Toxic Love: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

I fucking hate hospitals.

I mean, it’s not like most people like them. But ever since that night of blurred horrors and silent tears—the night Nina died—when I was brought to one, stunned, numb, naked, and wrapped in a paramedic’s jacket, I’ve fucking loathed them.

I think it’s the antiseptic smell that gets me, as if the building itself is trying to destroy anything living within its walls. That chemical smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol that leaves your nostrils singed and your skin raw.

To me, it’s the scent of probing, invasive tests, of swabs rubbing against sore, torn, and vandalized flesh. A scent that says life is never, ever going to be the same again.

The scent of death.

The smell diminishes a little when Dr. Han shuts the door to his office behind me. But there’s no blocking it out entirely. Maybe it’s psychosomatic. Or maybe the chemical toxicity is so deeply ingrained in the floors and walls of this place that there’s simply no escaping it.

Dr. Han clears his throat in that professorial manner that he has and walks around his desk to sit facing me. He frowns, thumbing a file folder full of my tests in his hands.

I’m not sure why he looks so defeated today. It’s not like either of us have had any illusions that this current round of examinations and tests would change anything about what’s wrong with me.

Dying sucks. The only thing worse is dying slowly.

It’s not going to be today. Or tomorrow. Or even the day after that. It won’t be next week or next month, either. But it’s an odd, empty, bizarre sensation knowing your last Christmas has already passed you by.

I discovered all this two months ago, when my GP couldn’t figure out what was going on to explain my lethargy, lack of appetite, and, sometimes, general confusion. I figured it was some fucked up manifestation of my trauma seeping back into my life, or maybe insomnia or something. But Dr. Han, the specialist I was referred to, found something else.

It’s called severe late-onset methylmalonic acidemia, and it’s a rare liver disorder usually found in infants. What it means is that my body has stopped being able to break down fats and proteins effectively, which creates a buildup of something called methylmalonic acid in my blood.

The lethargy and lack of appetite are going to get worse. So is the brain fuzziness, and there’s a good chance I’m going to start having random seizures sooner rather than later. In the next few months, I’ll probably need to go on dialysis as the toxicity in my blood begins to shut down my kidneys.

And then, after all that, to add insult to injury, it’s going to kill me.

That’s why I did what I did. That’s why I put myself in front of that Dante-shaped bullet. Because Maeve’s got her whole life ahead of her.

I’ve got…eight months, at best. And they’re not going to be pretty.

“So,” I lift the corners of my mouth as I shrug. “Guess I’m still on the hunt for a miracle?”

Dr. Han smiles weakly before taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. His eyes drag from the folder in his hands up to mine.

“On the plus side, your levels are consistent.”

He means consistently shitty. But, consistency is good. At least I’m right on schedule for dying at the age of twenty-four.

“The renal protein blockers you’ve been taking have slowed the toxicity in your kidneys, which is good. It means we’re not having to start talking dialysis yet, so long as you maintain the diet we discussed.” He frowns. “I’m a little concerned about your weight…”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Are you skipping meals, Tempest?”

I know I’m too thin. At first, everyone around me just figured I was getting in shape or hitting the gym more than I used to. But now, even my brothers are clearly trying to bite their tongues at the weight I’ve dropped.

But “are you skipping meals” makes it sound like I’m trying to slim down for prom or something stupid. The reality is, I’m literally almost never hungry. Frequently, the very idea of putting food into my mouth is nauseating.

“No…”

Sort of. Sometimes.

He gives me a stern look. “Is it nausea?”

I shrug and look down at my hands. I hate this. More invasive questions in a building filled with the stench of rubbing alcohol and death.

“Because if it is, Tempest,” he continues, “I can prescribe you something. And I would also recommend cannabis for an appetite boost and a nausea suppressant.”

I manage a grin. “Are you saying the munchies are going to save me?”

Dr. Han gives me a wry smile. “I’d welcome you to visit the oncology ward and talk to some of the stage four cancer patients up there. They’ll swear by it, I can assure you.”

I nod, picking idly at my cuticles and the remnants of black polish on my nails. I smirk inside when I flash back to the other day in my grandfather’s study…

When I bumped into the Devil himself.

My fiancé dearest.

I remember the way he grabbed my wrists, and then how his eyes lasered in on my hands and nails. I replay the wrinkled nose look of…something…on his face when he took in the chipped black instead of the manicured French tips I’m sure he’s used to seeing on the women of his harem at his little club.

I make a note to repaint them extra black and shiny, maybe with some skull nail art for extra fuck-you points before our next meeting. Which—crap—is tonight, at our engagement party.

Okay, it’s not really an engagement party. It’s worse. Instead of a celebration of this nauseatingly fake arrangement, it’s more like showing off a pony to a panel of judges.

And guess who’s expected to trot, trot, trot.

Yuuup.

Tonight, Dante is going to “present me” to a who’s-who of the city’s most connected, influential and dangerous mafiosos, including at least three heads of families belonging to The Commission.

So yes, black with white skulls, for sure. Maybe I’ll even chip them up a bit for a little extra shock value.

Dr. Han takes a deep breath. “Tempest, have you⁠—”

“No.”

I’m so tired of this question. But he doesn’t tire of asking it.

“I really do urge you to speak to⁠—”

“I’m fine.”

Dr. Han wants me to start talking to the people in my life about what’s happening with me. Because, well, I…haven’t yet.

At all.

No one, and I mean no one, knows about the toxic blood poisoning my body from the inside out. Not Gabriel, not Alistair, not Maeve; no one.

And I’m fucking going to keep it that way.

Losing Layla was hard. For all of us, of course, but I was only eleven when it happened. Meanwhile my brothers were twenty-two. I vaguely remember losing my sister. But I’ll never forget the way it scarred and ripped open Alistair and Gabriel.

They’ve been through enough already. They don’t need to spend the next six-to-eight months of their lives worrying about me dropping dead in the street.

“Tempest, it’s often helpful to open up about your fears or how you’re feeling to family and loved ones. Not just for them, but for you, too.”

“I said I’m fine, Dr. Han,” I say quietly, my voice thin but hard as my brows knit. “And if you say a word⁠—”

He stops me with a raised hand. “There are ethical codes, you know that. And even if there weren’t, I would never in a million years go behind a patient’s back like that, okay?” He smiles, but it’s the smile of a man looking at a wilting flower. “It wasn’t a threat, just…” He shrugs. “It can help—talking to loved ones, I mean.”

It wasn’t a threat…

I do have a tendency to take everything as one, I’ll admit. I have to: it’s part of the armor I’ve worn since I was seventeen. I’d say I should work on that, but…

Yeah. That.

Dr. Han clears his throat. “Well, is there anything new going on in your life?”

“I’ve been making a short list of places to have my thirtieth birthday.”

Dr. Han looks worried for a second. When I grin, his shoulders relax and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Just a little gallows humor, Doc.”

“Yeah, uh, hilarious.” He smiles. “Though, humor in general can be helpful.” He sighs as he rearranges my tests into a neat pile in front of him. “Well, unless there’s anything else, I’ll see you in three weeks⁠—”

“Also, I’m getting married.”

It flies out of me, I have absolutely no idea why. Or worse, why I fucking blush when I say it.

Dr. Han’s brows shoot up. “Oh?” He smiles warmly. “Well, congratulations, Tempest! I didn’t realize you had a partner.”

“It’s pretty new.” I shrug. “He’s in the mafia and runs a sex club.”

Dr. Han’s brows knit for a second, then he smiles wryly. “More gallows humor, huh?”

Nope, that one’s real.

“Tempest.”

I flinch at the touch on my arm, whipping my head around to gape at Taylor.

Her fiery auburn brows knit. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Generally, I am somewhat skittish, especially if someone comes up behind me without me hearing it. But Taylor didn’t exactly sneak up on me. I mean, it’s the middle of the afternoon, I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom, and the door to the room is wide open behind me.

Taylor’s been like a big sister to me since I was a kid, when she and my brothers met at Knightsblood University. As far as I know, there’s never been anything romantic between her and either of them—or between her and anyone, given that she’s married to her job. They’re just three good friends who went on to law school together after college, and eventually started Crown and Black, building it into the powerhouse legal firm it is today.

“I was just…”

I trail off, my face reddening.

I’d been staring at the clothes strewn across my bed. And while I’d love to claim I was thinking of ways to skip the event tonight, or to make it blow up in Dante’s face, that wouldn’t be the truth.

The truth is, I wasn’t thinking about the event at all.

I was thinking about him.

It’s been made abundantly clear to me in my twenty-four years on this planet that life is simply not fair. Good guys frequently lose, and bad guys have a depressingly horrible tendency to win most of the time. Life does not play nice, it is out to screw you, and it cheats whenever it can.

Case in point: my current situation with Dante.

I mean the man is a mafia thug, runs an actual, literal sex club, was totally fine with marrying and probably screwing my eighteen-year-old relative, and almost definitely hates me at this point for throwing a monkey wrench into his life plans.

But hey, at least he’s got a life to live ahead of him. Like, cry me a fucking river.

The man should repulse me to my core. He should be one of those intrusive thoughts that you shove to the back of your mind the second it crawls its way into your consciousness, like remembering that parking ticket you never paid, or the memory of saying something horrendously stupid in front of your crush in the seventh grade.

If only.

Because instead of being a bleak thought I can shove to the corners of my head or bury underneath distractions, he’s the opposite. Vile, arrogant, corrupt, and brutish as he may be, Dante Sartorre has managed to slither his way into the very front of my cerebral cortex and establish a permanent settlement there. And try as I might, I cannot evict him.

If the world were remotely fair, all of his utterly toxic character traits would translate into Dante being a hunchbacked, scowling, filthy, knuckle-dragging troll of a man. Instead, he looks like a fucking Armani model, with a ludicrously perfect jawline, eyes that make your pulse skip, and the build of a Marvel superhero.

Not to mention his smell. I mean it’s honestly insane how good he smells, like this clean, slightly spicy good scent. Which makes no sense, considering he’s a purveyor of sin and the Devil himself. The man should smell like sulfur, brimstone, and the burned-out souls of his enemies, not fresh soap, morning dew, and clean linen.

And it’s all of those reasons why I’ve been standing here staring at the bed and imagining Dante Sartorre lying on it, naked, beckoning me with two fingers, like some Fabio lookalike on the cover of a cheesy romance novel, instead of picturing creative ways I might murder him if he even tries to touch me once we’re married.

“Pam let me in,” Taylor says, by way of explaining how she got into the house that I share with Gabriel. She doesn’t really have any family of her own, so Taylor’s spent just about every holiday here with us since she and my brothers met.

Gabriel still lives here in the West Village townhouse where we all grew up because one, it’s gorgeous. But two, he detests change, not to mention likes every aspect of his life neat, ordered, and routine. I still live here because, well, I don’t have a job, money, or anywhere else to live.

That all said, I do love living here. It reminds me of our parents, it really is a stunning home, and I actually kind of enjoy living with Gabriel, even though he is a total neat freak at a slightly psycho serial-killer level.

Which is exactly why our other brother does not still live with us, by the way.

Alistair also likes things neat, organized, and precise. But neat, organized, and precise on his own terms, not Gabriel’s. Not to mention, they do also work together probably eighty hours or more a week. Living together on top of that would result in one of them killing the other, I’m sure.

For a while, it was just Gabriel and I here. But then about six months ago, he hired Pam as a full-time housekeeper and cook. At first, I was skeptical. Or maybe I was worried that some outside person was going to throw off the vibe my brother and I had established living here just the two of us. But I gotta say, she’s really grown on me.

Pam’s one of those woman who’s embracing her later years with class. She clearly takes care of herself, but she’s also not super obsessed with hiding the fact that she’s in her late sixties. She doesn’t overdo it with the makeup, doesn’t dye her silver hair, and somehow looks classy all the time, even when she’s working around the house.

Maybe that’s why I like her. There’s something comforting seeing someone embracing the inevitability of life and its end when you’re staring down the barrel of your own mortality.

Right on cue, there’s a knock on the open bedroom door. I grin when Pam waltzes through with a big milkshake glass filled with a creamy, green smoothie.

“Here you go, hon.”

Pam majorly won me over when she first started working for us with her on point smoothie game. She’s even tailored some of my previous favorite combinations of hers to suit the diet Dr. Han has me on. Of course, she doesn’t know it’s a doctor-mandated thing. She just thinks I’m being healthy.

“Avocado, blueberries, vanilla yogurt, chia seeds, hemp seeds, spinach, and almond milk.”

I still get a tiny wave of nausea when I take the glass from her. But for some reason, smoothies I can tolerate a little easier, and they don’t seem to trigger my gag reflex.

“You seriously pamper me, Pam.”

She nods in the curt way she has before turning to Maeve. “Would you like one too, Ms. Crown?”

Taylor glances at the gloppy green drink. “I’m…good, thank you.”

When Pam leaves, Taylor eyes my smoothie again suspiciously. I grin.

“I know, it looks like vomit. But it’s actually delicious. Well, delicious for something on the Keto diet.”

“Remind me again why it is you thought you had to go on a diet?” Taylor’s gaze slides up and down my frame. “It’s not something some douchebag guy said, is it? I mean, Tempest, you’re in fantastic shape. I’d even say—” Her mouth snaps shut.

I’d even say you’re TOO thin.

I can see the unspoken words in her eyes.

“Look, I don’t have an eating disorder or anything, Taylor.”

“I wasn’t⁠—”

“I’m just trying different elimination diets for food sensitivities, that’s all.”

I ignore Dr. Han’s voice in my head, encouraging me to tell family and friends about what’s happening with me.

Taylor clears her throat, turning to nod her chin at my bed with all the clothes strewn across it.

“I was trying to pick out what to wear tonight.”

She frowns. “You want me to come with you?”

Yep, there’s the big sister vibes. My brothers are fiercely protective of me. But “protective” to them means putting on armor and dueling with anyone who’d try to hurt me using swords or battle axes. With Taylor, it’s a sweeter, human touch.

She was instrumental in helping my brothers deal with everything when Layla died. And she was my biggest lifeline after what happened to me, when I couldn’t be around men, not even my brothers. She’s the sole reason I can be out in the world these days instead of staying the shut-in I was for about six months afterward.

Still, I shoot her a look.

“You don’t want to come to this shitshow.”

“The hell I don’t! You need backup in there.”

I grin. “You mean besides Alistair and Gabriel?”

“Let me restate,” she sighs. “You need backup who isn’t drowning in testosterone and who can think further ahead than one swung punch. Besides, Dante is my client.”

Considering the…history between my family and Dante, it’s crazy that he uses Crown and Black at all for his personal and business legal needs. That said, she’s really the only one he interacts with, according to Gabriel.

It is a tempting offer. My brothers are, obviously, coming tonight. But having Taylor there would definitely give me a bit more comfort. Maybe it’s a girl thing, or maybe she’s right: she can have my back rationally without immediately going to the thrown fists place like Gabriel and Alistair would if things went sideways.

But it’s not that I don’t want her there. It’s that I can’t have her there.

I need space tonight when I go to Dante’s house. Not because I want to impress his guests.

Marrying the head of New York’s most secretive kink club might not have ever been on my bucket list. But ever since the day I pricked my finger and signed my blood across that page, I’ve started to consider some of the potential upsides to getting inside Dante’s world.

Upsides like access.

At first, after what happened to me when I was seventeen, I wallowed in the “random bad luck” of what had been done to me and to Nina. But slowly, with therapy, and in the survivors’ groups I went to, I started to realize what had been done to us maybe wasn’t so random after all.

It was the rings that clinched it for me.

That’s one of those weird, horrible details I’ll never forget about that night. Even if the rest of it is a terrifying blur, what I do remember with utter clarity is the gold ring with the lion’s head carved into it, with two little gems for the eyes and “AC” engraved on the band.

The man who hurt me wore one. I’ll never forget the feel of its weight as his fingers tightened around my wrist, pinning me down. And he wasn’t the only one.

…The men who raped and killed my best friend not three feet from me wore them, too.

To most people, these would be insignificant little details in a horrible, painful story. But to me, they’re clues. Breadcrumbs. And I can’t stop following the trail, even if I dread thinking what I might find at the end of it.

I don’t know who they all are. But I know the matching rings aren’t coincidence. It means those men were connected, and organized: a club, or maybe a fraternity of some kind. And while I know Club Venom is its own thing, and doesn’t involve lion head rings, it is also a secretive, clandestine club that attracts men with certain tastes and desires.

What I’m looking for is overlap. Connections. Anything that might lead me to members of Club Venom who perhaps also enjoy wearing lion rings and hurting young women against their will.

Marrying Dante Sartorre might be signing my soul over to the devil. But it might also give me access to clues—club registries, member details—that would allow me to track down the men who took my friend’s life, before mine runs out.

“Tempest?”

I blink as I pull my thoughts back to the present.

“Sorry, Taylor, my head’s all over the place today.” I exhale. “Look, I’d love you to come, but wouldn’t it be a conflict of interest, with Dante being your client?”

She frowns. “It wouldn’t have to be.”

“Tay,” I sigh, smiling to cover the twinge of guilt I feel with semi-lying to her. “It’ll be a who’s-who of New York mafia. That’s not exactly a good look, is it?”

She snorts. “You do realize who half our clients are, yes?” Then she exhales. “Fine, if you don’t want me there⁠—”

“Taylor…”

She grins, reaching over to squeeze my arm. “I’m kidding, girl. You’re probably right. This is a family thing, and I’m not that.”

I roll my eyes. “The hell you aren’t.”

She chuckles. “All the same, I didn’t receive an invite. And in Dante Sartorre’s world, that means you’re not invited. Period.”

I scowl. “Is he always such a dick?”

“He’s…” Her brow furrows as she folds her arms across her suit jacket. I’m sure she just came from the office. “Efficient. Sometimes brutally so. He’s the type of man who doesn’t see any reason to use several words if one will do, if that makes sense.”

“So he’s a neanderthal.”

Taylor shakes her head, frowning. “All I will say is that if I’d ever had any suspicion that he was the type of man who’d try and marry a fucking eighteen-year-old, or you, I’d have fired him as a client a long time ago.”

My mouth twists. “Thanks,” I mumble quietly.

“This whole thing…” She looks away angrily. “I’m so sorry this is⁠—”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” I murmur.

Taylor nods before walking over and giving me a much-needed hug. When she pulls back, we both wordlessly agree to exhale the Dante from our lungs.

“So…” She nods at the pile of clothes on my bed. “Do you know yet what you’re wearing?”

“Hell, yes.”

I pluck a few garments from the pile and lay them out: black ripped skinny jeans, a black Joy Division t-shirt, and heeled boots that go up to my knee.

Taylor makes a face.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, and I’m painting my nails, too. Black with skulls,” I laugh.

Taylor says nothing. I frown as I glance at her.

“Okay, what is it.”

“It’s just…” She sucks on her teeth. “You know how Gabriel is always saying to pick your battles?”

“Yeah, but that’s easy for him to say. He literally does pick his battles, and he only picks the ones he knows he’s ninety-five percent or higher likely to win in court.”

She grins. “And is dressing to shock or piss Dante off tonight the battle you want to pick?”

“Yyyes?”

She chuckles, pushing an errant lock of red hair behind her ear. “Well, it’s your call.”

I purse my lips.

Goddammit. She has a point.

If I walk in there tonight dressed to piss off Dante, who did imply via text yesterday to dress to impress, it’s going to put him on edge and keep his attention on me, waiting for me to do something else to stir shit up. And that’s not ideal, given that my plans for the evening include slipping away from this stupid party and snooping around Dante’s house for any clues or connections between Venom and the men with the rings.

Shit.

“Okay, okay,” I concede. “Fine. Maybe I could be persuaded to elevate the look a little.”

“May I suggest something that isn’t black?”

I sigh heavily. “Maybe. But I’m still painting my nails black and doing the little skulls thing.”

I am marrying the devil, after all.