Vicious Hearts: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

I pull my eyes from the book in my hands and grin when I see that it’s Eilish who’s calling.

“Hey—”

“Knock-knock.”

There’s an abrupt knock at the door, jolting me as my heart jumps into my fucking throat. Eilish makes a wincing sound that tells me my jumpiness wasn’t exactly silent.

“Sorry. That’s just me letting you know we’re here.”

I exhale, forcing a small laugh as I hang up and walk over to the main door to the penthouse. When I unlock and open it, Eilish and Callie are standing there with Elsa Guin.

“Hey!” Eilish gushes. “Look, I’m so sorry if I—wow.”

The three of them blink, staring in awe past me. I turn, following their gaze to see what’s caught their attention and realizing it’s the whole penthouse.

“This place is insane,” Callie breathes.

“Wait, have you guys not been here before?”

Eilish gives me a curious look. “No. Cillian doesn’t bring anyone here. It’s like his refuge or sanctuary or something.” She makes a face. “Actually, I doubt we’re supposed to be here at all.”

“I’m quite positive we’re not,” Elsa says primly in her posh British accent. She turns to give me an all-business smile. “And how are you, Una?”

“I’m good, thanks. You?”

I haven’t seen much of her since she officiated at my wedding to Cillian. But for some reason, even though she’s so buttoned up and proper all the time, I really like Elsa.

Or maybe I’m just in awe of her. I mean the woman is only something like twenty-seven and was at one point ranked one of the top three lawyers—though I guess they’re called barristers or solicitors over there—in the UK. Now, she’s a partner at the super prestigious Crown and Black law firm here in New York, when she’s not moonlighting as the unofficial Drakos family counsel, that is.

And on top of that, the woman always looks amazing. Immaculately tailored skirts or pantsuits. Perfect, not-a-strand-out-of-place white-blonde hair always back in a severe bun, and exquisitely done makeup—never over the top, just completely hitting-the-mark professional.

It’d be so easy to casually hate on her if she wasn’t so freaking nice.

“I’m well, thank you,” she says crisply.

“We were on our way to the Banshee to go over some city contracts,” Eilish explains. “Which we need Elsa’s signatures on. But we wanted to stop by here on the way to see if you wanted to tag along!”

Elsa nods. “The place is coming along beautifully—uh, Callie…”

Callie’s already stepped past me into the penthouse. Elsa frowns.

“Callie, I was being serious. I assisted Mr. Kildare in the purchase of this place, and I’ve heard him be quite clear about no one coming in—”

“Oh, no, really?” Callie murmurs with a dry tone. “Oops. Well, anyway.” She giggles, stepping further into the penthouse. Her jaw drops as she looks around.

Eilish gives Elsa a shrug. “Don’t worry. Cillian’s more bark than bite sometimes.”

Or both…

She steps into the penthouse after Callie, whistling. “Absolutely stunning.” She turns to grin at me. “I can’t believe you get to live here. Jeal-ous.”

“I mean…” Callie frowns. “Some furniture might be cool?” Then she shrugs, turning to me. “Which room is yours?”

I stall, hoping to God the heat on my face isn’t as obvious as I think it might be.

That’s a good question. Up until a few weeks ago, my room was still the guest room. Then, the nightmare at Hope House happened, with the ghost of my father speaking to me through a phone line from Hell.

After that day, something changed.

It’s partly because that was the night Cillian fucked me in his bed—the first time we were that close since that one brief encounter at Club Venom. But I know that’s not the only reason I’ve been sleeping in his bed, and sleeping with him, every night, since then.

It’s not just the primal sex that smashes through just about every single fantasy I’ve ever had and twists me in toe-curling ways I’ve never even imagined. It’s the fact that sharing a bed with Cillian makes me feel safe. Which is something I really need right now.

I know logically that ghosts aren’t real. Just like I now know and accept that it really might have been stress and emotion making me only think I heard my father’s voice on that phone.

But I still don’t know if I could sleep alone. I think Cillian seems to understand that without me even having explicitly said anything about it. Which is why, without really ever discussing it, sleeping in his bed has just become the norm.

I realize I’ve been zoning out and not answering the question so long that Callie is grinning widely at me.

“Oh it’s like that.”

Eilish makes a face as it clicks. “Eww.”

“Dude, they’re married,” Callie snickers. “Do I seriously have to start explaining the birds and bees to a twenty-one-year-old?”

Eilish blushes fiercely. “No, you don’t.”

“Well, I know with your vast dating and sexual experience—”

“Wow, hey, could we not?” Eilish groans, her face bright red as her mouth twists.

Callie grins, sliding an arm around her to hug her. “I’m just giving you a hard time. Also, I am the personification of the pot calling the kettle black on this one, okay?”

I laugh, shaking my head.

“I just meant…” Eilish glances at me, her face still red. “I mean, no offense, I just don’t need to hear about my uncle’s sex life?”

Oh, Eilish, you have no idea…

“C’mon, you’re not at least a little curious?” Callie teases.

Eilish buries her face in her hands. “Not in the fucking slightest. Could we please drop it?”

Callie grins as she turns to me. “He’s a total freak between the sheets, isn’t he?”

“Callie!!!”

I’m laughing so hard that tears are rolling down my cheeks. Partly because these two are hilarious. And partly because it covers the bloom of heat spreading across my face at the mention of Cillian’s and my sex life. Which is…

Intense.

Primal. Vicious and exhilarating. Brutal and all-consuming.

Literally on a nightly basis, the man I’m married to unlocks every single hidden dark desire I have. Every fantasy. Every buried secret.

Or, almost.

There’s one line he hasn’t crossed yet. Because the truth is, I haven’t told him about it yet.

Not in words, at least. Because I’m too terrified to say it out loud. Because even with Cillian, prince of darkness he may be, there’s still so much shame and “wrong” wrapped up in this particularly dark part of myself that I can’t figure out how to voice it out loud and open that door.

Or find out if I even want to open that door.

It’s the idea of him taking what he wants, and doing what he will…

…Even if I say no.

Even if I scream at him to stop.

I know consensual non-consent isn’t the wildest fringe kink out there. But for a whole host of reasons, in my head, it still feels beyond shameful. Probably a little because of society, and more than a little because of what happened to Finn and I at that foster house, with him.

Where no wasn’t a recognized word. Where “stop” meant “I’ll keep going until I’m done.”

I shiver, shoving those thoughts back into their dark hole somewhere in the back of my mind.

Elsa clears her throat, glancing at a gorgeous watch on her wrist. “I hate to rush any of you, but we do have the licensing inspector coming in half an hour, and we’re still in Brooklyn.”

Eilish arches her brows at me. “Well? Wanna come with and see what being insane and buying an Irish pub looks like?”

I grin. “Definitely.”

It’s late by the time I get home, and after dark. But I’m grinning from ear to ear, and maybe slightly buzzed, too.

I’ve just spent the last four hours touring The Banshee, the soon-to-be-re-opened Irish pub that Neve, Eilish, and Callie bought a few months ago. Currently, they’re in the process of renovating the seating areas upstairs, moving the bar to the other side of the space, and expanding into what was just an unused storage room out back to create more seating. They’re also excavating the basement to make it deeper, turning what was formerly something out of a horror movie into what’s going to be a really cool lounge area, complete with a small stage for bands.

After that, they insisted we do a “tasting” of all the new whiskies and craft beers some of the liquor distributor reps dropped off.

Yeah, okay, I might be slightly more than “buzzed.”

Grinning, feeling flushed, I fumble at the keypad to Cillian’s—or I guess I should start calling it our—penthouse. But then something catches my eye. I frown as I pluck the little white card from where it’s been stuck in the doorjamb.

There’s just one word written on it in Cillian’s distinctly precise and masculine handwriting.

Blue

I frown. Okayyy?

Inside, I flip on the lights, kick off my shoes, and drop my bag by the door. In the kitchen, I drink a full glass of water to try to balance out the drinks I had at the Banshee. I whip out my phone and send Cillian a message that I’m home, since he texted me earlier that he would be at a work thing late. I walk over to the couch to finish the book I was reading earlier.

I’m halfway there when the lights go out.

Cold, naked fear rips through me. A tightness in my chest has me gasping for air as I whirl, trying to peer through the darkness. Except it’s pitch black. Even the blackout shades over the huge clock-face window are closed.

I’m completely lost in the darkness.

And the fear is real.

“Hello?”

I hear the slightest sound, somewhere to my right, which I think could be back in the direction of the front door, and my blood turns to ice. I whirl, panting heavily. I scrabble at my jeans pocket before realizing I’ve left my phone on the kitchen counter.

I go still, trying not to freak the fuck out as I strain to hear a single thing.

The slight noise comes again.

Like a…footstep?

I gasp, spinning again as devils and demons dance through my imagination, reaching out for me through the blackness.

“I…” I shiver. “Cillian?”

There’s no answer.

“Cillian, this isn’t fucking funny!”

The sound comes from behind me. I jolt, my throat closing as I stab my eyes into the gloom.

I stiffen.

Something’s definitely there.

“Cillian?”

I move forward slowly, feeling my way, torn between wanting to know what’s out there and being terrified to actually touch something. My breath comes quick and short, the hairs on the back of my arms and my neck standing up.

“Cillian, is that—”

I bump into the sofa.

The tension floods out of me with my breath as I shove my fingers through my hair.

“I’m losing my fucki—”

I’m grabbed from behind.

The hit comes so fast it’s like my body doesn’t even remember to scream. Or maybe I can’t, not with my heart crammed into my throat.

Strong, powerful arms wrap around me, gripping me and brutally shoving me down over the arm of the couch. Adrenaline and pure fear explode through my system as I choke, my face pressed into the leather of the couch cushions.

When I hear the jangle of a belt being undone, my eyes bulge. I scream, but the sound is cut off when a meaty hand clamps hard over my mouth. Another hand shoves roughly under me, and I scream and thrash as I feel it deftly pop the button of my jeans.

Holy God.

Screaming into the hand and drowning in adrenaline and fear, I kick back. But my attacker is far too strong, and I whimper as I feel a knee slam into the back of my leg, pinning it to the couch. He grabs the back of my jeans and my panties, and an agonizing scream wrenches from my throat as he yanks them roughly down over my ass and down to my knees.

“Scream for me.”

Everything goes still.

Holy. Fucking. SHIT.

The man roughly manhandling me and shoving me over the couch is Cillian.

I jolt as his palm slaps my ass hard.

“Scream. For. ME.”

And I do, shuddering and panting as I feel his hand shove roughly between my thighs.

…Where I’m soaking, dripping wet.

He laughs deep and gruff into my ear and shoves two fingers into me without warning. I moan, writhing and twisting in his grasp as he curls them deep.

“Such a fucking eager little slut,” he snarls into my ear. “Making a mess of this greedy little cunt, just waiting for me to fuck you any way I fucking please.”

His fingers pound roughly into me, and my cheeks redden at the lewd, slick, wet sounds that fill the room. When he pulls them out, I whimper. Then he spanks me, hard—like really fucking hard—and I cry out as the sting of it sizzles over my tender skin. He spanks me again and again and again, before suddenly reaching between my legs and pinching my clit.

Sweet fucking Jesus.

I shudder, the pleasure—and shame of feeling pleasure at such a rough touch—flooding through me. His fingers drive into me, the hand over my mouth keeping me pinned and bent crudely over the armrest of the couch, my bare ass high in the air and my jeans and panties tangled around my knees.

Cillian fingers me even harder and rougher, until my legs are shaking and a wave of something powerful and dark begins to crash over me.

Which is exactly when he slips his fingers from my pussy.

“Bastard—”

“What the fuck did you just call me?!”

I cringe at the unusually lethal, dangerous tone to his voice.

“I—”

“It’s fucking yes, Sir,” he snarls. “Is that fucking clear?”

He removes his hand from over my mouth as I whimper, nodding eagerly. “Yes—mmph!”

Fingers slide into my mouth—the very same fingers that were just deep in my pussy.

“Now, clean that greedy pussy off these fingers while I fuck you like the horny little cock slut you know you are.”

I stare wildly as I suddenly feel the pulsing heat of his swollen head right against my lips. Then, in one brutal thrust, he buries every huge fucking inch deep inside of me.

I scream at the suddenness of it—at the sheer size of him filling me to the brim and stretching me out deliciously. It hurts, but it’s a good hurt—a really fucking good hurt. And I’m so wet from his manhandling of me, and the fucked-up way he’s talking to me and calling me a horny little cock slut that I can literally feel my juices dripping down my thighs as he rams into me.

I moan and whimper around the fingers in my mouth as he grabs a fistful of my hair and fucks me like an animal over the arm of the couch. His muscled hips pound into me relentlessly, bruising me, making me wince. But the pleasure in un-fucking-real.

I know it’s him, and I know I’m not really in any true danger…And yet, at the same time, there is an element of danger here.

Because there always is with Cillian.

The sadistic glint in his eyes. The gnawing idea that the things I’ve heard said about him aren’t exactly exaggerations. The fact that this man is flat out dangerous, and more than slightly unhinged.

A killer.

A psychopath.

A sadist with an insatiable appetite for my screams and my submission.

But the part that brings a fresh shiver of fear and a rush of heat to my core is realizing that I haven’t even come close to seeing his limits or the full depths of his darkness.

And suddenly, I am scared.

Deliciously so. Illicitly so. Like the rush of a drug hitting your bloodstream.

And that’s when the silk tie slips over my head and tightens around my neck. That’s when my eyes bulge as he yanks it even tighter, closing off my air a little more before he brings up my wrists behind my neck and wraps the other end of the silk tie around them, pulling tight.

I choke, my reality a spinning mix of delirious, hedonistic pleasure, pain, and fear as Cillian yanks the middle of the silk tie, extending my arms out roughly behind me as my throat closes even more. His thick cock fucks into me roughly and brutally, his heavy balls slapping my clit and his hard abs crashing into my ass over and over as I squeal and writhe and drool onto the couch as my world collapses around me.

Something wet and slick—his thumb?—presses against my ass. I choke out a sobbing whimper, barely able to even move as he fucks me like a rag doll against the side of the couch. I feel his thumb slide into my ass, and a howling sound of pain and pleasure rips from my mouth as I scream in ecstasy.

The world blurs around me as overwhelmingly powerful sensations rip through me—the feel of him viciously pounding into me, the pressure tightening more and more around my throat until I can barely breathe, the way I’m so helpless and at his mercy.

He reaches around, roughly pinching and twisting my nipples as I cry out, shaking everywhere as the pressure throbs and builds, until there’s no turning back.

When I come, it’s transcendent.

It’s catharsis.

It’s screaming out all the bad and the pain and the horrors of whatever came before and claiming what I want, right here and now.

I sob into the couch, choking and shuddering—my toes kicking and scraping painfully across the floor as I explode like a bomb around Cillian’s thick, merciless cock. The heat slams through me, turning me inside out and wrenching a cry from my mouth as I come harder than I’ve ever come in my life.

With a snarling grunt, Cillian pulls out of me. He rolls me over, so that I’m face up, arms still behind my back and my legs spread lewdly over the arm of the couch with my pink, swollen pussy right in front of him as he strokes himself.

His cock pulses, and I moan as the hot, thick ropes of his cum splatter all over my skin—dripping over my pussy and my stomach, my thighs, my breasts. I can feel his cum across my chin and my lips, and I whimper as I drag my tongue over them to taste him.

It uses the very last reserves of my strength. Suddenly, I’m collapsing into a trembling, shaking mess.

I can feel myself starting to roll helplessly off the couch, as if to drop onto the floor. But then muscled arms catch me. And lift me, holding me against a powerful chest as Cillian turns and marches down the hall to the bedroom.

Sweet merciful fuck. We’re just getting started.