Emperor of Rage: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

I’ve never liked hospitals. They’re always so bright. So sterile.

But I’m not here for me. I’m here for Damian.

One of the perks of visiting the hospital long after visiting hours are officially over is that there’s no one here. I mean, yeah, there’s the patients, and the doctors, the nurses, the support staff and all that. But the doctors and nurses know exactly what they’re here to do, and how they’re going to do it. The patients have their shit together, too. They’re here to get better.

It’s the visitors that screw up the vibes at a hospital. The tourists.

But at one in the morning, the floor is basically a ghost town.

Perfect.

The long fluorescent hallway stretches ahead, the white tiles gleaming under the harsh light. I slip my hood off as I pass the nurses’ station, seeing the older woman with kind eyes and a smile that never fades, no matter how many patients or how much misery she sees in a day. She glances up from her clipboard as I walk by, her face lighting up when she spots me.

“Well, look who it is,” she calls out, her voice soft but warm. “How are you doing today, hon?”

I smile as I slip my bag off my back and unzip the front pocket. “Hey, Delores.”

“You know, if you’re here any more frequently, people are going to start thinking you work here,” she chuckles.

“That, or they’re going to start asking why you keep letting me in when it’s not visiting hours.”

Visiting hours are much, much earlier. As in, when the sun is still out.

That’s a no-go for me and my xeroderma pigmentosum.

I know, it sounds like a spell from Harry Potter. It’s not. It means I’m allergic to the fucking sun.

I mean, I’m not a total vampire. I can go outside when it’s daylight. It’s just that to do so, I literally have to cover every inch of my body in something thick enough to keep the UV rays off my skin. If not, I’ll burn like a marshmallow that somebody forgot in the campfire. It sucks.

The first time I slipped in here after hours, Delores was the nurse on duty. I gave her a sob story about not being able to come earlier, and she took pity on me. The next time, though, she smelled bullshit.

The third time, I kept in mind the Fleetwood Mac pin she always wears on her ID lanyard, and brought her a framed microphone stand scarf signed by Stevie Nicks.

Yeah, I totally bought Delores’ love.

No, I’m not ashamed to admit it.

“You here to see Mr. Sexy?”

I make a puke face. Delores howls with laughter.

“Hey, if he didn’t want the nickname, he should’ve been an uglier coma patient. Just saying, hon.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, that’s my brother we’re talking about?”

Delores snorts. “You keep saying that, and I keep seeing zero resemblance⁠—”

“Well, he’s basically my brother,” I smile. “How’s he doing?”

“Same as usual, honey.”

Damian is pretty much the reason behind all the upheaval in my and Annika’s world these days. A couple of weeks ago, Damian and a handful of Nikolayev men walked into a club only to find Aoki Jura, head of the Jura-kai Yakuza, waiting for him along with some of his men.

They were ready to fight.

Tensions have been running high for a few months between the Russians and the Japanese in New York: specifically, between the Nikolayev Bratva—Kir’s empire, which I both work for and am basically family with—and the Mori-kai, aka Kenzo Mori’s empire, which has been aggressively expanding into the city.

It all came to a head when Aoki took one look at Damian and pulled a gun. Twenty seconds later, Aoki, three of his men, and two of Kir’s were dead, and Damian was very close to it.

That shootout is why my best friend Annika is being forced to marry the dark, dangerous, and broody Kenzo Mori: to repair the bad blood between the Yakuza and the Bratva before everyone tears each other apart.

I feel for Annika, I really do. She and Kenzo already have a not-so-great history: I mean, she did rob him five years ago, and it would appear he hasn’t let that go. But even so, the real victim here is lying in a hospital bed down the hall in a medically induced coma while the doctors wait to make sure they got all the bullet fragments out of his chest.

Delores sees the faraway look in my eyes and walks out from behind the nurses’ station to give me a hug.

“Let me tell you something, honey. Two kinds of people come through the ICU: quitters, and fighters. The quitters just don’t have it in ’em. They’re done. There’s nothing left in the tank. But the fighters?” She smiles warmly at me. “They just won’t quit. That’s what you need when they wheel you in here. And that pretty brother of yours?” She winks. “He’s a fighter. He’ll come around. You’ll see.”

He’d better.

“Brought you something.”

What? So I’ve continued to buy Delores’ love. But in fairness, she’s got great taste in vinyl. I pull the ultra-rare French pressing of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors, the one with the typo in the liner notes and Christine McVie incorrectly credited as the drummer on “Gold Dust Woman”. I found this gem at a vinyl shop in Brooklyn a week ago, and it had Delores’ name all over it.

Her eyes go wide when I slip it out of my backpack and hand it to her.

“Where on Earth did you find this?!” she says breathlessly.

“A magician doesn’t reveal her secrets,” I grin.

Delores hugs me tightly before pulling back to beam at me. “You’re a peach, Frey. Izzy is going to freak when I show her.”

Izzy is Delores’ granddaughter, and they apparently bond over Fleetwood Mac. Delores also loves to tell me that I remind her of Izzy since we’ve both got “that goth thing going on”.

Izzy is fifteen.

I’m not sure what that says about my fashion choices, but I like to think of it as Izzy being cool beyond her years, not me dressing like an edgy teenager.

“I should go check on him,” I say, glancing down the hall to Damian’s room.

Delores nods. “Say hi on your way back out. And get some sleep, hon. You look like you could use it.”

I force a smile, nodding again. “I’ll try.”

We both know I won’t.

I leave Delores and walk toward Damian’s room, the tension in my body mounting with each step. The door creaks softly as I push it open…and there he is, lying in the same hospital bed he’s been in for weeks.

Unmoving.

Silent.

The rhythmic beeping of the machines is the only sound in the room, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only sign he’s still alive. I pull the chair up to his bed, the metal legs scraping lightly against the floor. My hands shake as I sit, my fingers brushing over the cool, pale skin of his hand. He’s usually so warm, so full of life. Now he feels cold. Too cold.

I hate this.

For a while, it was just Annika and me. Well, before that, there was the nightmarish time when I was alone on the streets, after I ran from the family I was done with and my monster of a father.

But then I met Annika. She was older, tougher, smoother, and already had a few years by herself on the streets under her belt. She likes to say we took each other under our wings, but it’s more lopsided than that.

Together we made quite the team, between her skills at taking things that didn’t necessarily belong to her and my skills with a computer. We started to make a real name for ourselves in the underworld as thieves for hire, and we were just starting to bite off more than we could perhaps chew.

That’s when we met Damian. And by “met” I mean we stole his Rolex at a fancy dinner party we were posing as catering staff for. We robbed that place blind. Then, when we were having our celebratory drinks down the street, Damian found us.

He did want his watch back. But he also wanted to be partners with us.

Damian, as Kir Nikolayev’s nephew and heir, had connections in the underworld Annika and I could only dream of. Built, six-foot-three, frighteningly handsome with a leering, devilish smile, he had a thirst for adrenaline and breaking the rules similar to ours, not to mention a fondness for taking things that didn’t belong to him. The only difference was, Annika and I stole because we were good at it and liked the thrill of the hunt—and because for a long time it was how we survived.

Damian likes to steal because he enjoys inflicting pain on people who he thinks deserve it.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my gaze fixed on his face. His white hair—which, like his violet-hued eyes, is the product of a rare genetic pigmentation condition—is untidy, but pushed back from his face. His sharp, dramatic features are softened by the stillness of his medically induced coma.

He’s always looked otherworldly, between those violet eyes and ghostly hair. Now, he looks more statue than man.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking the silence.

I don’t know why I’m apologizing. Maybe it’s because I feel like I should have done something—anything—to stop what happened to him. Maybe it’s because, deep down, I know that if things had been different, and if Annika and I had never crossed paths with him, I might not be sitting here at all.

I close my eyes. But as I do, the image of the masked man flashing behind my eyelids. I’ve been trying to push it out of my mind, but it’s been haunting me.

He’s been haunting me.

I open my eyes again, staring at Damian’s still form. “I saw someone,” I murmur, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I was doing a job for Kir, and I saw a man. He… He killed four guys right in front of me. I thought he was going to kill me, too.”

My throat tightens. This is the exact conversation I’d be having with him if he was awake. I wasn’t exaggerating with Delores: Damian really is like a brother to me.

“But he didn’t. He just let me go.”

I shake my head, trying to make sense of it.

“I don’t know why. I don’t even know who he was. He wore a mask—this creepy fucking vinyl thing with X’s for eyes and a mouth. Total professional, too. Like he’d done this a hundred times. He saw me, and grabbed me…”

I trail off, the confession sticking in the back of my throat. I’m not telling Damian that in the moment when I thought I was going to die, part of me didn’t feel fear but…something else.

Even if he is in a fucking coma.

I press my palms to my eyes, fighting back the wave of confused shame that threatens to drown me.

“I’m a mess,” I mutter, leaning forward until my forehead touches the edge of the bed. “I know you’d tell me to stay the hell away from him. That I was crazy for feeling anything except terror. And you’d be right.”

I lift my head, looking at him again. His chest rises and falls steadily, in time with the machines’ beeping and whirring, but he doesn’t stir. I don’t even know why I’m saying this out loud. It’s not like he can hear me. But something about his presence, even in this state, makes me want to spill my darkest secrets.

“I know he’s dangerous,” I whisper, the words leaden in my chest. “But I can’t stop replaying it…”

My voice trails off, the rest of the sentence, the thought that has been gnawing at me for days now, left unsaid. It’s wrong, and I know it. I hate it. But I can’t shake it.

I can’t shake him.

I sit there for a long time, the silence pressing down on me like a physical force. Eventually, I pull away, standing and smoothing out the wrinkles in my jacket. I take one last look at him before turning toward the door.

“Love you, dickhead. See you soon,” I whisper. “You’d better get fucking better.”

“Psst.”

I jump a little, whirling at the hissed voice coming from the bushes next to the sidewalk. My brows furrow as I peer closer, then I relax when I see who it is.

“There’s a flight to Paris leaving JFK in like two hours,” Annika mutters. “We’ve still got connections there. We could cash out, disappear, move to Tunisia⁠—”

“Seems pretty shitty to leave Kir without saying goodbye.”

My best friend scowls as she steps out of the bushes.

Okay, she might be the world’s most reluctant fiancée for this shit-show of an engagement party tonight. But she looks amazing: a floor-length green satin gown that angles across her chest, giving a classy-ass flash of cleavage. The satin hugs every freaking curve on her tall, slender frame, cinching in at the waist before flowing out over her hips and butt. A slit cuts dramatically high on her thigh, giving a teasing glimpse of her long legs and the strappy gold and pearl heels on her feet.

I whistle wolfishly.

“Dude, you look hot.”

She rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”

“That the hot little number your new gal-pal Hana picked for you?”

I grin at her. I’ve been giving her shit ever since she went dress shopping with Kenzo’s super put-together type-A sister, Hana.

“It is.” Annika smirks, eying my outfit. “I see you managed to find a new way to pair black with…black.”

I grin. “I know you’re trying to be an insulting cunt, but I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you.”

Annika has to dress up for tonight. This whole engagement party thing is sort of part of the deal with her arranged…thing…with Kenzo.

I, on the other hand, have opted to thumb my nose at the dress code hard enough for both of us.

My look for the evening is somewhere between “Morticia Addams at a funeral” and “edgy Disney villain”, with a heavy nod to Helena Bonham Carter. My all-black—vintage velvet, I might add—dress falls all the way to the ground, with long wizardy-looking sleeves. The plunging neckline would normally be a bit much for me, but the obscene amount of cleavage is covered with fishnet material built into the dress.

I’ve completed the look with shiny black Doc Marten boots and my favorite spiked choker.

Annika grins at me. “Okay. You actually do look fantastic. Very ‘it’s-not-a-phase-Mom’. I love it.”

“Thank you,” I grin back. “The highest form of flattery.”

Annika clears her throat. “So, airport. You in?”

I grin at her. “You know it. Ride or die, bitch.”

She smiles wryly before she sighs. “Guess we can’t exactly skip out of this one, can we?”

I shake my head. “Unfortunately, no. At least, not without setting off world war three.”

“That would seriously ruin Kir’s weekend.”

I grin. “Right. And I mean, I can’t really see him dishing the same sort of gossip to Damian when he goes to visit that we do.”

Annika snorts. “Totally.” She clears her throat, scowling as her tone shifts lower. “Yeah, uh, what’s up, nephew. I’m always a big grump for no real reason. It’s sooo hard being super rich and powerful, and really handsome, and having no interest in anyone of the opposite or even the same sex.”

I laugh loudly at her terrible Kir impression. To be fair, it’s tough to nail his peculiar mix of Russian and British accents.

Annika sighs, turning to look up the street to where this shit-show is already underway. The party is being held at Sota Akiyama’s Village home: a mix of classic New York brownstone and old-school Japanese design.

I know a lot about the Mori family. You should always know your enemy.

Sota is basically Kenzo’s version of Kir, kind of like his mentor figure. The head of the Akiyama-kai Yakuza isn’t actually Annika’s fiancé’s father. But he was the best friend of Kenzo’s biological father, Hideo. Hideo successfully escaped the Yakuza lifestyle and came to America, and when Kenzo moved back to Japan to rediscover that side of his heritage, Sota took him in like a son.

Any normal person would have A, gotten angry, B, maybe tried seeking revenge, but then C, eventually given up and taken the fucking loss after being robbed by Annika five years ago.

Not Kenzo.

He’s spent the last five freaking years hunting her—and by proxy, me—down after she stole a necklace from him, after drugging him in a Kyoto cocktail bar five years ago.

I mean, let it go, dude.

His father, Hideo, wasn’t even aware of Kenzo’s and his siblings’ existence, since their mother, Astrid, a Norwegian socialite, kept it all from him.

First she had Kenzo, and disappeared from Japan to her family’s estate in England. Some years later, Astrid went back to Japan to try and rekindle things with her old flame.

She didn’t quite manage that. But she did leave Japan pregnant for the second time, this time with twins: Kenzo’s brother Takeshi, and his sister, Hana.

There’s one more Mori kid in the mix: Mal Ulstäd. Technically, he’s Kenzo, Hana, and Takeshi’s cousin, since his mother was Astrid’s sister, but he grew up with the Mori siblings as virtually a brother to them all. Now he’s one of Kenzo’s top advisors in the Mori-kai.

He’s someone I plan on avoiding entirely tonight.

We’ve never met. He has no idea who I am.

But I know who he is. More specifically, I know who his family was.

…And what mine did to them.

I shiver, exhaling the dark, broken memories of a life I left a long time ago. When I slowly inhale again, filling my lungs with crisp fall New York air, it’s as the girl I am now: Freya Holm.

And I’ll never look back on the darkness I came from.

I frown as another scent invades my nostrils. I turn and glare at Annika when I see her puffing on her stupid e-cigarette.

“You look ridiculous sucking on that thing, you know.”

Annika takes another long drag of it, smirking around the vape as she holds up her middle finger.

“Hi, yeah, slightly stressed right now. Think I could indulge in my go-to stress reliever in peace?”

“Hi, yeah, don’t want my best friend to die from cancer, thanks.”

Annika groans, rolling her eyes and taking one more puff before she slips the vape back in her clutch.

“I’m quitting, okay?”

I sigh as I pull her in for a hug. “Look, we have to go in there. So let’s just rip the Band-Aid off and do it. Then we can figure out how to get you reconstructive facial surgery and smuggle you into Tunisia.”

“Fine,” Annika grumbles. She nods her chin past me to Sota’s brownstone and the guests pulling up out front before making their way through the small crowd of both Yakuza and Bratva security. “You go ahead. I’m going to…get some air.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, cancer air.”

“Eat me.”

I giggle as I turn and leave Annika to her gross habit. At the front door, three Yakuza guys are waving wands over guests, like we’re going through airport security. One of them, a taller Japanese guy with a goatee and Yakuza ink snaking up his neck, frowns when he sees me, stepping in front of me and shaking his head.

“No,” he growls.

I arch a pierced brow. “Excuse me?”

“Sota-san has a strict dress code for this evening,” he mutters, his reproachful gaze sweeping back over me. “You do not⁠—”

“She’s fine.”

The sound of the voice behind me is proof that it is, in fact, possible to be simultaneously relieved and annoyed by someone’s presence.

I exhale slowly, pasting a smile on my face as I turn toward Dimitri, one of Kir’s enforcers.

Dimitri has asked me out no less than ten times over the past two years, and still doesn’t comprehend “no” as my answer.

He’s not a bad guy. But number one, I would never mix my personal life with my professional one, and we both work for Kir’s organization. And number two…ah, fuck it.

There doesn’t have to be a number two. I just don’t want to go out with the guy, and it would be fantastic if he got that memo.

When I turn to him, he sends me what I’m sure he thinks is his most charming smile. Maybe it is his most charming smile. But…how do I put this…Dimitri’s been punched in the face a lot. And it shows.

That said, it’s not his lopsided and somewhat awkward smile that puts me off from dating him. It’s⁠—

I flinch when Dimitri sidles up close to me and wraps his hand around the nape of my neck in a way that makes my stomach roil.

Yeah.

That would be the reason I have no interest in the guy. Forget his general thuggish demeanor and the way he barks at most people: he has this habit of touching me all the time, despite me asking him repeatedly not to.

“Come, Freya,” he growls in his thick Russian accent. “I’ll escort you past this filth.”

Dimitri grins smugly, leading me past the guards and toward the entrance by way of his meaty hand on my neck. Just before we get to the front door, the Yakuza guard stops him with an arm.

“She can go in,” the guy mutters. He turns to smile coldly at Dimitri. “You may not. No soldiers, from either side. Your boss and mine have agreed to this.”

“Listen to me,” he hisses at the Yakuza guy. It’s one of his less endearing traits. He gets downright angry when someone tells him he can’t do something. “I will take⁠—”

“You know what?” I neatly slip out of Dimitri’s grip and turn to smile brightly at him. “Since you asked, I think I will be okay going in by myself.”

He frowns in a clueless way. “I never asked⁠—”

“Have a good night, Dimitri.”

Before he can grab me again, I quickly turn and step into the house.

The sound of muted conversation and clinking glasses washes over me like a wave. I’ve always hated parties like this. Too many people…too many secrets lurking behind carefully crafted smiles. But tonight is different. Tonight, everything feels…sharper. Like the air itself is charged with a dark electricity.

I make my way through the crowd, my boots heavy on the marble floor. I feel on edge, like the latent anxiety in the back of my skull is poking its nose out of its room to say hello. For a second, I think of the little joint in my clutch and glance around for a balcony to escape to for a few minutes.

But that’s a terrible idea. I might not love that my best friend is marrying into the Yakuza. And I might have dressed like a walking middle finger for this shindig. But I am a guest here.

Plus, this evening is going to be tough enough to get through. Being a little stoned would probably make it a nightmare.

I decide to get a drink instead.

I make my way to the bar, ignoring the glances from the other guests. Some of them know who I am by way of Kir and are choosing not to engage with me. The other half has no idea who the gothy little weirdo is who just walked in looking like she’s on her way to the prom with Marilyn Manson, but are also fine staying clear of me.

Suits me.

I get a vodka on the rocks—two lemons—from the catering bar set up on one side of the spacious, tastefully decorated main living room. I take a sip, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat.

It’s only then that I feel it. A weight on me. A shadow.

Like I’m being watched.

I turn and scan the crowd, but no one stands out. Everyone’s too caught up in their conversations, too wrapped up in their shows of wealth and power to notice anything else. But the feeling doesn’t go away. It stays with me, burrowing under my skin, making my pulse quicken.

I glance around again, and this time, I tense when my gaze lands on a figure standing way across the room.

He’s in a dark suit. Tall, with big, muscled shoulders, a chiseled, predatory jawline, and piercing ice-blue eyes.

…He’s looking right at me.

Assessing.

Flaying open.

I slug back another heavy swallow of vodka.

Mal, Kenzo’s cousin.

I recognize him immediately, not because we’ve ever met, but because, again, know thy enemy.

I pretend to look past him, like I’m just casually checking out the room, before I let my gaze slide back over him again.

A chill drags its claws down my spine as something malevolent emanating from him creeps and prowls its way across the room toward me.

The dark suit. The cold, sharp eyes. The way he carries himself with quiet, predatory grace. He’s like a panther in a room full of prey, watching, waiting for the right moment to pounce. And right now, he’s watching me.

My heart skips a beat. Fuck.

I take another sip of my drink, forcing my face into a mask of indifference as I thread my way through the crowd. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, like a weight pressing down on my shoulders.

Mercifully, I spot Isaak, Kir’s number two, across the room, and make a beeline for him. But just before I insert myself into whatever conversation he’s having, I chance another look behind me.

…And my eyes instantly find Mal, staring right back.

Like he’s watching. Waiting.

Readying himself.