The Darkest King: A Dark Mafia Romance (The Dark Kings of NYC Book 1)

Over the next few weeks, Connor and I fall into a rhythm. We go to work, come home, and have dinner together. Then he either works for a few hours in his private office, which is weirdly always locked, or we watch TV.

Sometimes, we chat.

It’s during those quiet conversations I’ve been learning more about him. Tonight, I ask about his train set, which is laid out on a table in the far corner of the room.

“I started it about eight years ago. When I retired from the marines,” Connor says, staring across the room at it. “I’ve handmade every single piece.”

I’m surprised by that.

“I can’t imagine you having the patience to build models.”

He smiles slowly at me. “You think you know me, Mia Mancini?”

I shrug. “No, but you can’t tell me you’re a patient man. I know you’re not.”

Connor glances away. “I’m not. Which is why I need to do it. You should always push yourself in areas of weakness.”

I think about that. About how I can apply it to my life and future business. The one that doesn’t exist yet, but will one day.

“Also, it gets me out of my head. While I’m focusing on the details, I don’t think about anything else. It’s freeing.”

Freedom I can relate to, but what does Connor need to be free from? Is this about his past, I wonder?

I decide to ask.

“Is this about your family?”

He’s silent for a moment, and then his face hardens. “We should go to bed. It’s late.”

Then, just like that, he’s shut down. I want to demand he tell me something about himself, but what right do I have? Sure, I’m going to be his wife, but it’s not real. Yet every day we live and act like a couple. We fuck, we laugh, we get annoyed with one another, and we wake up the next day, entangled in each other’s arms.

So, tell me, what part of all that is fake?

Because I see the way he looks at me when he’s deep inside me, the way his eyes run over me when I step out of the bedroom in yet another gown to attend one of his business events, the way his hand slides over my hip protectively when another man looks at me.

The way he huffs when he has to get the breakfast bowl down for me each morning because I can’t reach his silly tall cupboards—and growls at me for climbing on a stool to get one. The way he won’t simply move them to another cupboard because I think he likes doing it.

Or maybe I’m imagining it all.

But what he won’t do is tell me about his life, his past, his family or friends. What’s so secret that he can’t share a little bit about his childhood so I feel less a stranger?

“Fine, goodnight,” I say, climbing off the sofa and walking upstairs.

Connor never comes to bed with me.

Every night, he’ll brush his hand over my cheek or slap my bottom, telling me it’s time for bed. When I tried to tug him with me one night, he shook his head.

“Go to bed, Mia,” was all he said.

Only when I turn my light off will Connor come in. He brushes his teeth, undresses, and then slides into bed. Connor reaches for me without hesitation, and I turn over and melt into his chest.

Then he makes love to me.

But I remind myself it’s not love. It just feels like it.

I’ve never lived with a man before—not in a relationship—so what do I know. But there was one night earlier this week, after we met with the wedding planner, that keeps playing over in my mind.

I was flicking through the private website she created for us. It feels like homework. We have to pick everything: the color scheme, the dinner set, the candles, and of course, my dress.

Connor isn’t allowed to see that section.

“Fake wedding,” he reminded me.

“I don’t care. Bad luck is bad luck. Let’s not jinx things,” I replied.

“I’m not superstitious…but yeah, okay,” he said, and I grinned. “What?” he then asked, frowning.

“So, you are superstitious,” I teased.

He leaned down from his standing position and put one hand on the sofa beside my head. “Not superstitious. Maybe I just want to be surprised by seeing my beautiful bride on the day.”

I bit my lip.

“Maybe I’ll wear black,” I said, taunting him.

Testing him.

“You will wear a beautiful gown and be the bride everyone expects you to be,” Connor replied and leaned closer, placing a finger under my chin. “And I’m going to remove it button by button and lick every inch of you as soon as it’s over. Fuck the reception.”

My body burst into flames, my nipples hardening against the cotton of my T-shirt.

But it was moments later, when my body had calmed down, that a sudden idea popped into my head. I leaped up and grabbed a folder from one of my boxes in the guest room.

“Where’s the fire?” Connor asked, pouring a whiskey across the room.

“Nothing…No…Nothing,” I replied, sliding lip gloss over my lips and then scribbling ideas on my notepad. I didn’t notice the big muscular man standing behind me.

“What is that?” Connor asked.

I felt a mix of embarrassment and aggravation as he invaded my privacy, so I snapped the folder shut.

“Nothing. I said it’s nothing.” I stood, walked back down the hall to the guest bedroom, and put the folder on the end of the bed near a pile of other things I still needed to sort.

When I turned to leave, Connor was leaning against the doorjamb, sipping his whiskey.

“Oh my God, have you not heard of personal space?” I said, crossing my arms.

“Not when it’s my house,” he replied, unperturbed.

“You really need to understand boundaries a little better. We may have this weird agreement in place, but that doesn’t mean you own me.” I pushed past him.

Connor followed me out to the living area.

“Was that a business plan?” he asked, and I huffed, flopping on the sofa, clicking the remote to turn on the TV. “Is that your grand plan to escape the clutches of your mafia family? To be a wedding planner?”

I turned up the volume.

“Project management. That’s how you plan to escape the gangster life?” Connor asked, standing in front of the screen. He tossed back his whiskey and placed the crystal glass on the shelf beside him.

Then, he lifted another remote and turned the TV off.

Goddamn him.

Heat was blazing from my face.

“What do you want me to do, Connor? I’ve had two years’ work experience, and I’ve got a business degree. I don’t have any money to invest, and just about my entire trust is going to you after we get married. At least I’m trying.”

Despite his cruel judgement, I liked the idea of creating weddings. I’d been obsessed with them all my life, and now with my experience creating events and working with Bloom Events, the idea felt fun.

I’d been involved with some of the best events in NYC working with Donna, which accounted for something. She didn’t do weddings, so she might want to expand or consider a partnership of some kind.

I had ideas.

Well, they were forming, and I had time to put things in motion.

Connor’s criticism had been horribly unwelcome.

He was right about one thing, though; I wasn’t sure how I was going to retain my freedom after we divorced, but I was going to try.

There wasn’t an instruction manual for this.

“How about asking my advice? I might know a thing or two about creating businesses. I own twenty-fucking-five of them. I could help you,” Connor growled, crossing his arms. “Ever think of that?”

No.

“That wasn’t part of our deal. Just forget it. I promised I’d be out of your hair when our agreement ends. So, it’s not your problem.”

Connor stood glaring at me for several moments and shook his head. “Draw up your plan, and I will take a look at it.”

“No,” I snapped. “I want to do this on my own.”

“Mia!” he yelled, and I had almost jumped. “I’m not letting you leave this house or marriage with nothing but the boxes you arrived with. If you need—want—to create a profitable business, then that’s what we will do.”

We?

I pressed my lips together, and we glared at one another.

“I’m not your responsibility.”

He then walked over to me and pulled me to my feet. One hand brushed the hair from my forehead, the other one cupping my face. “I’ve decided you are.”

Then he turned and walked away.

It was that night I realized I am in trouble.

I am falling for this man.

“THANK YOU FOR meeting me, Mia.”

“You’re my father. Of course, I’ll have lunch with you,” I reply, kissing him on the cheek before sitting down opposite him in the Michelin-star restaurant.

I didn’t tell Connor Dad asked me to lunch, but George is standing nearby, and two other men are at the door. I’m pretty sure he knows by now, but I turned my phone to silent.

I may want to get out of the family business and all its archaic rules, but I love them. I love my father.

I don’t love that I’m lying to him. He’s been asking for a decision on whether I want our ceremony to be held at the Mancini Mansion on Long Island.

Your mom would’ve wanted you to, one of his texts said.

Ugh. Guilt is weighing heavily on me.

Not just that. Getting married at the house is something I wanted, but not for my fake wedding. Which I clearly can’t tell anyone about.

I came close to telling Sienna so many times. I have no one to talk to. But I know if I did, it would be too risky, and she would talk me out of it.

“You seem happy,” she said earlier this week. “Is this what being in love does? Maybe I do want a boyfriend, then.”

“Highly recommend it.” I grinned.

Love?

I’m not sure what I felt about Connor. I know my feelings aren’t platonic. I know I really like him—I mean, he’s Connor Barrett—but it’s more than just like.

Despite the layers of rippling muscle, his dark, moody eyes, and the way he feels inside me, I enjoy his company.

Even when he’s trying to ignore me and be all broody and dark, his eyes follow me. Or he’ll throw a blanket over me. Or let me choose the TV channel.

He feels like it’s something.

I just hope I’m not imagining it because I’ve stupidly convinced myself there’s a chance this could turn into something real.

Which I know is a recipe for disaster.

I pick up the menu and focus on lunch.

“I see he has you well-protected,” my father says, glancing behind me at George. Four of his own men are at different spots in the restaurant, and two are outside.

I know exactly how to spot them.

My eyes follow his to where George stands, and I nod. “Oh, yeah. You don’t have to worry about me. Connor takes security very seriously.”

We place our orders and watch the server fill our glasses with wine. I plan to have half a glass, as we are busy working on another big event at Bloom Events, and Donna is watching me closely.

She asked if I was going to resign now I’m engaged to Connor—something she was shocked about, just like everyone else in my life. What she didn’t ask about was my roots. As in, being a Mancini. Whether she knew or is just respecting my privacy, I don’t know, but I really appreciate it.

I told her I am absolutely not resigning and am fully committed. I need that job, despite Connor’s billions and the two black credit cards in my purse.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Mia?” Papa asks, then holds up a large palm. “Hear me out. I love you, mia faglia, but have you questioned why this man wants to marry you?”

I blanch.

“Sorry?”

“We are a powerful family. I taught you to be street smart, Mia. Can you truthfully tell me this man loves you?”

No. No, I can’t.

Because he doesn’t.

I wave the Rock of Gibraltar at him and grin. “Exhibit A.”

He frowns, and my smile dims.

“Papa, I know you don’t like him—”

“I don’t trust him,” Joe says firmly. “There are many reasons why a man would want to marry you. He may be rich, but money is not the only thing a man might be after.”

I stare at him silently as they deliver our mains.

Little does he know, it was me who asked Connor to marry me, but my father’s words have planted a seed of doubt.

What would Connor want?

“Just think about it, Mia. If you believe he is the man you want to spend your life with, then I will accept it. And then we must discuss the venue. You will marry at home. It was your mother’s wish. And I know it is yours.”

I sigh.

I’m sure momma would be ashamed of me if she knew what I was doing, and as I take my third large gulp of my wine—there goes my plan to only drink half—I know I have to do as my father asks.

With choice comes consequences.

Perhaps by July, Connor will fall in love with me, and this will all be a funny story we never tell another soul. A crazy romantic story about how we met and fell in love.

Or I’ll be nursing a broken heart, while he cashes my one-point-five-million-dollar check and waves me farewell.

I take another sip.

What am I doing?