Promised to the Killer: A Dark Mafia Romance

“I have no clue,” I admit. “But she likes you.”

She lets out a soft breath. “That’s a good start.”

“Father listens to Mother. If we can win her over, we can win him as well. We still have time.” I hope, at least. I don’t tell her that I’m beginning to worry six weeks isn’t nearly long enough.

“Your family really does seem nice, you know. Except for maybe Feliks.”

“They’re all cutthroat bastards, even the girls. We’re bratva, after all. The smiles and jokes are for show.”

“They’re better than my brothers.”

“Enzo is an ass at least. I don’t know the others.”

She chews her lip and looks away. I wonder what she’s thinking, but I don’t press the issue. She shifts herself, leaning closer to me and I stare down at her shoulder, at her skin, and I want to sink my teeth into her. I want to bite her until she gasps in pain and gives herself to me, a willing supplicant at my feet, begging for more.

I put my hand on her leg. Her thigh is warm, and I pull her skirt up slightly to touch her skin. She tilts her head, looking at me in the eye, and I’m oblivious to the world around us. Desire pumps through my skull and I want her so badly it’s hard to control myself.

“Feliks said something to me,” she says quietly. I can barely concentrate on her words. All I can think of is my hand on her leg and how she isn’t moving it.

“He says a lot of things.”

“You didn’t tell me that you’re adopted.”

I go very, very still.

The world slams to a halt. My heart rate doubles, but not from desire. Slowly, I take my hand away from her leg, and she frowns in surprise. I sit up straight and look out at the cars sliding past.

I’m not ashamed of being adopted. There’s nothing wrong with it. Only in a family like mine, not being a blood relative means I’m a second-class citizen. If I were treated like family, I would never think twice about who my biological parents are.

However, I’m reminded constantly that I’m an outsider, no matter how much I want to be a true member of the family.

Siena would have to find out eventually. I kept meaning to tell her, but I could never quite find the words. I hate that Feliks is the one who finally told her the truth about me—how I’m not truly part of the family. How I’m only an interloper. A temporary addition, but one which can be tossed aside at any moment.

“I’m not surprised,” I say without looking at her. “Feliks knows where to drive the knife deepest.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being adopted,” she says softly, and I grimace at the pitying note in her tone. “I know family’s important, but blood only matters so much. Your mother clearly loves you and I think your sisters both adore you too.”

“Yes, they accept me, but they have to.” I look at my hands. Scarred and callused from years of work and effort, all to keep my position. If I were my father’s blood kin, I wouldn’t have to do so much. I would be heir by right, and nobody could challenge that.

Instead, I’m the adopted son, which means nothing is certain and I have to kill to keep what I want.

“Maxim.” She touches my fingers, but I flinch away and stand.

“We should go back. You have another family dinner coming up.”

I walk a few feet away. I look over my shoulder and she’s watching me with a confused frown, but she stands and follows.

She’ll never understand. Her father is her father and her brothers are her kin. Her family is her own, and she was only cast aside because of her choices. She betrayed them and they responded accordingly.

If I did anything remotely like what she did, my father wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in my head.

If my sisters did it, he’d punish them—but nothing so severe as death.

That’s the difference. It’s always the difference. There’s grace and mercy and leeway for true family.

But I’m an outsider and I always will be.

She’ll see it soon enough. The longer she stays by my side, the more obvious it will become. It kills me to think that she’ll notice how I fight these demons, but it’s part of what I am.

Siena catches up and grabs at my arm. I look at her and want to tell her to step away, to give me some space—but she raises my hand to her lips and kisses it.

Her lips are so soft and full. I feel half my self-loathing flush away in that moment as her mouth lingers on my scarred palm, her thumb kneading the tattoo on the back of my wrist.

“You don’t have to let it drag you down, you know,” she says and looks up with a grin. “Hey, I know what’ll make you smile.”