Corrupted Heart: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance
Corrupted Heart: Chapter 11

It’s the waiting that’s the worst.

Not the web of lies I have to create to explain to Dante why I torched a car in the middle of nowhere in the Bronx. I can’t, I simply won’t, tell him about the drug deal I was drawn into, even if it was completely inadvertent on my part.

Drugs are a hard line for my brother, mainly I think because of what happened to our older sister, Claudia. I was really young when it happened, but I can still remember the anguish of learning she’d been drugged and killed by those monsters when she was out one night.

The only comfort I have there is knowing the men responsible have been completely destroyed. Dante’s gone to great lengths to hide all that from me, but I know that he hunted those men down and meted out his own brand of justice.

But it’s not just Claudia. Tempest has her own family tragedy involving drugs. Her older sister, Layla, ended up dying in college from a heroin overdose.

So, no. I can’t, in any way, tell Dante that all of this stemmed from me being dragged into a drug deal that went wrong. I also can’t…or won’t…tell him about my mystery masked man.

…Who isn’t so much a mystery anymore.

A few days ago, I only knew Kratos by reputation. Since then, thanks to the internet, I’ve become an expert on him.

It’s done less than nothing to quiet my shaking nerves.

Through random searches online, and by stalking the social media of some of his siblings, I’ve learned more about him. Like how he’s into boxing and underground fights. How the car I destroyed wasn’t just some shitty old truck. It was a 1980 Land Rover Defender 110 with “European specs”, whatever the hell that means.

It also had a price tag north of three hundred grand, after all the retro mods, vintage parts, and work done on it. Which brings my total bill for destruction so far to—checks notes—seven hundred thousand dollars, between the car I didn’t want to torch and the cocaine I neither lost nor sold.

I’ve learned that he’s close—really close—with his family: three brothers, and a sister who’s only a few years older than me. I’ve discovered how the Drakos family is now closely connected to the Kildare Irish Mafia family, both via Ares Drakos’ marriage to Neve Kildare, and through Calliope aka ‘Callie’ Drakos being married to Castle Kildare himself, the head of the whole Irish family.

I know he likes to cook, through a bunch of gushy posts on Callie’s Instagram, and that he’s pretty good at it. I know he’s gotta be smart, since he went to Lord’s College in London. That’s no small thing.

Lastly, I know the man is built like a Greek god, also courtesy of Thirst-gram. I mean Instagram.

And I do mean a god.

He’s over six and a half feet tall, and all muscle. Callie posted some random photos from a trip to Greece she and some of her brothers took a little while ago, and there were pics of Kratos in a bathing suit lounging on the beach.

And sweet fucking Jesus.

The shoulders and arms of a Marvel superhero—Thor, specifically. A rock-solid, chiseled chest and abs, even those stupid V-lines that you cannot ignore that drive down from his hips into the waist of his very well-fitting bathing suit.

Tattoos all over. Eyes like blue icebergs. And a look on his face that somehow straddles charmingly friendly and captivatingly intense.

And the longer I look at pictures of the man who told me the other day he was going to “eradicate” my lines, the more I realize something: not a single one of the photos I’ve found of him online is really him.

It’s like I’m looking at photos of a fake Kratos. A fraud, who’s doing his best to look like the middle Drakos sibling.

Someone behind a façade.

Because I’ve seen into those eyes in the real world, through the neon X’s of his mask. I’ve seen them glint and surge with energy. And none of those first-hand glimpses I’ve caught of him looked anything like this smiling, charming, nonchalant man on a beach vacation.

Which is curious, to say the least.

But again, it’s the waiting that’s the worst. Not lying to Dante, or Dad, or Carmy and Nico about what happened. There was no denying that I had something to do with the car—I mean the guilt was all over my face, and Dante could smell the gas and smoke on me, even after my attempts at washing it off. But I white-lied it, and told them I’d gotten caught up with some girls from ballet I shouldn’t have, and was pulled along for the ride. Well, I mean, that’s kinda true.

Let’s be real: Carmy and Nico, and even Dante, used that “I just happened to be there, Pop” bullshit with Vito throughout their entire adolescence and young adult years. I don’t know if my dad ever totally bought it, or is buying it from me now. But I think he recognizes that I didn’t do anything maliciously. Plus, I think he remembers giving his sons leeway whenever they used that excuse, and realizes I deserve the same courtesy.

Just the same, it’s not good. There’s been no word at all from the Drakos family, which is…unsettling.

There’s also been no word at all from him, via the Club Venom site.

And the waiting is driving me insane: the constant, needling feeling up the back of my spine. Like waiting for the pop of a balloon as it blows up bigger and bigger, or constantly expecting that a hand will reach out of the darkness to grab me.

Part of me even wants to walk out into Central Park alone one night and just scream for him to come get it over with, whatever he’s going to do to me. But a week after the car incident, I haven’t, and there’s still nothing.

“Bianca…”

I flinch when I hear Alicia’s voice behind me in the dressing room. I thought I was the last one here, but apparently that’s not the case.

Turning, my chest tightens as I meet Alicia’s scared-looking gaze.

“What,” I mutter quietly.

She’s tried to get me alone almost every day this week, with the same petrified, scared, contrite look on her face that she has on now. I mean, I get it: bitch or not, I think seeing her boyfriend stick a gun in my face and drag me into a car probably has her seriously shaken up.

Still, I’m the one who had the gun in my face, all because she dragged me out to a fucking drug deal I never wanted any part of. So I’m fresh out of fucks to give about how bad she’s feeling, or how sorry she is.

“I…” She swallows thickly. “I just wanted to say…”

“Yes?” I snap coldly.

Her lip quivers. “I’m so sorry, Bianca,” she croaks. “Please, I had no idea⁠—”

“Stay the hell away from me, Alicia,” I blurt, yanking my hoodie on.

Her face droops a little, but she nods. “I…I just wanted you to know how sorry I am.”

“Duly. Noted,” I mutter, looking away.

“And that I’m not with Grisha anymore.”

I pause, turning to glance at her over my shoulder. To be fair, she looks truly broken and seriously shaken up. There’s bags under her eyes and a haggard, weary look on her face.

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

Her throat bobs, and she shakes her head. “N-no. I just…” She looks away. “I left him. I…” She shakes her head helplessly. “I always knew he was dangerous. I guess that’s probably why I went out with him. But that?” She shakes her head again. “I know when I’m in over my head. What he did was really fucked up, Bianca.”

Yeah, I know, Alicia. I was THERE.

“Anyway, I just wanted you to know,” she says quietly. “And I’m truly sorry for what happened, and for dragging you into it. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

I give her a curt nod. “Thanks.”

After Alicia leaves, I finish packing up my stuff, swing my bag onto my shoulder, and turn off the lights on my way out. The back door creaks as I swing it open, and the shadows in the alley behind the theater claw and creep their way up the brick walls as I step out into the night.

I yank my hood up over my head and grip my bag a little tighter. For a minute, I flash back to how I felt with him in the church: raw, primal danger coupled with a needy, aching desire to be caught.

Fear and lust. Panic and excitement.

A push-pull sensation I cannot get out of my head.

I make sure the theater door is shut and securely locked behind me. I take a shaky breath, side-eying the creepy shadows reaching for me with their imaginary claws as a shiver ripples up my spine. Then I shake it away, shoulder my bag, and head toward the mouth of the alley to find a cab.

This time, the shadows really do grab me.

A hand slams over my mouth. A bag is yanked over my head.

My heart lurches into my throat, and I’m dragged into the darkness.

My breath catches as the bag is yanked off my head.

I’m back in the church. This time, things are…different.

Darker.

More terrifying, and more real.

The candles aren’t lit. And even though there’s some light creeping through the cracks in the stained-glass windows, the crumbling old church is largely bathed in darkness and gloom. Haunting shadows pulse and ooze in the corners and the arched stone rafters.

And I’m alone.

Someone pulled the bag off my head. But when I glance around behind me, all I see are more shadows, darkness, and silence.

A small noise near the front of the nave whips my gaze back forward. My pulse races, and my skin tingles with fear and forbidden excitement, remembering last time. I frown, peering into the gloom, trying to figure out if the shadows up there really are moving, or if I’m imagining things.

Is it him? Or is it actually a ghost or an apparition that’s pulled me back into this place⁠—

Suddenly, as if my question had been asked out loud, I get my response in the form of two glowing X’s and a leering, neon smile illuminating the darkness up where the throne was before.

My pulse skips. My throat tightens around my windpipe as a spike of something vicious and heated stabs through my chest.

The church is still utterly silent. But slowly, the glowing mask tilts eerily to the side. Something glints; a second later, I realize it’s a blade. A huge hunting knife, twisting slowly in his hand with the neon of his mask bouncing off its lethal edge.

You crossed a line, babygirl. So now I’m going to eradicate yours.

My entire chest constricts. My face caves, and whatever deranged excitement I felt before shatters like glass into pure fear.

“What the fuck is this?” I whisper in a choked, hoarse voice.

The mask tilts to the other side, leering at a creepy angle.

“This is what you signed up for…Bianca,” Kratos growls quietly. The rough, whiskey-and-leather timbre of his voice rumbles through the echoing old space. In here, it almost sounds like stone grating against stone.

“I’d say this is your last chance to walk away…”

He utters a rough, rasping, mirthless chuckle.

“…But we’re well past that now, aren’t we?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. My heart flip-flops as the mask rises when he stands from his throne hidden in the dark. The mask moves nearer to me, like he’s stepping over the rubble and the broken old pews, coming closer. And closer.

“The time to run away from this is long past, princess.”

My chest tightens, a cold shiver jerking my spine upright as he leers down into my face.

“But the time to run from me is right the fuck now.”

“I—” My eyes are wide as I stare up into the twin neon X’s. “It was an accident. The car…”

“I’m sure,” he growls.

Another cold shiver ripples through me as the knife glints in his hands. For a second, I consider that I might be even further past my depth with all of this. The last time I was here, I knew it was a game. A terrifying, demented, twisted game, but a game nonetheless.

This time, I’m not so sure we’re playing anymore. And I don’t know if this is meant to be something sexual at all, even if I am, shamefully, excited.

This time, he might not want to chase me so that he can rip my clothes and fuck me.

It might simply be that he wants to rip my throat.

“Do you know what you destroyed?”

My lip retreats between my teeth.

“I—I’m sorry.”

“Not yet, you’re not. But you will be.”

I swallow again. “The car⁠—”

“It wasn’t just the car, princess,” he hisses.

“I…” I tremble as he raises the knife again, twirling it thoughtfully in front of his face. “I’ll pay⁠—”

“Fucking right you will.”

I gasp sharply as he brings the blade down to the front of my hoodie. He uses the razor-sharp tip to pull the neck down a bit, before running the knife down my sternum, letting it tease down between my breasts before he drags it to the side. My breath catches and a low pulse throbs in my core as the jagged tip of the blade drags over the hoodie, across my left breast, dancing right across my nipple.

I’ll pay.

Fucking right you will.

And suddenly, it clicks, even as a horrifyingly exciting shiver ripples heatedly between my thighs.

I’ll pay for what I’ve done. But it won’t be with money, or even my life.

It’ll be with something else.

When I drag my wide eyes from the blade teasing my nipple through my hoodie, up to those soulless, chilling neon X’s of his eyes, I know I’m right.

“If…” I breathe. “If we do this…”

I can feel him smirk behind the mask.

“Yes, princess?” he growls quietly.

I don’t have to finish the question, because I already know I’m right. This is the payment. I’m the payment for what I did. I fucked up. I destroyed what was his. And now, he’ll destroy me. It should feel barbaric and horrifying. I should hate this. Or at the very least, fear it.

I shouldn’t be so excited.

I shouldn’t be so wet.

My teeth drag over my bottom lip as I peer into his face.

“Why are you still wearing a mask?” I breathe.

I mean, we both know who the other is now. This isn’t an anonymous “meetup” via the Venom site anymore.

Kratos tilts his head to the side, letting that leering neon smile and the real one faintly glowing behind it pierce my soul.

“Because you wanted me to,” he murmurs.

The knife’s tip slides over my nipple again. I gasp sharply, feeling the pressure of it through my hoodie as he starts to walk around behind me. The knife drags across my chest, teasing across one breast and then the other, the tip passing directly across that nipple too.

My breath stutters as I feel him stop right behind me, the sheer size and mass of him looming over me from behind as he lowers his mouth to my ear.

“Because, princess…” he purrs softly. “You asked for it.”

My pulse spikes as the blade drags up my breast, the lethal tip dancing a fraction of an inch from my skin as it slides up my jugular.

“Now…” Kratos growls into my ear.

The heat, the scent, and the sheer power of him vibrates against my pebbled skin.

“Run.”