Broken Reign: Enemies-To-Lovers Romance

Epigraph

The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.

-Oscar Wilde

Prologue

Officer Matthews

It’s a perfect day to kill someone.

Half the force is on Waverly Street, crammed inside Chief’s rickety Nantucket home for his fiftieth birthday. Response time would be abysmal. Charlie and Rick are dozing at their desks, the only signs of life in a sea of empty chairs.

These days, I pack an extra pair of cuffs on my belt. But when I stare out the window from my cubicle, it’s quiet out. Unusually boring.

No calls. No tears. No body bags.

The type of Sunday afternoon we used to take for granted.

The type of Sunday we used to have before things started to change.

Sure, we always had crime. But before this year, the worst criminals stayed on the other side of town. Not my jurisdiction, not my fucking headache. As long as the citizens of Reddington were safe, I was golden.

But that was then, and this is now.

These days, there isn’t a single day that passes without an overdose. The drugs are inching closer and closer to the heart of town. And if word on the street is right, the war brewing down by the docks is heading this way, too.

The district attorney ran on a campaign promise that the drugs would never get to our small, quiet community. That he would stop it.

What a fucking joke.

I glance at my watch for the fourth time in twenty minutes. Two minutes left on my shift. Just as I’m about to gather my things, my desk phone rings. A blaring sound against the silence of the day.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Charlie and Rick continue to snore, unbothered by the piercing noise. I reach out to grab the phone, skimming over the mess on my desk—pens, crumbled-up paper, and even an old coffee cup cram the space.

A stack of pictures lies next to the phone. One catches my eye. It’s an image of Baros, a new drug dealer in town. For the past year, we’ve monitored his every move, an order that came down from the top.

I push the stack aside so it doesn’t topple over when I pick up the phone and grab the receiver. A booming sound interrupts me. It’s the chief, accompanied by dozens of others. They enter the room in plainclothes, speaking chaotically, eyes half-crazed. A Birthday Boy pin is still attached to Chief’s shirt, no doubt his wife’s idea.

Loud voices echo around me. I abandon the phone, peering around the space, trying to see what’s going on. A group of officers are clustered together, heads down, listening to a detective speak. It’s Mark. From homicide.

Beside me, Belinda screams for someone to answer her. Across the room, Philip sprints into the hall leading to the exit. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I’m instantly on edge.

Without another thought, I push back my chair so hard, the metal legs grate against the floor. The chair bounces back, probably leaving a dent against the wall. I don’t care.

“What’s happening?” Rick’s voice comes with a yawn. He stands, stretching his arms above his head and nudging Charlie awake. His gaze darts around, trying to see if anyone knows what’s going on.

I shake my head, adding another pair of cuffs to my belt’s collection. “I don’t know, but it’s got to be something big.”

My body finally catches up to my brain and reacts to the chaos. The next thing I know, I’m barreling toward Chief.

Something is wrong. His face looks unnaturally pale, and if that weren’t a dead giveaway, his jaw is tight.

“Chief?”

He looks at me.

A vacant stare.

“What’s going on?” I prompt.

“There is a situation . . .” he trails off, shaking his head as if he can’t comprehend what he just heard.

“What type of situation?”

But he doesn’t answer me. The room is in an uproar. People are shouting about the phone calls coming in.

I expect him to say something, but instead, he straightens. Standing up tall and steeling his spine, he scrubs at his eyes, which start to refocus, and then he walks away from me, making his way to the middle of the room where he stands in front of the crowd that has formed.

The room goes completely silent.

My spine locks.

I’m bracing myself for a shitshow.

“We’ve received dozens of reports of an explosion and screams being heard from the restaurant. Multiple eyewitnesses say it sounds like there was a hit.”

The chatter begins.

Voices rise again, firing question after question at him.

We all knew this moment was coming.

It was inevitable. But as much as we’ve been working to rid the city of the dredges of the earth, many of us working overtime to control it before it’s too late, it’s still different than knowing the first strike has been fired.

My thoughts are going a million miles per hour as I wonder where. What restaurant? Was it by the docks? Maybe the café by the apartment complex that has become overrun by addicts? But then his words come out. It sounds like a hum over the beating of my heart.