Sweet Surrender: A Dark Mafia Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (King's Trace Antiheroes Book 1)

by Sav R. Miller

  The thought of being stuck at any event with him makes my ulcer flare, but I nod instead, hoping to usher him out. “Sounds good. I’ll have to check my schedule, but I’m always looking for events to attend. It’s good to keep up appearances, wouldn’t you say, Senator?”

  His eyes narrow, his gaze attempting to dart back to his daughter, but I wedge myself further between them. With an exasperated huff, he smooths down the blue sweater vest he has on, clears his throat, and exits the same way he came in.

  Benito pokes his bald head inside, an apologetic look on his face, but I shake my head. I’ll deal with his dumbass later.

  Caroline climbs to her feet, clutching my jacket around her small form, and the sight of my clothing swallowing her has my mouth drying. But the look on her face, her eyes downcast and sullen, her features somehow sunken, has me retreating.

  She glances at Luca’s passed out body, then up at me through watery blue eyes. I don’t understand what’s happening, why the fight’s suddenly drained from her life force, and it throws me off-balance.

  I want to reach out and draw her to me, promise her that whatever the hell’s going on, it’ll all be okay. That I can help her, keep her safe. But something tells me she won’t believe me.

  As she turns on her heel, leaving her shorts across the room and me with her injured cousin, I’m fucking sure of it.

  AN INVISIBLE CHASM opens up between Elia and me in the weeks following my father’s unwanted drop-in, not that we necessarily needed the help. It’s hard to get close to someone who spends all his time at the elusive Crimson—a place I’ve been instructed not to step foot into—or in our pool out back, swimming laps like he’s trying to escape his demons.

  I guess he doesn’t know how they embed themselves in your skin, locking in with a ferocity that can’t be outrun—only slain.

  Normally, I wouldn’t cower from my father’s leering gaze, but being fully naked around the man brings back memories I’m just not willing to let resurface. It’s taken a lot of willpower to get over some of the things he did and said to me as part of the grooming process, and I won’t suddenly let myself regress.

  Elia wanted answers, I could tell, but I’m not looking to give them. My battles are my own to fight, and although I married him for a reason, I’m not actually looking for a savior. Just some revenge.

  The distance between us shouldn’t matter to me, especially considering my growing attraction to him. But still, when I’m assigned a new bodyguard—Leonardo Fanucci, a brute of a man who doesn’t speak or blink or seem to even breathe—I can’t help feeling like I’m being punished.

  And, well, maybe I am. I did almost fuck one of his soldiers, and without established boundaries and expectations, it’s hard to know where exactly we draw the line. Apparently, he draws it at that.

  Good to know.

  Liv comes to visit the week after, during one of Elia’s frequent stretches where he sleeps at his office and only checks in a few times a day to make sure I’m not dead. I’m working on cran-orange muffins, a recipe handed down through generations on my mother’s side, when she saunters in, black hair tightly braided and pulled back off her neck.

  Leo stands just inside the front door, hands crossed over his crotch, watching me. Always watching. Like the cameras hidden around the house aren’t enough for my husband.

  “Oh, good, I’m starving.” She’s wearing a beige pantsuit with a deep purple undershirt, indicating her departure from work, and I can’t help the soft stab of envy that pricks my stomach.

  I’d always expected to own a little bakery by this point in life, to be spending my time baking professionally and sharing my craft with King’s Trace.

  But here I sit, still baking only for myself.

  “Cranberry-orange,” I tell her, watching as she plucks a muffin from one of eight tins, tearing off a piece of the top and stuffing it in her mouth. “Allergies?”

  She waves me off. “Don’t worry about that; I’ve got an epi-pen. I’d have to eat like twenty of these for it to really flare up.”

  “Fine, but don’t expect me to dig around in your car for the pen.”

  Laughing, she plops down on one of the barstools at the island, idly chewing. She glances around the kitchen, eyes flickering between me and the muffins. I quirk an eyebrow, daring her to comment.

  The thing about Olivia is that she’s never, ever, afraid to speak up, especially for something she believes in. She’s the stronger of us two, willing to go toe-to-toe with anyone standing in the way of her getting what she wants.

  Unfortunately, she’s also always been vocal about my choices, and the fact that I don’t appear to have a backbone.

  That’s what all the major news outlets in Maine report on me, anyway; that I’m spineless. A jellyfish, willing to do my father’s bidding and suck whatever cock he needs me to. A vessel to help dig him out of debt and look good for his campaigns.

  Liv sees it and hates it. Always has. So, it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise that she’s against my marriage, especially knowing how close it seemed I was to getting out from under my father’s thumb.

  I wasn’t, though. She just doesn’t know what else he had planned for me.

  She doesn’t know that marrying Elia was strategic. My father’s not willing to cross the most dangerous man in a town as small as ours, not yet.

  Liv sighs, pressing her lips together. “Honestly, Care, what’s going on here?”

  “I’m baking, same as usual.”

  “You have ninety-six muffins here. How long have you even been up? It’s ten in the morning.”

  “Uh, are you unaware that bakers get up early? Like, middle-of-the-night early?”

  “You’re not a baker, though. You’re, officially, a housewife that enjoys dessert.”

  I turn on my heel, inhaling a deep, cleansing breath. Flipping the light on to the double convection oven, I inspect the muffin-tops for signs of overcooking, but there are none. These are perfect, golden brown and fluffy. Baker quality. Checkmate, bitch.

  “Did you just stop by to reiterate your disappointment in my life decisions?” I toss her a dirty look over my shoulder as she finishes her last bite. “You could’ve done that over the phone.”

  “No.” She dusts her hands off on her pant legs, leaning her elbows onto the counter. “I came to check on my best friend, to see for myself that she’s still alive. Apparently, Elia gave Luca quite the beating last week.” A dark eyebrow raises in question, prompting me.

  “You think he’d beat me?”

  “I think you married a made man, and he’s capable of anything. And I know about you and Luca, just like I know what jealousy sometimes does to a person.”

  An image of Elia standing over Luca’s bloodied body, then turning and crossing the room to take me into his arms flashes across my vision, startling me with its intensity. It’s probably extremely fucked up that I so willingly went to him after that, but God, no one’s ever cared enough about me to do something like that.

  Nobody other than my father, who shouldn’t care like that in the first place.

  “Well, I’m fine.” I pull on two black oven mitts and throw open the appliance, reaching in for the last tin. The hot, fruity scent assaults me as I set the tray on the stove, shucking off the mitts.

  “How can you really be sure, though? When’s the last time you left the house?” Her big, brown eyes scan my body, and I know what she sees; sweats, unwashed hair, and a splotch of muffin batter dried to my chin. “You don’t look like yourself, Caroline.”

  How fitting, then, that I don’t seem to feel like myself, either.

  “I just want my friend back.” Liv’s voice is soft, almost inaudible, and it makes my heart clench. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m happy if you’re happy, even if I don’t trust the guy. But I didn’t think you getting married meant I had to lose you, too.”

  Turning to face her, I lean back against the counter, tilting my head tow
ard the ceiling. “You didn’t lose me. I’m still here. I’m just… doing something different.”

  Her eyebrows draw inward. “Juliet made it seem like you guys were soulmates that couldn’t stand to be apart any longer. Your response just now doesn’t feel like that, though.”

  “Come on, Liv, you know me better than anyone. Do I ever tell my sister anything of consequence?”

  “I know, but she seemed so certain.” She reaches out for another muffin, extracting it from its pan and tearing off the top, eating the bottom half first. My stomach lurches at the absolute disrespect, but I remain silent. “So, if that’s not the case—and, for the record, duh, like I wouldn’t know if you’d found your soulmate—what’s going on?”

  I chew on the corner of my lip, contemplating the necessary details. I don’t want to involve Liv in anything that could get her into trouble, but I feel bad lying to her, too. She doesn’t exactly know everything that’s gone on at home in the last decade, but she knows my father is a piece of shit, which is more than I can say for my mom and sister.

  “If I said it was time to get out from under my father’s reign, would you be able to just leave it at that?”

  She frowns. “Uh, no. I definitely need more details.”

  “Liv, I don’t think you want the details.”

  “I think I do.”

  “Olivia Taylor. No.”

  She swallows, dropping the other half of her muffin onto the countertop in front of her. “Okay. Tell me this: are you in trouble?”

  “No.” Not yet, anyway.

  “A promising start. Do I need to ask my dad to be available for your retainer, in the event that you do get into trouble?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” Wiping her hands on her suit jacket, she shrugs. “All I need to know then. Keep the rest to yourself, but Jesus Christ, Care, don’t shut me out completely. I’m still your friend, right, secrets aside?”

  “Of course, you are.” I shoot her a wide-mouthed grin; it stretches painfully across my face, nearly splitting it in two.

  “Good, because I need a date to the birthday shindig I’m throwing myself a few weekends from now.”

  I groan, any hope that her work would keep her from wanting to do birthday stuff shattered. “I don’t really feel like partying.”

  “Oh, come on! You say that every year, and every year we go out and get plastered, and you have a great time.”

  “A great time throwing up, you mean.”

  She giggles, her hand coming up to cover the small gap in her front teeth. “Vomit is an indication of a good time, yes. I’m not taking no for an answer, Caroline. Think of it as a bachelorette-party-birthday extravaganza, something to make up for that honeymoon you guys didn’t take.” Glancing around, she nods, eyes lingering on the tall, white walls and the grand staircase. “Why didn’t you have one again?”

  “We had to reschedule, something about a conflict with Elia’s work. But, I’ll go out with you this time, especially if it means I get to ditch the warden.” Hooking my thumb over my shoulder, I point toward Leo, who hasn’t moved a single muscle the entire time we’ve been standing here.

  Glancing down the counter at an envelope I discarded—the precursor to baking today—she scans the page from the King’s Trace D.M.V., acknowledging a name change request I never submitted. Because, apparently, my husband is a crazy person.

  Sitting up and ignoring the paper, she claps her hands together, already pulling her iPhone from her jacket pocket and typing something out on it. “I’m telling your sister to meet us there for drinks. I had a friend at Jupiter hook me up with exclusive VIP tickets, which cost an absolute fortune. Honestly, knowing who you married, I don’t know why we can’t get in for free.”

  Eyes narrowing, I reach for my own muffin, taking a bite right off the top. “Where are we going?”

  “Crimson.”

  As I take a second bite, the tangy fruit flavor exploding against my tongue like a tiny orgasm, my stomach flutters. Many of my father’s men frequent the club, known for its high-caliber cocaine and high-security presence. But with Elia on the hunt, looking for insight into my past, it’s impossible to get in without being noticed.

  Maybe with the help of these tickets, bought under someone else’s name, I’ll have a fighting chance.

  When Elia finally comes home that night, long after Liv has eaten an entire tin of my muffins and made plans to pick me up Friday at midnight, I’m lounging on the sofa in the living room, scrolling through what’s available on Netflix.

  He stumbles inside, suit jacket and shirt askew, hair tousled, reeking of stale whiskey and cigars. Leo assists him over the threshold and into the front room, settling him down in the armchair across from me.

  I see a quick flash of Benito’s bald head as the front door shuts, making me miss the crusty bastard. At least he sometimes smiled.

  Ignoring his drunken state, I continue looking for something to lift my spirits, the weight of my life seeping into my bones, trying to drag me into a deep depression. Elia’s heated gaze bores into my skin, setting my soul aflame, but I don’t give in.

  “Principessa.” His voice is breathy, weightless, as it drifts across the room to me.

  Still, I ignore him, unwilling to acknowledge the desire and concern lurking in his eyes.

  We’re supposed to be enemies, bound by a singular purpose: duty, loyalty.

  He wants to protect me, appear noble and powerful to his men, this town, and I want to free myself of the bondage that’s kept me broken for so long. Caged. Fighting. My loyalty lies with me, and that’s why I’m here.

  The way my husband looks at me, though, makes me wish things were different. Makes me forget that I want revenge. And he may think he’s using me, protecting me, but he has no fucking clue that I’m the predator. That I’m using him, waiting for the chance to strike.

  “Christ, you’re beautiful.” His head flops onto the back of the chair, chin pointing toward the vaulted ceiling. His eyes trace the circular motion of the fan mounted at the peak. “What’s a pure, innocent soul doing with someone as wretched as me?”

  I purse my lips but keep my eyes on the television. “Maybe I’m not so pure and innocent.”

  Snapping his head back, I see a smile grace his perfect features for a moment. A shiver skitters along my skin, scattering goosebumps in its wake. “Oh, don’t I fucking know it.”

  I settle on a British baking show, watching the contestants go through the motions and trying not to focus on Elia unbuttoning his dress shirt from the corner of my eye. His movements are slow, lazy, and the warmth from his stare bores into me like a cattle prod trying to brand me.

  “Do you believe in fate, Caroline? Destiny?”

  Sighing, I sit back against the sofa, refusing to turn my head. “We already discussed that the day we met. Luca’s party, remember?”

  Elia scoffs, shoving his shirt open and off his broad shoulders. “Luca, right.” He’s quiet for a moment, and I try to focus on the contestant attempting to make fondue. They’re failing, miserably, but I’ll give them props for trying. “Do you ever think about what it was that brought you to me?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “I know what brought me to you, Elia. My bastard father. Not fate, or God, or any other sort of universal intervention.” Crossing my arms, I finally steal a glance, and when I do, the breath is knocked from my body.

  He frowns, shaking his head. “I think it was something else. Something grand. Spectacular. Earth-shattering, like you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Caroline, I can’t get you out of my head. I don’t know what it means, especially since we still hardly know each other, but I know these thoughts aren’t normal.”

  I swallow, twiddling my thumbs, unsure of what to say to that.

  “Does that scare you?”

  “Nothing scares me.”

  He watch
es me, eyes narrowed. “Nothing? Not even the fact that you might be developing feelings for me?”

  “I barely know you.”

  “We all have to start somewhere.” He sighs. “You remind me of my mother. Not in a creepy way, but with how strong you are. How proud, resilient. I know you’ve seen some bad shit, but it’s clear to me that you’re still good despite all that. Your innocence might be stained, but it’s not missing.”

  Not waiting for a response, he stretches and fits his head back against the chair. His eyes close and his breathing evens out, allowing me time to peruse him.

  Raking my eyes over his naked torso feels like being punched in the throat and then getting kicked in the vagina. He’s cut, the lines of his chest and abs so deep and defined, I think he’d draw blood if I traced my fingertips along them.

  And God, do I want to.

  But that’s not what’s so shocking. Honestly, having felt his body against mine a few times at this point, it’d be more shocking to see an ounce of fat on him.

  No, the sight that steals the breath from my lungs, razes the walls around my heart, are the scars lining his forearms; jagged pieces of white, raised flesh dotting the corded muscles—like fulfilled destinations on a map, telling me of his sordid past.

  A source of vulnerability, as the king of King’s Trace has never been seen publicly without a shirt on, except supposedly by his bodyguards when he swims. And I’ve not been paying close enough attention when he’s in a state of undress to have noticed the scars before.

  There’s a flock of birds swirling around his left rib cage, as big as my head, a tattoo I’m certain no other woman in town is aware of. The linework is intricate, done by someone he trusted, which is not an easy thing to come by when you’re born into the world we were.

  My heart flutters as I compare the two. His is a world ripe with criminal activity and power; mine thrives on the same things, but it veils them in a much more sinister way—manifests that power and activity differently.