Emperor of Rage: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

Fear explodes through my system. Reality itself feels glitchy, like this isn’t truly happening. Like I can’t actually be in this situation.

The last rebellious part of me that refuses to go down without a fight tries to squirm and push away from him. But it’s like pushing against a cement wall.

I shudder as his grip tightens with the kind of precision that tells me he’s done this before. Many times. He’s not closing off my air—at least, not yet—but the way his hand is wrapped around my throat unquestionably says that he is in charge. He decides whether I breathe or not.

Whether I live or not.

It’s control. Total, unnerving control.

The cold glass of the window behind me presses against my back, the crack biting against the small of my back where my shirt and jacket have ridden up. I barely notice it, though. Every fiber of my being is fixated on the man in the mask standing in front of me.

Looming over me.

Twisting a knife into my very soul and psyche.

The terrifying mask covers his face completely, but even so, it’s like I can feel his eyes on me. Like I can sense the way his pupils trace over my face, down my neck, and then over the rest of me, moving slowly as if he’s memorizing every inch.

I can’t see those eyes. But I can fucking feel them, dark and intense, with a cold, graveyard iciness. A piercing stare that pins me to the glass as effectively as his hand on my throat.

I’m not going to survive this.

The thought slices into my mind as I stare into his blank, monstrous face. The office around us feels too small, the walls too close. My chest constricts, and I’m struggling to breathe, not from the pressure on my throat but from the pure, unadulterated fear that tightens its grip on my lungs.

“Please,” I whisper, the sound pitifully small in the vast emptiness of the office. “I didn’t see anything.”

For a moment, when his non-answer drags on forever, I wonder if I really am in the hands of an actual monster. Something from a horror movie, like that creepy thing from Pan’s Labyrinth with its eyes in its palms. I imagine somehow getting a hold of the mask and ripping it off only to find empty blackness behind the mask, because he has no face.

Finally, a low, dark chuckle escapes him, but there’s no humor in it. His fingers flex slightly on my throat, just enough to remind me that I’m completely at his mercy.

My mind searches frantically for an escape, a way out. But there’s nothing. No one. Just me and the monster who feels like death himself.

He tilts his head slightly, considering me, trying to decide whether or not I’m worth the effort of keeping alive.

“ID,” he growls, his voice low and rough, the single word cutting through the silence like a knife.

For a second, I don’t move. I’m too shocked by the sudden command. But then his fingers tighten around my throat.

I fumble in my jacket pocket, my hands shaking as I pull out my ID. It’s fake, of course—one of several names I use when I’m going into situations like these, or looking for another layer of anonymity online.

It’s not just a fake ID, either. I’ve worked hard to craft these “personas”. Each of them, including this one, will bring up a whole person if investigated.

But none of them trace back to the real me.

The monster with a hand around my throat snatches it from me with a speed that makes me flinch. I shudder as he holds it up to the dim neon light filtering in from outside.

“Karen Vanderschmit,” he reads, rolling the name over his tongue. He sounds almost… amused.

I swallow hard, trying to hold onto the few shreds of composure I have left. “I’m just a temp!” I stammer. “Working for Orlov Financial Solutions!”

The way my voice breaks and quavers isn’t actually thanks to my amazing acting chops.

I’m just that scared for my fucking life right now.

“I—I didn’t see anything! I swear!” I choke. “I’ll never tell a soul! Please, just let me go.”

His head flicks up from the ID, pinning me with that same cold stare. I can feel him assessing me, weighing my words, like he’s deciding again whether I’m worth the trouble.

My heart is pounding so hard I can barely think.

He steps closer, pressing his body against mine and pinning me even harder to the cracked glass behind me.

I can feel the heat of his body. I can smell the coppery tang of blood in the air.

“Do you really think I’m just going to let you walk out of here?” His voice is low, a dangerous purr that sends a shiver down my spine.

I shake my head, unable to form words. My mind is a vortex of panic and fear. Every instinct screams at me to run, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

The hand still holding my ID lifts. He drags the plastic corner of it along my collarbone, over the black cotton of my t-shirt, down over my breast until it rests right on my heart.

My breath catches in my throat and I try to push him away again, but his grip tightens, easily holding me in place.

“I didn’t see anything,” I repeat, my voice trembling. “I’ll forget it. I swear.”

For a second, there’s only silence, the weight of it pressing down on me like a physical force.

Then he leans in, his breath hot in my ear as he speaks using a low, dangerous tone that sends a chill through my entire body. “You know what I hate?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m paralyzed by fear, my mind scrambling for something—anything—to get me out of this alive.

“Liars,” he growls, his fingers tightening slightly around my throat. He taps my chest with the ID again before he raises it, pushing it up against the underside of my chin and forcing me to tip my head up. “And you, Karen Vanderschmit, are a very bad liar.”

I’m about to say something, but I stutter to a stop when he slowly shakes his head. He slides my ID into his leather jacket. When his hand comes back out, empty, my pulse skips as he brings it up to cup my jaw, right above where his other hand is still gripping my throat.

The creepy, demonic mask tilts to the side as he cups my chin. His thumb brushes down the edge of my jaw, teasing over my skin in a way that’s somehow both sensual and violent. He does it again, tilting his head the other way, still not saying a word.

Then he changes it up.

This time, it’s not my jawline that he runs the pad of his thumb over.

It’s my lips.

Something dark and dangerous twists inside of me as his big thumb slowly drags across my bottom lip, pushing it to the side. He does it again, sliding his thumb back the other way.

The whole time, he watches me. I can feel his eyes on me even if I can’t see them, dark and predatory, daring me to resist.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

He runs his thumb across my lip a third time. This time, it pushes into my mouth. I tighten my lips on instinct, never mind total confusion as to what’s happening.

It doesn’t stop him. It barely even slows him down. His thumb just pushes harder, demanding entrance and pushing its way between my lips even before they go slack.

His thumb pushes deeper, grazing my tongue. My pulse skyrockets, my mind unable to process the fear and shame crashing together inside me like a storm.

“Suck.”

Reality skews a little. I didn’t just hear that, did I?

Then his mask tilts back to the other side, and I can feel the black darkness radiating from the eyes behind it.

“Suck,” he commands again, his voice low and demanding.

I don’t think. I just obey.

I’m shaking, but I suck on his thumb, tightening my lips around the digit. His thumb moves slowly in and out, teasing over my tongue and stroking it in a slow rhythm that sends all sorts of fucked-up signals to various parts of my body.

It’s like a sick game of control.

And he’s winning.

I hate the way my body betrays me, the way my mind spins with fear and something else I can’t name. Something that coils deep in my stomach, dark and uninvited.

He’s toying with me, I realize that. This isn’t about killing me—it’s about something else. Something far more dangerous.

His thumb pushes in and out of my lips, like he’s fucking my mouth. Like it’s his cock, not his thumb, that’s enjoying the softness of my tongue and the suction of my lips.

I think he’s done with his sick game when he pulls his thumb out. But then it’s replaced by two thick, tattooed fingers, and I shudder as something dark twists deep inside of me.

The monster keeps the game going, pushing his big fingers in and out of my mouth, faster, deeper. I choke slightly, feeling my spit and drool coat his fingers and dribble out the corners of my mouth to run down my chin.

“Good girl.”

Jesus.

The sensation is anger and shock. Shame and outrage.

It’s also something else.

But I refuse to acknowledge what it is those words ignite inside me when he says them, his fingers sliding sensually from my mouth.

He wipes them absently across my lips, like the whole thing was no more than a game to him.

Then suddenly, without warning, his hand drops from my throat.

He steps back, and for a moment I think he’s going to leave. Relief floods through me, my chest loosening as the adrenaline starts to ebb away.

But then his hand shoots out again, gripping my jaw with bruising force. He tilts my head up, forcing me to look at him, and the black malice behind his mask seeps into my very soul.

“You’ll keep quiet,” he says, his voice low and steady. “If you don’t, I’ll find you. And next time, I won’t be so…merciful.”

The threat hangs in the air between us, heavy and undeniable. I nod, unable to trust my voice. I want to believe that I can just walk away from this. That I can forget what I saw, forget the blood and the bodies, forget the way he made me feel completely powerless.

But I can’t.

I know I’ll never forget this. The overwhelming sensation of a malicious voice behind the mask, or the way he treated me like I was nothing. Worse, an amusement. A toy to play with.

His toy.

He releases me, and I press myself hard against the window, shivering and gasping for breath. My body trembles as I watch him exit the office and disappear into the shadows, moving with the same deadly grace that brought him to me in the first place.

It’s over.

I’m still shaking when I finally push away from the window, my legs unsteady as I stumble toward the exit. It’s not until I’m at the third floor that I realize I walked right over the bodies on the floor back there without even seeing them. I suppose my mind blanked them out.

Or maybe my mind has other things to think about right now.

The second I step outside, the reality of it all hits me. The cool night air does nothing to calm me down. My heart is still racing, my throat still feeling the ghost of his grip. The streets are deserted, the city asleep around me, but all I can think about is him.

The man in the mask.

The monster who could have killed me but didn’t.

Why not?

With a cold, violent shudder, I pull my hoodie tighter around me and glance over my shoulder before I hurry toward my car.

Every shadow feels like a threat. Every sound is amplified by my fear.

I fumble with the fob, my hands shaking as I press the button to unlock the door and slip inside. The silence of the car is almost suffocating, but it’s the only place I feel safe right now.

Safe.

I laugh, a short, bitter sound that echoes in the emptiness of the car.

I’m not safe, and I never will be.

Not anymore.