Bratva Beast: A Dark Romance

And most of all, I learned that violence hung beneath everything I did, from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to sleep, and a day without getting killed was a very good day.

Last night, I barely survived.

But his touch left me changed—like a new hunger was lodged in my stomach, gnawing at my bones.

I felt sick and strange and terrified.

I got out of the shower, dried off, and did my hair and make-up as fast as I could.

I didn’t plan on kissing him. I caught his eye a couple times while I was working and thought he was handsome—tall, brown hair, light blue eyes, chiseled jaw line, slightly scruffy with a muscular build and lots of tattoos. He stood out, and also didn’t stand out in a strange way, like he was a gorgeous masculine specimen, but he didn’t want any attention.

Then I saw him again at Six and I thought he might be following me. So I tested him with the drink and all that, then headed home.

When he had my phone, I knew something was wrong.

Except I had no clue how bad.

My family played games. You didn’t grow in the Doyles without getting used to danger. Except I couldn’t have guessed how deep it went this time.

Another phone call. I jumped when my phone started buzzing on the toilet lid. “Shut up,” I muttered. “I’ll be there soon.” I let it go to voicemail.

Someone wanted me gone. That wasn’t exactly new—my father was the second most important man in the Doyle Crime Family, after all, so I was born into this awful world—but it’d never been directed straight at me before.

I’d lost cousins and friends, aunts and uncles, and now it was my turn.

Except he didn’t do it.

Because I kissed him.

It was like I went insane, but I could see something in his eyes—he didn’t want to do it. He could’ve ended me at any second, but he held back. My life was in his hands, my worthless existence beneath his fingers, and he held back.

He hesitated, he looked at me, he touched me, he lured me into a trap.

And he still didn’t pull the trigger.

So I made my move. It was desperate and crazy—

And god, did it work.

I was still alive, and he gave me the best orgasm of my life.

I thought it would be quick. I’d kiss him, maybe bite his tongue or lip, then knee him as hard as I could in the balls and run. That was what I thought, anyway, right up until I tasted him, felt his hands on my body, his fingers between my legs—then my plans changed drastically.

I wanted to knock him off guard, then hurt him and get away.

Instead, I came right there on the street.

God, what the hell was wrong with me?

I was deeply, deeply disturbed.

My phone started buzzing.

“Shut. Up.” I grabbed it, sent the call to voicemail, and stormed into my room. I threw on clothes, pulled on my pair of beat-up gray Vans, shoved my phone into my big black bag, and hurried through my messy apartment—clothes on the couch, empty wine bottles and half-filled glasses on the coffee table, dishes in the sink, receipts and trash on the counter above the trashcan, more clothes on the floor near the front door—and hurried outside.

I caught a cab. “Washington Square, please.”

The cabby grunted at me and drove off.

I stared out the window then squeezed my eyes shut. The cab smelled like smoke and Chinese take-out.

Mack. It sounded like an Irish name. I had a few cousins named Mack. But he definitely wasn’t Irish, and I definitely wasn’t related to him.

I crossed my legs, trying not to think about that orgasm again, and failing miserably. I was wet all over and getting frustrated with myself.

I couldn’t be distracted, not now.

Not with my brother’s life in the balance.

The cab dropped me off. I paid in cash and hurried into the park. It was pretty, with wide paths made up of smooth paver stones. Lots of trees cast shadows. People sat on blankets on the grass and walked their dogs in pairs. I skirted around the wide fountain and hurried toward a group of two benches. A lone man sat on the bench furthest from me, glaring down at a phone.

I slowed as I approached. He looked up, eyes narrowed. “You’re late. I’ve been calling.”

“I know. I’m really sorry.” I hesitated, bit my lip. I could’ve sworn I still felt Mack’s tongue in my mouth. “Can I sit down?”

Renzo grunted at me and gestured assent. He was in his late twenties, probably five years older than me, and worked for the Lionetti Crime Family, or at least what was left of it. His Don was called Park, but they were still in the midst of a violent civil war that had two rival factions duking it out in the street.