breath. We were born the moment we
stole it.
~Grayson Peirce Sullivan, Born, Darkly
“We all have a monster within; the difference is in
degree, not in kind.”
—Douglas Preston
1
BLOOD & THORNS
VIOLET

A sea of darkness stretches over the theater, a clotting

blackness that absorbs all light to create an expansive
void where life should exist. The chaos of the world
belongs to that void. It’s hollow and cold and settles inside me,
bone-deep.
Slowly, twinkling pinpricks of light appear from above.
The stage lights blink in hues of soft white and light-blue
before the spotlight flashes on.
Posed amid the band of light, I stand unnaturally still. My
breath silenced. Body contorted. Arms winged above my head.
Leg stretched out before me, toe en pointe.
The haunting moan of a cello rises from the string
orchestra. Summoned on cue, I gradually lower my hand,
fingertips deliberately trailing my arm and pausing for a brief
moment to touch the sparrow near my heart, before I extend
my arm outward.
I delicately draw my toe around the ring, my white tulle
skirt flutters elegantly around my thighs. As violins join the
swell of music, my body follows their hypnotic lead,
gracefully transitioning from third and back with a rond de
jambe.
I’ve escaped the void.
I’m free of the darkness.
Every judgment and pressure and expectation ceases to
exist.
Provoked, I glide through steps as I travel the stage, one
with the dance.
It’s in this moment, alone on stage, the audience a distant,
blurred backdrop, that I find my peace.
Harmony.
 I’m no longer in control of my movements. The music is a
cord fastened to my torso and I’m being pulled from my
center, flowing like a serene river through a ravine. Power
emanates from every leap. Life radiates from every pirouette.
Fire sears my lungs and ignites a divine burn in my muscles,
the pain satisfying.
I memorized the solo piece before it even belonged to me.
I move through the dance as if it owns me, not the other way
around. You can’t master a thing this beautiful. You have to
ask permission to coexist with it, to learn from it, and can only
aspire to continuously improve upon it.
When I was chosen to deliver the performance for my
debut as principal, I never experienced a rush so intense. Life
altering. I never understood the craving for drugs or sex or
alcohol…until I felt the surge of adrenaline with this high.
Limitless.
In the dark world I was born to, there’s no such word.
Everything has a limit, and a price to pay.
But I earned this. With blood, sweat, and fraught tears. I
tortured my body past the breaking point just so I could
experience a fleeting taste of this celestial gift.
I owe it to him—to my brother—not to waste one moment
of this life.
A wisp of hair comes loose from my bun and stabs my eye.
I ignore the discomfort even as my vision tears. I refrain from
blinking so I don’t miss a beat. My skirt floats on the air as I
bound upward, leg stretched long and lean, and battu mid-
leap, beating my feet. I land on cambré, stretching backward
to arch from my waist.
The orchestra rushes back as music bleeds into my
awareness. Applause rises like a cymbal crash. I keep my face
lifted toward the vaulted ceiling, the strand of hair still jabbing
my eye, until the curtain falls.
One second of sublime contentment, then a flurry of
activity breaks the spell.
 I lower my chin and release my locked frame before I
swipe the errant strand from my face.
Darkness descends for only seconds, then the stage comes
alive. A living, breathing entity. The backdrop is transformed
as stagehands rearrange the setting from a starry night sky to a
dense forest. Dancers preen and stretch, moving into position
for the final act. I’m directed toward the wing where a water
bottle is thrust into my hand.
“Marvelous, Vi. You were a vision.” The director claps his
hands together in praise.
“Wow. Thank you,” I manage, my breath labored. I uncap
the water and take a hard swig as the wiry man scurries off to
handle something else.
I glance around the backstage area, looking for Derik, my
instructor. His is the only praise I seek; his the only opinion
that matters. I find him with Will, rehearsing his saut de
basque. I won’t interrupt them. We’ve all worked so hard. As a
ballet dancer, patience is threaded through my DNA.
Also, I have time. My solo piece was my final
performance of the production. I watch in awe as the dancers
flurry around the stage and get into position before the curtain
goes up.
The music starts, and butterflies wing to life in my chest.
I’ll never tire of this feeling.
“Vi, you nailed it. You were amazing, love,” Darcy says in
his distinct British accent while wrapping an arm around me in
a loose side-hug. He’s another principle in the company, and
he’s always encouraged me. “Are you heading to the dressing
room to change for the afterparty? There’s a whole floral shop
waiting for you on your dressing table.”
Elation fills me, and I smile. “In a moment, thanks. I want
to watch the last act of the production.”
He rings a towel around his neck. “I remember that
feeling. It’s hard to leave. Enjoy your moment.” He smiles
knowingly before heading off.
 Moving closer to the edge of the stage, I settle down and
stretch my legs out. I unlace my pointe shoes and slip them
off, then place them next to me as my gaze scans the audience,
searching for one face in particular.
I didn’t search for him before. I didn’t want
disappointment to cloud any part of the dance.
I made it a point to invite both my father and uncle.
They’re the only part of my family I really have left. Papà said
he’d make it, that he wouldn’t miss my solo. He swore it. And
a vow from a man like him is carved in stone. It’s not his
promise to me he aims to keep, but to my mother.
He wouldn’t break a vow to her.
A chilly draft from the vent slips over my slick skin, and I
sense Marcus’s presence behind me. He’s still far enough
away to offer privacy, but as my bodyguard, his hulking
presence is never completely absent from my life. I’m
accustomed to it, and even grateful for the security most days,
but I just want one more moment to claim for myself before
this night is over.
I should go ahead and change into my dress for the final
bow, but I’m reluctant to leave, like I won’t make it back to
this stage if I disappear.
It’s a ridiculous notion, I know. The hapless feeling most
likely a result of coming down from the adrenaline buzz. Or of
thoughts of my brother and mother, as they’re always with me
in these epic moments.
Still, I stay near the stage, soaking up every second, until
the final curtain falls.

Backstage, commotion erupts as dancers flock to the

refreshment area. Voices are spirited and emotion soars.
And I’m a part of it.
 I chose a strapless, pale-purple tulle dress that matches the
outfit I wore on stage tonight, and opted for ballet slippers
rather than heels. The diamond-encrusted tiara still adorns my
head, my dark bun is pulled tight at the back of my head.
This is who I am. Ready to break out in dance at any
moment.
Lillian links her arm through mine and ushers me toward
the gathering bodies. “I’m still completely green with envy,”
she says, her freckled nose squinching, “just so you know.”
Mouth tipped in a slanted smirk, I say, “Oh, of course.
Because spending the whole night with that”—I tip my head in
the direction of Brody—“should make you feel like a loser.”
She gazes at Brody adoringly. “Okay, you’re right. I win.
The boy’s abs make me stupid.”
We laugh, deliriously intoxicated from the production. The
demanding, dedicated work we’ve done this year to be here
right now, experiencing the reward of that devotion is surreal.
I became instant friends with my roommate, lucky enough
to be paired with the sweet yet brazen Lillian, rather than one
of the tarts; the uber ballerinas who feast on air and the tears of
their underlings.
I glance around the party, noting all the ecstatic
expressions and exuberance, and sheer relief settles over me
like a comfy blanket. I’ve been carrying a heavy weight for
days, some strange, unsettling feeling I couldn’t place. The
dread of it lingered in the background, a constant trepidation
wearing on me mentally.
In retrospect, it was probably nerves. I’m one of the
youngest principals in the history of the company—by months,
but still, in dance it counts—and I was determined to live up to
that title. Because if I don’t, if I fail, the fear of being dragged
back down to that other life is paralyzing.
That is not an option.
This is the only life I’ll ever want.
 I smile as Lillian flirts shamelessly with her boyfriend. I
toast with Darcy. I laugh at the jokes and antics as the dancers
let loose, and I finally allow myself to enjoy the here and now
without fear of losing what I love.
Because in my other world, you don’t reveal what you
love.
It’s a weakness others will use against you.
“And here’s to our newest principal, Violet Carpella,”
Derik says, raising his plastic champagne glass. “She gave the
performance of a thousand dancers. Brava!”
Overwhelmed, I blink rapidly to keep the moisture from
spilling over my eyes. I smile and take a dancer’s bow,
extending my leg out and dipping my arched forearm toward
the floor. Someone places a bundle of roses in my arms as
applause and ovations fill the backstage. One quick peek over
my shoulder in search of Marcus to see if there’s a smile on his
sharply chiseled face, but he’s no longer there.
I shrug off the disappointment and thank my instructor and
fellow dancers.
The volume is turned up on the amplifier system, and the
heavy bass beat of a dance song lures people into the middle
of the backstage area, bodies giving in to the rhythm. Cradling
the roses against my chest, I decide this is enough. I place my
hand over the sparrow, knowing Fabian would be here, and in
a way, he always will be.
Since my father lost my brother, his predecessor, he
stopped attending my recitals. So I shouldn’t be let down, even
if he did break a promise to my mother. His first devotion has
always been to my uncle and the organization. When I became
an only child, I became just a girl. I’m an afterthought.
When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, she
made my father swear he’d let me attend the dance company,
and that he’d support my accomplishments. A vague promise,
I guess, but I thought tonight was one of those moments.
She never got the chance to battle the cancer. The
treatments often made her sick and dizzy, and she took a fall
down our stairs, the accident taking her away from me before I
got the chance to say goodbye.
My father tried to reassure me it was a less painful way for
her to go. She didn’t want us to suffer along with her, not after
what we’d already suffered with Fabian.
It’s been five years, yet I still miss her terribly every day.
In the end, my father did keep his biggest promise by
letting me apply to the dance company, which worked out in
my favor. My father and uncle have paid little attention to me
over the years, granting me a bit more leniency. It’s not that
I’m allowed more freedom than any other woman in la
famiglia, it’s that they purposely chose not to acknowledge my
existence. Like quoted in one of my all-time favorite movies,
the Count of Monte Cristo: “Neglect becomes our ally.”
As my mother had wanted for me, I was able to focus on
my passion for dance. At nineteen, there’s nothing tethering
me to that life anymore. The absence of my father tonight
means I can move on. Completely away from that life with no
guilt.
As I rearrange the flowers in my arm, I prick my finger on
a thorn. “Damn. I thought they were supposed to remove
those.” Blood beads the tip of my finger, and I rub it away.
Lillian dances up to me and shrugs. “It’s probably more
authentic.” She does air quotes. “You know, since everyone’s
all about authenticity. Who are they from?”
I shake my head, my gaze unfocused on the smeared
blood. “I don’t know. Okay, I’ll be right back. I’m going to put
these away.”
She nods, but she’s only half listening as she swivels her
hips in a slow and seductive roll with Brody. “Don’t be long.
You’re the belle of the ball, Vi. Live it up.”
I head toward the dressing rooms in the back. As I enter
the room, I close the door hurriedly, pressing my back to the
cool wood and drawing in a fortifying breath. I need a few
moments alone to absorb tonight.
 And a muscle soak, I think as I reach down to rub my calf.
Now that the adrenaline is really tapering off, I can feel the
length to which I pushed my body.
Soon as I step away from the door, I hear the knob turn.
Annoyance sags my shoulders at having my reprieve
disturbed, but I fix my mouth into a practiced smile and cradle
the roses in my arms. I glance back to greet the person—and
the floor beneath my slippers all but vanishes.
The large, towering man in a pitch-black suit is not a
member of the dance company. From just his opposing stance,
a familiar apprehension threads my spine. I know what world
he hails from, and he’s not here to congratulate me on my
debut solo performance.
“Violet Allegra Carpella.” He addresses me in a tone
meant to confirm my identity.
For half a heartbeat, I contemplate denying who I am—but
it’s pointless. My brief hesitation confirms what he already
knows, or else he wouldn’t be here, those dark, pitiless eyes
boring into me.
“What do you want?” My voice breaks at the end, and I lift
my chin to feign strength, while I look past him to the
doorway.
Marcus, where are you?
The man’s silence chokes the air of the dressing room.
From behind him, another foreboding figure appears,
snatching the rest of the air from my lungs. His knuckles are
stained with blood, answering the question about my
bodyguard.
Without warning, they advance.
I clutch the rose stems to my chest, the thorns piercing my
arms and the sheer material of my bodice. I cling to them just
the same, the only solid thing I have to hold on to as the last
thread of my unattainable world unravels.
“My father will end you.” I square my shoulders and
deliver the threat without a note of fear trembling my voice.
“And my uncle will shred your entrails.”
 A callous grin twists the man’s opposing features. “The
Carpellas are a bunch of lickarses. There’s no protection for
you, girl.”
My frantic gaze searches for Marcus in vain. Somehow, I
hang on to a wisp of hope my father will…
My thought trails off. He should’ve been here. He would
have been here.
Oh, god.
Papà…
It happens fast then. The sounds of the celebration outside
these walls grow irritatingly loud in my ears, canceling out my
muffled cry as the man in black bands his arms around me and
his meaty hand clamps over my mouth.
The other guy thrusts the emergency door open, and I
disappear through it in a fraction of a second. A black sedan is
waiting nearby, the engine running, the trunk propped open.
My heart careens against my rib cage as I realize my fate.
I’m placed in the trunk. Facing the back of the seats, my
arms are wrenched behind my back and cable tied together.
Thick tape traps my mouth before a bag covers my head and
blankets my vision.
The trunk slams shut, then the sound of car doors closing
rings in my ears before the engine revs. The car lurches
forward, taking me away from my life.
I’ve been abducted.
Panic webs a tight and sticky string around my chest. My
mind attempts to makes sense of what’s happening while my
heart bangs violently against its cage. The scent of roses fills
the utter blackness, and I realize I’m lying on the bouquet. I
drag in hot breaths, sucking the cloth close to my nostrils with
each desperate inhalation. My throat is thick, as if filled with
cotton balls. Motor fumes pervade the trunk, and a bead of
sweat trickles down my back.
I try to work my wrists free, fingers probing for the plastic
ties. The carpeted floorboard scratches my skin as I attempt to
wriggle loose. The harder I struggle, the less air I can get to
my lungs, the more panic consumes. My chest aches from the
pressure.
Willing my body to hold still, I force myself to remain
calm. I do this by remembering who my father is—who my
uncle is—and that I will be found.
As I focus on breathing, the panic wanes and, gaining
some semblance of stability, I mentally count the passing
seconds. I try to memorize each turn, every stop. Measure the
distance I’m traveling.
It could be five minutes or twenty by the time the car rolls
to a halt and the engine goes silent. I’ve lost all sense of reality
and my whereabouts. In the thick dark, my mind roams to my
mother.
Her pale skin. Sealed eyes. Smooth hair brushed elegantly
along her shoulders.
The white satin casket.
My heart thunders, the pain in my chest threatening to
crack my ribs. My pulse ignites liquid fire through my veins,
and I kick out against the trunk.
Feet pounding the ground outside the car reverberates
inside the enclosed space to distort my perception. My breaths
come harder, the vein in my neck throbs.
The trunk creaks open, and fresh air greets my burning
lungs. Hands grab my arms and hoist me out of the car. As my
feet hit the ground, I’m forced to walk, tripping over my own
feet while the bag still obscures my sight. We pass through an
entryway. I assume we’re inside, because cool air clashes
against my heated, sweat-slicked skin, and the sounds of our
steps bounce back on an echo.
Rough fingers dig into the flesh of my arm as I’m yanked
to a stop.
“On your knees,” a man’s voice growls. “Keep your eyes
on the floor and mouth shut.”
 I’m thrown to the floor then. A sharp burn rips up the
length of my thigh as I slip along the hard slab. Hunching over
to regain my balance, I shakily rise to my knees, the skirt of
my dress trapped beneath. Hands still tied behind my back, I
feel the cool press of air on my exposed cleavage, my dress
having ridden low during the struggle. The bag is torn from
my head, and suddenly the light is too bright.
My breathing shallows as I struggle to fill my lungs past
the tape covering my mouth.
A pair of black boots enters my vision. I shiver as chilly air
breathes across my skin. Chest tender, I squint up at the man
peering down at me and cease breathing altogether.
He lifts his chin in an unspoken directive, and the man to
my left rips the tape from my mouth. The smarting pain
doesn’t stop me from gulping in a full, unobstructed blast of
air to expand my lungs. I cough, clearing my airway.
His heavy gaze is like an anchor bearing down on me as it
drags over my body. His intense blue gaze settles on my
exposed cleavage, dark eyebrows drawn together. I’m unsure
if it’s a sexual perusal or if he’s staring at the sparrow tattoo,
but both feel just as invasive to me, and I instinctively fold my
chest inward, my bare skin aflame where his eyes touch.
Daring to know who has stolen me, I rake my gaze over
him, taking in his all-black suit and tie, the Dr. Marten boots,
the cryptic tattoos inking his neck, the neatly tousled dark hair,
all except the strands falling alongside his aegean-blue eyes.
Gravity clings to my body, pulling me through the floor
toward the cliffs of hell.
And before me is a beautiful demon, one with dangerous
script inked on his hands and hellfire in his penetrating eyes. A
ravenous appetite for cruelty burns beneath the depths—and
he’s staring down at me like I’m the thing to sate that hunger.
2
FAMILY & DEBTS
LUCIAN

T he scent of lavender strangles the air. Not the

flower but the color. The bitter purple of a
bruise. That mix of rich-red and spidery blue
bleeding into the seams, like a blood clot beneath the skin.
That’s the color of my life.
And it’s the shade of the girl kneeling before me, her ashen
face ghostly pale.
Violet Carpella.
The very essence of her name evokes revulsion and misery
most acute, leaving an acrid aftertaste. The only pale-purple
Carpella I want to see in my home is a dead one, after I’ve
choked the air from their lungs.
Hands laced behind my back, I peer down at the girl. She’s
blatantly defying the order, unable to keep her gaze pinned to
the marble floor. Her unnaturally large eyes blink up at me,
thick lashes darkened with stage makeup and fresh tears. Her
dress is torn and tinged with dirt, and it’s drifted low to reveal
an inked sparrow above the slight swell of her breast.
Though she’s been a factor of my design for years, this is
the first time I’ve lain eyes on her.
She’s the spitting image of her mother.
A mess of dark hair spills from an untidy knot. A diamond
tiara sits crooked atop her head as mascara tracks her cheeks.
Blotchy skin and swollen eyes reveal her distress, though she
remains silent now.
I expect her to fight, to cry and plead and beg for mercy.
Her demure, restrained state despite her dire circumstance
is impressive…for a Carpella.
My gaze is drawn to her arms smudged with dry blood. A
fresh rivulet streams from one of the cuts along her chest.
 I look among my men for the culprit. Mannix, one of my
most trusted soldiers, was the one to handle her when she was
brought inside.
I step down from the dais in my parlor room, planting my
boots near her outspread skirt. “Who hurt you?” I demand.
Her eyes flick upward briefly, making a snap connection
with mine, before she lowers her gaze to the floor.
“I asked you a question.”
A swallow drags along the column of her slender throat.
“The thorns.”
It’s then I see the wilted rose petals clinging to her sheer
dress, and I recall the flowers I had delivered to her dressing
room.
Her downy voice wraps around me like a quilt, cinching
my stomach in a knot. My hands drop to my sides and curl
into fists. There’s not a molecule in my body that doesn’t ache
to extinguish her.
The softer she is, the more tempting the desire to shred her
apart.
Hate is a gnarled limb branched from my family tree, and
the Carpellas poisoned that tree’s soil.
I look between Christoff and Mannix. “Where are the
roses?”
Puzzled expressions cross my men’s faces before Mannix
cocks his chin. “In the trunk, boss.” His sharp gaze shoots to
the girl. “She brought them with her.”
I roll my shoulders back. “Go get them.”
Mannix nods once. “Aye, boss.”
As he departs, I stalk toward the wet bar and splash a
tumbler with bourbon. I hold the glass aloft and swirl the
amber contents, the whiskey the color of the girl’s eyes. My
gaze drifts to the words inked across my knuckles: mbrise an
diabhal do chnámha. A Gaeilge curse that translates: the devil
broke your bones.
 I situate my suit cuff beneath the tattoo. It’s a reminder for
me only; my enemies can’t read the Irish language. As Mannix
enters with the flowers, I toss back the swallow of bourbon
and return to take the ruined bundle from him.
I circle the girl, coming to a stop behind her. Removing the
karambit knife from my pocket with a flick of my wrist to flip
out the curved blade, I move in close and lower to my
haunches. Loose tendrils of her silky brown hair fall free from
the knot to graze her bare shoulders.
Drawing even closer, I sense the tremble of her body like a
vibrating current in the air, a taut cord plucked between us.
With agile movements, I slip the edge of the blade along her
hair, watching as the strands whisper over her skin to raise
goose bumps.
She quakes beneath my intense scrutiny, a tiny gasp slips
past her lips as I touch the tip of the knife to her back, then
sweep it lower along her arm.
I slip the blade between her wrists and slice the cable tie.
Her arms fall free, and she quickly draws them to her chest
to cover herself.
I rise to my feet and walk around, then kneel so that I’m
elevated just above her. I place the roses in her arms. She
accepts them hesitantly, her gaze flitting between my face and
the knife.
“They were a gift to you,” I say, letting my voice ease out
in a smooth cadence. “Lovely roses for a lovely girl and her
lovely life. You should have them.”
She winces as the stems brush her cuts. Confusion crosses
her petite features. “You sent them,” she says, understanding
seeping past her fear.
“I was anxious to welcome you.” I press my lips together
as my hand clenches the knife. Her gaze drops to the bone hilt,
then coasts to the ink on my hand. The tiara on her head shifts
farther off center. I reach up and, carefully, adjust the crown.
She shivers beneath my touch and I haven’t even lain a finger
on her.
 “Why am I here?”
I breathe her in, my lungs aflame with the scent of roses
and lavender. “Do you know who I am?”
Demurely, she shakes her head, and again the crown tips
sideways.
“You haven’t been brought up like most women in your
famiglia.” My gaze drops to the little tattoo bird on her chest
to make my point.
She tugs the bodice up and attempts to shake her head to
deny my claim, but I stop her lies with a forceful hand.
Gripping her chin, I tip her face up to me. Her skin is soft,
warm. Fresh, like her suggested innocence. “You’ve been
spoiled. Allowed to pursue a dream in dance. You may not
know who I am, but I know you.” I absorb her ballerina dress
with a derisive glare. “At nineteen, you haven’t been promised
to anyone yet. Your father shelters you from the life. Protects
you. But by doing so, he shows his weakness and exposes you
to the wolves.”
Fear brims her amber eyes, but just under that watery
current, a glint of defiance sparks. She bites down on her lip to
keep from trembling against my hold. “I know my place,” she
says, but there’s no conviction in her words.
My smile is a sneer. “No, you don’t. But you will.”
I rise to my feet and snap my fingers. On my command,
two of my men usher in a gagged Salvatore Carpella, the
father in question. His tailored suit is torn. Blood streaks his
face and mats his graying hair. Bruises darken the weathered
skin beneath his eyes. Leviathan, or Levi, as I prefer to call my
lieutenant, has to near drag him into the room. Yet, when
Salvatore’s eyes find the girl kneeling in my parlor room, his
fight is restored, proving my words true.
Salvatore spits the gag from his mouth. “Violetta,” he says,
appalled. “No. Why is she here?”
The girl finally reacts. At the sight of her beaten father, she
drops the roses and scrambles toward him. “Oh, my god.
Papà.”
 Mannix grabs her arms to restrain her. Futilely, she
struggles against his iron grip.
To subdue the old man, Levi delivers a punch to his
stomach, dropping Salvatore to his knees, and anchors a hand
to his shoulder to hold him in place.
Crumpled over, Salvatore coughs. “You’ve gone too far,”
he says to me, a sneer curling his swollen lips. “I don’t know
who you think you are, but I will kill you if you touch her—”
His rant is cut short as Levi sends another blow to his
kidney. I appreciate Salvatore’s convictions where his
daughter is concerned, but they won’t protect her.
Hearing him admit he still doesn’t recognize me only
serves to further my wrath.
I order Mannix to put the girl on her knees. As he does so
and steps aside, I tower over her lithe frame. So fragile. So
breakable. With the hand wrapped in an oath of vengeance, I
free her hair of the band. She physically shivers as her dark
hair tumbles down her bare back. I drop down and grasp the
thick layers, wrapping her silky tresses around my hand twice
and yanking her head back to expose her neck. My other hand
hovers over the knife sheathed in my pocket.
“If you truly loved her,” I say to her father, “if you wanted
to protect her, you never would’ve stolen from your famiglia,
Carpella.”
His glassy eyes flare as the reality of his situation sinks in
past his initial outrage. His labored breaths wheeze out from
bruised lungs. “I am not a thief.” He spits on the floor.
I stare at the insult, my grip on the girl’s hair tightening.
Only her low whimper breaks through my rage. “Clean that
up,” I order.
While Levi shoves Salvatore to the floor and forces him to
wipe up his own mess, I look down at the girl kneeling below
me. Fisting her hair, I rest the backside of my other hand along
her cheek, skim her delicate skin with rough knuckles.
I lower my face to hers, so close I can feel the heat of her
broken breaths against my mouth. “Do you believe your father
loves you?”
“Yes.” No hesitancy in her automatic reply.
“Do you love your father?”
Her gaze flicks to the bastard on his hands and knees
scrubbing the floor with his tattered blazer. “He’s my papà.”
Releasing her hair, I collar the back of her neck and push
in close to her ear. “That’s not an answer.”
She shudders and attempts to tear free. “Yes, of course I
love him.”
“Stop fighting me, little girl.” The rumble of warning in
my voice stills her movements.
Shaken, she wets her lips. My gaze trails the path of her
tongue across her pink mouth, and the sight stirs a dark
hunger. An arousing image of her beautiful face contorted in
pain enters my mind, and my nostrils flare.
The vision incenses me with a blinding fury. Before I’m
tempted to squeeze her throat, I release her harshly and step
away.
Directing my attention on her father, I rest my hand over
the knife hilt. “You’re a thief, Carpella, and a compulsive
gambler. Only this time, the debt was too high. You thought no
one would notice if a single shipment got lost. Not your boss,
and not your own men. You’ve done well to coast under the
radar for years.” I stroll to the bar to pour another drink. “No
one would have noticed, either. Unless someone had a vested
interest in you, that is.”
After a lingering swallow of bourbon to douse the flames
licking my skin, I head toward the worthless man on my floor.
I’ve waited far too long to have the Carpellas in this position,
and I savor this moment like I savor the taste of the fine
bourbon on my tongue.
“I am that someone,” I say.
He tears his gaze away from his daughter and looks up at
me with hooded eyes, his expression a mix of contempt and
helplessness. He knows he’s scum. He doesn’t deny my
accusation, but he doesn’t confirm it, either. This filth doesn’t
fear me…yet. The way he keeps glancing at his daughter
exposes the one thing he truly fears: his precious little girl
discovering the truth of him.
And that’s one of the reasons why I chose her.
“You may have been able to keep the organization in the
dark, to buy yourself time. Even pay down your debts.” I
sweep the front of my suit jacket aside to reveal the skull
buckle and unfasten it, then I yank the leather belt free. I wrap
the end around my knuckles as I peer down into his pasty face.
“But the debt your family owes me is far too great to ever be
repaid.”
Moving into position behind him, I wrap the belt around
his neck and choke up on the strap. My knuckles turn white as
he gasps, his fingers feebly clawing at the belt.
Across the room, the girl cries out. Her pleas to release her
father are faint rivalled against the relentless rioting of my
pulse. My skin burns from the abrasive leather tearing into my
hand, the pain sadistically satisfying.
Within seconds, Salvatore’s hands fall away from his neck
and his body slackens, his fight fading. I rein in my crazed
fury and, with gritted teeth, rip the belt away from his throat.
He slumps forward, palms flat on the floor, as he drags in a
staggered breath and coughs.
I flex my hand, examining the red welt forming below my
knuckles. My gaze glides to the girl. Mannix stands behind
her, his large hands banded around her slender arms. Her sheer
purple dress stained with blood and grime. Her face stricken, a
fusion of dread and anger.
“You’re a monster,” she says, barely above a whisper.
Her eyes trap mine, and the fire I glimpse behind those
flaring embers ignites a challenge.
I place myself between father and daughter.
Salvatore regains his composure and pulls himself up to
his knees. “I can’t owe you anything.” He coughs. “I don’t
know who you are.”
 I face him and crouch down so that I’m level with him.
Then I wrench open the black shirt beneath my suit jacket to
reveal one of my many scars. “Look closer.”
Revulsion creases his features, then all at once recognition
dawns. The years pass before his faded, watery eyes. “Cross,”
he breathes.
Fastening the buttons along the shirt placket, I rise to my
towering six-two height above him. “Now claim you owe me
nothing, Carpella.”
His shoulders slump. “That was ages ago, boy. I wasn’t the
only one involved. Your family is as much to blame.” He
glares at me with sheer hatred narrowing his eyes. “The
organization has rules. Laws. It’s the world we live in. What
happened—” his eyes cut to his daughter “—you can’t blame a
young girl. She has nothing to do with this.”
“Your filthy blood runs in her veins,” I say, a foul taste in
my mouth. “The sins of the father and all that. Be grateful she
can serve a purpose for you.”
Before he can spew more bullshit, I nod to Levi, who is
ready to retrieve the document. After he fetches the
paperwork, he lays it on the floor before Salvatore.
The old man squints at the top page. “What is this?”
“Insurance,” I say simply.
He brings the document closer to read the print, clasping
the page in a sweaty hand. Uttering an Italian curse, he glances
from me to his daughter, fear causing the page to shake.
The girl stares at him imploringly. “Papà…?”
Salvatore crumples the document. “You’re delusional, or
have a death wish. Most likely both, as I will never consent to
this.”
“You will consent to my terms, and rather quickly,” I say.
“Because either you agree to the arrangement, or I will give la
famiglia don the evidence of your betrayal. With one
signature, that information can remain right here in this room
among friends,” I add mockingly, spreading my arms wide.
 No matter the love his sick soul may harbor for his only
daughter, the spineless leech won’t risk being labeled a traitor
to his boss, his own brother.
Family first. The creed and oath. His loyalties belong to
his organization. Or at least, for Salvatore, the appearance of
such.
As the younger brother and consigliere to the don of the
Carpella empire, Salvatore’s betrayal would be judged more
gravely. To steal from the boss of bosses himself is an offense
punishable by death, especially among the family.
He’s a rat but, despite every cell in my body demanding I
sever his head right now, Salvatore’s far more valuable to me
alive. No, I don’t want him dead. And neither does he, which
is evident when he bows his head in defeat, refusing to look at
his daughter any longer.
He’s already traded her life.
“I’m collecting a debt from you, Carpella.” I snap my
fingers toward Levi, who places a pen in his hand. “I could
have easily made it a blood debt. Eye for an eye. One you
know you owe me. But I feel an alliance is wiser, more
beneficial. You get to keep your life and reputation intact, and
I get to rebuild the Cross Syndicate.”
Salvatore scoffs. “Ludicrous. There is no Irish
organization.”
Fury coils my body like a venomous snake, ready to strike.
“No, not any longer. Not since the Carpellas systematically
slaughtered my family in cold blood.”
His gaze momentarily lifts to meet mine, cold and
hardened like the thickest layer of a made man, before he
looks at the crumpled contract.
“Papà, what is he talking about?”
I had all but forgotten about her existence. Keeping my
glare on Salvatore, I issue an order to Mannix. “Keep her
quiet. Muzzle her if necessary.”
 This moment will not be interrupted. For five years, I’ve
patiently waited to begin exacting my revenge. After tonight,
the first domino will tip in an arduous and meticulous plan that
will be realized.
I want the head of the snake, the crime lord himself, Carlos
Carpella.
“Make your choice, Salvatore,” I demand.
“If I sign, no harm comes to my daughter.”
“You’re not in a bargaining position.”
His imploring gaze asks for more than just the safety of his
only daughter. “Swear it!” he shouts.
I look at the girl and rub a hand over my jaw, something
elusive and sinister melding within me. “No harm will befall
your daughter by my hand. But—” I direct my hard gaze back
on Salvatore “—make one attempt against me or go back on
your word, and I will slit her pretty throat and deliver her
severed head to you in a box.”
Teeth gritted, Salvatore grips the pen. Then, with a
relenting sigh, he says to his daughter, “I’m sorry, figlia mia.
Please, forgive me.”
He lowers the pen to the page.
A glance back at the girl reveals her confused, pained
expression. Her disbelief is an internal war. She should relish
her ignorance, for however brief. Soon, her indulged and
privileged life will come to an abrupt and brutal end.
In our world, an alliance is formed by the joining of
families—the marriage of one family to another. It’s always
about family.
Bonded by blood.
As Salvatore signs the marriage contract, cementing his
alliance to the Cross family with the promise of his daughter’s
hand to me, I reach into my jacket and produce the ring.
Reverently and, almost remorsefully, I pull the ribbon free
from around the velvet bag. A deep pang hollows my chest
cavity as I remove the white-gold ring from the pouch. The
band is new, but the three-carat marquise diamond last
belonged to my mother. An heirloom that has been passed
down through the generations in the Cross family.
It may be a means to an end, but a seed of disgust sprouts
as I imagine it on a Carpella’s finger.
I palm the ring and move toward the girl, taking her in.
Really, other than eradication, I could always fuck the Carpella
bloodline out of existence.
Her face is pallid, her body trembling so fiercely, I fear she
won’t make it to the end. As I close the distance between us, I
nod to Mannix to back away. He steps aside and bows his
head, giving us the illusion of privacy, but remains nearby if
needed.
“Hold out your hand,” I order her.
She spies the ring and, in one violent clash of
comprehension, everything she’s witnessed tonight collides.
She looks at her father. “Please, Papà, tell me this isn’t
happening. You promised me to him?”
“He sold you,” I correct her. “To buy his life, he paid with
yours.”
Her eyes darken and flare with malicious intent. “You’re a
liar.” Then to her father: “Tell him none of this is true.”
Salvatore falls back to his haunches. “I’m sorry, Violetta,”
he says, his voice as worn as his broken body. “You will marry
this man.”
“Papà, no—”
“Stai zitta e fai come ti è stato detto!” he commands.
Her chest rises and falls sharply, her heavy breaths
straining her small breasts against the flimsy fabric of her
dress. Her heated gaze alights on me, those incensed amber
eyes shimmer with livid tears. She angrily swipes at her cheek.
“You’re insane. This is crazy. I’m not marrying you—”
“There are worse things in life, cailín beag.” The Irish
phrase for little girl suits her well. I close my hand around her
delicate wrist and pull her forward. Her wrist bone feels like a
willowy twig in my grasp. With one swift move, I could snap
it just as easily.
“But I don’t even know you,” she says, as her attention
drops to my large hand covering hers, scrutinizing the tattoos
that brand my skin.
“Had your father raised you with the proper traditions, you
would know that fact is of little consequence. You now belong
to me, and you’ll do as I say without question.”
I grip her wrist tighter until she relents and opens her hand.
I capture her gaze with mine as I slide the ring onto her finger.
Despite my provocation, the diamond suits her dainty hand.
“Arranged marriages among families is custom.”
She snatches her hand away. “Forced marriage,” she says.
“And don’t speak to me of traditions.” She tears the tiara off
her head and throws it to the floor. The resounding clink echos
throughout the parlor. “Doesn’t tradition also require you to
get on a knee?”
At the rigid shift in my shoulders, she recoils. I advance
and loom over her, where I can smell the lavender in her hair.
My jaw tightens, and I raise my hand. She blinks as I brush my
fingers through the soft tresses to smooth her hair over her
shoulder. The fresh memory of what it feels like wrapped
around my fist a jab to my ribs.
I lower close to her. “You got a little fire in you,” I whisper
near her ear. “But I bow to no one.”
As I step away, I look over her ruined dress. “You’re free
to change.” I nod at Mannix. “Take her to Nora. She can get
her settled.”
The girl evades Mannix’s reach before he can detain her.
“I’m not going anywhere but home.”
Salvatore finally gets to his feet. His spine must work,
after all. An alarmed expression clouds his bruised face.
“Come on, Violetta. We’re leaving now.”
My patience has been very giving up until this point. I
restrained myself from running a blade across Salvatore’s
throat when my men brought him to me by force. But now that
the deal is done, my patience is worn. I want him out of my
sight.
“No,” I say, my voice a dark boom, stalling everyone in
the parlor. “The girl stays here. I won’t risk losing my
investment should you suddenly become suicidal and try to
hide her.”
She runs to her father and wraps her arms around him.
“Please…don’t do this to me. I don’t understand what’s
happening.”
Salvatore consoles his daughter with whispered lies and
his battered arms shielding her small body, all the while his
beady eyes target me. The reality of his perilous situation
shows in the crease of his features.
To keep his secrets, he would place the shackle on his
daughter himself if I asked it of him.
As a reminder of the vow I lain forth in the contract, I
swipe my suit jacket aside to display the knife I keep at the
ready. Should Salvatore try to cross me in any way or break
the contract, I will make good on my threat to use her head as
a trophy.
He pulls away from his daughter. “I promise, I will return
for you. I will make this right, figlia mia.”
Empty promises of a washed-up gangster.
Salvatore’s glare captures my gaze. “No matter what you
do to me, Carlos will never agree to the contract,” he charges,
speaking for his brother. “He will never accept a Cross
alliance. Too much spilled, bad blood.” He swallows hard.
“If he doesn’t agree, then it’s your job to persuade him.”
“How do you suppose I do that?”
My gaze coasts to the girl, her arms linked around her
father’s neck, her eyes lit with fury and trained on me. A fiery
current licks my skin, and a dark smile tips my mouth.
I look at Salvatore. “Make him believe we’re in love.”
 He scoffs. “Ridiculous.”
“It worked for Romeo and Juliet. So make him believe
your daughter and I just can’t live without each other.” I
glance at the girl again. “Let’s just try not to end on such a
tragic note.”
She turns her face away, clinging to her father.
Now that this part is finalized, other pressing matters urge
my attention. “You can see her again at the wedding in two
months. Get him out of my house. Wait—” I pivot, having
almost forgotten the most important item on the contract. “One
last thing.”
An afflicted Salvatore glances at me anxiously as I direct
my men to close in around him. Mannix wrenches the girl
away from her father as Christoff takes hold of Salvatore’s
arms and forces him to the floor, stretching his hands above
his head. The girl shouts at them and, as I approach, I order
Mannix to shut her up.
Mannix picks up her petite form like she weighs nothing
and cradles her tiny body in his thick arms. An acute ache
spears beneath my chest plate, some inexplicable sensation at
seeing her so vulnerable and manhandled.
I disregard the annoyance and collect my discarded belt.
Running the smooth leather across my palm, I approach
Salvatore. “In my excitement, I nearly overlooked the most
vital part of the contract.”
Kneeling on one knee, I loop the belt around his wrist to
secure his hand and flick out the karambit blade. His eyes
grow wide with fear, his pleading broken and slobbery. “Your
family is a disgrace,” he manages the insult.
Was, I want to correct him, but that’s not an accurate
statement, either. My family was never a disgrace. The
Carpellas thought by eradicating the Cross Syndicate, they’d
reap a bounty of rewards. But my father was smarter than the
average crime boss. He knew how to hide wealth. No matter
what the Carpella don thinks of a marriage alliance, the truth
of the matter is the fine print. The Carpellas don’t hold a
strong enough grudge to outweigh their greed. Carlos Carpella
will agree to the union if he believes it will further line his
pockets.
Money is a stronger motivator than love.
Salvatore stares at his hand, fear making him begin to fade.
“And when the don sees my bruises… How do I explain such
a thing?”
I run my tongue over my teeth. “Tell him you gambled.
And lost.”
Placing the edge of the blade to his index finger, I add,
“The only binding contract is one inked in blood,” and bear
down, severing his finger from his hand.
His anguished cry cracks against the parlor walls, a
pathetic display from a notorious made man. His daughter is
remarkably silent, perhaps in shock. I made sure to take his
trigger finger. A sign to others of reaped revenge, and a token
for me, regardless if he wasn’t the one to pull the trigger.
I shove his hand onto the contract and watch his blood
soak the page. Then I place my left hand in his field of vision
and read aloud the tattooed script wrapping my knuckles.
“Fill-en an fyal er on vee-yowl-er-eh. The bad deed returns on
the bad-deed doer.”
Getting to my feet, I wipe the blade clean on Salvatore’s
shirt back. “Karma’s a bitch we must all bow to when our time
comes, Carpella.” I slip my belt back into place and buckle the
skull. “Someone get his fucking finger off my floor.”
With those parting words, I give my back to the two
Carpellas in my parlor room.
3
BEAUTY & SCARS
VIOLET

W hen we were five, my twin brother and I had a

shared recital. This was normal for us; we did
most things together. I was dancing on stage,
and he was playing piano.
I remember Fabian’s little miniature suit. The tie was so
tiny, but he was extremely proud. He thought he looked just
like Papà. I wore an ivory leotard and pink tutu.
I thought I looked like nobody.
The performance was a success, for the most part. Until
our father took an angry call to disrupt the recital and left the
auditorium. This was also normal, and most people didn’t
complain. Afterward, when our mother had rounded us up near
the car and we were ready to celebrate with ice cream, Papà
returned and scooped me up in his arms, praising his little
ballerina.
I remember his suit, the red paint soaked into his cuffs.
How it stained my tutu.
Mamà threw that beloved tutu in the trash as she muttered
Italian curses, and I stared at it in the garbage with teary eyes,
the way I’m staring at my dress in the trash bin of the
bathroom now.
Stained. Tattered. Ruined.
This world tarnishes everything it touches.
It leaves an imprint, a foreboding: Don’t try to escape your
fate, the outcome will only result in blood and ruin.
I look across the granite countertop, my gaze bleary, the
steam coating the glass and distorting the sparrow above the
towel. It wasn’t long after that night that our father put an end
to Fabian’s participation in recitals.
He was a boy in la famiglia and would grow up to be a
man. He had responsibilities, loyalties. There was no
indulgence given to the arts, especially one which required the
delicacy and care of a man’s hands such as piano.
A made man’s hands are rough and strong, meant for
inflicting pain and cruelty.
The day Uncle Carlos caught my brother practicing piano
in secret was the last day Fabian played. My uncle broke three
of Fabian’s fingers. He wore a cast for a whole summer.
That summer we were twelve, and some days I believe that
loss is what killed Fabian before the car wreck took his life. At
the very least, his soul was lost.
Some scars are visible to the eye. Some are buried so
deeply they’re not obvious, but you know they’re there; you
feel them every time you breathe.
It would only be till the end of that summer before I felt
loss irrevocably.
I touch the sparrow tattoo before I brace my hands on the
counter and focus my breathing.
In. Out. In…out.
Now, my world has been upended again.
Only hours ago, I was dancing on stage. A lifetime of
dreaming realized in one perfect, fleeting moment. All my
hard work and dedication, every sacrifice made, every
endeavor to escape the life noosed around my neck since birth,
torn away in a single act of violence.
My father’s pained cry tortures me, a sound so sinister it
still lashes through my mind. Papà isn’t a kind man. Not even
a good man. I’ve known this about him since the day my first
tutu was stained with another man’s blood, and yet, I’ve never
heard my powerful, overbearing father make such a dreaded
sound as he did tonight.
In an instant, he was transformed before my eyes. Gone
was the father who makes other men quake with fear. All I see
now is his blood, his horrified face as his finger was severed
from his hand. How broken and weak he became as he signed
his name to the contract that sold my life to another man.
 And I hate this feeling toward him. That, after what he
suffered, I’m selfishly worried for myself. But he’s not here.
I’m the one left to pay a debt I don’t owe.
It’s medieval. Archaic. To anyone on the outside, a trade
like this seems absurd. But in the world of made men
worshiping the god of money, a contracted marriage is as
ordinary as the dollar is green.
I just somehow fooled myself into believing it wouldn’t
come for me.
My whole body is encased in ice. Not even the scalding-
hot shower water could rinse away the chill in my bones. With
a trembling hand, I wipe the steam from the mirror. This is my
bathroom, connected to my room, in a home so foreign to me I
might as well be on another planet.
And I’m engaged to a man—a terrifying stranger—who
tortured and blackmailed my father into marrying me.
Owning me.
Anxious energy grips me as I rummage through drawers in
search of toothpaste or mouthwash, something to cleanse the
taste of bile from my mouth. My hand lands on a packet. I’m
frozen as I stare down at the familiar box.
My brand of birth control pills.
Dread is a harry legged spider crawling up my spine. I
slam the drawer shut. Look down at the ring on my finger. The
enormous rock feels like an anchor tied to my hand. My vision
blurs with furious tears, and I rip the ring off and slap it on the
counter. I drag in a breath past constricted lungs, lean into the
mirror, and swipe my fingers under my eyes.
I pause at the sight of my arms and chest.
Puffy red cuts stand out in stark contrast to the lavishness
of my surroundings. Or maybe it’s a perfect fit, scraping away
the deceiving veneer to reveal the harsh reality of pain and
suffering hidden behind these walls.
My eyes shutter against the frail girl there. “This isn’t my
life.”
 “Yes, it is, cailín.” The woman who escorted me to this
room suddenly appears in the doorway. Her name is Nora, and
she places folded clothes on the dressing table. “When Lucian
desires a thing, he makes it his. It’s best to accept your place
and not struggle. It will only cause pain.”
I draw my towel tighter around my body and try to ignore
her rambling in an Irish accent, but the Lucian part captures
my attention. Lucian Cross. I saw him torture and humiliate a
man before I even knew his name.
“I’m not a thing,” I retort.
Her broad shoulders bounce with a silent laugh. “Aye,
cailín. You keep thinking that and let me know how it goes.
Some things a woman just accepts.”
Disgusted, I turn my face away from her reflection. I wait
for her to leave before I take the clothes, since I have no
choice, as somehow, these men managed to confiscate my
damn birth control pills, but felt my clothes and other
belongings were not as important.
The sick realization of why is terrifying. The deepest pang
of homesickness levels me, and then real panic ratchets my
emotions.
Clothes and simple possessions I can live without. But I
need my phone. It’s a lifeline. I have no way to contact my
father or…anyone.
Aloneness consumes me in the darkest chasm.
I hold the dress up Nora placed on the table. It’s platinum
with a shimmering veil of the palest purple when it catches the
light. If not for the circumstance, I would love it. I fling the
dress on the fluffy white bed and stalk to the walk-in closet.
As I flip on the light, my stomach pitches.
Every rack is filled with clothes.
An ache lodges in my throat as I realize the dire magnitude
of my situation. I wasn’t taken on a whim. This abduction was
planned. This man, this mafia monster, planned in calculated
detail to steal me away from my life and keep me locked here.
 I’m a prisoner.
And the amount of clothes affirms just how long my
sentence is.
Fury chases away the anxiety as I search the drawers and
racks. I snatch a simple black T-shirt off a hanger and a pair of
leggings I find in a drawer. Sickness twists my stomach as I try
on a pair of ballet flats and they’re a perfect fit.
Where did he get all this information about me? Was I
being watched?
Then I realize what’s missing. There are no leotards. No
pointe shoes. Nothing in this entire closet represents my real
life. He’s erased the biggest part of me.
I slam the door shut.
As I leave the room, one of the hulking men who abducted
me appears in the hallway. Startled, I grab my chest, then
forcibly lower my hand and ball it into a tight fist. Mannix is
his name. I recall the monster barking orders at him to restrain
me.
Without a word, I start down the hall, not sure where I’m
going but intent on getting my life back.
Mannix shadows me silently. Anger is a serrated blade
dragging over my nerves. “I’m nineteen,” I say, teeth gritted.
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I’m here for your protection,” he says.
“You’re here to keep me captive.”
“Aye. That, too.” There’s no shame in his deep, Irish-
accented voice.
I turn down a hallway and halt to look in the other
direction. “Which way to the man who abducts women?”
When he says nothing, I whirl to face him. Shoulders
squared, he folds his hands in front of him, completely stoic.
Tattoos scroll up his neck in the same Irish script as his boss.
He’s large and intimidating. I imagine that’s part of his damn
job description.
 Honestly, it’s not as if any of this is overly shocking. I
know who my family is. My uncle is the don of the Carpella
crime famiglia.
One of the most notorious and feared crime families in
New York.
Before my mother died, she educated me in the ways of
the mafia and how to be unseen within it. For women, the life
is one of blind devotion and acceptance. Their place is beneath
the men. A subservient object. And if you don’t behave, you
are to be punished for your embarrassment.
After Fabian was lost, I took her words to heart. My uncle
only acknowledged me with cold indifference, which I believe
he despised me for living instead of my brother, and he
belittled my father for not having a son to carry on his legacy.
My mother sent me away to school, I choose to believe,
before my uncle had the chance to barter me off. Her motto
was: Out of sight, out of mind.
Which I have made sure to be all this time. Until today, my
uncle and even my father was all too willing to ignore my
presence. The auditorium seats empty of any family as always.
Christmas’s shared one day a year, where I hug my
grandmother and aunts and cousins before taking up a corner
till the day passes.
So if this Lucian Cross thinks he’s going to get any kind of
deal because of me… Well, I would laugh, if it wasn’t so
pathetic.
He’ll be sore to learn the don of the Carpellas won’t lose
sleep over my abduction.
As I eye Mannix, my tightly pinched lips start to quiver.
He’s not the first brute to boss me around. I have—had—a
guard. As a child, Marcus watched over me and Fabian and
even played with us at rare times. He was bigger than Mannix,
but he actually smiled every once in a while. I want to ask the
man blocking me if Marcus is still alive—but I won’t reveal
any weakness, not yet.
 My mind keeps conjuring the feeling of being on that
stage, the simple freedom that was so close.
An illusion of hope.
Hope is a fragile feeling where I come from. It’s wished
for as much as it is feared.
Hope can break you.
“Look,” I say to him, trying for sincere. “I have a dance
class tomorrow. I can’t just not show up. People will worry.
They may call the police, issue a missing persons—”
“That’s been handled.”
Of course it has. I try again. “Seriously. I need to speak
with—” I’m not sure what to call him. Lucian. Mr. Cross. My
fiancé of doom “—him. I just need some answers.”
Mannix is a statue. Unrattled. Unmoved. Chin locked and
posture perfect, he looks like a Secret Service agent. But with
intimidating tattoos and muscles that can squeeze the life out
of anyone who gives him a wrong look.
“I’m to escort you to the dining hall,” he finally says, his
gaze cast over my head.
It’s a start. What I really want to do is run. Every second
that passes feels as if I’m losing precious time to escape. The
longer I remain within these walls, the harder it will be to flee
them.
He continues to follow behind me as he directs me through
the hallways. The home is old money. Antiques and expensive
Belgian linens. Not the cotton-slash-linen that is found in
America. I’m Italian, so I’ve been raised to know the
difference.
The walls are adorned in an opulent natural fabric, and
dramatic modern art pieces adorn the expansive rooms, giving
the mansion an old-world charm with an updated
contemporary feel. A clash of design elements. As if the man
living here is battling two worlds.
Then it hits me: the question of whether he resides here
alone with his soldiers. Who else belongs to this house? A
family?
A pang of remorse hollows my chest as I remember what
he said in the parlor room.
He has no family.
Because of mine.
The world of crime lords is a merciless one, and though I
may feel sorrow for his loss, and even shame if my family did
have anything to do with their demise, the fact is, this world
takes. It destroys. His family must have known the risks and
consequences.
But vengeance to a made man knows no bounds. They will
take and spill blood until there’s nothing left.
This morbid thought lingers as I enter the dining area.
Large dimly-lit wrought iron chandeliers hang over a giant
rustic oak table set with one place setting. A natural-colored
wool rug frames the immaculate space.
Nora appears through a swing door carrying a serving dish.
She sets the platter on the table and wipes her hands off on her
apron. “You’re not dressed for dinner.” Her tone is scolding.
“Lucian will not be pleased.”
I glance around the empty room. “Dressed to eat alone?
He’ll get over it.”
Her brow furrows. She shakes her head disapprovingly as
she rearranges the dishes.
“Besides, I’m not hungry. I want to see Lucian.” His name
tastes vile on my tongue. “Where is he?”
She clucks her tongue. “He’s tending to business, dear.
Best to leave the man alone.”
“This is insane.” I open my arms wide and glance around
the room, looking for cameras. “I’ve been abducted. Stolen.” I
point at Mannix. “He freaking put a bag over my head and
threw me in a trunk. My father has been tortured and
blackmailed into some insidious deal. And everyone is treating
me like I’m just a houseguest.”
 Mannix says nothing as he stealthily blends into the wall.
Nora only gives me an accusatory glare, as if I’m the most
ungrateful houseguest, at that.
“This isn’t right,” I mutter, suddenly depleted of energy.
“I’ll find him myself.”
At her raised finger, I turn my back to her and stalk out of
the room, not caring if my guard follows. There’s nothing
these people can do to me. At least, I don’t think.
From what I gathered during the blood meeting, this man
needs me. Why else would he contract our marriage? He needs
an alliance with my family, and he can’t obtain that with a
dead girl.
I roam the hallways and rooms, the silence becoming eerie.
As I ascend a spiral staircase to the second level, Mannix
clears his throat. I shoot him a suspicious glance, and he cocks
his head to the right, indicating an even more secluded section
of the house.
Maybe he’s tired of walking, or he’s curious to see what
happens to me. Either way, I take the hint and push through
two giant oak doors leading into an open concrete space with
floor-to-ceiling windows. A rectangular lap pool resides in the
middle of the spacious room.
I find my abductor in the shallow end, wading his way to
the steps.
So this is what sadistic torturers do after they’ve removed
the body parts of their enemies. Take a lap around their
expensive pool. This is what constitutes as “business.”
Indignant, I stalk toward the shallow end and place myself
in his path as he climbs the pool steps. As he moves out of the
water, he wipes his wet hair back, showcasing powerfully lean
muscles and intricate tattoos. What’s not muscle or ink is
scars. Hidden beneath the elaborate tattoo on his chest is a scar
in the shape of a cross. The ink swirls and travels over his left
rib cage and up his neck, then down his arm. Skulls and bones
stand out against beautifully shaded blackwork flowers.
There’s also faded Irish script that I can’t decipher mixed in.
 For the first time in my life, I’m stunned silent. He’s
beautiful, a work of art, his body covered in all the pain and
agony a tortured artist suffers.
I avert my gaze from the taut V of his stomach and force
my eyes to meet his, where I’m caught in the current of his
sea.
He doesn’t stop advancing until he’s standing so near I
have to angle my head back uncomfortably to match his
intense stare. I’m drowning in Aegean waters so blue and
clear, the pool water pales in comparison.
But beneath his devilish beauty, there’s a dark edge carved
through him. A demon in disguise, a monster cloaked in a
stunning veneer. I blink, trying not to look directly at the cross
on his chest, and instead focus on the thin white scar on his
chin carved parallel to his bottom lip.
A towel is handed to him by Mannix, and he accepts
silently. He pats his face dry and catalogues me in silent
regard, his narrowed gaze taking in my wet hair from the
shower. Heat flushes my skin at the memory of his ruthless
hands gripping my hair, and I ball my hand into a fist, hiding
the finger where I removed the ring from his sight.
Then he says: “Where is the dress I selected for you?”
I keep my head held high despite the vicious threat to back
down. “It’s not my dress. I don’t want it. Or any of this.”
He drapes the towel around his neck, holding on to the
ends as his gaze roams over me almost invasively. Seething
hatred is there, but also some other torrent emotion I can’t
place.
“You’re right,” he says. “Everything belongs to me. I own
the dress. The clothes you’re wearing now.” He pushes in
closer, his body heat invading my space. “I even own you,
cailín beag, and you will do what I say.”
The hint of an Irish accent is masked beneath his
venomous words as he reverts to his native tongue. I have no
idea what he’s calling me, but I’m sure it’s not pleasant. The
justified anger I entered this room with is snuffed out under his
fire. The urge to escape thrums through my whole body, the
warning a blaze igniting my skin, but I hold my ground.
I have nothing to lose.
“You can’t keep me prisoner here,” I say, “it’s medieval.
It’s just… You can’t.”
“You’re not a prisoner. You can leave whenever you
want.”
I tilt my head, confusion drawing my brows together. “I
don’t understand.”
Those blue eyes flare with mischief. “You can leave, but
then you forfeit your father’s life.”
I nod angrily. “Then I’m a prisoner just the same.”
He offers a half-shrug, indifferent. Although I know he
went to great lengths to get me here, to manipulate my father,
so the “he who cares the least” attitude is a pathetic farce.
“Call it whatever you’d like,” he says, “but it’s an
arrangement, nothing more.” His gaze sweeps down my body,
sending a tendril of warmth over my tight skin. “The matter is
simple. You have a choice. It may not be an easy one, but we
always have choices. Leave, return to your family, and let your
father’s disgrace have its consequence. Or abide by the
marriage contract and save the last living member of your
immediate family.”
The memory returns of my uncle breaking Fabian’s fingers
for his harmless passion. I can only imagine what he’d do to
my father for stealing from him. You don’t become the don of
a crime family because of your compassion.
My father is the only family I have left, and this monster is
using my conscience against me. “I have to protect him.”
His eyes penetrate mine. “He should protect you.”
I hold his invasive gaze, until I’m forced to blink and look
away. “I need my phone,” I say, hating the wobble in my
voice. “My belongings. I have dance classes. I can’t just…
disappear. I have a life—”
 “Had,” he interrupts. “Your life belongs to me now, and
you have no use for a phone.” His gaze dips to the low
neckline of my shirt. His eyes seem to linger on the cuts from
the thorns, his deviant gift to me, and something dangerous
flares behind his eyes. “You should leave.”
An undercurrent of alarm carries through his tone, his
words not a demand but a warning.
My lips part as I search for a response. The longer we
remain locked in this battle of wills, the more his heat gathers
around my body, his stare all but flaying my skin from my
bones.
I’ve never been confronted with actual vehemence. I’ve
lived and survived in a dark world most never encounter, and
yet this is the first time I’ve ever been touched by pure,
unadulterated hatred.
This man despises me.
The ache of tears springs to my eyes, and I’m furious
because of it. “Fuck the phone,” I say, inching so near him less
than a sliver of air separates his bare chest from the contour of
my breasts.
A spark of amusement shimmers in his eyes at my
boldness. He wipes a hand over his mouth.
“Objects I can live without,” I say. “Even seeing my
family—” I hate the truth of my words “—but I’m a dancer. I
have to dance. I’ve worked too hard to be accepted into the
ballet company. It’s my life. I have to attend class and
performances.”
I’m showing my hand, baring my ultimate weakness and
vulnerability, at the risk he will take some level of pity on me.
He’s stolen a girl and locked her in his tower like some sordid
fairy tale. He has to see reason.
A deep breath causes friction between his chest and my
shirt, and my body wilts against the intrusive intimacy. I start
to back away but his hand bands my bicep, preventing my
escape.
“You’re passionate about dancing.”
 I swallow. “Yes.”
His fingertips dig into my skin, and without permission,
my gaze lowers to his chest. The scar is deep and jagged, and I
know it was painful. Pool water beads along the rough,
beveled skin.
He releases me quickly, harshly, like he didn’t realize he’d
touched me, like accidentally touching the red-hot burner of a
stove, and the force of it rocks me backward.
“Then you’ll dance here,” he says, gripping the towel once
again. “You’ll dance for me.”
My mouth pops open to argue, but he yanks the towel from
his shoulders in a move meant to illustrate his waning patience
and the finality of the conversation.
Dance here. For him. Like some kept mafia wife with a
stupid, indulgent hobby.
The insult enrages me almost as much as being forced to
live under his roof, and my next words just fly out.
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to get from me,
but I’m not being forced to do anything.” As it leaves my
mouth, I realize the inference surrounding my words—what I
haven’t even considered until now.
Consummation of marriage.
One of his brows arches suggestively, fueling a violent
flush a heat along my skin. “You should be grateful I’m
tolerating your interest at all,” he says. “That’s more than
you’re worth.”
My nails cut into my palms, my hands fisted so tight. “It’s
not simply an interest—”
“There’s nothing more to discuss.” An impenetrable mask
slips over his features. “Get out,” he commands.
As he turns and walks toward a bench holding his folded
suit and boots, I feel the first hot tear slip free. I swipe my
cheek. A horrible sound comes from the back of my throat and
echos against the concrete.
 Lucian’s back tenses. “Leave, before I give you a reason
for your tears.”
“You mean to torture me, then,” I blurt, no longer
concerned with my welfare now that all hope of returning to
my life is lost.
His grip on the towel tightens, the muscles of his back
flexing with his tense movement. He faces me slowly, scars
and intimidating ink on full display, a cruel edge of malice in
the blue flames of his eyes. Something wild and untamed
flickers behind his gaze before a cruel leer twists his lips.
“Only spoiled princesses would claim such pettiness is
torture.” He tosses the towel on the bench and grabs his black
dress shirt. “You were born to this world. Your fate was
always to be a contracted wife. Be glad it’s to a man who has
no plans to treat you as such.” He thrusts an arm into his
sleeve, saying aloud and confirming what I was too
embarrassed to broach about the consummation. “Otherwise,
another man might punish that smart mouth and demonstrate
what real torture feels like.”
I lick my lips, my mouth dry and throat raw. “I’m not a
princess, and I’m not the one who hurt your family.” I regret
the words as soon as they leave my mouth, but it’s too late.
He works one button closed on his shirt before he prowls
toward me, a force of man and storm. Taking my jaw in his
callus grip, he pins me in place. “Hurt is not the appropriate
word for what your blood did to my family.” He lowers his
mouth close to my ear, where the scent of chlorine and a hint
of aquatic cologne and warm male skin touches my senses.
“Dress for dinner, like the respectable mafia fucking princess
you are, or I will dress you myself.”
As he releases me, I place a hand over my jaw, my skin hot
and pulsing with the rapid beat of my heart. His gaze trails the
length of me, deliberately slow, as he resumes fastening the
buttons of his shirt. He flicks a glance at Mannix. “Keep a
better watch on her.”
“Aye, boss.”
 The deep voice startles me. I’d forgotten the brute was
even here. Lucian absorbs every molecule in the room. But
when I spin around, I nearly collide into the soldier’s chest. He
takes his time stepping aside, making a point I know how
unhappy he is that I got him reprimanded by his boss.
“Get used to it,” I say, as I step around him.
If I’m going to be miserable, I’ll strive to make everyone
around me just as miserable, like a true fucking mafia princess.
Only, I saw the thunderous gleam in Lucian’s eyes. I felt the
disdain in his venomous words.
His loathing for my family is deep-rooted. This man is fire
and wrath, and he’s determined to reap whatever punishment
he feels I’m deserving of in their place.
A thought so sobering hits me I stop walking and stare
back at the pool room.
I need to stop trying to salvage a life already gone and start
finding a way to simply survive him.
4
PASSION & BLADES
LUCIAN

D esolation, New York is as bleak as the name

implies.
A constant gray sky overhangs a briny river that wraps the
city in industrial buildings and iron bridges. Cold, isolated,
forsaken. Yet my roots run deep here, my blood mixed in with
the impenetrable concrete and acrid water. I’m as callous as
the rust that coats this city. My family carved a syndicate from
its corroded bowels, claiming street corners and businesses
long before the Italians invaded.
At that point, the Irish Syndicate was systematically and
thoroughly removed from power by high-ranking individuals
that would see me put six feet under if I so much as thought of
making a move.
As long as I’m a ghost in this city, I don’t exist to them.
And I get to live.
When the mob murders your bloodline, you’re already
dead, even if they leave you breathing.
I was just a boy when Carlos Carpella encroached on our
territory and began massacring my family. He put a hit on
every member of the syndicate and, in less than a decade, the
numbers dwindled to near extinction.
My brother, Keller, was the only family I had left after my
father was murdered execution style in his very own casino.
Then five years ago, Keller had dared to operate a club
without paying dues to the Carpellas, and it cost him his life,
too.
At least, that’s the story should anyone go digging. The
truth of my brother’s murder is buried beneath Carpella dirt
and scandal, sunk down deep in a coffin, nailed shut, and
topped with a tidy bow.
As for me, I made the grave mistake of attacking my
brother’s executioner. At only seventeen, I was all fire and
brimstone as I went after the enforcer with nothing but fury in
my fists. When he was done laughing, he decided I was too
harmless to kill. I wasn’t yet a made man and he knew it; my
brother’s doing to try to protect me from the life. When they
were done with me, the enforcer and his thugs left me with a
painful reminder never to cross the Carpellas again, or else my
fate was sealed as good as my brother’s.
The cross carved into my chest with a soldering iron
brands my shamed legacy.
Nearly every bone in my body was broken. Large sections
of my skin was brutally carved with a knife. I believe they
meant for me to never walk again at the very least, never mind
ever make a name for myself in Desolation.
For five years after that night, I’ve been working to build a
reputation as one not to be fucked with, to re-erect my family’s
empire in secrecy. A new Cross Syndicate.
I started out small in arms trade. Made lesser-known
connections within The Ruin, the crime hub of the city, where
most shady deals and pacts are made. Then I found my calling.
I’m a death bringer.
You hire a hitman to get rid of a person. You hire me to
make them beg for death.
Contracted to inflict torment and pain, I moved up quickly
in the ranks of one-off criminals. I formed a collective, a
growing number of men who put their trust and devotion in me
because we have a common enemy:
The Carpella famiglia.
Some of my men are family friends and connections I
recruited from my parents’ hometown of Cork. Others are
locals of different backgrounds and origins who were brought
up right here in the city. But all of them are my brothers.
Blood runs thick—but revenge runs this city.
And when Carlos Carpella started running his empire more
independent of The Ruin, his greedy move fucked over a lot of
players who are now seeking vengeance.
 If you have power, you can damn well bet someone wants
to take it.
My contract with Salvatore Carpella is the first step in
solidifying my revenge. When he backs me to his brother, and
the union between his daughter and me is sealed by the bonds
of marriage, I will be considered one of them.
The past wiped clean.
Old grudges erased.
Welcomed into the arms of the enemy, like the Trojan
horse into the city of Troy, where I’ll strike from within.
Docs propped up on the white-oak desk, I run my thumb
over the blade of my karambit knife to test the sharpness. I
have a meeting tonight with Primo Brogan at Butcher and Son,
an abandoned warehouse owned mutually by The Ruin. Primo
is a Carpella rat, and I’m using him to establish a connection
for a lucrative business opportunity.
A dark note whispers in my head, the Carpella girl playing
on an endless loop. I shouldn’t leave her alone so soon. It’s
only been twenty-four hours and she’s far from stable. But I’m
becoming stir crazy, ready to set my plan into motion. The girl
has been more work than initially accounted for. She was
supposed to reside in the background, a means to an end. She’s
too loud, too demanding, and far too distracting. Even Mannix
is becoming agitated by her constant need of supervision.
Maybe I should let her have a damn studio where she can
dance. Then at least she’ll be out of the way.
But that means yielding to a Carpella. And I will not yield
in my lifetime.
A laptop screen displays a revolving security feed of my
home. In one corner, the girl paces the hallway outside of the
room I gave her. Her way of defying my order when I sent her
there, like a petulant child. Mannix questioned if he should
install a lock on the outside of her door, and that might have to
happen soon, but not tonight.
I’m curious to see what she does.
 She is the enemy, after all. And studying one’s adversary is
necessary in the art of war.
Watching her on the screen is the only way I’ll allow
myself to look at her longer than the seconds necessary. Like a
block of ice held to skin, her presence is agonizing, pressing
against me until I’m forced to either walk away or wrap my
hands around her delicate neck.
Hate is too simple a word. I don’t have the capability to
describe the searing pain and fury she evokes within me.
Being near her is like reopening a painful wound. Like
experiencing the soldering iron branding my skin all over
again.
I touch the scar along my chest at the thought.
Had there been any other way to obtain my objective, my
ring would not be on her finger. But like all things we strive to
achieve in this lifetime, our ultimate desires do not come
without pain and sacrifice.
I drop my feet and shift closer to the screen, hand braced
around the edge of the desk until my knuckles ache. She’s
stopped pacing. Her hands ring the length of her hair, as if she
can’t contain her frustration. She furiously winds it up into a
knot at the base of her neck.
The memory of my fingers sliding through her soft hair
stirs hot embers of disappointment in my veins at seeing the
dark tresses tucked away. I fist my hands and push away from
the desk.
The little prima ballerina might carry the Carpella name,
but soon she’ll have mine. Her bloodline is reason enough to
loathe her existence, but it’s an even bigger frustration that she
happens to be beautiful.
A possibility I should have considered, knowing how
beautiful Allegra was.
Her daughter is even more stunning. That dancer’s body.
Those long, inviting legs I can imagine spreading wide. The
feel of that silky hair tangled around my fist. That pouty, sassy
mouth begging to be punished.
 And those amber eyes that bore right through me with
fiery aversion.
Every cell in my body craves retribution, and I’m
disgusted with myself for even noticing her.
When the time comes to consummate our marriage, I’ll
need to either leave her to spend our wedding night alone, or
I’ll have to give in to this depraved craving and hate-fuck her
into submission.
My cock jumps at the thought of pinning her tight little
body beneath me and unleashing every ounce of hatred on her
in the most vile and filthy way.
Christ. I might come in my fucking pants at just the
thought of breaking her.
The sight of her leaving the hallway has me bounding out
of the chair. I’m riled and worked up, and if my new
houseguest wants to provoke me, then she’s going to get what
she’s asking for.
As I round the corner toward the atrium, I hear the struggle
before I witness Mannix trying to detain the girl.
“Let go,” she shouts at him. “I need fresh air. I need out of
this compound—”
I snap my fingers, and Mannix releases her arms. Her head
whips in my direction, her fight essentially stalled.
“Leave us alone.” I order Mannix out of the room.
For a moment, he hesitates. A flare of concern for the girl
who I put in his charge draws his features tight. At my
narrowed gaze, he inclines his head in obedience before
straightening his suit and departing through the doors.
Silence settles between us.
She’s all rumpled clothes and wild hair, her chest heaving,
her face devoid of the heavy makeup she wore the night
before. A visceral desire to see those eyes teary and mascara
tracking her cheeks again grips me with a fury. She’s too
youthful and innocent looking. I approach her like a feral
animal, my steps slow and my hands in view. I’m not sure who
should be more wary of the other, me or her.
Her.
With the scent of blood still pungent in the air, and the
pent-up rage I’ve suppressed for years, the recent beating of
Salvatore wasn’t even close to offering me a substantial
release.
As I prowl toward her, I glance at the time on my phone.
“It’s too late for little girls to be roaming outside.”
“I thought I could leave any time I wanted?” She pushes
errant strands of hair away from her face. At my refusal to
answer, she says, “I’m losing my mind. I have to get out.”
Panic sparks in her widening eyes, and her pupils dilate. If
I allow her to experience an anxiety attack, she’ll most likely
pass out. Mannix can then carry her to her room. That’s the
easiest way to handle her.
But I’m suddenly curious to see how far her fear will take
her.
“We have many days and nights together before the
wedding. Then many days and nights after. You can’t change
your circumstance. You can either accept it quickly and
painlessly, or I can make you accept it very painfully.”
I close the distance between us, snatching her arm before
she has the chance to move.
“You’re vile.”
“I’m honest.”
“Let go of me,” she says, but her words hold little venom.
She’s frightened and exhausted. Her eyelids flutter heavily as
she tries to keep them open, as if she hasn’t slept since she
arrived here.
The adrenaline has depleted her fight. A shame, really,
since I was entertaining the thought of breaking some of her
bad habits tonight.
 “I don’t care what that absurd contract says,” she says.
“Regardless if I’m forced to marry you, I don’t have to obey
you. I won’t ever ‘do as I’m told’ by someone I despise.”
A twisted smile lifts the corner of my mouth. “You can
loathe me, direct all your anger toward me, but it’s your father
who did this to you. Never forget that.”
Her breathing ramps, her body trembling with fury and
fear and probably an aroused feeling she can’t even
comprehend. We’re all hostages to warring, rampaging
emotions when pushed to our limits.
My gaze leisurely rakes over her body and gravitates
lower, lingering on her slender hips. “If I didn’t already know
how treacherous Carpella women are, I’d assume you’re
untouched by how tight those thighs are.”
Her mouth parts, features appalled. She snatches her arm
free of my grasp and turns to storm off. The sight of her hand
fuels a new wave of rage.
“Where’s my ring?” I demand.
Her back remains to me as she marches toward the spiral
staircase. “I flushed it down where it belongs.”
Red blankets my vision, and I’m across the room in a few
strides. My passive nature when it comes to the opposite sex is
nonexistent as I back her against the wall. I clasp her jaw,
forcing her to look at me.
“That is a family heirloom.” My voice rumbles past gritted
teeth.
Despite the panic edging her features, she says, “Then it
doesn’t belong on my finger. We’re not family.”
No words spoken have ever been truer. With my free hand,
I take her wrist and bring her fingers into view. “If you refuse
to wear it, then you have no need for your finger.”
She spies the hilt of the knife I used to sever her father’s
finger in my pocket, and fear sheets her face.
“Where is the ring?” I demand again.
 The force of her swallow presses against my palm. “In my
room.”
“Good girl.” I don’t release her, making my point clear that
her body belongs to me. “No one is coming for you, cailín
beag. Hear the silence? No one is beating down the doors.
Your father isn’t planning your rescue. He’s relieved I let him
keep his life. You were an easy trade, as I’m sure a worthless
mafia whore probably served no better purpose than you did
for your wretched father.”
Her hand twitches in my hold, as if she intends to slap me.
That brings a crooked sneer to my mouth. Her cheeks flush
and, incensed, she spits in my face.
I release her hand and casually wipe the spittle from my
cheek. Then, with the hand still gripped to her jaw, I drag my
thumb across her bottom lip. “I just may have use for my knife
yet.”
My movements are fast as I hook my finger into the looped
hilt and flick the blade out. Her whimper slinks over my skin
and tightens my stomach as the blade catches the dim light.
Recovering, she twists out of my hold and takes a step
back. “I have no doubt that’s my real fate here,” she says,
indicating her demise. “How could you possibly want an
alliance, a marriage, with a family you claim killed yours?”
Not such a naïve mafia whore, after all. How could I want
an alliance with my enemy? I couldn’t possibly. Our world is
built on ego, and any made man would retaliate. Blood would
run.
“For all I know,” she continues, becoming brave, “you
plan to murder me in my sleep before you kill the rest of my
family.”
“You’re smarter than your papà. But I assure you, if my
intent is to kill you, I’ll do it while you’re awake so you’ll feel
every painful second.”
Her petite presence is swallowed by this huge room and
my towering form. Her breathing ratchets, those defiant
whisky eyes flaying me. “If you kill me, then you don’t get
your alliance.”
“I have more self-control than that,” I say, even as my
pants tighten with need to mock my claim. “There are far
worse things that I can do to you than death.”
At the suggestion, I look over her attire. The shapeless
shirt she’s wearing won’t work. I step toward her and hook the
claw of the blade into the collar and drag it down, slashing the
thin cotton fabric. Her stomach flinches as the cool steel nearly
grazes her skin, and she clamps her eyes shut.
“Look at me,” I order, and on instinct, she does.
Her eyes find mine as I finish tearing the shirt away. The
black bra tantalizingly cups her small breasts, pushing the
tender swell of her flesh over the top. The tight leggings cling
to her hips.
“Remove your shirt,” I tell her.
Confusion twists her features as I start to back away. With
unsure movements, she lets the torn shirt fall to the floor.
Standing before me, she uses her arms to cover her bare
midsection.
I sheathe my knife and slip it into my pocket as I glance
around the atrium. Vines crawl up the square columns that
connect the glass panes separating the inside from the out. The
vaulted ceiling is all beams and glass, offering a scenic view of
the night sky. A stacked stone fountain is center in the room,
tranquil and unused. The entire atrium is surrounded by
vegetation that needs little maintenance.
I rarely come in here, but I decide that tonight, it’s the
perfect stage for my ballerina.
“Dance,” I command.
Loose waves of dark hair fall over her shoulders. She looks
around the room as if searching for an escape.
“Dance,” I repeat, my tone adamant but calm.
She shakes her head. “I can’t…”
 I notch my chin. “You have to. You claimed it’s your
passion, so show me. Prove to me that you won’t live without
it.”
“I can’t dance here,” she says, incredulous.
“Why?”
“I don’t have my pointe shoes.” She lifts her bare foot to
demonstrate. “Among other things.”
“A person committed to their passion needs nothing else.
Dance, or I’ll see to it that you never dance again.” The threat
goes unsaid, but she knows what she’s risking. One broken leg
would end a professional career for life.
Even when I removed her father’s finger, I didn’t witness
the fear in her eyes I see there now.
I take a seat on a stone bench, withdraw my phone from
my inseam, and scroll through a music selection. I choose a
classic, Moonlight Sonata, and the deep notes of a piano
mourn through the tiny speaker.
With a full inhale, she brings her hand before her and rises
onto the balls of her feet, drawing herself up through her
center, but she falters, her trembling limbs throwing her off
balance. Staring at the marble floor, she balls her tiny hands
into fists. Eyes welded shut, she attempts again.
This time, she gracefully rises onto her feet. Bringing her
knee toward her torso, she balances on one leg, letting the
music build, before she extends her leg outward. I cant my
head as I study her. Her slender, lithe body. Her strong legs.
Small, delicate breasts strained against the lacy material of her
bra.
She keeps her eyes closed as she transitions through poses
—ones I’m sure have proper terms I don’t care to know. All I
care about is that she not falter again. I should demand that she
open her eyes, but the sweeping flow of her movements settles
in my bones.
She twirls, raising her arms above head, her long layers of
hair slashing her forearms. Like some fairy creature in a myth,
she glides across the floor to the hypnotic rhythm.
 And I am hypnotized, bewitched.
I imagine no other man could watch her dance and claim
otherwise.
During the middle of the piece, she seems to forget her
predicament, at least for this brief moment. Her movements
become sharp, blunt, almost distressed. Her toes pointed and
legs carved of glass. Her expression morphs into one of
contented pleasure followed by pain, and my heart thrums
anxiously, blood thrashing against my veins.
She doesn’t take joy from dancing. No, it’s some strange
mix of passion and toxic need. As if each leap and spin is air
to deprived lungs. It’s cruel and violent, what she’s putting her
body through, as if she takes some sadistic pleasure from that
passage between pain and relief.
My whole body is coiled tight as I grip the sharp edge of
stone. She dances only for herself, but I’m pulled into her
space, the darkness surrounding her, the grief and agony and
beauty of her torture consuming the negative space. Her
yearning for the music to never end.
Amid the swell of exquisiteness and rapture, anger gnashes
my nerves. This Carpella girl should hold no sway over any
part of me. Her legacy should not be one of privilege but of
blood and carnage. For every wrong her family committed
against mine.
I launch from the seat and advance toward her. Still lost in
the heightening crescendo, she doesn’t notice my approach
until I’m right in front of her. I reach out and grab her arm,
drawing her to a stop.
As if awakened from a trance, she stares at me through
dazed eyes and long lashes, her chest heaving from exertion.
Shock tears her back to reality, and as she regains her bearings,
she attempts to struggle to free herself.
“Release me,” she says, a deeper meaning in her words. A
dark monster nestled beneath my skin wants to demand the
same of her.
“I give the orders.” My fingers dig into her soft flesh.
 “I did as you asked—”
“Now I ask more.” My gaze travels down her taut body,
lean legs, bare feet. “I thought ballerinas danced on their toes.”
She blinks. “I can’t dance en pointe without my shoes.”
Tentatively, I release her and swipe my hand over my
mouth. “I told you to dance, to show me your passion. That’s
not what you gave me. A truly passionate dancer would hold
nothing back.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what you want
from me.”
“Up on your toes,” I command.
She balks, a distressed laugh slips free. “That’s ridiculous.”
My hand whips out fast, surprising even me as I snatch her
hair. I bring her face close to mine, so she hears the deliberate
warning in my tone. “Talk back once more, and I will show
you the discipline you were obviously denied.”
Her body trembles next to mine, her breaths ragged. Her
lips purse in contempt, but as she holds my stare, she positions
herself straight and begins to lift up onto her toes.
I set her hair free and watch as her body shakes while
struggling to hold the pose.
Her dark eyebrows draw together as her features contort in
pain. A whimper escapes her mouth, but she doesn’t fall. She
remains on her toes even as she uses her arms to maintain
balance.
Then, as she breaks the pose, her hands latch on to me, her
palms flat against my chest.
My gaze drops to where she touches me, and she hangs her
head, shoulders strained from the effort.
“Again.”
Her head lifts, features too soft and pliant. My chest damn
near ignites, her hands searing my skin through the fine
material of my shirt.
 Her mouth opens, but she doesn’t fire off the retort I know
is lodged on that tongue. I step back, letting her hands fall
away. As she pushes onto her toes again, she doesn’t hold back
the cry this time, and she immediately loses balance.
A tantalizing ache licks my back at the pained sound, so
erotically alluring I grit my teeth.
My breaths saw past my nose, and I smirk to contain the
brutal discomfort. This is what sets her off.
“So this is why I’m here,” she bites out, shoulders tense.
“For you to torture me for some sin I know nothing about. Or
you just simply get off on torturing girls.”
“You know nothing of torture.” The audacity of her
ignorant words lances my chest. I tug the cuffs of my shirt
down, giving my hands some occupation so I’m not tempted to
wrap them around her neck.
A mocking laugh slips past her lips. “Isn’t that what you’re
doing to me now?”
My features harden into a mask. “You never knew pain or
suffering, I assure you.” I eat the span of space between us in
two quick strides. She involuntarily flinches, but refrains from
backing down.
With corded muscles, I reach up and pinch a wild strand of
her hair. “But you will,” I say, my voice a dark threat. “I’ll
take that which you love and use it to break you.”
Her chin raises a fraction, a challenge set in her fiery eyes.
A spark ignites my blood like flame to gunpowder at the
sight. “You will only dance when and where I tell you. And
you will dance for as long as I say.”
She shakes her head slowly, revulsion curling her lips and
tempting me to bite them. “You’re sick.”
A reluctant pang hollows beneath my rib cage before my
phone distractingly vibrates against my chest. I have to release
her strand of hair to take the call. “Try me, little girl, and
you’ll discover the depth of my sickness.”
And some twisted yearning within me wants her to try.
 Glancing at the phone screen, I send the call to voicemail
and instead text Primo that our meeting at Butcher and Son is
being delayed until later tonight. Then I fix my gaze on her.
“Again.”
She makes no move to obey. With dark intent, I rest my
hand on my skull buckle, a veiled threat and reminder of the
far worse things I can do to her.
I will make her plead for death.
Her mouth parts, teeth biting into her bottom lip to stifle a
retort. Our eyes stay locked as she pushes herself onto her
toes, her skin glistening with sweat and her body a beautiful
plane of torture.
Until my revenge on her family is realized, this girl will
learn the brutal reality of true suffering.
5
BALLERINA & BEAST
VIOLET

S team coats the large picture window of the ensuite

bathroom. Soft candlelight hangs in the misty air to
create a soothing ambiance as I desperately try to
forget where I am. I’ve never been drunk before. I’ve tasted
wine at dinners and weddings, but my rigorous dance schedule
and training always prevented me from “letting loose” enough
to experience that kind of recklessness.
I have half a mind to call for Nora and beg her to bring me
a bottle of liquor so I can drink until I black out and drown in
this bathtub.
A stab of regret immediately hits me in the chest. I can’t
let Lucian break me, and I can’t give up. I owe Fabian better
than these self-deprecating thoughts.
With a wince, I flex my toes, allowing the hot water to
seep into my abused muscles and cartilage.
I’ve been dancing en pointe for five years. It took me three
years before that of intense pointe work to achieve the feat.
Even during my first year, when my feet and toes were
mutilated and I had to bandage my feet every night, I never
felt the damage I feel right now.
Some of that damage belongs to my psyche.
Pure, utter humiliation. Outrage over events out of my
control. And no one to console in.
I miss Lillian so desperately right now. Her smile, her
witty banter. I wish I could at least text her. I miss gossiping
about the tarts, when dealing with the prima snobs was the
biggest problem during my day.
I rub the metatarsal of my foot and work out the cramp.
My toes are swollen and starting to blister. Soon, they’ll be a
bloody mess as they start to heal. I know of dancers who can
dance en pointe without pointe shoes. I’ve heard the legends.
If you’re a part of the dance circuit, girls like me grew up
idolizing those women.
But most of us were not designed with the strength of a
goddess and that kind of resilience to hold our bodies on our
tippy toes for long. And if that monster decides to torture me
every day by forcing me, then I can hang up my ballet shoes
for good.
I won’t survive this place.
I won’t survive him.
I let my body slip down the tub and water covers my head.
God, forgive me, Fabian, but if I was brave enough, I’d inhale
a lungful of water and end the torment right now.
But there’s still some sliver of deranged hope wedged
between my fading sanity and delirium, and I burst upward
with a gasp when my lungs ache from lack of oxygen.
Fuck Lucian.
I’m a ballerina. We’re painted as these delicate, fragile
things, but that image couldn’t be farther from the truth. I was
forged from pain. I’ve broken my body over and over for my
passion. I don’t have a fragile or delicate bone in my body.
This man will not break me.
I just have to figure a way out of this. There has to be a
way out.
Even as I try to reach for saner thoughts, a mocking voice
in the back of my mind chides. Girls far younger than I have
been married off to cement deals and unify families within the
Cosa Nostra. A world most never know exists, because it’s
such a tight-knit and secretive society.
I just never truly believed it would happen to me.
“She never would have let this happen,” I whisper.
“Who wouldn’t?”
My heart leaps at the sound of his deep, intrusive voice.
Angling myself to see Lucian enter the bathroom, I cover my
breasts with my arms, my pulse crashing against the vein in
my neck.
Clad in an all-black Versace and Dr. Martens, tattoos
peeking from beneath his clothes, he’s the fucking devil
lurking in the shadows. What I hate even more than his sinister
wolf eyes preying on me, is the fact the very contradiction of
him is so damn alluring.
He’s rough and sensual at the same time. Raw and yet
sophisticated. Brutal scars and dangerous ink packaged in a
designer, three-piece suit. The only hint of the evil emanating
beneath is the silver skull buckling his belt.
“I want you to leave,” I say, though my voice holds little
conviction. It feels useless, demanding this man do anything in
his own home. Even my body is his to command here.
He leans against the granite counter and crosses his arms
over his broad chest, my gaze drawn to the ink on his hands
and fingers. “Who?” he demands again in a stern voice.
I narrow my eyes. “My mother.”
He nods once with an amused curve of his lips, as if I’ve
said something humorous.
“I came to check on my investment,” he says, lethal eyes
dropping to where I’ve barely concealed my body. “Make sure
I didn’t break you yet.”
I ignore his bating comment, and instead look directly at
the Carrara tiles bricked along the wall.
“There’s an event we need to attend in a few days,” he
continues, undeterred. “Nora will fit you for a gown
tomorrow.”
Shocked, I move to the edge of the tub, forgetting my
nakedness. “You’re letting me out?”
Face chiseled in sharp edges, he remains unaffected, all
except his hooded gaze that lowers to the rim of the soaking
tub. Heat flushes my face, and I drop below the surface of the
water.
 “I’ve told you, you’re not a captive,” he says, and I notice
the red droplets staining the cuff of his sleeve. The bruised
knuckles. “You’ll go to this event with supervision and
protection, and with the understanding you won’t make a
scene. Any lame outburst to try to change your circumstance,
or the contractual marriage agreement, will result in severe
punishment.”
The heat flames hotter, my forehead and cheeks prickle
with sweat. “I’m not a child.”
He raises one eyebrow suggestively. “Every futile tantrum
you throw suggests otherwise.”
“Will my father be there?”
Hope hovers on a wisp of smoke before he snuffs it out.
“No. Salvatore has gone on vacation. We’ll announce our
engagement publicly next month. This function is merely a
formality, and a test.” He pushes off the counter. “We’ll see
how you do.”
Every other word that leaves his mouth is drowned out by
the whirring in my ears. “Vacation?” It’s the only thing I latch
on to.
He stops near the door. “Your father went to the Bahamas,
I believe. Or was it the Caymans? Wherever he keeps his
money stashed in offshore accounts.”
“That doesn’t… I don’t understand.” How can he leave me
here? How can he go off to some tropical island while I’m
trapped with a monster?
“You keep saying that,” he says, edging closer to the side
of the tub. My eyes track him, and I lower myself farther
below the water, cowering like a fearful child, such as he
claims. “You know what world you reside in, girl. It’s simply a
matter of accepting your place.”
I swallow past the painful ache in my throat. He stands
there, expectant, his watchful eyes boring through me like a
hawk targeting its prey.
 Finally, when he’s satisfied I have nothing more to argue,
he turns to leave.
“What do I even call you?” It just slips out. Blood drains
from my face.
My question seems to throw him for a moment. “You
know my name.” He turns then, closing the door behind him
and leaving me in stunned silence.
He knows my name.
Yet he has never once used it, probably to keep from
humanizing his caged pet.
After a tense moment lost in my thoughts, the door opens
again and, his hand reaches around to lock the door. I hear the
distinct click of the lock before he pulls the door closed.
Baffled, I let his odd behavior go and return to massaging
my abused feet, my mind dissecting the conversation, looking
for some clue I missed—some way out of this hell. Without
the assistance of my father, apparently.
My heart constricts. The man I always admired, regardless
of his profession and the dark and gruesome world he was
born into, lost a profound measure of respect from me. He was
all I had left, now I have no one.
That’s not entirely true. I have myself. And I have the
values my mother instilled in me, and I have my brother’s
strength.
I work my fingers into the calf of my supporting leg,
savoring the quiet peace before I’m expected to don a mask to
the entire New York Cosa Nostra.
6
TEMPT & TORMENT
LUCIAN

A storm brews beneath the surface of my awareness. A

fury of raging wind and clashing hot and cold,
creating a vortex in my head. My entire body battles
the singular urge not to break down this fucking bathroom
door.
Muscles tensed, willpower strained, I brace my hands to
the wood as I stand on the other side, listening to the slosh of
water as she moves around in the bathtub.
Violet.
I shut down the voice inside my head, refusing to use her
name, thereby personifying her.
She’s the spawn of my enemy.
An unbidden flash of her bare skin, wet and glistening in
the candlelight, enters my mind to taunt me, and I reach down
to adjust the throbbing hard-on straining my pants. I don’t
deny she’s beautiful. My bodily reaction to her is normal,
expected even.
But this level of temptation is something other, something
dangerous. From the moment I first saw her kneeling in my
parlor room, her teary eyes smudged with mascara, her skin
welted and bleeding… For the briefest moment, my desire for
retribution was forgotten.
It was simply a second, but it’s been the first and only time
in years where all my focus wasn’t directed on one vital
outcome.
Sickened with my weakness, I locked the door from the
inside as a measure to bar myself access, to prevent me from
stalking right back in and doing something hazardous. Of
course, the demon inside my head is screaming to kick the
damn door down—but I won’t allow myself to cross this
threshold.
Not tonight.
 I’ve already done too much damage. I glance at my hand,
at my bloodied knuckles. After I released her from the atrium
earlier, I tried to put my fist through a stone wall.
I shouldn’t have come to her room.
Over the years, my men have pointed out that I needed to
find a release. Use as many women as I wanted, they’d said.
Clear my head. Relax. But my singular devotion to revenge is
laser focused, as finding dirt to use against the Carpellas
wasn’t an easy feat, leaving no room for meaningless fucks.
Although maybe they were right. If I’d been fucking my
way through Desolation, I wouldn’t be so on edge right now. I
release a terse breath, my balls aching. Her presence is too
diverting, consuming. She infuses the air I breathe.
I back off from the door, and by the time I’m far enough
away that her scent no longer dominates my senses, I decide
keeping my distance from the Carpella girl until the wedding
is the solution for my dilemma.
I shift my thoughts to more important and pressing
matters.
The Ruin.
And the meeting I have tonight.
If a release is what I need to regain control, then I’ll get a
mother fucking release soon.
I make a call to Primo as I pass Mannix in the foyer. “Keep
a close watch on her,” I direct him. He nods his
acknowledgement as Primo answers the call.
“Cross, you’re late.”
“I’m on my way,” I confirm. “Keep Holton busy until I get
there.” I end the call, clutching the phone with a battered hand,
my muscles still coiled tight.
She’s more than a distraction; she’s the essence of my ruin.
With renewed purpose, I drive toward Butcher and Son in
downtown Desolation, resolve firmly in place. Rust crawls up
the abandoned meatpacking warehouse like dried blood. I
leave my Audi and approach the warehouse, unbuttoning my
suit jacket and checking the Ruger semi-auto holstered behind
my back.
Primo hovers near the large roll door, his slick hair
catching the glint of a low-hanging industrial lamp in the main
entrance. He’s wearing a black suit, but his isn’t tailored and
sits too big on his narrow shoulders.
He’s my connection to the Carpella import business. I
spent three years stalking him, cataloguing his movements and
actions, and when an opportunity presented, I seized the
chance.
A rat is always a rat. Primo is a rat in the Carpella
organization, and he’ll be a rat for me, but I only need to
utilize him for one job, not convert him. Then I’ll dispose of
him to get rid of the tracks.
Holton is an equal opportunity player, just as I am. I could
have approached him myself without the need to involve one
of the Carpella soldiers, but when dealing with a crime family
like the Carpellas, it’s best to have a mediator. Primo will lead
the reins of the Trojan horse through the gate, and Salvatore
will ensure no one asks questions and looks too closely.
We enter the warehouse silently. As Primo lowers the roll
door, I eye Holton.
“So you’re the madman,” Holton says, assessing me
closely.
My back teeth clench at the title, a moniker I didn’t choose
for myself. I’d rather not have a calling card at all, able to
remain anonymous and work well below the radar, but you
don’t kill as many men as I have without drawing attention
and rumors.
“I get the job done,” I fire back.
He makes an amused sound. “You understand what the job
is,” he questions.
I roll my shoulders. Then look at Primo. “Are we here to
fuck off? If so, I have other—”
 Holton holds up a hand. “I just need to know you
understand clearly what I need.” He approaches me, his hands
in clear view, no weapons. “He can’t die quickly.”
Holton Lavelli has a beautiful wife. The rumor is, she took
a lover—Nick Carpella, gangster player extraordinaire—and
Holton can’t do shit about it.
You don’t put a hit on one of the Carpellas, unless you
have a death wish.
You need a ghost.
Normally, any made man would want to do the deed
himself, to cut off the prick’s cock and feed it to the guy for
touching his wife. But Holton is a business man, and a smart
one at that. Through Primo, we struck a deal.
One bloody extermination of Nick Carpella for the clear
deed to one of his nightclubs.
I don’t need money. I have money. I could invest in a club
myself, but I don’t just want any club. I want the club which
belonged to my brother before the Carpellas stole it from him.
Holton purchased the deed a year ago, and he still pays
dues to the Carpellas—but part of our deal will be him
continuing to pay those dues, while I operate the business
behind the scenes.
I need to set up shop, and Holton needs retribution.
Since I have a vested interest in the destruction of the
Carpellas, this works out nicely.
I step toward Holton and extend my hand. “They won’t be
able to identify the body when I’m done, so I’ll make sure to
stick a name tag on him.”
He narrows his eyes, but then a slow smile creeps across
his face. He accepts my handshake. “Then we have a deal.”
By the time I walk through the doors of my home, it’s past
midnight and I’m too jacked from the meeting to think about
sleep. I head to my study and uncap a decanter of bourbon.
The house is quiet. An eerie unsettling sticks to my bones.
Since the girl’s arrival, I ordered my men to start using the
guest house on the grounds to conduct our business. Before,
the mansion was filled with noise from the pool hall, and plans
were devised and business handled in this very study.
But there was no fucking way I was letting the girl roam
around here with a bunch of hard-legged gangsters eyeing her.
I’d never be able to think, always watching mother fuckers to
make sure no one touched her.
I fill a highball glass and take a long swallow to douse the
flames licking my skin.
The silence makes me too aware of her presence.
As a warm buzz enters my veins, I walk the hallways,
passing empty walls where portraits and art used to hang.
Ghosts in the form of memories haunt this house, their spirits
trapped in my mind. When the trustee moved everything into
my name, I had most objects of value removed and placed in
storage units.
Should I fail and the Carpellas torch my family home,
those items are protected.
Also, you can only feel pain if you allow the reminder to
linger.
Having a clear, concise plan and execution requires no
distractions.
I round the corner toward my wing and pause, stare down
the dark hallway where her room is located. A tightness in the
center of my chest pulls me toward her door and, against my
better judgement, I follow that infernal draw.
I halt on the other side and listen, to see if I can hear her
breathe.
From here on out, she’ll be a ghost in this house, too.
 Watching her dance earlier tonight was a taunt to the
darkest, most depraved parts of me—and it was a mistake.
She’s infuriatingly tantalizing. Her body is made for sin
and just begging to be broken. I wanted to enforce my pain on
her, to defile the beauty within her bloodline that shouldn’t
exist.
But temptation is a deceptive lure into ruination.
If I give in to my craving and end up choking the life from
her, I’ll have a bloody war on my hands, and that can’t happen.
Not yet.
No, before I lay a hand on her, I’ll first bleed the vile
Carpella blood from her veins.
7
TOUCH & SURRENDER
VIOLET

I hate these walls.

I’ve stared at them for days. They’re all the
same. Blank, boring, cold. It’s like Lucian gutted his home,
and now he doesn’t know what to do with it. There’s nothing
personal in this mansion, no imprint or story of the man who
resides here.
When he resides here.
He’s been absent for the past week. Which should make
me breathe a little easier. At least I don’t have to spend time
with the man I’m being forced to marry. Small mercies.
Mannix has been my shadow. A silent, broody shadow
who glares a lot. I think he’s pissed he got saddled with the
babysitting gig. I’ve gotten glimpses of Lucian’s other men
from the windows as they come and go from the guest house
in the back. Sometimes a few will make their way into the
main house, but Mannix will growl orders at them to leave.
Nora is the only one who talks to me. She talks about her
grown son and his family. Her grandchildren. She had a
husband but he passed away from a heart attack years ago. She
was raised in Dublin, moved here to work for Lucian’s parents
in this very house, so she’s known him most of his life. But
she doesn’t give me any insight into the man or his
organization. Then again, I don’t ask, either. Some days
boredom disguises itself as curiosity and I’m tempted to
explore past the pool room to his side of the house, but then I
busy myself with gown fittings with Nora, or even help her
clean and organize.
I’m not really sure what her actual occupation is. She’s not
a maid or a cook, but she tends to Lucian’s needs, making sure
the pantry is stocked and the staff does their jobs. Sort of like a
house manager, but more like a mother type. I think she cares
for him on a similar level. I often see her dusty-green eyes
cloud with sadness when she mentions him. Then the weight
of guilt bears down on me, even though—rationally—I know
the organizations and their greedy warring are to blame, not
me.
Not even Lucian.
We can either choose to carry the sins of our families into
the future with us, or decide a new course.
Lucian claims I have a choice—but he stole my choice
when he decided to take retribution into his own hands. The
course I desperately wanted for myself was destroyed by his
hatred.
These are the things I think about while I’m laying awake
at night, wishing I had the courage to confront him. Maybe I’ll
get the chance if I ever see him again before the wedding date.
As such, I’ve taken his order not to dance outside of his
presence as a threat uttered in the heat of the moment during
his torture session. He obviously doesn’t care what I do
enough to check up on me, and therefore my choice is to dance
whenever the hell I want.
Strangely though, since the night he forced me to dance
until I was nearly broken, I haven’t been able to perform any
of my routines. I wandered the house in search of a large
enough space and found a dance hall. An actual dance hall,
which appeared to have been closed off. All the curtains had
been drawn, and dust had settled on the cloth-covered
furniture.
After much pleading, Nora gave me the little outdated
radio she keeps in the kitchen. I set it up in the hall and rolled
away the rugs.
My life has always had bars. In essence, I’ve always been
in a cage. The life of a daughter born within a crime family
comes with shackles and harsh restrictions.
Yet despite it all, ballet freed me of those binds.
Maybe it was naïveté or denial, believing I would live my
own life, one away from death and crime and blood. I wish I
never would’ve been given a glimpse of that world now, that
my father never would’ve allowed me to attend the dance
company.
You can’t grieve the loss of something you never knew
existed.
Still, I can’t help but return to my last night on stage…how
close I was…
Until Lucian placed me in his gilded trap.
“Shit,” I curse as my pirouette falls flat. I blow out an
aggravated breath, lifting the hair off my forehead, and bend to
stretch out my hamstring.
Debussy’s Clair de Lune fills the room, mocking me with
its calm notes. The acoustics of the room are perfect to project
the sound. I tried meditating before I attempted this routine,
one I was creating to present to Derik at the company, thinking
it would help my focus.
“It’s just stress,” I say aloud to ease my nerves. But even
as I try to make excuses, I know I’m lying to myself. I’ve
danced under pressure my whole life. I danced the day after
my mother’s funeral. I performed on the anniversary of my
brother’s death. I dance to celebrate, to mourn, to live. It’s like
breathing to me.
And the very essence of striving to be prima is the stress
you suffer, mind and body, and overcome.
What’s disturbing is that, when I danced for Lucian, I
didn’t waver. Not once. I danced without a routine. I didn’t
think about one step to the next. Anger and fear and passion
fueled my moves, and pure heated adrenaline thrummed
through my veins.
The feeling was carnal.
I’ve never experienced anything that intense before.
Electrifying, and terrifying. But liberating in the most obscene
way. Defying everything I trained my body to obey.
Now, every time I begin to move, I feel his eyes on me,
watching, stripping me bare, down to my marrow. Every step I
miss or twirl I fail, I can sense his cruel, calculating eyes
pinning me in the room.
“Jesus,” I whisper. Shaking out my hands, I brace my
fingers to the back of my neck, hearing my pulse thud heavily
in my ears.
One of Lucian’s men—Christoff, I think—appears in the
hallway outside the room, and I wave awkwardly. Being
deprived of typical human interaction is giving me a complex.
He only stops long enough to acknowledge me before he
starts toward Mannix. Who, by the way, is always hovering
outside the door. Mannix didn’t approve of the idea of me
using the dance hall, but since I haven’t gotten an irate visit
from his boss, I’m assuming he’s keeping my secret.
After discussing a matter with Mannix, Christoff scuttles
past the room again, not even glancing my way this time. I
groan, infuriated. It’s as if everyone here except Nora has been
ordered not to talk to me, not to even look at me.
Another level of punishment I’m to suffer for my father’s
actions.
That thought attacks my chest with a horrible ache. Some
days I want to call him and demand to know how he could
sign away my life so callously—how he could steal from his
own organization to put us both in jeopardy. But I’m not ready
for that conversation yet. After having time to think only of it
and rehash the events, I’ve decided my father can’t help me.
I have to find a way to help myself.
And right now, I need to find my balance.
Everything else stems from that central focal point.
I close my eyes and listen to the soft notes of the music, let
the soothing piano calm my breathing. When I open my eyes
and glance down at my feet, a strange melancholy washes over
me. My pointe shoes were in my closet the other morning.
At some point, Lucian must have ordered one of his
cronies to retrieve them from my locker at the company and
place them in my room. I should be creeped out, but I’m just
satisfied to have them back.
One small victory over my imprisoner.
My toes are still swollen and bruised from mistreatment,
but wrapping them tightly helped, and Nora’s special soak she
prepared. Pain won’t stop me from dancing. Ever. And since
Lucian has all but forgotten about his threat to have me dance
only for him, I need to dance for me, to remind myself of who
I am and refuse to let any man—father or ill-suited fiancé—
control me.
So I tap into my anger. I latch on to that fire churning
within, and after twenty minutes of intense dance, I’m finally
finding my rhythm. Elation gathers in my chest, my muscle
memory in sync with every step. I flow into brisé when I turn
and see his towering figure framing the doorway.
I pivot to a stop, my hair slashing my shoulder as my arms
remain above head.
Lucian is all dark corners and icy drafts as he watches me
with an intense expression.
The sight of him in a tuxedo does two things: reminds me
we’re attending some event tonight—one I forgot about until
this moment—and stalls the air in my lungs.
A monster shouldn’t be so beautiful.
Looking as if he stepped from the pages of a gothic novel,
Lucian dons a black tux with long tailcoat. Two leather
buckles connect the waist instead of traditional buttons. His
hair is smoothed to the side in a neat quiff, eyes fierce and
blazing blue.
My heart stammers in my chest as I slowly lower my arms,
my chest rising and falling. Waiting.
He enters the room and struts to Nora’s radio. He powers it
off, then says over his shoulder, “You were supposed to be
ready twenty minutes ago.”
I lift my chin in defiance. “I’m not going.”
 After a solid beat where silence presses between us, he
turns my way. “It wasn’t a request. You will go put on your
gown and meet me in the foyer.”
My heart thunders, punching my breath from my lungs.
“Fear only works when you have something to lose.” I start
toward the door, walking fast so I can escape him.
“You’re fucking naïve if you think you have nothing else
to lose. There is always more to lose.”
Ignoring his remark, I walk faster, but he gains on me and
has my arm shackled in his hand. “And if you’re not ready in
ten minutes, I swear I will dress you myself, and I won’t be
gentle.”
I hold his lethal gaze, the lump in my throat burning. He’s
deathly serious. “I won’t smile,” I say, making my own
conditions. “Or talk to anyone, or pretend this arrangement is
anything but hell.”
A flicker of a smile ghosts across his full lips. “That works
in my favor.”
“I’m wearing what I have on, also,” I press, standing my
ground. “I’m not wearing any gown you had made for me.”
He spins me around fully, his dangerous gaze dragging
over my leggings and baggy T-shirt. Then his hands fist the
collar of the shirt and, with a rough groan, he tears the shirt
down the center. My breathing labored, I press my lips
together, not bothering to cover the thin bralette.
“Keep going like this,” he says, “and you won’t have any
clothes left to wear. Go put the fucking gown on before I make
good on my promise and finish removing the rest of your
clothes.”
His fingers sink under the waistband of my leggings,
gripping the material there in warning. His eyebrow cocks in
challenge.
I push into his hard chest and shove away from him.
Fury plucking my muscles, I yank the shredded shirt off
and toss it to the floor, standing before him half naked and
livid.
As I start to walk around him, he latches on to the back
strap of my bra and pulls me to a stop. “Later, we have the
matter of your punishment to discuss.” His voice is a gruff
whisper, sending a chill slinking along my bare skin. “I gave
you a directive, and you blatantly disobeyed me.”
Pulse caught in my throat, I stand still, motionless. Heat
sears my skin where his fingers brand my body beneath the
strap, and a current arcs between us, hot friction drawing up
my spine.
“You gave me my pointe shoes.” My jaw clenches tight.
“Which wasn’t permission to dance,” he counters. “If I
give you something, then it’s for my benefit.”
“That’s not what I—” I bite off my words, lick my lips.
“They were my shoes to begin with.”
Tension thickens the air. I can feel his patience waning.
“Leave, before you make me do something I’ll regret.”
“Regret would mean you can feel remorse,” I say. “The
devil doesn’t have a soul to feel anything.”
As I pull away, his fingers work the eyelet closure of my
bra open. I reach up to catch the garment before it springs off
my chest.
“That’s not true, cailín beag, the devil feels pleasure,” he
says, making my steps falter. “And he knows how to give it.”
His words are delivered like a threat, one that causes an
unwanted ache between my thighs. With what dignity I can
salvage, I keep my arms crossed over my breasts as I escape
the room. My pulse careens forcefully in my arteries, and I
don’t take a breath until I’m in the dark hallway and free of
him.
“I told you the boss wouldn’t be happy,” Mannix says.
“Bite me.”
Mannix keeps a safe distance behind as I navigate the
hallways toward my room. When I glance back, his gaze is
trained on the floor, as if he fears the wrath of his boss should
he stare at my bare backside too long.
I’ve been around men like Lucian my whole life.
Admittedly, none who dared to tear my clothes off—but that
didn’t mean I didn’t see the yearning to do so in their devious
eyes.
There was always the barrier of my father, and especially
my uncle, to prevent any of those thugs from touching me.
And even though Lucian has literally removed my family’s
protection from me, I don’t believe he has any real intention of
hurting me.
He needs me.
Alive.
To secure whatever alliance he’s trying to achieve will
only happen if I show up to the wedding in less than two
months’ time in one piece.
Still, my heart knocks tenderly against my breastplate as I
slam the bedroom door behind me and stare at the gown on the
bed. I don’t know this man. I don’t know his boundaries or
limits. I don’t know anything at all about him…and if I
learned one thing from growing up amid the organization, it’s
that in order to defeat the enemy, you have to know them.
If I can’t count on my father to make this right, then I have
to show Lucian there’s another way for him to get what he
desires without a marriage contract.
I hold up the gown, the silky material beneath the lace
shimmering in the light. All black lace and silk, I suspect to
match Lucian’s pitch-black soul. I set it aside and spot a white
box. With wariness coiling my spine, I unwrap the package
and release a laden breath.
A mask.
Designed in the traditional Venetian style, the black mask
surrounds both eyes, inlaid with lace and tiny jewels in a
swirled pattern.
We’re going to a masquerade.
 Of course Lucian isn’t fearful of me drawing attention
before our engagement is officially announced. No one will
know who I am. This really is a test to see if I can behave
outside of his fortress.
Fine. Tonight, I’ll prove he has nothing to fear from me.
I’ll be the docile little girl my father always hoped I’d become.
I’ll be so unnoticed, Lucian will forget I’m even there.
Then he won’t see me coming.
After I hurriedly dress, I plunder through the bathroom and
find expensive makeup to apply and style my hair in a loose
updo. Once I don the mask, I pretend I’m in costume—just
like a ballet production—as I assess myself in the mirror.
I descend the spiral stairs like Beauty to find her Beast
waiting at the base.
Lucian is now wearing a mask. It’s a simple but elegant
black mask that wings upward to create devil horns. A perfect
costume for the devil in Armani. Though he still sports his Dr.
Martens, a defiant act against the gothic ensemble.
I’m still livid about being forced into the gown. I freeze
my features in a stern glare and don’t react as I notice how his
blue eyes flare behind the mask as he takes me in. Yet the sight
of this man does something catastrophic to my heart rate.
I plant myself a distance from him, refusing to meet him
all the way in the foyer. Childish, maybe. But I can’t give
myself over completely. I have to win my own small battles,
no matter how trivial.
He takes the steps necessary to reach me and produces a
black velvet box. I can’t help but notice his knife discretely
fastened to the inside of one pocket, the one shaped like a claw
and made of bone. Though what kind, I’m not sure, whether
it’s human or animal. Neither would surprise me.
I wonder where he keeps his gun.
“Turn around.” He issues the command with a smooth yet
lethal cadence that zips across my skin like touching a live
wire.
 No compliments. No false flattery. This is not a real
engagement. I at least appreciate his candor to treat this
arrangement with nothing less than direct honesty.
I give my back to him, and he slides the loose wisps of hair
aside, his callus fingers burning my skin with friction, sending
unwelcome heat coursing my veins.
The object never settles over my collarbone, however.
Confused, I turn around to see him setting the jewelry box on
the entry table.
His gaze roves over my body approvingly. “It’s not
needed,” he says.
I don’t know whether I should take that as a complement,
but I duck my head, not allowing him to see any shift in my
expression. Then I follow his gaze to my hand, where I’m not
wearing the ring.
“No one knows about the engagement,” I say, in way of
explanation.
He issues a harsh sound of disapproval. “When we return,
it will remain on your finger every day from here on out.”
I don’t offer a response. I haven’t decided yet what I’m
going to do, and I just need to focus on getting through
tonight.
As Mannix appears in the foyer, Lucian nods once for him
to open the door. I go to step through, but Lucian catches my
wrist. Pulling me toward him, he clasps my chin in a firm grip
between his finger and thumb, tilting my face up to his. My
skin burns where he touches.
“This will be your only warning.” His features are carved
in steel, and I focus on the white scar along his chin as I try
not to meet his eyes. “Do not make a scene.”
I swallow against the thickness clotting my throat. “Am I
still to be punished later? No matter what?”
Despite his effort to conceal it, his lips twitch with
amusement. “I don’t make empty threats, cailín beag.”
 With that menacing revelation, I’m led to a shiny black
Audi sports car and into the unknown of his world outside his
walls.
8
HORNS & WINGS
LUCIAN

E vening bleeds into night with shades of amethyst and

indigo. Inky dark blotches scatter the expanse of the
sky ahead, a threat of a looming storm, as we leave
the towers and lights of the city behind.
I reach for the knob and downshift as I round a curve, the
engine roaring with power. I keep my hand tightly gripped to
the shifter, too aware of her proximity. Every time I change
gears, my gaze darts to her gown, to the bare skin above the
strapless bodice. The swell of her small breasts. The sexy
hollow dip between her collarbone.
I shift gears again, accelerating to reach our destination
faster.
The limited space of the car is too confined. Her scent of
lavender and some other indistinguishable sweet note infuses
my head, disrupting my thoughts.
She’s as purple as the sky.
Dark ideas invade my mind this close to her. Alone.
Tearing that lacy gown away to discover her body beneath.
Collaring my hand around her slender throat and feeling her
pulse race against my palm, her wide amber eyes filled with
fear and lust.
My foot bears down heavy on the pedal, and I notice how
her hand goes to the handle. I imagine her heart rate spiking,
thighs clenching together…and thank fuck when the Erasto
estate appears.
“Where are we going?”
It’s the first time she’s spoken since we left.
I stop at the giant brass gate and click the window down.
With one glance into the camera, I display the pin on my tux,
the gold raven, and the gate begins to creek open. I pull
through and enter the lush, wraparound driveway. A fountain
glows white amid lavish landscaping.
 As I put the car in Neutral, I grip the door handle and say,
“Whatever you see here tonight, do not show fear.” I look at
her then. “They feed off fear.”
Her hands clasp the seatbelt buckle, as if she’s unsure
whether to flee or remain strapped in. I almost smile as I open
the door and hand off my key fob to the valet.
Her car door is opened and I step in front of the second
valet to offer her my hand. I give her credit, she doesn’t
tremble as she slips her hand into mine.
I’m greeted by a mob soldier at the front doors of the
opulent brick mansion. He notes the pin on my lapel with an
approving nod before pushing the doors open wide. I bring her
arm through mine and lead us into the cacophony of music and
voices.
Black candles line the dimly lit corridor. Black linen
drapes the walls, a sensory deprivation designed to blanket the
guests in mystery of the unknown and guide them toward the
main ballroom.
Once we enter the ballroom, the space opens up around us
with high vaulted ceilings and excessive luxury. The entire
area is adorned with white-gold and black. Casks—or barrels
—of wine are the main feature and are displayed all around. A
fountain flowing with Amontillado wine sits center, and
antique Venetian masks and paintings of Carnival garnish the
walls.
A welcome table to our right is set with matte black
envelopes emblazoned with the event’s title: Cask
Masquerade.
“Lucian, please tell me where we are.”
It’s the first time she’s said my name, and it does
something to me. Her soft voice disarming.
I select the envelope inscribed with my name, acutely
aware of her attention on the engraving. “The event is called
the Cask Masquerade,” I answer her question as I tuck the
envelope into my inseam pocket. “Annually hosted by the
Venetian mafia for Desolation’s finest in crime. Like the
officer’s gala, but for villains.”
Taking two glasses of red wine from the serving table, I
hand her one and direct her toward a less crowded section on
the balcony. I’m not here to mingle. The envelope from The
Ruin is what I came here for.
The Ruin operates by connecting the different crime
organizations in Desolation. Every year, the hostess of this
event plays a part in one of those connections. Favors are
traded like stocks among made men.
Crime bosses like to think about it more as nepotism
among an extended family versus what it truly is: cronyism.
Either way, it gives underdogs the chance to rise and
bosses the opportunity to indebt them.
The blood the vampires of this city thrive on.
Before I reach my destination, said hostess steps in front of
my path. “Lucian Cross,” she says, smile large and white
beneath her gold mask. “I see you’re the devil tonight. How
fitting.” Her glassy eyes trail down the length of me. “I’m glad
you’re able to join us.”
I don’t match her smile, though I do give her a curt nod.
“Of course, Elenore. Always grateful to be invited to your
event.”
Her laugh is garish and mocking, though the insult isn’t
directed toward me. Elenore Erasto is the widow of the late
Veneta boss. This event essentially belonged to him, and
Elenore has kept it going in his honor, despite her reservations.
Her son Dominic took control of the family business a year
ago when he became of age. For a number of years, the New
York Venetian mob was headed up by Elenore herself, a
godmother, or mafia mistress. To say many underestimated her
because of her sex is an understatement. And to say she
allowed them to continue to underestimate her is an even
bigger understatement.
Using her son as a front, I believe Elenore still rules her
empire with a cruel and ruthless, manicured fist.
 I should know, I was the one she commissioned to kill her
husband.
Her blond head tilts. “Please, Lucian. You know better.
Call me Ellie.” Her attention is snagged, and she looks over
my shoulder and waves. “Oh, there’s Dominic. He’s done so
well this year, Lucian. You two should really talk sometime.”
I turn to look as Dominic returns his mother’s gesture with
a brusque smile, then inclines his head in acknowledgment to
me. At over six foot with opposing dark features, he looks
more mature than his eighteen years.
“I’ll try to make that happen soon,” I tell Elenore.
Attention back on us, she targets the girl draped on my arm
like a vulture sensing prey. “And who may this beautiful
enchantress be?”
My hackles raise. I know better than to downplay the girl’s
importance. Elenore will see right through me. But I also can’t
clue the Venetian mafia in on my arrangement just yet.
“Violet is my date for tonight,” I say. “A dancer with
the…” I feign ignorance of her occupation, deliberately
making her appear like any other, forgettable date. I grip her
hand beneath my arm.
Sensing my cue, Violet speaks up. “New York Ballet
Company,” she supplies, airy and unconcerned, with a
beautiful smile to punctuate the silence that follows.
Elenore touches her arm affectionately. “A ballet dancer.
How impressive.” After a moment of scrutiny, she decides to
move on. “Well, I hope you both enjoy the evening and all the
festivities.” With a wink to me, she departs, on to her next
subject…or victim.
“You did well,” I say, feeling the erratic pulse of her heart
in her wrist as I guide her away.
“I’m not sure what I did or why.”
We push through the glass balcony doors, and I take her to
a private area enclosed with vegetation and a water feature to
aide in privacy.
 She stares out over the railing at the nighttime estate
highlighted by moonlight and stars. Large trees and Italian
shrubs make the manor look like it was plucked right out of a
Venice garden and transported here on the outskirts of
Desolation.
Standing there, her skin aglow with the moonlight, her
black gown catching beams and appearing like a sea of stars,
she could be an Italian goddess transported here from another
era also.
I give my head a hard, reprimanding shake. I hate coming
to these events, wasting time and plastering on fake smiles. It
fucks with my head.
Standing next to her, I grip the stone rail. “When the mafia
Veneta, or Venetian mafia, set up shop in New York, the don
was a bit eccentric,” I say to her. “Insane, honestly, though no
one would say so to his face. He was obsessed with the works
of Edgar Allen Poe, and he created the Cask Masquerade in
honor of his new American home, combining his obsession
with Poe and his Venetian heritage, his love of Carnival.” I
look at her. “Have you ever read The Cask of Amontillado?”
She shakes her head, her attention now aimed on me, on
the gold raven pinned to my lapel. She’s made the connection
to Poe, at least.
I huff a derisive sound. “Probably for the best.”
She licks her lips. “Tell me.”
The curiosity sparked in her amber eyes stirs a hot ember
in my veins. I take a sip of wine and set it on the balcony rail
between us, a barrier.
“Every year, Erasto would hold the masquerade and, as the
mafia Veneta are allies with the Cosa Nostra, he’d invite
members to attend and bring a guest, a traitor or enemy, or
anyone who had wronged them. During the ball, the traitors
would be ‘demasked’, so to speak. Using the ball as a farce to
lure in the mob’s enemies en masse, then lead them to a
dungeon below where they were shackled and left to die.
Essentially buried alive, just like Fortunato in Poe’s story.”
 A horrified expression carves her features. “Oh, my god.
That’s…”
“Insane,” I supply, turning toward her completely. One of
the reasons Elenore wanted her husband eliminated. He was
running the empire into the ground, making enemies, and
risking their livelihood and their lives.
A covert job that I made look like an accident.
You can’t kill a don and live. Well, most can’t. But when
you’re hired by the woman who truly rules the empire,
exceptions are made.
“Let’s just say, no one does a masquerade like the mafia,” I
say, picking up my wine.
Her eyes widen behind the mask, and she takes a step
away from me. “You brought me here. I’m your guest.” Her
hand goes to the inked sparrow above her heart.
Out of habit? Seeking comfort? I’m suddenly more than
curious about the tattoo bird, but as I see the connection she’s
drawing, I almost laugh outright.
If only getting rid of my Carpella problem was so simple.
She continues to move back, so I advance on her.
“You plan to…bury me alive…?” Her skin blanches paler
than the moonlight.
I let the terror linger inside her a moment longer before I
decide to quell her fear. “That tradition died with the Venetian
don, cailín beag,” I assure her. “The masquerade is all fun and
games now, taking on a more historical representation of
Carnival when Elenore took control.” Her back hits the brick
wall, and it’s too tempting to cage her in. “You have nothing to
fear from me. At least, not tonight.”
Her breathing intensifies, her blinks rapid behind the mask.
I’m so near, if I press one inch closer, her breasts will graze
my chest, the heat of her little body will sear my flesh. As my
gaze drags over her, my cock throbs at the salacious prospect.
Her hand seeks purchase on something solid and grips the
railing to her right. “Then why did you bring me here,
Lucian?”
Hearing her say my name just makes me want to hear her
scream it.
Releasing a laden breath from my flaming lungs, I exhale
her torturous scent and scrub a hand over my jaw, feeling the
small scar on my chin—a reminder of my purpose.
“To see how you behave before the wedding,” I answer
simply, though I have more than one reason.
Selfishly, and maybe even a bit masochistically, I wanted a
visual of her in that gown.
I wanted to see if I could last the night without ripping it
off her—and wrapping it around her neck.
“How I behave,” she repeats, gaze narrowed.
“As much as this alliance depends on your father,” I say,
adjusting my mask, “it depends heavily on you. What kind of
attention you draw. How you advocate for the marriage. I’m
aligning with a powerful crime family. Not everyone will want
that. Some will look for a weakness, an excuse to prevent it
from happening. I can’t invite members of different crime
syndicates to a wedding and have it turn into a massacre.”
She licks her lips, drawing my gaze to her mouth. “I would
think that would serve your ultimate purpose.”
My jaw tightens, my fingers aching to inflict pain, and I
forcefully plant my hand alongside her head on the brick. She
recoils from my bold, quick move.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than watching
your entire family bleed out, but—” I push in closer “—my
revenge will be exacted by my hands only.”
I can feel her body tense. “And what becomes of me after
you take your revenge?” she asks, her eyes boring into mine.
Her question takes me off-guard. For years I’ve obsessed
about one thing only, one outcome, and I’ve never thought
about what would come after. My gaze drags over her, taking
in her large eyes, full mouth, small breasts, ethereal beauty—
but there’s something else, something indiscernible, beneath
her veneer that burrows under my skin.
She swallows hard at my lack of response. “I heard what
you swore to my father, that no harm would befall me by your
hand.” Her chest rises, brushing against me and sending a
tendril of fire licking my flesh. “Will it come at another’s?”
Maybe it’s the way she bravely demands to know what
most people are too fearful to ask, or the way the moonlight
bathes her skin, making her look like a fallen angel. But in this
one moment, I see her as something other than a chess piece
on a board.
Without permission, my hand touches her jaw. I press my
thumb to her chin and tip her face up. “There are no loopholes
with me,” I tell her. “I won’t take your life, cailín beag, and I
won’t allow anyone else to do so. You have my word.”
I’m not sure why I make this promise to her. She’s my
enemy. I owe her nothing, especially not my word. And yet,
the way she’s looking at me, those amber eyes boring right
down to my marrow, I have no choice.
She blinks to clear her vision and nods, accepting my
answer. I release her with difficulty. “What do we do now?”
she asks.
Tearing my gaze away from her, I glance through the glass
into the ballroom. “What do others do at a masquerade?”
“Others who aren’t bent on revenge?”
I almost smile. “Exactly.”
“I think they try to have fun, Lucian.”
I run my tongue over my teeth, refraining from showing
her my kind of fun. “Show me.”
Her dark eyebrows draw together. “How?”
“This dark world is ours, cailín beag. Homicidal Venetian
dons aside, there’s the debauchery of the Italian masquerade to
enjoy. When one isn’t torturing their enemies, one is indulging
in pleasure with their lover.”
 She captures me with those too-large, alluring eyes, testing
me more than I fear I could ever test her.
“Which means we must be lovers now, too, right?” she
questions, a hitch in her breathing. “I mean, seeing as you’ve
found pleasure in my torture.”
Keeping one hand cemented to the brick, I drag my other
over my mouth to cover my smile. “No, little girl. If I made
you my lover, your body would have no doubts.”
Her eyes hold mine, her breath stalled in her chest, as if
she’s waiting for me to make good on my threat. A ripple of
electric apprehension wavers between us, and I decide this
game is far too dangerous tonight.
My control is already being tested.
“What do you want to do?” I demand.
Her heavy gaze drowns in my brutal stare, her teeth sink
into her plump bottom lip, and just as I lose all reasoning, she
turns her head to watch the crowd inside.
“Dance,” she breathes the word. “I’ve been watching them
dance since we entered the ballroom.”
Her response is so innocent I do smile at this. I’m not a
sensitive man. I’m malicious and committed to my destruction
of her family, and I’ve been invested in my revenge for so long
I doubt I’ve ever cared to please another human soul.
But her admission coils around me with a hot lash, and
somehow, against the need to end her bloodline, the desire to
give her a moment of pleasure tears through the black shroud
of my soul.
With a tentative flex of my hand, my fingers touch hers.
She doesn’t recoil as I slip my hand into hers. I’m alarmed at
how delicate and fragile she feels. She’s the angel to my devil.
“I made a mistake with your costume,” I say as I lead her to
the dance floor. “I should have given you wings.”
9
SINNER & SAINT
VIOLET

T he melodic cry of violins engulfs the

immaculate, gothic ballroom. The music slinks
beneath my skin, the seductive curl of a finger
as it beckons. But the sight of all the masked faces and
watchful eyes—curious, judging, leering—feels like an
indecent intrusion.
Despite my reservation about the man to my left, I cling to
Lucian’s hand as he guides me through the dancing throng, my
gaze trained on his strong, tailored backside. When he turns to
face me, the devil-horned mask making him all the more
imposing, I feel as if I’m being put on display.
He seems to sense my unease, and a rare smile teases his
lips. “You dance on stage,” he says, the statement more of an
accusation.
I swallow the hollow ache in my throat. “I dance for
myself.” I dance for my brother. “Not for the audience.”
Again, I glance around at all the people. Criminals. Killers.
He slips his hand along my neck, his thumb pressed
beneath my chin to turn my face up toward his. “Then no one
here exists.” His hand lingers, his touch a hot friction against
my flesh.
His words twist a knot of confusion in my stomach. One
moment he’s threatening me, the next he’s stirring these
intense feelings—and I can’t think clearly.
Lucian raises my hand, then leads me in the waltz.
Although I haven’t performed the dance in years, I know the
steps. Yet, dancing with Lucian…it’s like I’ve never danced a
duet before this moment.
Everything is so raw.
He’s so much taller than me, larger than me; my arm
barely extends long enough to reach his shoulder. But
somehow, I fit perfectly against him and in his arms.
 The whole experience is ethereal. The costumes. The
music. The ambiance. The history and all the dark and
depraved things that happened in this place before. I feel as if
I’ve been swept into another world and, if I close my eyes and
think only about the here and now, I can almost forget I was
stolen and forced into an engagement.
That he is just as dark and depraved.
However, forgetting would be an insult to me and my
family, and my body goes rigid in his embrace.
“Relax,” he urges.
I attempt to slow my breathing, my chest fluttering with
anxiety. “This isn’t real.”
His shoulder stiffens beneath my touch. “And what is
real?” he asks, veiled danger edging his tone. “Some clueless
boy feeling you up in a backseat before you decide to spend
the rest of your life with him, utterly miserable? Dancing for,
oh, maybe the next five years before your body gives way to
the abuse and you’re deemed useless?” His hand tightens
around mine, his aegean-blue eyes flare under the glimmering
chandeliers. “Tell me, princess. What real life were you
expecting to live?”
My mouth goes dry. My skin is too sensitized where he
touches. Flames lick my skin under the gown, and I swear
every person in this room is staring at me in expectation for an
answer.
I have no idea why he’s so angry, how he can shift from
one extreme to the other in a heartbeat—but his menacing
words awaken me from the delirium I almost welcomed.
“I want to leave.” My voice quivers, but I pull in a shaky
breath to bolster my nerves. “Now.”
He releases a harsh breath. “The days of you getting what
you want are done.” He pulls me against his chest as the music
changes tempo. A slow, hypnotic beat floats through the room.
I told him I wouldn’t make a scene. But panic is starting to
build in my chest. It’s as if he’s purposely baiting me to get a
reaction, to see what I’ll do.
 Letting the venomous words die between us, I relax my
shoulders and loosen my muscles, allowing my body to meld
against his. I feel every hard, flexed plane, every toned and
unyielding muscle in his chest and arms. I’m acutely aware of
the way his breathing shallows, the way his hand fists my
gown at my lower back.
Suddenly, it’s like, by giving myself over to him, the
dynamic has changed. Permitting him to lead has shut down
his assault.
Is he in control or am I?
As I look up into his face, a muscle tics in his jaw. He
stares down at me, his expression concealed by the mask and
impossible to read.
Time seems to slow along with the music. Our bodies
sync, barely moving, every rock and sway heightened by the
heated friction between us. The air is tangible, every shared
breath a challenge, a dare, to move closer.
I’ve never experienced such a visceral reaction before, and
I know I may never experience it again.
Before either of us has to answer the unspoken question,
the song ends, and Elenore’s voice breaks through the tension.
Lucian’s gaze and arms stay locked on me as she announces an
upcoming event. I can’t comprehend her words when his eyes
are devouring my mouth.
An instant later, he releases me, putting a hard distance
between us. “Let’s go,” he says, an order delivered between
gritted teeth.
His hand encircles my wrist. He plows a path through the
throng of gowns and tuxedos, dragging me along. We exit the
ballroom on the other side from where we entered, and Lucian
continues to drag me through a narrow hallway without pause.
“Where are you taking me?” When he doesn’t answer, I try
to pull away. “Lucian, stop.”
The use of his name gets a reaction. He halts and turns
toward me, eyes blazing. Hand still latched to my wrist, he
stares through me, as if he’s lost in his own thoughts. His pulse
feathers along his neck, drawing my gaze to the shaded
blackwork skull.
Everything about him is dark and dangerous, and his
silence is more terrifying than his enraged words.
He seems to realize he’s still holding on to me and drops
my wrist, freeing me. “Remember what I told you the
organizations would do to their invited guests?”
I force my throat to swallow past the sudden constriction.
“Yes.”
He tugs on his cuffs, situating his tux sleeves. He’s
becoming more composed by the second where he was
evidently rattled before. “I want to show you the whole event,”
he says. “This is my world, but it’s your world, too. If we’re
going to be married, then it’s time you accept it.”
I don’t feel brave standing here before this man, his cruel
and uncaring demeanor a cold front between us. He cut my
father’s finger off; I have no doubt he’s done other vile things,
probably much worse. There’s nothing he can show me that
will change my mind about the underworld I’m forced to
dwell in.
I lift my chin to enforce bravado. “I want to leave
afterward.”
Without a verbal consensus to my request, he starts toward
a stairwell, expecting me to follow. With a deep, fortifying
breath, I do.
An imposing man dressed in a tuxedo and black mask with
elongated nose stands guard at the entrance to a wine cellar.
His gaze drifts over me before he addresses Lucian. “What
color is my tie?” he asks.
Lucian says, “Fuchsia,” and the man nods once, stepping
aside to allow us to pass.
The fact the man’s tie is not pink gives me pause, and
Lucian reaches behind to take my hand. “Elenore’s favorite
color,” he says, as if this explains the strange encounter.
 As we enter the stairwell, I lift the hem of my gown so I
can maneuver down the narrow steps. Sconces light our
descent, and the air becomes chilly the farther we go.
Trepidation lifts the fine hairs along my skin. My nerves
fire off in warning, an alarm raised. I shouldn’t be following
this man down into a wine cellar—a space with no windows or
exits.
I almost call out to him, but the curious noises pricking my
ears trap my voice.
The heavy pant of breath. A deep moan. The rattle of
chains.
My feet stop.
Lucian turns to beckon me forward, but I can’t move. “I
will carry you,” he warns.
The throaty moans grow louder, heating my skin
uncomfortably, then it’s a woman’s cry that rends the air. I
can’t distinguish if it’s a cry of pain or pleasure, but I decide I
don’t want to discover the distinction.
“I’m leaving.” I gather my skirt farther up as I start back
toward the staircase.
Lucian moves quickly. I yelp as he snags the skirt of my
gown and wrenches me around. His blue eyes gleam fierce in
the light of the sconces as he swoops down and throws me
over his shoulder.
Fury and embarrassment flush my face. I dig my nails into
his back, but I doubt he feels anything through his tux jacket
and Teflon skin. “Put me—”
“Quiet,” he growls. “You don’t have to do anything but
shut up.”
How long are we going to be down here? How horrible
will this be? I don’t have much time to decide as we enter the
wine cellar, and the sounds come from all around. With agile
moves, he situates me to cradle me in his arms before lowering
my feet to the cement floor.
 The flicker of candlelight bounces around the dark walls. I
stare at Lucian’s chest, refusing to turn around. I can sense
movement behind me, hear the scrape of chains, and my flesh
prickles. Gently, he slips his hand along my shoulder and
gradually secures the back of my neck. My gaze tips up, and
he’s staring down at me, shadows casting his masked face in
monstrous features.
Unprepared, he pulls me to him and spins me so that my
back rests flush against his hard body.
I should have closed my eyes.
The sight before me chills my blood. I literally feel the
heat drain from my face, leaving my body cold and my lungs
devoid of air. My head feels faint, and the sudden sensation of
Lucian’s mouth near my ear sends a tingle up my inner thighs.
“Breathe,” he commands.
I pull in a lungful of air, the taste of earth and wine and
blood pungent on my tongue.
The wine cellar might as well be a catacomb from his
story. Cages and bars line the walls where wine racks should
be. Chains drip from the ceiling. Torture devices with
restraints are positioned amid wine barrels as decorative art,
and the people are living art themselves, painted right out of
the bowels of hell.
My gaze fixes on a woman bound in rope. The woven jute
twines her body as she’s suspended mid-air, her breasts
mashed against the bindings, her legs bent and feet positioned
near her ass, exposing her to the crowd of spectators. A man in
a black leather suit uses a flogger to whip her pussy, and the
moaning I heard before are her salacious sounds.
There are other similar spectacles stationed around the
cellar—men chained to the bars, women using various devices
to deliver pain and pleasure—and it all bleeds together until I
feel as if I’m falling through the floor.
Then Lucian’s gruff voice slips around my body. “When
Elenore took control, she did away with Erasto’s burial ritual.
She found it…archaic. Instead, as she puts it, she felt the
organizations dole out enough death through the year, so she
wanted a night of deviant pleasure to remind people how to
live.”
I swallow forcefully. “Does everyone participate?”
Lucian’s body heat is a furnace compared to the stale, cold
air of the cellar, and without my permission, my body presses
into him, seeking warmth. I feel him tense, and I immediately
try to pull away. His arm bands my waist to hold me against
him.
“It’s invite only,” he says. “Select members.”
I recall how he knew the password to give the guard. “Do
you participate?”
I hate the way I come across as jealous, the note of
accusation in my weak tone. I feel nothing but revulsion for
this man and yet, the thought of sharing him with the bound
woman sends a ripple of resentful fire along my skin.
I shouldn’t be forced to marry a man only to have him do
as he pleases, although I know that’s the way of this life. Still,
it’s belittling and…I’m not even sure how it makes me feel. I
have too many emotions right now, and I’m not thinking
clearly.
Finally, he answers. “I don’t participate.”
“But you were allowed to pass—”
“Because Elenore believes my reputation suggests I would
enjoy a particular…indulgence.”
There’s a hint of something bitter in his voice, but I don’t
press.
“Okay. You’ve made your point,” I say, trying and failing
to move away from him. His arm is like an iron vise. “I want
to leave.”
“And what point is that?”
I shake my head, tearing my eyes away from the woman
being flogged. “That we live in a devious and dark world. That
our world is the underbelly. I don’t know, that everyone in this
world is just as twisted and forceful as you.”
“This is consensual,” he counters.
“You brought me here against my will,” I fire back.
“And you allowed me to.”
Confusion furrows my brow and I stare at the ground, done
with trying to reason with him.
I can’t have his hands on my body and his words in my
head and be in this room. Anxiety unfurls within me, and I
grip his hand nestled along my hip. “Let me go.”
His hand is unmovable. But when his fingers release my
side to lock around my hand, my heart flutters with a hollow
ache. He steps from behind me, our hands linked, and pulls me
through the passageway of the cellar.
The farther we go, the darker the room becomes, each step
a reverberating warning tapping my spine. The debaucherous
act of the main room is left behind, and I realize with a pulse-
pounding shudder that we’re very alone.
“Lucian, I don’t want to be here.”
When he finally stops and turns my way, all I see is his
pitch-black Armani tux and the ink on his hands and neck and
those intense eyes boring into me from behind his devilish
mask. A man I know nothing about, who has a reputation that
grants him access to sex dungeons of torture and deviancy.
And I’m alone with him.
Fingers still threaded around mine, he pulls me closer
before pressing my back to the bars along the wall. The cold
iron bites into the exposed skin above my bodice. If he
assaults me, tries to hurt me… My hands form claws in
preparation. If the only thing I can attack are those beautifully
deceptive eyes, then I will claw at them until he bleeds.
That rare smile hitches the corner of his mouth. “My
reputation should frighten you,” he comments, as if carrying
on our conversation from before. “I didn’t choose the name. I
don’t particularly like it. Some things in this world are just
branded on you without consent.”
I’m terrified to ask, but I need to know. “What name?”
His hands rove down my arms to lock around my wrists. I
know he can feel the erratic beat of my pulse, and I swear it
thrills him. He holds me securely as he moves in, our breath
mingling and my brain losing the will to reason. His scent of
sandalwood and clean, aquatic cologne is all around me, and
it’s more welcoming than the stale smell of the cellar. Torrid
fire licks up my thighs as his legs fuse to mine, his face so
close, I stop breathing.
As I’m caught in his gaze, he pushes my arms above my
head and brackets my wrists against the bars. He’s a dominant,
smoldering force as he towers over me, and I’ve never felt
more helpless…or intoxicated.
With the slightest shift of his hand, he unbuckles his belt.
Panic is a living force inside me, my eyes pleading with him,
until he whips his belt off and shackles it around my wrists,
securing my arms to the bars.
The cold touch of fear grips my lungs and squeezes.
“Why are you doing this?” As soon as the question leaves
my mouth, I know it’s useless. He’s doing this because I’m a
Carpella.
And he’s full of malice.
“It was after my second job,” he says, trailing a fingertip
down my forearm tenderly, teasingly. “There was so much
blood, the body in so many pieces. They said the slaying had
happened at the hands of a madman.” He looks down at me
and winks. “And the name stuck.”
Ice dumps into my bloodstream. “You are a madman.”
“That your family created.”
He brushes a loose wisp of hair away from my eye, and for
some reason, I think back to that moment on stage when I
denied myself that measure of comfort, so focused on
performing my routine flawlessly that I chose to suffer the
pain.
How much pain will I suffer at his hands?
As he backs away, I don’t drop his gaze. I won’t give him
the satisfaction. If he’s going to hurt me, then he’s going to
look me in the eyes while he’s doing so.
He flicks his knife out from his pocket. The blade is
shaped like a talon, the handle white bone from some animal,
or maybe even one of his victims. I wonder how much blood
has coated the steel.
He guides the tip of the knife along my stomach, the blade
snagging the lace and making my belly tremble. “I knew I was
going to have you long before now,” he says. “While I was
planning my revenge, I would think of ways I could inflict the
most pain on you. A pastime to keep me entertained while I
had to be patient.”
I lift my chin higher despite the desire to look away. “You
won’t kill me.”
“No,” he confirms, daringly slipping the blade between my
cleavage. My nipples tighten painfully. “I swore I wouldn’t.”
The feel of the cold steel scraping the soft flesh of my
breasts arouses an empty ache between my thighs.
“And I can’t spend the next how-many-ever years together
like this,” I say. “Fearful to live every day with you. Dreading
your little tortures.” My breathing ratchets as the confession
pours. “Please, Lucian. Just push the knife in to the hilt. Get
your revenge so this can be over.”
The blade halts its path, poised over my heart. Trepidation
claws at my insides as the blue flame of Lucian’s gaze strays
from my face to my chest, to the sparrow. A dark spark ignites
in the depths of his sinister eyes. His free hand travels to my
waist, where he possessively grasps the flare of my hip, his
body coasting closer to mine.
The air between us charges, friction drawing two bodies
together. A dangerous bait with one touch, the volatile
molecules daring either of us to strike a match and combust.
 “Brave words for a little Carpella.” He digs the tip of the
knife into my skin, breaking flesh. “But I’d rather see you
break.”
Panic rises as the blade needles my skin. “Please, don’t…”
My eyes glass over, the thought of him scarring the sparrow
too distressing in this moment.
He stills, his gaze watching me closely, and a strange mix
between fury and morbid curiosity crosses his features. His
attention slips down to inspect my tattoo. He pulls the knife
away and, as I feel a trickle of blood leak down, he swipes his
thumb across to gather the drop.
I watch, mesmerized, as he brings his thumb to his mouth
and, after a beat where I stare at the red coating, he sucks his
thumb into his mouth.
His deviant action does something torturous to my body,
and I gasp a breath into my aching lungs, starved of oxygen,
and some other demanding, burning hunger.
He braces his palm on the bar beside my head, placing his
mouth near the shell of my ear, lips grazing as he says, “You
taste like temptation.”
A hard shiver racks my body. Before I can measure a
response, the feel of his hand prowling down my thigh steals
the air from my lungs. “Tell me what the sparrow means,” he
demands.
I shake my head, adamant, the mask on my face slipping
loose. “No.”
He can take whatever else he wants—but he can’t have my
soul.
Lucian bunches my gown in his fist and shoves his hand
between my knees, forcing my thighs apart. I swallow the
rattle in my throat as he drags the silky material higher, his
coarse fingers trailing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh and
leaving fire in his wake.
“That will be the last time you say that word to me.” His
hand travels up agonizingly slow, a challenge alighting in his
eyes. “One thing in particular was left out of the marriage
contract,” he says, and I’m no longer able to discern his words,
my mind a tangled, conflicted web of denial and need.
I try to focus on what he’s saying as my body battles the
unwanted stimulation of his hand and its path toward the apex
of my thighs.
“The stipulation was left out because, well, being raised as
a Carpella, with the blatant lack of traditions, I felt it was
pointless. Although now—” his fingers prod the seam of my
panties “—I can see where I missed an opportunity to deliver a
little more punishment.”
Every fiber of my being blazes hotter than the blue flames
trying to devour me. My treacherous body doesn’t know
whether to pull away or seek his friction, and I’m humiliated
when wetness pools in the seat of my panties, proving his
touch affects me.
What he’s saying finally registers past the haze of fear and
heightened anticipation. “You’re revolting.” I jerk against the
leather belt, trying to inch my body away from him.
A cruel smile slants his mouth. “In the Irish Syndicate,
there used to be a punishment derived on women who weren’t
virgins.” The tip of his finger hooks beneath the crotch of my
underwear, teasing so close but not touching, and my body
goes still. “A husband was given permission to share his wife
if she wasn’t pure. He could pass her around to the whole clan,
before he chose whether or not to spare her life.”
Horrified, I wither under his touch, my pulse stabbing the
vein in my neck. The way he’s staring at me, that darkness in
his eyes a bottomless abyss, his finger hovering so close to my
folds, my sex pinches with agonizing need.
His finger rubs the fabric of my panties, and hellfire stokes
the fiery embers in his eyes as a muscle tightens in his jaw.
“We can confirm it right now,” he says, his voice guttural,
strained. “No need to wait for the wedding night to find out the
truth.”
Mortified, my anger latches on to my nerves, and my teeth
sink violently into my lip. The coppery taste coats my tongue
as I meet his vicious gaze. I don’t owe him any response
concerning my virginity.
He wants to see me weak, frightened. He wants to torment
me and get off on my tears. I won’t give this monster the
satisfaction.
With boldness I don’t feel, I own some wicked part of me
that belongs to the Cosa Nostra. I arch into his hand, forcing
his fingers to touch me. Time suspends, and I feel every action
in excruciating detail—the feel of his abrasive palm pressed to
me; his finger sliding through my slick lips; the way his hand
cups me on reflex; every muscle in his forearm tensed.
“Confirm all you want,” I say, breathless. “If you’re not
going to use your knife, then you might as well make use of
your fingers to plunge inside me.” I lick my lips, swiping the
blood away with my tongue and drawing his heated gaze to
my mouth.
Fire and ice collide, and I’m melting under the torrent.
My heart thrums so violently I fear my chest might crack. I
can’t hear over the roar in my ears. We stay locked in this
standoff, his hand on me, the tender threat of his finger so
close to pushing inside, and I’m a live wire waiting for his
connection.
A muscle jumps along his jaw as his gaze flares, every
tendon in his body corded tight. His restraint rolls off him with
a visceral, charged current.
“Fuck,” he curses harshly. “Tá tú chomh fliuch.” His Irish
accent is prominent beneath the uttered aggression, rushing
past his lips on a fiery exhale.
His hand sinks into my hair and grips cruelly, forcing my
face to lift to his as he stares down at me. His mouth settles so
close to mine, I can taste his bitter resentment. The threat is
there—he owns this moment between us. Just as I’m losing
my will, my body coming undone, he removes his hand from
between my thighs and takes a forceful step back.
I fill my burning lungs, my head dazed from holding my
breath. I yank at the restraint as my mind starts to clear. He
keeps backing away. He can’t leave me here.
“Unlike your famiglia, I value traditions.” He flicks the
blade of the knife back and forth across his hand. “And luckily
for you, your lack of virginity holds no bearing over this
marriage.”
Bastard. “You made your point. Now…let me out.”
“I could,” he says, flipping the blade out once more. “Or
maybe I’ll just leave you here for the heathens.”
The sounds farther ahead in the room make themselves
known, and a cold sweat coats my skin. I hold his gaze,
imploring him, uncaring that my vulnerability is now bleeding
through.
A shaky breath leaks out. “I’ll do anything you ask of me.”
He grips the knife hilt, those intense eyes narrowed. With
another fierce curse, he strides forward and cuts the leather
belt, setting me free. I pull my wrist into my hand and massage
the irritated skin.
Lucian says nothing else as he starts in the direction we
came.
I follow him out of the wine cellar, unwilling to think
rationally about what I offered up in exchange. I know why
I’m here. I understand what this marriage contract means to
him. And I know that, back in that room, when my body was
betraying me, I held no power over him.
He didn’t want me. I saw it in the seething venom of his
eyes. He loathes me, my family, my blood. He wanted to slit
my throat and maybe jack off as I bled out, but he didn’t want
me in the traditional sense.
Whatever weakness he may have, I won’t find it with my
body.
10
POSSESS & RUIN
LUCIAN

T he dark presses heavily, congested with

shadows and virulence as the night wears on.
I’ve never wanted the sun to rise so badly,
desperate for the clarity of light to pierce the obstinate haze
from my mind.
I flex my hand, forcefully prying my fingers open. My
knuckles burn from clenching my bruised hand into a fist for
hours. I can still smell her sweet scent on me, still taste her,
still feel her…and my jaw locks tight, teeth gritted against the
deceptive thoughts invading my head.
She’s the enemy.
But tonight, she dug so far beneath my skin, I could feel
her in my veins, searing my blood. I saw it in her amber eyes,
the moment she thought I might be redeemable, that she could
sway me.
And that’s why I had to take her to the wine cellar. To
remind her of the monster she first met, to remind myself of
who I am.
I can’t lose sight of my purpose over a beautiful face.
Back leaned against the brick building of a downtown bar,
I wait for my target to appear. Usually, I’m a patient man, but
tonight I’m coiled and anxious and seeking the release that
comes from a violent job.
I blow out a terse breath into the foggy air, still shaken to
my core. Her response to my threat in the wine cellar thrilled
me as much as it unhinged me. She has some mafia in her yet,
no matter how she tries to disguise her roots.
As for me, there was no denying I wanted her—but I
loathed every second of it and every part of myself for that
weak need.
I wanted to snuff the blaze out of her eyes, but first I
wanted to devour her, to indulge like a glutton and consume
her until she was screaming for release, before I maliciously
throttled her neck.
Fuck, my mind is a twisted web of sick loathing.
Once we were free of the cellar, I drove her straight to the
mansion and handed her off to Mannix. After which I set off to
find a face I could bury my fist in.
Fury baited my course through the darkness as I stalked
my prey. I’m doing the job too early. I’ve only been trailing
him for a week, and it’s sloppy. But I need an outlet for this
restlessness crawling under my skin.
The bar door swings open.
A buzz fills my head like a million wasps as I push off the
building and stalk toward Nick Carpella.
Standing under a neon sign, Nick sparks a lighter and
inhales a deep drag of his cigarette. I can tell he’s inebriated,
and I wish he wasn’t, because I want there to be nothing to
dull his pain. He exhales the smoke from his lungs and spies
me through the thick cloud.
No man can mistake what my presence entails.
His shoulders square, and he takes one last pull off the
cigarette before he tosses it to the grimy sidewalk. His
narrowed gaze drops to the silencer aimed at him from beneath
my tuxedo jacket.
As I approach, he cocks his chin. “A little overdressed for
the occasion, double-oh-seven,” he says, dark eyes glassy and
unfocused.
I keep my Ruger aimed on his head.
“If it was a hit, I’d already be dead.” He rolls his
shoulders. “So, what do you want?”
Just the sound of his irritating voice grates my nerves like
sandpaper. As a Carpella, I owe him nothing, not even the
reason he’s got a fat mark on his slimy head. I nudge the tip of
the gun, directing him. “Walk.”
 His arrogant face cracks with a sardonic smile. “If you’re
not going to kill me, then I’m not—”
The pop whistles through the night air, followed by his
deep groan. He drops down to grab his foot where the bullet
lodged, and I drive my elbow into his face and crack his nose.
“Mother fuck—”
I use the gunstock to knock the back of his head. As he
goes down, I grab his booted ankle and drag him into the
alleyway where my car is idling and click the button on the
fob.
After I shove him into the trunk, I stretch out a length of
duct tape and muzzle his mouth, wrapping it around his head,
then proceed to cable tie his wrists together.
Hand braced on the trunk, I stare down at him. Annoyance
flares as I watch his blood ooze into the floorboard. Dammit,
I’m going to have to either reupholster the trunk, or burn the
car to get rid of his stench.
He levies indiscernible grunts at me past the tape, but I can
guess what he wants to know.
I loosen my tie, letting him get a good look at the ink on
my knuckles. “You put your dick in the wrong woman, Nick.
I’m here to rectify that.” I slam the trunk closed.
As I drive deeper into downtown, the warehouse rises up
above dark water and cracked pavement, a rusted monument
of time to this city. The meatpacking district is notorious for
its after-hour activities, those not acknowledged in the light of
day.
I park near the roll door entrance and unload my duffle bag
from the backseat. My skin hums with the buzz of the
industrial florescent light pitched off the side of the
warehouse. My blood is as murky as the acrid water sloshing
up against the railing.
There’s a sharp scrape clawing at my chest, like the little
nails of a ballerina tearing at my insides.
 Tamping the obsessive thought down, I make quick work
of prepping my work area. Plastic tarp, meat hook, tools of the
trade—all spread out and neatly positioned. I’m really not sure
why the “madman” nickname happened. For one to be mad,
one has to be out of control, and I pride myself on being in
complete control at all times.
A dark voice mocks that claim in the back of my head with
a flash of her tantalizing body.
She damn near unraveled me.
Rolling my head along my shoulders, I work out the
tension in my muscles as I collect Nick. I walk him into the
warehouse, prodding him past his limp and ignoring his
mumbled pleas. As a made man, his begging and groveling is
embarrassing. We all know what waits for us at the end of the
line.
Some find it sooner than others, but we all know a dark
and violent death is coming.
“You stuck your filthy cock in a married woman like a
sure-as-fuck man,” I say, kicking his kneecaps to send him to
the concrete floor. “Take your punishment like one.”
Flipping out my karambit knife, I flick the blade back and
forth, the steel gleaming as it catches the light of the industrial
lamp. The sound as the blade snicks the air makes Nick a
blubbering imbecile. It’s insulting; this pathetic piece of shit is
part of the organization that crushed my family.
I slice through the cable tie and tear his leather jacket
down his arms. Before he can scramble away, the meat hook
finds placement between his shoulder blades. His scream leak
around the tape. It’s not an easy feat, impaling a back with a
thick hook.
He’s not raw meat. His stress creates tension, muscles
bunched tight. You have to rear back and swing in hard,
making sure to get enough momentum to drive the dull hook
through the skin and tendons. Bone, too, if you miss your
mark by an inch.
By the wailing, it sounds like I might have missed a little.
 I peel my tux jacket off and lay it across a metal chair.
Then I roll my shirt sleeves up my forearms, making myself
comfortable. We’re going to be here a while.
I stand in front of him and tear the tape away from his
mouth and head.
“You don’t understand,” he starts, sweat beading his face,
drool and blood from his broken nose streaming down his
chin. “She’s a whore. She asked for it. What’s a guy supposed
to do?”
I cross my arms over my chest. It always amazes me how
they try to reason. Next, the bribes will come.
“I can pay you,” he says, groaning in pain. “Whatever you
want. Whatever they’re paying you, I can give you more.”
I inhale a deep breath laced with the pungent scent of
copper and body odor. Blood and fear. It’s a noxious smell that
curls my lip in disgust. Leaving him to piss himself, I head to
the crank and pull the chain. Nick is hoisted a foot into the air,
his curse-filled cries echoing around the warehouse.
As I coast around to stand before him, I reach over and
select one of the tools I spread out on my velvet roll. My go-to
for this kind of job is the Ka-Bar skinner knife. I’ve dulled the
blade for maximum carnage and it’s tipped with a convenient
gut hook. “There’s only one thing you can offer me to save
your life.”
“Anything, man.” Piss and blood dribble from his
suspended heels, dripping onto the plastic like a piece of
abstract art. I think about framing the tarp.
A cruel smile slants my mouth as I look into his eyes. “I
want my family back,” I tell him. At the confused draw of his
eyebrows, I add, “My father. My cousins. My brother. Every
blood relation the Carpellas took from this earth, bring them
back.”
A hard swallow drags down his throat as realization crests
across his strained features. “You’re Cross. Damn. Should of
just took you out with the rest of those Irish fucks.” He spits
on the tarped floor. “This has nothing to do with Angelic.”
 “Oh no, Holton sends his regards.” I shove the hooked
point of the knife into his stomach and twist. “But I accepted
the job for sheer fun.”
As I yank the blade free, some of his entrails come with it.
A sprite ballerina dances into my thoughts, and the sweet
tang of her blood fills my mouth. I grit my teeth at her
invasion. If I have to be here all night, I’ll carve her out of my
fucking head.
After his wail tapers off, he coughs and gags, nearly
choking on his own blood and vomit. I step back in revulsion.
Now that the shock of his imminent death has worn off, he’s
past the pleading portion of this show. We can get down to
business.
I wipe his filth off the knife. “Since it’s your day, I’ll let
you decide where we start.” I point to his head. “We can begin
at the top, or the bottom.” I lower to my haunches and slice
through his pant leg. “It’s all the same to me when flaying
skin.”
He tries to kick away, and I grab hold of his bloody boot.
“Bottom it is then.”
My vision goes dark. Red pulses at the seams.
This man will suffer like none other. For whatever is in me
that wants to covet something beautiful, a darker, more
deranged part needs to destroy it.

The trace of lavender curls around my senses. The rousing

sound of tiny inhalations mingles with the electric fizzing in
my blood to draw me out of oblivion.
I don’t recall how I got here, standing in the doorway of
my dance hall.
The scene at the warehouse plays before my eyes, its
talons dug deep into my skin. My bloody knife is sheathed
inside my pocket. My hands rest at my sides, my muscles
twisted tight with fire.
Through the red haze, I find my prey. She’s twirling on her
toes, her image singeing around the edges as my gaze burns
through her. The spinning stops, and her lithe body pulses in
my vision. She doesn’t move; she holds so still she must sense
the danger pressing in the air.
I can feel the heavy rise and fall of my chest, every breath
in coats my lungs with her scent of purple, and I’m desperate
to either extinguish it or devour it.
“Lucian?”
Her voice bleeds through the rush of blood.
That’s all it takes. Her voice, her scent.
The monster I’ve been trying to hold at bay unleashes.
11
HEARTS & MADNESS
VIOLET

T he doorway frames Lucian’s looming form in

shadows. He belongs to the darkness, dispelling
all morning light from the room. His head is
bowed as he stares at the floor for so long it unnerves me.
Alarm fires through my veins. I should listen to the frantic
beat of my heart, to the warning drumming harder with each
step I take closer to him.
I stop, a tentacle of ice wrapping around me at the sight.
Even in the faint lighting, I can make out the blood
covering his suit. His white tux shirt is soaked in dark-red, his
skin spattered with the violent evidence of his brutality. His
chest rises with his rapid breaths, his hands fisted at his sides.
There’s a tear in his sleeve. His hair, that is usually kempt, is
disheveled.
Where’s Mannix?
I can only assume his boss sent him away. But how in the
hell could Mannix leave Lucian in this condition? Then a
startling, terrifying realization hits that this isn’t unusual for
the boss of the Irish Syndicate.
The madman.
I stand before him like prey before predator, a hollow
scream flaring inside my chest. “Lucian?”
A low growl resonates through the room and rises above
the subdued classical music. It vibrates against my skin. I take
a step backward, and that small movement triggers his notice.
The blue flames of his eyes lock on me.
A prickling sensation webs over my skin, the hairs on my
nape lift away. Breath bated, I take another tiny backward step,
and it happens fast.
He pounces from the doorway and has my throat clutched
in his large hand.
 Panic fists my lungs. I gasp at air and claw at his hand, my
nails tearing into his inked skin as he backs me toward the
wall. My back flattens against the hard surface, my eyes
trained on the beautiful face of the devil, all fury and
damnation.
As his fingers seal tighter around my windpipe, I kick at
the wall, at his shins, then reach out and scratch at his arms
and face. He’s solid vengeance and wrath, my strikes uselessly
hitting steel.
The room starts to darken around the edges. Before I’m
pulled all the way under, some semblance of humanity bleeds
into his eyes. His grasp around my throat loosens a fraction,
but only enough to allow a clipped breath to tease my lungs
before he’s dragging me away from the wall.
“Lucian…stop—”
He pulls me toward a table and, after he swipes the
contents off with a furious brush of his arm, thrusts my back
against the oak surface. Something feral and raw ignites in his
eyes as he forces me down on the table, his hand still collared
around my throat.
I swallow hard against the fiery ache, the pressure
unbearable. His heated gaze drags down my body, scorching
my skin beneath my clothes. A dark haze layers his features.
He’s not even here—his mind lost, trapped in some other
realm of torture and pain.
I collect enough air to gulp in a full breath. Relief rushes
my veins.
Lucian’s hand remains fixed to my throat, but his rigid
gaze is hard on my body. I keep deathly still. Dried blood
saturates his shirt, his skin. He’s a devil ripped right from the
bowels of hell, a fallen angel so devotedly fixated on the body
before him, as if it can save him from the flames reaching up
to drag him back under.
He raises his free hand and reverently presses the coarse
pads of his fingers to my collarbone. His touch is fire and
brimstone, and I tremble beneath the dominance of it. His
fingertips travel down the length of my chest, probing the
curves of my breasts, my rib cage, my stomach. He explores
my body like I’m a rare creature, some mythical goddess
who’s entranced him.
And he’s furious about it.
The disturbing look in his darkened gaze could flay my
skin from my bones. He’s under a spell, and I’m terrified to
move or speak or even breathe for fear of breaking the trance
and unleashing the murderous demon.
He fists the waist of my leggings and, with a fierce and
desperate act, rips the tights down my hips and thighs. Cold air
caresses my flesh as his fiery gaze drops to my bare skin in a
clash of fire and ice, lashing a violent tremor through me.
“Buaireadh,” he mutters in Irish, his voice gravel, strained.
The word leaves his mouth crossly, an accusation.
His palm lands on my thigh, and another tremble rocks my
core. I close my eyes against the unwanted swell of heat and
the empty ache unfurling inside as he glides his hand up,
feeling his way along my thigh. His fingers touch the elastic of
my thong, and before I can brace for the invasive touch, he
releases a harsh curse and grasps my shirt.
The tear ricochets around the hall, heightening the
crescendo of the music. The torn material falls aside to reveal
my chest, covered only in a skimpy bralette. Then his hand
continues its course, mapping my body with a slow and
torturous exploration over every flared curve and beveled dip.
As his perusal drifts toward my neck, his distant gaze
captures my mouth. Every nerve ending fires with awareness
as he drags his teeth over his lip, a ravenous hunger surfacing
in that blaze of blue.
Beneath my desire for preservation, something needy and
yearning wars within me. Alarm rages in my mind, urging me
to push him away. Run. Escape. Fight. But the more he
touches me, his hands going from ruthless to yielding, pulling
at the frayed threads of my sanity to unravel me, some other
frantic and illicit emotion takes hold.
 I can feel his desire hard and pressed to my thigh, and
liquid heat pours into my veins.
My breathing ramps, unable to control the rise of my chest,
and his hand dips to the seam of my bra, his finger drags under
the strap, taking me with him to that dark place.
“Lucian…” I try to reach him, and this time, he blinks.
A form of awareness breaks through the haze clouding his
thoughts. I take advantage of the frail moment as I lift up and,
cautiously, lay my palm to his chest. His heart knocks heavily,
his pulse drumming so hard the vibration ricochets through
me.
I take in the blood covering him and realize just how lost
he is, how violent the feel of his hands on me can become, and
a hollow space in my chest craves to pull him back from the
brink.
As his gaze wavers, I push my hand along his taut bicep
and down to his forearm, trying to ignore the coarse texture of
dry blood, then I slip my hand beneath his palm on my breast,
lacing our fingers together.
With cautious and deliberate movements, I hold on to him
while reaching down with my other hand and unlacing my
pointe shoes. I slip them off, letting my leggings fall to the
floor, then ease forward.
“Let’s go,” I say, somehow controlling the tremble in my
voice.
He steps back, allowing me to slide off the table. I keep his
fingers threaded between mine as I lead him through the dance
hall and into the hallway. There’s at least five bathrooms from
here to my room, and I guide us toward the closest one at the
end of the hall.
I don’t turn on the light. I leave us encased in near
darkness, wary the brightness will trigger him. And honestly,
I’m not even sure what I’m doing or why…but the ache
cresting between my breastbone won’t let me simply walk
away from him in this state.
 Releasing his hand for a moment, I open the glass shower
door and turn on the spray. Three modern shower heads sputter
on, and I slip my hand into the downpour of the rain to test the
temperature as I stare at the veins in the Carrara marble.
When I turn around to face Lucian, the glazed, faraway
look in his eyes stutters my breath. I approach him slowly, like
a fawn nearing a wolf. There’s not one section of his tux that
blood hasn’t touched. I start at the top button, working my way
down the placket to open his shirt.
I’ve never undressed a man before. My hands shake. My
stomach pitches with a free-fall sensation. I’m terrified of
standing here before him in only a bra and thong, so
vulnerable, but I’m not sure he’s even aware of my presence.
That’s the only reason I’m brave enough to work his pants
clasp open and lower his zipper.
This isn’t sexual, however, and I’m bolstered with the
reminder as I meet the distant look in his eyes. With resolve
firmly in place, I lift onto my toes and push his shirt over his
shoulders. The stained garment falls down his arms and lands
on the tile floor, exposing Lucian’s scars and tattoos, the leanly
cut muscles of his arms and torso.
Heat snares a sticky web inside my chest as I push his
pants down his legs. Absentmindedly, he helps me take off his
shoes, and then he’s standing before me in only his black
boxer briefs.
Taking a fortifying breath, I step into the stall and, with
only the light touch of my hand on his, he follows me inside
the marble and glass encasement. Steam has already coated the
glass and thickens the air around us as we stand under the
warm rain of water.
My gaze drops to the white marble basin, to where rusty
red blooms and puddles to swirl down the drain. Throat
bruised, I swallow past the ache as I reach for a bar of soap.
There are so many nevers attacking my nerves. I’ve never
showered with a man. Never bathed him. Never stood before a
man half naked, drenched, and terrified. Although we’re still
hidden behind undergarments, the act is so intimate, so
sensual, as I lather the soap along his forearm, a live current
hums in my blood.
Lucian watches my hands move up his arm. I wash his
shoulders, too aware of how his skin feels under my nails, the
scrapes I placed there. Hesitation gives me momentary pause
before I drag the soap down his chest. The feel of the beveled
scar that crosses his chest, the ink that barely conceals it,
twists down deep in my belly.
My fingers hover over his pec, delicately tracing the lines
of ink, then my gaze drifts up, to the thin scar that clefts his
chin. Without thought, my hand glides to his face, to trace that
curious scar…
And something awakens inside him. The haze begins to
clear, his muscles tense under my touch. He snatches my wrist
as his aegean-blue gaze latches on to me.
My heart careens against my rib cage, blood roaring in my
ears.
The warning rings loudly in the small span of air between
us—run—before he strikes. Thunder rumbles in his chest, his
eyes clouding over like a storm, as he grabs hold of my arms
and presses me against the wall of marble.
Cold stings my skin, but I barely register it over the fire
searing me everywhere his heated gaze settles. I hold my
breath, waiting for him to say something, anything, to release
me from this unknown limbo and what’s going to happen.
He remains intensely silent as his grip on my biceps
loosen. Then, with the rough touch only a made man can
deliver, he skims the backs of his inked fingers along the
sensitive plane of my stomach.
A shiver racks my bones, chill bumps erupting over my
flesh. His knuckles drag upward until his thumb edges the
seam of my bra. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip at the feel
of his tender yet harsh caress over my breast, and then his
finger slips beneath the strap and hooks it, dragging it off my
shoulder.
 He bares one breast, and my whole body ignites in flames.
I’m standing amid a rainstorm, the torrential downpour
plunging my body and soul to a base level of immorality and
sinful temptation, and it’s all because of how those blue flames
sear my skin.
Towering over me, Lucian infuses every molecule of air,
making it impossible to take a breath not spiked with his heady
scent of man and intoxicating cologne. Every scar and inch of
inked skin stands before me as a wall of dominant force.
He pushes in closer, his mouth hovering over the pulse in
my neck, like a vampire ready to bare his fangs. His leg slides
between my thighs and rests at the sensitive juncture where
my thighs connect, sending a throb straight to my clit.
Soapy water slides over his shoulders and drips down on
me. His hand cups my breast, working in the lather over my
taut nipple. Heat flares and crackles over my nerve endings, a
deep ache blooming in my core, and I close my eyes against
the overwhelming torrent.
His other hand coasts from my waist to my lower back,
where he slips his fingers beneath the flimsy material of my
thong. A breath catches in the base of my throat as he tows the
string aside. The low rumble from his throat vibrates against
me, and I’m falling too fast, a frenzy of carnal need sweeping
through my body and decimating all logic.
I’ve barely placed my hand to his abs before he releases
my breast and drives cruel fingers into my hair. Gripping the
wet strands around his fist, he turns me around and shoves my
chest against the unforgiving marble. He releases me only to
grasp my hands and plant my palms firmly to the wall, where
he holds me captive, my body falling in sync with his uneven
breaths.
Then his hand is in my hair, pulling my head back to
expose my neck as he sinks his teeth into my shoulder,
eliciting a throaty moan from my mouth.
“You give yourself up so easily?” The angry tenor of his
voice stalls my breath.
 I’m unsure how to answer—insulted he called me easy;
wounded from his rejection.
Furious I’ve allowed myself to fall so carelessly into the
hands of the man who—just the night before—had me bound
in a wine cellar to humiliate me.
“You attacked me,” I finally say, breaths hot against the
wall. “I was trying to help you.”
He lowers his mouth to the lobe of my ear. “By seducing
me?”
“I didn’t—” I stop short, irate with my defensiveness. Let
him think what he wants about me, who cares? This is about
survival, and not appearing weak. “We use what’s in our
arsenal, right? Was I just supposed to let you strangle me?”
He releases a humorless sound. “Maybe it turned you on,”
he accuses. “Maybe you like it rough. You were soaking wet
when you thrust this pussy into my hand.”
At his crude words, he grips the back of my thong and
pulls it high between my ass cheeks, forcing the wet material
in front to rub abrasively against my clit. Against my will, I
release a whimper at the erotic feel.
His growl prowls over my skin before he pulls the thong
away from my ass and pushes his finger against my entrance.
“I think your little needy pussy is begging for that
inspection,” he says, his fingers halted, teasing my folds.
I bite my lip to restrain a moan, refusing to allow my body
to respond to him again. In the cellar, he accused me of not
being a virgin with the threat to confirm it, and if I simply let
him inside me now, this whole debate will end.
He runs the pads of his fingers over my slick lips. “Fuck,”
he grits out.
I can feel the tremble of his body, the restraint to hold back
as his fingers slide between my lips. Inadvertently, my hips
roll back against him, and I’m met with the rock-hard evidence
of his arousal.
 I smile against the spray of water. “I think you’re having a
hard time with your examination methods.”
“Shut up.” His command punctuates the sliver of air
between us. His mouth bears down on the juncture between
my neck and shoulder, teeth scraping furiously at my skin,
before he removes his hand from me.
The sensation is cold and empty, leaving me breathless.
With a heavy groan, he presses his chest to my back and
drags his hard cock up the seam of my ass, driving the needy
ache deeper. “If you let me inside you, I’ll destroy you, and I’ll
revel in it.”
Oh, god.
His hands leave my hair and body to land on the marble
wall on either side of my head, caging me in.
He’s no longer touching any part of my body, but the
temptation for him to either move forward or for me to push
back vibrates around the edges. The dare right there…
Destroy me.
I seal my eyes closed and flatten into the wall, holding my
resolve, as I let the hot stream of water further the burn.
Without another word, he pushes away from the wall and
escapes the shower. I don’t turn around to watch. I can hear his
hurried movements to gather clothing, then the door slams
shut.
Muscles too lax to hold me up, I sink to the shower floor, a
confusing mix of relief and yearning weighing down my body.
The thrum of my heart is felt in the mark he left behind by his
teeth, the proof of what happened between us.
12
CLOVES & PIROUETTES
LUCIAN

W ith three hard strokes of my cock, a shiver

racks my body as I come across the damp
towel.
“Fuck.”
I come so violently my balls ache, and I brace a hand
against the wall to steady myself, my head light and
tormented. “Fuck.”
That seems to be the limit of my vocabulary where this girl
is concerned. Debased self-loathing grips the pit of my
stomach as I wad the towel and toss it to the floor of my study,
my eyes tracking her movements through the house.
Gaze cast hard on my phone screen, I curl my fingers
around the edge of the desk, my vessels tight and blistering
with the unsatisfied urge firing through my blood.
What transpired in the shower should not have happened.
I almost lost control.
I never lose control.
Scenes of Nick Carpella’s skinned and mutilated body
flash before my pulsating vision. At some point during the job,
I blacked out—swallowed by an abyss of silky dark hair and
large, haunting amber eyes. Delivering Nick’s pain and
retribution took on a life of its own as I tried to carve her
alluring image from my mind.
I wipe a hand down my face, feeling the scruff along my
jaw.
I can’t escape her. She washed the blood from my body, as
if she was trying to cleanse the filth from my soul. She tried to
touch my scar…and that’s what crawled in too deep.
I snapped.
She’s swathed in a towel now, hair damp and clinging to
her shoulders. The same shoulders and skin my teeth nearly
tore through. As she dips into her bedroom, I close the security
app on my phone.
I fill a tumbler with bourbon and down it in one gulp,
welcoming the immediate burn in my chest. Then I seat myself
on the leather chair, too shaken and still far too tempted to
leave, fearful to roam anywhere near her room.
Reclining back, I stare at the shadows outlining the ceiling,
self-hatred coursing what’s left of the adrenaline in my veins.
Had she not stopped me—pulled me out of that dark place—I
probably would have strangled her to death.
And I’m not sure what’s worse: the fact I would have lost
my alliance and means of revenge, or the putrid ache that
burrows beneath my chest at the thought of never seeing her
beautiful face again.
Maybe if I fuck her, then I can fuck this maddening
obsession right out of my head.
And yet somehow, I know that won’t be enough.
I should have never brought her here.

Negotiations for the marriage are made at one of the Carpella’s

nightclubs.
The atmosphere is dense, even during the day, and the air
smells like an emo kid’s car and strippers. The guy next to me
puffs on a clove cigarette, explaining the former observation.
His name is Damarko. His reputation in the underworld is
notorious. As far as the Carpella crime family goes, rumor has
it he’s the best knife fighter, the only Carpella I might have to
truly worry about.
I’m seated at a glass table, my thoughts turning to the
question of why these fuckers would have something so
breakable and capable of slicing body parts in their meeting
room, where, most likely, meetings are probably met with
violence more often than not.
 This is as close to this many Carpellas as I’ve been since
they raided my home and left me branded. It’s taking all my
willpower to stay in this seat and not make better use of the
stupid glass table and sever all their heads.
I can feel the burn of Salvatore’s eyes on the side of my
face, but I haven’t given him the satisfaction of acknowledging
his presence yet. His brother, the don of la famiglia, Carlos,
sits across from me with his underboss, Ramiro, to his right.
Carlos’s son, Renz, is to his left. He’s the next in line for the
throne, and he carries a pretty lethal reputation also. His
consigliere is Salvatore, the brother who has been stealing
from him and his organization, and he’s the sweatiest Carpella
in this room.
I glance at the bandage wrapping Salvatore’s hand and
smirk. He should be worried about losing a much more vital
body part should negotiations go badly, and he’s outed to his
brother for the rat he is.
“I understand that a contract has already been agreed
upon,” Carlos says, “but I wasn’t made aware beforehand or
asked to give my blessing, which is all rather unceremonious.
So, you can understand my hesitancy now.”
Carlos dives right into the murky thick of this meeting. He
steeples his fingers together, staring at me with vacant eyes.
Obviously, Salvatore didn’t make his brother aware of the fact
his daughter is currently living under my roof, or the start of
his speech would have gone very differently.
“Our families’ history makes this a…questionable
alliance,” the don continues, “regardless of how much my
brother advocates on his daughter’s behalf for true love.”
He says the last words with a repulsed wrinkle of his nose,
as if the words smell bad coming out of his mouth.
True love. At the time, it’s what I decided Salvatore should
use to sway his brother. Now, I’m trying not to picture his
daughter soaking wet and half naked in my shower.
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” I say, shifting
forward in the chair.
 Carlos huffs a derisive breath, turning his attention on his
brother before narrowing those beady eyes on me once again.
“Yes, so I’ve heard.”
Damarko stubs out his clove with more force than
necessary. “Yeah, it has nothing at all to do with how hot
Violetta is, and wanting to literally stake your claim on her
sweet-ass pussy.”
My teeth grind at his disrespectful assessment of his own
cousin. I physically loosen my muscles to relax the coiled
tension within me. It’s far better they assume my motivation is
greed and sex rather than steeped in vengeance.
My reaction must please the don. Any made man with a
claim to a mafia woman would punch another man for far less.
In all honesty, I was just a boy when the feud ended.
Carlos needs to believe I was either too young to remember all
the details, or I’m too lovesick to carry a grudge for so many
years. With the right incentive, any man can be bought, of
course, and there’s sweet-ass pussy on the table.
Also, I’m the only Cross left in Desolation.
What does he have to fear of an uprising from one lonely
Cross?
With a contrived sigh, Carlos says, “The heart be what it
may, we had high hopes for Violetta. This isn’t a good deal.”
My gaze snares Salvatore in my crosshairs. He clears his
throat and speaks up for the first time. “She’s my daughter,
Carlos. I have the say in who she marries.”
The don laughs mirthlessly. “You have a dead wife and a
dead son, and a rebellious, useless daughter who’s only
prospect is to marry well. You have nothing, so you have no
say.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth, his dark eyes back on
me and boring through my Hermès suit. “Besides, I’d think
you above all, brother, would be against this union.”
Salvatore tenses at his brother’s insult. His incensed gaze
slides to me, and I raise an eyebrow in challenge. What’s more
important to him: his pride, or his life?
 “I’ve come to terms with the past,” Salvatore says, slipping
his hand with a missing finger under the table. “Lucian is a
good man for my daughter. That’s all that matters.”
Carlos grunts, seemingly unconvinced.
A suspicious feeling creeps over me, crawling down my
spine. A week ago, the girl wasn’t even a consideration to her
family. She’d been dumped in a dance company and all but
forgotten. My interest has sparked his curiosity and his sudden
desire for his niece to marry well.
This negotiation is like walking a tightrope, one made out
of barbwire with a lit fuse at one end.
“Fuck this,” Damarko says, turning my way. He points a
finger at me. “She isn’t yours to take or claim.” His enraged
gaze swings to Carlos. “We had a deal.”
Carlos chuckles. “Settle down, boy. I told you before, you
can’t marry your cousin.”
He scoffs. “By marriage, not blood.”
It’s Renz who levels a lethal glare on him and says, “In la
famiglia, it’s all blood.” Then he mutters something in Italian,
dismissing Damarko.
With a defiant shake of his head, Damarko says, “Fuck, the
things I want to do to that sweet pussy…” He licks his lips,
sending me a knowing smirk. “I’ll tell you what, Cross. I’ll let
you have her when I’m through. How about those terms?”
It happens fast. I bound out of my seat and snatch
Damarko’s cheap tie. I drag him across the table and right into
my fist. The soldiers standing around the room descend,
breaking us apart just as quickly.
“You piece of Irish shit.” Damarko touches the blood
smearing his mouth and spits. “I’m going to eviscerate you—”
“Enough!” Carlos roars. “Everyone, sit the fuck down.
Now.”
Keeping my gaze trained on Damarko, I tuck my tie into
my suit jacket and settle back down in my seat.
 Damarko snatches his arm free of the soldier and,
delivering one last narrowed look at me, leaves the room.
I look at Salvatore, who has remained silent through the
altercation. His dark brows draw together over tapered,
curious eyes, and I realize what my action must be perceived
as.
Jealousy.
Possessiveness.
Coarse laughter draws my attention to Carlos. “Never
insult another man’s pussy, yeah?” He laughs again, the rest of
his cronies joining in.
I clear my throat. “I assume this means we’ve reached an
understanding.”
The laughter stops abruptly.
“Fair enough,” I say, lifting my chin. “What can I do to
convince the organization of my good intentions for Violet?”
It’s the first time her name has left my mouth, and it leaves a
sticky residue on my tongue, as if I’ll never get it out. The
room is too weighted with her name, the walls pressing in.
The don’s lips split with a sinister smile. He’s gotten what
he wants from me. “I have a job,” he says vaguely. “Rumors
suggest you’re not just an orphan pissing in the streets
anymore, that you’ve made a name for yourself.”
My shoulders bunch taut, hands fisted beneath the table at
his use of orphan. I immediately flex my fingers to release the
tension. He’s testing me, plucking at a sensitive nerve to get a
reaction.
I hold his stare. “What’s the job?”
His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, like a snake sensing
its prey. “One of my competitors needs to be taken down a few
pegs, reminded of who he’s fucking with. Then, we can agree
on the matter of bringing you into the fold with our Violetta.”
I press my lips together, knowing there will be nothing
easy about this job.
 But I’ve made my choice. I’ll do what needs to be done.
“Give me the details.”

Nora props her hands on her wide hips as she overlooks the
spread of Irish dishes on the dining table. “I went to a lot of
trouble to prepare this meal.”
I straighten my black tie, trying to ignore the thick ache
building in my throat and the anger fizzing beneath my skin.
“Thelma went through a lot of trouble,” I correct her. “You’re
not a cook.”
She bristles at my accusatory tone. “I organized
everything, Lucian. I made sure all your favorites were
prepared.”
“I didn’t ask this of you,” I say to her, my tone final.
“Mo mhac.” She frowns. “We must celebrate our
customs.”
“These customs died with my family. Throw mine out.”
Heavy green eyes assess me with pity, but she doesn’t try
to convince me further. “Well, more for us, then.” She nods to
Christoff and Levi. “Tell that other one with the girl to bring
her down for dinner.”
My spine stiffens. “She’s eating dinner in her room
tonight.”
A beat of silence, then: “Of course. I’ll send it up to her.”
“No need.” I grab a plate from the table and fill it with a
scoop of each dish.
Her eyes narrow curiously, but she doesn’t press the
matter. She snaps her fingers at Christoff and Levi. “Boys,
eat.”
They look at me for directive, and I nod once. They move
to the table and fill their plates.
 Better they’re occupied. Ever since the night of the
masquerade, Violet has been trying to either tempt me or try
me. Traipsing around in tiny shorts and bralettes—as she calls
them—in front of me and my men. I about used my knife to
carve Christoff’s eyes out yesterday when I found him
watching her doing yoga in the garden room.
That was met with a deliberate threat to all my men to
keep their eyes, and especially their fucking hands, off her.
Tonight, I’m making the rule crystal clear to her for how
the fiancé of a mobster is to behave.
I climb the stairs two at a time, restlessness coursing my
bloodstream. When I reach her door, I send Mannix away with
a hard tic of my chin. I don’t knock as I enter to find her
reading on the window nook.
She acknowledges me with a lazy glance my way before
focusing on her book again. Fury sinks its jagged teeth into my
nerves at her dismissal, and at her obvious lack of fear.
It’s because of what fucking transpired in the shower. She
believes she unearthed some weakness, some vulnerability in
me, and she thinks if she keeps pulling at the seams, I’ll
unravel. And beneath will be her Prince Charming. A docile
creature buried under pain and heartache just waiting to be
fixed.
There’s no Charming here. If she keeps pushing and
tempting me, she’ll find the beast willing and waiting.
I set the plate on the oak dresser.
“Nora usually delivers my meals,” she says, flips a page.
I roll my head to the side, stretching my neck to work out
the tension. Then I walk toward the open sitting area and
glance around the space. “We never did discuss the matter of
your punishment,” I say, lifting the corner of a blanket that’s
been suspiciously draped over an end table.
From my peripheral, I see the book lower to her lap. “Wait
—”
 Beneath the blanket is Nora’s radio from the dance hall,
the very one I told her not to use. There or anywhere else.
I toss the blanket aside and turn her way. “Or did you think
I forgot?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
She pushes her long dark hair over one shoulder,
annoyingly distracting. “I knew you didn’t forget.”
“Did you forget that I forbade you to dance?”
Getting to her feet, she faces me with clenched features.
“Forbade? You forbade me? This isn’t the eighteenth century,
and you’re not my papà.”
A crooked grin tips my mouth. I approach her slowly. “No,
I’m not your papà.” Her sweet scent pervades my senses,
causing a riot to my nervous system. “You can disobey your
father. You cannot disobey me.”
My gaze drops to her neck, to where her pulse point
flutters wildly. The bruises from my bites mark her skin, and
the urge to sink my teeth into her gnashes at my sanity.
“I’m just listening to innocent music,” she says, her voice
so low and gentle, trying to assuage me.
Unable to keep from touching her, I pinch a loose ringlet
of her hair between my fingers. “And your wardrobe—” my
eyes drag over her tiny tank top and shorts “—are those just
innocent clothes?”
Conviction crosses her delicate features. “I thought it
might be the only way to keep you from ripping my shirts off.”
A flame curls beneath my skin, the dare in her words a
summons to the monster.
Releasing her hair, I move in closer and lower my mouth
to her ear. “Careful, cailín beag. Temp the devil, and you get
the horns.”
As I pull away, recognition flickers in her amber eyes, the
wine cellar not that distant a memory.
“You need to dress appropriately in front of my men,” I tell
her. “Unless you enjoy blood and carnage, then by all means,
traipse around half naked.”
Her chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, her eyes
blazing. “Why do you care what I dress like in front of
anyone?”
“Because, according to that contract, you’re mine,” I say,
matter of fact. “Your body belongs to me. No one has the right
to it.” I turn toward the radio. “Men have lost body parts for
simply looking too long at another man’s property.”
“Unbelievable,” she mutters. “Made men and their
possessiveness. This engagement is a total farce. You just
don’t want your ego challenged.”
Her icy words are a cold draft to smother the flame. In
essence, her claim is true. Any man who dares to touch what
belongs to me, dares to have his balls removed. Painfully. It’s
the way of life; to prevent anyone from putting a bullet in my
head to take what I’ve built.
But there’s some niggling grain wedged between mobster
bravado that rubs abrasively against me, scratching away at
the surface to bare another truth.
Disregarding the irritation, I depress the button on the
radio. Soft piano notes float through the room, the stroke of
light fingers over my heated skin.
Keeping my back to her, I let the music play, visualizing
her dancing here in this room at night, her body elegant and
seductive, challenging me in her own defiant way.
Tension thickens the air the longer I remain silent. A
crackling awareness of her imminent punishment infuses the
atmosphere.
She’s the one to break the silence. “Nothing could be more
torturous than this,” she mutters.
As I turn to confront her, my features draw together in
confusion. “Explain.”
“I’m sick of literally dancing around you,” she says,
crossing her arms over her breasts. “I’d rather you do whatever
you came here to do, rip the Band-Aid off, or…” She trails off,
losing her nerve. “Stop making threats. If we’re going to say
something to each other, then it should be something
profound.”
“Something profound…”
“Otherwise, we’re just wasting time, and time is finite,
Lucian.”
A low chuckle works free, I can’t help it. She draws back
suddenly, as if the sound startles her. “You talk like you’re so
old, like you’re running out of time.”
She lifts her chin, soft hair spilling over her bare shoulders
and tightening my chest. “I don’t care if I’m nineteen or
ninety. I don’t want to waste one second of my life.”
“Hmm.” I make a noise of comprehension. “That’s
because you believe you’ve discovered your passion in life.”
A brief glance at her bare feet reveals her thoughts. She
meets my eyes. “I have. I’ve known since the first day I started
dancing.”
I start toward her, stopping a short distance away, where
my lungs burn with her sweet scent. “You want to hear
something real?” At her hesitant nod, I say, “Feeling you
shiver beneath my touch in the wine cellar suggests you
haven’t discovered even a drop of real passion.”
She tries to hold my gaze, but she wavers, the hard drag
along the column of her throat spiking my blood like bourbon.
When she lowers her eyes to the floor, I release a derisive
breath.
“Nothing profound to say to that?”
“I suppose you’ll teach me all about that then,” she says,
finding the courage to look at me again. Those lethal amber
eyes spear me, a blade tipped in temptation, so sharp my body
craves to show her right now.
“I’m no one’s teacher, little girl.”
“As that disturbingly lacking shower incident proved.”
 “Careful,” I warn, eating the shred of distance between us,
“a made man also can’t ignore a challenge.”
My gaze drifts down to her chest, to the tight little top
stretched across her breasts and the outline of her hard nipples.
As I roam up to make eye contact, my mouth slants into a
knowing smirk.
She licks her lips, drawing me into her web, pulling at that
tethered thread between us. “You’re not just a madman,” she
says. “You’re sadistic.”
“And you’re toeing a line.”
A vein of caution cracks her resolve. “You want to torture
me, to punish me. You want me to suffer because my family
caused you suffering. And somehow, you expect me to sit here
and take it.”
I scrub a hand over my mouth, jaw clenched. “What other
profound things has your brain been thinking?” I urge her on.
“You want to kill my father.”
My eyebrows wing up at her bluntness. “No.”
“You want to murder my uncle, the don.”
I return her honesty. “Yes.”
Her breathing hitches. “No matter what they’ve done, I
can’t be a part of ending my family—but what if there’s
another way for you to have your revenge without murdering
them or marrying me?”
“I’d say you’re trying to bargain with the devil.” I clasp
her wrist, drawing her forward. “And the bargainer usually
loses.”
“Let me go.”
“I can’t do that, cailín beag, you begged to be punished.”
The dark notes of the piano twine around us, and I grip her
waist. “You can’t deny your one true passion, so I won’t let
you.”
I sway her body to the sultry rhythm, feeling her pulse
quicken against my palm.
 “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to show me how passionate you are,” I say,
twirling her out of my embrace. “I refuse to be considered
lacking in my charitable ways.”
I seat myself on the cushioned bench and rest my elbows
to knees, my stare fixed on her. Those tiny shorts a dare, her
sexy bare skin a taunt. Just standing there as she is, she
provokes me.
“I should put on something more appropriate,” she says.
“I’ll tear it off.”
Her chest rises, a defiant blaze flaring her eyes. “Do you
demand en pointe?”
What a loaded question. What I want to demand of her
goes against every cell in my blood. “You’re procrastinating.”
After a long beat, where she closes her eyes to shut out the
world and distractions, she pulls her leg up in a graceful pose
as she extends her arm above head. I watch as she transitions
between poses, her body lithe and graceful, and it’s an
immediate balm to my scorched nerves.
Her hair whips her arms as she twirls, her body a soft, hazy
blur, and I’m transfixed. Drawn into her orbit, her gravity its
own force. As she arches and bends, stretching her delicate
body, a maddening desire sweeps through me. Something so
dark and depraved thrums in my veins, the need to touch and
contort her in my own debased way.
The music comes to an end, and her movements halt. She
stares at me through a tangled mess of hair. She’s fire and ice
and fierce beauty.
And still I want more.
I reach over and start the track again. Then I stand, swiftly
rolling my sleeves up as I approach her. I stop inches away,
stare down into her glistening face, and snatch her neck,
collaring her with my fingers.
“All your talk about passion,” I say, voice seething, “and
yet this is what you give me. Some rehearsed bullshit that
wouldn’t inspire a bum on the side of the road.”
She trembles in my hold, from fear or anger, I’m not sure,
but it whets the monster’s appetite, and I can barely refrain
from taking her lips with my own.
“Show me your passion,” I command. “I want to taste that
inexplicable thing you claim you can’t live without. Make me
believe it, cailín beag, or else I will rain down a passionate
punishment that, I promise, you’ll pray you don’t survive.”
I release her roughly, allowing her to break away, and she
stumbles back from me.
As I ease onto the cushion, I stretch my neck, working out
the strained muscles. “Again.”
Breaths sawing her lungs, she straightens into position.
“No routine,” I order.
She lowers her hand. There’s a charged moment where our
eyes connect, where the slightest tip of my lips reveals my
pleasure at her distress, and her inability to fight back curls her
fingers toward her palm.
My damn cock is rock-hard and aching, and I almost grab
it through my slacks just to ease the pressure. Her suffering is
a potent aphrodisiac coursing my blood and making me
delirious with need.
If she survives tonight, I might not.
With renewed strength, she lifts her chin and bends at the
waist. Circling the air twice, her movements are much more
raw, intense. She rotates and swivels her hips erotically,
touching her body in lewd, sensual ways.
My jaw tightens, my back teeth clenched so hard I’m sure
they’ll crack.
She makes the soft notes of the piano her own, adapting
the tempo to her sultry rhythm, possessing the sound to infuse
the air with carnal sex and power.
It’s almost vulgar, her bold and rebellious moves that are
pure, indulgent titillation. And the dance would be declared
vulgar to any of her instructors, I’m sure—but this is all for
me, and I’m almost coming out of my skin.
The notes fade out, leaving her on her knees and panting
from exertion.
I run my hand over my mouth, knowing now it will never
be enough. I’m a masochist who is close to begging her to
keep making me suffer.
“Again.”
She blinks me into her vision, her features stressed.
“What? Was that not fucking passionate enough for you?”
The way the crude word rolls off her little tongue, so
inviting, spikes my blood like a drug. “I’ll say when it’s
enough.” I hit the Play button, and the song starts over. I put it
on Repeat.
Getting to her feet, she looks almost defeated, but I know
better. The memory of her in the shower—those suggestive
moans; the feel of her soaking wet against my fingers—there’s
a dark creature lurking, clawing at her to escape, and I want to
provoke it.
As she begins to move, I ease back into the seat, becoming
comfortable.
We do this routine for hours.
Every time the music stops and immediately starts again,
she doesn’t ask; she shifts effortlessly into a new dance, each
time changing it up. Sometimes it’s slow and sensual. Other
times it’s fast and angry. But every time is a new dance she
creates for me.
Her skin is slick with sweat, her hair drenched, and I
envision her trembling with her release beneath me—the line
between torture and pleasure a thin veil. Her muscles are weak
and body depleted, and when she tries to maintain a pose, she
falls to her knees.
She’s been able to pick herself up each time, until now.
I lean forward, hand shielding my mouth.
 I’ve come undone over and over, and if I have to carry her,
I fear I won’t be able to stop myself from taking her at her
weakest.
“Get up,” I order.
Hands planted against the marble floor, she drags in
breaths. “I can’t.”
She tries to crawl, and I stand to meet her halfway. She
collapses to the floor, limbs splayed around her, a fallen angel
at my feet.
I release a fervent curse, my control already stretched razor
thin. I lower to my haunches and peer down at her blotchy
face. Even in her worst state, she’s the most beautiful fucking
thing I’ve ever seen, a mocking temptation created just for me.
With a resigned groan, I ignore the painful erection
confined by my briefs, and drape her limp arm around my
neck. Her skin is flushed, hot to the touch. I cradle her slim
body against my chest and rise to my feet.
She makes a sound of discontent as I carry her to the bed.
But like a glutton, I stand in front of the mattress for longer
than necessary, savoring the feel of her body pressed to mine,
before I lay her on the feather duvet.
I walk to the bathroom and fill a glass with tap water.
When I return to the room, the air is punched from my lungs.
The sight of her on the bed stirs every carnal desire.
I am not merciful. I could just as easily strangle her in that
bed as I could fuck her, and the need to indulge both coaxes
me to the edge, where I clasp the back of her neck and draw
her limp body toward me.
Eyes heavy, her lids flutter open, her mouth parts. My
enemy is all but defeated and I could crush her windpipe and
end my torment.
“Tá éad orm an cupán seo chun do liopaí a bhlaiseadh.” I
envy this cup for tasting your lips.
I’m not sure if I think it or say it aloud as I raise the glass
to her mouth. “Drink.”
 She coughs, but soon swallows the water.
I set the glass down and let her fall back to the bed, my
gaze never straying from her face as I drive a hand through my
hair, my nerves effectively rattled.
I’ll see you tomorrow night, cailín beag.
13
FLOWERS & BULLETS
VIOLET

N ights bleed together like a Monet replica painted

in blood.
Art and pain.
Passion and provocation.
My life splashed with the darkest oil paints. The colors of
bruises. The shades of dangerous tattoos. The discoloration of
desire.
Marks. Welts. Broken skin.
Crosses. Skulls. Bones.
Lucian lords over my room like a sentry, my jailer with the
taunt of a key just out of reach.
At first, I spent the hours until he came to my room
dreading the night. Every evening, like clockwork, he’d rap on
the door and enter. Sit on the bench seat. Command me to
dance.
And I would. I’d liberate my mind before I moved to the
music, improving, every step spontaneous and fueled by my
passion alone. I believed if I proved myself, showed him how
committed I was to my talent, that I refused to let him break
me, then I’d eventually win.
But what is the reward?
Attending the dance company? Am I even still enrolled?
Could I even return to that life after everything?
My freedom? A way out of this forced marriage? The
thought of leaving and never seeing Lucian again, for some
inexplicable reason, makes me feel ill. He’s burrowed beneath
my skin in a way that feels like cancer.
Toxic. Hazardous. Consuming.
I know the dangers, the risks, but like forcing yourself to
swallow medicine that will make you sicker before the healing
begins, I’ve already let his darkness inside—and I need the
cure.
If I’m ever to escape this dark time loop, I need the
question of us answered.
As the weeks passed, dread turned into some form of
Stockholm syndrome where, when he didn’t knock on my
door at precisely ten o’clock, I feared he wouldn’t come at all.
I’ve become this twisted version of myself. The feelings
I’m experiencing, the desire his cruel gaze on my body evokes
as I dance, it’s as perverse and dangerous as the Cosa Nostra.
And I don’t belong to that world, yet some warped part of
my psyche craves a taste—just one hit to sate the curiosity—
and then I’ll know forever.
Like a bad cold, I can flush Lucian Cross out of my system
and walk away.
Since the night he fed me water and left me half dead in
my room, he hasn’t lain a hand on me.
He watches me dance with violence flaring behind his blue
eyes and muscles strained in anticipation for retribution, but he
doesn’t approach me. He doesn’t look at me longer than the
time needed to acknowledge my presence in his home. It’s like
I only exist in the moments where he desires my pain—every
other second of the day and night I’m in limbo.
I’m there to reap punishment on my family’s behalf, until
the moment whatever sordid scheme he has is realized.
More than worry for my family, I’m scared for myself. The
more he ignores me, refuses to touch me, speak to me, look at
me, the more I yearn for him to do all those things and more.
This madness has to stop.
The clinking of silverware striking glass disrupts my
morbid thoughts, and I look to my Uncle Carlos as he rises
from his seat at the head of the table.
The engagement party is taking place in my family-owned
Italian restaurant. I suppose it’s considered impartial, whereas
holding it at Lucian’s mansion or my father’s home wouldn’t
be. Cousins I haven’t spoken to in years are in attendance,
along with my father and Marcus, who I was tempted to hug
but offered a smile of relief to my old bodyguard.
Lucian is seated across from me, and he’s an expert at
avoiding eye contact.
My papà did try to prepare me for the dinner. When we
first arrived, he pulled me aside and whispered in my ear:
“You will learn to accept your life, figlia mia.”
There was other things said, about how my mother would
want me to put on a smile, act the part, do right by the family.
Neither my mother nor Fabian would approve of what’s
happening here tonight. I’m not sure if either of them could’ve
prevented it, but I do know they wouldn’t expect me to
swallow it with a fucking smile.
I simply returned my father’s assertions with a neutral
expression before I asked him the one burning question I’ve
had for him since the night he left me in another man’s home:
“What else does Lucian have over you, Papà?”
His furious denial only made me more disappointed, and I
left him to take my place at the table.
As I sit here amid my family, champagne glass raised in
toast to Uncle Carlos’s practiced bullshit speech, I’ve never
felt more alone. It’s a bone-deep ache that makes me realize
why I filled my days with ballet and arduous routine.
Physical pain is tolerable. Emotional pain is a soul-weary
disease that decimates wholly.
If you don’t stop long enough to feel the pain, then you can
fake a life of contentment.
“To il mio bellissimo nipote,” Uncle Carlos toasts me.
“And to the new alliance we welcome as family. Solute!”
I let the champagne slide down my throat and snag another
glass from a passing waiter. As I tip the glass to my lips, I feel
the burn of Lucian’s glare on my face. I peek over the rim,
then down the whole flute.
 As I lower the glass to the table, his eyes narrow on me,
jaw clenched. My lips quirk in a smile as I finally found a way
to get his attention, good or bad. Seems I can still smile
tonight after all.
I hold up a finger to request another glass of champagne,
and Lucian’s hand clasps mine on the table. “I think you’ve
had enough. Eat something.”
I feel as if every pair of judgmental eyes around the table
can see right through me, how weak I’ve become, how hard
I’ve fallen for the enemy. And I decide to stand my ground.
“I’m thirsty,” I whisper loudly to him as I accept another
flute. His jaw tics, hand tightening around mine, his steely
eyes menacing. “Which I’m sure means a punishment in my
near future, but this is so good…” I take a sip. “Mmm. Worth
it.”
I’m pushing him. I’m behaving like a child, the very thing
he first accused me of—but having his attention, even if it’s
directed with fury and heat, is better than the cold, silent
emptiness.
“Have it your way tonight, cailín beag,” he says, the
implication that he’ll have his way soon very clear. He draws
his hand back to his side of the table and takes a generous sip
of bourbon, that penetrating gaze never straying from my face,
making me feel flush from his threat.
The champagne fizzes in my veins. I’m not sure what my
goal is, but I’m determined to get a rise out of him, and it’s all
because of the five seconds he lowered his guard—only once
—letting me glimpse the man beneath the monster.
There’s some part of me—most likely a naïve part—that
wants to believe I can make him resurface again.
My cousin Cira says something, and I turn her way. “What
was that?”
“Oh,” she says with a laugh. “I was just saying, I can’t
believe the wedding is only a couple weeks away. Is
everything planned? Do you need any help?”
Her comment drags me back to the reality of the situation.
 This isn’t a game. After we’re married, bad things are
going to happen to my family. My father knows this fact, and
I’m expected to keep his secret to protect him.
But who will protect me?
My head suddenly feels dizzy, and I set the champagne
flute down. “Thanks, Cira. But I think it’s all taken care of.” I
excuse myself as I stand. “I need to use the restroom.”
I ignore Lucian’s severe glare as I maneuver toward the
back of the restaurant. After I’m finished relieving myself, I
wash my hands, letting the cool water drain some of the
mounting heat from my skin.
When I push through the ladies’ room door, Mannix is
waiting for me in the narrow hallway. He turns questioning
eyes on me.
I hold up a hand. “I’m fine. Just…drank too much.”
“So I noticed,” he remarks.
I cock a hand on my hip. “Is every man here in charge of
my alcohol consumption?”
A slight smile rims his otherwise stoic face.
I arch an eyebrow. “Is that a smile, Mannix? Are you
feeling all right?”
He coughs to clear his throat, disguising any revealing
facial expressions. “You should return to the table.”
Stepping aside to let a woman pass, I glance toward the
table. “I really don’t want to,” I say absently. Then I realize
how close I am to Mannix, how I stepped right up against him.
And I notice how tense he is—because suddenly Lucian’s fiery
gaze is aimed right on us.
Bolstered, I make a show of placing my hand on my
bodyguard’s chest and laugh audibly, as if he’s said something
funny. A very flighty and stupid thing to do, but with my head
buzzing and Lucian’s full attention finally captured, something
devious and spiteful takes over.
 Mannix circles his large, inked hand around my wrist and
forcibly pushes me back. “Shite. You’re going to get me
killed.”
I look at him, understanding alighting in my foggy brain
too late as I feel Lucian’s heated presence beside me.
“Leave.” Lucian’s one-word command is a near growl at
his soldier.
Obediently, Mannix complies without a sound,
disappearing through the back exit door.
The very real situation of Lucian and I standing in this
little hallway settles over me. It’s just me and him and his
wrath crowding the tight space.
“Excuse me,” I say as I try to step around him.
He grasps my waist possessively, preventing me from
going anywhere. Drawing me close to his side, he whispers,
“You think it’s smart to openly flirt with my men?”
I notch my chin higher despite my flushed cheeks,
watching him from my peripheral. “What’s wrong? Don’t you
trust your men?”
“With my life,” he says. “But I would put a bullet in my
most trusted man’s head for touching you.”
The smolder in his blue eyes steals my breath. I believe
him.
Lucian tows me toward a more private corner.
“What are you doing?”
“Since it’s obvious you want my undivided attention,” he
says, pressing my back to a cool wall once we’re alone. “I’m
giving it to you.”
He says it like a promised threat. And when he reaches
toward an accent table and steals a purple flower from the
silver vase, I wonder how he’ll use it to punish me.
I yank my arm free and turn it over. “Going to slap my
wrist?”
 The clear blue of his eyes is arctic as he looms over me.
My blood chills. “Tempting,” he says, then reaches behind his
back and lifts his jacket to produce his gun.
Icy adrenaline rushes my veins, and I’m suddenly very
sober.
He places both the flower and the gun between us. “Get a
good look at both.” He drops his mouth next to my ear. “The
flower is for you, and the gun for Mannix. One of you is
getting punished for your behavior tonight.” He straightens
and pushes both hands behind his back. “Choose a hand.”
The scent of Italian herbs and garlic wafting from the
kitchen assaults my stomach, making me queasy. “No, I won’t
choose.”
“Make your choice, cailín beag, or I will choose for you.”
I shake my head. With an impatient groan, he says, “I
probably won’t kill him. Just wound a limb. Feel better?”
“You’re the devil.”
“And you’re the one who likes to fuck with him.”
I swallow down my nerves and point to his right arm.
Refusing to look and confirm I’ve inadvertently put a bullet in
a man, I seal my eyes shut, skull pressed hard to the wall.
The crush of Lucian’s body heat suffocates my space, the
sensory deprivation wreaks havoc on my imagination, sending
my pulse rioting. Then the soft caress of a flower petal to the
tip of my nose startles me.
I breathe in the sweet scent of the iris as flames engulf me.
Relief is a brief reprieve, having spared Mannix, until Lucian
is pulling me into the adjacent bathroom.
He flips the lock on the door before he backs me against
the counter, his eyes wild. “Take off your panties,” he orders.
A defiant spark within me wants to refute him—but
another deeper, forbidden craving has me lifting the hem of
my dress and slipping my black thongs down my thighs. I hold
them out and, as he stalks toward me, he rips them from my
hand and shoves them in his pocket.
 Lucian sweeps the flower across my jawline, tenderly
working his way down my throat. His cruel stare conflicts the
tantalizing feel of the silky petals caressing my skin, and I
hold his burning gaze, my thighs squeezed together to offset
the building ache. When he reaches the curve of my breast, he
removes the flower. In one brutal move, he hooks his fingers
beneath the spaghetti straps and forces the top of my dress
down around my waist, exposing my breasts.
My nipples tighten under his intense scrutiny, my
breathing erratic. “This is my punishment?” I ask, unable to
control the tremble in my voice.
He doesn’t offer a response. Instead, the smooth petals
make contact with my breast as he drags the flower lightly
over my nipple. I bite down on my lip, refraining from giving
him any of my moans or whimpers.
He clasps the back of my neck, tilting my face up toward
his. His mouth hovers so close to mine, a dare, a challenge. I
release my lip, and his gaze traps that action, a predator
sensing its prey.
I have no idea what it would feel like to be kissed by
Lucian, but I believe it would devastate me.
I’m the one to turn my head to the side, and that gives him
access to my neck. He tightens his hand around my nape. “So
brave with your family close by,” he says, “but you’re mine. I
can break you before you have a chance to scream.”
His teeth sink into my earlobe, eliciting a pained cry from
my mouth. He tosses the flower to the floor and muffles the
sound with his hand. Releasing my neck, he drives his other
hand beneath my dress and pulls my knee up, draping it over
his thigh, then his fingers are touching me.
Hard. Demanding. Raw.
He swirls the pads of his fingers around my entrance, and I
can feel how wet I am.
An unrestrained groan rumbles from the back of his throat.
He says something harsh in Irish, then drops his head to my
chest and sucks my nipple into his hot mouth.
 Fire sears my flesh, an electric web of adrenaline and lust
sparks every nerve ending. I latch onto his arms for support,
nails digging into his suit. His hand still covers my mouth,
forcing me to swallow my moans as he dips a finger inside me.
He doesn’t plunge all the way; his middle finger finds the
swollen, achy core of me and rubs mercilessly while his thumb
works my clit. Stimulation is a live wire coursing charged
pulses through my blood, sparking and threatening to combust.
He releases my nipple long enough to say, “This wet pussy
is mine,” before his mouth devours my neck. “I ever catch you
soaking your panties over one of my guys, he’s a dead man.”
I can only shake my head against his hold in answer.
The abrasive friction of his blazer against my nipples sends
me careening toward the edge. I arch into him, desperate for
his finger to push deeper.
It’s the most lewd and exposed I’ve ever been, my body at
his complete mercy.
“That’s it,” he urges, breath hot against my flesh, “break
for me, cailín beag. I want you to fucking shatter.”
His words are full of disdain and loathing, but also
something else—some other frenzied emotion I can feel
cording his whole body. I’m being punished…but I’m not sure
he’s punishing me for what he claims anymore, like he’s
punishing me for something else entirely now.
All thoughts cease as he sinks another finger inside my
channel. My hands go to his hair, fingers clenching as my
whole body tightens around him. He brings me right there, his
fingers fucking me rhythmically, his thumb caressing my clit.
God, I’m so close, I feel my inner walls contract around him,
trying to force him deeper.
“I should bend you over this counter and fuck your tight
little ass until you bleed—”
With a violent curse, he withdrawals his fingers and
forcefully pushes away from my heaving body.
 The sudden rush of chilly air hitting my skin is a cold
smack to my senses. My mouth feels raw and abraded from
where he held back my cries. My thighs are wet, my core
throbbing with a painful, needy ache.
He’s breathing hard, those blue flames licking a fiery trail
over me as he gains control of himself. Then, with measured
composure, he brings his fingers to his mouth and tastes me.
He uses my panties to wipe his fingers clean before stuffing
them back into his pocket.
He straightens his tie, a cocky smile curving his mouth.
“You taste divine,” he says, reaching for the door lock. “Like
my sweet little revenge. Fix yourself up before you return to
your family.”
He exits the bathroom, leaving me reeling, unhinged.
Pantyless.
Lucian Cross is the damn devil.
14
LIGHTNING & CRASH
LUCIAN

A thunderstorm rages outside the walls of my home,

but it hardly competes with the storm thrashing
inside my own body.
When you taste the sweetest sin for the first time, it’s like
mainlining heroin straight into your vein.
Instant addiction.
The life you lived before is a dull, bleak wasteland.
Nothing fills you. Everything has lost taste. There is only a
ravenous hunger.
The craving will intensify until the need drives you mad.
I was only given the smallest taste of Violet. Like taunting
an open flame with gasoline, the fire consumed me. And now
I’m a man obsessed.
For the past week, I’ve stalked the corridors of my home,
purposely avoiding her hallway, as I attempted to expend
restless energy. I’ve swam laps in the pool, and taken on more
jobs. The bloodier, the better. All trying to kill the whispering
demons inside my head.
We’re less than a week away from the wedding, and my
focus should be on establishing the alliance so I can begin my
revenge.
Instead, she occupies every one of my five senses. All I
can see is her beautiful, angelic face, the way her features
tensed between agony and pleasure. All I can feel is her, the
way her delicate body clung to me as I pushed inside her. All I
can hear is her, that fucking little voice that whispers of
temptation. All I can taste is her…her breath so close to my
mouth, all I have to do is drag my tongue over my lips.
Her scent of lavender and honeysuckle—the sweet note I
could never identify until now—is all around me, tormenting
me. Thickening the air until I choke.
 I pour another splash of bourbon, an uttered curse falling
from my mouth, as I’m once again in my study, trying to
prevent myself from kicking in her door.
Violet’s behavior at the engagement dinner was
deliberately provoking. For whatever reason, whether it was
alcohol induced or spite, she wanted a rise out of me. She
deserved her punishment. But the sick twist is the brutal
punishment I doled on myself.
Now, I’m consumed, my thoughts taken over by a frenzied
bloodlust that demands I sink my cock into her.
The closer the wedding gets, the more I fear she won’t
survive the wedding night. If she keeps provoking me, she
might be bedding a monster instead of a man.
Hell, maybe fucking Violet Carpella to death would end
my misery.
Her family would bring a war to my doorstep, and it would
all end in one giant bloodbath.
A hate so vile and depraved incinerates my veins, I throw
the crystal tumbler at the wall. The satisfying smash of
shattering glass soothes the burn.
The distinct pad of footsteps comes from outside my
office, and I know instantly who it is by the quick, unsure
tread.
As the crack of thunder sounds, I storm into the hallway
and grab her arm before she can sneak away. “What are you
doing here?”
Eyes wide and mouth pinched in fury, she yanks out of my
hold. “I’m a captive here,” she retorts. “Remember?”
I wipe my hand over my mouth, begging the saints for
calm. She’s wearing a short, thin nightgown that is torturously
transparent, and I damn near hear my teeth crack from the
gritted pressure.
With more control than I fear I can possess for long, I turn
my back to her and start toward the study. “Go to bed.”
“Are you ill?”
 Her odd question stalls me. I drive a hand through my hair
as I face her. “What?”
“You must be ill,” she says. “Did my family give you food
poisoning or something? What else would keep the cruel,
monstrous Lucian Cross from torturing his mortal enemy?”
A lethal sigh expels through clenched teeth as I reach for
composure. Since I’ve been avoiding Violet for her and my
own good, I haven’t demanded she dance for me at night. I
figured she’d bask in the reprieve. “Your games are tiring. Go
to fucking bed.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, only serving to
amplify her breasts through the gown. The memory of her
tender little nipple playing over my tongue surfaces, and I
grow rock-hard, my dick pushing painfully to escape my
slacks.
Her soft lips pucker into a trembling pout. “I can’t,” she
says.
Curious interest coaxes my next step toward her. “You
can’t,” I say, drawing closer, “or you refuse?”
She bites her lip, and my cock jumps at the seductive sight.
As I close in on her, I straighten my back, towering over her
with my full height, my gaze aimed down on her lithe body.
She tucks her hair behind her ear and turns her head to
look away, but I clasp her jaw, forcing her eyes on me.
Inhaling a sharp breath, she says, “I hate myself for
wanting you.”
Her admission fires through me like a bullet, hellbent on
destruction.
I sweep my thumb over her delicate jawline, a dark
urgency thrumming through my pulse. I could take her just
like this. I could have her…fuck her raw and hard…and satisfy
the craving. I could even break her, and the way she’s looking
up at me, drowning in her desire, she’d probably beg me to do
it.
 My hand slips to her throat, collaring her slender neck with
only one hand, the demand urging me to snuff her out before
she ruins me.
Because, as much as she may think she hates me, it’s
nothing compared to my hatred for her.
I hate her for being a Carpella. I hate her for being so
fucking beautiful. I hate her for making me want to bury my
cock inside her. I hate her for looking at me now with those
teary eyes, pleading for me to love her.
And most of all, I hate her for stealing the fury of my
vengeance.
I swallow hard. “Take off your panties,” I say, repeating
the same command I issued to her in the bathroom of her
family’s restaurant.
She licks her lips. “I’m not wearing any.”
The muscles in my back lock taut, every sinew and tendon
strained as I refrain from tightening my hold around her throat.
Despite the clear threat of me strangling her, she reaches a
trembling hand up and pushes the strap of her nightgown off
her shoulder.
“Fuck,” I seethe the curse. Releasing her throat, I take a
forceful step back. “Put your fucking clothes on.”
Rejection simmers in her shadowed eyes as she tugs the
strap back into place. “Tell me what my family did to you,”
she demands.
I whirl around, hands fisted. “That doesn’t concern you.”
A mocking laugh springs from her mouth. “Obviously it
does, seeing as I’m here, being punished for it.” Her ire dies as
quickly as it rose. “Lucian, I know there’s more to this. Those
scars tell a horrifying story, and my family is at the root. I
deserve to know everything.”
I want to laugh, but the truth is too sinister. “So you see me
as horrifying? That’s flattering.”
 My sarcasm doesn’t derail her. She saunters toward me
and, when she’s so close I can taste her lavender scent, she
clasps the collar of my shirt. Wind howls beneath each rumble
of thunder, the storm harboring us beneath its fury. Keeping
her eyes cast up at me, mouth slightly parted, she works open
the buttons along the placket. I let her slip her hands beneath
the shirt, and hesitantly but with purpose, she tenderly caresses
her palms over my skin, pushing the shirt open and feeling the
scar that crosses my chest.
“Who did this to you?” she asks.
I’m acutely aware of her warm hands and my labored
breathing. Her touch lowers my defenses. “A man who’s dead
now.” But that’s only the partial truth. A Carpella enforcer
inflicted the wound, branding me a Cross and shaming my
name. But it was done at the command of Carlos Carpella.
After they invaded our family home and shot my brother, I
was beaten and tortured to near death but spared, left with a
warning.
“And the tattoo?” she presses, her finger tracing the
intricate details of the blackwork. The cross is formed out of a
blade dipped in blood. “Is it to hide the scar?”
“No,” I tell her honestly. “The ink takes away their power,
what they attempted to steal. It’s my vow to take back what’s
mine.”
That’s all the truth she’ll extract from me tonight. I place
my hand over one of hers and remove her invasive touch.
Then I slip a finger beneath the strap of her nightgown and tug
it aside, revealing the little inked sparrow. My action
demanding tit for tat.
She nods lightly, her gaze dropping to the floor. I hook my
finger under her chin to bring her eyes back on me.
“For me, the sparrow represents creativity and strength,”
she says. “Finding ways to live a creative life amid the
darkness, to change this life for the best. When my twin
brother died, I thought I wouldn’t survive this world. So I got
the tattoo as a reminder of him, of his talent, of what was taken
from this world and me, and to never give up. Every time I
take the stage, I touch the sparrow, asking for his strength to
keep trying.”
Her eyes are shimmering, teary and haunted, and so
fucking beautiful my chest might crack in two. She captures
her lip between her teeth, and the yearning to steal those lips
for myself—to feel their warmth and softness against my
mouth—becomes a maddening desire.
“Jesus,” I say, taking a step away from her and spearing
my fingers into my hair. She’s fucking with my head so hard, I
can’t think.
“What’s wrong?”
“You come down here wearing no panties with stories of
brothers and heartache, and… I’m not this man, little girl. Go
to your room, before I make you regret leaving the safety of
it.”
Thunder is a distant roar now. The heavy pour of rain pelts
the windows, filling the silence.
A forceful swallow drags along her throat, and she lifts her
chin in defiance. “I’m not as fragile as you think. And you’re
not as evil as you claim.”
I do laugh at that. With a sinister smile, I accept her
challenge. “You want to dance with the devil? I’ll give you the
very monster you seek.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Show me.”
Fucking hell. Every cell in my body wants to defile her,
right here, right now. I unsheathe the knife from my pocket,
watching her fight her fear. Walking to the mantel, I set the
knife down, so I’m not tempted, and remove my phone,
selecting a sultry beat before placing the phone beside the
knife.
Then I eat the distance between us, grabbing her hips and
pressing her slender body right up against mine. “Dance for
me, cailín beag.”
A flash of wariness flits across her features before she
begins to sway uncertainly.
 A dark smile pulls at my lips. “Show me how bad you hate
wanting me.”
Understanding alights in the depth of her amber eyes, and
she lays her hands on my chest. She swivels her hips slowly,
erotically, rubbing her body against mine. I remain still as she
finds the rhythm of the music, her hands feeling their way
along my torso as she drags her body sinfully down mine in a
seductive move meant to stir my arousal.
She turns, placing her backside to me, her ass grinding my
hard cock. My hands itch to fist her hair and bend her over, but
I ball them by my sides instead, content to feel her sexy body
working against mine.
I’ve watched her dance many times. I’ve even watched her
dance seductively. But never like this—never so close and
wanton, as if she’s making love to the music, her body a
weapon.
She wraps her strong leg around my thigh and extends
backward, bending her body in a revealing way that tightens
the thin gown across her breasts, her nipples apparent through
the sparse material. As she straightens, her hair whips my
chest, and she rocks her hips into mine, before turning and
moving around me.
Her moves are wild and reckless, unleashing lust and anger
with every sexy dip of her hips and wave of her body.
She dances like an angelic stripper, using my body like a
pole, and when she travels to my front again, her hand grazing
my hard, throbbing cock, I release a hiss through my teeth.
Every move is torturous, and some sick need in me desires her
torture—for her to rip that gown off and show me how much
pain her tight little body can inflict.
Against my will, I reach out and snatch her hair, forcing
her head back, as my other hand captures the bend of her knee.
I bring her leg up, sliding my hand along her thigh, until my
palm cups her ass.
She’s breathless, her gaze trapped in mine, as my fingers
slip along the curve of her ass to touch her pussy through the
gown.
A fierce groan escapes me at the feel of how wet she is,
practically soaking my fingers through the material. I grind my
dick against the soft give of her pussy, both of us in sync with
the heady music, temptation thick and demanding surrender.
I’ve never danced with a woman like this. Allowing her to
lead the way Violet is now, her hips undulating against me and
coaxing me to submit.
As she swivels and sways, I’m helpless to stop this from
happening. My mouth latches on to the soft juncture between
her shoulder and neck, tasting the mix of her salty and sweet
skin. My teeth bare and nip, so tempted to draw blood and sate
the carnal predator inside me roaring to devour her.
“Yes, Lucian…please…”
Fuck, part of me wants to withhold pleasure, to torment
her the way she’s tormented me since she was thrown at my
feet. But another, more dominant part wants to spread her
thighs and lick her until she’s screaming my name.
I’m the devil if I do—and I can’t ever be anything like the
vile creatures this girl shares a bloodline with.
With strength I barely possess, I pry our bodies apart and
release her. I stride over to the mantel and almost break my
phone as I kill the music app. “This isn’t ever going to be a
fairy tale,” I tell her, not able to look at her without my chest
splitting. “You’ve got this twisted, Violet.”
Silence pierces the room, dense and charged. Then: “Say
my name again.”
Damn. I wipe a hand down my face, mentally cursing
myself. Just the sultry caress of her voice forces me to
surrender. “Violet, I’m not the man you want. If you let me
have you, I will tear you apart. I will devour you, break you,
and I’ll do so like a glutton with no willpower.” Finally, I turn
to face her. “That should terrify you.”
Her lips part to say more, and I can’t allow her to dig any
deeper beneath my skin or my head. “Get the fuck out.”
15
DEVILS & ANGELS
VIOLET

H is command rocks through my body with a quake

that nearly decimates me.
My soul is shaken. Lucian may not be what I imagined my
future to look like—but now, after everything that’s changed, I
can’t imagine a future without him.
I’ve been through too much. Know too much. I can’t go
back to my world unscathed. I won’t ever be the same.
“You’re infuriating,” I say, deciding I’m not leaving here
without knowing what tomorrow will be between us. I’ve been
living in a state of limbo ever since I was taken, and that is a
far worse torture than the threat of his violence. “This isn’t
what I wanted, no…but since you made sure there is no way
out for me, holding my father’s life as ransom, then I’m
willing to…adapt.”
His laugh is callous. “Adapt? That sounds unpleasant,
cailín beag.”
“I’m not a little girl.”
So, she asked either Nora or Mannix to translate for her. I
wonder what else they’ve told her. “This is enough for one
night. If I have to order you to leave here once more, you’re
leaving with a red ass.”
His warning heats my face. I’m terrified of staying, but
also scared of letting this moment slip away. “Look at me,
Lucian.”
“Keep pushing me—”
“You’re going to be my husband in just days and you
won’t even look at me. Talk to me. Touch me…not without
making sure that touch deprives me of pleasure. When you do
happen to glance my way, it’s with disdain lacing your eyes
and a cruel, fisted hand. As if the sight of me disgusts you.”
He says nothing. The dark shadow falling over his face
hides his features. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
 “How can we get married like this? How can we—” I
swallow hard, finding my nerve. “I know you want me. And I
know you loathe my family, but you want me more.”
The blue flames of his eyes ignite, awakening a demon.
“You want passion?” he asks, incredulous. “Romance? Love?
That won’t happen. This marriage pact is a means to an end.
Nothing more.”
“But it’s a marriage pact that you mean to seal by fucking
me.”
“Consummating the marriage is the plan, yes. Fucking you
with every vile bit of hatred twisting my bones, that’s just a
reward.”
“So I’m to bow to your every wish and demand. Yet, I’m
denied the right to find someone for myself.”
He steps into the sliver of moonlight, revealing hardened
features. “You belong to me. You are mine. That ring on your
finger binds you to me, and so help me God, Violet, if you
even look at another man, I will disembowel him with my
knife while you watch.”
Pain lances my chest, his words a brutal blow, leaving no
hope. “There’s no logic at all in that statement.” I laugh
mockingly. “You want me, but not enough to forfeit your
hatred, and yet you won’t let anyone else have me. Don’t you
ever want to be with someone you love?”
A bitter laugh falls from his mouth, the sound barely
audible over the patter of rain. “Don’t be so naïve.”
“I felt how badly you want me,” I say, letting go of any
fear. “You’re scared. You’re the most fearful man I’ve ever
lain eyes on, Lucian. You think you scare me? Well, you’re
just as terrified of me.”
His aegean-blue eyes bore into me, wild and lit with
malice. “You want me to touch you?”
My breath seizes in my chest. I force a shaky, “Yes.”
There’s a heavy moment where he simply looks at me, the
air around us as charged as the atmosphere of the storm. Then,
like a flicker of lightning, he moves. He’s across the room and
has my neck in the clutch of his strong hand.
He forces me down on my knees, the cold marble floor
biting into my kneecaps. “You want to feel what it’s like to be
touched and desired by a fiend?”
I swallow against the constriction in my throat, my words
trapped. I’m eye level with the silver skull on his belt.
“I’ll show you what my love feels like.” He unfastens the
buckle and tears the leather strap free from the belt loops. He
then lowers his zipper, the sound a threat amid the still room,
making me quiver. His pants sag to expose the massively hard
bulge restrained behind his briefs, and a soaking wet heat
pools between my thighs.
He pushes the briefs down to free his cock. Rock-hard and
engorged with veins, it springs erect, the silky-smooth tip
hitting my lips. His hand threads my hair and grips, jerking my
head back so I’m forced to look up at him, his cock resting
beneath my chin.
His chest heaves, his heavy breaths filling the thin span of
air between us. “Take me in your mouth,” he commands.
The moment changed so quickly; I’m unsure of what I
want, terrified to lose myself to him, but even more frightened
not to know what I risk by not finding out. With a shaky hand,
I reach up and wrap my fingers around the base of his thick
cock. He bites off a hiss with clenched teeth, making me
pause, uncertain.
“You want my touch, cailín beag, fucking suck it,” he
orders darkly.
My breasts ache and feel weighty at his filthy words, my
nipples tight. I leverage myself on my knees, my thighs
squeezed together to offset the painful throb deep in my core.
I lick my lips, and a strangled groan escapes him as I press
my lips tenderly to the gleaming tip and suck him into the
hollow of my mouth.
I’m not experienced, and I’m sure he can tell, but I don’t
let that stop me from showing Lucian how much I want this,
how much I want him. I lick my tongue up his hard shaft, his
smooth skin gliding over my wet tongue easily. He guides my
head as he thrusts deep into my mouth.
He’s so deep, I fear I might gag, but he backs out before
plunging again as he fucks my mouth. I lean into the rhythm,
swirling my tongue over the soft head, pulling with a hard
suck when he goes deep. It’s like dancing—the most erotic,
visceral dance between lovers.
My core clenches and, despite the fear of what he might
think of me, I pull my nightgown up and reach between my
legs to touch myself.
He tears himself away, leaving me unfulfilled and achy.
Humiliation stabs my chest as he stares down at me with a mix
of shock and fury. He lowers himself and both his hands
anchor around my biceps. Then he draws me up to stand like I
weigh nothing.
“You’re going to fucking kill me,” he says. “If you want to
suck my cock, don’t touch yourself.”
I blink rapidly, trying to staunch the sharp twinge of insult,
as if I’ve done something wrong.
“I own every part of your body,” he says, as he backs me
toward the wall. “I’m the only one touching you. Say it.”
I swallow. “You’re the only one.”
My shoulder blades hit the hard surface, knocking the
breath from my lungs. He clasps a hand around the back of my
neck, his forehead pressed to mine. Our breaths merge in the
electrified current flowing between us.
His lust-filled gaze darkens as his hand snakes beneath my
nightgown. He holds me rooted in place, unable or unwilling
to move even an inch. The coarse pads of his fingers trace a
blazing trail up my thigh as he seeks the needy part of me and,
as he touches me, he utters a harsh curse.
I’m too turned on to be mortified as he rubs the wetness
around my clit.
“This is mine,” he says, his voice guttural, possessive.
 Blistering sparks fire along my skin, his fingers decimating
my sanity. I buck against his hand, my body demanding
physically what I’m too flustered to ask for verbally. As his
finger slides between my slick lips, I tremble, my nerves
wracked and ruined.
He feeds off my powerlessness, inhaling my yearning with
a deep intake of air. “Fuck.” The grating tenor of his voice is a
brutal caress as he finds my sensitive folds. “You’re wet only
for me. So fucking wet.”
I watch as he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, eyes
sealing shut as if he’s pained, his fingertips working harder to
open me up to him.
Then, without warning, he drops to his knees. He brings
my leg over his shoulder and his mouth presses to my pubis,
shocking the air in my lungs. He licks a heated path over my
slit, pausing to suck my clit into his mouth.
Desperate for support, I flatten my palms along the wall as
the needy ache rocks through my core, deeper into my lower
back. One of his hands fists my gown and bunches it up above
my pelvis, baring me completely to him.
His other hand clasps my thigh, fingers digging
mercilessly into my skin and leaving bruises in their wake as
they travel toward the neediest part of me. Lucian buries his
head between my thighs, and I gasp at the salacious feel of the
coarse stubble rubbing friction over my tender skin.
His mouth surrounds me wholly, that devilish tongue
punishing my clit with purposeful strokes. I reach for his head
to brace myself and scrape my fingers into his hair as every
erogenous zone on my body lights up.
And when his finger sinks inside me, tenuously feeling and
exploring, my muscles clench around him, begging him to fill
me completely. I’m already so close…teetering on a razor-
sharp edge of shattering.
Then suddenly, he stills. All movement stops, leaving me
so desperate for relief, a knotted pain blooms in my belly. My
eyes remain shut, my body too deprived and aroused to
summon the strength to look.
“Goddammit.”
The deep rumble of his voice snatches me from the brink.
My heart lurches and, confused, I will my gaze to find him.
Kneeling below me, Lucian thrusts another finger inside me,
but it’s not done in a sensual manner. It’s sterile, like a doctor.
I wince as he quickly removes himself. A low growl
resounds from his chest as he rises to his feet. Staring down at
me with smoldering eyes and a face chiseled in accusation, he
says, “You’re untouched.”
Confusion and pure anguish pulls heavy at my shoulders.
“What does that—?”
He slams his hand flat against the wall beside my face. I
flinch, but don’t dare lower my eyes or cower.
“You’re a virgin.” The erratic pulse in his neck flutters
against the tattoo along his neck. His jaw sets hard before he
utters another harsh curse in Irish. “And a liar.”
In a blaze of red, anger replaces my humiliation. “I’m not a
liar. I never said I was. You assumed I wasn’t.”
A cruel glint reflects in his eyes before he pushes away
from the wall and, turning his back to me, I hear the zip of his
pants. “You should have corrected me.”
The bitterness in his voice wounds. “Would you have
believed me?” Insult hedges mortification, and I lose the will
to care how weak I’m perceived. “Before, I was a Carpella
whore. Now, I’m an inexperienced virgin. Nothing pleases
you. It’s me that you loathe, not my name. You’d hate-fuck me
if not for my cherry, is that it?”
His shoulders are tense, hands fisted at his sides. “Before
tonight, nothing would’ve given me greater pleasure than
brutally tearing through your cherry and ruining you.”
His words are ruthless, but there’s a somber tone to his
voice now. It eases beneath my anger to soften my resolve. I
step close to his back and touch his arm. “Lucian, I’m not as
fragile as you think.”
“I’m not going to hurt you or defile you before the
wedding.”
It’s such a ludicrous statement, I scoff. “That’s so…
archaic.”
He moves out of my touch and whirls to face me, hand
thrusting out to clasp the back of my neck. “Trust me, little
girl. You’re too innocent and ignorant to understand what
you’re saying. I will tear through you, and I won’t stop at the
sight of your blood. I’ll lap it up and demand more.”
The memory of him standing in the arched doorway,
soaked in another man’s blood, those beautiful blue eyes
vacant and lost, covers my vision. My body racks with tremors
as I try to hold his gaze.
Finally, with teeth gritted and eyes lit with hellfire, he
releases me. I stumble backward from the force of it.
An emptiness envelops me as I watch him walk deeper
into his study.
Wrapping my arms around my body, I glance between
Lucian and the spiral staircase just outside the door. One
direction means safety.
The other could destroy me.
Out of sheer stubbornness or stupidity, I choose to follow
my heart. As I enter the back of the study, I find him reclining
in a leather chair, shattered glass near his feet. Forehead
braced by his fingers. He looks…defeated. A side of this
monstrous man I’ve never seen.
I enter the darkness of the room. What little moonlight
there is after the storm spills across the marble floor. I near
him slowly, warily, making sure he hears my approach, my
bare feet padding the floor timidly as I steer clear of the glass.
I stop before him, the hem of my sheer nightgown
fluttering close to his knees. He doesn’t look up right away. He
drops his hand and lifts his head, his gaze following to meet
mine. There’s a raw vulnerability etched around his creased
eyes that crushes me. My whole body aches for him.
With an outstretched hand, he touches the hem of my
gown. Then he grips it and pulls me toward him. I slip onto his
lap, knees pushing into the cool leather as I straddle him. His
hands band my waist. Mine go to his chest, fingers sliding
beneath his open shirt to connect to his warm skin.
“You won’t leave me alone,” he says.
His statement is more than an accusation. I hear the thread
of fear beneath it; we’ve both lost people we love. We’ve both
been left alone in this world. I’m not sure how to respond, so I
give him a piece of me instead.
“I wasn’t raised with typical traditions,” I say. “You were
right about that, but also wrong. You’ve called me privileged,
a princess. But I was still brought up in this world, Lucian. I
was still guarded, denied having friends and boyfriends. My
uncle doesn’t only rule over an organization, he rules over my
father, therefore me. I was forbidden to go on dates. My body
wasn’t my own, for fear I’d lose the only thing I held of value
to my family.
“Once my brother was lost, the resentment held toward me
by not only my uncle but my father…” I shake my head. “My
mother thought the best way to spare me their bitterness was
by sending me away to school. And ballet was the one thing—
the only thing—that was mine. I was free when I danced, so I
danced all the time, trying to escape a future I had no control
over.”
He tenderly tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his
fingers featherlight as they trail my jawline. He cups my face,
thumb resting on my chin to hold me in his steady grasp.
“What I’m saying is—” I lean into his touch “—I don’t
want to wait for a wedding, for more men to have a say over
me. I want it to be my choice.”
His thumb feathers across my lips, quelling the tremble I
didn’t realize gripped me. “And I can’t be the man who steals
your innocence from you,” he says. “So, we’re at an impasse,
cailín beag.” He lifts my hand and places a tender kiss to my
finger, right above the ring he placed there.
My heart sinks. With a shuttering breath, I say, “We don’t
have to play by their rules.”
Challenge sparks in his eyes, until he grips my waist with a
defeated groan. “Violet,” he says, and it’s still a shock to my
system to hear him say my name. “If you’re to be my wife, I’ll
respect you, honor you. Don’t tempt me to brutally take what a
man should be willing to wait for.”
My gaze flicks over him searchingly. From the cruel
monster I first knelt before on a dais, to the strong man
beneath me now, I see both sides of Lucian—two sides of the
same coin. He’s protecting me as much as his nature will
allow.
I’ve already submitted to my feelings, but can I really
leave behind everything I knew—my family, my dreams of
dancing, my whole life—to take a chance with the enemy?
And the burning question I’m terrified to even voice: could
my enemy ever love me?
I lick my lips, a growing need to be closer to him and
discover at least part of that answer making me brave. “Then,
we don’t have to go all the way…”
Daringly, I run my hand up his chest and neck, absorbing
the feel of his scars and smooth, inked skin. In a mirror of his
hold, I lay my thumb over his bottom lip, lightly touching the
scar that clefts his chin, the one I’ve stared at so many times
and wondered what it would feel like against my lips.
I expect him to snatch my wrist, to stop me—but the fire
brimming his vibrant eyes provokes me to keep going.
The dare hovers between us, charging the air and urging us
together like the force of a black hole, where we’ll both be
pulled in. But who will be lost?
“You’re so fucking beautiful it kills me.”
His words decimate before he spears his fingers into my
hair and crushes my mouth to his.
16
GODDESS & VILLAIN
LUCIAN

S he tastes of seduction and sin, of heaven and the

sweetest temptation. She tastes of lavender, of her
pale-purple ballerina dress and the dark bruises that
promise pain.
I’m fighting to hold back and coming out of my skin all at
once.
My hands are in her hair, on her body, pushing up the
delicate nightgown in order to claim every inch of her skin. I
let her have her way with my shirt, pushing it off my shoulders
so she can rake her blunt nails down my chest.
I sweep my tongue into the hollow of her mouth, eliciting
a breathy moan from her that annihilates my control. I thought
I was losing the battle when I was devouring her sweet pussy;
her mouth devastates me—pure, utter obliteration of any sense
or reason.
I skim my hand up her thighs and around to her ass,
gripping her soft flesh and shoving her down against my
raging cock. Those sexy hips I’ve witnessed swivel and rock
while dancing undulate and grind against me so fucking hot,
I’m muttering foul curses between kisses.
I feel her slick heat bearing down through my slacks, and
I’m a man possessed, not thinking clearly as I let her reach
between us and unzip them. But fuck, just the hint of her pussy
lips touching my briefs feels so damn good, I can’t stop her.
When her slender finger slips between the fly, I groan
darkly against her mouth and circle my hand around her wrist.
“If you take me out…” I say, our heavy breaths mingling,
“and my cock touches your wet pussy, I won’t be able to stop.”
I feel her clench on top of me, and it’s pure, fucking
torture. I’m almost praying she defies me so I can punish her
with a hard fuck—but then the sobering thought of her
virginity spikes my veins.
 Caring for this girl may hold the monster back for a while,
but it won’t tame him.
I’m still the same man who stole her, and I still crave her
screams as much as I want to bring her pleasure.
She must sense my internal fight. Withdrawing her fingers,
she grinds against my hard shaft through the briefs, deriving
enough pleasure to make her amber eyes go half-mast. God,
she’s so intoxicating, I’m fucking drunk on her.
I follow up by palming the flare of her hips, helping her
bear down harder. I slip my thumb between us and gather up
her wetness and swirl it around her clit. “That’s it, cailín
beag,” I say, her derided nickname becoming an endearment
as I lose my mind to her. “Show me how you fuck my cock.”
The filthy words make her shiver, her skin pebbling with
gooseflesh, her nipples stiff through her gown. I take one into
my mouth, sucking hard and flicking my tongue over the nub
through the wet material. If I remove this gown, it’s over—I
won’t stop. I’m trying to be a decent man here, but I’m no
fucking saint.
“Has a man ever made you come before?” I ask her before
I nip her breast, the coarse pad of my thumb working her clit.
She shakes her head, her dark tresses tangled and
assaulting me, her scent invading my senses and driving me
wild with need. I lean back against the leather chair, arching
my hips and thrusting my dick against her soaked lips. I swear,
I’ve never dry humped in my life, and I’ve never experienced
anything fucking hotter than watching this girl get off on my
cock.
“I’m going to make you come, baby. So fucking hard
you’ll see stars.”
Her gaze finds me through her haze of lust, and I bring her
mouth to mine, sucking her delectable lip between my teeth
and dying at the feel of her desperate, clipped breaths. I want
to pick her up and pin her ass to the back of this chair, eat her
pussy until she’s coming in my mouth—but I feel her thighs
contracting against my legs, her stomach muscles clenching,
as she rides me harder, rubbing her pussy desperately against
my rock-hard cock, and I know she’s close.
She’s almost there, and fucking hell, she’s going to take
me with her.
I deepen the kiss, our breaths becoming one, as I speed my
thumb over her clit and she moans into the cavern of my
mouth. The feel of her swollen, wet pussy grinding my dick is
a mix of pleasure and pain that twists my head and, if she
doesn’t come soon, I’m going to lose every shred of hard-
fraught control.
She pulls away just enough to press her forehead to mine,
her throaty cries caressing my skin and setting my nerves
ablaze. “Oh god, Lucian… Don’t stop—”
“Fuck.” I fist her hair around my hand and thrust so hard
against her my dick throbs.
I feel the moment she breaks, her thighs tensing, nails
digging into my shoulders, her back arched in serene beauty as
she throws her head back and cries out. I’m so gone, lured into
her pleasure, I barely have the stamina to hold back another
second before I feel my cock harden and pulse against her, the
hot spill of semen drenching my briefs right along with her
sweet wetness.
“Christ, you’re beautiful,” I mutter, absorbing her little
exhales into me.
Sweat coats our skin, her nightgown damp, and she
shivers.
When her eyes open, I meet her there. We’re silent for a
long moment, no words needed to fill the space. I smooth my
hand over her damp hair, pushing the strands away from her
forehead so I can see her face clearly.
I place a tender kiss to her lips, a promise of tomorrow.
It’s been a torturously long night, and I can see the
moment exhaustion claims her body.
“I’m taking you to bed.” I scoop her into my arms and rise
from the chair.
 Her arms link around my neck. “Only if you stay there
with me.”
I don’t have the willpower to deny her anything right now.
This girl has shaken me to the core.
I’m not sure if I’m more terrified of leaving her or staying.
In the end, I hold her all night, memorizing every curve of
her body, my thoughts burdened with only one thing. The job I
still have yet to complete for the Carpella don.

Someone once said change doesn’t happen in a day.

I’d like to gut that person with my knife.
One fucking day feels more like years rather than hours. I
haven’t changed, but I know I’m not the same man I was
before. I know this because, I once told Violet I bow to no one.
Yet a tiny ballerina with a fiery temper brought me to my
knees.
I woke up with a feeling akin to a hangover, my body sore
and stiff like I’d been in a fight for my life.
And I suppose I had. With the woman I’ve fallen madly in
love with. The woman with an insatiable need to ruin me.
I might have only gotten an hour of sleep, but when my
eyes opened before the sun was completely up, Violet’s hair
was wrapped around my neck, trying to strangle me. After I
lay there for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of her
shallow breaths, letting her scent infuse my pores, I placed a
tender kiss to her forehead and slipped out of her bed.
I might only survive watching her come undone once
without it physically killing me. So I’ve decided to focus my
attention on the issue at hand:
The job Carlos tasked me with in order to officially secure
the marriage contract.
 I push off the pool wall and reach above head, working out
the tense muscles in my back with long strokes as I turn laps
around the pool. The cool water douses some of the flames
still simmering beneath my skin.
The taste of Violet I had wasn’t even close to satisfying my
craving for her. All I’ve accomplished is fucking my head up
even more, to the point where I almost barged back into her
room this morning and said to hell with her virginity.
I wasn’t lying to her when I told her I won’t change, that I
can’t, that I won’t be the man she might want in the future.
She’s too inexperienced to know what that is right now.
But since my soul is already damned, I’ll take her for
myself all the same.
I can try to convince myself it’s because of her family—
that I’ll be protecting her from them. And most of me desires
to save her from her cursed bloodline. But the selfish part
knows what an indulgent, greedy bastard I am, and the thought
of another man touching her has my blood boiling.
I knew it the moment I drove my fist into Damarko’s face.
I wanted to convince myself it was all my hatred for her
family, but the truth is I had already claimed her. She was
already mine, even then.
There may be some new growth on my gnarled tree, but
it’s as fragile and frail as it is new. If I nurture it, maybe one
day I’ll be the man she needs, the man who deserves her.
But today, I’m the man who will put a bullet between the
eyes of any fucker who thinks about taking her away from me.
A few weeks ago, I’d punch my damn self for having these
thoughts. For actually wanting to marry this girl for reasons
other than a shady alliance with her family. Which brings me
back to the reality at hand and the stark realization that I only
have days to complete the job in order to guarantee no one
tries to take Violet away.
I grab hold of the pool ledge and pull myself up, propping
my arms over the coping and blinking chlorinated water from
my eyes. “Shit,” I mutter.
 “Everything all right, boss?” Levi asks. He’s seated on the
concrete bench, toying with some app on his phone.
“Yeah. I don’t need company right now. Go make sure
everything is ready before I leave.”
“You got it, boss.”
I watch him leave the pool room, my thoughts diving
deeper. My men know nothing about the current development
with Salvatore’s daughter. It’s not just my revenge I swore, I
vowed the destruction of the Carpellas and retribution to them,
to the others wronged by la famiglia.
I won’t go back on my word.
The sound of the door swinging open snags my attention,
and I look over to see Violet barefoot and padding toward this
side of the room. She’s wearing skimpy shorts and a loose-
fitting T-shirt, her hair mussed from sleep.
She’s breathtaking.
She sits on the edge of the coping and lets her feet dip into
the water. I swim over to her and bury my head in her lap,
tempted to pull her in here with me and strip her of those
awful clothes.
“What did I say about prancing around in shit like that,” I
say, hearing the worn tone of my voice.
She combs her fingers through my wet hair, as if she can
feel the weight of my thoughts bearing down on me. “You can
blame yourself for that.” She links her ankles around my back.
“I was too sore to bother wearing anything appropriate.”
Her admission brings a crooked smile to my lips. My
feelings for her are right on the tip of my tongue, my chest
crushing from the weight as I hold them back. I kiss the inside
of her thigh, nipping the skin and making her flinch.
I look up at her and, I swear to God, those penetrating
amber eyes will slay me.
“I had a brother once, too,” I say, surprising myself.
“Keller was nine years older than me, more like a father than
our own, since he was so invested in the syndicate.” My hand
holds her tighter. “Your uncle had a bullet put in the back of
Keller’s head for fucking your mother.”
The confession is crass and raw. The words pour out in a
deluge, like tearing a Band-Aid off a fresh wound, taking
blood and flesh with it.
I hate that I’ve put a stricken look on her face, but there’s
no sense in concealing the truth of our two worlds any longer.
She should know why she’s here.
“That’s not true,” she says, her voice unsteady. Her whole
body has gone rigid. At least she didn’t call me a liar.
“After the bloody turf war between our families, the affair
was a disgraceful scandal.” I sigh out a long breath, running
my hand over my mouth. I don’t know her mother’s reason,
maybe it was the same as my stupid brother’s. Fucking a
Carpella woman, the wife of a consigliere, was a big fuck you
to the enemy.
“Your uncle had them both killed to bury the scandal, the
humiliation.” Effectively killing off the rest of my bloodline
and stamping out any remaining threat from my brother.
They didn’t consider a seventeen-year-old boy a threat at
the time. But time passes quickly, and wronged boys grow up
to be full-grown enemies.
She shakes her head repeatedly, her gaze glassing over.
“Yes, cailín beag. You know the truth. It’s why your father
gave you up with little fight,” I say, lifting my hand to touch
her face. “Beneath the fear of his brother discovering his
deception, was the shame of his daughter learning the truth of
her mother’s murder.”
A tear rolls down her cheek, and I tenderly wipe it away
with my thumb. Her anger gives way to remorse. Truth has a
way of stripping us bare, taking away the fire, if only for a
short while.
“If that’s true, then why are you telling me? Won’t it
impact your blackmail scheme for an alliance?”
 She’s right, of course. Salvatore would rather lose his
status than have his only daughter uncover his shameful secret.
But he’s still a rat, and he still fears death more than anything
else. That’s too callous of a truth to offer her right now,
however.
Before I can respond, she shakes her head, confusion
drawing her dark brows together. “And how would my uncle
consent to a marriage pact if a Cross/Carpella union was so
disgraceful to him?”
I hold her gaze, waiting for the answers to come to her. It’s
better if she wrestles the truth about her family, rather than
hearing it from me, her enemy.
She licks her lips, and a strangled laugh lodges in her
throat. “My father’s humiliation,” she says. “My mother’s
affair would be a disgrace to my uncle, to the organization.
Making the family look bad, making my father look weak.”
Though my brother was taken out execution style, for the
sake of Violet, her mother was made to look like an accident.
But to everyone involved, it was a clear reprimand from the
don, a punishment, to Salvatore’s wife.
“My father knew…he had to have known. And he lied to
me, right to my face. He’s more than culpable. He might as
well have killed her himself.” Her eyes flare, heated. “I can’t
believe…” She trails off, blinking the tears back. “I can’t
believe I didn’t even question the accident. I just couldn’t
imagine…”
“You had no reason to doubt,” I say, trying to console her.
After a moment, where she allows her new reality to
resonate, she demands, “Who did it?”
“An enforcer,” I tell her honestly. “No one you know.” The
same enforcer who branded my chest. “He’s dead now,
anyway.” The first life I took. The kill that elevated me to a
made man.
She sniffs hard. “What do I do now?”
I grasp the back of her neck and bring her face close to
mine. “We will make it right,” I say, vowing an oath to her.
 I press a gentle kiss to her lips before pulling away and
moving aside to climb out of the water.
“Where are you going?”
I towel off, my thoughts burdened with how much more to
reveal to her. “I have to go away for a job,” I say. “While I’m
gone, you’re to return to the dance company during the day.
Mannix will escort you, and you’ll stay here at night.”
Confusion strains her soft features, and I tamp down the
compulsion to go to her and smooth the hard line between her
dramatic brows. “I don’t understand.”
“When I took you,” I explain, “I sent a notice to your
instructors. As far as they and anyone else know, you’ve been
out sick with mono.”
A shocked laugh escapes her. The hard edges soften
around her features as she smiles an angelic smile at me.
“Don’t look at me like I’m a saint, cailín beag. I did it
because it was the simplest way to keep unwanted attention
from your sudden disappearance.” Telling her this does little to
temper her relief. I sling the towel around my neck. “Mannix
will protect you, and I gave him a cellphone to give you.”
Which is more for my benefit and peace of mind than for her. I
want a way to stay connected to her directly rather than relying
on my men.
At her continued silence, I say, “I’ll be back in time for the
wedding.”
Her expression closes off. “Then the pact is still on,” she
says questioningly.
What she’s really asking is if I still plan to seek retribution
on her family. “Nothing has changed,” I tell her honestly.
The warring emotions within her are evident as she pulls
her legs out of the pool and wraps her arms around her knees,
the actions of an unsure girl. “All right,” she says.
I inhale a laden breath, filling my lungs with the astringent
sting of chlorine, which does little to cleanse the fire in my
chest. I could have kept her in the dark. In a way, it would
have been less cruel.
Now, she’s torn between her loyalty to her family—one
that betrayed her, that tore her life apart—and her feelings for
me. Which doesn’t have to lead to marriage. Especially for a
girl her age outside of the Cosa Nostra. But because I’m a
selfish deviant who would rather turn her against her family in
order to keep her for myself rather than risk losing her, I’m not
above resorting to psychological warfare.
Marriage seals the alliance, yes—but it also binds Violet to
me.
Fear is a strong motivator for men like me. Simply because
we’re forged in hell and suit ourselves in the thickest armor,
doesn’t mean we don’t fear loss.
Fear of losing status. Fear of losing empires. Fear of losing
power.
Fear of losing those in our lives that keep us human.
It’s because of our extreme fear of loss that we kill quickly
and ruthlessly.
That fear has rivaled far stronger men than me, and love
can destroy the strongest.
A small flame ignites beneath the constricted muscle in my
chest, urging my steps toward her. I lower to my haunches and
slip a finger under her chin, tipping her face up. My gaze flits
to the ring on her finger before I meet her eyes.
“I want you, Violet. As far as I’m concerned, you’re
already mine, a contract has no bearing over that claim. I will
always want you. You will always be mine to protect. But I’ve
come too far in my endeavor to right the wrong your family
committed.”
With everything I’m admitting…I’m still holding back.
Because what I feel for her has taken over, and it terrifies me
to my deranged marrow.
I start to release her so she doesn’t feel the violent tremble
in my hand. Before I move away, she presses her cheek into
my palm, melting the hard-packed ice encasing me, that fire
solely belonging to her. “I understand,” she says. “I want you,
Lucian. Whatever that means for tomorrow, I belong to you.
I’m with you.”
Her words are as good as a vow—one that unites her to me
in defiance against her own blood. But there’s a danger there
she’s smart enough to understand, in going against her family.
I’m bound to her, to protect her.
She will come first.
Placing both hands to her face, I take her lips in a crushing
kiss, almost desperate enough to bite her and draw blood to
seal the oath. But her words are enough for me in this moment.
I’ll take that blood oath on our wedding night, after she takes
my name, and then I’ll pick off every Carpella in Desolation
until I’ve weakened the snake enough to take his head.
As I load my duffle bag into the trunk of the Audi, I’m too
aware of the envelope tucked into my jacket inseam, the one I
received at the Venetian masquerade. The Ruin exists amid the
crime syndicates to maintain a system of checks and balances.
I’m owed a favor, and I’m going to collect.
Closing the trunk, I look at Mannix. He stands behind
Violet on the stone steps of my family home. I give him a hard
nod, a reminder of my trust in him to protect his charge. He
returns the nod in affirmation.
Before I leave, I let my gaze coast to Violet, matching the
fiery intensity I find in her gaze. I allow the searing ache to
consume as I burn her into my retinas. Then I drive off, not
looking back as I adapt a single-minded focus on my
objective.
By tasking me with this specific job, Carlos is trying to
force history to repeat itself, testing me in the most debasing
way. Another scandal has presented for the don, one involving
his competitors. Only this time, instead of simply removing
the two offending lovers, he demands the lives of the whole
family in reprisal.
 I suppose the boss feels he made a mistake when he left a
boy alive the first time. Now, he’s determined not to leave any
loose ends. And what better way to make me prove my
allegiance to him than by requiring me to do the villainous
deed myself.
Killing a family—father, mother, two innocent children—
would surely damn whatever part of my soul I have left. And
this is what’s being asked of me, this is my tribute to obtain an
alliance to la famiglia, to diablo himself.
For retribution against the Carpella don, I had already sold
my soul. I swore I’d walk the wide path right up to the gates of
hell, as long as I got to take him with me.
And that’s still my destination.
But I’m no longer dragging myself to the depths of hell for
my revenge.
I’m doing it for her.
17
CROWNS & VOWS
VIOLET

T he girl I was before I entered this cathedral no

longer exists. Standing in front of an ornate
floor-length mirror, her reflection is a stranger.
The only similarity is the tiara atop my head. I was thrust
into a new dark underworld wearing one—one that belonged
to a naïve ballerina, a newly appointed principal who,
delusionally, believed a life free of the organization was within
her grasp.
I trace my fingers over the beautiful stones on the tiara
adorning my head now, realizing it could be another form of
shackle…
Or it could change everything.
Lucian’s been away for four days, and in that time, we’ve
texted but only spoken once.
The phone he gave me sits on the dressing table, stealing
my attention. His last message affirmed he would be here, that
nothing would stand in his way of marrying me today.
“He’ll be here, cailín deas,” Nora says as she clips the
sheer veil to my hair.
I only nod, not interested in correcting her as to what’s
distressing me. She’s been kind to me over the weeks, and in
some ways, even like a surrogate mother as the wedding date
drew nearer.
She steps back to admire her handiwork and claps her
hands together. “I’ll inform them you’re ready.” I don’t miss
the fleeting worry as it crinkles her brow.
She glances at her phone before she exits the dressing
room. She hasn’t admitted it, but I think she’s waiting for a
text confirming when Lucian arrives at the chapel. I stay
rooted in front of the mirror, trying to understand and console
the woman reflected there.
 My long dark hair is swept up into a classic French twist.
My eyes are rimmed in dark-brown kohl to enhance the tawny
jewel tone of my irises. A dusting of blush and nude lipstick
completes the classic, fresh-faced wedding day look of a mafia
virgin bride.
I had no say in the wedding dress, but it’s not for lack of
trying on Nora’s part. At the time, I refused to believe this day
would actually arrive. I wanted no part in the designs for the
wedding and especially the dress. I held out hope my papà
would rescue me from being married off to a monster.
But I have to give Nora credit, she didn’t fail me.
This gown was designed for a ballerina.
A lace- and sequin-embellished illusion bodice with deep
neckline sits above a full layered tulle skirt. Of course it’s
white, but there’s a hint of champagne woven throughout the
lace threads, making the dress appear to sparkle when it
catches the light.
No gold. According to Italian tradition, gold is bad luck on
a bride’s wedding day.
Nora told me earlier that, despite the shotgun wedding, we
did manage to tick off all the Italian and Irish customary
traditions. Which is all supposedly wrapped in the gift Lucian
had delivered here before I arrived.
Knowing I can’t postpone much longer, I reach for the
light-purple box on the dressing table and, with a deep inhale
that cinches the corset tight around my chest, I pull the white
ribbon and open the gift.
Resting on a bed of dried lavender sprigs is a knife.
Lucian’s knife.
A mix of emotions swirl within me. The silver sheath is
adorned with a delicate spun design, carved in a braided
pattern I recognize as Celtic. It’s the same knife he used to
sever my father’s finger, to threaten me…but now there’s a
blue jewel fitted at the bottom of the bone hilt. As I lift the
knife from the box, I find a folded note tucked beneath the
lavender.
 Hopefully this gift will cover all the traditions. The knife
has been passed down through the generations, so I’m sure it’s
old enough. For your something new and something blue, I
had the hilt embedded with a deep-blue sapphire, which
shimmers violet in certain light, reminding me of you.
I actually smile at that. Lucian’s eyes were to be my
something blue, but I suppose I can have both.
For the something borrowed, I hope you don’t mind, but I
had Mannix borrow a garter from his wife. Wear the knife
today.
I dig out the satiny black garter from the box. Mannix is
married? For some reason, this surprises me more than
Lucian’s demand for me to wear a knife on our wedding day.
Though, really, it shouldn’t. It’s more than fitting for a mob
wedding. And somehow, as I slide the garter up my leg and
secure the knife against my thigh, I feel safe, like Lucian is
protecting me.
Nora pokes her head through the door. “It’s time. Your
Lucian is here.”
I roll my eyes at her, but the constriction around my throat
loosens a fraction. This is really happening.
The reality of what comes next immediately encases me in
dread.
It’s not Nora’s silly comment, or the fact I wasn’t sure if
Lucian would survive whatever “job” had taken him away. It’s
not even wedding jitters, as everyone in the hall awaiting me
to walk down the aisle knows this wedding is a business
transaction.
As I pick up the bouquet of lilies and step into the hallway,
the sight of my father spears my chest. I can’t believe he has
the audacity to meet my eyes, to smile at me, as if he’s simply
a loving father about to give away his daughter.
“Violetta,” he says, his watery gaze taking me in. “You
look beautiful. Just like your mamà on our wedding day.”
Nausea grips my stomach, bile rising to burn the back of
my throat and prevent me from returning the compliment. He
doesn’t appear to notice, however, as he places a kiss to my
cheek. I try not to show my revulsion, and allow my father to
link my arm through his.
“This will all turn out good, figlia.” He pats my hand.
“You’ll see.”
Words of encouragement meant to placate me, yet all I
hear is the relief of a weak and morally corrupt man who
sacrificed his family to keep his reputation intact.
I swallow the acrid lump in my throat and touch the
sparrow over my heart, knowing I will always have memories
of Fabian to comfort me. The sparrow offers me strength
before every performance, and this is no different.
I have the ultimate performance to give.
“I’m ready,” is all I say, and I direct it to Nora, who’s
standing off to the side, wary eyes watching the riveting scene
between father and daughter.
She nods, then snaps her fingers at Mannix. He opens the
chapel door. His cautious gaze settles on me, a question there
if I’m all right, and something cracks a little beneath my chest
plate. I nod once, and his hard expression loses a rough edge.
Mannix will walk behind me, like a flower girl/bodyguard.
And Nora will stand in as my maid of honor. Just your typical
mafia wedding.
My repulsion for my father is a barbed wire coiling the pit
of my stomach as I lift my chin, allowing him to lower the veil
over my face. We can never fully know our parents, but we
should be able to trust them. I believe I knew my mamà as
well as I could. She was a good, charitable person, a loving
mother. In life, if she felt desperate enough to risk an affair
with another man, with her husband’s rival, then she had her
reasons. She’s not here to ask or defend herself, so the only
thing I can do now is choose to accept the best in her and trust
her.
Out of the whole of her life, I can forgive her one
transgression.
I cannot forgive my father.
 There is a reckoning coming for him.
But first, I have to make it through today.
I grip the ribbon-covered bouquet as we pass through the
doors. The classic harp notes of Bach’s Cannon fill the
cathedral hall, and I disappear somewhere inside myself as we
start down the aisle.
It feels strange to enter the hall knowing none of my
friends are here, but it’s for the best. How do I explain this life
to them? How would I ever explain being withdrawn from the
company with mono and all of a sudden boom. I’m getting
married. To a man I told none of them about.
Since I returned to my classes a few days ago, just the
welcoming I received from Lillian and Darcy was enough. To
feel some measure of normalcy return to my life, though it will
never be as it was before. Although Lillian did notice
something different about me, but her comment was on how
my illness must have did me good, as she said she’d never
seen me dance so passionately before, so raw and fearless.
It could’ve been the elation to be back in class and
dancing…
But as I look up from the aisle and my gaze finds Lucian at
the end, I know he’s the reason.
To achieve our dreams, we have to push ourselves out of
our comfort zone. We have to break, over and over. We have to
forge our resolve in fires as hot as hell to strengthen our
determination in order to withstand all those who would tear
us down.
I’ve decided I can have both worlds.
Suited in an all-black Versace tuxedo, with dangerous ink
and devilish beauty, Lucian Cross is the epitome of sin and
temptation. The bluest flames of his eyes burn hotter than any
hellfire, and they’re searing through me. His expression is a
mask, but those eyes reveal what’s beneath: lust, passion, pain,
redemption, love.
Yes, I believe the devil is capable of love.
 We covet so desperately that thing we crave, that it’s all we
can see. We’re consumed by it, owned by it, a mad desire so
raw it dawns hate. In Lucian’s case, his need for revenge led
him to me, his enemy. And his hatred almost destroyed me.
But, even our darkest desires can kindle into obsession, and
can continue to alter us, making us powerless against change.
As deeply as I’ve fallen for the enemy, when I look into his
eyes, I see a truth buried there that gives me hope. One day
this man will love me with a passion to rival the deepest pit of
hell that spawned his hate.
As I reach him, he takes his time looking me over, sending
a heated tendril over my skin. “Angel,” he says. It’s all I need
to hear.
My father goes through the motions of tradition in giving
away his daughter. He lifts my veil, places another kiss to my
cheek, and shakes Lucian’s hand. I don’t miss the painful grip
of Lucian’s handshake, and neither does my father.
I hand off my bouquet to Nora before Lucian clasps my
hands. I stare at my hand in his; rough and brutal, the hands of
a ruthless made man, inked with vengeful curses. Hands
trained to kill. But also capable of protecting.
There will be no leaving this man while in life. Marriage
amid the organizations is forever.
I could have ran. I entered into this marriage pact to save
my father, who, after the horrifying truth that was uncovered, I
no longer owe anything. So why am I here? Why did I allow
Mannix to drive me to the cathedral today?
Slowly, I lift my gaze to his, and all my reasons are right
there.
Because of the fierce look in his striking blue eyes that
vows to defend me.
Because of the honor I know dictates his actions more than
his vengeance.
Because of the deep love he harbors for his family and
men.
 Because of the connection between us that goes deeper
than warring families and oaths made in blood. And as
terrified as I am about the unknown of our tomorrow, I refuse
to let fear own me and run from my feelings. I want to love
him and fight for a love I believe can rival his pain and mine.
“Are you ready?” Lucian asks me.
I smile. “Yes.”
The ceremony begins, and the priest welcomes the family
and friends. He reads from the Bible, reciting what marriage
means, what we’re to promise to each other. I repeat the vows
to Lucian, and when it’s his turn, he does the same, until he
reaches the end.
His eyes bore into mine as he says, “I will protect you. I
will kill for you. I will burn the world to ash to keep you mine,
cailín beag.”
His fierce affirmation should terrify everyone in
attendance, and to those who have ulterior motives where
we’re concerned, maybe it does. For me, it signifies a greater
promise than to cherish and love me.
“I know you will,” I say, and a beautiful smile tips his
mouth.
The priest progresses through the rest of the ceremony,
preparing for the rings. I take a fortifying breath. I have my
own mini speech to deliver where I incorporate fede, which in
Italian, our rings signify faith. It’s the perfect vow to illustrate
my faith in Lucian when I place the ring on his finger.
A disturbance from the pews draws Lucian’s attention. I
glance out over the rows of guests, my gaze drawn to my
father right away.
He and my uncle are arguing in hushed, angry tones. Their
squabbling isn’t loud enough to concern too many others
around them, but I’m fine-tuned today to notice anything out
of place.
And something is very wrong.
 Confused, I return my gaze to Lucian, but he’s focused on
that row. I follow his line of sight to my cousin Damarko. He
shouts an obscenity and jumps to his feet. I see it as soon as
Lucian does—but he’s already moving, his arm reaching
around my waist to draw me behind him.
The sunlight streaming through a stained-glass window
glints off the steel barrel as Damarko draws a gun from his
waistband.
Stupidly, I think about how all the men were required to
relinquish their weapons at the chapel door, and how it’s not
possible for Damarko to be aiming a gun on us right now. But
all thoughts cease the moment the deafening bang cracks the
air.
I can’t think. I can’t feel. A numbness spreads through my
body like ice water pouring into my veins. I realize my
cousin’s aim was directed on Lucian, and all of a sudden pain
lances my body, a shock to my system.
“Fuck,” Lucian curses. “Violet, look at me.” His eyes are
wide and fierce as he gazes down at me. Other expletives fall
from his mouth as he grabs hold of my arms and maneuvers
me closer, drawing my shoulder toward him.
My eyes are drawn to the red dripping on my dress. It
blooms like sick poppies against the white. His hand goes to
my shoulder, to where the bullet grazed. When my eyes make
the connection to the wound, my nerve endings flare as if
burned, the pain finally registering.
I shake my head, shock still clouding my mind. “It’s just a
flesh wound,” I hear myself say.
Then I realize why Lucian’s so angry. I stepped in front of
him—I tried to take the bullet for him. He’s repeating this to
me in a slur of venom, his expression all hard edges.
From my peripheral, I see the panicked crowd scrambling
for the exit. Then Dominic, the man I recognize from the
masquerade ball, the head of the Venetian mafia, shouts
something as he stands, gun aimed on my family. Others in his
row follow his command, and soon my entire family have
weapons drawn.
Mannix’s huge frame suddenly blocks my vision, his large
chest a barrier from any stray bullets.
As my senses return, I look up at Lucian. Anger sears the
depths of his eyes, and he turns his focus on the priest who is
inching away.
Lucian grabs him by the robe and yanks him forward.
“Marry us—” he roars.
Shaking, the priest drops the Bible and quickly makes the
sign of the cross. “I now pronounce you man and wife. May
God have mercy—”
“There will be no mercy.” Lucian cups the side of my face
and swipes his thumb across my lips, smearing blood spatter
away from my mouth, before he seals his lips over mine in a
demanding, soul-searing kiss.
He pulls away and turns to Mannix. “Get her out of here,”
he orders.
Mannix moves to do as directed, but I grab hold of
Lucian’s arm. “I’m not leaving—”
“Go to the dressing room. Nora will stay with you. I’ll be
there soon.” He looks once more at my injury before he places
a kiss to my forehead and rushes into the fray.
My fight against Mannix is futile. He has me in a bear hug
and is removing me from the dais. Nora is muttering
something as she follows close behind. Once he sets me on my
feet, he takes hold of my wrist and clears a path along the
chapel wall as he knocks panicked people out of the way.
We reach the dressing room and Nora closes and locks the
door. Then Mannix places his giant body in front of it like a
barricade, gun drawn and held at the ready.
“Mother of God,” Nora says when she sees my bloody
dress. “She needs a doctor.”
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice clipped, my lungs on fire. “I
don’t feel anything.”
 “You’re in shock, cailín,” she snaps, her hardened tone
reminding me of the first day I met her.
I shake my head, my attention diverted to the door and
waiting for the moment Lucian will enter. “What happened?” I
ask Mannix.
Back braced against the door, he frowns. “Your gobshite
cousin shot you.”
I blink. “Seriously?” I step toward him, ignoring Nora’s
fretting over the bleeding gash on my shoulder. “What the fuck
happened?” I demand.
He places the gun before him, taking a stoic, unmovable
stance. “You’ll have to ask your husband.”
I swallow, realizing how dry my mouth is. I move toward
the table to grab a water bottle, but the sound of banging on
the door hitches my steps. I hold my breath, waiting to hear
Lucian’s voice—but another familiar voice travels through the
wood to freeze me in place.
There’s a shout, then the loud bang before the door
splinters wide. Mannix goes down, and fear sheathes my body
as I see him aim for my uncle as he pushes through the door.
Uncle Carlos knocks Mannix’s gun aside and claims it,
tucking it in his waistband. Then he aims his own weapon at
Mannix.
I don’t think; I react.
All I can see is Mannix’s wife, possibly sitting at home
with their little kids running around her legs, while he’s here
dying for me. I cannot let that happen.
I rush toward my uncle and grab hold of his forearm. The
fired shot rings out and the bullet lodges into the wall.
My uncle turns a lethal glare on me. “Dammit, ragazza
stupida, what’s wrong with you?”
I try to wrestle the revolver out of his hand, but he rears
back and whips the barrel across my face. Pain webs my
cheekbone, the sting blinding. The coppery taste of blood fills
my mouth, and I touch my face, feeling where the steel split
my skin.
“Fuck,” my uncle snarls. “You were like a daughter to me,
Violetta. But you turned out just like your slutty mother.
Always causing trouble.” He swipes the sweaty strands of hair
from his forehead, chin cocked high to look down on me. He’s
so full of disdain, I wonder how he ever considered me family.
“You killed her,” I accuse him.
His laugh is pitiless, empty. “I didn’t kill that whore.
Although I did order the hit on her, so yes, I see your point.”
He moves closer, and I catch sight of Mannix, wounded and
bleeding on the floor. Unarmed. Fading.
Nora at least goes to his side and places her hands over the
wound in his leg, trying to staunch the bleeding.
I look at my uncle. “Did my father know?”
He tsks. “Someone’s been busy filling your head.” He
lunges close enough to snatch my veil and hair, yanking my
head back. I don’t fight him as he places the barrel of the gun
to my temple. The steel is blistering hot and burns my skin.
“Who do you think approved the hit?” he asks me darkly.
“Your father was too weak to do what needed to be done about
your mother. So I took care of the problem. As the don, I could
issue it, but as her husband, Salvatore had to give his
blessing.”
A sickness twists my stomach. Blessing. My father
approving the murder of his own wife is considered a blessing
to these men. I cast my gaze at the floor, trying not to see
Uncle Carlos, and only hear the voice of the villain he really
is. I can’t control the tremor racking my body, the angry tears
spilling over my eyes.
His gaze scans my face, his own an unfeeling wasteland.
Years of bloodshed and death at his hands.
“Looks like we have to handle you the same way.” He
pushes the barrel harder against my temple.
I hold his gaze. If he’s going to pull the trigger and do the
deed himself this time, I want him to remember my eyes—
eyes that I share with my mother. I hope they haunt him.
Only, as I’m staring into the vicious eyes of my uncle, the
man who shunned me—not treated me like a daughter as he
claims—I realize my death won’t plague him. He’s soulless.
He’ll kill again. He may kill Nora next.
Or Lucian.
No—if I’m going to die, I’m taking this bastard with me.
I twist my head hard enough to tear out of his grasp,
painfully losing hair in the process, and bite down on his wrist.
He curses, giving me enough time to kick him in the balls. Out
of reflex, he whacks the firearm across my face again. My
vision blacks, the pain so severe I nearly lose my stomach as
bile claws up my throat.
I hit the floor, the room swaying. As I blink hard, trying to
clear my vision, he cups himself. Before he has time to fully
recover, I roll over and hike up my gown. My uncle’s hand
goes to my throat, strangling me as he raises the gun to my
forehead. In the struggle, I reach down and grip Lucian’s knife
gartered to my thigh and tear it free.
Fear makes you weak—too weak to defend yourself—but
conviction overrides fear and gives you the strength to drive a
blade into a man’s chest. Past bone and cartilage, straight into
the heart.
Sounds mute as my ears fill with a heavy whoosh. My
blood fires through my arteries. I see the moment my uncle
realizes what happened. He looks down at his chest, at the
bone hilt, and the blood blooming across his crisp white shirt
like little red snowflakes of death.
He rolls off me and clutches the weapon, but it’s already
too late. His hands fall away and his eyes stare vacantly at the
ceiling.
One moment of suspended relief, and then hell descends. I
never even heard him enter the room. Damarko straddles my
legs, his hands throttle my neck, as he rains down a torrent of
curses on me.
“What the fuck have you done, you stupid bitch—”
 Nora appears above him, ready to drive a large vase over
his head, but he quickly whacks the vase out of Nora’s hands
and punches her, sending her to the floor.
His full attention is back on me in a matter of seconds.
“You filthy, fucking cunt. I want to hear you choke as I fuck
the life out of you.”
He reaches between us and unzips his pants, then viciously
shoves my wedding gown up my thighs. I hear the snap of my
underwear tearing as the material burns my flesh. Oh, god…
As I struggle to drag in air, unable to fill my lungs, his
hateful, menacing eyes are the last thing I see before the room
flickers to darkness.
18
REAP & FOREVER
LUCIAN

I was prepared to take on the Carpellas alone. One

by one, I would reap my revenge, methodically
destroying the organization from within until I
either obliterated their filth from the earth, or they put a bullet
in me.
That changed the moment I knew I couldn’t risk Violet—
the moment I realized I wanted to live for her.
I would protect her against her own family, even if that
meant abandoning my plans of retaliation.
So when I left her to do the job Carlos commissioned me, a
job that required I murder a whole family to prove my loyalty
to la famiglia, to secure Violet as my wife, I decided she was
already mine, and I would be the man worthy of her.
I couldn’t allow history to repeat itself.
And I had a favor due to me.
When Carlos turned his back on the Ruin, he dug his own
grave in Desolation. It wasn’t an impossible request when I
asked for the assistance of the Venetian mafia. Dominic,
Elenore’s son and the Veneta don, helped me hide the Mistico
family in a safe house outside of the city, and offered them
protection against the Carpellas.
Elenore owed me a huge debt. Her son was the don
because I took out her husband. Her family was safe from her
husband’s dangerous and unstable business practices.
Now I needed that favor returned.
Before Violet, I was prepared to take my vengeance alone,
and every consequence that resulted from my actions. But in
going back on my word to complete the job for the marriage
contract, I sealed my fate.
But one man can’t fight a war on his own.
I needed an alliance.
 The new Irish Syndicate would join forces with the
Venetian mafia.
When Damarko got word that I didn’t take care of their
Mistico problem, he felt it was within his right to stop the
wedding.
Ever since I witnessed his possessive reaction over Violet
at the Carpella’s club, I knew he’d be a problem. In Damarko’s
mind, by going back on my word, I betrayed la famiglia.
Therefore, I wasn’t deserving of a marriage to Violet. But
since divorce isn’t an option in our world, death was the only
suitable way to prevent the wedding from happening.
Extreme—but perfectly acceptable in the underworld.
The chapel hall has cleared out of guests, leaving behind
rivalling made men determined to be the last standing.
Dominic and I command our men as we use chapel pews as
protection. There’s nothing strategic about this shootout; it’s a
bloodbath. When the sound of shots start to slow, I rise up and
aim at the soldier shielding Carlos. I take him out with a fatal
shot to the throat.
Carlos may be a merciless boss, but he’s survived this long
by knowing when to flee, like a rat abandoning a sinking ship.
And his ship is sinking right now. He ducks, and I lose sight of
him in the crossfire.
I look over at Dominic. “I’m going after Carlos,” I say.
He nods once. “I’ll keep eyes on Renz.”
“Where’s Damarko?”
Dominic shakes his head. “I lost him.”
Damarko is one of the most ruthless soldiers on their side,
which almost makes him a bigger threat than Renz, who it’s
imperative we take down in order to take control away from
the Carpella family.
Salvatore has already fled, abandoning his daughter in the
same spineless manner he did once before.
With somewhat of a plan in place, I tear off the tie from
around my neck and roll up my sleeves, having already
disposed of my tux jacket. Then I instruct my men to stay until
the end, taking out as many Carpellas as they can. As Levi is
my lieutenant, he’s placed in charge in my absence, and he
takes command.
I creep along the backside of a pew and acquire a
discarded GLOCK. Quickly checking the rounds, I note the
nearly full magazine and chuck my spent pistol. I continue
through the fray of whizzing bullets and spilled blood.
I come across two of my men. Dead. Their lifeless bodies
sprawled on the chapel floor. Violent fury lashes at my skull.
I’m torn between emptying the magazine into every Carpella
within range and chasing after Carlos.
With a growl, I stare down the gunsight and fire a shot at
one of the Carpella soldiers near the chapel entrance, sending
the bullet into his brain. I rein in the desire to fill his body with
lead, saving the bullets for the one more deserving. I stalk past
his body into the hallway.
When I reach the dressing room, I don’t see Mannix
guarding the door. My hackles raise. My whole being on high
alert. Once I’m closer, the busted door sends a hard shiver
down my back, and red blankets my vision. I tighten my hold
on the grip as I kick the splintered door open.
One moment where I take in the scene: Mannix on the
floor wounded; Nora knocked unconscious; Carlos a lifeless
corpse; Damarko straddling Violet, her wedding dress ruched
up to expose her, his pants sagging below his hips, his filthy
hands around her neck…
A loud snap cracks inside my head before fire and ice
collide in a violent clash within me, the vortex of a perfect
storm.
The next moment: I take aim.
My finger squeezes the trigger.
Damarko senses my presence a fraction of a second before
the shot fires and dives to his right, effectively evading the
bullet meant for the back of his skull.
 Tunnel vision has my gaze locked on Violet…and her
deathly still body.
Somehow, my reflexes act on autopilot, and when
Damarko whips his revolver in my direction, I drop down next
to Violet.
“You’re the deadest fucking man—” I block his shot as I
knock his arm aside; his gun fails to discharge. I lift my
weapon toward his chest, and Damarko sends his elbow into
my face, effectively stalling. I get a punch in, and both our
weapons get discarded in the tussle, skidding across the
hardwood floor.
Damarko manages to break away, and I hover protectively
over Violet. He uses the few fleeting seconds to scurry away.
My blood roars, urging me to chase, to destroy—but I can’t
leave her.
Dragging in a fiery breath, I assess Violet quickly, placing
my fingers to her pulse point to check vitals. Her heartbeat is
steady. She blinks her eyes, her features contorted in pain as
she comes to. I look over the rest of her, searching for any
mortal wounds. My jaw clenches, teeth aching under the
pressure, as I see her torn panties off to the side. If I had been
two seconds too late…
A mad riot seizes my head. With a calm I can barely
muster, I lower her gown to cover her and finish examining
her injuries. A deep gash mars her cheek, and a bruise has
formed to darken beneath her eye. Her shoulder is still
bleeding and needs stitches, but it’s not fatal. Her throat is
already showing the deep-red marks from where Damarko
tried to choke her life away.
My whole body coils tight as I try to restrain the wrath
firing through my blood.
I look at my knife sank into Carlos’s chest, and a dark
revelation washes over me in icy tendrils.
I gave Violet my knife as a wedding gift—and she used it
to defend herself against her uncle.
She killed Carlos.
 My gaze snaps to the door where Damarko vanished. I’m
torn between staying by her side, and chasing down the only
witness to the don’s murder. Despite the fact she’s family, she
killed a crime boss. If Renz doesn’t get taken out, he will call
for her head in retribution for his father.
I can’t let Damarko live.
As gently as I can in this heightened moment, I rouse
Nora. She groans and pushes herself up into a sitting position.
“That bastard—” she starts before her wary gaze lands on
Violet.
I glance at Mannix, who’s lost consciousness from blood
loss. “Get Mannix help,” I tell her, then: “And don’t let anyone
near her.”
She nods, her eyes searching mine, knowing I may not
come back. But if I don’t, I’m going to destroy that fucker
before he ever has a chance to breathe a word.
Violet is still too groggy and hopefully won’t have any
memory of what happened here. I place a delicate kiss to her
lips, savoring the feel of her, and whisper against her mouth,
“Tá grá agam duit.”
Then I reach across and grab the karambit knife,
wrenching it free from my enemy’s chest.
As I leave the room, I’m no longer a man on his wedding
day.
I’m a feral monster scenting blood on the hunt.
I flip the bloodstained knife over my knuckles, back and
forth, the snick of the blade slicing the air. The longer I stalk
the halls in search of Damarko, the more the disturbing images
of Violet invade my mind, and I can feel my short tether on
sanity slipping away.
This time, I don’t try to stop it—I allow the sick psychosis
to own me, because the things I’m going to do to Damarko
won’t be humane.
I’ll revel in the madman as I bathe the walls with his
blood.
 As I push through the cathedral doors, I already know he’s
waiting for me. Damarko grips the back of my head and
thrusts his knee into my stomach, a sucker blow that knocks
the wind from my chest. He follows through with a hard strike
to my jaw, his knuckles wrapped in brass.
I stumble back, taking a second to gauge the situation. The
sun has set, leaving us standing outside the backside of the
cathedral in the shadows. He holds his fist ready with a pair of
brass knuckles, his other hand grips a knife, held near his waist
in strike position.
He wants a knife fight. A dangerous smile slants my
mouth.
“What? You think I’m going to take out the flaying
madman with a bullet?” He spits on the ground near his feet.
“I want to carve you open and display your entrails as a
trophy.”
I touch my jaw, tasting the metallic tang of blood on my
tongue. Flipping the knife so the claw blade rests against my
forearm, I lower into a mirrored position. “You tried to rape
my wife,” I say, the words seething. “You better pray to
whatever god you believe in I kill you quickly.”
A devious smirk crosses his features. “When I’m through
with you, I’m going to tear her sweet little cheery apart and
leave her a bloody mess. And they’ll let me have her,” he
adds, “because she fucked up when she killed the boss. You
better pray that’s all they let me do to her.”
The imagery his words evoke lashes at my skull, turning
me inside out. Fire snakes over my skin as wrath chews
through the last shred of control. I lunge toward him, swiping
the blade out as I coast across his torso.
He blocks by twisting his body and lunging back, but he’s
not as fast. He takes a mean slice over his rib cage. Red
darkens his shirt, and he bites out a curse. He bares his teeth
and regroups, coming at me with his knife.
I suck in my stomach and feign to the left, dodging his
wide strike, and send my blade along his forearm.
 “Mother fuck,” he snarls.
He’s fast—it’s not that he’s not a good fighter. On any
other day, Damarko might beat me. But not today, not with
venom in my veins and hell at my heels, and the taste for his
blood on my tongue.
The difference is, I will give my life in order to take his, to
make sure Violet is safe.
Fear doesn’t hold me back. It pushes me forward, never
second-guessing my next move, because all I care about is
ending him and protecting Violet.
He feigns left, then switches feet, coming at me from the
right. I sacrifice the pain and let him strike my rib cage,
because it gives me the angle I want. While I’m sustaining
damage to my ribs, I lunge, letting his blade slice deeper as I
drag my knife over the back of his hand.
I could keep trying to strike a killing blow, but my
opponent will always be ready to strike back. Instead, I take
his hand away, his means to fight.
I don’t stop there, and as he drops the weapon on reflex, I
step into him and thrust the blade into his chest wall. Eyes
wide and body in shock, he holds absolutely still, trying to
account for the last two seconds.
I push him off my blade and let him drop to the ground.
Blood sputters from his mouth as he coughs, then a dark
laugh leaks free. “Son of a fucking bitch.”
Crouching down, I look him over. I take the brass knuckles
off his hand and toss them aside. “It’s unfortunate you saw
what you did, Damarko,” I say, my voice a low threat. “Now I
have to take your fucking eyes.”
But first, I make sure he gets a good look at the script
scrawled across my knuckles, the inked curse I deliver to all
my victims, as I take my revenge. I revel in carving his eyes
from their sockets, his screams urging me to do so less neatly
than I would with a commissioned job. I make a mess of his
face as I remove the offending objects that raked over Violet in
her helpless state, that coveted what is mine—and I bask in the
knowledge that Damarko will never have the chance to touch
her again.
I lay his mutilated eyes right beside him, then I sling the
blood off my fingertips. “And since I can’t have you ratting
out Violet to the rest of la famiglia…”
I drive the blade into his sternum and twist, then draw the
knife upward, slicing him open to expose his gutless insides to
the world.
I watch the life drain from his body, leaving him a
mutilated disgrace. My only regret is that I didn’t get to keep
my promise to make him suffer. But I can hear the sirens.
And I’m not wasting any more time to get back to Violet.
When I reach the front of the cathedral, there’s a crush of
ambulances and police cruisers barricading the entrance. I
dodge the uniforms in blue, their radios crackling, and get
inside through a side door, expertly evading the paramedics as
they focus on the dead and wounded.
Snagging a discarded jacket from the back of a chair, I slip
it on to hide my injured ribs.
One officer in particular tries to prevent me from entering
the dressing room. But I know him, and I know he’s dirty.
When he sees the blood soaked into my shirt cuffs and the
crazed look in my eyes, he dutifully steps aside.
“Make it quick,” he warns. “There’s a body around back…
mutilated.” He swallows hard, probably choking back bile.
“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Cross?”
Ignoring him, I enter the room, only one person on my
mind. The ache beneath my breastplate won’t stop until I see
her face.
The room has been cleared out. All that remains is the
wreckage I didn’t notice before. Broken glass. Overturned
furniture. Pools of blood on the hardwood. Fear and anger
merge inside me in one violent clash.
“Where’s my wife?” I shout.
 The touch is light along my arm and startles me. I have to
rein in my fury before I look at Nora.
“She’s been taken to the hospital,” she says, calmer and
more composed than before. “She needed stitches, and a
doctor.”
Rubbing my hand over my jaw, I nod hard. “And
Mannix?”
It’s Levi standing beside her who answers. “I had him
taken to Liam. The rest of the men are already en route to the
house to regroup.”
“Okay. Good.” Liam is our doctor on call. Mannix is in
good hands, and Levi got to him before the paramedics could,
which means there won’t be any questions where he’s
concerned. “Keep the uniforms in the dark. I’ll handle them
later.”
I need numbers. I need information. How many did we
lose? How many more injured? I should call Dominic and find
out how they fared, what the plan is for retaliation if Renz is
still breathing.
But right now, this fucking second, I can’t think about any
of that. Not until I have her in my arms and safe.
“Go to the guest house,” I tell Levi, heading toward the
door. “Get numbers and assess damage, and don’t let anyone
move or breathe near the Carpellas until you hear from me.”

I haven’t been inside a hospital since I was seventeen, since

the Carpellas put me in the ICU.
And I don’t miss the dark irony that I’m returning now for
a Carpella. One with the eyes the color of my favorite brand of
whisky and a stubborn streak that tenses every muscle in my
body.
One who dances with the grace of an angel and the sultry
fire of a sinner, hellbent on tempting me to defy my own
loyalty.
One who just today took my name in place of hers.
When I saw Violet walking up that aisle, every single cell
in my body lit up. Whatever plans I had for tomorrow,
whatever devils I was determined to destroy, went up in a flash
of smoke. All I could see and want was her—a whole new
tomorrow filled with her beauty, and grace, and tender
touches.
A vile anger still clings to my skin as I walk the sterile,
white hallway of the ER level. I still carry Damarko’s blood on
my suit, stained with vengeance and wrath, the deadliest of
sins that own my soul.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to wash myself clean enough
for her, to scour away the years of brutal violence and havoc.
But as I check behind the curtains in search for her, my wife, I
remember the moment when she led me to the shower and
washed the blood of my victim from my skin, and the searing
heat in her amber eyes, the want, the need…
And I realize I’m exactly the man to complete her.
The dark to her light.
I find Violet in the third partition and I throw the curtain
back, startling a nurse. He’s readying an IV bag, needle held
aloft as he stares at me, gaze wide as he takes in the blood on
my tux and skin.
“How is she?” I ask, moving toward the side of the gurney.
After a long beat, where he probably questions whether or
not he should alert security, he answers. “She’s all right. Good.
Better. We gave her something to calm her, and she had
stitches in her cheek and shoulder.”
I skim my thumb over the bandaged cut on her face, fire
brimming the edges of my tolerance. The nurse goes to insert
the needle, and I stop him. “She doesn’t need that.”
“But—”
“She’s not safe here.” Any one of the Carpellas seeking
retribution will know right where to strike.
 With the girl I fell in love with.
I break the plastic hospital band around her wrist and
collect her in my arms. I let her head rest against my chest and
I hold her close, her slight body so delicate, I have to breathe
out a strangled breath to make sure I’m not holding her too
tight.
I hear the nurse’s muffled report as he informs someone
over the phone about the maniac who just stole a patient, but
it’s already forgotten as I carry Violet down the hallway and
out of the ER. Every step I take with the comforting weight
and feel of her in my arms, where she belongs, loosens the
constriction around my heart. This girl is mine, and I’m taking
her home.
19
HIS & HERS
VIOLET

I fully came to in the car during the drive to

Lucian’s home—my home.
Our home.
It’s strange I don’t even know where that home is, that the
family I thought I belonged to has become strangers, that an
uncle I believed would protect me amid our dark world…I
plunged a knife into his heart.
I’m sure when the shock of the day’s events wears off, I’ll
feel something about that. Guilt, remorse. Sorrow. Right now,
however, as Lucian carries me up the spiral stairs, I’m
perfectly numb.
The only thing I want to feel is the security of his strong
arms. In this moment, I feel safe, even loved. I never thought
the man who made me tremble as he towered over me, who
branded my skin with the harshest touch, could be so gentle.
But he handles me like I’m porcelain. Like I might shatter.
Silently, he enters the master suite bathroom and turns on
the light, setting the dimmer low, somehow knowing my eyes
can’t handle any bright lights.
He sets me on my feet, then guides me to sit on the
dressing bench. My wedding gown is torn and stained. The
tulle skirt dingy and ripped. The shiny bodice is soaked with
blood. And I’m embarrassingly still missing my panties. The
memory of Damarko violently ripping them off turns my
stomach.
Lucian’s gaze snags mine, and he must read my thoughts,
because he palms my cheek and says, “He’s dead.”
I press my lips together. “Good. He was an asshole.”
The ghost of a smile steals across his mouth. “Don’t think
about it ever again. He’s scorched earth.”
I nod sagely before he stands and moves to the shower. My
gaze studies the scrapes on his hands that must have been
caused by my cousin. Lucian killed him. For hurting me. I
should feel appalled, maybe, but all I can feel is relief.
He turns on the spray, testing the temperature, before he
begins shedding his clothing, which is even more ruined than
my gown. As he strips the jacket off, revealing the
bloodstained shirt beneath, I gasp.
“You’re hurt.”
He glances at the slash along his rib cage like he just
remembered he’d been injured. “I’m fine.” He proceeds to
remove his shirt and pants, and I watch with bated breath as he
reveals all his enticingly sensual skin and lean muscles. The
scars and the ink, the new wounds that will scar over to add to
the painful tapestry of his body that tells the story of his life.
“Where’s your First-Aid kit?” I know he has one.
Lucian scrubs an impatient hand through his hair and then
grabs the kit from a drawer. He starts prepping the wound, and
I take the cotton from his hand.
“This is my job now,” I tell him.
While I’m tending to his cut, cleaning and bandaging,
Lucian watches me with a curious arch of his eyebrow.
Admittedly, I’ve never had to bandage someone after a fight to
the death…but I’ve had plenty of practice with my feet.
A tremor leaks into my hand as I finish off the dressing. I
know I can’t ask him not to get hurt; I’m married to the
underworld now.
“I’ll try,” he says, and my gaze lifts to meet his with
understanding.
I bite the corner of my lip and nod.
He takes my hand and guides me around so my back is to
him. The feel of him expertly unlacing the backing of the
gown sends an arousing shiver over my skin. Soon my
wedding dress falls to the floor, leaving me bare.
I step out of the gown and he tosses it out of the bathroom.
“We’ll burn it,” he says, a hard edge to his voice.
 As I turn to face him, my gaze resting on his chest and the
tattooed cross, he removes the pins from my hair, letting the
length fall down my back. Then he opens the glass shower
door and leads me inside the stall.
The warm water melts over my skin, cleansing away all
thoughts of family and betrayal and death. Lucian tips my face
upward and skims his fingers over my jaw and cheeks, careful
of the bandage protecting my stitches, gingerly washing blood
from my skin. Much in the same way I washed the blood from
him, trying to bring him back from the brink, seeking the man
behind the monster. He’s looking for the woman beneath all
the anguish.
“He deserved worse,” he says, and I know he’s referring to
my uncle, trying to alleviate my burden, my guilt.
“I know,” I say, even if I don’t fully believe it yet. “I’m
fine.” I repeat his words back to him, but the doubt in his eyes
conveys what he’s unwilling to voice.
“What happened—?” I start.
“Not tonight.” His heated blue gaze flits over my features,
so intense, an ache lodges at the base of my throat.
“Tomorrow, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. But
tonight, all I want is to feel you and know you’re mine.”
His words are an aphrodisiac, sending a blazing shock of
arousal between my thighs, heightening my awareness of his
erection pressed to my belly.
I lick my lips, gaze cast on his beautiful face. “We didn’t
even get to say ‘I do’.”
He releases a lengthy and breathless groan as his gaze
drops lower to my body. “Cailín beag, I’m making you my
wife,” he says, adamant. “So if you need that vow, you better
say it now.”
Despite being in shock during the moment, I summon the
hazy memory where Lucian forced the priest to finish
marrying us by threat. A smile twists my mouth. In the face of
chaos and death, this man’s only focus was me, and making
sure our marriage was sealed.
 I reach up and lace my arms around his neck, wincing a
little at the tender soreness in my shoulder. “And what if I
don’t declare my vow?” I tease.
A primal growl rumbles from the back of his throat. “I’ll
make you dance until you’re dripping wet, then I’ll fuck you
until you’re screaming I do.”
He doesn’t give me a second to respond. He nips my jaw,
trailing a lingering kiss over my lips, before he spins me
around to face the tiled wall. Planting my hands to the tile, he
lifts my hair from the back of my neck, making me shiver.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
I hold still as he grabs the shampoo bottle and doles out a
generous amount into his hand. As he begins to lather it into
my hair, washing away all the grime and blood from today, the
action does something to my heart. Hands that are rough when
fisted in my hair, are now gentle and soothing, taking extra
care to offer me comfort.
The sudsy foam slips over my shoulders and down the
valley of my chest, drawing his attention, then he’s all urgent
need as I feel the press of his hardness against my backside.
He lowers his mouth to the nape of my neck where he first
places a kiss, then to the dressed wound on my shoulder.
He suddenly tenses. “You tried to take a bullet for me.”
His voice is guttural, raw. I remain silent, unsure how to
respond. “I don’t know whether I should punish you for that
stupidity, or kiss you until you’re crazed with need.” He makes
a sound of appreciation as his hands slip around my front,
spreading shampoo suds over my breasts and making my
knees weak.
“Those options sound like one and the same,” I say, nearly
breathless.
“Hmm.” Mouth hovering over the juncture of my neck, he
nips the tender skin, causing my belly to flinch. “Don’t ever do
it again.”
He doesn’t give me the chance to counter as he turns me
around and presses my back to the wall. Eyes fierce and
blazing, Lucian proceeds to kiss me desperately, making good
on his threat. He cups my face, tilting my head up and holding
me firmly in place, as his mouth seals over mine. He steals my
breath, tongue delving deep to claim my mouth for himself.
As he pulls away, his gaze flicks over my features. He
presses a gentle kiss to my cheek, to the bandaged cut on my
face, before working his way down my body, dropping kisses
over every bruise and scrape.
I’m almost a heaving puddle by the time he reaches the
apex of my thighs. I can feel his breath hot and clipped as he
roughly grips my leg and deposits my foot on the shower
ledge, spreading me open to him.
Warm water cascades over the planes of my body to wash
the suds from the shampoo over my skin as he rubs his hand
up my slippery flesh. Then he sucks my clit into his mouth. I
tremble at the salacious feel of his tongue flicking over the
sensitive bundle of nerves, already wet and needy to feel him
inside me.
He reaches up and rubs the soapy water over my breast,
pinching my nipple between the slats of his fingers, as his
mouth brings me close to the edge. Torturous thoughts of him
leaving me like this—needy and unfulfilled—assault me, and I
say, “Don’t stop…please…”
A sound of anguished need rumbles out against my
sensitive flesh, heated by his breath. “I want you to come for
me, cailín beag.” He licks my slit all the way to my clit,
decimating my sanity. “Because when I fuck you, you need to
be ready.”
My eyes shutter closed at the coarse tone of his voice, and
I nearly come on command, not even needing penetration as
he laps at my pussy. My hips undulate as my body begs for
friction, and when he rubs his fingers over my folds while
sucking my clit, I come un-fucking-done. I claw my fingers
into his hair as I shatter against him, back arched off the
shower wall.
He rises to his feet to swallow my moans, picking me up
by the backs of my thighs and pressing us under the spray of
water. I lock my legs around his hips as the rest of the
shampoo washes away. Lucian turns the water off before he
carries me out of the shower.
He keeps me cradled in his arms as he runs the tap on the
soaking tub. I break the kiss to give him a questioning look.
“I think we’re clean enough,” I say, my tone mocking.
The depth of his blue eyes is startling. “I don’t know how
to be gentle, but for you, I’m going to try. This way, I won’t
lose control.”
His admission sends a ripple of awareness over me. I stare
at him, realizing for the first time his affinity for water. I
wonder if he’s even aware of it, or if there’s a subconscious
part of him that requires the cleansing agents of the water. He
swims after he does a job, and even before he sets out on one.
And it was the shower that brought the man back from the
dark edge the night he came home covered in blood.
So it makes sense that, after all the bloodshed, on a day
that was supposed to be about beginnings and instead was
steeped in so much death, we should end up together in a tub
of water, purifying each other as we become one.
I hold his unsure gaze and nod. “I trust you,” I say, before I
kiss him, loving the way he loses himself so furiously in me he
groans against my mouth.
He steps into the tub and lowers us, placing my back to the
deepest section. The water rises to my waist as he settles
between my legs. He braces an arm over the lip of the tub and,
god, the sight of his arm strained above, holding his
beautifully inked body carved of hard, lean muscle over me, is
the sexiest thing I have ever seen.
I shake my head against the tub. “You’re just…too much
man,” I say.
His laugh comes sudden and unexpected, and it’s the most
beautiful sound. I stare up at him in wonder, imprinting the
image of his smiling face in my mind.
He runs his thumb over my cheek, gaze lingering on my
face. “Christ, I’ve wanted you just like this since the moment I
saw you.”
His confession slips over me like a tantalizing current,
carrying my uncertainty away as he coaxes me into a sensual
kiss. His hand roams my body worshipfully, his touch
becoming more urgent, frantic. Rough.
Although I can feel him holding back, restraining himself.
I don’t want that—I want all of him. Fury and wrath and wild,
unhinged passion. I turn the kiss more heated, scraping my
nails down his back to urge him closer. The press of his cock
to my entrance sends a desperate, empty ache into my core,
and I lift my hips in silent surrender.
He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine, as he
takes measured breaths. Then he captures my jaw, tilting my
face toward him so he can stare into my eyes as he pushes
against my folds.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, cailín beag, you destroy
me.”
He enters me slowly, the water dulling some of the
friction, but not enough.
“Fuck, you’re still so fucking wet…” He says it like an
accusation, as if he’s angry with me or the water for betraying
him. His eyes shut against the onslaught as he tries to ease
inside me without causing pain. “You’re strangling my cock,
you’re so tight. Goddamn.”
I bite down on my lip, the fullness of him entering me an
uncomfortable pressure before a sharp, piercing pain snatches
my breath. But as he fills me, sinking inside and sending a
flutter of elation to my chest, I can’t stop my hips from
grinding against him, demanding more.
The coppery taste of blood slips into my mouth from my
split lip. His gaze traps the sight, his body stilling. Like a
predator sensing prey, hunger seizes him, carnal and
consuming, before he strikes.
I lick my lips, and he tracks the movement with ravenous
intent. “Hurt me until it feels good,” I say on a breathless plea.
 “Tá tú ag dul a dhéanamh fucking dÚsachtach dom,” he
says, slipping into Irish, his accent so damn sexy I lose my
mind. I’m not sure if he even realizes it, his eyes blazing and
devouring me as he’s forced to relinquish control.
His mouth descends on mine, running his tongue across
my bottom lip first to lick the bead of red, slowly, seductively,
before he captures my mouth in a brutal kiss. I’m on fire as he
tastes me, his blaze consuming. He thrusts inside me fully, his
hips spreading my thighs wider as he drives deep, penetrating
me until I’m forced to sink my teeth into his bicep.
The primal act fuels him on, and he pulls out slightly only
to thrust in harder. A moan releases from me unbidden, and I
watch as gooseflesh rises along his skin at my desperate
sound. He moves faster, harder, thrusting in deeper each time,
until there’s no control left to cling to.
Water sloshes around our bodies, the sound mingling with
the slap of our flesh, so erotic. Lucian comes undone on top of
me, his body smooth and abrasive at the same time, our skin
conducting a heated current, igniting flames.
I dig my nails into his flesh, feeling his skin break beneath
my desperate grip, my ankles linked and my heels digging into
his backside, as he fucks me with ruthless abandon. The pain
begins to subside, giving over to panged loss every time he
moves out of me.
As his hand spears my hair, angling my body where he
wants me to tunnel deeper, he hits the needy ache inside me
and I cry out.
“Shit. Are you hurting?” he asks around his clenched jaw,
unable to stop moving completely.
I shake my head against him. “Keep going…it feels good.”
He whispers a harsh curse before he lifts up and gazes
down at me. “Good girl.” Wrapping his arm around my lower
back, he hoists me against him. “Because I’m about to destroy
that pussy.”
The rough cadence of his voice sends an arousing shiver
over my heated skin, and I circle my arms around his
shoulders as he carries me from the bathroom to his bedroom.
Gone is the careful man who is too gentle with my body as he
drops me on top of the duvet, staring down at me like a beast
about to mutilate his meal.
Mindful of my shoulder, I lift up on my elbows to take him
in, hard and erect and his eyes pure hellfire, the tip of his cock
still carrying some of my blood.
I swallow at the sight. “Are you going to wash off?”
He glances down before meeting my gaze with vicious
hunger. “I want every part of you staining me.”
He prowls over me like a crime lord bent on conquering, a
monster unleashed from the bowels of hell to deliver
damnation. He collars my throat with a grip meant to dominate
and kisses me like he’s been starved, and punishing me is the
only way to satiate that hunger.
We’re battered and bruised and wounded, but all pain is
forgotten as carnal lust and need fires through our veins,
drawing us closer.
His hold around my throat tightens as he moves down my
body and captures my nipple between his teeth. The slight
pinch shoots to the neediest, empty part of me, and I buck my
hips, demanding him to fill me.
He groans against me and, as if I weigh nothing, he flips
me over and pulls my ass up against him. He backs up enough
to rub his hand over my ass cheek, then bites the tender flesh,
eliciting a throaty cry from me.
“Grab the headboard,” he commands.
My body piqued, I reach out and grip the oak, the sharp
edge satisfying as it digs into my flesh. Then the feel of his
cock pressing against me is all it takes to send me right over
the edge, and I feel myself soaking my thighs.
He slams inside me, hard and relentless, not holding back.
His hand anchors around my neck to fasten my throat in a
choke-hold, arching my body in a lewd position meant to give
him the best angle. It’s filthy, raw. Deviant. And my whole
body ignites like gasoline on fire at his cruel touch.
 His other hand snakes around my pelvis, fingers expertly
seeking the bundle of nerves that are already too stimulated
and, when he rubs my clit, I almost break.
“This is mine,” he declares, his voice a gruff assertion.
“Say it. Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
I gasp on a moan, the constriction of my throat surging to a
heightened, desperate frenzy to reach climax. “Yours,” I
manage, my voice strained. “I belong to you.”
He drives into me with malicious longing, almost like if he
doesn’t take every piece of me, I’ll vanish. “Mine,” he growls,
thrusting so hard and deep inside me, I feel the slap of it in my
lower back.
His thrusts intensify, the sound of his dark groans so sexy
it curls in my belly, spreading over my back and deep in my
core…until he pinches my clit, and I break.
“That’s it, cailín beag,” he says, fucking me harder, “come
for me. Soak my fucking cock.”
He chokes up on my throat as my body tenses, then
loosens his grip, sending a euphoric rush through my whole
body. My skin sizzles, a web of pleasure spins around me,
lighting up my body like a live wire.
As I come, I feel him grow harder, his thrusts desperate
and pounding against my ass until he drives so deep and holds
there, releasing a torrent of curses as his hot breath touches my
skin. He releases inside me, pulsing against my inner walls,
sending another level of arousal coursing my veins.
His arm shackles my chest as he holds himself there,
suspended as the last of his orgasm claims him, his labored
breaths raining down on my back. Then he pulls me away
from the headboard and props me back against his body, his
chest and arms caging me against him.
Our breathing begins to slow, our bodies coming down
together in sync. No words are needed, and I lay my arms over
his, relishing in the strong feel of him, knowing we belong to
each other.
“Could you love me?”
 His question startles me, and I finally turn around in his
arms so that I’m straddling him. The clear blue of his eyes
lances my heart, so beautiful and vulnerable. I touch his cheek,
resting my thumb over the white scar on his chin. “Tell me
about this scar,” I say.
He licks his lips, then kisses my thumb. “My brother gave
it to me.” His eyes crease with the distant memory. “We got
into a fight…over something dumb, can’t even remember. But
I punched him so hard,” he laughs, “I surprised him. Oh, he
finished the job. I got this scar to prove it, but for the first
time, he knew I wasn’t a kid anymore. Afterward, he gave me
a shot of bourbon.” He touches the scar reverently. “One of the
best memories I have of him.”
I kiss him, loving the taste of him, the feel, his intoxicating
scent. I love his cruelty and power, and I love his fierce but
tender beauty and protectiveness. I love how intensely he
fights for what he believes in, how honorable he is, and I love
that he saved me from an endless life of lies and betrayal.
“I’m in love with you, Lucian Cross,” I say, linking my
arms around his shoulders.
“Good,” he says, resting his forehead against mine, sharing
my breaths. “Because I fell for you so fucking hard, I’d rip my
heart out if you asked it of me.”
I ease back and run my fingers through his hair, watching
him intently. “I’d never ask it.”
“But you know I’d do it just the same.” He kisses me then,
affectionately, searing our bodies together in a physical oath.
20
LOVE & ASH
LUCIAN

T hrough my windshield, I stare at the massive

house across the street. The Italianate
architecture stands out starkly against
Desolation’s industrial backdrop. The city lights of
skyscrapers and complexes dot the horizon behind the
Carpella estate, and it’s uncannily silent, the darkness too still
and betraying the malevolence sheltered within the walls.
The Carpellas have the police chief in their pockets. Even
with Carlos out of the picture, there is an agreement in place.
The wedding massacre will be written up as a crazed member
of the family who was against the marriage, or some bullshit
spin the media will devour.
Levi handled the police questioning at the cathedral,
dismissing all queries to our syndicate lawyer. I’ll have to go
in tomorrow with the lawyer to make a statement, as well as
Violet. Nothing will come of an investigation. It’s just
procedure—one that will require me to make a “donation” to
law enforcement, a payoff to the right person. I’ll get a call
soon.
No, things like this are handled internally between the
crime syndicates.
Typically, there’s a cool down period among organizations
after a bloody confrontation. There’s talks, negotiations, and
new agreements. No one expects retaliation this soon.
But then again, I’m the madman of the Irish Syndicate, and
I have a reputation to uphold. I don’t do things by their laws
anymore.
I make my own.
Before I left my home in the morning hours before
daybreak, I watched Violet sleep. I watched her chest rise and
fall. I stared at my ring on her dainty finger. I studied the
stitches on her cheek and shoulder. And I tamped down fierce
rage when she flinched in pain as she slept, the whole time my
pulse rioting in my ears.
You can pray for peace.
Or you can fucking make sure no one disturbs it.
By driving a knife into Carlos’s heart, Violet took my
revenge. In a way, it belonged to her more than me. The
parents are avenged before siblings, and although my brother
deserved retribution, Violet’s mother was owed reprisal too,
and the price was paid for the both of them in one final act.
Her hand, my blade.
The blood debt is settled.
It should be enough to sate the demons crawling under my
skin, but I know how this dark world operates. Stamping out
your enemies is like a game of whack-a-mole. More always
pop up.
I won’t ever leave Violet’s side for reasons other than her
safety, and that’s why I’m here right now. To ensure my wife
remains safe.
I made a vow to her that I’d burn the fucking world to
protect her.
And I plan to honor that vow if I have to burn the whole
motherfucking world to ash.
I step out of my car and stalk to the high fence surrounding
the Carpella estate. An hour ago, I prepped the scene, putting
every detail I needed in place. Glancing at the surveillance
camera, I make sure the light is out, that it’s still disabled, then
I push through the gate.
The scent of gasoline hits me as soon as I broach the
house. Lowering to my haunches, I remove the cigar and
lighter from my inseam. Mannix gave it to me in celebration.
We were going to smoke the illegal Cuban cigars together with
my men—but we never got that chance, and now I’m finding
another way to celebrate.
I light the end of the cigar and take a few hard puffs,
blazing a red cherry. I inhale deeply, savoring the flavor,
before I walk toward the gas can. I douse the side of the house,
connecting the trail I already laid around the whole perimeter,
then walk back toward the fence, splashing the gasoline as I
go.
With one last heavy toke on the cigar, I toss it to the
ground.
Flames ignite instantly.
The blaze races toward the house, the roar of flames
slicing through the night air.
I watch the flames shoot up the side of the house, then zip
around the border, caging the house in a ring of fire.
While I drove Violet home from the hospital, I called my
lieutenant and put a couple of my men on watching the
Carpella home. I wanted confirmation that Renz and his capos
were all going to be here for the next twenty-four hours.
With a funeral to plan of a crime boss and an organization
to take over all at once, Renz would have a heavy, full plate.
He escaped the wedding fallout according to Dominic, but he’s
not escaping me.
Thirty minutes ago, after I picked off the guards using a
silencer on my rifle, I set off three cans of sleeping agent
inside the house. By the time their bodies are roused awake
from the searing pain, it will be too late.
I can only imagine a couple other ways to die that are more
horrifying.
It takes a monster to kill this callously without remorse.
To protect what’s mine, I am that monster.
The heat of the fire touches my skin as the inferno licks
high into the dark sky. Sparks pop and smoke plumes the
backdrop, Desolation’s landscape hidden beneath the smoke. I
watch the scene mercilessly, making sure no one escapes, gun
gripped in my hand, until the distant sound of sirens rends the
air.
As I climb into my car and pull away, I only look back
once in my rearview as I leave the scene. The sky is blood-red.
 By sunrise, the Carpella empire will be ash.
A blatant and suicidal action like this could have never
been taken with Carlos alive. And waiting even a few days to
allow the Carpellas to regroup and reinforce their organization
is a wasted opportunity.
You have to strike while your enemy is weak.
With Renz gone, and the other major players taken out of
the game, that only leaves Salvatore to take charge until a new
don can be appointed.
Against my better judgement, I can’t kill Violet’s father. I
made sure he wasn’t inside before I torched the house. He’s a
lowlife bastard who doesn’t deserve her mercy, but he’s also
the most likely Carpella to work out a new negotiation with
the Irish Syndicate—one who we can control. With a sizable
payoff, Salvatore will grant a pardon for any past
transgressions and secure an alliance.
If Salvatore remains in power, then it’s only a matter of
time before he fucks over his own men and they take care of
him for us. Then we’ll plan our next move from there.
Once I enter my home, I shower in a downstairs bathroom,
scrubbing the smell of gasoline and smoke from my skin,
before I make my way up the spiral staircase to my bedroom.
I slip into bed beside Violet, my wife, my reason for
fucking breathing, and wrap her in my arms.
She stirs awake. “Everything okay?” she asks, her voice
drowsy with sleep.
I kiss her shoulder. “Everything’s fine. Just had to take
care of some last-minute details.”
I’ll tell her everything in the morning. She’s a made
woman now, I can’t keep her in the dark. She’s a part of my
syndicate more so than any of my men because she’s a part of
me. And that makes us family.
“Is my father still alive?” she asks, a hitch in her voice.
I sigh out a heavy breath as I roll her around to face me.
“As long as you wish it, and as long as he doesn’t try to harm
you, I’ll let him keep breathing.”
She nods against the pillow, her amber eyes vibrant even in
the dark as she looks into my gaze.
“You killed the head of the snake,” I say to her. “That
should keep things quiet for a while.”
She licks her lips, enticing me to do so much more than
talk right now. “There’s still the body to deal with,” she says.
“Then we’ll handle it together.”
A new Irish syndicate, initiated with the Italian spawn of
my enemy—the only woman who can bring me to my knees.
No matter what troubles tomorrow holds, as long as she’s
by my side, I’m the fucking king of Desolation.

Thank you for reading Marriage & Malice, lovely reader! I

hope you enjoyed Violet and Lucian’s story as much as I
enjoyed creating their journey. Please consider leaving a
review, even a short one, as it means so much to authors.
Thank you! Keep flipping the pages to discover more of my
work.
 FREE BOOK OFFER
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ALSO BY TRISHA WOLFE
Darkly, Madly Duet
Born, Darkly
Born, Madly
Broken Bonds Series
With Visions of Red
With Ties that Bind
Derision
Standalone Novels
Marriage & Malice
Cellar Door
Lotus Effect
Five of Cups
Living Heartwood Novels
The Darkest Part
Losing Track
Fading Out
A Necrosis of the Mind Duet
Cruel
Malady
 ABOUT TRISHA WOLFE

From an early age, Trisha Wolfe dreamed up fictional worlds and characters and
was accused of talking to herself. Today, she lives in South Carolina with her
family and writes full time, using her fictional worlds as an excuse to continue
talking to herself. Get updates on future releases at TrishaWolfe.com
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 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to:

My amazingly talented critique partner and friend, P.T.
Michelle, for reading so quickly, giving me much needed pep
talks and advice, wonderful notes, and for your friendship.
My super human beta readers, who read on the fly and
offer so much encouragement. Melissa & Michell (My
M&M’s), and Debbie for offering me so much helpful insight
as always. All the girls in The Lair for reading the ARC and
cheerleading. Your excitement keeps me going! I really can’t
express how much you girls mean to me—just know that I
couldn’t do this without you.
To all the authors out there, my kindred, who share and
give shouts outs. You know who you are, and you are
amazing.
To my family. My son, Blue, who is my inspiration, thank
you for being you. I love you. To my husband, Daniel (my
turtle), for your support and owning your title as “the
husband” at every book event. To my personal assistant, my
PA of freaking amazing, Meagan, who rescued me from the
cliff and became my family. I have no idea what I’d do
without you, and I hope to never find out.
Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs, thank you so
much for not just creating all my stunning, take-my-breath-
away covers, but for also rocking so hard! You are so much
fun to worth with, and I cannot wait to work with you again on
future projects.
 There are many, oh, so many people who I have to thank,
who have been right beside me during this journey, and who
will continue to be there, but I know I can’t thank everyone
here, the list would go on and on. So just know that I love you
dearly. You know who you are, and I wouldn’t be here without
your support. Thank you so much.
To my readers, you have no idea how much I value and
love each and every one of you. If it wasn’t for you, none of
this would be possible. As cliché as that sounds, I mean it
from the bottom of my black heart. I adore you, and hope to
always publish books that make you feel.
I owe everything to God, thank you for everything.