Dark Romance Collection: A Sexy, Dark Bundle

by Huntington, Parker S.

  I opened my mouth to tell him he wouldn’t, but he’d already walked away, and I didn’t want to raise my voice and draw attention to us. Instead, I settled into my assigned seat at the head table in the ballroom.

  Damian took the seat across from me as Lucy settled to my right and Bastiano Romano sat on my left. The way Damian stared at me had me sending discreet looks up and down the table to see if anyone else noticed. They were trained upper-level mafia members. Of course, most of them noticed.

  Something had switched in Damian. That look in his eyes. The way they followed my every movement. He wanted me again.

  But I had left this world, and he couldn’t have me.

  Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect, he ceases to love.

  Fyodor Dostoevsky

  Lucy shifted her eyes from me to Damian, her smile not at all sly. I ignored her and focused on my dinner plate. When I chanced another glance at Damian, he finally stopped looking at me. Only, he was talking to the daughter of one of the Romano leaders, which might have been worse than looking at me.

  I wished he had taken a seat further down the table, so I could have avoided the agony of wanting Damian to stop looking at me and any other woman. I spent the dinner concentrating on not looking at Damian, and he knew it because his leg brushed against my leg beneath the table every time I thought I’d been subtle in taking a peek out of my peripheral.

  I was thankful when speakers started gathering on the makeshift stage. The lights dimmed, and the first speaker rose to the podium. He told a tale of the death of his sister. Vince had set his mom up at a hotel until she could care for herself, made and paid for the funeral arrangements, and listened to him as he talked about his sister for nearly eighteen hours straight.

  Remorse speared my heart. When I’d distanced myself from the family, I’d also distanced myself from Maman. I hadn’t seen Vince in eight years, and not a second went by where I didn’t miss him. Listening to how great of a man Vincent was stabbed me. I missed out on eight years of memories, and it was my decision. One of many poor decisions I’d made in a lifetime of poor decisions.

  I swallowed my emotions and pushed my chair back. Damian cocked a brow, but I ignored him as I made my way to the stage. The line of men and women allowed me to pass to the front of the stage, thanks to my last name. I was grateful, because I needed to speak before I couldn’t bring myself to.

  The memorial banquet was a celebration of the life of the deceased. The mic remained open, and anyone could share good memories they had of Vincent. I couldn’t speak of the memories I had connected to my mom’s relationship with Vincent, but I would give what I could.

  Wild blinks shuttered my eyes as they adjusted to the spotlight. I cleared my throat and allowed myself a few minutes of vulnerability in Vince’s name. “I was eight when I met Vincent Romano. My English was awful at best, I hadn’t dropped my Italian accent, and conjugations kicked my ass.

  “I came home with an F on an English spelling test, so afraid to tell my parents.” Gosh, I’d thought my problems were the end of the world back then. “I hid in the library, my chubby cheeks blotchy, tears streaming down my face, just a giant, blubbering mess.

  “Vince came into the library and browsed the selection. I thought I was so sly, hiding quietly in my corner. Back pressed against the wall. Knees drawn to my chest. Of course, he had clocked me as soon as he came in, but it wasn’t until he had a copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby in his hand that he approached me.

  “‘Why are you crying?’ he pressed me. I showed him my test, and still, he asked, ‘So? Plenty of people fail all the time.’

  “I glared at him, and with the attitude of an eight-year-old, I said, ‘Not me! I’m a Vitali. I’m powerful!’” I let loose a soft laugh. “Obviously, nothing’s changed.”

  When the room’s laughter subsided, I continued, “Vince laughed. It wasn’t mocking. It was patient. And then, he asked, ‘Powerful?’ When I nodded, he held up the Gatsby book and said, ‘Do you know what this is?’

  “I shrugged, my hand still clutching that damned test. ‘A book?’”

  I suppressed the sudden surge of sadness, which gripped my throat.

  “Vince shook his head. ‘Not just any book. The best book. Do you know who wrote it?’ When I said no, he smiled at me and told me, ‘F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of the greatest writers of all time. You want to know what else he is?’

  “I shook my head again. Vince reached out, tapped the giant red ‘F’ on my test, and said, ‘An awful speller. One of the world’s greatest writers, and he was an awful speller. People aren’t born perfect, Little Miss Renata. They don’t live perfectly either. But the people who are perfectly happy are the ones who don’t chase perfection, especially for power. Instead of learning to conquer others, they learn to be happy with themselves.’

  “Being the brat that I was, I asked him why anyone would try to be better if they were already happy with themselves. And he told me, and I’ll never forget this, ‘If you want to be better, do it because it makes you happy. Not because you think it will make someone else happy or because you feel like you have to.’”

  My eyes met Damian’s, and my words battered me harder. I’d thought moving to Connecticut and living a quiet life was me doing things that made me happy. But if I were really happy, would I be second guessing my choice to leave Damian? Would I be trying so hard to rebuild the walls between us because I was scared of getting hurt again?

  I faked a smile to the crowd. “The Great Gatsby is still one of my favorite books. Just like Vincent Romano will always be one of my favorite people.”

  Fake smiles and hollow greetings filled my path back to the table. Emotions packed themselves so tightly in my throat, breathing was a struggle. When I sat back on my seat, my phone buzzed. Even though it was rude, I turned the brightness down and read the message, needing the distraction.

  Damian: I like it better when you smile for real.

  He must have gotten my number when he had my phone earlier. He’d programmed his in, too. My head shot up, and I stared at him. He was talking to that girl again, but I knew some part of him was aware of my attention. How had this happened? He was supposed to hate me. I should have fought the urge to back him up in the alley and at the roundtable meeting.

  Renata: You don’t fool me.

  Distracting me. And, admittedly, doing a good job of it. When my phone didn’t vibrate again after ten minutes, I sent a follow-up text.

  Renata: I know what you’re doing.

  A Romano soldier stood on the stage, and he spoke of a time when he’d been homeless, and Vincent had helped him get back on his feet. Vince gave him more work, set up a place for him to stay, and made sure he was fed.

  I’d had the privilege of knowing one of the best people to ever walk this Earth, and I pushed him away, thinking I was justified because of the gray world he lived in. But if I really was so justified, remorse wouldn’t be seizing my throat so tightly.

  Just when I thought a tear would drop, my phone buzzed, and I gripped it tighter, like it was my lifeline.

  Damian: Sending inappropriate texts in the middle of a memorial banquet?

  Renata: Don’t stop.

  It was a moment of weakness, but I needed the distraction he gave me. And yes, I knew that was why he was doing this. He’d always been so in tune with my emotions, and it was our thing to always be there for each other, even when we shouldn’t have.

  Damian: You didn’t say that to me last time I slid inside you. We should rectify that.

  Renata: You were never this dirty back then.

  Damian: I was also an eighteen-year-old trying to be a gentleman.

  Renata: And now?

  Damian: I’m no longer eighteen, and I’m no longer a gentleman.

  Renat
a: Liar.

  Damian: No one has ever accused me of being a gentleman before.

  Renata: That’s because they don’t know you like I do…

  I hesitated and deleted the last text before the illogical part of me decided to send it. It was too intimate, and while I welcomed the distraction, it couldn’t go any deeper than silly texts.

  Renata: Tell me something stupid.

  He didn’t answer for a while, and each second without a reply sent me deeper and deeper into grief over Vincent. I needed Damian to reply. Damn it, Damsel, help a girl out. I caved and studied him.

  His phone rested on the table in front of him, and when he noticed me staring, he pressed something once on his phone. Not a second later, my phone buzzed. He must have had his message already typed out. His eyes stayed on me as I read his text.

  Damian: You have a ring on your finger. That’s pretty damn stupid.

  My jaw dropped a little before I recovered. I typed something, deleted it, retyped, then deleted. His ankle touched my calf beneath the table, and my phone dropped from my startled hands onto the floor.

  Lucy leaned over, picked the phone up, and handed it to me. If she’d noticed Damian’s leg on mine while she was down there, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she gave me a small smile and returned her attention to the stage, where mine should have been.

  My phone buzzed again.

  Damian: Tell me something stupid.

  My heart lashed out from inside me. He slid his leg up higher, parting my dress at the high slit, and hooked his ankle around my knee. His conversation with the woman abandoned, his complete attention transfixed me.

  I licked my lips. His eyes traced the path of my tongue. On the stage, an Andretti caporegime spoke of healing, moving forward, forgiveness, hope, and honesty. In front of me, Damian represented the possibility of achieving these things.

  Take a leap, take a leap, take a leap, my heart begged.

  Don’t, don’t, don’t, my fear argued.

  Make a damn choice, my brain demanded.

  I typed, pausing every other word because I couldn’t decide what was worse—sending the text or not.

  Renata: I had a dream last night. You kissed me in it.

  Damian: That’s not stupid.

  I didn’t respond. This was a bad idea. Fifteen minutes and two more speakers passed. My phone buzzed. I forced myself not to check it, even when Damian talking with the Romano woman burned my eyes.

  My phone buzzed again a few minutes later, and I caved.

  Damian: In your dream, how did I taste?

  Damian: You hate that I’m talking to her. What do you think that means, Princess?

  It meant that I cared more than I should have. I needed to nip this in the bud, but I wouldn’t because I needed the reprieve he offered more, if only for tonight. Tomorrow, I would wake up and leave for Connecticut. Tonight, maybe I could take what he offered.

  Renata: I’m not sure how you tasted. It wasn’t those lips you kissed.

  His foot went slack and fell from my leg. He dropped his spoon in his soup bowl as he read his text. The new speaker spoke of Vincent as if he’d been a father figure. I stiffened. Damian’s leg brushed against mine again, and I returned my attention to him. The phone buzzed.

  Damian: Spend the night with me, Renata. No strings attached. Just one night. We can take it from there. I know you want to. I know you’re afraid. Be fearless, Knight.

  Renata: I know what you’re doing.

  Damian: I know. I’m distracting you, because you’re hurting. And you’ll accept my help, because that’s what we do. I hurt. You help. You hurt. I help. Don’t change us, Knight.

  “Too late, Day,” I whispered, and his eyes shot to mine from across the table.

  Don’t trust everything you see. Even salt looks like sugar.

  Maryum Ahsam

  Damian led me out the side to his car. By the time we made it to my nook in the library, I had questioned my decision to leave with him a million times. In the end, I knew I needed this. Damian chased away the pain. He did for me what drugs and alcohol did for others. Problem was, he was more dangerous than substances. If he wanted to, he could ruin me.

  I sat on my bed, pulled my knees to my chest, and rested my chin on them. “Promise me something.”

  “Anything.”

  “Promise me that, when I wake up, you’ll be gone.”

  His features darkened. “Ren…”

  “Please.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. “Fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  He took a seat next to me and handed my oversized sleeping shirt to me. I shimmied into it as he turned away. My bare thigh touched the top of his hand as I wiggled out of my dress. He sucked in a breath, and I felt like I had when we were teens—always a heartbeat away from a kiss.

  When I settled back against the headboard, he looked at me again. “Remember that song we slow danced to?”

  I closed my eyes and pictured prom night. “A remake of Bryan Adam’s ‘Heaven.’”

  “I heard it in my hotel elevator this morning.” His hand reached out and gripped my thigh.

  We sat beside one another, our backs leaning against the headboard and our legs lying flat on the bed.

  I sighed at his touch. “Are we crazy for doing this?”

  “Do you want to stop?”

  “I think this is a bad idea.”

  “I think it isn’t.” He shifted, so his body hovered above mine, our faces separated by a short breath. “If you don’t want to do this, tell me. But if you do, I’ll chase away the pain. I promise, Knight.”

  I let out a shaky breath. “I don’t feel like a knight right now.” I felt like a pawn on Maman’s chess board, incapable of bold moves. The weakest link.

  How could Damian see my pain? I couldn’t even pinpoint it. It was losing Vincent and the ghost of losing Damian all at once. It was also confronting the idea that the past ten years of my life had been a mistake.

  I’d pushed Vincent and Damian away. I could never get Vincent back, but now I had an opportunity to have Damian for the night. I’d be stupid not to take it.

  I met his stare. “You’ll be gone when I wake up?”

  He didn’t answer me.

  “Damian…”

  He pressed his forehead against mine. “Yes.”

  His answer hurt me as much as it helped me. Anticipation sprinted laps around my body. He climbed over me. I hooked my leg around his lower back, and he ground into my body until I wanted to tear our clothes off.

  Our mouths met—anger, frustration, and lust meeting with each clash of our tongues. He sucked the tip of my tongue into his mouth. I stroked the roof of his mouth. Once. Twice. The third time, he lowered me from the headboard, pushed me onto my back, and climbed completely over me.

  His hands dipped under my shirt. He slid them up, lifting the shirt with his movements until both palms cupped my breasts. I arched into him as he pinched my nipples. His lips left mine, and he buried his face in my neck and nipped at the skin, stroked it with his tongue, and sucked.

  It felt so good, I could have cried. I’d missed his touch. Craved it in ways I hadn’t realized. The tear slipped out before I could stop it. I didn’t cry. That wasn’t me. Never. But another tear greeted the last, and I was helpless to stop it. I had never had a real family. Didn’t know what the word meant, let alone what it felt like.

  I saw Maman part-time, and Papà might as well have been someone else’s father for all I saw him. This world had somehow spit me out and made me different than everyone else. All the other syndicate families, at one point or another, had a family dynamic. Camaraderie. Loyalty. Honor.

  Except Damian’s. It explained why my soul reached for his. We were kindred spirits, and I’d lost him. After tonight, I’d lose him again. A final tear slipped out, and I swiped it away quickly before he could see it.

  A moment later, he must have felt the tension in my body because he stopped and pulled back to look a
t me.

  I didn’t want him to leave but couldn’t bring myself to ask him to stay. “You’ll be gone when I wake up, right?”

  He placed my head in the crook of his neck, and while I didn’t shed the tears I wanted to shed, I let him hold me.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be gone.”

  You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don’t trust enough.

  Frank Grane

  Renata laid pressed against my side, snoring every now and then. She squeezed the arm wrapped around me, and I didn’t dare move. The night hadn’t gone as planned. I was supposed to slip inside her. I was supposed to remind her why we fit so well. I was supposed to make her beg, plead, scream out her orgasm, and beg me for another five.

  I didn’t even kiss her.

  I had a long flight back to Texas and a full day of meetings. I should have closed my eyes and gotten some sleep. Instead, I spent the night with Ren as long as it would last, our limbs a twisted, chaotic knot I didn’t want to untangle. Then, I begged the sun to retreat so I could have another hour. It didn’t listen. If anything, it rose faster. Still, last night was the best night I’d had all decade, and I needed another one like it was a basic necessity.