Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

Una

“So, Finnegan’s going to be here in three days?” Leaning back in my seat, I pull one knee up, bracing my boot against the edge of Nero’s expensive leather.

“Yeah, him and half an army of IRA guys.”

The car winds through the streets of New York and the sun is just starting to drop between the skyscrapers, painting the sky in streaks of pink and purple. “Bernardo and Franco aren’t in the city for another two weeks,” I murmur.

“Okay, so we hit O’Hara, then Marco, and wait for Bernardo and Franco.”

“Oh, it’s ‘we’ now?”

“It’s always been ‘we’,” he remarks quietly while turning the car at a junction. “You aren’t doing this for me, Morte. You’re helping me, so I help you. Remember that.”

He’s a bastard, he really is. His phone rings, the sound blasting from the car speakers loudly. He clicks a button on the steering wheel.

“Yeah?”

“Boss, I have a gentleman here who wants to talk to you. Seems the Los Carlos think they’re getting an unfair deal.” I think it’s Jackson, and even I can hear the amusement in his voice. He’s the only one of the three whose voice I’m not very familiar with.

“Where?” Nero asks.

“The club.”

“On my way.” The line goes dead and he turns the steering wheel hard, sending the car screeching down a side road.

“Trouble in paradise?” I drawl.

He looks at me and holds my gaze far longer than he should considering he’s driving. “Par for the course, Morte.”

The Los Carlos are a smaller gang here in the city, heavily involved in drugs and seemingly supplied by Nero. The Italians have always run the cocaine trade in New York and they probably always will.

Eventually, he pulls the car up outside of a dirty looking little club in Hunts Point, South Bronx. A couple of guys in suits linger just outside the door, guns in hand. When Nero gets out of the car they speak in quick fire Italian. This isn’t my business and has nothing to do with why I’m here. I should stay out of it, and yet I find myself opening the door. Morbid curiosity has me climbing out of the car. I pull my hood up as I follow Nero to the door, and he makes no move to stop me.

Inside, it’s just as much of a shithole. The floors are sticky and the walls and ceiling are so tarnished with nicotine they’re stained a dull brown. Smoke seems to hang in the air as if it’s a permanent feature. An old jukebox in the corner is playing some soul music quietly, and in front of us, sprawled across the black and white tile floor are two bodies. Both are Latino, and neither of them can be older than twenty. Jackson stands with his back to us, toe to toe with another kid. This one is maybe twenty-five at a push. He squares up to Jackson, gun in hand. Ten other guys are fanned out behind him, standing amongst the scattered tables and chairs that fill the bar. It looks like the scene of some cliché gangster film.

Nero pulls out a chair and takes a seat. Slowly reaching inside his jacket pocket, he takes out a packet of cigarettes, sliding one free. Everyone in the room has their eyes on him, watching, waiting. He places the cigarette between his lips and lights it. The heavy click of the lighter snapping shut is like a gunshot in the room. The guy across from Jackson starts to fidget and Jackson moves away, coming to stand behind Nero. The smirk on his face is part mocking and part genuine amusement. I remain completely removed off to the side of the room with my back to the wall. The safest place you can ever be is with a wall at your back, because people can’t walk or shoot through walls.

Nero still says nothing and the tension in the room makes the young guy squirm. “Look, man, we want a bigger cut. Forty percent.” He shifts his shoulders from side to side, acting the big man.

Nero leans forward, bracing his elbows on spread thighs. The cigarette hangs between his fingers, spilling ash onto the tiled floor. He couldn’t look any more out of place here if he tried. So perfect in his expensive suit, immaculate and beautiful, dark and deadly. Ten armed men face him and yet he never looks out of control. He never ceases to be the ultimate danger in the room.

Sighing, he gets to his feet and holds his hand out. Jackson wordlessly places a gun in Nero’s waiting palm. They all reach for their weapons, but he remains relaxed, arrogant as he walks up to the kid and stares him in the eye before lifting the gun to his head. The kid opens his mouth, his eyes going wide…BANG. My fingers are wrapped around my gun, ready, waiting for the impending hailstorm of bullets. It doesn’t happen. Yet.

“This is my fucking city!” Nero roars, eyeing them one by one. “And if you bite the hand that feeds you, I will put you down like a rabid dog.” He points his gun at the ground and fires off two more shots at the dead body of their former leader. “Does anyone else want a bigger fucking cut?”

No one says anything. He hands the gun back to Jackson and straightens the cuff of his shirt. So civilized, yet so feral. “Now, if I have to come down to this shithole again, if I so much as hear a whisper of a problem…” He looks up, his expression speaking of destruction and war. “I won’t kill you. I’ll kill your wives, your girlfriends, your fucking children and your mothers.” His voice gets steadily louder until it’s like thunder, rumbling off the walls. “I suggest you don’t test me.” And then he turns his back and walks out.

Some people make threats, meaningless words and posturing. But Nero’s soulless, and anyone can see it. When he says he’s going to slaughter your family, you damn well believe him. Whoever said it wasn’t better to be feared than respected? Somehow he achieves both.

“So was that the mafia way?” I follow him to the car. He simply glares at me and gets in. I snort. “I thought you guys were all about leaving the women out of it.”

“I play by a different set of rules.”

Indeed, he does. Nero Verdi will use whatever he has at his disposal to keep people in line, honour or ethics be damned.

“You know, it’s situations like these where you should probably have your own gun,” I say, fastening my seatbelt.

He starts the car. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Morte? I don’t need guns. I only have to say the word and someone dies.” And I can’t help but be in awe of his sheer arrogance. To stand in the middle of ten guys and shoot their leader in the head. It’s like he’s invincible.

By the time we get back to the apartment, Tommy is already there, waiting. George runs up to me as soon as I walk in the door, whining excitedly. Taking a seat at the breakfast bar, I open my laptop, staring at the minimized window in the bottom left corner. Anna. Maybe it’s just a twisted brand of self-torture, but I click it, opening up the box. She’s lying on the bed, alone this time. Her too thin body curled in on itself. Seeing her so fractured makes my very soul hurt. I press my palm against my forehead and rest my elbow on the side, staring at the image of her.

“Una.” I hadn’t heard Nero come up behind me, which is all the proof I need that I’m not focused. Anna complicates things, but I can’t see past her. He reaches around me and clicks a button, closing out the window. “Don’t look at it,” he says quietly. His body lingers so close, right behind me without touching. He brushes my hair off my shoulder, but again, his fingers never make contact with my skin. For a second, I find myself wanting his touch, but he steps back and all I hear are footsteps as he walks away. I need focus. Pain and blood, the promise of death. I need to remember what I am, to feel that cool indifference, the methodical application of force and consequence. I can’t save Anna and I need to take it out on someone, or something.

I find myself in the gym, staring at the heavy bag. Plugging in my iPod, I blast heavy rock until the beat rumbles the floor beneath my feet. Cracking my neck from side to side, I go to town. The force of my bare fists colliding with the canvas of the bag quickly has my knuckles splitting. Blood coats the bag and my fists, but I don’t care. I like the pain, the feeling of age-old scar tissue tearing apart again and again. I stop only when my body is soaked in sweat and my lungs are heaving for breath. A brush of contact on my arm has me whirling around, fists raised. Nero smirks, but the expression slips and his eyes narrow as he looks at my blood-stained hands.

“Tearing your fists up isn’t going to get her back any faster,” he remarks dryly. That uncomfortable feeling settles in my chest again, so I turn and hit the bag. Getting in three strikes before his arms wrap around me and he crosses my own arms over my torso, pinning them in place. I fight to get free, but just end up fighting myself. His breath blows over my neck in slow even draws. “Stop, Morte.”

“Fuck you, Nero.” My voice cracks slightly, frustration and helplessness seeping through.

He huffs a laugh and releases me. I whirl to face him and his eyes lock with mine for a beat before he slides his jacket off his shoulders and starts yanking at his tie. Dropping them to the floor, he then begins to unbutton his shirt. The material parts, revealing tanned skin over hard muscles. Tattoos appear beneath the veneer of his expensive suit.

“You want to hit something?” He spreads his arms wide. “Don’t pretend you don’t want a shot at me.”

He moves, and I trace over the tight muscles of his stomach, bunched and ready. Clenching and releasing my bloodied fists, I mimic his movements. The corner of his lip twitches and an infuriatingly cocky smirk appears. I was always taught that if outmatched or outsized by an opponent, let them come to you. Defend, then attack. Right now though, I don’t listen to any of it. The urge to take out every inch of my frustrations on Nero’s perfect face drives me. I lunge and land a punch to his jaw. His head snaps to the side and he spits out a mouthful of blood.

“Feel good?” he asks on a grin.

“Not nearly enough.” I hit him three more times and he let’s me, before rearing back and nailing me in the gut. I cough and stagger back a step as I force my lungs to drag in a breath despite my paralyzed diaphragm.

He cracks his neck to the side and bounces on the balls of his feet, his arms hanging loose at his sides. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you because you’re a girl.” We go toe-to-toe, catching each other with blows and ducking away. He grabs me around the throat and uses it to pull me close to him.

“So vicious, Morte,” he purrs, his breathing heavy. I gasp for air and his eyes drop to my lips. He inches closer, until I punch him in the gut. Grunting, he lets go and hits me hard in the face. The taste of blood in my mouth elicits a laugh. I lunge towards him again but he swipes my legs out from under me, my back hitting the unforgiving floor of the gym. I roll onto my front, ready to push up, but he lands on my back, his entire weight pushing me into the mat beneath me.

One hand wraps around my throat from behind, whilst the other grips my hip. He’s shameless in pressing his dick against my ass, rolling his hips against me. Lust and rage are so very close together, mixing and swirling into something explosive and raw. His lips brush over the side of my neck and hot, erratic breaths blow over my skin, making me shiver. “You done?” he asks in a patronizing as fuck tone.

Fuck him. I try to jab my elbow into him but can’t do shit from where I am. He laughs and grabs both my arms, pinning them down beside my hips. His body shifts, and he slides away from me. Warm lips touch the exposed strip of skin at my lower back and I gasp, shaking beneath the brief contact. He flips me over and my skin erupts in goose bumps when his lips skate over my hipbone now. The bloodlust wavers for a second, giving way to an entirely different kind of lust. I grab a handful of his hair and use it to pull his face up. His eyes follow the length of my body, and the look in them has my resolve wavering. His palms inch over my stomach, pushing the material of my top up as he goes. My heart pounds, the rhythm getting faster and faster the higher his hands move. By the time his face is hovering over mine, I can barely breathe. Blood trickles from the corner of his lip and already his jawline is splotched in angry red marks.

When his lips crash over mine, he starts an entirely new fight. Teeth rake over my split lip and I hiss at the sting, gripping his hair and pulling hard. Winding his fingers around my jaw, he cranks my head back, forcing my lips to part wider for him. He doesn’t just kiss me, he throws down a gauntlet, declaring war with every violent swipe of his tongue. I shove against his chest and he pulls back an inch. That’s when I slap him, yes, I slap him like a girl. His head twists to the side before he very slowly brings his gaze back to mine. Those whiskey irises swirl dangerously and there it is; fear, reaching out with cold fingers. I smile and lean into its touch, relishing in the frantic pounding of my heart, the instinctual trembling of my body. Nero scares me and it’s such a rare gift, one that no one else has ever given me.

Grabbing me by my throat, he wrenches me off the floor, tearing my shirt over my head before dropping me like dead weight. Then he’s yanking at the button of my pants, dragging them down my legs. I barely get a chance to think about what that means before he’s over me again, his hard body between my legs and his rough lips moving against mine.

He has me in a trance of sorts, caught somewhere between lust and rage. All I can feel is him, all I can think about is his hands on me, his tongue in my mouth, his raw brutality. I want to be on the receiving end of Nero. I need him at his worst, to make me fear him, and he gives me all of that and more, demanding and taking what he wants from me. Under his touch I feel alive. I feel. All my training, my past, my wariness of him, everything I know I should do…it all disappears. All that matters is this exact moment. It’s the kind of weakness that gets you killed, but I can’t even summon the will to care.

I hear the clink of his belt buckle, feel the harsh grip of his fingers on my hips, the tearing of material. And then nothing but the hot press of his cock against me, pushing, threatening. Wrenching my hips up, with almost no warning, he slams inside me in one brutal thrust. All the air leaves my lungs, and my nails rake over the back of his neck, making him growl like the feral beast he is. My pussy clenches around him as shock waves ripple through my core. I’ve never felt so utterly invaded and it’s both uncomfortable and welcome. His forehead falls to mine and I close my eyes, inhaling a staggered breath, breathing in the scent of his cologne, the hint of cigarette smoke.

A broken groan works its way up his throat. “You feel so fucking good, Morte.” He pulls out and pushes back in, dragging a gasp from me. “So fucking tight,” he growls against my mouth.

I want him to stop talking and just fuck me, so I press my lips to his. He groans into my mouth, slamming his hips into me, pushing me to the point of pain on every thrust. I like it, I need it. The pain is what drives me; the pain is what pushes me to the limit. The more he fucks me, the more rabid he gets until his fingers are digging into my skin and his kisses become bites. Everything about him savage and animalistic. He fucks me like he’s trying to kill me, and I embrace the threat, daring him on as he wages sweet war on my body. I bite his bottom lip and my mouth fills with the metallic tang of his blood. My core starts to tighten, winding up and up until I feel like I can’t take any more. One hand dives into my hair, wrenching my head back. His other hand slips between our bodies, where he pinches my clit at the same time he bites down on my neck, hard. I lose it. Screaming, writhing, shattering apart beneath him.

“I want to tear you apart,” he growls, pinching my jaw between his teeth. The orgasm reigns on and on, slowly tearing me apart before putting me back together again. My body falls limp, and he drives into me hard and fast three more times. Then his head falls back, and the sound that leaves his lips is so guttural, so primal, that it makes me shiver. The roped muscles of his neck pop out and then his abs tense as his body jerks. I’ve never seen a man look more vulnerable or more powerful than he does in this moment. He finally stills and pitches forward, bracing his hands on either side of my body as his chin touches his chest. A drop of sweat rolls down the center of his chest, winding between the angry claw marks that mar his skin.

It’s only when my pulse slows and the aftermath of my orgasm fades that I start to feel uncomfortable. I just fucked him. And that’s the last thing I need to be doing with Nero Verdi of all people. He just…he makes me burn for him. He feeds into every element of my nature, stoking the flames of my violence until it’s an inferno. We’re fire and gasoline, the perfect combination, the perfect disaster.

“Now do you feel good?” He cocks a brow.

Feigning indifference, I roll my eyes and shove him off me, climbing to my feet. I don’t even bother putting clothes on. I just walk straight through the apartment and head to my room.

When I’ve showered, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. It feels like everything I once was is slipping away, and I’m becoming something else entirely. I’m Una Ivanov, the kiss of death, ruthless, efficient, professional. It’s like that person doesn’t even exist here, in this apartment. I’m becoming someone who acts on impulse, without thought, driven by emotion and…cravings. That hardened mask I’ve worn for so many years now evades me, and I’m not sure I want it back. It’s true that not feeling anything always kept me safe, focused, efficient, but it’s like Nero pressed a defibrillator to my chest and shocked me to life, first with anger and hate, then with my love for Anna and the pain that followed, and now…now this lust that feels so wild and uncontrollable. Despite every ingrained bit of conditioning and any basic level of common sense that is screaming at me not to do it, I can’t help myself. I have never felt more alive than when his lips are on me, his fingers threatening both pain and pleasure. I’ve never fucked a man because I wanted to, but with Nero it doesn’t even feel like a choice, more like a need. But none of this changes the reality that I shouldn’t even be in a professional relationship with him, let alone whatever this is. Nicholai would be so ashamed of me.

There’s a soft knock at the door before it opens a crack. Nero walks in the room, wearing only a loose-fitting pair of tracksuit bottoms. His hair is wet from the shower, the strands swept back haphazardly.

“You’ll need these.” He holds up some bandages and approaches the bed. I sit up, crossing my legs as he takes a seat on the edge of the mattress. Reaching for me, he wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulling my hand towards him. A small frown line sinks between his eyebrows as he focuses on my hands, bandaging my ripped knuckles with strong but gentle hands. The gesture seems so at odds with everything he is. Bruises are already blossoming across his jaw in varying shades of purple.

“You should put some ice on your face.”

His lips curl at one side, but his gaze never wavers from my hands. “That would just spoil your handiwork.” When he’s finished, he stands up and leaves. Just like that. I don’t pretend to have a clue when it comes to…these things, but I’ve never been so confused. Perhaps we’re just pretending that didn’t happen.