Sweet Surrender: A Dark Mafia Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (King's Trace Antiheroes Book 1)

by Sav R. Miller

  Elia’s world needs strong, viable people; mine needs cowards. Bastards like my father.

  “What happened to you?” I find myself asking, my mouth moving before my brain can catch up.

  His gray eyes flip open and find mine, a sea of emotion I can’t—or won’t—decipher. “What happened to you?”

  Pressing my lips together, I shake my head slightly, already giving up the fight. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Who the hell ingrained in your head that the stuff that happened to you doesn’t matter, Caroline? Tell me right now, and I’ll go bash their goddamn skull in.” He slides off the chair, onto his knees on the floor, and crawls over to where I’m sitting. His eyes are glassy, reminding me that he’s wasted, but that doesn’t stop my breath from catching in my throat at having him so near. “If it still hurts, it matters, Caroline.”

  My mouth falls open, a soft gasp escaping my lips as his fingers wrap around my calf. His touch sears me, a hot knife to my cold skin, but I steel myself against leaning into it. “Can you just leave it alone? I don’t want to talk about it, especially not with you.”

  “And why not with me? What’s so bad about me, huh? What the fuck have I done to deserve this rage, except bail you out of a complete shit-storm that your father got you wrapped up in?”

  “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  “No, you didn’t, but I wanted to help you.” He swears under his breath, the sound garbled. “Christ, I still fucking do. Fuck me, right? I must be the dumbest, weakest capo of all time.”

  I watch his face for a few beats as his mind wars with his emotions, recognizing the agony. Trying to change the subject, I aim for humor. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re starting to catch feelings for me.”

  His eyes harden, mouth forming a thin line. “Would that be such a bad thing? We are married, after all.”

  “Barely.”

  I regret the word before it even leaves my lips, but I can’t put a finger on why, exactly—why it bothers me that I’m clearly hurting this man, who’s done nothing but show me kindness since we met.

  Why, deep down, part of me wants this marriage to be more. How I wish things were different.

  Snapping his hand back like I’ve burned him—and not the other way around—he staggers to his feet, mouth puckering. It spreads after a moment into a sinister smile, all teeth, and no lips, and a strange sensation I’ve yet to feel around him until this moment grips my heart, making it beat hard against my chest.

  “All right, Caroline. You want barely married; I’ll show you exactly that.”

  As he turns away from me and stumbles to the stairs, he grips the rail like a man with sea legs. I crumple silently, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

  I didn’t plan on making new enemies, and yet I feel like my husband just circled himself on my list in dark, blood-red ink.

  FUCKING BITCH.

  Blood splatters against my face as my fist rams into the junkie’s nose, his cartilage splitting at the impact. He’s already a purpled, ragged mess, but the anger coursing through me refuses to stop tonight.

  Marco’s hand clutches my shoulder, stilling the next blow. “Boss, I don’t think beating the shit out of him is doing us any favors.”

  “No?” I shake him off me, staring down at the piss-ant. A couple of my men happened to see him trying to break into the back of Crimson with a crowbar, so we dragged him to the cellar for a quick chat.

  Usually, that’s all I would do. My father is the killer, known for his inability to show mercy, and I’ve always tried to prove myself a better man. If not for those I rule, then definitely for the memory of my mother, who never wanted this life for me.

  Why she married a mob boss in the first place, is beyond me. I guess she thought she could take him out of it—that a family would change things.

  And they did. She’s dead, and now I'm the boss.

  Still, I try to keep my head during interrogations; I like to think rationally, address major concerns, and get as much information as possible before resorting to torture or beatings.

  The Montaltos usually leave the former to Kal, who some King’s Trace residents refer to as Doctor Death, although that doesn’t stop them from seeing him when he sets up his pop-up clinics. Mainly because they’re free, and most of the residents of this Podunk town exist far below the poverty line.

  But Kal is out of town, seeking greener pastures and trying to dabble in other ventures, searching the Carolinas for peace or some shit. Like he thinks he can run from the skeletons with his name etched on their bones.

  None of us can.

  Men like us don’t get peace. Kill enough people, and you stop being worthy.

  I’ve stepped in temporarily as the interrogator, and while typically that would just mean a few dark threats that’d have the perp pissing their pants—my reputation isn’t far off from my father’s, even if it’s not exactly accurate—I’m on a fucking roll today.

  This junkie hasn’t been conscious for minutes, and I’m still wailing on him, adrenaline pumping my fist like it has a mind of its own.

  Because unfortunately, I’m still seething from my conversation with Caroline the other day, and I’m not myself.

  I can feel it. Marco can tell, and so can Gia, who’s put a wide berth between us this afternoon, perhaps afraid that one of his snarky ass comments might be his last.

  Whirling on Marco, I knock my shoulder into his chest, causing him to stumble. “You got a better way to send Kieran Ivers a goddamn message?”

  “You could actually go up and talk to him.” Regaining his footing, he crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. “I don’t give a shit if you kill this guy, but if he’s really working for Ivers, you’re just exacerbating a war you don’t have any information on. That’s reckless, and it puts all of us in danger.”

  “Fucking hell. When did you grow a damn pussy?” On a harsh exhale, I scrub a dirty hand through my hair, scratching at my scalp. My forearms are caked in blood up to my elbows, where I cuffed my shirt, the edges splattered with the red fluid. “I need a drink.”

  Gia meets me by the door, hands stuffed in his pockets. I pick my jacket from one of the dilapidated wooden tables in this near-dungeon and push open the metal door, not stopping to see if my friend makes it through in time.

  The door swinging shut echoes through the damp, dim hallway as I head for the hidden staircase, shoving past a guard with my shoulder, even though I don’t need to touch him at all.

  “E, I think you should head home.”

  Approaching the indoor entrance to the main floor of the club, I glance over my shoulder at the sound of Gia’s voice. It breaks through the violent flood rushing between my ears, hot blood making it difficult to see straight.

  My knuckles are sore, but that might not stop me from laying into him for insubordination.

  “I didn’t ask what you think.” I push through the double doors, eyes homing in on the bar where Phoebe attempts to fill orders as quickly as they come up. It’s a Thursday night, and Crimson is a hotbed for college students from Stonemore. Usually, I try to avoid the area on nights like this, but I need something a little stronger than the scotch in my office.

  Gia follows close behind as I make my way to the front of the line. Phoebe’s doe eyes relax slightly at my appearance, one of the few people that seem to take comfort in my presence.

  I thought Caroline might be one of them, especially after everything we’ve gone through, but I suppose I was wrong. She still considers me collateral, a vessel she’s using to get her to another space in time.

  For some unknown reason, the fact that she’s using me pisses me off. What kind of a fucking king lets that happen?

  “Maybe that’s your problem,” Gia says, his voice loud in my ear. “You do whatever the hell you want, damn the consequences. Can’t you, for once, think ahead and see how your recent decisions are affecting those around you
?”

  Lifting one hand in a half-wave to Phoebe, I cut my gaze to Gia. His eyes are hard, jaw set. I can tell he’s angry, probably about the fact that I’m pulling away from his counsel, but I can’t find it in me to give a shit right now. “I’m Capo of the Montalto outfit, G. I can do whatever the fuck I want. If I wanted to turn and blow your goddamn brains out right here, right now, I could. And the cops would buy that it was an accident, or self-defense, or any other lame excuse I came up with because I bankroll their asses. So, no, I don’t care how my life is affecting my men. You shouldn’t, either.”

  He rolls his eyes as Phoebe traipses over, dark brown hair pulled in a neat bun, a pencil tucked behind her ear. “What can I do for you, boys?” A couple of frat brothers to my right groan in protest, and she shrugs her tiny shoulders. “Sorry kids, gotta serve the boss first on his rare appearances down here.”

  Gia frowns. “Any chance you’d cut him off instead?”

  Phoebe pulls the pencil from behind her ear and taps it against the bar, eyes dancing between him and me. “I don’t know…”

  “Don’t pay attention to him. I’m completely sober and need something strong, stat.”

  “There’s some absinthe and spiced rum we just got in from a shipment last week.”

  “Pheebs.” Pressing my palms into the counter, I lean forward, locking my gaze onto hers. “What’s the strongest stuff you’ve got?”

  She chews on her bottom lip. “We have some lemonade moonshine that Marco is experimenting with. I think it’s got Everclear in it.”

  “Perfect. I’ll have one.”

  “He wants me to serve them in mason jars.”

  “I don’t give a shit if you spit it in my mouth, just go get the fucking drink.” I’m not exactly sure when Marco took over duties behind the bar, but whatever. I’ll deal with that later.

  As she scurries away, disappearing into the storage closet, I shrug into my jacket, turning and leaning against the bar to survey the crowd. It’s mostly young people who reek of stale perfume and have more money than they should carry in their pockets.

  About half of them are buzzed—probably from the routine coke sale we conducted just before we opened for the night—and thrashing around on the dancefloor like fish out of water. Sweaty bodies line the walls, looking for others to connect with, for someone to share in their misery.

  If only for a small, minuscule moment in time.

  Gia leans too, following my stare. “Seriously, Elia, what the hell’s gotten into you?”

  “Don’t act like you aren’t fully aware.”

  “I’ve never seen you this worked up over a girl.”

  I huff. “She’s not just some girl, G. For all intents and purposes, she’s my wife, and she’s made it very obvious she doesn’t even want to be.” Shaking my head, I tilt my chin toward the strobe lights throbbing on the ceiling. “Why the hell did she agree to marry me if she’s this against the union?”

  “You think she’s using you for something?”

  “I know she is; I just can’t figure out what the fuck she has to gain here. If we divorce too soon, it voids the prenup, and she literally gets nothing. Even less than if we divorce after six months. I don’t think she’s got a hand in whoever’s stealing from us because she seems to pretty much disdain the entire Montalto name and all it encompasses. What’s her angle?”

  “Maybe she wants to kill you.” He chuckles, the sound loud against the music bleeding from the walls.

  My heart stutters, chest tightening until it’s damn near impossible to breathe. “But why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Phoebe comes back with a chilled mason jar in hand and slides it across the counter. I take a big gulp, letting the cool, clean liquid relieve some of the heat from my body. It tastes vaguely of citrus and burns on the way down, a scalding reminder of everything I’m trying to forget.

  “Well, you said her dad was trying to sell her off, right?”

  “He wasn’t trying. He did sell her—to me. It was the only way he’d let her go without any trouble.” The image of a hand-shaped bruise wrapped around Caroline’s neck fills my mind, indicating that the money I transferred to him did little to protect her.

  “Does she know you bought her?”

  “Why would I tell her that?”

  “Are you sure she doesn’t know? That we don’t personally know anyone she’s particularly close to? A family member we employ, perhaps?”

  I take another swig of my drink, considering. “Luca wouldn’t be that fucking stupid.” Gia remains silent, and I curse under my breath. “Fuck, who am I kidding? Luca is stupid.”

  Phoebe slams a beer bottle and a glass of water on the counter behind us, shoving the bottle in Gia’s direction. “If he drinks too much, give him that water. It won’t sober him up, but it might keep him from dehydrating.”

  I smirk, temporarily pulled from the issue at hand. “Phoebe, Phoebe. What would I do without you?”

  “You’d have to find another bartender, for starters.” She winks, flitting back to the other end of the bar where she’s met with debit cards and demands.

  Gia tips the mouth of his beer up, pressing it to his lips. Bringing it back down, he dangles the neck between his thick fingers. “In any case, I think you should keep an eye on both Luca and your wife.”

  “Maybe.” I point a finger at him, detaching it from the side of my jar. “Speaking of eyes and family members, how’s your investigation on Angelo going? Figure out if he’s stealing for Stonemore yet?”

  “Nothing conclusive. I think he might be aware that I’m watching him. He’s staying away from the apartment more.” Gia shrugs, casting a wary glance over the crowd. “But he’s also getting more paranoid, so he’s due for a slip-up. I’m just biding my time.”

  A swatch of golden-blonde hair captures my attention, though it’s likely wishful thinking since I’ve specifically instructed Caroline not to step foot in this place. I can’t stop my heart from lurching into my throat at the prospect of her defying me, of the things I would do to her, how I’d punish her disobedience.

  My eyes scan the crowd of bodies, trying to find the elusive hair color that I only attribute to her, and when I see it, I lock on, pushing off the bar before I even realize what the hell I’m doing.

  Shoving my half-empty mason jar into Gia’s free hand, I shoulder my way through the throng of people, toward the VIP area where a woman who looks an awful lot like my wife sits. She’s wearing damn-near nothing, watching two strippers make out on top of a guy at the end of her booth.

  Blood boiling, cock hard as a fucking rock, I sprint up the metal stairs, jumping over the last one. My feet connect with the platform, a guard pulling the velvet rope aside just in time for me to pass through. By the time I reach the figure in the corner, head tipped back and laughing hysterically, I’m clutching her shoulders and dragging her to her feet before either of us has a chance to recognize the other.

  Ignoring the squeals coming from behind me, I pull her through the crowd and toward the stairs leading to my office. Her tiny fists beat into my back, and one of my hands leaves her wrist to fist in her hair, keeping her plastered to my side to weaken her blows.

  She stumbles, but I don’t slow my pace, something hot and evil pulsing through my veins at her presence.

  Barely married, my fucking ass.

  Caroline Harrison is my wife, and it’s time she realizes what that means—that I’m not the kind of guy that shares or one okay with her keeping secrets.

  Benny unlocks my office door and pushes it open as we approach, offering a curt nod as I pull Caroline in behind me. I body her against the door as it clicks shut, my hand immediately forming a vise around her delicate throat. I’m prepared to kiss the fight from her when the haze of vexation finally clears, and I get a good look at the girl I’ve just manhandled upstairs.

  A girl that is most certainly not my wife.

  REALIZATION DA
WNS on me that this is, in fact, Juliet Harrison—my reckless, wanton sister-in-law. Stories of her escapades, which include fucking priests and drinking until she blacks out at any and all public functions, run rampant in King’s Trace.

  Her name is as much a household one as mine. But this is the first time I’m getting a good look at her. Even at our wedding ceremony, I only had eyes for one person.

  Where Caroline is often front and center, the prim and proper daughter Dominic is proud to parade around, Juliet gets hidden from the spotlight—her life the King’s Trace Gazette’s wet dream.

  It strikes me that, although she looks like a carbon copy of her sister, she also looks incredibly young. More innocent. There aren’t soft lines gracing the corners of her blue eyes, and the frown that seems etched into Caroline’s very being is absent with her sister.

  I’m also certain she’s not old enough to be here.

  Her fingers scratch at my hand still wrapped around her neck, acrylic nails cutting into my skin. “God, was the bouncer at the door pawing through my belongings not enough for the night?”

  Relaxing my hold, I take a long step backward. “What are you talking about?”

  Curling her hand around mine, she yanks me off her, rubbing at the flushed skin. “I’m like half your size, did you really have to be so fucking rough?” Inhaling slowly, she presses on, answering me. “My I.D., right? I had trouble getting in tonight, something about it not wanting to scan, but I swear, it’s legit. I’ve never had that happen before.”

  Digging her hands into the front of her top, a strapless tube made out of silk, she pulls out crumpled cash and a worn driver’s license. Handing it over, my eyes narrow as I scan the name. “Caroline Harrison, huh? The senator’s daughter?”

  Either she’s drunk or stupid because she just purses her lips and shrugs. “That’s me.”

  “Twenty-three-years-old, five-feet-three-inches.” I glance down at her, studying her frame. She could pass for Caroline if you’d only ever seen my wife from the neck up. Juliet’s curves are no match for her sister’s.