DARK ROMANCE

MAFIA SERIES

TRIGGER WARNINGS;

Violence

Physical abuse

Murder

Gun violence

Blood

Death

**PROLOGUE; ARABELLA**

They say silence is strength.

That women who keep their mouths shut last longer in this world.

They lied.

Silence doesn’t protect you.

It just makes it easier to be handed over, dressed in silk, and sacrificed without protest.

I didn’t cry at the wedding.

I didn’t cry when he killed my parents.

I didn’t cry when he slapped me so hard my cheek split open and my ears rang.

But I think a part of me died that night.

And the worst part?

I looked beautiful doing it.

The last words my mother ever said to me weren’t I love you.

They weren’t Run or I’m sorry.

They were, “He’ll take care of you.”

She placed my hand in Alaric Blackthorn’s like she was passing off a burden, not a daughter. She wore pearls and perfume and smiled like she hadn’t already made a deal with the devil.

I didn’t understand at first.

Not when the doors opened.

Not when Alaric stepped inside our family home, flanked by armed men in tailored suits.

Not even when my father stood and reached for something under the table and Alaric didn’t hesitate.

He shot him in the head.

Clean. Cold. Like it meant nothing.

My mother screamed, and I finally understood.

She dropped to her knees, clawed at Alaric’s jacket like she could bargain her way out.

“She’s yours,” she sobbed. “We gave her to you. Just leave us be. Please—”

He put a bullet through her heart mid-sentence.

The second she fell, everything else did too.

Time. Sound. Meaning.

I was still standing by the staircase in a pale blue dress, barefoot, holding a glass of water I hadn’t even sipped. My hand didn’t shake. My breath didn’t catch. I just stood there.

Alaric turned to me.

No blood on his hands. No remorse in his eyes.

“You’re prettier than your mother,” he said. “That’ll help.”

I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak. I didn’t run.

There was no place left to go.

Now, I sit in front of a vanity I’ve never seen before, in a house that isn’t mine, wearing a dress someone else picked out. White satin. Corseted. Covered in beads that sparkle in the low light like they belong on a princess instead of a prisoner.

It’s a perfect fit.

But I don’t feel real inside it.

My hands are folded in my lap like a good girl’s.

My cheek is still burning from earlier—when he hit me the first time. After the vows. Before the pictures.

I didn’t say “I do.”

He didn’t care.

The bruise blooms hot beneath my skin, and my lip throbs where it split. I taste copper every time I swallow.

Behind me, Alaric stands with a glass of scotch in one hand and his tie loosened like we just finished a dinner party instead of a murder.

“You clean up well,” he says. “Your mother was right about that.”

I don’t answer.

He walks closer, footsteps slow and deliberate across the marble floor. His reflection appears over mine in the mirror—tall, composed, amused.

“I’ve had women with more curves. With more fire.”

His fingers brush the nape of my neck. “But none of them were mine the way you are.”

My heart doesn’t race.

It stills.

He places his drink beside my brush, the glass clinking loud in the silence, and then slaps me again. Harder this time. My head jerks sideways. I bite my tongue. The taste of blood rushes in.

Still, I don’t cry.

“You’ll learn quickly,” he says, voice low and bored. “I like quiet. I like obedience. I like to own what’s mine without resistance.”

He watches me for another beat. Waiting for a flinch. A reaction. A crack.

But I won’t give him that. Not tonight.

So I just look at myself in the mirror—at the girl in the white dress with blood on her mouth and deadness in her eyes—and I smile.

A soft, empty thing.

He chuckles under his breath.

“Smart girl.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

And I exhale for the first time in hours.

I stay there for a long time, staring.

At the bruise on my cheek. The ring on my finger. The faint smear of my mother’s lipstick still clinging to my mouth.

He took everything from me.

And I said nothing.

Not because I’m weak.

Because I knew he wanted me to scream. To fight. To crumble.

But I won’t give him the satisfaction.

Not tonight. Not ever.

They think they married me into power.

But they handed me to a monster.

And one day, I’ll make him choke on it.

Because I am not the girl he thinks he owns.

I’m the silence before the storm.

The blade behind the kiss.

The crown that cuts.

And I will survive him.

Even if it kills me.

**CHAPTER ONE; ARABELLA**

_Six Months Later_

My bruises always fade by breakfast.

That’s the rule. Not by magic. Not by mercy.

Just by routine.

There are creams for the swelling, powders for the purple. Lipsticks red enough to distract from a split. I’ve become an artist with my pain—every morning, I layer silence over skin until I look the way he wants me to.

Perfect. Controlled. His.

I smooth a wrinkle from my dress with trembling fingers as I stand at the head of the dining table. The hem is too long. The heels too high. Everything tailored to fit a role, not a woman.

Alaric likes me in black.

He says it makes me look expensive.

He arrives fifteen minutes late. He always does. The help scatter like moths when they hear his footsteps in the hall, and I swear the air itself goes still when he enters the room.

He doesn’t look at me when he sits. Just pours coffee into bone-white porcelain and stirs it like he has nowhere better to be. Like my existence is a background detail in his morning ritual.

“Quiet today,” he murmurs.

I say nothing.

He sips. Sets the cup down. Lets his gaze drift lazily to the bruise just visible beneath my cheekbone—one he put there two nights ago for speaking out of turn in front of one of his associates.

I didn’t even speak loudly. Just disagreed. Gently.

And that was enough.

He doesn’t apologize. He never does.

“You wear pain well, bella mia,” he says.

My smile is practiced. Soft. Empty.

A mask I’ve worn so long it fits better than my skin.

The door opens again.

And this time, I freeze.

Not visibly. Not enough to be noticed. But I feel it—in my throat, in my spine, in the air that shifts like it knows who’s entered.

Corvin Amarin walks in like he owns the space without ever asking for it.

He doesn’t speak to me. He doesn’t even look directly at me.

But he sees me.

That’s worse.

He nods to Alaric and sits down two chairs away, all calm muscle and quiet command. He’s always like that—low voice, steady hands, the kind of man you forget until it’s too late.

He’s tall. Broad. Dangerous in a way that doesn’t come from loudness but from restraint. Tanned skin, green eyes that don’t soften for anyone, and brown hair kept deliberately messy—like he could be charming, if he cared to try.

Tattoos snake beneath the collar of his black shirt, curl down his arms, visible whenever he rolls his sleeves. I’ve never seen them up close. But I know they tell stories—just not the kind anyone speaks aloud.

He looks like sin in human form.

Not the kind you survive.

The kind you ask for even as you drown in it.

I remember the first time I saw him. At my wedding.

He stood behind Alaric in a black suit, face unreadable, green eyes sharp enough to cut. He didn’t congratulate me. Didn’t smile. He just watched.

He still watches.

I glance up, just for a second. Long enough to catch the flicker of his gaze at the bruise beneath my cheekbone.

His jaw tightens.

That’s all.

No words. No rescue.

Just acknowledgment.

Still, it leaves me colder than I was before. Because silence from Corvin feels different than the silence from everyone else. His silence sees me. Carries weight. Maybe even shame.

I don’t want his pity.

But something about the way he looks at me makes me wonder if it’s not pity at all.

He says something to Alaric. I don’t hear it. My heart is too loud in my ears.

And then—nothing. Just coffee and silence and the ghost of bruises buried under powder.

When the meal ends, I go to stand, careful not to let my knees shake.

A hand appears beside me.

A white cloth. Cold. Clean. Folded neatly.

Corvin doesn’t look at me as he places it next to my hand on the table.

I stare at it for a second too long.

Then I take it. Tuck it into my sleeve without a word.

He’s already halfway across the room, back turned, like it never happened.

But it did.

And I don’t know what terrifies me more—

That he saw me.

Or that part of me is starting to want him to.

The cloth in my sleeve feels heavier than it should.

Like it knows what it means.

A single, silent gesture.

Not pity. Not rebellion.

Just… a crack in the wall.

I press it to my cheek the second I’m out of sight. The coolness stings, but I don’t flinch. It’s not the pain I react to anymore. It’s the moments between it—when no one’s watching. When I’m just a woman in a hallway, breathing blood through her nose and pretending it doesn’t taste like regret.

I take the long way back to my wing. It’s not far, but every step feels like it might echo too loud.

There are cameras in the halls. I don’t know which ones are real, which ones are for show. But I keep my shoulders back, spine straight, hands folded neatly in front of me like I’ve done nothing wrong.

Because in Alaric’s world, appearances are everything.

Pain is expected.

Emotion is not.

Power means everything to a ruthless Don.

When I reach my door, I don’t open it right away.

I glance down the corridor. His office is three doors away. Corvin’s room—when he’s here—is down the opposite hall. He never stays long. Always in, always gone. Like a ghost that only shows up when the air gets heavy.

I wonder if he’s still downstairs.

If he’s thinking about the cloth.

If he regrets offering it.

Or if he doesn’t care at all.

I unlock my door, step inside, and click it shut behind me.

It’s quiet here. Too quiet. Like silence is a wall I built too thick to climb out of.

The room is elegant—marble floors, high ceilings, a vanity I never use, a bed that’s always too cold. It looks like a hotel. Not a home.

I step out of my heels, peel off the dress like it’s skin that doesn’t belong to me. The moment it hits the floor, I feel lighter. Not free. Just… less dressed for my own funeral.

I move to the sink and splash cold water on my face. The sting reminds me I’m still alive. Barely.

I lean forward, gripping the edge of the marble counter, watching myself in the mirror. No makeup now. No mask. Just the girl I used to be, buried beneath bruises and perfectly trained stillness.

I stare into my own eyes and think, I could leave.

Just open the window.

Climb out.

Run barefoot into the dark.

But then I remember the guards.

The gates.

The cameras.

And the man who made me watch my mother die.

No.

Running isn’t escape.

It’s suicide.

So I dry my face. Smooth my hair. Fold the bloodied cloth Corvin gave me and tuck it into the drawer of my nightstand like a secret I’m not ready to name.

Then I lie down in the bed. Still. Silent.

And stare at the ceiling.

I don’t know if he meant anything by it.

But I know what it did.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel invisible.

And maybe that’s just as dangerous.

There’s a knock at the door exactly four minutes later.

Not urgent. Not loud.

Three soft taps—one for each of them.

I rise slowly, fixing my expression before I open it.

Fiora enters first. She never waits for permission. She’s earned that right after two decades of surviving men like Alaric from the periphery. Her hair is pulled into its usual severe bun, a tray in her hands, expression unreadable.

She doesn’t look at the bruise on my face. That’s her rule.

Never acknowledge the damage. Only offer what softens it.

“Tea,” she says, setting the tray down beside my bed. “For the swelling.”

Faela follows behind her, arms full of fresh linens and folded nightwear. She doesn’t speak either, but she moves with quiet care—replacing things without disturbing them, straightening a room that hasn’t been touched. She’s gentler than Fiora, but the kind of quiet that hides knives in hems. I’ve never heard her raise her voice.

She leaves a cooling salve on my nightstand without a word.

Then comes Merra.

Always last. Always loud.

“I still think you should’ve kicked him in the balls,” she says by way of greeting, dropping onto the foot of my bed like she owns it. Her braid is half undone, her cheeks flushed from running the halls like she doesn’t care about the cameras.

“Merra,” Fiora warns, sharp and low.

“What?” Merra shrugs. “You’ve seen what he’s like. If I had legs like hers, I’d use them.”

Faela coughs into her sleeve—either hiding a laugh or pretending not to smile.

I don’t laugh. I want to. But I’m too tired to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

Still, I meet Merra’s gaze, and there’s something in her expression I cling to: fire. Anger. Loyalty. All the things I’m not allowed to show anymore.

She sees my hand resting against my cheekbone and softens.

Her voice drops. “You okay?”

I nod.

It’s a lie. We both know it. But it’s the kind that holds space instead of closing doors.

Fiora adjusts the curtains. Faela fluffs the pillows. Merra lingers a moment longer, watching me the way people watch dogs behind glass—curious, a little helpless, but too distant to touch.

They don’t ask questions.

They never do.

Their loyalty isn’t loud. It’s made of folded blankets and tea that stays warm. It’s cold cloths on nightstands and silence when I need it most.

I was given to a monster.

But someone, somewhere, still teaches girls how to care in quiet ways.

And that’s the only reason I haven’t drowned.

They leave without another word.

Fiora’s heels echo once on the marble before they vanish. Faela closes the door gently behind them. Merra’s presence lingers the longest—her warmth, her fire—but even that fades into silence.

And I’m alone again.

I don’t move for a long time.

The room feels colder without them. Not physically. Emotionally. Like their quiet, careful care filled it with something soft, and now it’s just me and the air and the echo of everything I don’t say.

Eventually, I rise from the bed and move to the vanity.

I sit slowly, mechanically, like I’m watching someone else’s hands adjust the mirror, someone else’s fingers open the drawer.

The cloth is right where I left it—still folded, still faintly damp. Pressed beneath the corner of an unread book, like something I was afraid would vanish if I looked away too long.

I unfold it carefully.

The fabric is plain. No embroidery, no scent, no sign of sentiment. Just a square of white linen soaked in silence.

Still, my hands shake when I hold it.

Because I can’t remember the last time someone gave me something without expecting to take something back.

I dab it against my cheek.

The chill hits first—sharp, bracing. My skin pulses under the touch, the bruise already blooming purple beneath the powder I wiped off an hour ago.

It stings.

But it’s the kind of pain that’s… mine.

Not taken. Not forced. Not for show.

I run the cloth gently down my jaw, to the corner of my mouth where the split has reopened. It’s barely bleeding now, but the ache lives under the surface. That’s where all the pain goes, eventually—beneath the skin. Buried. Waiting.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

No makeup. No earrings. No mask.

Just me.

I barely recognize her anymore.

I trace the shape of my own mouth with the edge of the cloth and think, I used to smile.

Not the practiced ones. Not the ones I wear now like armor.

Real ones. Uncontrolled. Loud. Full of teeth and joy and life.

Now, even the memory feels dangerous.

But tonight… this moment… it feels like something cracked open. Just slightly.

Because Corvin didn’t speak. He didn’t touch. He didn’t offer platitudes or promises.

He just gave me this.

And that was more than anyone’s given me in a long time.

More than I ever expected from a man who kills for the man who owns me.

I press the cloth to my lips and close my eyes.

I shouldn’t want anything from him.

Not even kindness.

But the truth is… I do.

And maybe that’s the most dangerous bruise of all.