Shadowed Heart: A Dark Reverse Harem Romance (A Death So Sweet Book 1)

by Candace Wondrak

  As much as a dingy apartment above a small bakery could be considered home, anyways. I’d left home home a few years ago now, and I never planned on going back. There were just some things you didn’t do to yourself, and going back to that place was one of them.

  Let’s call it hell in a mansion, misery hidden with money and power and prestige. I could go on and on about how disgusting and putrid all the rich people I’d known were, but this… let’s just say my family made everyone else look like saints.

  By the time I made it back to my place, it was near dawn. I had to be careful heading up the metal stairs on the side of the building to reach my second-story place; heels were not made for walking on metal grates, let me tell you. An obviously cheap and fake rock sat just before my door, and I bent down and grabbed it, pulling the key out and unlocking my door before putting it back on the metal ground.

  It wasn’t like I had anything good to steal in there, so if someone really wanted to break in, I figured why not make it easy for them?

  I’d finished the Cajun turkey a while back, having tossed the bag in a trash can as I walked. My tummy was nice and full now, and I kicked off my heels, leaving them near the door as I headed to my room. It was a small place, maybe six hundred or so square feet. Big enough for a tiny bathroom, an old and completely outdated kitchen area combined with a living room, and a small bedroom. Most of the place was empty; I didn’t have much furniture, and the furniture I did have I trash picked.

  You would be surprised at the shit people threw away. Perfectly fine and useable couches—one of which was a pull-out bed that I kept permanently out in the bedroom.

  I left my wig on the floor in my room, and I changed out of my dress, getting into a baggy shirt and some men’s athletic shorts. No underwear on beneath either of them. What could I say? I liked to let the ladies breathe and my coochie get a nice airflow.

  Making my way to the living room, I plopped down on the couch and turned the television on. Too early for news yet, and, anyway, I doubted anyone had found Dickless yet. Still, better safe than sorry.

  Call me conceited, but I enjoyed watching the city try and figure out just why all these men were dropping like flies, why the Night Slayer was targeting them. You couldn’t blame me for wanting to see the fruit of my work.

  Chapter Two – Lola

  Days passed, and the more I spent on that couch, eating cereal and pizza rolls, I couldn’t help but wonder when the fuck someone was going to try to contact that fucker and realize he wasn’t answering his phone. By now, his phone was probably dead, so his calls would go straight to voicemail. Like, come on. Find the body, put him on the news; was that too much to ask?

  Apparently so, depending on who you asked.

  A week went by, and it was time to go out a-hunting again. A part of me didn’t want to go out before they found Dickless, but if there was one thing living in this tiny ass apartment made me, it was stir crazy.

  Night fell. I waited until Saturday night to get dolled up again. I showered, washed my hair, dried it and straightened it; it helped it pack under the wig better. I dressed in the same heels, though I did wear a different dress: this one a cherry red with a plunging neckline. Nowhere to put shit in my tits in this one, but that was okay. This one had pockets.

  I know, I know. A dress with pockets. What more could a girl ask for?

  Once I was ready to go, wig and all, I headed to the door, locking it behind me before heading down the metal staircase. I made it to the sidewalk, spotting a car sitting in the bakery’s parking lot. At first, I thought nothing of it; the bakery closed early and sometimes drug deals would take place there. But then, when I started walking down the sidewalk, I heard the car start up and pull out.

  Was it following me? If it was a police vehicle, if they were here to arrest the Night Slayer, they wouldn’t have waited in the parking lot. They would’ve just come up, busted through the door, and dragged me out and taken me in.

  I thought about glancing behind me, but then I realized, once the police were out of the picture, who the fuck would be following me, anyway? No, it was probably a coincidence. Maybe I’d walked down right after a deal or something.

  I picked up my pace all the same, though—and when I did, I heard footsteps behind me on the concrete, like someone was trailing me. I stopped and turned around, intent to tell this motherfucker off in the worst way, but everything happened so fast after that.

  The only thing I saw before being knocked out by a whack to the side of the head was a man wearing all black.

  My head pounded something fierce when I came to, jerking awake as my consciousness suddenly came back to me in full-force. My eyelids were like stone, refusing to lift—or maybe they did, and I just had a bag over my head or something.

  Shit. Did I get kidnapped? Was I going to be thrown into some sex slave ring or something? Oh, if that was the case, these motherfuckers had another thing coming—

  “Awake, fucking finally,” a dark, sinister voice hissed out. A man’s voice, definitely. A voice that could kill on its own.

  I squirmed, realizing that, yes, a black sack was around my head, and my wrists were tied behind my back, my ankles to the legs of a chair, my knees spread apart. And that, in itself, meant my red dress must’ve been very bunched up on my upper thighs.

  Oh, no. I didn’t like this one bit.

  Even though my head hurt like a bitch, I still managed to say, “Can you get this bag off my head? I’d like to see who I’m talking to—” I barely got the words out before a strong, violent hand ripped the sack off me, and my eyes took a few moments to adjust. My blonde hair was in my face, meaning he’d already taken off my wig.

  When my eyes finally fixated on the man standing a few feet in front of me, I felt my heart nearly stop in my chest. I didn’t think I’d ever seen a man like him before, not even in my nightmares.

  Wearing all black, he must’ve stood well over six feet tall. His hair matched his clothes, a pure, undiluted black. Half his head was shaved, revealing a thick tattoo on it, and that same tattoo traveled down his neck and disappeared beneath his shirt. Black eyes set in a face that could freeze anyone dead with a glare, a freshly-shaven jaw that was so square he looked like he could be chiseled from stone.

  Fuck. He was hot.

  And he looked like he wanted to rip me apart, limb by limb, which, frankly, only made him hotter.

  The room we were in was dimly-lit, made up of darkly painted walls and no furniture at all, save for the wooden chair I was tied to like some animal.

  He dropped the sack on the floor, moving closer to me as he growled. Yes, the man actually growled at me, like an animal. What sweet, delicious torture had I stepped into when I wasn’t looking?

  “You know why you’re here,” he muttered, frowning at me.

  I leaned my head back, fighting the headache threatening to make me hurl, and grinned at him. “I’m afraid I don’t,” I said, eyeing him up and down, “but why don’t you untie me and we can have a little fun?” If I was free, maybe I’d be able to make a run for it. Maybe I’d be able to find something to beat him over the head with.

  The man’s arm shot out, and before he said anything, his fingers curled around my throat and started to choke me.

  Ah, so it was like that, was it? Fine. If this asshole was going to kill me, let him. Better than spending my life behind bars and waiting for my turn on the electric chair. Why the chair? Well, because I wanted to go out with a bang, not a whimper. Not a stupid injection. I would choose the chair every fucking day.

  “You’re nothing but a fucking whore,” he hissed, baring his teeth like the dog he was.

  My throat burned in his grip, my lips parting as I tried to gasp for breath. I looked him in the eyes and saw nothing but black voids, darkness eternal. There was no emotion in that stare other than fury and hatred, and all of it was aimed at me, as if I’d wronged him personally—which was impossible, since I’d never met this asshole in my life.


  I’d remember a man like him. A man who looked like that you didn’t just forget.

  “If I’m a fucking whore, then who are you? Santa?” I asked, coughing the words out. It was a struggle to speak, but well worth it, judging by his pissed off expression. “Am I on your naughty list?”

  He was most definitely not Santa, because I highly doubted Santa Claus would shave half his head and tattoo his body like that, not to mention all the black. I mean, he looked like a fucking stone-cold killer, for God’s sake.

  Just to prove he wasn’t Santa, he released my neck and backhanded me across the cheek, so hard my vision saw stars and my headache nearly exploded. I was fine, though. The pain was nothing. It might bother some people, but it didn’t bother me one bit.

  I laughed. I laughed and sounded like a crazy bitch, but once I started, I just couldn’t stop. The look on his face was priceless. “If you want to kill me,” I advised him, “you’re going to have to go a little harder than that, big boy.”

  The man, who mustn’t have been more than a few years older than me, looked like he was ready to explode, ready to wrap those hands around my neck and choke the life out of me. He didn’t, sadly. No, instead he simply heaved a punch to my gut and knocked the wind out of me.

  “I’m not going to kill you just yet,” he whispered, kneeling before me as he made a big show about cracking his knuckles. “I’m going to make you wish you were dead, first.”

  At that, I could only smile. Such a pretty, handsome face he had, and yet those were such ugly words. I, personally, couldn’t care less about the threats or the intimidation. If he was going to kill me, there was nothing I could do about it, nothing I could do to stop him—not while tied to this chair. I was at his mercy, and he appeared to have none. Zip. Zilch. But that was fine. His venom didn’t sink into my veins.

  Like I said, he’d have to try a lot harder.

  “Before we get to the good stuff,” I wheezed out, still smiling like a madwoman in the face of my demise, “can you at least tell me why I’m here? Please don’t tell me I’m just some random chick you picked up to fulfill your need to kill or something—”

  Honestly, there was nothing worse than a killer who killed just to kill. Ooh, boy. That’s a lot of kills, but you get my point. The great ones always had a reason. Maybe they were mad. Maybe their parents fucked them up as kids. Maybe they needed to feel an ounce of control. Maybe they thought, like me, they were doing society a favor.

  The killers that history would remember were not the ones going around and shooting people at gas stations. No, history would choose to remember the ones who had a system, the ones who listened to their calling and did its bidding again and again.

  The man got up and began to chuckle, either in disbelief or shock, I didn’t know. He opened his mouth to stay something, but before he could, the door to the room opened. It must’ve been behind me, for I couldn’t see it, nor could I see any windows. As far as I was concerned, I was locked in this room.

  Another man walked in, this one wearing a sleek suit. His black hair was slicked back, and he looked to be in his thirties. He didn’t even look at me, simply addressing the other man in the room: “Your father wishes to talk with you.”

  The man scoffed. “Tell him to…” It was like he was going to tell the suit-wearing man to tell his dad to fuck off, but then he thought better of it. Saying not another word, he stormed out of the room, leaving me alone with the man in the suit.

  I studied him. Another attractive man, but then again, maybe I just liked the danger radiating off them. Who could say for sure? Like many of the infamous killers of the world, my childhood was rightly fucked up. Sometimes it was hard to see the line between right and wrong, while other times I simply didn’t give a shit.

  The man in the suit stared at me, unimpressed in every way. He broke the silence of the room, saying, “You do realize you fucked yourself here, don’t you? You might be accustomed to using that body to get out of things in the past, but here it will not work. Not after what you did.”

  My eyes narrowed at him. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

  “My name is Roman, and I work for the family you cut into.”

  Roman. What kind of name was Roman? I rolled my eyes at him, making no attempt to hide my annoyance at this whole thing. “What the hell are you even talking about?” As I spoke, I sounded as innocent and naive as I could. Just a girl, caught in the wrong crowd, the wrong situation.

  He was having none of it, though. “You were caught on camera in Mario’s apartment, covered in blood. He is now nothing but ash because of you, and because you did what you did, you will now face the consequences, whatever they may be.”

  “Ah, so Dickless’s name was Mario, huh? What a stupid name, no offense. I don’t think Roman’s a nice name, either, but maybe I’m picky—”

  His dark brows came together. “Do you not realize what shit you’ve stepped into?”

  “Do you realize I don’t care about the amount of shit?” I shot back, shrugging as best I could, considering I was still attached to a chair. It was mighty uncomfortable. “I don’t care about fucking Mario, okay? I don’t care about you, or about that guy, or about his fucking father—I literally could not give less of a shit.”

  Roman let out a short chuckle. “Alright. It’s your funeral. I do wonder if anyone will cry for you.” He said nothing else, leaving the room, leaving me alone to ponder everything he’d just said. He told me more than the first guy had, that’s for sure.

  Dickless’s name was Mario. If I cared enough, I could’ve looked for his name in his wallet, on his I.D., but I didn’t. Why the fuck would I care?

  But, wait. He’d said he was nothing but ash now, which meant his body was found. I was caught on camera, but not arrested, and there was nothing on the news about it. This… these people, whoever they were, were keeping this under wraps.

  I wasn’t naive enough to wonder how or why, but it did make me wonder just who Mario was to these people.

  Was he a son? A friend? Clearly he was important to these people, but the extent of that had yet to be seen. I had no idea what mess I’d gotten myself into, but you know what? I was fine with it. If this was how I was going to die, so be it. Let it happen. Let my death come in the form of a sexy man choking the life out of me. If that tattooed guy was the last thing I’d see before dying, I’d be fine with it.

  Everyone died eventually, anyway. Sometimes it was just good to hurry it along.

  As much as I wanted my reign on this city’s male folk to continue, I’d always known it was a matter of time before I was caught. I just always assumed it would be the police or the FBI to get me, not some family of criminals. But maybe this was better. I wouldn’t have to go through jail or a trial or any of that shit.

  Kind of a pity, because I did want to hear everyone talking about me. I guess I was as vain as the next serial killer, wanting their crimes to be written in stone and preserved for all of history. This would be a death hidden away from everyone’s eyes, and society would always wonder who the Night Slayer was.

  I sat there, letting my eyes wander, now that I had no sack over my head and I was fully conscious. I wasn’t in a cell of any kind; it literally looked like an office, minus the furniture, with maroon walls and dark wood floors. Canned lighting sat in the ceiling above me, dim as a light could be.

  Was this where they’d do it? Where they’d kill me? Or would they take me someplace else to do it, someplace that would be easier to clean? I could imagine that these wood floors were a bitch and a half to clean after blood seeped through the panels. It looked like older wood, too. Who would want to risk such a pretty floor?

  And then I began to wonder how they’d do it. It wasn’t the first time I’d imagined my own death, but this time, I could taste it. This time, I knew there was no running away from it. Dickless had been my ticket to my demise, and I’d gotten on the train without knowing when it would reach its destination. Well, the joke was on me
; I was here now, and there was no going back.

  I was going to die here, that much I knew.

  Bring it on, motherfuckers.

  Chapter Three – Maddox

  It’d taken too long to find her. By the time we realized something was wrong, that Mario wasn’t answering his phone, it was too late. He was long dead by the time we arrived at his apartment and found him on the floor, having bled out from a single wound on his neck. The knife sat, stained and dried with blood, against the baseboard in his bedroom.

  Mario had been two years younger than me. My baby brother, by all measure. He’d never been into the family business, hated it when our father called him into work, but he was family all the same. When you were a Luciano, you didn’t just walk away. You couldn’t. You were forced to stay, whether you liked it or not.

  He didn’t deserve the end he got at the hands of a club slut, and I was more than willing to teach her a lesson or two before torturing the life out of her.

  They called me Mad Maddox. Let’s just say I earned the nickname for a reason.

  Carter had gone with Viper and Big Mike to grab her and bring her here. I’d thought we were just going to torture and kill her—because why the fuck else would we have brought her to our family home after she’d killed one of us—but then Roman had interrupted us and said my father wished to speak with me.

  I liked Roman, I did. We depended on him and Carter to do a lot for us; mainly be our quiet executioners. Being a Luciano, you tended to have enemies, and when you thought you took care of them all, more of them sprouted out from nowhere, as if they’d been waiting in the woodworks for their chance to shine and permanently put an end to our family.