Dark Heart Volume 1: A Star-Crossed Mafia Romance (Dark Heart Duet)

by Ella James

  Maybe I just want to see him. Maybe I do want to kill him.

  I don’t want to kill him.

  I’m a nice guy. There’s only one person a nice guy can kill.

  The elevator takes me up, and she was right—the daughter, Isa. It’s a wedding party. Lots of people, and I don’t know how to find him. I guess I’ll just walk around until I see him.

  I should have told him to shoot me. Maybe I’d be dead, but I’m dead anyway. Diamond’s got no balls, so maybe he wouldn’t have done it. Dad might be alive if I had gambled.

  I don’t like the noises at the party. I don’t like the people.

  I think of Elise…the way her hands would feel on my face. I like how she rubs my hair back. Sometimes she traces my eyebrows, and it’s sort of weird, but it feels good.

  Max said Elise wasn’t at the party. Elise loves me. Even though I want her to move on, I kind of hope she always loves me. I need to be loved by someone.

  My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.

  It’s so terrible how this is turning out.

  I spot him standing in the doors between the food room and the dance room. He’s wearing a tuxedo. He looks like a dead man. But I see him older. Tony will get older; he’ll kill other people. He’ll mop blood up. He’ll harass old men, and the old men will be addicts who can’t walk home from their store. Tony is a poison.

  I’m poison.

  Tony is poison, too.

  I start walking toward him—all the people…pushing past them—and he drifts into the other room. The dancing room. My throat is so tight I can’t swallow. Soren is smart and my mom is always okay. It’s Elise that’s in my head. She is my head.

  I stalk Tony through the dancing room and into the hall. Crowded and it smells like flowers. He’s with other people, and I recognize where they’re all going. They go up the elevator, and I keep my distance. Wait my turn. I’m so sweaty with my hand inside my pocket, I feel like there’s a light over my head that’s flashing: danger, danger.

  I’m not danger.

  I was never danger, that’s the funny thing. I let Dad say those things and hit me because I knew he was sick. I hardly hurt most times and words don’t mean much.

  Her lips, brushing my cheek… Her eyes as she looks up from between my legs. For a moment, I can feel her, I can feel us, I can feel the fortifying weight of all the love that lives between us, and it makes a whole world.

  I’m about to shatter that world.

  The coat closet with the door into the hidden hallways is a front. Alesso told me. Coats aren’t ever hung there. It’s just an entryway to all the other parts, the hidden places no one should be going.

  I wonder if anyone will think that this is worth it. I will think it’s worth it. Even if my dad was a narc.

  A second slips through my brain, this one shiny second where it’s clean and there’s no badness. I could turn back. That’s the message. But the second isn’t real, it isn’t right. I can see the blood on the stage, creeping over the uneven floorboards. I got Dad’s wallet somehow—don’t remember, but it’s soaked in blood. It smelled like blood, and little blood circles like faint stamps were smeared atop his debit card. I rubbed them off with my thumb.

  Worthless. What is worthless? Only that which has no worth to you. It matters to me.

  And I know how to do it. I know how to get to Tony. Same as anything else: you just do it.

  I walk through the door behind the stairs. The Elise door, and I remember that still. I stoop low and then stand fully in the larger hall. I can hear them in one of the rooms. Maybe the black room. I don’t want it to be that room—but if it is, that’s okay.

  I hear them talking in some room, and I’m relieved to find that it’s some sort of library. It looks a little like the dinner room, the steak room, the just the way I like it elemental room. See, I remember that. Even though I still feel really sick. I remember everything about that night.

  Once I’m in the doorway it’ll be a train that’s taking off: no stopping. So I stand in the hall for some time.

  I don’t feel good. Maybe I can still find some way to hold Elise. I would really like to do that.

  I reach my hand back into my pocket. A breath that’s not enough, that goes by too quick. I’m aware of how cold my feet are as I move into the doorway.

  A hush falls over the small group that’s gathered in there. Tony’s face is all I see. His eyes are wide as he looks at me. He says, “Hey, man,” but he’s scared. He looks at me like he’s scared, and then he looks around.

  I take another small step toward him. “Tony—you’re a monster.”

  Then I pull the gun out of my pocket, point it at him, pull the trigger.

  You can feel a gunshot in your bones. In every cell, in every atom. There is no sound and no vision. There is no mind. In the silence after, everything starts on fast-forward. And it’s not real.

  You can’t tell me that this is real. Maybe it was never real.

  Someone tackles me. I hit the floor hard. I’m staring at the fancy ceiling. I smile at it, feeling proud.

  Nobody’s ever going to hit me again.

  Someone stands over me. “Go ahead and do it.”

  “Do what?” the voice says sharply.

  “Shoot me. I’m not scared.”

  I think I’m ready to be free of all this.

  Someone crouches down beside me. It looks like Elise’s dad. He’s telling me that I’m okay.

  “Get up.” I open my eyes to Roberto. “Alzarsi,” he orders quietly.

  I do—even though it hurts. I want to stand in front of him, to be more real when it happens. I look at him and then around the room, at all the tuxes.

  “He shot my dad,” I offer.

  Roberto moves toward me. For a bleary moment, I expect him to walk right through me. Then there’s hot fear as I wait for pain in my chest. Something presses to my ribcage. I look down, and it’s his hand. His hand goes around my side.

  “C’mon.” He presses me backward. “Usa le tue gambe. Inizia a camminare. Tu vieni con me.”

  I go with him. Trying to breathe. Trying to make my limbs do what my brain asks. He takes me into a yellow bedroom.

  “Get on your knees,” he orders. He pulls out a handgun.

  I look at it, at him. And then I laugh. I don’t mean to. It’s only one soft laugh that slips out.

  “Do I seem like I’ll do that?” my voice says.

  “You won’t get down on your knees for me?”

  “Never.”

  A hot tear slides from my eye and down my cheek. I love you, Elise.

  He looks at me for a long time with his hard eyes. They seem hard and then they don’t. They seem curious and maybe worried. They seem surprised.

  “Sei pieno di sorprese.”

  “Yeah.”

  My brain picks that moment to short out. Black spots dance in my eyes, and he urges me toward the bed’s side. I lean against it.

  “Stay there,” he says in raspy English.

  I hold my head as time passes like long, slow waves around me.

  “Here.”

  I look up. My blinks feel a few beats too slow. He’s holding a glass out to me.

  I drink all of it, and then I look down at the rug and his shoes on it.

  “Am I going to jail?” I can barely breathe, but somehow I look up at him to read the answer from his face.

  “What you’re going to do,” he says slowly, his fingers clasping my shoulder, “is come with me.”

  Pre-order Dark Heart Volume 2, releasing October 14th: http://bit.ly/DarkHeart2

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of Covet, A Sinful Secret Series Romance.

  Sneak Peek

  Covet: A Standalone Forbidden Romance

  One

  April 2018

  Declan

  Smoke seeps from my lips, drifting out over the boat rail like a curl of fog. Tonight, the water’s placid, an in
ky black with smears of pastel starlight. Out here in the middle of the Atlantic, the sky at night is more glitter than darkness. Hazy swaths of purple, peach, and green sky twinkle with diamond-bright stars, their reflection gleaming on the curve of wave that runs alongside the boat.

  I curl my hand around my cigarette and bring it to my mouth again.

  I’m standing atop the cargo ship’s flat hull, hidden from most vantage points by the twenty-foot-tall boxy structure just behind me: the navigation post and captain’s quarters. At this hour, both are likely empty. The crew is down below deck, playing poker. Still, I turn the cherry toward my palm.

  Better to stay hidden.

  That’s been my game since I boarded Miss Aquarius back in Cape Town: wear my cap low, keep my mouth shut, and help out where I’m needed till I reach my destination.

  I close my eyes on a long drag and lean against the railing. That’ll be tomorrow. Fuck.

  I finish off the smoke and light another one.

  It’s fucking cold out here. My T-shirt’s not enough, even with jeans. South of the equator, we’re headed into fall—in early April. Strange stuff. I swallow hard and look down at the deck under my feet. Then I cast my gaze up to the sky and fill my lungs with salty air.

  When I feel something in my hand, I look down, finding a line of ash in my palm. I bring the Marlboro to my lips and take the last drag with shaking fingers before pinching the cherry out.

  I should go below deck. Play some solitaire in my cabin. Instead I light a third smoke, and, with my free hand, rub my arms. Even after just a few months off, they’re smaller than I’m used to, making me feel like someone else.

  Laughter trills into the quiet, voices rising as footfall thuds inside the stairwell to my left. Before I can turn toward the sea, figures spill onto the deck. I whirl around, snuffing my smoke out against the rail. Then I turn the other way, aiming to sneak around the navigation post, but there’s a loud “Hey, man.”

  I turn slowly. Half a dozen guys are lined up in some kind of formation, making a semi-circle between the stairwell they just came out of and me.

  I nod, meeting the eyes of the one who spoke. Kevin is his name. I think. He’s only an inch or two shorter than me, with blue eyes and close-cropped brown hair. He’s one of the Americans on board.

  I step toward the stairwell, but Kevin catches my arm. “Hang on a sec. We wanna talk to you.”

  I hear another say, “We barely know you,” at the same time as a third—not an American, judging by his accent—is saying, “been six days.”

  I nod. Hold up a hand. “George,” I say, as I step between two of them.

  “That’s the thing, though,” he sneers. “We don’t think it is.”

  “No?” I look behind me.

  They’re all grinning. “Hell no.”

  “We been watching.”

  “We’ve got an idea about you.”

  My stomach pitches as a hand claps my shoulder.

  “You can tell us.”

  “We know you’re not George.”

  One dude jerks a thumb at the captain. “You know Bo, don’t you? He’s the cap’n. No good lying to the captain.”

  Bo steps closer. He’s older than most of the crew members, but still young. If I had to guess, I’d say no older than forty-five. He’s wearing khaki-looking shorts and a stained Costa tee. “I know what your papers say. But take your hat off, mate, and help me win a wager.”

  I shake my head, stepping backward toward the stairwell. “Night, guys.”

  “I told you it’s not him.” Someone’s in the stairwell, lighting a cigar. He grins around it.

  At that same time, I lose my hat. I spin around and snatch it back, glaring at the fucker who took it. His eyes widen at the clear view of my face.

  Gasps chorus around us.

  “Holy shit.”

  “I fuckin’ told you, Bo!”

  The one in the stairwell spreads his arms, chuckling as he blocks me.

  “That’s some damn good camo, brother. I need something, though, before you get to pass.”

  He holds a slip of paper out, and the men gather around.

  “Homer Carnegie on our boat, we’re gonna need some autographs…”

  I fake a grin and take the paper. Six thousand miles from Boston, and I’m fucking outed.

  Finley

  I clutch the bottle to my chest and cross myself. Then I shut my eyes, bring my arm back, and throw it hard over the cliff’s edge. With my eyes shut, I picture its trajectory as it plummets toward the ocean. I inhale, feeling dizzy as birds caw above my head, and far below me, waves break on the rocks.

  Vloeiende Trane, these cliffs are called; it means “cascading tears” in Afrikaans. The highest peak is two hundred meters above the ocean’s ragged waves. Midway between the cliff-top and the sea, water pours out of the rock in three long streams that look like tears from further out.

  Standing atop Vloeiende Trane, the white caps look no bigger than a fingernail, the ocean’s swirling cauldron just a gentle dappling of greens and blues.

  Deceptive.

  I wipe my eyes and fold my arms over my chest. I won’t throw another bottle, I promise myself as I step toward the cliffs’ edge. I search the waves for a flash of glass, for something that will give me satisfaction, but of course, I see nothing.

  That’s the point, though, isn’t it? Throwing letter-stuffed bottles into the void. It’s like a prayer. That’s its magic. Still, it hurts to know no one will ever read my words. I wipe my face again and whisper, “Give me courage.”

  I lick my lips and stand with my eyes closed, thinking of Mum. It’s something that I almost never do, because I can’t bear it. Today, though, I can’t seem to help myself.

  When my eyes feel puffy and hot, I walk back across the stony plane that forms this small plateau and look down at the field below, its tall grass pressed flat by the wind. At the edge of the field, a cottage. Beyond that, the village valley—an expanse of lush, green grass framed by the cliffs that form the border of the island.

  Three gravel roads stripe the valley where the village lies. Scattered along them are sixty-seven cottages, topped by roofs of thatch or brightly colored tin. My gaze runs over the island’s few landmarks: the yellow roof of the café, the bare dirt of the baseball field, the green roof of the clinic near the village’s east side.

  The church’s small, white steeple looks thin as a toothpick from here. I squint, but I can barely make out the blue tin roof of my dear friend Anna’s house. I lift my hand to my eyes and stretch my thumb out sideways, and the village disappears—the whole world, gone.

  Climbing down the plateau’s steep side into the field behind Gammy’s house takes half an hour. I move carefully without a harness, slow and steady in the warm glare of the sun, until my soles press into soft grass.

  The wind-flattened field—Gammy’s backyard—is big and round, hemmed in on one side by the dirt path that leads from the lower slopes of the volcano down to the village, and on the other by the rocky cliffs that overlook the ocean.

  Before she passed, we built a table from wood scraps and set it near the field’s center. I climb onto it and peer up at the sky. Early autumn now, its blue is almost violent. Today, for once, there are no clouds except some wispy tendrils behind me, wreathing the volcano’s peak.

  I watch the kingbirds fly, swooping off the cliffs and out of sight, and my heart aches for Gammy. She would have righted my course. Gammy would have told me to say “no” when I was asked. Probably “hell no,” I admit. My stomach knots.

  I shift my gaze to the cottage, to the stone kiln beside it and the blue sky spread above it, and the cliffs that rise out of the grass beside it. I inhale the salty air and tell myself just stop. Now is not the time for despair. Gammy would tell me to keep focused. There are options yet.

  I swipe the hair out of my face and carefully re-braid it as my shoulders tingle from the sun’s heat. When my damp shirt has dried in the breeze, I get up and walk
to the kiln.

  There’s a small door on the front and two shelves in its slightly rounded belly, where I set my pieces. I haven’t done enough of this lately. I’m not even sure I retrieved my last load. I open the door and find indeed I didn’t. Two hunter green bowls and a thin, black vase with golden flecks wait inside. I gather them carefully into my arms and follow the stone path to the cottage’s front door.

  When I first moved in with Gammy, I called this the Hobbit cottage. She didn’t know, of course—I wasn’t speaking—but it reminded me of a Hobbit’s house: the south side built into a hill; one small, round window punched into the grass; the rounded, dark wood door and beige stone facade in front; a thatched roof tilting low; chimes affixed to several spots; and a flower garden growing wild about the stoop.

  The door opens with the old, familiar creak. I step into the tidy living area. I run my hand over the well-worn armchair and try to look at it through his eyes. The green and blue rug—woven by my great-grandmother—that’s spread across the cement floor. The slouching navy love seat, with its tiny, beige polka dots. The boxy TV on a tiny cedar table in one corner. The wild banana plant dominating the other. Grandma’s needlework adorns one wall. A fern hangs in a basket near the TV. The wall to my right, which divides the living room and kitchen, sports a horizontal bookcase.

  It smells like rose and lemon here, and the lovely musk of aging paperbacks. I rip my eyes from the bookshelf and walk into the kitchen. Small and standard, I suppose, with a pale blue laminate countertop, a small, round table; some wall-mounted shelves; and a wooden cabinet/pantry in one corner. Wallpaper in a faded, fruit basket pattern adorns the walls.

  I scrub my arms and hands with the same lemon pumice soap I use to get the clay grit off after I finish a new piece, and then unpack the bags of food I brought before my hike. I arrange apples, pears, and peaches in a small, wooden bowl and leave a shrink-wrapped loaf of friendship bread atop a matching wooden platter. I check the refrigerator again, as if the eggs, butter, chicken, duck, and various sauces I left there a few hours ago might have walked away. They didn’t.