Jaded Devil: An Enemies-to-Lovers Mafia Romance

by Nicole Fox

  “And you refuse to believe me,” I press. “Because, as usual, you think you know better.”

  “I do know better.”

  “You got lucky with Saoirse,” I tell him. “But you’re also an incurable romantic.”

  “How dare you?”

  I smirk. “I’m not you, brother. Not after… not after everything that happened. You know my rules. You know how I live my life.”

  He sighs. I’m sure he’s doing the exact same thing I’m doing—rubbing the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache.

  He knows what I went through. Even Cillian O’Sullivan, who never dreamed up a joke that wasn’t worth mentioning, knows better than to make light of it.

  “Yeah, well, we can’t all be churning through every eligible bachelorette in Manhattan in twos and threes like you do. You’d better be careful, though, brother—at your age, you might have a heart attack in the sack. Lucky bastard, that would be a hell of a way to go.”

  I laugh, but I know my brother. There’s not a trace of longing or jealousy in his tone. He doesn’t want the single life. He hasn’t since he set eyes on Saoirse. Their love story is three decades strong now.

  Sure, there’s a minor thirteen-year interruption in there somewhere. But otherwise, a modern-day fucking fairytale. With a few extra guns and gore thrown in. Which really just makes the story much more interesting.

  “I’ve got to go handle this shit,” I tell him.

  “Right. And call Saoirse when you have the chance. She worries about you.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know why.”

  “She’s a worrier.”

  “She’s got children to worry about.”

  “Her children live close.”

  I snort. “Well, I’m honored to be included in her list.”

  “Be careful what you wish for.” Laughing, Cillian hangs up.

  I don’t like the silence that crowds in afterwards, so as soon as the call is over, I dial in Tiernan’s number. It’s late, but I know he’ll pick up. Very few of the calls I make go unanswered.

  Sure enough, he speaks up on the third ring. “Everything okay, don?”

  “I have a small problem I need you to take care of for me.”

  “Of course. What’s the problem?”

  “There’s a woman in my penthouse,” I say. “She needs to disappear tomorrow.”

  I have a strange feeling traveling up my body as I say the words. An almost visceral rejection of the order I’m giving my righthand man.

  And like most of the uncomfortable feelings I’ve had in the past, I squash it.

  “Got it, boss,” he says. No questions asked.

  “She’s trapped in the wardrobe in the guest room. The big one.”

  Again, no questions. Not even a hint of surprise.

  “Consider it done,” he replies. “I do have that meeting with Carver in the morning. Late morning.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “No rush. Do it after.”

  “Will do, don.”

  I end the call and start dialing again directly after. I’m drumming my fingers against the desk when Phoenix finally picks up.

  “Hey.”

  “You were supposed to give me an update,” I remind him.

  “There aren’t any to give,” Phoenix says defensively. “We’re still looking.”

  “Got any leads?”

  He hesitates for a second. “He’s got someone helping him.”

  “And you know that because?”

  “His trail dried up about an hour ago,” Phoenix replies. “He’s being hidden. Protected.”

  Cillian’s words flash across my eyes. The Lombardis still have allies in the city. I’ll have to root around the old files. Dig up old names that used to side with the Lombardis when it came to land disputes and the like. Some of them had defected to the Clan when they saw the writing on the wall. Others had run. Most had died in that first battle twenty years ago.

  “Send me your location. I’ll join the search.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I know you can,” I tell him. “But this search might benefit from a little extra manpower.”

  I can tell he wants to argue, but he drops it at the last moment. “As you wish. Sending you the coordinates now.”

  “Good.” I hang up.

  My forehead throbs as I stare out at the New York City skyline. The Lombardi fucker is out there somewhere. I plan on finding him before the night is through. Then I’ll come back here and deal with his sister.

  Cillian’s right: I can’t afford to be distracted by amber doe eyes or a perfect pair of tits. There’s too much at stake here.

  I clench my fists and get up.

  Time to take care of business.

  12

  Renata

  The closet is dark and humid. I try rattling the doors again and again, but it doesn’t get me any closer to escaping. Like it or not, I’m trapped.

  I huddle up, legs to my chest, still dripping water from the shower. Kian’s naked body flashes across my mind’s eye far more often than I’d like. Every time it does, I sneer and try to make the vision disappear.

  But who am I kidding? He’s a fucking specimen. Carved from marble. Eyes like jewels. And the gray in his hair only heightens it all.

  He’s been the boogeyman in my nightmare for twenty years. But the darkness in him does something very, very dangerous to the darkness in me.

  I fall asleep at some point.

  Or at least, I think I do.

  All I know is that suddenly, I’m not in the wardrobe anymore—I’m somewhere else. Somewhere twenty years in the past. And I’m not the bitter, angry adult Renata Lombardi anymore. Not quite.

  I’m just a five-year-old girl wondering what is happening at my father’s wedding.

  Why there’s so much blood.

  Why the screams of dying men echo through the house.

  There’s blood dripping off the hem of my dress, but that doesn’t bother as much as the screams. They’re coming from the courtyard just outside the house.

  “Stay away!” Someone had shouted that to me when the gunfire began. But I’ve never followed instructions very well.

  When I step forward, under the slight shadow of the doorway, I see him.

  A man. Tall and muscular with short hair, brown but shot through with blond, and intense blue eyes that skewer me in place.

  An avenging angel.

  He’s covered in blood, but I don’t run. Even when he walks toward me and squats down in front of me, I feel safe. Comfortable in his presence. His eyes are intense, but not unkind.

  He tears off a scrap of his own shirt, and my eyes linger on the piece of fabric as he raises it to my cut cheek.

  “Who are you?” I ask in a tiny, meek voice.

  He doesn’t answer. Just keeps mopping the blood off my face. Then he stands and turns to leave.

  “Wait! Don’t leave,” I whimper. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look back. He just disappears around the corner.

  “Help me,” I whisper. But no one can hear me.

  My eyes dart open.

  The scene—the blood, the man—it all disappears. I’m awake again. But all I can see is darkness.

  I gasp and sit upright. My legs complain instantly. I’ve fallen asleep lying on the wardrobe floor with my knees scrunched up near my chest. I try to stretch, but a cramp pulses up my leg and I have to keel over to try and soothe the muscle. Even after it passes though, my body aches.

  How long have I been in here? I can see a sliver of light through the tiny slit at the bottom of the wardrobe door. It must be morning—but what time?

  The air feels stale, oppressive. And it smells like him. Kian O’Sullivan’s scent is burying me in here, drowning me.

  I want out. I need out.

  I push against the wardrobe doors, but they don’t budge. He knew what he was doing when he trapped me in here.

  Maybe it’s not his first time doing this, I think bitterly. Maybe I’m not t
he first woman to be locked in the Irish don’s wardrobe. Sick fucking bastard.

  I shake my head, trying to dislodge the strange feeling that my dream has left on me. In it, Kian felt more like savior than villain. The dream is familiar—I’ve had it thousands of times in my life—but that part of it certainly isn’t. That part is new.

  “Fuck me,” I say out loud. The words echo between the dark walls of my makeshift cell.

  I don’t know what’s more frustrating: the fact that I’m trapped in here with a man who’s clearly dangerous… or the fact that a part of me is drawn to him despite that.

  I’ve never been so fucking confused in my entire life. Even when I was lunging at him with a weapon in hand, intent on ending his life, I couldn’t help but marvel at his naked body. Even when I was struggling to breathe as he pinned me against a wall, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of hot excitement.

  Which leads me to only one logical conclusion: I’m sick.

  I’m a fucking sick person. What kind of woman is attracted to the man who’s trying to kill her? A scarred woman. A broken woman.

  I’m inclined to blame Drago. My brother did a good job desensitizing me to violence. It’s a language I understand better than I should. But I can’t blame him for this. He spent his entire life drilling only one thing into me: the Clan is the enemy. Kian O’Sullivan is the devil incarnate. And only with his death can we be free.

  But I tried to kill him, and look where it got me?

  Maybe Drago was wrong about some things.

  I adjust my position and rest my head against the back of the wardrobe. I have to keep my legs pulled up towards my chest. There’s no other option but to ignore the ache in my limbs. At this point, even if I’m released from this wardrobe, I have no idea if I’ll even be able to walk.

  I sit there for a long time. An hour feels like five in the confining darkness. But then, finally, I hear sound.

  Someone’s walking into the room.

  I stay as silent as possible and wait. I know instinctively that it’s not Kian. His footsteps are heavier, more authoritative. Whoever’s in here is submissive. Quiet. Eager not to disrupt anything.

  I can hear things being moved around a little. The whoosh of a duster and the whirr of a vacuum. A maid, perhaps?

  Hope fills me up and suddenly, I don’t care about the stale air. I just need to wait—and hope that she decides to open the wardrobe door.

  It takes longer than I expect for her to reach this side of the room. I can see her shadow swallow up the light every time she passes by.

  If she knows I’m in here, she’s not likely to let me out. But if I make a noise, she’ll probably open up the doors to check. So I start to make a gentle rapping noise with my nails, hoping it sounds just innocent enough to coax her to open the wardrobe out of curiosity.

  The vacuum stops. Footsteps shuffle closer. The light between the floor and the door of the wardrobe snuffs out completely.

  Then, like a fucking miracle, the doors rattle. The bolt cranks open.

  I act instantly.

  The moment I see light—real light—I shove the door open. It cracks the maid in the face and she stumbles backwards with a stunned shriek. Tripping over the edge of the rug, she hits the ground hard with one hand clapped over her bleeding nose.

  I feel a twinge of guilt. The terror on her face is obvious. But being kind doesn’t get you very far in life. That’s another lesson my brother taught me.

  My legs feel like jelly, but I can’t afford to show weakness. And I’m not done using this woman yet. I need something more. I force myself forward until I’m standing right on top of her.

  I must look like an unholy monster, because she’s clutching her heart and staring up at me in fright.

  “How did you get in here?” I hiss.

  She’s a kindly-looking woman. Probably in her mid-fifties. Her hair’s graying at the edges and she’s got laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. She looks like the kind of woman who has grandkids she spoils and a lazy husband at home who never contributes nearly as much as he should.

  I start yelling at myself internally. Stop it. Stop creating a story for her. You need to create a story for yourself. Preferably one where you’re still alive by the end.

  “How the fuck did you get in?” I glower at her.

  She recoils away from me and smacks her head on the floor by accident. When she speaks, her voice is a broken tremor. “I… I’m just the… the maid...”

  “Did someone let you in?”

  “I… I have the code…”

  Yes! Hell fucking yes. “Tell me,” I order, toeing the bottom of her trembling foot. “What is it? Tell me now!”

  She starts shaking her head as tears spill down her cheeks. I feel horrible, but I’m too desperate to give into the guilt. I have to get out. She has the code. This is the only way.

  “Tell me now!”

  “Master Kian… He will be upset…”

  I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not, but I think I hear footsteps. I’m terrified he’s going to walk into this room right now and derail my escape attempt. I have to hurry.

  Suddenly, I find my hands around her neck. And I’m staring down at her deep grey eyes.

  “Please don’t make me hurt you,” I whisper. Now, my tone is bordering on desperate.

  Her eyes go wide as I apply more pressure around her neck. “I… I…” she croaks.

  The expression on her face is so damn familiar that for a moment I can’t stop looking at her. I can’t help but try to place it.

  And then it hits me. The expression is familiar because it’s one I’ve had many times before. When Drago was in one of his moods and I was the easiest outlet for his anger.

  This is how it feels to fear for your life.

  My eyes leave her face and flicker to my own hands, wrapped around this poor woman’s neck. After all those years with my brother, I’ve finally become the thing I hate most.

  I release her instantly and back away. I can’t even hide the fact that I’m trembling. Her eyes are on me, but she stays where she is on the ground.

  “I… I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I’m so sorry… I… I just… I have to get out of here. Please. He’ll kill me.”

  She has no reason to care. No reason to help me after what I just tried to do to her. But her expression shifts instantly. The terror fades and she looks at me with concern. With sympathy. With the desire to help.

  “Fifty-six-eleven-seventeen-forty-two.”

  My mouth pops open. “Say it again.”

  She repeats it again. This time, slowly.

  A tear slips down my cheek. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  She nods. “Go,” she urges almost silently. “Now.”

  I don’t wait to be told twice. I scramble forward and out of the room. My numb legs trip me up more than once, but by the time I make it to the elevator, I feel slightly steadier.

  I punch the code she just gave me into the keypad.

  Fifty-six…

  Eleven…

  Seventeen…

  Forty-two…

  I wait. Pray with eyes closed. And then the elevator doors ping open.

  I don’t allow myself to feel relief. I leap inside just before the doors shut and mash the button for the bottom floor until my finger cramps up.

  The thirty-second ride to the ground floor feels like an eternity. I’m half-expecting to be faced with a small army when the doors open at the ground level.

  But there’s nothing except a huge, perfumed foyer with calming music floating through the space. I comb my hair with my fingers and walk through the foyer without making eye contact with anyone. I try to keep my pace brisk but unhurried so as not to draw unwanted attention to myself or the fact that I’m barefoot and bedraggled.

  But I can already feel eyes on me. I’m nearly at the revolving door of the building when I hear someone call out, “Uh, excuse me, ma’am?”

  That’s when I run.

  I burs
t out into the city. The noise of taxis and pedestrians and hissing A/C units overwhelms me, but I can’t stop. I have to keep moving. Thankfully, my legs don’t betray me again. I keep running until my lungs have been emptied of air and my side is splitting with fresh pain.

  All those years of constant running and working out have finally paid off.

  I lose myself in the streets of New York, and when I work up the courage to look over my shoulder, there’s no one following me. Just a bunch of moody New Yorkers hurrying around, trying their best to avoid one another.

  Relief starts to surge through me, but as it does, I become aware of other needs. I badly need to use a bathroom. And I also need to eat something. Except that I don’t have money and walking back to Long Island is obviously out of the question. Not that I’d go back there, now that it’s on Kian’s radar.

  Which means I’m essentially homeless. And I have no one but myself to rely on.

  I walk around aimlessly until fatigue and hunger get the better of me, forcing me to scan the area for a decent-looking place to take refuge. A pizza shop with a sign over the front reading Domenico’s seems suitable enough.

  I walk inside, glad that no one pays me any notice. I head to the back of the restaurant to the restrooms and spend ten minutes washing off the grime and sweat from my face. I’d kill for a fresh change of clothes, but for the moment, I’m stuck in my old jeans and torn t-shirt. A quick rinse will have to suffice.

  When I exit the bathroom, the smell of baking pizza fills my nostrils. I follow the scent back into the dining area. I glance around, wondering how I can get my hands on a slice without any money.

  I’m not precious about my looks. I’ve never subscribed to the idea of false modesty. You can acknowledge something about yourself without being a dick about it. And I know I’m pretty. Maybe even beautiful on my good days. Sexy, when I make the effort.

  I look down at my t-shirt. It definitely looks a little worse for the wear, but it’ll do the job, I think. I fluff up my hair a little and walk over to the small bar counter.

  There’s alcohol on the top shelves, but the bottom is devoted to four wood-burning ovens, two of which are occupied.

  The guy manning them is young. He’s dark-haired, with patchy skin and a swimmer’s build. He looks like he’s around my age. Definitely not my type, but then again, he doesn’t have to be. As long as I’m his type, this might work.