Jaded Devil: An Enemies-to-Lovers Mafia Romance

by Nicole Fox

“You need to learn gratitude,” he snarls.

  Then, as suddenly as he grabbed me, he releases me. I gasp, clutching my head, half-convinced my scalp will be bare and bleeding.

  I’m desperate to retreat to my room. But the door there is flimsy and Drago is in fine form this evening. Better to stay here where I can see him.

  Besides, my brother likes an audience when he’s pontificating. And I know he’s nowhere close to done.

  “You’ll get him,” I whisper, because I know he wants reassurance. “Eventually.”

  “I know that.” He glowers at me.

  He wants more fight from me. More violence. He wants to feel something break beneath his hands. But I refuse to be that something.

  His shoulders square as he turns to me, his eyes sparking with fire. “I’m going to—”

  “Piss on his body,” I say, beating him to the punch. “I know. You’ve said that already.”

  That was a bad thing to blurt. Drago’s eyes narrow. He lashes out instantly, slamming his fist into the side of my face.

  I roll to the side at the last second, so the blow isn’t as painful as it might have been. But it hurts nonetheless. Pain washes down the side of my face. My crescent moon scar tingles like it always does in times like this.

  Like it did back when I—

  No, don’t go there, Renata, I counsel myself. Don’t relive that nightmare.

  “You smart-mouthed bitch!” he rages as he makes another grab for me.

  I duck out of his reach and scramble around the kitchen island. But he’s after me, huge and stumbling, determined to teach me a lesson.

  “No, Drago… please…” I know it’s pointless pleading with him. But it’s instinctive.

  “Come here, you little whore!”

  I run farther around the kitchen island, forcing him to chase me. He’s slow today, but I know I won’t be able to keep doing laps around the countertop forever.

  Even though that’s kind of funny, in a dark, morbid way. I’m picking up right where I left off this afternoon.

  Lap number eighty-one…

  Lap number eighty-two…

  “I’m going to beat some fucking sense into you!”

  Lap number eighty-three…

  I trip and fall against the fridge.

  The sound of glass clatters from inside. Something’s definitely broken in there. When I flip around on my ass, Drago is only inches from me.

  Time slows.

  I process things one little chunk, one little observation at a time.

  His hand reaching out. Dirt under the fingernails. Pinky bent in the wrong direction from when he broke it years ago.

  His eyes bulging in their sockets. Brown like mine, but mottled and muted with anger. Shot through with violence.

  Maybe this time isn’t like all the others. Maybe this time, he’s really snapped. Maybe this time, he is going to do what he’s always threatened: ruin me because I’m the one thing left under his control.

  I spot the stray knife lying carelessly on the counter next to the fridge. I grab it and hold it up just as Drago lunges down towards me again. I just want to scare him away from me. I just want him to leave me alone.

  But both our eyes go wide when he charges forward despite the knife between us… and the naked blade sinks into his stomach.

  When he pulls back, he looks stunned.

  Then his gaze falls slowly to the gushing wound in his lower abdomen.

  “Oh my God…” I breathe.

  I look down at my shaking hand. It’s still holding the knife. A knife whose blade is coated in blood so bright it barely looks real.

  I drop it, sending little drops of red flying everywhere. My brother stumbles back, his hand falling against the wound as he tries to stop the bleeding. He hits the wall and slumps slowly to the floor.

  “You… you fucking stabbed me…”

  I’m still shaking when I reach for my cell phone. 9-1-1 is hard to type with fingers trembling as bad as mine are. I fumble again and again, but somehow, I dial.

  “Help!” I scream into the phone as soon as it picks up. I can’t hear what the person on the other end is saying, so I just scream it again. “Help! Help! Help!”

  The phone falls out of my bloodstained hands. I leave it where it is, that tinny first responder voice still calling out, “Hello? Hello?”

  Scrambling forward, I grab one of the kitchen towels that’s hanging from the oven door and fall to my knees beside Drago. “I’m sorry,” I gasp breathlessly as I try to staunch the blood flow with the kitchen towel. “I’m sorry.”

  His eyes flicker over my face. “Not… not as sorry… as you’re gonna be…”

  Despite the fact that he’s gasping for breath, the threat still carries weight.

  I leave the towel in his hands and back away slowly. He grabs my hand, his nails digging into my skin. But he’s weak enough that I manage to shake off his grip and clamber to my feet.

  That’s when I hear a gentle knocking at the door. “They’re here,” I gasp. “Thank fucking God.”

  I rush to the door anyway, praising the heavens for the quick response time. But the moment I throw it open, I freeze. The fear I’m already feeling thickens. It spreads through my body until I feel like I’m being consumed whole.

  The man at my door is definitely not a police officer, or an EMT, or a firefighter, or anyone who can help me at all.

  But I know him.

  I’ve only ever seen him once in my life—when I was five years old on the day of my father’s wedding.

  But I’d remember that face anywhere.

  A devil with an angel’s eyes.

  The face of my nightmares.

  The bane of my brother’s existence.

  It’s Kian O’Sullivan.

  Kian

  AN HOUR EARLIER—IN A SURVEILLANCE VAN OUTSIDE OF AN NYC O’SULLIVAN WAREHOUSE

  I crack my neck and reach for the flask I keep in the glove compartment for occasions exactly like this one: boring fucking surveillance. The only way to make it halfway tolerable is to drink through it.

  Phoenix Kovalyov looks at me with raised eyebrows, like he’s waiting for an explanation.

  “Want some?” I ask, offering him the flask.

  He takes it without hesitation and downs a large swig without so much as a cringe. My turn to raise an eyebrow.

  “Dad and I started doing nightcaps when I turned sixteen,” he replies by way of explanation. “And you know him—Don Artem Kovalyov only drinks the best of the best.”

  I chuckle. “Is your mother aware of that?”

  Phoenix gives me a shrug. “I think it falls under the Bratva’s blanket ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy.”

  “Fair enough. It’s a rite of passage. And you are… I wanna say nineteen?”

  “Twenty-two,” he growls.

  I suppress a smile. I know his age. I just like teasing the kid.

  Mostly because he’s got his father’s demeanor—all dark and broody. Every teenage girl’s fucking wet dream, no doubt. But then, he’s been getting attention from women twice his age since he was barely a teenager. The kid has certainly benefited from his parents’ combined genetic pool.

  “Twenty-two,” I repeat, like it’s news to me. “No shit. Feels like just yesterday you were born. A little bundle of joy.”

  He shoots me a pointed glare. “You’re not gonna get all sentimental on me, are you, Uncle Kian?” he drawls. “I’m not afraid to whoop an old man’s ass.”

  “Might be hard to do when you’re still learning the ropes, kid,” I remind him. “Old dog like me still has plenty of tricks up his sleeve.”

  Phoenix turns his attention to the small group of men toiling in the warehouse shadows. We’ve been watching them grunt and sweat for almost twenty minutes now. They don’t have a fucking clue we’re here. “So what’s the lesson tonight, then?” he asks. “How to sit back and watch as enemies fuck with your warehouse while you just watch?”

  “Sometimes, it
’s a mind game,” I tell him. “Other times, it’s a head game.”

  He frowns. “What’s the difference?”

  “See? This is exactly why your father sent you here to learn from me,” I tell him. “He operates by breaking first and asking questions later—or never. I think before I act.”

  That gets a smile out of the kid. “Can I tell him you said that?”

  “Please do,” I laugh. “You have my blessing.”

  The men out ahead of us are shuffling quickly between their white van and the circuit breaker next to the gate.

  “A mind game is all about the enemy. You get into their heads, fuck with them from the inside out. A head game is all about you. It’s about being smart.”

  Phoenix absorbs that for a moment. “And this is… a mind game?”

  “Head game,” I correct. “We have to be smart.”

  “Why?” Phoenix demands. “There’s like four guys out there. You’ve got at least double that number inside the warehouse alone. And even without backup, you and I can take those fuckers alone.”

  He’s definitely got his father’s confidence. His trigger finger is tapping on his knee, eager to reach for the gun at his hip and start blasting.

  “All true,” I concede. “But what are they doing out there?”

  “They’re trying to find a way into the compound,” he guesses.

  I shake my head. “Nah. They’re not interested in sticking around.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve been dealing with these little shits for the last twenty years,” I reply. “This is what they do. Pathetic little attempts to undermine my power in this city. They’re not strong enough to come at me directly. So they do this shit instead. They’re wiring up a bomb next to the gate.”

  “That’s a bomb?”

  “Surely, you’ve had bomb training.”

  His expression sours. “Not my favorite thing to learn. Only cowards use bombs. Men look their enemies in the eyes when they kill them.”

  “Learn it anyway,” I tell him.

  “I can hire someone to deal with that shit for me,” Phoenix replies with the typical arrogance of a kid whose been born into the mob life.

  “Yeah? And what happens when you’re staring in the face of a ticking bomb and you don’t have time to call for help?” I demand. “What then?”

  “What are the chances of that happening?”

  “In this business? High. Very high.”

  He grumbles something under his breath but fades into silence quickly.

  “I don’t get it,” he says after another moment has passed. “So it’s a bomb. They want to fuck your shit up. Why just sit back and watch?”

  “Bombs are tricky,” I explain. “Temperamental. Sometimes, the men that handle them are worse. If I ambush them now, they’re likely to blow up the entire place. A show of force is important, yes—no one is denying that. But exhibiting restraint is just as important. It can save unnecessary casualties.”

  “What if they detonate?”

  “They’re not going to risk it while they’re here,” I reply. “They’re going to drive off into the distance before they think of detonation.”

  “And that’s when you’ll stop them?”

  I nod. “Exactly.”

  I spot Drago Lombardi bring up the rear as all four men head back to their white van. He’s bulkier and more brutish-looking than his father. But he lacks Giorgio’s guile.

  I’m basing that observation on twenty years’ worth of botched attempts on my life. I gave him a pass for the first dozen years or so, citing youth and inexperience and pure, dumb rage. But as I’ve aged, I’m realizing that it isn’t about any of those things. The Lombardi heir is just stupid. A muscle-bound moron fueled by nothing more complex than the need to see me dead.

  His last name is an anchor dragging him to the bottom of a very black ocean. For a long time, I’ve pitied him too much to kill him. Lately, I’m starting to wonder whether ending his miserable life might be the more merciful option after all.

  “They’re leaving,” Phoenix comments, glancing at me.

  Sure enough, Lombardi and his goons are piling into their van with glances all around to make sure they’re escaping unseen.

  I see one of them give a thumbs-up and mouth, “Coast is clear.”

  All I can do is laugh. The moment the white van takes off, I make a call to Rhys.

  “Boss?” he answers.

  I stopped mentally cringing at the title years ago, once I’d accepted that—in New York, at least—I’m effectively the O’Sullivan don. America is my kingdom now.

  “They’re on the move,” I report. “Make sure you secure the detonator first. Then kill them all. Except the Lombardi boy.”

  “You sure?”

  I watch as the van disappears around the corner. “Yes,” I sigh. “I’m sure.”

  I hang up and get out of the car. Phoenix follows behind me.

  “Why not have him killed, too?” he asks as we approach the small cable box next to the gate.

  The rigging is sloppy but effective. It’ll definitely take out a portion of the warehouse if it goes off. I have no intentions of letting that happen.

  I ignore Phoenix’s question for now. Truth is that I don’t have an easy answer at the ready.

  It’s not guilt I feel for Drago Lombardi. And it’s not quite pity. It’s something, though. I wish I fucking had a name for it.

  “Do you need me to call someone?” Phoenix asks when I don’t answer.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “For that,” he says, jutting his chin at the homemade bomb plastered to my warehouse.

  “Why call someone when you can do it yourself?” I ask with a smirk. I open the small cable box and start examining the wires that have been tampered with. “There’s a tool box in the boot of the car. Be a pal and go grab it for me.”

  Phoenix saunters to the van and retrieves the box in question. When he jogs back over to me, I open it up and peruse the contents.

  I can feel him staring down at me uneasily. If I were a less experienced man, I might have found it distracting.

  “Calm down, kid,” I reassure him. “I’ve done this before.”

  “Jordi’s inside the warehouse,” Phoenix points out. “Why not just call him?”

  “Should I be insulted by your lack of confidence in me? That’s three times now you’ve asked if I know what I’m doing.”

  I raise my eyes for a moment and he shuffles on his feet. “I’m just saying…”

  I shake my head. “You gotta get better at lying, Phoenix,” I laugh. “I could call Jordi, yeah. But if he opens the gate to get to us, the bomb will detonate.”

  With the pliers in my hand, I point at a gaggle of wires stretching off to the right. “You see that wire over there? It’s connected to the door lever. Pull this and that one goes off. Get it?”

  He looks, assesses, and sees that I’m right. “Goddammit,” he grumbles with a nod. “Yeah, I see it.”

  He’s a smart kid. Brash, of course, but what heir to the throne isn’t? We all learn our lessons one way or another. That’s why he’s here in New York with me. To prepare himself for the day he takes over the Kovalyov Bratva out in Los Angeles.

  When his time comes, he’s going to be a fucking titan.

  I pull out the wire cutter and step up to the box just as my phone starts to ring. “Yeah?” I reply as I answer.

  “It’s done, boss,” Rhys informs me. “I’ve got three bodies and the detonator.”

  “And Lombardi?”

  “We let the fucker go, per your instructions,” Rhys replies. He doesn’t sound happy about it. “He took off in the white van.”

  “Perfect,” I say. “You boys can head on back then. I’ll finish up.”

  I end the call and focus my attention back on the thin collection of wires in front of me.

  It takes me only a few minutes to zone in on the right wire. A thin red one that snakes around the ga
te switches.

  “Well?” Phoenix asks when I don’t volunteer any information from the call.

  “The boys grabbed the detonator. Lombardi got away in his van.”

  “You told them to let him go.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you’d want them to follow him.”

  “I’ll do that part myself,” I say. “It’s time I deal with Drago Lombardi face to face.”

  “But—” Phoenix breaks off as realization dawns on his face. He looks a lot like his mother Esme when his features are relaxed. It’s only when he’s got violence on his mind that he starts to look like his father.

  “You planted a tracker on the van,” he realizes.

  I smile. “Very good.”

  “So you know where he’s hiding.”

  “As soon as he gets to his little cave, I’ll know where to go, yes.”

  Then I press down on the red wire using the wire cutters. It snaps in half. A small spark goes up along the corners of the gate.

  And just like that, the whole contraption turns into nothing more than a jumble of junk metal.

  Better luck next time, Drago.

  “There,” I say, turning to Phoenix. “Now the gate’s safe to open. You can head on inside and run clean-up.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I raise my phone and pull up the app that’s currently tracking Lombardi’s path towards Long Island.

  “To deal with the motherfucker who just tried to kill me.”

  I turn back towards the car. I’m halfway into the driver’s seat when Phoenix calls out after me.

  “Kian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s been twenty years,” he says. “Why haven’t you killed this guy before now?”

  I think about my answer for a long moment. The night around me is quiet and still. Not for long, though. Soon, it’ll be filled with the screams of Drago Lombardi.

  “He’s been a minor thorn in my side for a long time now,” I say carefully. “And I understood the reasons why. But every man has a limit. I’ve just reached mine.”

  He looks across the concrete expanse at me. A solemn grimace spreads across his face as he processes what I’ve said.

  Then he smiles. “So… this would be a mind game then?”