Devil Mine: A Dark Cartel Romance (London Underworld Book 1)

We have barely a second to stare at each other before I’m spinning again, but in that time he undresses me swiftly with his eyes. They rake hotly over me, igniting something in my belly I wasn’t even aware was dormant. He wets his lips slowly in appreciation and I almost come on the spot. 

There’s no calming my galloping heartbeat or the catastrophic chain reaction tumbling through me like falling dominoes.

Even though I don’t have much time, I get a good enough look to fuel my nighttime fantasies.

Some people are quietly magnetic, and he’s anything but. He’s loud, in every way. Sex oozes off of him and crashes against me in thick, powerful waves that pull me in with the strength of a rip tide. Everything about him is black – his suit, his hair, his tattoos, his features, his entire aura. 

Everything except his eyes and his skin, both of them golden like rich honey.

I’m pulled away before I’ve had close to my fill of looking at him, and I’m yanked back to my sad reality, the one where I’m being crushed in Franklin’s arms.

When will this godforsaken song be over?

“You’re going to make the perfect wife,” he presses against my ear. He mistakes my answering shudder for an aroused shiver. “So reactive to my touch,” he croons. “It was kind of your father to allow you a hobby, but I’ll take over once you’re mine. Your only job will be waiting with your legs spread for me to come home.” His hand slides lower until his fingers brush the top of my ass.

I grab his hand, crushing his fingers in mine, and yank it to my mid back. “Keep your hand off my ass Franklin, unless you want to lose it.”

His face turns cruel. His hand digs into my waist so hard that I know my skin will bruise even through the corset. “You need to be taught some discipline. I’ll make sure your education is a top priority the moment you move into my house.” He presses me close, his threats muttered nauseatingly against my ear. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you.”

I don’t let panic take me. There are many more eligible suitors in London. I refuse to believe my father will marry me to someone who’s only claim to power is that he’s a third cousin to the eighty-seventh person in line for the throne.

Over his shoulder, I see Dagny. She’s staring at Franklin’s back with something akin to pity in her eyes, probably because of the disgusted look on my face. I wave at her with my free hand to get her attention over to me.

“He’s here,” I mouthe. This is far from ideal as modes of communication go, but it’s all I’ve got right now. I don’t want her to miss seeing the mystery man again.

Thankfully, Dagny and I once accidentally entered a twelve-round bar charades competition with an entire bottle of tequila already in our systems and won, so if anyone’s prepared for this moment, it’s us.

She grabs an unsuspecting passerby who was ambling past her and pulls him onto the dancefloor with her. The poor bloke looks like he’s just been rocket-launched to the moon when he finds himself a foot away from Franklin and me, his hands on Dagny’s waist, attempting to dance a waltz.

“Who’s here?” she mouths back.

“The man from Firenze,” I answer, tilting my head back over my shoulder in his direction. Her eyes widen comically. 

“Come on pal, we’re moving,” I hear her say to her dance partner.

He squeaks out an “okay” and lets himself be shoved past me so she can get a better look. His relief is second only to mine when the song ends a few moments later and she releases him.

I shove Franklin away the second the music fades. “You’ll never touch me again,” I vow. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Not bothering to wait for a reply, I spin on my heels, grab Dagny’s hand, and march off the dance floor. Much to my chagrin, the mystery man is gone, disappeared once more.

We exit the main hall where the event is being held and head into one of the grandiose hallways. I feel my heart rate start to even out as we escape the loud music and sounds of the party.

“Are you alright? Franklin looked like he was trying to suffocate you to death using the force of his beer belly alone,” Dagny asks, concerned.

“I’m fine. I’m going to have Wiz install the mother of all viruses on every single one of his devices Monday,” I say, dismissing that whole interaction with a wave of my hand. “Did you see the mystery man this time?”This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

She nods excitedly. “I did! He’s insanely hot. You should have seen the way he was glaring at Franklin. I thought he was going to drag him off you.”

If only I were so lucky. “I wish.”

“Have you met him before? Why was he looking at you like that?”

I rack my brain. Something about him feels familiar, but I’m sure we’ve never met. I’d remember his face, the way he looked at me. “No, never… and I’ve never seen him at other society events either.”

“Same. He certainly doesn’t fit in, what with the tattoos and the glower. The people around him were giving him a very wide berth. I swear I saw Lydia Hightower’s granny faint at the sight of him.”

I chuckle. “And yet, he’s clearly invited. Or if not invited, at least allowed to stay after having crashed the party. So someone must know who he is.”

“Leave it with me, I’ll track him down,” Dagny announces.

I smile at that. Dagny is half-American, half-Norwegian, my best friend, and an unabashedly self-professed gossip queen. Her international network of “tea”, as she calls it, would rival most criminal enterprises. If anyone can find out who the mystery man is, and quickly, it’s her.

“Thanks.”

She quirks an amused brow at me. “What are you going to do once you know who he is, Tessie?”

“I… don’t know,” I answer, honestly. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

A waiter exits the kitchen and walks past us with a tray full of fresh champagne flutes. Dagny snatches one and blows him a cheeky kiss when he flicks her a look, then hands the flute to me.

“You should jump his bones,” she declares.

I choke mid-sip.

“I should what now?” I ask, coughing. 

“Fuck him,” she clarifies. “You should absolutely fuck him. As many times as possible in as many positions as imaginable before your dad ships you off to sexual Siberia for the rest of your life.”

“Jesus. Thanks for making me feel better, Dags,” I say dryly.

“Don’t worry my time will come too and then you can be as brutally honest with me as I’m being with you right now,” she says, patting my shoulder compassionately. “Seriously though, you’ve got too nice a pair of tits for them to go unfondled by someone as attractive and as clearly sexually gifted as that man.”

I blush the same color as my dress.

“He might be just average.”

“He isn’t,” she asserts. “I felt like I was intruding on Tess-Mystery Man private sexy time just watching him staring at you. Those were some very graphic fantasies being played out behind his eyes, I promise you.” She sighs dramatically. “What I would give for a man to look at me like that.”  

There was definitely something explicit about the way he watched me. It’s almost as if he was trying to brand me with his gaze. I can still feel the ghost of his eyes on me like a physical caress.

I crave more of it.

I’ve never been spontaneous. I’m someone who always has a clearly thought out and researched plan and then executes it to the letter, but for some reason the thought of not exploring whatever this thing is between us leaves me with a disappointed feeling in my chest. I’ve never had such an immediate sexual connection with someone and even I can recognize that I’m unlikely to find such a connection again soon.

Especially if I’m married off to a sexagenarian.

“Did you see where he went?” I ask.

Dagny’s eyes shine mischievously. “Does that mean you’ve decided to go find him and let him do unspeakable things to you?” She claps her hands happily before opening up her clutch and taking out a pink lipstick. “Pucker up,” she orders, applying a fresh coat when I do as instructed. “Just so you know, I one hundred thousand percent support every bad decision you’re about to make,” she says, closing the lipstick and putting it back in her purse. She grabs the bottom of my corset and tugs it down, making my breasts almost jump out of the other end.

“Dags!” I exclaim, bringing a hand up to my neckline.

“Franklin had these beauties crushed up against that gross chest of his so Mystery Man never got to see them and that’s just a shame. This time, I want him to get a good long look at what you have to offer.”

“You mean my brilliant mind and razor-sharp wit?” I quip sarcastically.

That makes the rational, sensible side of me pierce through, sobering me in an instant. Looking at this empirically, this is not a statistically sound decision I’m about to make. I have nothing to gain from chasing after a stranger. I’ve never even had a one-night stand.

I should just go home, put my pajamas on, grab a pint of ice cream and eat it in front of a trashy movie instead.

Dagny clasps my face in her hands and squeezes my cheeks, cutting off my mental spiral.

“Ouch,” I churn out through puffed cheeks.

“Put your brilliant mind to the side for now, no man will ever truly appreciate it anyway. This is purely physical. You deserve a night of really good sex. You deserve a night where you’re taking a risk and doing something completely uncharacteristically unlike yourself. A night of freedom, just like you wanted.”

I’m still unsure. “Is this a good idea?”

“Probably not, which is exactly why you should do it,” she smacks a kiss on my lips, releases my face, and slaps my ass. “Now chin up, shoulders back, tits out, and go give that man exactly what he was desperate to get a taste of twenty minutes ago.”

“You really need someone to tame you, you know that right?” I tell her, rubbing my stinging cheeks.

“Ugh I know, and no one’s lining up to do it. So tragic.” She points at a winding stone staircase. “I saw him and another man go up that way. He’s probably in one of the exhibits.” She gives me one final quick hug and then says, “Don’t come back until he’s completely defiled you. I want you looking unsuitable for mixed company and with stories about how you broke at least five international laws. Don’t worry, I’ll distract your parents in the meantime and sneak you out when you’re done. And I’m going to see if I can find out who he is while you’re getting shagged.”

I nod, down my champagne, hand her the empty flute and head for the staircase. I’m halfway up the first flight when she issues a belated warning.

“Be careful about one thing, Tess.” I pause and look back at her. “The way he was looking at you tonight…if you do find him, know that he might never let you go.”

In retrospect, I should really have listened to her.

✽✽✽

I walk down the dark hallways, unsure if I’m even allowed to be here. There’s no sign of life whatsoever.

After traipsing through an entire exhibit searching for him, I’m about to give up when I see a streak of light filter through an open door.

My heart jumps into my throat at the thought that I might actually meet him face to face. How am I going to explain what I’m doing in this darkened part of the museum? Isn’t it a little desperate of me to have followed him here? He had eyes on me when I was dancing, he could have cut in if he wanted, or at the very least waited for me when I was done.

Maybe he’s not interested after all.

Oh god, he’s definitely going to think I’m desperate.

I’m second guessing being here. I’m about to turn around and walk back to the event when I hear a scream.

It’s coming from the open door.

This all feels eerily familiar, the situation all too similar to what I witnessed at our offices.

Clearly, I learned nothing from my first experience with violence because instead of leaving like I should, like you would think I’d have learned was the smart thing to do, I inch closer.

For the second time in three weeks, I find myself listening at a door and peering in on something I definitely shouldn’t be seeing.

I press my face against the frame and look through. Like before, I arrive mid-way through an argument. There’s a man on his knees that I don’t recognize but think I saw briefly at the event and three other men standing to the sides of him.

Unlike before, this time there’s a different ending.

Because no sooner do I make sense of the scene does an arm raise and a gun get pointed at the prone man’s head. Immediately, I recognize the very familiar tattoo decorating the hand – an open collar and chain.

The man who attacked my father.

Surrealistically, I’m so focused on the tattoo that even though I’m effectively staring right at the gun, I don’t register that I am until he squeezes the trigger and fires.

There’s a deafening bang.

The man’s head explodes, his brains splattering everywhere. His body falls forward and hits the hardwood floor, making me jump.

It’s over in less than a second.

A terrified scream bubbles up my throat and demands to be set free. I slap my hands over my mouth to suffocate it. I’m screaming and screaming and screaming in my head but letting nothing out.

Somehow, self-preservation pierces through the fear just enough to keep my instincts sharp.

If they find me, I’m dead.

I rock back into my heels, crouched at the bottom of the door. Once again, I’m shaking like a leaf. Terror leaves me cold as ice. I desperately tell myself to move, but I can’t. My limbs are locked.

The man’s hand comes nonchalantly down at his side. My eyes haven’t moved from the gun, from the fingers that so easily killed someone.

“You shouldn’t have killed him here,” Paunchy Guy says with a sigh. He’s got a cut on his lip and blood at the corner of his mouth. “The clean up is going to be impossible.”

They’re talking about it like it’s spilled merlot on a carpet, not a man’s brain matter.

“Nail his body to the wall and leave him,” a commanding voice orders. “I told you, I’m sending a message. The Italians should know that they’re under attack.” The glacial, remorseless tone sends a completely different shiver sliding down my back. That kind of cold, murderous fury mixed in with his clinically authoritative tone scares me to my bones.

Finally, I’m able to lift my gaze from the gun and up his arm until I find the side of his face.

And the world drops out from under me.

Because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man who just killed the guy on his knees, the man who attacked my father and broke his arm, the man with the open collar tattoo, is the same exact man I saw at Firenze. The same one who stared at me when I was in Franklin’s arms. 

The same one I came to find, with the hopes of having a one-night stand.

He’s the devil.

It’s literally tattooed on him.

His profile offers me a view of the lettered script carved into the side of his head, “El Diablo” in big bold, black letters right above his ear. 

Abject horror makes my head spin until I can no longer think. The world has tilted on its axis and I don’t know which way is up and which way is down.

A scared squeak erupts from my lips when he turns towards the door, almost as if he can sense me there. His nostrils flare like he can smell me and it’s the most primitive, animalistic thing I’ve ever seen a man do. There’s something savagely carnal about it and my throat dries until it’s impossible for me to swallow.  

Even through the disastrous reaction pummeling through me, I can’t believe how beautiful he is.

No, he looks like death incarnate.

He is Death.

“So it really was the Italians then. They took her,” I hear one of the other men say.

It distracts the devil and he looks away from the door. “They killed her.” His low voice echoes menacingly, challenging anyone to correct him. “And I won’t rest until I kill every single one of them for what they did to Adriana.”

He’s adamant. A level of furious I’ve never heard before coloring every terrifying threat he utters.

Clearly, his lover was murdered and he’s seeking revenge. My stomach twists for an altogether different reason, an insane mix of something akin to jealousy and the awful realization that no one’s ever loved me nearly as much as he clearly loved her.

Loves her.

A loud noise echoes in the silence and my heart stops completely. Unearthly, deathly quiet falls over everything around me. It’s my phone, set to loud and pinging with incoming texts.

I dive for my purse with frantic, trembling hands, struggling to open the clasp because of how much I’m still shaking. I feel like time slows, every new ping echoing as loud as a gunshot around me.

I pray to whatever gods might be looking over me that the notifications are quiet enough that the men aren’t hearing them. I finally dig my phone out of my purse and throw it on silent, clutching it against my chest in agonized anticipation as I wait for my death to come to me.

When nothing happens after long seconds, I look down at the screen and find panicked texts from Dagny.

Dagny: ABORT MISSION!!!

Dagny: I KNOW WHO HE IS

Dagny: DO NOT GO FIND HIM, TESS. TURN AROUND AND COME BACK IMMEDIATELY. 

Dagny: WHERE ARE YOU???

Dagny: His name is Thiago da Silva, HE’S THE HEAD OF A FUCKING CARTEL.

My stomach sinks. I know that name.

The double doors I was hiding behind burst wide open, bouncing loudly off the walls.

I look up and my blood runs cold when I find myself staring right into the barrel of a gun pointed down at my face. It’s so close to my forehead that I can feel a chill coming off the metal.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”