Corrupted Heart: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

The day after the wedding, I move into Kratos’ brownstone in the East Village. I’m keeping my rental apartment and leaving most of my furniture there. But my clothes and personal belongings move with me to his place.

The second and third floors of the four-story building are definitely works-in-progress—livable, but clearly mid-renovation, which Kratos is apparently doing all himself.

Which is impressive. And honestly, kind of hot… But I digress.

The first floor is mostly done. It includes a huge living room, dining room, a gorgeous library, doors to what I can imagine will become a stunning back yard, and a truly massive, professional-grade kitchen.

That part of our tour gives me pause until I remember what Ya-ya said.

“I like to cook,” he rumbles, shrugging his shoulders.

The fourth floor is almost entirely taken up with a sprawling master bedroom and ensuite bathroom, complete, I’m happy to note, with both a huge walk-in shower and a large white marble soaker tub.

When I step back out into the bedroom, my brow creases. There’s a question that’s been on my mind for a few days now, and I’m not quite sure how to ask it.

I mean, we’re married.

We’re physically…intimate, to say the least.

But…

I clear my throat and turn to him. “Where⁠—”

“Here,” he growls.

I blink. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

He shrugs. “You were going to ask where you’re sleeping. And the answer is here, in this bed,” he says bluntly, tapping the foot of it.

My face heats. “Okay. And⁠—”

“So am I.” He looks at me, arching a brow. “Any other questions?”

“None,” I croak out.

Not like I’ve literally ever shared a bed with anyone, but here we are.

A little while later, after I’ve unpacked a bit, I poke my head into the kitchen, where Kratos is chopping vegetables. I resist the urge to comment on how weirdly domestic this feels.

Not weird in a bad way at all. Just—different, considering that most of our interactions so far have been…primal in nature.

Dark, deviant, and fucked-up.

Not folding clothes into drawers or prepping mushrooms.

“Do you mind if I rinse off?”

He glances up at me, amusement on his face.

“It’s your house.”

“No, it’s your house.”

He sighs. “This isn’t exactly a temporary arrangement, you know. It’s not like you’re crashing on my couch for a week.”

Heat rushes up my neck.

“Right.”

He shrugs. “Mi casa es su casa.”

He goes back to chopping, and my gaze wanders to the black t-shirt stretched over his thick biceps and filled by his massive shoulders. At the way the tattoo ink of a revolver on his forearm ripples as the tight, veined skin cords with his chopping motion.

Okay, domestic Kratos is seriously a turn-on.

I’m a second away from asking him if he wants to rinse off with me. But then I chicken out. It’s something I’ve noticed as we’ve progressed to where we are now: in the church, in the dark, when he’s wearing the mask and I’m his prey, I’m bold.

I ask him to fuck me. Beg him to hurt me or chase me.

But in the cold light of day, when it’s just regular him and me, my nerves give out.

So instead I turn and head upstairs alone. In the master suite, I disrobe and pin up my hair as the tub fills with hot water and bubbles. When it’s steaming and brimming with jasmine-scented suds, I step in, groaning as I sink into the heat.

My eyes close. A surreal, meditative calmness washes over me. I don’t even realize I’ve started to nod off until I feel the water slosh around me. My eyes fly open, and the gasp locks in my throat as my gaze lands on Kratos.

…A very naked, very yummy looking Kratos as he steps into the tub opposite me and lowers his huge frame into it.

Embarrassment floods my face, but then I’m giggling as the displaced water splashes over the sides of the tub and onto the tiled floor.

“Overfilled it,” he grunts.

“I…” I chew on my lip, my face burning hotly. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

He smirks. “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

“See, that’s actually a misconception⁠—”

“I know, babygirl.”

My bottom lip retreats between my teeth again. I sink a little lower into the bubbles, enjoying the feel of the hot water teasing between my legs and rippling against my hardening nipples.

I should be in a panic right now.

Water in general is obviously a trigger. But it’s not lost on me that for the very first time since…that night…I’m sitting in water alone with a man.

Relax.

It’s not a hot tub.

There’s no party.

You’re fine.

Weirdly, it doesn’t take the self-coaching I’d expected I’d need to put my mind at ease. When I look at him across the tub, I don’t feel the anxiety or panic I assumed and expected I’d feel right now.

I don’t overthink what that means. I just enjoy the fact I’m not having a panic attack right now.

Kratos exhales deeply as he sinks back against the tub. His massive arms drape over the sides as his eyes close. Meanwhile, I sit there trying to work out why the hell I’ll eagerly say yes to being chased through the dark and fucked brutally, but don’t have the courage to simply sit in my husband’s lap in the bath.

“I don’t think I’ve used this tub once since I installed it,” he rumbles quietly in the stillness of the bathroom.

“What, like it’s not part of your games?”

He opens his eyes, arching a brow at me. “My games?”

“You know,” I shrug casually, trying to play it cool. “When you bring girls home.”

Okay, yes. It’s been occupying a fair amount of real estate in my head since I walked in here. I mean, he’s not just ridiculously hot. And rich, and a member of a hugely powerful crime family. He also has to live in a gorgeous brownstone, in a quiet and super cool artsy neighborhood, that he’s fixing up himself?

I mean, is there a girl equivalent to “shwing” from Wayne’s World?

When he doesn’t immediately respond, my mind goes into overdrive. Of course. I start imagining the hordes of girls from clubs and late-night bars that he charms over here, to show them the tub he’s installed. Or his chef’s kitchen, so he can cook them God-knows-what.

A piping hot batch of dropped panties, most likely.

I’m still simmering, my teeth gritted as I stare blankly at the wall, when he clears his throat.

“I’m, ah, not in the habit of bringing women to my home,” he growls quietly.

My heart skips.

“When you say not in the habit…”

“You’re the first woman I’m not related to who’s been here,” he grunts. When I glance back at him, there’s a smug smirk on his face. “Happy?”

I shrug nonchalantly. Inside, I’m screaming like a freaking cheerleader and jumping up and down with pompoms.

“I mean, technically, we are related now.”

“Well, there goes my erection.”

I giggle loudly as he grins at me.

“Turn around.”

I blush, feeling heat course through me.

“Why?”

Kratos’ eyes pierce into mine.

“Just do it.”

I suck on my lip.

“Okay.”

My skin tingles, and a needy throb begins to pulse in my core as I turn myself around, facing the wall. I can hear him moving behind me, and my imagination goes into X-rated overdrive because of course it does.

“What are you scheming at back⁠—”

In one black, horrifying second, I’m plunged into sheer, drowning panic.

Water pours over my head, raking over the nerve endings in my skin like napalm claws. My vision goes dark, and my throat closes up like it’s being squeezed. My lungs burn and my breath hitches as I spasm, my legs and arms jerking and flailing in random directions before suddenly, it’s like I’m detonating.

In sheer terror, I explode up and stumble blindly out of the tub. My feet slip on the wet, sudsy floor, and I cry out as I go sprawling naked and shivering onto the tiles.

I struggle to get to my feet, kicking away from the tub and yanking a towel down from the rack behind me. Kratos’ face caves in concern. He goes to lurch out of the tub.

“Stay there!” I scream, finally scrambling to my feet. I wrap the towel tight around myself, hunching as if to better hide my nakedness.

“Bianca—”

“I’m fine,” I shudder, shaking as I turn to suck in a breath of air.

“Fuck. I was just going to wash your⁠—”

“I said I’m fine.”

The bathroom goes still. With my back to him, my eyes squeeze shut.

I should tell him. I mean I really should, if only to make sure he doesn’t think I’m a lunatic. But sharing that part of me with him is like working up the courage to crawl into his lap, or to ask him to join me in the tub in the first place.

In the absence of darkness, masks, and danger, apparently, I have no spine.

“Look, Bianca⁠—”

“I’m going to go grab something to eat,” I mumble over my shoulder as I fast-walk out of the bathroom. “Enjoy the tub.”

So much for domestic bliss.

A couple of hours later, we’re like two strangers ignoring each other in the house. Kratos is on the second floor, pounding the shit out of something with a hammer. He’s been there since my bathtub freakout.

I still don’t have the courage to have that conversation with him. But I eventually at least work up the nerve to go up there to join him.

He looks to be framing a wall, pounding nails into pieces of two-by-four with a grim look on his face. He’s in grubby jeans that fit him way too well, and a white t-shirt pulled tight over the broad muscles of his back.

When he takes a break and lays the hammer down, I walk up softly behind him. Kratos flinches a little when I wrap my arms around his middle from behind.

“Fuck.”

He spins around brusquely, half pushing me away from him as his brow furrows. I grin up into his face.

“Did I scare you?”

He’s silent for a moment, his eyes stabbing down into mine.

“No.”

He turns around again, seemingly ignoring the way I’m still hugging onto him as he reaches for his hammer again.

“Hey, one sec.”

I stop his hand with mine on his arm. When he turns around again, I lick my lips as I look up into his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I mean, before…the tub…”

He looks at me blankly.

“Okay.”

Okay?

I shrug it away. I look up into his eyes, feeling my pulse race as I gather up my nerve, grip the front of his t-shirt, and attempt to pull him down as I stand up on tiptoes to kiss his mouth.

I don’t make it.

Before I can kiss him, Kratos shakes his head and quietly pushes me back from him.

My brow furrows.

“Um, okay?”

He shrugs again, looking away.

“Look, I’m sorry about before,” I venture. “You just startled me.”

“No kidding.”

My brows knit even deeper.

“Okay, did I do something wrong?”

He looks at me blankly, no emotion on his face, his eyes unblinking.

“No.”

“Then what the fuck?”

I watch as his jaw grinds.

“Forget it, Bianca. It’s fine. I’m sorry I startled you before.”

He starts to turn away.

“Why’d you stop me from kissing you?”

He pauses, turning back to look at me. “Just forget it. Please.”

“Kratos, it was just a kiss⁠—”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

“To kiss me?”

A lifted shoulder is his only reply. I purse my mouth.

“Wow, okay. My bad for looking for a little affection.”

“I don’t really do affection, now do I?”

“Guess not,” I snap coldly, stepping back from him.

Kratos levels a withering gaze at me. “If that’s going to be a problem for you, perhaps you should have thought twice before torching my car.”

I bark a cold, brittle laugh. “Wow, we’re still on that?”

“It is what it is.”

“Married people kiss,” I mutter.

“Well, we’re not really a married couple, are we?”

I bristle, my eyes hardening on him. “I guess not. Actually,” I snap coldly, “I guess we’re not a real couple at all.”

I whirl to storm away. Then I flinch when he roughly grabs my arm and spins me back around. I shiver when I come face to face with his wrath, his face darkened and angry.

“I don’t do lovey-fucking-dovey, Bianca. I don’t do snuggles, or affectionate kisses.” His nostrils flare. “I don’t do kisses at all, actually.”

I roll my eyes. “Right, sorry, my mistake!” I spit. “You just like to chase girls around in the dark wearing a fucking mask and playing out rape fantasies with them!”

“You’d know.”

I stiffen, glaring at him. “What are we?” I hiss. “An arrangement?”

“We’re a peace treaty, Bianca.”

“So,” I seethe, “none of this matters? None of this means shit?”

He leans closer to me, his grip on my arm tightening.

“Do you enjoy it when I chase you?”

I swallow.

“When I catch you, and hurt you…” He looms over me, that ominous inky black power I always feel radiating off him in the church flexing around us. “When I fuck you?”

Kratos’ hand suddenly teases across my stomach. I tremble, my breath sucking in as his fingers slip into the waist of my yoga pants before pushing lower. His hand delves under the lace of my panties, and I bite my lip as his thick finger pushes lower, dragging through my wet lips.

He chuckles darkly to himself.

“Your drippy, messy pussy says yes.”

It should turn me on. Okay, it does turn me on. A lot. So much so that part of me wants to beg him to take me right here.

But still, it’s not the same. And not just because we’re not in the church and he’s not wearing a mask.

All the other times we’ve played this game, it’s on equal footing. Yes, I play the role of the submissive, and him the uber Dom. But we’re coming to it with the same needs, wanting the same thing for the same reasons.

This time, he’s doing it to win an argument. To “prove a point”, or at the very least, to silence my dissent.

And that really, really rubs me the wrong way.

Somehow, summoning almost superhuman powers, I grab his wrist and shove his hand away, stepping back until it slips out of my panties.

Kratos looks half pissed and half amused as I adjust my yoga pants. Then I glare at him coldly.

“Is that all this is?” I choke. “Is that all we are? Just…sex?”

He gives me a hard stare. The seconds tick by as my nerves fray raw.

“That’s all I have,” he growls quietly. “Better get used to it.”

I physically recoil, like he’s just slapped me. Then I draw in a breath, collecting myself.

“I’m going for a walk.”

Without another word, I turn, storming downstairs and out the front door.

Fuck you.

Anger, resentment, and humiliation boil inside me as I power walk through my new neighborhood. I almost want to scream, or break something, or maybe go get drunk. Instead, I find one of the many small little gardens that dot the Lower East Side and plant myself on a bench.

Breathe.

I exhale, trying to let go of the anger and anxiety. When I’ve settled down…well, a little…I get up again and go back to wandering the neighborhood to clear my head.

Eventually, I happen upon a super-cute bookstore-slash-cafe. And for the next two hours, that’s where I hole up: nose in a Bastian Pierce book as I drain not one but two coconut milk chai lattes and polish off a big-ass chocolate chip cookie for lunch that Madame K. would definitely not approve of but fuck it.

Finally, I realize it’s time to face the music. Or at least go home and sulk. I pay for my book, slip it into the front pocket of my hoodie, and head back to the brownstone.

I’m just about to open the little black iron gate and head up the walkway to the steps when the big front door opens.

I pause, puzzled when I hear a woman laugh and step outside, closing the door behind her. She turns, and I stiffen.

I’ve seen her before. At the engagement party. She was the “family friend” I walked in on talking very closely with Kratos.

Too closely.

Bitterness swells inside of me. Slowly, my eyes focus on her.

My chest tightens and my stomach drops.

She smirks at me as she finishes doing up the top few buttons on her blouse. Her brow cocks as she brings up a hand, smoothing down clearly messed-up hair.

A cold, stabbing sensation slices into my heart.

“Why hello again,” the woman purrs, smiling with all the warmth of a blizzard.

She walks down the front steps of the brownstone, tucking her wild hair back into place. She gets closer, and my gaze slides to her mouth.

Her lipstick is smudged.

The blouse is still half untucked from her skirt.

Oh my God…

“I—”

“You’re the little wifelet, yes,” she drawls in a bored tone. “We didn’t get a chance to speak properly before.”

I feel sick as she extends a hand. I can’t move. I just stare at it blankly before she laughs quietly and retracts it.

“Amaya, remember?” she says offhandedly. “Anyway, so nice to see you again.”

Her hand comes up, and she giggles as she wipes her thumb across the smudge of lipstick right beneath her bottom lip.

“Oopsie,” she smiles.

My stomach heaves.

“Now, word of warning.” She turns, nodding her chin up at the house. “I know he’s got a short recovery period. But he still might need a minute before you take your turn.”

I physically gag, my face going white as my heart wrenches inside my chest.

Amaya grins. “So nice to see you again, Bianca. Ciao.”

I’m still numb as she pushes past me and walks on sky-high heels to a sleek black car parked at the curb. She gets in, revving the engine and turning to wave her fingers at me with a cruel smirk before she drives away.

I turn, and I run.