Monstrous Urges: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

It’s not until I’m safely inside my apartment, leaning against the door I’ve just locked behind me, that I can process what just happened.

What the fuck.

I’ve spent the last hour driving back to the city in a fog, almost numb. But now that I’m home, it’s like my lungs open up and I can actually breathe again. When I do, though, it hits me all at once.

A shudder rips through my body. My skin buzzes with a nervous energy as my hand drifts to my neck. My fingers trace over the places where he gripped—the tenderness in my throat. My jawline. My bottom lip, before it retreats between my teeth.

I look down at myself and shiver. My skirt is back in place, but the panties he sliced off me got lost to the forest when I stumbled back to my car after he left. My blouse is still ruined; I drove home wearing a suit jacket I keep in the trunk instead.

My heels are dirty and smudged. My hair is a mess.

I’m still shaking. From fear? Excitement?

Something’s wrong with me.

My preference in kinks and fantasies are one thing. I’m not sure anyone can help what they’re into. Sometimes I wonder if those dark desires have always been there in my head, or if they manifested because of something that happened to me during the times I don’t remember.

I read about that when trying to research my own fucked-up thoughts and urges. The brain is insanely complex, and experiential trauma can manifest as a fetish to a survivor.

The idea that something like that might have happened to me, before the accident, is terrifying. At times, it used to creep up on me in the middle of the night to claw at me and render me frozen in my bed. But I don’t really get like that anymore thanks to the mental exercises Dr. Jesnick taught me.

The beauty of retrograde amnesia is that you don’t remember the past.

Unfortunately, that’s the curse of retrograde amnesia, too.

Either way, you can’t change what happened in the past. So I choose to live life looking forward into the future.

Yeah, a future like the one you won’t have if you insist on meeting strange men with knives and a primal fetish in the fucking woods, you weirdo.

Shuddering, I pull myself from the door and head down the hall to the bathroom. I shed my ruined clothes as I wait for the water to warm up, dropping my eyes to my body’s reflection in the mirror.

For a second, my eyes land on the bruises by my throat and on my inner thighs. My cheeks flush, remembering his powerful grip. His strength when he yanked me to the ground and pinned me there. How even though I work out six days a week, including a serious lifting routine, the man who came for me out of the shadows tonight held me fast like my strength was nothing.

And goddammit, that’s hot.

I give myself one more honest once-over as I pull my long red hair out of the ponytail I’ve had it in since the drive home. I’m thirty-three, not twenty-three anymore. But still—cute face, perfect smile…thank you very much, Invisalign…slender frame, athletic build, tall and leggy. And great tits, if I do say so myself.

And single.

Again.

I’m about to walk into the shower behind me, when my gaze lands on my hip, in the small curve where the skin delves down toward the apex of my thighs.

A soaring bird—a hawk, maybe—with wings outstretched, holding an arrow in its talons, surrounded by a thin, circular border.

The whole thing is barely larger than a quarter, and I haven’t the slightest fucking idea what it means, or when I got it.

Going backward, my memories literally stop at eighteen. That’s when the drunk driver plowed into the side of the car I was in with my parents, killing them and hitting the reset button in my brain.

I’ve tried it all: medication, electro-therapy, rapid-light therapy, MDMA, counselling—so much counselling—support groups…you name it, I’ve tried it to bring my memory back. But fifteen years later, I’ve given up.

If it hasn’t happened yet, it’s not going to. And there’s a beauty in the whole “ignorance is bliss” thing.

I like the life that I’ve built, and the friends I have. I don’t need to know what lurks in the shadows of that past I can’t remember.

After my shower, I change into comfy clothes and head into the living room to go over notes for some meetings I have tomorrow. But the second my eyes land on that goddamn white couch, I’m instantly flooded with memories of its defilement.

Again, I’m not angry. I mean, we’re obviously over, but I don’t really give a shit about Steven cheating on me.

But still: there’s no fucking way I’m staying here tonight.

“Good morning, Ms. Crown!” Amelia, my kick-ass secretary, smiles and follows me into my office.

“Morning, Amelia,” I say absently. I’m putting on a brave face, but inside, I’m exhausted. I mean I went to bed three hours later than usual—in the room I booked late at the Soho Grand Hotel.

…Where I screamed into my pillow with my hands between my legs, reliving every single insane, brutal second of my depraved encounter in the woods.

“You’re looking amazing this morning.”

Amelia is a total kiss-ass sometimes, and I love her for it. Even if she’s totally full of shit this morning. I emphatically do not look anything approaching “amazing” right now, and we both know it.

“Thanks,” I smile dryly. “New Pilates instructor this morning.”

“Well, damn, lady,” she grins. “Go get it.” She clears her throat, dropping right into business mode. “So, pretty packed schedule today. You’ve got a meeting with Thomas Koppelman at ten to go over strategy for his corporate takeover. Then lunch with the team from CopperLine Biotech—I got you reservations at Atera, or you could do your usual Per Se⁠—”

“Atera is great, thanks, Amelia.”

She nods, barely looking up from her tablet as she taps away. “You wanted to sit in on the Whitlock deposition at one-thirty. Oh, and Gavan Tsarenko and his people will be in at four to sit down with you and Alistair to talk transition with Gabriel being gone now.”

I grimace. Yeah, that’s going to take some getting used to. But before I can delve too deeply into my own thoughts concerning one of my best friends and firm partners leaving Crown and Black, something pings in my head.

“Oh, shit, that reminds me. I need you to create an analytics breakdown of these…”

I turn to grab the file folder I purposefully left in the middle of my desk yesterday. But when my eyes land on empty space, my brow furrows.

“Did you…” I glance back at Amelia. “There was a folder on my desk…”

She blinks. “I didn’t see anything this morning when I unlocked your office. No one’s been in here, either, obviously.”

I frown. “You sure? Blue folder with the very professional ‘Gabriel’s bullshit’ written on the cover?”

She smirks briefly, then shakes her head. “Nothing I saw, Ms. Crown. Maybe you moved them last night?”

My brow cocks. “No, I definitely left it on my desk yesterday before Fumi and I went to that meeting.”

Aka: cocktails.

“Oh, I mean later. When you came in late last night.”

My eyes snap to hers in confusion.

“Sorry, what?”

Amelia’s brow furrows. “You… You were here, Ms. Crown. In the office. Maybe that’s when⁠—”

“No, I wasn’t.”

I definitely wasn’t. I was in the woods letting a stranger rub my pussy with a fucking knife, because I’m goddamn crazy.

And after that I was showering at my apartment, and then booking a suite at the Soho Grand.

Amelia gives me an odd look. “You definitely key-carded in. It was on the log this morning when I clocked in.” She smiles a slightly confused smile. “It was late, too! One-thirty, or something. I can check if you want.”

I slowly shake my head, a horrible feeling settling over me.

“No… That’s okay,” I say quietly.

“Oh, you left your file cabinet unlocked, too. I made sure to lock it when I came in this morning, though.”

“Thanks,” I reply absently, turning away from her. “Actually, you know what?” I turn back and smile radiantly. “Total brain fart. Wow,” I force a laugh. “That was last night, wasn’t it?”

“You need to take more vacations!” she laughs.

“Seriously. Thanks, Amelia.”

“No problem!” she chirps brightly. “I’ll be at my desk!”

When she steps out, I swallow nervously.

Fuck.

This is bad. This…whatever this is…has been happening more and more. These episodes. Dr. Jesnick calls it “physical involuntary discordance”.

It’s sleepwalking, basically. One minute I’m asleep, the next I’m “awake” and moving around, even performing tasks. The kicker is, I have no memory of it later after I actually wake up.

But holy shit, I came here late last night? The episodes I’ve had before have involved things like leaving the TV on or making myself a snack and not cleaning up the sink afterward. I tried to reorganize my financial records and tax returns one night.

But I’ve never left my apartment before during one of the episodes. At least, I don’t think I have, but how would I know?

Maybe being in a new place last night fucked me up.

Or maybe what you did BEFORE bed…

I flush.

Fuck—I didn’t drive, did I?

I’m still staring at Manhattan out the windows of my office with a dazed feeling when there’s a knock on my door. It opens before I can even respond and Fumi walks in.

“You do get that knocking first is like asking permission to enter someone else’s space, right?”

She arches a brow with a curious smile on her lips. “Okay. Is this the part where you tell me I need to wait until such permission is graciously granted?”

I frown, exhaling. “Sorry, I’m tired and cranky.”

She shuts the door and walks over to my desk as I slump into my chair. Fumi sits across from me in a gorgeous jade green knee-length pencil skirt and a super-cute black top, her long black hair wrapped up in a topknot.

“So…” She smirks. “You’re tired, huh?”

I start to roll my eyes. “Fumi⁠—”

“Does this mean you went through with it?!” she shrieks, grinning widely at me. “Did you go to Venom?!”

My face burns. “Fumi, we’re at work.”

My friend sighs heavily. “We need a neon sign above your head to let me know when you’re my boss-Taylor, and when you’re my friend-Taylor.”

I snort. “What if we just say that while we’re at work, I’m boss-Taylor and we stick to professional conversations that don’t involve either your sex life with Gabriel, or my lack of sex life with anyone.”

Fumi grins. “Normal professional conversations like the one we had in the conference room yesterday when you were telling me what a shitty fuck Steven was, the like two times or whatever you slept together? I think there was also something about the diminutive size of his⁠—”

“Okay, that was inappropriate, and I apologize,” I say hastily.

Fumi laughs. “Apology accepted. Now tell me what the fuck sort of trouble you got into last night.”

You wouldn’t believe me…

“Nothing,” I blurt, lying through my teeth. “I was going to meet up with someone and then chickened out.” I sigh. “There, happy?”

Fumi smiles wryly as she reaches over the desk and squeezes my hand. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to push anything. Or maybe, just go on a normal dating site? Tinder or Bumble or something? They kinda seem like less pressure and not as intense as Venom.”

I sigh. “Yeah, except… I don’t know. Those fucking apps…” I cringe. “They’re awful.”

“T,” she drawls. “You’re a boss bitch. You know that, right? I mean, you’re thirty-three and you run a law firm. And not a strip mall one either. One of the biggest and most prestigious firms in New York. You’re rich, you’re in charge, you’re hot…” She shrugs. “Plus you drive a sexy as fuck car.” She eyes me. “Let them come to you. Let them come begging to take you out.”

“Yeah, no, solid advice,” I reply on autopilot as my brain starts to drift.

Except, I don’t want them to come to me.

I want them to chase me.

And hunt me.

And hurt me.

Paging Dr. Jesnick…

“Can I ask you something?”

I lift my eyes to Fumi. “Sure.”

“You said you chickened out last night on someone you were going to meet?”

I nod. Fumi peers at me.

“Why?”

My brows furrow. “Why…?”

“Why do you think you chickened out?”

Because I’m afraid of what I am. Because I’m terrified of setting free the darkness that lurks inside me, wanting things I shouldn’t want and giving me urges to go into the fucking woods at night…

I shrug noncommittally. “I don’t know.”

“Prosecution asks to approach the bench, your honor.”

I snort, rolling my eyes. “Go ahead, say it.”

“Say what?” she smirks.

“Whatever sagely little pearl of wisdom you’re dying to throw at me.”

“Well,” Fumi sighs. “Being one of your best friends, I think it’s fair to say I know you pretty well. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there’s a whole part of you that you keep hidden and never want to talk about.”

I scowl. “There is not!”

“Taylor.”

I exhale, drumming my fingers on the desk. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.”

“Yeah, because I’m right,” she snickers. “Anyway. Without knowing the details of this date that didn’t happen, since I’m guessing there’s a zero percent chance of you sharing those…”

“Correct.”

She grins. “Then my guess is, you walked away because you have a hard time doing things not on your terms.”

My mouth twists.

“I’m right, aren’t I? Say I’m right.”

I sigh. “Fine. You…may be right. Sort of. Partially.”

Fumi holds out an imaginary microphone. “Could you repeat that a little louder for the folks in the back?”

“Surely you have work to do?”

She laughs as she stands. “Okay, okay, I can take a hint. Oh, Eloise and Tempest and I are getting drinks after work. What are my odds of getting you out two nights in a row?”

I roll my eyes. “Slim to none. Your husband is seriously fucking my workload up with that whole ‘getting elected to Governor’ thing.”

Fumi smiles. “If you change your mind, text me.”

When she’s gone, I pull out my phone and open the Club Venom app again. I hate the disappointed feeling that washes over me when I pull up my convo with NapoleonInExile and see that he hasn’t sent me anything since our pre-chase exchange.

Last night may have been terrorizing, and about a thousand miles past anything I ever expected for reality. That’s why I flipped out and used the safe word, shutting it all down.

Now, I wish I hadn’t. Now, I’m craving that touch of darkness I got with him.

Now…I want more.

My lip twists between my teeth as I tap out a quick message.

SECRETSLUT

Sorry I freaked out last night. I didn’t mean to just end it like that

I wait, but there’s no reply. The icon next to his username stays dark, indicating he’s not even online.

SECRETSLUT

I shouldn’t have used the word. I don’t even know why I did

I keep waiting, but there’s still nothing.

SECRETSLUT

I’d love to give this another try

The message stays unread. He’s still not online.

Fuck.

“Well, I think that went well.”

Alistair makes straight for the bar cart by the huge windows in his office when we walk in. It’s close to six, and most of the office down in “the pit” is gone or in the middle of packing up for the day. Well, not the interns and paralegals, but that’s par for the course.

Alistair and I have just spent the last two hours in a meeting with Gavan Tsarenko, current co-head of the Reznikov Bratva, and a huge client of Crown and Black. Up till now, it was Gabriel who mostly handled all of Gavan’s legal needs. But the jerk had the gall to go off and run for Governor of New York a few months ago, and the electorate had the nerve to go ahead and vote for him.

I mean, the guy is going to do a fantastic job of running the state. But it also means Alistair and I have a cubic fuckton of work to do trying to figure out how to divvy up his workload when he steps down as managing partner of the firm to fulfill his duties as Governor.

“Usual?” Alistair grunts from the bar cart.

“Please.”

He turns and passes me a Laphroaig eighteen-year-old with a single ice cube. What can I say? I’m a scotch girl. The smokier, the better.

“Cheers,” he mutters, clinking his glass to mine.

“Cheers.”

Someone wise probably once said “don’t mix business with family”. But personally, I’ve never found that a problem. I mean, Alistair and Gabriel aren’t my literal blood family. But they may as well be my brothers, and we’ve been as close as siblings—yes, including the bickering at times—since we first met.

After the crash, when I woke up in the hospital without living parents, any memories, or even knowing who I was, I came here to New York to live with my great-aunt Florence. She’s the one that “got me up to speed” with life: learning how to read again, how to dress myself. How to live. That summer spent with her is pretty hazy, because my brain was still repairing itself and reteaching itself how to think. I remember being so thankful that I wasn’t totally alone in the universe for that.

Then I went to college, and two weeks into my first semester, Florence had a stroke and passed away. Then I really was alone.

But two years of pushing myself hard later, I graduated undergrad early, passed the LSATs, and managed to get myself into Harvard Law. I was flat broke and didn’t want to rack up massive student debt, so I got a job bartending at this crappy dive bar in Harvard Square.

That’s where I met the Black brothers.

Alistair’s debit card was declined on a three-dollar beer. Gabriel tried to argue with me that, pursuant to Massachusetts commerce law, and according to Witt vs the State of Maryland, it was on the vendor to prove that a declined card was the result of insufficient funds, and not faulty machinery for collecting payment.

I tossed back Velasquez vs Cardiff, which ruled presenting a means of payment proves reasonable intention to pay, thereby putting the onus on the customer, not the vendor.

I won that round. Then the two assholes pretended to go to the bathroom and ran out on their whopping six-dollar bar tab.

Two weeks later, I found a twenty-dollar bill taped to my dorm door, along with a highly coveted invitation to the insanely exclusive study group one of the most influential professors on campus hosted every now and then. One of those study groups that’s less about studying and more about “if you’re here, congrats, you’ve made it”.

Turns out, Alistair and Gabriel used their considerable powers of persuasion to coax the professor who ran the group into inviting me in.

And the rest, as they say, is history. We became fast friends. We all got internships at the same firm in Boston. Then we all found jobs in New York. Five grueling years later, we poached the best clients we could, walked from our respective firms, and hung up our own shingle. Crown and Black was born.

I have to say, though: it’s felt weird these last two months, with Gabriel making his exit from the firm to the Governor’s mansion. He technically could stay on at Crown and Black. But it would be an ethics complaint waiting to happen, which would suck for both his reputation and ours.

Alistair exhales slowly. “There is one more thing we need to start discussing.”

I sigh. “The new third managing partner.”

“Bingo.”

Again, we’re like siblings. My closeness with Alistair and Gabriel is what made Crown and Black the empire it is. But the balance really only works when there’s three of us.

If it’s just Alistair and I running things, we’re going to throttle each other at some point. I mean, lovingly. But still.

“Any thoughts?”

I lift a shoulder. “You know I’m going to say Fumi.”

He smirks. “Figured. I’m not against it, for the record. But I’d counter with Elsa. She’s been an equity partner for a little longer. And she’s really good. Plus, clients love her.”

“They also love that she married into the Drakos family.”

Alistair grins. “Hey, you play the cards you’re dealt.” He glances at his watch groans. “Shit, I need to cut this short. I forgot I had a meeting.”

I drain my scotch and set the glass down on the edge of his desk—not on a coaster, which I know drives Alistair crazy.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, marching over and snatching the glass up like a worried housewife. “Respect the wood.”

“Please tell me that’s your bedroom talk with Eloise?”

He snorts. “I swear, I’m going to report you to HR one day.”

“I’ll take you down with me.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting…”

I jolt when I hear the voice behind me. Whirling, I stiffen and flush a little when I see the man standing tall, filling the doorway of Alistair’s office with both his imposing size and his raw power.

Drazen Krylov is a relatively new client of ours. I rarely interact with him, since Alistair and his team handle most of his affairs. But I know his reputation. And his history.

Both are fucking terrifying.

The physically imposing Serbian is the head of the—newly reconstituted, I hear—Krylov Bratva. He also was allegedly a child soldier in the Balkan conflicts in former Yugoslavia in the 90s.

I have no idea if that second part is true, but the man radiates a dark power that swallows the light of every room he walks into.

He’s also freaking gorgeous.

Tall, broad-shouldered and muscled, with a Henry Cavill jawline, piercing blue eyes, and dark black hair. Since he really does look like dear Henry, and given his imposing, fierce look, Fumi and I have joked that he’s “evil Superman” on several occasions.

Tall, powerful, insanely wealthy, gorgeous—and possibly a mass murderer and committer of war crimes.

So, pretty much the king of Sexy Walking Red Flag-land.

Alistair clears his throat as he pushes past me to shake Drazen’s hand firmly, the back of which is covered in what is pretty obviously Bratva ink.

“Not at all, Mr. Krylov. Please, have a seat. May I get you a drink?”

“Vodka, straight up, thank you.”

When Alistair walks back over to the bar cart, Drazen pulls his icy blue gaze to me. I stay perfectly still, never dropping the  calm, professional smile.

On the inside, I’m withering.

I mean the man is insanely hot, not to mention powerful and downright dangerous. I have at least a dozen clients just like him, of course, but there’s something different about the Serbian.

Something…more.

“Well,” I smile. “I’ll get out of your hair⁠—”

“You’re not staying, Ms. Crown?”

“Oh, I don’t think we need her,” Alistair chuckles, passing Drazen a tumbler of vodka. “You wanted to talk about zoning law, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Well, I did. But I think there are more pressing things to discuss right now, are there not?”

Alistair glances at me. I glance at him.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, Mr. Krylov,” I say cautiously.

His brows arch. “You haven’t heard, then?”

Alistair frowns. “About…?”

“The hostile takeover attempt.”

Alistair scowls deeper. “This is the first I’m hearing about it, I’m afraid. Who exactly is trying to take over your⁠—”

Drazen chuckles quietly, a low rumbling sound that sucks all the oxygen out of the room.

“You misunderstand, Mr. Black,” he growls. “I mean the hostile takeover attempt of your business.”

My heart skips. My face goes numb.

Wait, what?

Alistair is blinking like he’s trying to process what Drazen’s just said as the Serbian strokes his jaw.

“One of your competitors is about to make a play for your firm.”

My head whips to stare at Alistair just as his yanks to mine.

“And given that I’m your biggest client in billable hours,” Drazen growls quietly. “I was hoping we could talk about that.”

Holy fuck.