Vicious Hearts: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

Murder.

Murder would have been fucking easier.

I wince, gritting my teeth as Castle yanks the wheel around hard, taking a corner.

“Easy on the fucking gas there, Steve McQueen,” I grunt.

My six-and-a-half-foot tall de facto second in command shoots me a sideways glance before the car lurches violently again as he overtakes another car. My vision blurs as I slam against the passenger side door, and I shoot him a venomous glare.

“You fucker. That was on purpose.”

He shakes his head, his huge hands gripping the wheel as he focuses on his Formula One approach to the West Side Highway.

“That was making sure I get you to Dr. Blythe before you bleed the fuck out in my car.”

My jaw grinds as I glance down at the blood-soaked towel I’m pressing to my side, where the girl’s goddam knife is still embedded between my intercostals.

I wince as Castle takes an exit and my torso muscles contract again around the blade between my ribs. He makes a face as he glances at me.

“So, a girl…”

“Just drive.”

“A single—”

“Drive the damn car.”

“Like, are we talking a Viking-sized—”

“Stop fucking talking and drive.”

Castle is one of the very few people in my life I would allow to push me like this, especially given the situation. But even with him, there are limits.

Fuck Club Venom. And fuck their bullshit pathetic excuse for security that allowed that little psycho through the front door wearing a motherfucking knife as a hair barrette.

Yeah, murder.

Murder would have been far fucking easier.

And yeah, fuck hindsight, too, while we’re at it.

With a groan, I allow myself to sink back into the seat. My head lolls against the window, my eyes dragging east to drink in the sight of the city whizzing past us. The towering buildings of light and steel. The millions of people, quietly going about their daily mundane tasks.

The whole world silently agreeing to not tear itself and each other apart piece by bloody piece.

Rules. Society. Law. Order. Most people see it all as a framework. A foundation. A security blanket.

I just see it for the flimsy, whitewashed lie it is.

A sandbox to play in.

A system of lines and walls it’s probably best to stay at least partially inside.

Venom is just one of the several…outlets I utilize. One of the avenues by which the violence inside of me can be let out in a controlled, guided way, rather than exploding out monstrously. By doing so, by using those steam vents, I remain human. Within the bounds of civilized society.

Well, more or less.

Virtually anyone who’s ever met me understands I’m…different.

Dark.

A little broken. A little twisted.

A whole lot of fucking crazy.

And they don’t even fucking know the half of it.

Ironically, the thing that’s been the biggest help keeping me within those boundaries laid down by society is taking over and now running the entire Kildare empire. In another life, in a parallel universe, maybe I’d have been a cutthroat CEO of a Fortune 500 company, or a Wall Street hedge fund manager.

Or Napoleon, or Genghis fucking Khan, if we’re really talking alternate realities here. A destructive, driven, and unwavering force of nature.

But leading and guiding the Kildare empire is only one such avenue; just one of the several ways I keep the savagery inside of me in check. There are other methods I use—chemicals, like alcohol or nicotine. Channeled brutality, like the underground fights I sometimes indulge in.

Or, like tonight, giving in to my more depraved, carnal needs. Hence, Club Venom. And the blonde with the fucking knife.

And yet, all of these are merely stopgaps. They’re all…lesser alternatives to the one true avenue by which I can control the devil within.

Blood.

True violence.

Killing.

The rumors that surround me claiming I’m a crazy, unhinged psycho aren’t overblown. If anything, they pale next to the reality.

I am fully twice the monster they all say I am.

But the problem with being an abso-fucking-lutely confirmed psychopath is that life for me has become a delicate balancing act between giving into the base desires that at times almost overwhelm me, and understanding with blazing clarity that giving in to those base desires will almost certainly—eventually—mean prison. Or death.

Because giving in is a slippery slope.

So there are rules. And that’s how I’ve survived to the age of forty-one. By letting that violence out in channeled, controlled ways.

Or, if I’m going to kill—and believe me, I do—it’s not wanton mayhem. It’s not like I go out and throttle coeds like I’m in some low budget 90s teen horror movie, or walk down a sidewalk spraying bullets like a maniac.

When I kill, it’s precise.

Warranted.

Needed.

Necessary.

My vision blurs as the pain intensifies. I needed the release tonight worse than usual. I needed to bleed out the darkness within me. One, because I always eventually need to, and will always eventually need to. But more importantly two, because Rome is fucking burning.

My empire is cracking and might collapse entirely.

Two months ago, a man—the devil incarnate—that I’d once helped to put in a hole for life, escaped that hole. He came after one of my nieces, Neve, seeking retribution.

Seamus fucking O’Conor.

A true monster—and coming from me, that’s saying something. A former top hitman for the Irish mob who crossed too many lines with his barbaric brutality and wound up in prison.

The short version is, my late half-brother Declan—Neve’s father—cut a deal with the FBI to put Seamus away in exchange for the Bureau essentially turning a blind eye to Kildare family criminal activity in New York City.

Technically speaking, this made Declan a rat, even if the whole thing was sanctioned by the Irish Council of Clans. So to keep things smooth within the other major families, not to mention the Kildare tributary and vassal families, this little tidbit was buried.

Except two months ago, after he managed to escape prison, Seamus was put down by Neve’s husband, Ares Drakos, head of the Drakos Greek Mafia family.

Officially, of course, Ares wasn’t there at all, with credit for the kill going to our contact within the FBI. But needless to say, Seamus O’Conor—The Executioner, as he was known—escaping prison and then being killed has been top of the news cycle loop for months. And with that much limelight shining on the whole thing, dirty little family secrets have gotten out.

Specifically, the one where my late and perhaps not so lamented half-brother colluded with the fucking FBI.

Suffice to say, this isn’t going over well with some of the Kildare vassal families.

At all.

So, yes, damn straight I needed to fucking get rid of some steam, or blow up, or do fucking something tonight. And in hindsight, given the fucking blade between my ribs currently causing an alarming amount of my blood to seep into the passenger seat of Castle’s Range Rover…

Murder would have been far simpler than attempting to subdue my demons carnally tonight.

With her.

The girl with the full, fuckable lips, and the innocent baby blues that made me want to destroy something beautiful.

To feel the gift of her submission. To taste the whimper from her lips as I meted out her punishment.

My mind glitches, flashes of the private room in the club coming back in manic staccato. The curves of her body. The creaminess of her skin. The gasp from her delicate throat. The incorruptible defiance in her eyes, mixed with fragility.

That was the most fucking intoxicating of all.

It’s what pulled me in at the bar, as I watched that motherfucker with the goatee put his filthy hands on her.

The car jerks to the side, and my brow furrows deeply at the memory of that unexpected feeling I had, watching him near her. Talking to her. Touching her.

Snarling rage.

Fierce possessiveness.

Vicious jealousy, as if he was trying to take what was already mine.

My vision clouds as the memories swirl in and out of focus. As the world blurs.

“Cillian.”

Everything darkens and fades.

“CILLIAN!”

“Glad to have you back with us, Mr. Kildare.”

Groggily, I blink. Slowly, the stark back room of the veterinary clinic comes into focus. So do the peering, anxious faces of Castle, Dr. Blythe, and Hades—younger brother to Ares, and Neve’s brother-in-law.

Hades and I butted heads at the beginning when the Irish and Greek families first came together to merge into one united front. Now that some months have passed, I have to admit, he’s grown on me. I can appreciate his particular viciousness because it’s not altogether dissimilar from my own.

But currently, and I can’t state this enough…

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Hades raises a brow, eyeing me. He shoves his fingers through is longish dark hair, his blue eyes incredulous and narrowed slightly as he turns to Castle, then back to me.

“Are you fucking serious? Do you really not remember me helping you out the back door of the club and into Castle’s car?”

Truth be told, there’s not a whole fucking lot I remember between getting shanked in the side by that little bitch and waking up in a surgical room usually reserved for cats, dogs, and the occasional hamster.

“Not exactly.”

“Well…” Hades frowns. “You’re welcome.”

“You were at the club?”

He shrugs. “Yes. And?”

“Why?”

Hades smirks, raking his fingers up and down his chiseled jaw.

“I go for the wings and two-for-one beer specials. The fuck do you think I was there for?”

I glance at Castle, who shrugs. “I guess you managed to get yourself into the elevator and downstairs. But the kid did help you out the back door and called me to come help. You were pretty sliced up, Cill.”

I frown, lowering my gaze to where a giant white bandage is wrapped around my bare torso.

My eyes raise to Hades. “Well. Thank you.”

He shrugs. “You want to tell me who knifed you?”

“No—”

“A woman.”

I turn to level a death stare at Castle.

Hades arches his brows. “Wait, seriously?”

“Drop it,” I seethe.

“Are we talking like a linebacker, or Xena the Warrior Pri—”

“Hades,” Castle grunts, seeing the flicker of violence flare in my eyes. “Enough.”

I’m still glaring at Castle, but I finally relent. “Nice driving, by the way.”

He bows his head, shoving his fingers through his short blond hair and blowing air out slowly through his lips. “Yeah, that was way too touch and go for a bit.”

Dr. Blythe frowns as he peers into my eyes.

“How do you feel, Mr. Kildare?”

“Like I just got fucking stabbed. How do you feel?”

Castle smirks. “I’d say he’s fine, Doc.”

But Dr. Blythe’s brow is still furrowed as he peers at me.

“Yes?”

“If I could offer a professional opinion?”

I raise a brow. “By all means.”

“Mr. Kildare, I see a fair amount of knife wounds…”

“As a mob doctor who operates out of the back of a veterinary clinic? Well, color me shocked,” I mutter dryly, sliding my hand into my rear pants pocket. I pull out the silver case and slip a cigarette out of it, placing it between my lips as my hand delves back in for my Zippo.

Dr. Blythe stares at the unlit cigarette in my mouth.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not a joking man, doctor.”

He frowns when I flick the Zippo and touch the flame to the end, letting the cherry glow as I inhale slowly, but doesn’t say anything. He knows better.

“You were giving your professional opinion on sharp pointy things.”

Dr. Blythe clears his throat.

“I was going to say, I’m not going to ask how this happened, or where—”

“Which is why I pay you large amounts of money when I need you, in cash.”

“However,” he continues. “This isn’t a chance wound. It’s not heat of the moment.”

I smile grimly, thinking of the girl who put it there.

While I was still inside her.

“I beg to differ.”

Dr. Blythe shrugs. “This was a practiced stab. It’s…surgically precise. And I dare say, if it wasn’t for the leather sheath of the knife you had strapped to your side under your shirt, there’s a good chance that little blade…”

He turns to nod his chin at the bloody knife lying in a little metal tub—a switchblade concealed in a gold hair clasp and adorned with pretty little roses.

“…Would have managed to pierce your heart. Or at least caused far more serious internal damage, rather than this simple stitch-up job.” He sighs. “What I’m saying, Mr. Kildare, is that this was no amateur. I think a professional tried to assassinate you tonight.”

The cherry at the end of my cigarette glows bright as I take a drag.

“Tell me something I don’t know, doctor.”

I go to swing my legs off the edge of the table. Castle immediately stops me.

“Cillian, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“My master plan involved leaving.” I turn to glance at Dr. Blythe. “I’m good to go?”

His face says otherwise, but he reluctantly nods. “I’m giving you some painkillers and some antibiotics. Take them. And try not to exert yourself.”

Part of me wants to let go—to go home and lose myself in the painkillers, washed down with whiskey.

But that’s not happening.

Not while she’s still out there.

“Oh, actually, Mr. Kildare…” Dr. Blythe frowns. “This is a bit more delicate, but, is…the rest of you feeling…okay?”

My brow raises as I take a drag of nicotine.

“Kindly elaborate?”

Dr. Blythe clears his throat, his eyes dropping significantly to the front of my pants.

“There was some, uh, blood, on your trous—”

“It’s not mine.”

Hazy, vague memories rise back up to the surface. Of lying in that room, feeling the blood pooling at my back. Of my vision swimming as I glanced down at the blade in my side, knowing pulling it out would be worse than leaving it in.

Knowing I had to get up. Knowing too that I should probably tuck my cock back in my pants before doing so.

Frowning at the streak of blood I saw there.

Sadist that I am, tearing someone’s fucking vagina with my dick isn’t exactly on my kinks list. But then, she did fucking stab me and leave me to die.

It’s sort of hard to feel any sympathy for her after that.

Her, or her pussy.

I grunt as I find my footing. Castle and Hades make a move to grab me, but I wave them off.

“I’m fine. Just get the car.”

Castle shakes his head. “Where to?”

“Home.”

I take a final drag of my smoke before stubbing it out in the metal dish next to the operating table. When my hand comes away, it’s holding her blade.

I do plan on going home, of course. I’ll spend at least a day sinking into whiskey and painkillers. And the memory of her moans. Her submission. The taste of her lips.

And what I’ll do to them when I catch her.

Because I will be catching her.

It’s not just for revenge, and it’s not just because of what happened tonight. It’s because of the twelve words she breathed right before she left me to die.

“The blood of the innocent washes away the sins of the wicked.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard those words. But I would very much like to know where she heard them.

So I’m going to find her.

And bind her.

And pull her secrets from her piece by fucking piece.