Vicious Hearts: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

I jolt, shivering as the rusty, wrenching sound of the cell door opening fills the room. The one small mercy is that while he was gone Cillian left the lights on, so at least I wasn’t going insane in utter darkness.

Having the lights on, though, also meant that I managed to talk to Apostle.

…And managed to reach out from the bolted-down chair I’m chained to and grasp one of the old tiled support pillars of the room. And managed to pry one of those old tiles off.

And managed to grind and shape that broken tile against the chair, and hone it into a makeshift blade.

Because I’m good like that.

As the door wrenches open, I scramble, shoving the weapon down beneath me and shifting to sit on it gingerly. My hand flies up to my necklace, making sure it’s back in place just as Cillian rolls in like a black tide.

“I hope you didn’t have too much fun at Hotel Kildare while I was gone.”

I glare at him. Cillian—devoid of his usual jacket, but still wearing the customary black dress shirt—starts to roll the sleeves up his muscled forearms, which for some reason fills me with dread.

Like it’s going to get messy.

I swallow, my pulse thudding as he slowly approaches.

“Well?”

“I have some comments for the management.”

His teeth flash, like a shark’s. “I’ll have to take those under advisement.”

He inhales and exhales slowly, those piercing green eyes of his stabbing into me. Unblinking. Unflinching. Unmerciful. I shift, biting my lip as the sharp edge of the tile under my ass pricks my skin.

Slowly, Cillian begins to circle me, his hands behind his back.

“There’s been some developments. I—”

“Why the fuck were you in my apartment?”

He stops his pacing with a suddenness that actually startles me, turning to level that psycho green glare right into my eyes.

“Given your current situation, I would think that was obvious.”

My teeth chew at the inside of my lips, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling as he starts to circle me again, like a wolf. The uneasy feeling I’ve had off and on for the last few weeks…the shivering sensation that I’m being watched…

It all suddenly hits me like ice water being dumped over my head.

“It wasn’t your first time at my place, was it?”

He stops his pacing again just long enough to glance at me, those eyes turning my insides to liquid fire as he arches one brow.

“No.”

Then he starts to walk again.

“Did you…” I swallow, my cheeks reddening. “I mean, why did you…”

Why did you steal my panties?

But that question seems about as forbidden to say out loud as the other one burning in my core. Like, why does knowing he was invading my space, seeing where I sleep, touching my things, picking me apart from the inside, ignite something in me?

Cillian’s slow pace brings him behind me, and I shiver as I feel him linger there—feel his piercing gaze scorching into me.

“As I was saying, there’s been a development.”

My heart turns to ice.

He’s come to kill me.

For revenge. Or maybe just because he is who he is. Because he’ll enjoy it.

I shudder, my mind churning before my thoughts shoot to survival. To the makeshift blade I’m sitting on.

I have to act. Before he does first, and it’s too late.

My pulse pounds in my ears, adrenaline flooding my system as I think through my moves: use my free hand to reach between my legs and grab the tile under me. Spin, jump as far up from the chair as I can, and stab him before he can do God-knows-what to me.

The fingers of my unbound hand twitch on my thigh. My muscles coil and tense, ready to spring into action—

Then I’m screaming as he’s suddenly on me.

I gasp sharply, wincing as Cillian grabs my free arm and yanks it behind my back. His huge hand shoves between my thighs with a snarl.

“My-fucking-my,” he rasps darkly. My face turns to ash as he pulls his hand back, one finger bleeding slightly as he holds the sharpened tile in his hand. He growls deeply in his chest, holding the makeshift blade right in front of my face—taunting me with that single drop of blood on his finger.

That’s all the damage I did, for all my grand plans.

“I’m insulted,” he sneers, tossing the tile away. “And a little curious. What the fuck else do you have hidden down here?”

My mouth goes slack as Cillian slides his hand back between my legs. His huge palm boldly and unapologetically cups my pussy through my panties. And when one of his thick fingers unexpectedly drags up my seam, I react.

Horribly.

Mortifyingly.

My skin ignites with heat. My muscles strain at the bonds holding me fast, my body shuddering as he nonchalantly touches me, taking what he wants. And knowing that he could take anything he wanted right now should not—should not—have this effect on me.

I should be horrified, not eager.

I should be terrified, not hungry.

I should be fearful, not on pins and needles wondering what he’ll do next.

Why are you like this?

Cillian chuckles darkly in my ear, wrenching me from my fucked-up little fantasy world.

“And there you go, getting wet for me again. Can’t help it, can you, my good girl?”

Sweet Jesus.

Heat explodes through my core, my nipples hardening as arousal floods shamefully between my legs.

Cillian chuckles a low, rumblingly laugh, and I grit my teeth as I strain against his grip pinning my arm back.

“You son of a bitch.”

“Let’s not start trash talking each other’s parents, shall we?” I shudder as his breath teases over my neck. “Least of all our fathers. My dear old da’ was a real bastard. But something tells me you’d still win that competition hands-down.”

My teeth grind. There’s a jangle of keys. And suddenly, the manacle around my wrist, the one holding me to the chair, unlocks and clanks to the ground.

“Let’s go.”

My breath catches in my throat as Cillian suddenly and forcibly yanks me out of the chair and half-guides, half-drags me across the stark room with chains on the ceiling and drains in the floor.

I stumble after him out the door and down a dimly lit, grimy hallway to an elevator. When the doors open, I blink in shock. The room I was just in was a horror show. The hallway wasn’t much better.

The elevator looks like something out of Architectural Digest.

Sleek, matte-black metal and glass. Modern, discreet lighting. A soft, elegant chime when the doors open.

What the fuck is this?

Inside, I gasp as he slams and pins me to the wall. His unnervingly unblinking, venomous glare holds me captive as he reaches behind him to push a button. The doors close, and slowly we start to rise. And rise. And rise.

Slowly, my jaw drops.

Where the fuck am I?

An apartment. No, not apartment. That word doesn’t do what I’m staring at justice.

It’s a freaking palace. A penthouse, with the elevator rising up into the middle of a huge, open space. The doors open with another soft ding, and I gasp quietly as Cillian yanks me out by the arm into the most glamorous space I’ve ever been in.

The penthouse is done all in dark wood tones, brushed metal, and black iron factory windows. There’s almost no furniture. Just a single dark brown Chesterfield leather couch in the middle of the floor in front of an eye-popping feature—an enormous, easily fifteen-foot-high glass clock-face window, facing out over the view of all Manhattan.

It’s not even the most gorgeous space I’ve ever been in. It’s the most gorgeous space I’ve ever seen, and I’ve watched some pretty over the top movies.

My mind flashes to the group homes. The shitty motels. The streets. My crappy Hell’s Kitchen apartment. And suddenly, the sheer audacity of thinking I could come after this man is almost comical.

Cillian isn’t just some guy Apostle wants dead. He’s a fucking god, living above the rest of us, breathing rarified air. What the fuck did I even think I was going to do to him?

Hey, you did manage to stab him.

Well. Look where that got me.

I gasp as Cillian’s grip on my arm tightens, dragging me stumbling after him across the huge open expanse of the penthouse. He pulls me down a dark, elegant hallway that opens into a stunning bedroom.

At least, it would be stunning if there was some freaking light in here. Currently, the huge walls of windows are blocked with blackout curtains, turning the elegant master bedroom with the slate-black walls and black ceiling into a cave-like space.

Perfect for a monster like him.

Through another doorway, my eyes pop when I find myself in a fucking gorgeous master bathroom, ultra masculine and entirely Cillian.

The whole place is slate-black, just like the bedroom, with brushed gold accents and a few dark wood elements. I stare at the huge glass shower with the skylight and rainfall showerhead above it. At the living accent wall covered in climbing vines.

When Cillian drags me over to a huge bathtub that looks like it was carved out of a single piece of slate-black and gray marble, and starts to crank on the hot water, my brows furrow.

“What are you doing?”

He says nothing, still gripping my arm viciously hard with one hand while the other twists the knobs and tests the temperature with his elbow. He pushes a button on the side of the tub, and instantly, it starts to fill with soapy bubbles.

My pulse quickness.

“What is this?” I snap.

“A fucking bathtub. Get in.”

My core tightens.

“What?”

“It’s bath time, Una,” he grunts, turning to let those green eyes of his lance into me. “Now get the fuck in.”

My head shakes. “No.”

“I think you’re imagining the question mark at the end of my last sentence.”

“I’m not taking my clothes off in front of you.”

I blush the second I say it, as his lips curl deviously and his eyebrows fly up.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

I simmer. “That…that was different.”

“And why is that?” he says, eyes narrowing. “Because you were trying to kill me at the time?”

I swallow as he turns to face me fully, towering over me with a vicious, thin smile on his chiseled jaw.

“I did notice that didn’t stop you from coming all over my cock, by the way.”

Explosive, vindictive, sinful heat explodes through me as he leans down close to me and cups my jaw firmly in his hand, lifting my chin as his eyes eviscerate me.

“Now,” he reaches behind him, twisting the water off. “Get the fuck in.”

The bathroom goes silent but for the slight drip-drip-drip of the faucet into the sudsy water. I purse my lips, defiantly staring right back up into his eyes.

“How about instead, you go fuck yours—HEY!”

He explodes into action so fast it’s almost supernatural. He grabs me, lifting me like I weigh absolutely nothing before turning…

…and unceremoniously dunking me into the tub, clothes and all.

I sputter and cough, trying to claw my way out. But his grip is unmerciful, his powerful arms pure corded iron as he shoves me right back down into the bubbles.

For a half a second, terror fills me, wondering if this is actually his revenge. If this is how he kills me, by drowning me in his tub. But just as that though crosses my mind, his grip on the front of my dress tightens, yanking me back up out of the water.

I cough and sputter and hurl obscenities at him. But not a one of them fazes him. He doesn’t even blink, even when he drops his hand from my dress to stand back, smirking at me sitting there in his tub like a shipwreck survivor.

“This would probably be easier if you took off your clothes.”

“Get fucked.”

He shrugs and suddenly pulls a butterfly knife out of his pocket and flicks it open.

“WAIT! PLEASE!”

When he drops down next to the tub, and when the blade plunges under the bubbles, it’s not my flesh he’s cutting and slicing.

It’s my clothing.

I jolt, gasping as Cillian surgically slices through my dress, cutting all the way from my cleavage down to the short hem, literally carving it off my body. But he doesn’t cut me—not even a nick, even with the savageness of his moves and the dark glint in his eyes.

I’m not wearing a bra under the dress, and I blush, quickly trying to cover myself with my hands. It’s useless. His hands plunge deep between my legs, making my body quiver and shudder as his blade slides through the fabric of my panties at both hips. He pulls them from between my legs, making me shudder as the wet lace drags against my lips and my clit.

Yup, I am way broken. Super, super fucking broken.

It’s not until he grabs the necklace and unclips it from around my neck and tosses it aside that I realize it also went into the water with me. And something tells me that secret phone devices hidden in necklaces aren’t exactly waterproof.

I don’t think I’ll be talking to Apostle using that anytime soon.

Cillian rolls his sleeves even further up his muscled forearms, pushing them over his elbows to the bulge of his chiseled biceps and giving me a glimpse of tattoo ink. He plucks a bottle of something off the floor beside the tub, and a fluffy loofah—black, of course.

I stiffen as I watch him squirt body wash onto it.

“What the fuck are you—”

“Bathing you, since I’m out of patience and would rather not have to deal with a protesting child.”

“Excuse me—hey!”

I flinch when he grabs my arm, pulling it away from my breasts and lifting it high before the loofah scrubs over my skin. I try to fight him, to pull my arm back. But it’s like trying to get free of a boulder, and he offers just as much give.

“I don’t—STOP—!”

“Given the state of that shithole you were calling home, and given that you’ve been sitting in my kill room for the last few hours…”

Kill room.

Jesus Christ.

“Yes,” he mutters. “I would say you absolutely need a fucking bath.”

Deftly, ignoring my hurled insults and screamed swears, seemingly uncaring about the water I’m sloshing all over the floor as I fight him, Cillian washes my arms. Then my torso, ignoring the way my face turns crimson when he soaps my breasts. Then my legs, despite my kicks.

Then between them, as my throat tightens and forbidden heat sizzles through my core.

The whole time, he says nothing and offers no reaction, except for a deviously dark smirk on his face when my breath catches at the feel of the silky loofah over my pussy.

I sputter and choke when he pours water over my head. But when it’s followed with shampoo, and then his strong, thick fingers rubbing and massaging that shampoo into my long, dark hair, something inside of me flickers awake and shivers.

Something whimpers.

Something purrs.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped thrashing and kicking until I realize starting up again wouldn’t do a thing anyway. So I sit there, stewing and chewing on my lips as the dangerous, beautiful psychopath who’s apparently now kidnapped me washes my hair.

What the fuck is happening?

“Stand.”

I blink, opening my eyes and realizing he’s finished as the water begins to drain away. I turn away from him, shyly trying to cover my chest and between my legs with my hands.

That is, until Cillian roughly pulls them away, yanks me around to face him, and wraps a big towel around me. I gasp as he lifts me from the tub, sets me on a fluffy mat, and then proceeds to dry my hair with another towel.

And at this point, I’m not actually sure if he’s planning to kill me, fuck me, or make my freaking skin into a dinner jacket.

Possibly all three.

“Follow me.”

When I stubbornly plant my feet, he turns back to me, his eyes raking over my skin and his lips curling sardonically.

“Alternatively, I could carry you over my fucking shoulder, without the towel. You get to decide in three, two—”

“Okay, okay!” I blurt. “Okay, fine. I’ll follow you.”

As he starts to turn back to the door, my eyes drift to the black marble vanity.

To the gleaming silver straight-edge razor sitting on a little stand.

“Don’t even think it.”

I jolt, my gaze ripping back to him—to the thin smile on his lips.

“I—”

“Save yourself the embarrassment and me the effort of restraining you. It’s not going to happen.”

I glare at him. Cillian shrugs and starts to turn away.

In a flash, I lunge for the blade. But he’s right.

It’s not going to happen.

I gasp sharply as he suddenly grabs me in his powerful arms, and freaking tosses me over his shoulder—ass up.

“You fucking prick!” I scream, pounding on his back as Cillian ignores me.

And carries me, kicking and screaming like a mad thing, into his bedroom.