Ruthless Prince (Dark Syndicate 1)

Is that who I am though? The man I’ve become. Has the thirst for revenge changed me into something I never wanted to be? Have my years of waiting for an opportunity to destroy Riccardo made me the kind of man who would prey on an innocent woman?

Woman… fuck. She’s barely that. She’s nineteen, and I’m twenty-nine. Ten years apart. I should know better. My fucking cock might stir for her, and I might have wanted to fuck her senseless, but truth is truth. She’s a virgin in every sense of the word. Never been kissed and never been touched, until I defiled her with my dirty mobster hands. Dirty Sicilian. If anybody witnessed what I did today and called me that, they’d be well in their right.

I’d agree. And I might do it all over again and feel shame all over again just to feel her lush ass jiggle beneath my palms.

It was wrong. All of it is wrong. She’s innocent in this mess, but she’s a necessary part of the plan to destroy Riccardo. Taking his heir will destroy him in more ways than one.

She’s my stolen virgin bride. I took the princess, stole her from Daddy’s nest and watched him sign her away to me. Phase one complete.

But fuck… she’s driving me crazy. The woman is driving me crazy and fucking insane if I can bring myself to admit to feeling an ounce of jealousy over her pathetic friend.

I’m drawn to her, attracted to her. The fact that she’s attracted to me too wasn’t really in the cards. It’s screwing with my mind, and I realize I didn’t plan for this part.

I’m turned on by lust and my dominance over her. Two days in, and I can’t seem to control myself. The lust is like a thirst for blood that leaves me wanting more. I fucking shouldn’t feel this way.

I head down the corridor and walk past Candace as she polishes the table on the second floor. She watches me as I deposit the bag of clothes in the room I use to store things. It’s two doors down from Emelia’s.

Usually, Candace would talk to me, but she says nothing. Not even good morning. Most bosses of my caliber would consider that insolence and kill her for it. We have a different relationship here.

Candace and Priscilla are the only two members of my house staff I treat like family. They’re also the only members of my house staff who aren’t terrified of me.

They know I won’t kill them if they cross me because their families have worked for mine for generations, right from Sicily. That’s why she’s acting like a younger sister would now, by giving me the silent treatment.

I grew up with Candace, so she is like a sister to me, and I treat her as such, even though she works for me. We both know she doesn’t have to do that though.

Priscilla was my nanny when I was a boy. When I got in last night with blood on my hands, she didn’t say shit to me one way or the other. She just handed me a rag and bowl of hot water, no words spoken. Neither she nor Candace have to tell me that they don’t agree with what I’m doing to Emelia.

Regardless to how I treat them, however, they know their place and would never state their opinion.

It was Priscilla who messaged me to let me know what was going on here yesterday. Emelia refused everything.

I thought having Candace and Priscilla tend to Emelia would be a good idea. Candace is twenty-five, so not that much older than Emelia, and Priscilla has that motherly presence. I guess I was wrong.

Candace returns her focus to her work and ignores me. The flush in her cheeks, however, suggests she probably heard Emelia’s screams. We weren’t exactly quiet or mindful of anyone hearing us, and her room is just down the hall. Candace would have definitely heard, and it would have sounded like I was torturing her.

Maybe it’s best she doesn’t talk to me today. I wouldn’t know what to say anyway, and I don’t want to end up confessing that I took out my frustration on Emelia over the recent shit with Pierbo.

I don’t wish to talk to anyone right now, except the guy waiting for me in the hall. When I get to the doorway, I see him. Tristan is standing by the massive fireplace, looking at my favorite painting Ma did.

Emelia is an artist. My mother was an artist too. She painted just for us.

When we all got our separate houses, Pa split up some of our favorite paintings so we could each have some. I got the majority because I have the biggest house.

Tristan turns when he sees me and raises a brow.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to you? You look like you’ve been bitten by wolves,” he muses and laughs.

I run my hand over my cheek where Emelia scratched me. Clawed me is a more fitting word.

“Don’t ask,” I seethe. He shakes his head at me.

“Like fuck. You have to tell me what happened.” He smirks.

“She slapped me,” I answer.

He laughs. “You’re serious? Does she have claws?”

“Tristan, please. Don’t. It’s all shit. Come, let’s go outside.” I need fresh air to help me cool off.