Vicious Hearts: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

The wedding itself is small. It’s the “celebration” afterward that’s big.

By necessity.

It’s not quite like Ares and Neve, when we had to “sell” their relationship to truly heal the blood feud between the Drakos and Kildare families. No one has to think Una and I are fucking Romeo and Juliet or anything.

But they do all have to acknowledge the marriage—both its legitimacy, and Una’s legitimacy as Seamus’ next of kin. Considering no one knew she even existed until recently, I’ve come prepared for that with a DNA test comparing her to my late half-brother Declan, who was Seamus’ nephew.

I used a blood test we had on record for Declan, and a strand of Una’s hair I took from her brush. And the test conclusively proves she’s an O’Conor. Ergo, per the old ways, this should—and will, I’ll make sure of that—end the bullshit and the various calls for rebellion.

Of course, the longer I keep telling myself this is all about “mending cracks”—that it’s all a business obligation—the more I want to crack my own head open.

Because I know damn fucking well that isn’t true.

So I switch to other, more palatable lies for myself: I tell myself that I’m doing it because of the raw, dark, and dangerous lust she ignites inside of me. I replay in my mind, over and over, the way she whimpers and moans so eagerly and submissively under my punishing touch, to convince myself that is the pull here: a purely physical addiction.

Better. But even that isn’t the full truth.

It’s the way she looks over the edge into the abyss because it calls to her, just like I do. The way she’s different, and hides the monstrousness in her, also like I do.

The way that the darkness in her somehow connects with and mimics mine in a way I’ve never felt before. The way all of that simultaneously sets me ablaze and soothes the roaring inside.

And fucked if I have any idea at all what that means.

The reception—held in an event space behind O’Bannon’s, an Irish pub that the Kildare family has historically done business out of—slowly fills with people. When we went down this “marriage to heal the divide” road with Neve and Ares, the reception was filled with almost an exact fifty-fifty mix each of Kildare and Drakos family and tributary families.

This time, aside from the immediate Drakos family—Ares, his siblings, and their hawkish grandmother Dimitra—the guest list is all from the Kildare side, and our vassal families. The McCormick, Kearney, and O’Riordan families all pass by where Una and I are standing side-by-side, and pay tribute and homage by shaking first my hand and then Una’s on bended knee.

At times, it’s eye-rollingly medieval, as if I’m some fucking lord of the manor or a ruler that the lessor lords of my fiefdom have to pay tribute to. Except, that is kind of exactly what this is.

My world is not a democracy of any kind. This is very much an absolute monarchy.

And I am very much their mad king.

A band plays traditional Irish music in the corner, the lead singer crooning into her microphone with an especially whiskey-soaked voice. It was all Neve’s idea, actually—meant as an extra show of respect to the senior heads of some of these households.

Over the sound of fiddles and fifes, and lyrics about hardship and misery that the Irish do so love for some bizarre reason to play at purportedly happy events like weddings, I shake hands and mend the friction, one house at a time.

Now the fences just have to last. At least for six months, until our agreed-upon dramatic not-so-happy ending.

Which I’m not actually sure I’ll be honoring. But we’ll see.

The muscles in my jaw are beginning to ache from the fucking smiling so much when a soft hand lands on my shoulder, pulling me aside. Neve grins as she hands me a glass of whiskey.

“Here. I know mugging for the cameras and kissing babies isn’t exactly your favorite part of the job.”

I grimace, gratefully taking a slug from the glass. “Playing the politician was always your father’s forte, not mine.”

She chuckles as her eyes slide past me, to Una. “Look, I know the dress—”

“It’s fine.” I try to sound appropriately annoyed.

The truth is, it’s more than fine.

It’s a lot more than fine.

Yes, I know her decision to go with all-black for the wedding was meant as a fuck-you: to me, to the entire situation, to marriage in general, maybe. I could see that plainly in the smirk on her face when she stepped out into the gardens behind the Kildare brownstone.

But if she was trying to piss me off, she’s failed. And I know she wasn’t trying to entice me, or to bait me, or turn me on.

But she’s very much succeeded in accomplishing all those things.

Neve grins apologetically, lifting her shoulder. “I mean, I know she picked it as a middle finger.”

“You think?”

She laughs. “But it works! I mean, you rock the Johnny Cash look all the time anyway, Mr. Man-in-Black. You two look good together.”

“Which is a zero percent concern of mine, but thank you anyway.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying. I like the goth prom king and queen vibe you guys have going on.”

“Oh good, that’s what I always dreamed I’d hear on my wedding day,” I mutter with a dramatic sigh.

Neve chuckles, slapping my arm. “Don’t be a dick. Look, I mean, I know it’s not—”

“Neve?”

She arches a brow.

“Before you launch into the same pep talk I’m sure I gave you when you married Ares, it’s fine. This is what being at the top means.”

“Well,” she sighs with a grin. “If you’ll let me finish, I’ll just say, you could have done a fuck of a lot worse than her.”

My brow knits curiously. I wasn’t present for Neve’s and Una’s first interaction back at the house, though I wanted to be, given…history. But when I caught sight of them outside in the garden talking, and having seen them together now, here at the reception, it’s clear that the meet went better than I could have ever expected.

“She’s not her father,” Neve says quietly.

“Funny, that’s exactly the way I put it to her this morning, too.”

“And,” she shrugs. “I kinda like her, actually. She’s pretty cool.”

Part of me wonders how “cool” Neve would think her new—fuck, her new aunt, technically speaking—was if she knew the details of said particular new aunt’s history of trying to murder me. But, the other part of me knows she’s right.

I could have done a fuck of a lot worse.

Hell, she could have been normal. Devoid of darkness. I could be politically married now to some wholesome, bubbly, peppy little suburban housewife type whose idea of inner darkness and baggage is the piece of candy she stole when she was a kid. Whose most depraved kink is keeping the lights on.

That would have been a bitter pill to swallow, even if it meant saving the empire.

It’s only the fact that Una is damaged, and dark, and fucked up like me that makes this palatable. No. Much, much more than just “palatable.” Even if she’s not as fucked up as me.

“It is what it is, Neve.”

She grins. “Well, I think she could actually be good for you.”

I’m already rolling my eyes but she stops me.

“No, I mean I know it’s about politics. But I mean she’s a good match for you. And you can relax, I don’t mean emotionally or romantically. I mean as in, you could honestly use someone who stands their ground in front of you sometimes.”

I look at her over the rim of my whiskey glass. “Is that your way of calling me a tyrant?”

“That was my way of saying having someone who can throw your shit right back in your face is a good thing. Trust me on that.”

I smirk as she glances past me, her lips pulling into a grin as she spots Ares across the room, talking to Dylan O’Riordan and Castle.

“It’s just politics, Neve.”

She shrugs. “I know. But if it ever became more than—”

“Just. Politics.”

She smiles a coy smile. “Ares and I were just politics, too.”

“Yes, well, the next time I’m actively looking for advice on my personal life, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, heard loud and clear. I’m done. And now I’m going to go find a drink.”

I smile as she heads off, before a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.

“Cillian.”

When I turn, Dominic Farrell is at my elbow with a dark look on his face.

“Problems, Dom?”

His jaw grits. “Just thought you’d want to know, I spotted Liam McCarthy walking in a few minutes ago, looking especially…” He clears his throat. “In his cups.”

Oh, good. The man calling for civil war because of Una’s father and my brother is pretty much the last person I want to show up drunk and angry.

This should go fucking swimmingly.

“Shit. I’ll—”

“Cillian.”

I frown as Dominic nods past me. When I turn, my jaw clenches.

Fuck.

Liam—looking fairly intoxicated, and with a dark expression on his face—just walked right up to Una. Dominic swears and makes a move as if to rush over. But, something in the way I watch Una stand tall, without cowering, without showing any weakness, stops me, and I halt Dom with a hand on his arm.

“Wait.”

“Cillian, he’s—”

“I said wait.”

Despite her petite stature, I of all people know that thinking of Una as a little waif who needs saving is to vastly underestimate her.

I’ve got a fresh scar on my side and still-aching bruises elsewhere from the little hellcat to back that up.

So I wait, watching from about twenty feet away as Liam approaches my new bride in black.

“Congratulations, O’Conor,” he sneers.

Una just smiles politely, ignoring the emphasis on her last name. “Thank you.”

His lips curl. “Do you even fucking know who I—”

“Yes. I know my father did horrible, unforgivable things to your family, Mr. McCarthy.”

Interesting. She’s done her homework.

“Yeah,” Liam hisses. “He sure fucking—”

“I would apologize for him. But I do not, never have, and won’t ever speak for my father. Or of him, with anything but disdain.”

I frown as Una reaches out and lays a hand gently on a slightly confused-looking Liam’s arm.

“I can’t apologize for my father, Mr. McCarthy, and I can’t change the horrors of the past. But I can tell you I’m very sorry for what was done to you and yours, and furthermore I can tell you that if you ever want anything, or need a direct line to the Kildare family, you can reach out personally to me, and I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”

Well…fuck me.

I can honestly say I’d never have expected to use the word “diplomatic” when it came to describing the rebellious, defiant, perpetual middle-finger-raising little would-be-assassin I just married.

But here we are.

I’m intrigued.

Very intrigued.

Liam’s whole face changes from sneering disdain to—surprise—an actual, honest-to-fucking-God smile. He reaches out and takes her hands in his—which has the bizarre effect of making fury surge inside of me, to the point where my teeth flash and I start to move toward them.

“I don’t know where you found her, Cillian…”

Dominic’s voice rips me from the murderous fugue state I temporarily fell into.

Liam taking his fucking hands off hers helps, too.

“But, thank God you did. I mean, she’s good, Cill.”

The red mist clears from my face as I watch Liam smile at my bride.

“I…misjudged you, Mrs. Kildare.”

Mrs. Kildare.

Fuck, I might like the sound of that a bit too much.

Una smiles as she squeezes his arm—bringing a fresh wave of confusingly murderous thoughts to my head.

“I appreciate that, Mr. McCarthy. Again, you have my deepest condolences for the past.”

He smiles. “Thank you, Mrs. Kildare. The organization, and Cillian, is lucky to have you.”

“You’re too kind. And it’s just Ms. O’Conor, not Mrs. Kildare.”

My jaw ticks.

Yeah, that will need addressing.

They shake hands once more, both of them smiling before Liam pulls away and heads my way.

“One fucking hell of a diplomat,” Dominic mumbles under his breath.

Yeah, and where the fuck was that sense of diplomacy when she was stabbing sharp pointy things into me?

Liam comes to a stop in front of me, clearing his throat sheepishly as he extends his hand.

“Cillian, I owe you an apology.”

The cynical part of me wants to call him a treasonous little shit, and furthermore tell him I’ll still be burning his fucking family’s businesses to the fucking ground for his call for insurrection.

Instead, I take a page from my surprisingly diplomatic bride.

“The past is in the past, Liam,” I growl. “Are we good?”

He grins. “We’re more than good, Cillian. I herby re-pledge complete loyalty of the McCarthy family to you and the Kildare empire.” And then the fucker actually gets down on his knee before shaking my hand.

I mean, it’d carry a little more weight if he hadn’t been calling for open war all of five fucking days ago. But I also have to remind myself just how deep his hatred for Seamus O’Conor undoubtedly runs.

Fuck it. If he’s ready to get all smiley and forgiving with Seamus’ own daughter, I can drop my end of the bitterness.

I take his hand firmly—possible a bit too firmly, if only just to make a point.

“The Kildare family is happy to have you back in the fold, Liam.”

He smiles. “She’s good, Cillian.”

He turns, and my gaze follows his to where Una is now sitting at the head table next to Neve, happily chatting away.

“You’re a lucky and smart man for marrying her.”

“Thanks.”

“Mr. Kildare?” One of the catering staff nervously touches my arm, pulling my attention. “We’re ready if you are.”

My brow knits. “For?”

“For the cake, sir.”

The furrow in my brow deepens. “What cake?”

The man smiles blankly. “The, uh, cake, sir. The wedding cake?”

“There is no cake. We’re skipping that.”

He frowns. “We have one that was delivered an hour ago…?”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh! Never mind, they’re serving it now. Apologies for disturbing you, sir.”

Frowning, I look past him to where two other catering staff are carrying over a cake and setting it down in front of Una and Neve, sitting next to each other at the table.

An odd, blood-red cake. With a black cross frosted on the side of it.

I stiffen, peering more closely at it. No, not just a cross…a string of rosary beads along with the cross.

A cross dripping in blood, and riddled with…

Bullet holes.

Everything goes silent and still as it clicks in my head. I know that bloodied and shot up rosary—as a tattoo that only one man I’ve ever known had, inked on his wrist and the back of his blood-soaked hand.

And that man was Seamus fucking O’Conor.

I’m moving before I’m even aware of it, bolting across the room as Una smiles and leans curiously over the cake.

She sputters as I smash into her hard, tackling her into Neve as the three of us crash together to the ground.

…About a quarter second before the cake explodes.

The boom is deafening, throwing the room into utter chaos as smoke chokes the air and bits of crumbled cake and tabletop sprinkle down.

And then, I fucking hear it.

The voice of a ghost.

A devil. A demon.

A dead man.

“I’ll cut the throat of every. Single. Fucking Kildare.”

Seamus O’Conor.

The room goes deathly quiet, the only sound the recording of Seamus’ distinctive, gravelly tone repeating over and over.

“I’ll cut the throat of every. Single. Fucking Kildare.”

Una’s face turns to alabaster beneath me. The smoke begins to dissipate, and suddenly I can see something standing in the ruins of the exploded cake.

Another cross, dripping in blood, riddled with bullet holes, with that fucking voice from the grave rasping out of it on an endless loop.

“I’ll cut the throat of every. Single. Fucking Kildare.”

“I’ll cut the throat of every. Single. Fucking Kildare.”

“It’s him,” Una chokes.

I rip my eyes from the cross down to her. For a moment, a strange fear stabs into me when I see the red splattered across her face and neck. But then I realize it’s only the blood-red frosting.

I look over to Neve, still ducked down flat on the floor.

“Just a recording, Neve,” I growl, reaching for her and gripping her arm reassuringly. “It’s just a—”

She’s not moving.

At. All.

Then all I hear are the blood-curdling sounds of Ares roaring, Una screaming, sirens approaching…

…And my own pulse.

Snarling.