Vicious Hearts: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

It’s fine. It’s fine.

I tell myself it’s fine all night.

I even manage to hang onto at least a piece of that feeling the next day on the drive over from Cillian’s Brooklyn penthouse to the Kildare family home on the Upper East Side, convincing myself that I’m making this into way bigger a deal than it’s really going to be.

But the false confidence and forced bravado evaporate as we step up to the front door of the brownstone. My pulse begins to thunder in my ears, thudding rapidly under my skin. Sweat slicks the small of my back.

What the fuck was I thinking?

It’s not even the part where I’m going to be marrying Cillian. It’s the fact that I’m about to come face-to-face with the rest of them.

His family, whom my father tried to—and almost did—kill.

The same people I had tacked up on my freaking wall at Apostle’s demands, laid out like a fucking hit-list.

Marrying the confirmed psychopath and professed sadist standing next to me as a devil’s deal is one thing. Facing someone like his niece Neve, whom my father once—no, twice—tied to a fucking crucifix, is another story altogether.

And suddenly I’m not sure I can do this, six months or no six months.

“You’re not your father.”

I flinch, snapping back to reality and finding myself standing right in front of the big front door. My eyes dart to the man standing next to me in his customary black suit and black shirt, currently no tie.

“What?”

Cillian’s eyes flicker as he turns to pierce them down into mine. “You’re not your father. Nobody ever is.”

He rings the doorbell and then goes ahead and unlocks the door himself anyway and strides in, with me trailing behind him.

Yeah, well, do THEY know that?

The second we step inside, I see a pretty girl with blonde hair and big green eyes not so dissimilar to Cillian’s.

Eilish, Cillian’s niece and Neve’s younger sister. Twenty-one, incredibly smart, and about to start classes at Columbia Business School.

And I hate that I know who she is because of a hit list thumb tacked to my wall.

I think I hate it worse that she probably knows that, too.

And even if somehow she doesn’t know that part, which I doubt, she still knows who I am: the daughter of the monster who tried to, and almost did, destroy her family.

I’m not just an outsider. I’m a threat. The enemy.

Guilty by genetic association.

So I can’t blame her when she stiffens as she walks around the corner into the front foyer. Her green eyes snap to mine, narrowing slightly as her lips purse.

“Oh.”

Well, this is going to be fun.

Hi. I’m the daughter of the maniac who tried to kill your sister. And surprise, I’m marrying your sixteen-years-older-than-me uncle to stop a mafia civil war. How’s YOUR Tuesday going so far?!

I manage a weak smile. “Hi, Eilish. I’m—”

“Yeah, I…” Her brow furrows.

“Right, yeah.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

Great. Fantastic first impression.

“Eilish.”

She pulls her gaze from me to Cillian.

“Is everyone else here?”

She nods. “Almost. Castle is out back with Ares, Hades, and Kratos. Callie is—”

“Hi.”

My head jerks to see another girl around Eilish’s age walking down the staircase, her dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned, olive skin easily giving her away as a Drakos.

“I’m Callie.”

I smile weakly again. “Nice to meet you, I’m—”

“I know. My brother’s the one who put a bullet through your father’s chest.”

Yeah, so, guess we’re coming out swinging for the fences here.

“I—”

“Calliope,” Cillian growls with a warning tone. “Easy.”

She shrugs, glaring at me as Cillian turns back to his niece.

“Is Ms. Guin here yet?”

“Not yet. Neve’s—” Eilish’s gaze drags over me top to bottom. “She’s upstairs.”

“Would you please take Una up and find her something to wear, something appropriate for the occasion?”

“Funeral black should do it,” Callie mutters out of the corner of her mouth.

Cillian hears her, but doesn’t respond, turning back to Eilish. “I’ll be out back.” His gaze swivels to me, making me shiver as the heated power in his eyes lances into me. “See you soon.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m on my own with two frosty faces glaring me down.

It’s not that I can’t stand on my own two feet. I’ve spent my entire life standing up to group home bullies, other foster kids trying to take my or Finn’s stuff, and God only knows how many creeps, predators, thugs, and worse on the streets.

Somehow, though, this is different. Those other times, they were just bullies. I could stand my ground because I had legitimate ground to stand on. Today, while I’m not my father, to these two, I might as well be.

An O’Conor.

Tainted blood.

The enemy.

And it’s proving to be a little harder to stand my ground.

“Look,” Eilish says brusquely. “I don’t know what your angle is—”

Fuck this.

“My angle is that your uncle has a problem within the Kildare ranks, and needs me to patch up that problem.”

“My, how charitable of you!” Callie gushes with all the sincerity of a punchline.

“Plus, there are a lot of people out there who want me dead because of who my father was.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Eilish mutters.

“So my angle,” I say tightly, “is to stay the fuck alive. That cool with you?”

The two of them frown, glancing at each other.

“I am not my father,” I hiss. “Oh, and for what it’s worth?” I turn to level my gaze at Callie. “I hated him, and I’d actually love to thank your brother when I see him for sending him to Hell. So, if we’re all done with the mean girl playground bullshit, can we go find me a stupid fucking dress to wear for this stupid fucking fake charade?!”

Silence bathes the foyer. Eilish glances at Callie. Callie glances back at Eilish.

Slowly, they both begin to grin.

Eilish walks over, lays a hand on my shoulder, and gives me a half grin. “I think we can probably find something of mine that will fit.”

My mouth widens. “Thanks.”

Upstairs on the fourth floor of the brownstone, Eilish pulls me into what is clearly her bedroom. I can’t help but smile as I turn slowly, drinking it all in. I know—again, shamefully, from my digging from before—that she and Neve grew up in this house, and that she still lives here. So the bedroom is a cross between that of a twenty-one-year-old business major on her way to an ivy league school, and that of a little girl.

The expected GMAT and MBA prep course books—but on a white and silver vanity-style desk that looks almost like something out of a dollhouse. Shelves and shelves of vinyl records—jazz, classical, and 60’s and 70’s rock, with a cello on a stand beside it. But the bed is the most little-girl princess thing I’ve ever seen—four posts, dreamy white and silver gauze draped across it, a pink duvet cover.

Before it all came crashing down, I once had a room like this. And there’s a weird twinge in my heart as I take it all in.

“I grew up here,” Eilish blurts, blushing a little as she rolls her eyes. “I know, it’s super—”

“Lovely.”

Her lips curl, a brow arching. “I was going to say dorky and childish and way overdue for a makeover.”

“I love it. Really.”

She lifts a graceful shoulder. “Well, thanks. I’m still thinking about moving out when I start business school—”

“Columbia,” Callie breaks in. “She’s a fucking genius.”

I grin as Eilish rolls her eyes and opens a set of doors that leads into a stunning, enormous, walk-in closet.

“Okayyy, so, white…”

“Oh, it doesn’t have to be white. It’s not really my color anyway.”

I have no fucking idea what is and is not “my color”. But I also feel positively ill at the idea of putting on a fucking white wedding dress for this debacle.

Eilish smiles wryly at me. “I mean, it is a wedding…”

“A fake one.”

She smirks. “Yeah, well, we’ve had a lot of practice with those lately.”

“You mean your sister?”

She nods. “Yup, and Callie’s next.”

The youngest Drakos sibling’s face sours when I turn to her. “Not if I can fucking help it, I’m not.”

I wince. “I’m sorry.”

“Join the club, but thanks. He’s a west coast Italian mafia head. Thirty years older than me and a complete creep.”

My nose wrinkles. “God, that’s awful. Why?”

She shakes her head, looking away. “More Mafia world bullshit, what can I say. So, welcome to the club, I guess. I’m actually envious. I’d much rather have to marry Cillian than fucking Luca Carveli.”

“Callie!” Eilish makes a face. “We’re talking about my uncle!”

“So?” Callie grins innocently, turning to me. “I mean, at least Cillian’s fucking hot.”

My face goes red. Eilish’s turns a shade of sickly green.

“Seriously gross.” She shudders, turning and diving into the closet. “I’ll see what I’ve got. But you’re also a little taller than me. Ooo, hang on…”

She rummages around before finally emerging with three white dresses in different styles.

“One of these might—”

She tenses. I frown, then turn to see what’s so caught her attention.

I go stiff, my blood thudding in my ears, as I’m suddenly face to face for the first time with Neve.

She’s standing stiffly in the doorway, her eyes—green, just like her sister’s and her uncle’s—somehow both faraway and stabbing right into me at the same time. Her mouth is thin and small, and when my gaze drops, my stomach twists and I want to run.

One of her arms is crossed over her middle, the fingers rubbing and tracing habitually over the wrist of her other arm.

Over thin, pink scars.

My father did that.

When he tied her to a fucking crucifix as part of his vendetta against the Kildare family and tried to bleed her out.

The room is silent as I swallow, eyeing Neve as she stares right through me. Slowly, she frowns.

“You’re maybe a little closer to my height. C’mon.”

She turns and disappears back into the hallway. Following slowly, I shadow her back to her room. This one has a much less girlie vibe than her sister’s. A framed poster for a Nina Simone concert in France. A wall of older DVDs that look almost exclusively to be 90’s and 00’s comedies. And a bed that looks more appropriate for a young woman than the fairy princess bed in Eilish’s room.

Aside from that, the room is actually kind of sparse.

“I moved out a few months ago,” she says dismissively, quietly, with a shrug.

“Of course. Congratulations, by the way.”

I feel weird even saying it. Congratulations. Sorry your wedding present was my monster of a father hunting you and your new husband down.

But when Neve glances back at me with a wry smile on her face, I don’t see any malice there. Nervousness, maybe?

“Look, Una—”

“My-father-was-a-monster-there-I’ve-said-it.”

She flinches.

I clear my throat. “That’s my awkward way of trying to tell you…” I shrug. “Good. I mean, I’m glad he’s dead, and I’m glad your husband shot him, and I’m really sorry about what happened to you.”

Neve smiles wryly.

We don’t have to say anything else. We’re on the same page.

“Let me see what I’ve got in white…”

“How about anything but white, actually?”

She turns to grin at me. “I like where you’re going with that. Wanna take a look?” She beckons with her head as she walks into a massive closet the same size as Eilish’s.

Inside, I start to trace my fingers over a rack of gowns and dresses, pulling a few out here and there, but ultimately putting them back on the rack.

Finally, I spot it.

And it’s perfect.

Neve grins widely at the black, floor-length, scoop-neck dress with the long trailing sleeves.

“That was my Morticia Addams Halloween costume my senior year of high school.”

“Is it too—”

“I honestly think it’s fucking perfect. All black for a fake wedding?” She grins. “Very goth. Go for it. I’ll give you some privacy to try it—”

“Oh, it’s fine. I don’t really mind.”

Standing in front of the floor-length mirror, I slip off my leggings, t-shirt, and hoodie and start taking the dress off the hanger.

Then I see Neve’s face in the mirror.

Her wide, horrified eyes as they land on the pink scars crisscrossing my back.

“God, I’m so sorry,” she blurts, turning away. “I—”

My mouth twists wryly as I turn to face her. “Guess we both know how good he was at leaving scars.”

She stiffens, her mouth small as her eyes snap to mine. Something passes between us. Maybe it’s a truce. Or acknowledging the pain in each other’s past.

Or just an understanding that despite it all we both survived.

I turn back and pull the dress on, adjusting it and letting my hair drape down the back. In the mirror, I watch my own lips curl into a grin.

“Oh hell yes.”

Still grinning, I turn at the sound of Callie’s voice to see her and Eilish standing next to Neve in the doorway to the walk-in closet.

Eilish giggles. “Honestly, I have no idea if Cillian’s going to hate it or love it.”

“I don’t really care either way,” I murmur.

Neve chuckles. “Good. You’re absolutely wearing that.”

I turn back to look at myself, a cheeky grin spreading over my face. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, which is insane given what’s about to happen, I think I might just see a glimmer of genuine happiness somewhere in that smile.

There’s no band. No music at all, even. No altar, or white foldout chairs, or any of that. I really don’t think I could do this if there were, in any case. It’s already hard enough to stop my jaw from clenching or my legs from shaking as I stand in front of a rose bush, face to face with Cillian.

The monster I can’t stop thinking or fantasizing about.

The dangerous and dark psychopath with the venomous green eyes who I’m about to marry.

He doesn’t say anything when I walk out into the back garden dressed as Morticia. But when I come to a stop in front of him—still, I notice, all in black, but with a tie now—I swear the corners of his lips curl up just a smidge.

Because there’s no chairs, Neve and Ares, Eilish, Castle, Callie, and her two other brothers Hades and Kratos just stand in a semi-circle near us. Their facial expressions range from smiles mixed with a touch of sympathy from the Kildare sisters and Callie, to curiously neutral on the part of Castle and Kratos, to outright scowls from Ares and Hades.

But I think everyone knows this has to happen. Or the Kildare empire goes up in civil war flames.

And/or I’m dead.

Elsa Guin, a young British woman who I gather is sort of the Drakos family attorney, is presiding over this whole sorry debacle. She smiles professionally at Cillian and I as she stands in front of us in a very lawyerly coal-gray skirt suit, her white-blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun.

“Well, shall we?”

“Oh, please, let’s,” Cillian drawls with a sarcastic edge.

And then, we’re off.

We say the words, and to my shock, there’s actually rings: two simple, unadorned gold bands. Which are oddly perfect, in my opinion.

Suddenly, it’s done.

I’m married to Cillian Kildare.

If this were real, this would be the part where he kisses me, of course. For a second, he pulls closer, his eyes piercing into mine, my heart thudding as I get a little lost in the swirling green pools of fire.

For a heart-stopping moment I wonder if he really is going to kiss me.

He doesn’t. And I immediately chastise myself for the freaking disappointment I feel when he doesn’t.

Because I’m insane.

Obviously.

It’s not real, none of it. Not the marriage. Not the ceremony, or the rings, even.

Not the confusing, conflicted feelings I feel swirling inside of me.

Fear and desire. Resentment and lust. Defiance and submission.

They’re not real.

So why do they feel so much like they are?