Toxic Love: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

“So… What’s he like?”

Maeve sits cross-legged in the reading chair by the window in her room, a big blanket wrapped around her like a cloak. A sketchpad and a drawing pencil lie in her lap as she gives me a wry smile.

One of the consequences of her and my dad having the same father is that she looks so much like my dad sometimes: same green eyes and dark hair, same nose, same cheekbones, same slightly elfin chin.

On top of that, on the personality side, she’s so much like Nina that it almost hurts sometimes: that same innocent inquisitiveness that my best friend had all her life.

Until the night that life was taken from her.

Between looking like my dead dad and behaving like my dead best friend, I’ve got a soft spot for Maeve. I’m also not that much older than her, and especially now that she’s almost out of high school, it feels like we’re peers more than anything.

Which is, of course, why I decide to be brutally honest with her instead of sugar coating the awful truth.

“He’s a pig,” I mutter. “A narcissistic asshole with a god complex who thinks the whole world should bow and kiss his feet just because of his genetics.” I give Maeve a sour half smile. “Sorry, but you asked.”

She swallows, her face paling a little. Then she nods, forcing a small smile to her lips. “Genetics, you say…?”

My face burns as I realize how that sounded.

“No, not…” I scrunch up my face and shake my head impatiently. “Not what I meant. I mean, yes, the man is classically good-looking, I guess. If you like that bored-with-the-world, filled with ennui, Armani model look.”

“So, he’s attractive if you like hot people.”

I roll my eyes and reach behind where I’m sitting on the edge of the bed to grab a pillow off it. Maeve laughs when I chuck it at her.

“Not hot, vain. The kind of vain that probably jerks off in front of a mirror.”

“Gross! So…a hot asshole, basically.”

I make a face. “Focus on that second part more. He’s arrogant, rude, and disgusting. I mean the man runs a fucking sex club, Maeve. And he’s like twice your age.”

Her laughter suddenly dies as she drops her eyes to her sketchpad. “You don’t have to sell me on not wanting to marry him, you know…” she mumbles quietly, her throat bobbing.

Shit.

I move across the bedroom quickly to hug her close, stroking her hair as her breath hitches.

“I don’t understand,” she chokes into my shoulder before pulling away with tear-filled eyes to look into mine. “Why is this happening?”

I flinch, my chest constricting sharply.

“Why is this happening? Why are you doing this?”

The heart-wrenching pleas from another time, from another loved one, echo in my memory. My body shudders as I bite back the urge to scream.

Breathe.

I inhale sharply, forcing myself to stay centered and focused on Maeve and not on my own demons. I pull her into a tight hug.

“We’re going to figure this out, okay?” I say fiercely. “I promise.”

I’m not going to be so naive to suggest she just run away, or point out the fact that she’s eighteen and perfectly capable of making her own decisions. I might not have grown up directly under Charles’ roof, but I understand how his world works.

Sure, Maeve could leave. But then what? Best case scenario, she somehow could fend for herself despite living the sheltered, privileged life she’s lived so far. But Charles or Dante would find her eventually, probably sooner rather than later, and drag her right back to this situation. And again, that’s the best-case scenario.

The far less optimal scenarios involve the types of predators who are out there prowling around and hunting for exactly the kind of girl Maeve is.

Innocent. Inquisitive. Out of their element and looking to prove something.

Like Nina and I were.

There’s my brothers, of course. I know they’d give Maeve a place to stay. But the unfortunate reality is that even they aren’t immune to Charles. Our grandfather wields a substantial amount of power on the Crown and Black board of directors, much as Gabriel and Alistair hate it. Most of the time, him having that seat on the board is just an annoyance to them. But he could make their lives and their business hell if they took Maeve in over all of this.

Which leaves…me? No, I’m not a viable safety net for her. Not just because I don’t have a job, or any money of my own, and still live in my dead father’s old house. Not even because I’m sort of a mess myself.

No, I can’t be a safety net for Maeve because I won’t be here for very long.

Not that she, or anyone else, knows that.

I lean against the wall next to the windows. Maeve is quiet as she picks up the pencil and idly starts to move it across the page. It takes me a second before I glance down and realize she’s sketching a very quick but very gorgeous portrait of me.

Somehow, that makes me even angrier for everything she’s about to get thrown into.

Before he died, our father and grandfather had barely spoken for years. Dad never wanted the life Charles set him up for: one of grifting, skirting the law, and making shady deals with criminals. Instead, Dad got his Juris Doctor degree at Yale and married a Governor’s daughter rather than the mafia princess Charles had picked out for him.

Layla, Gabriel, Alistair, and I weren’t raised under Charles’ mob-like influence. And I hate that I can’t say the same thing for Maeve.

She’s so much better than all of this. So good, and so fucking talented. And all of that is going to be wasted when Charles forces her into a marriage with Mr. Cocky Psychopath who for bonus points runs the city’s most notorious sex club. I mean fucking seriously.

“Charles didn’t mention a timeline⁠—”

“Tomorrow.”

I blink in horror, my mouth falling open.

“What?!”

“Not…” She shakes her head. “Not the wedding or anything. But I’m supposed to go to Mr. Sartorre’s house tomorrow and sign the blood marker.”

Fuck you, Charles. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

He’s not even just marrying the poor girl to that psycho. He’s using the mafia-world bond of a blood marker: a bullet-proof, inked-in-literal-fucking-blood contract that the criminal underworld uses for iron-clad agreements.

You can divorce, or annul a marriage.

There’s no escaping a blood marker, and Charles knows that. It’s fittingly medieval.

“Maeve…” I go back over to hug her just as the tears begin to fall down her face.

“I’m really scared, Tempest.”

“I know you are,” I whisper quietly as I hold her tight. “I know, and I’m going to fix it.”

“How?”

I don’t know.

I don’t know because I’m running out of time. It’s one of the reasons this hurts so much: I’m not able to do a damn thing to get Maeve out of this mess, because in six-to-eight months, I won’t even be here.

My chest constricts as I hold her tightly. But I don’t cry, because I’ve already cried all the tears I have about the injustice of it all, and how unfair life is.

Tears I might not have any more of. But I do still have a heart. And drive. And a burning hot, molten spark inside that hasn’t gone out yet.

Suddenly, like an icy blade piecing my skin, it hits me with blinding clarity.

There is a way I can save Maeve.

I’d normally label the idea forming in my head as completely suicidal. But in my case, it’s just fantastically poetic.

Elegantly so.

A final “fuck you” to all the men in the world who think they can control a woman’s life just because they’re men. It’s also the one chance I have of stopping Maeve from having to marry Dante.

My one chance, because of my big secret.

My cruel fate.

Everyone has a story to tell. Mine is short one. A cautionary tale, if you will. A rotten, black bedtime story.

Oh, and I die at the end.

But not before I take that prick down with me.