Corrupted Heart: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance
Corrupted Heart: Chapter 5

“So, what do you think? Pretty good, huh?”

Silence fills the table. I glance to my left, locking eyes with Nico as a slightly distraught emotion creeps across his face. His throat bobs as he valiantly swallows the mouthful of what we’ve been told is cacio e pepe. Instantly, the pained look on his face deepens.

“Well?”

We all collectively pretend not to hear Vito’s hopeful question. I pull my gaze from Nico, turning to glance at Tempest sitting on my other side at the dinner table. She’s got an equally revolted look on her face. But after she downs her first bite heroically, she forces a huge smile onto her face.

“Oh, wow, Vito! This is…” Her smile falters a little as she looks past me at Dad. “I’ve never tasted anything like it…”

“Fuckin’ awesome, Pop,” Carmy beams, clearly the best actor at the table—or the one with a complete lack of taste buds.

It’s been two weeks since that night in the alley, and we’re all over at Vito’s house for a dinner he’s…well, I think “cooked” is an insult to real cooks. Concocted, maybe? Summoned from a demon realm with a blood curse?

Whatever he did, the bite of what can only very loosely be called “food” in my mouth is perilously close to making me gag.

“Yeah?!” Vito beams widely. “Fantastic. Eat your fuckin’ heart out, Emeril.” He clasps his hands together, rubbing them gleefully as he stands from his seat at the head of the table. “I’m gonna go open that second bottle of Chianti. You guys dig in.”

Everyone is all smiles until he leaves the room. Then it’s a mad rush to spit the bites of fuck-knows-what out into our napkins followed by large swigs of wine and water.

“That is straight-up poison,” Dante mutters from the other side of Tempest. “Fucking hell.”

“Oh c’mon,” Carmy grins. “It’s not…” He lifts a shoulder. “I mean it’s got its merits.”

Nico rolls his eyes. “A, no it doesn’t. And B, how do you fuck up cacio e pepe?? It’s literally cheese and black pepper on goddamn pasta.” He shudders, gulping down more Chianti. “I’m hiring him a chef.”

“The fuck you are,” Carmine grunts with a sharp glare across the table. “He loves cooking.”

“Yeah, but I like visiting without wondering if dinner is going to kill me,” Nico mutters back.

Carmy waves him off. “Suck it up already. It makes him happy.”

“Yeah, so does sunbathing in the nude,” Dante snickers. “But that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to do it in full view of the neighbors anymore.”

I make a puking face as Tempest cracks up next to me.

Carmy grins across the table at my brother. “Nah, just at your place, right? Lucky.”

This is all true. Vito was very much in the habit of “sunning himself” on the house’s rooftop patio. But as New York developed around the building, and more and more new neighbors had the misfortune to look out their window and see a sixty-something Italian man sipping Fernet and letting it all hang out, he was forced to change it up.

Now if he wants to sunbathe he has to drive out to Dante and Tempest’s Hamptons estate.

And they’ve now implemented a bathing suits required dress code.

“Anyone need seconds while I’m in here?” Vito yells from the kitchen.

The resulting near-unison “NO” from the table has us all covering our mouths and trying not to laugh.

“I’m good, Pop!” Carmy calls. He braces himself and starts to shove our dad’s disturbing attempt at cacio e pepe into his mouth.

Nico turns and dumps the contents of his plate into the container of a house plant behind him.

“You’re cleaning that shit up,” Dante mutters at him.

“Right, I mean, wouldn’t want to kill the begonias.”

Vito arrives back in the dining room with the open bottle of Chianti and takes his seat again. He grins at me, nodding his head encouragingly as I take another bite and force a smile to my lips.

Daughter of the fucking year, over here.

Carmine muscles down another bite of pasta like a champ and clears his throat. “Pop, I heard a rumor I wanted ask you about.”

Vito nods, shoveling food into his mouth, completely unfazed by the taste. “What rumor?”

“That Ciara Marchetti just got engaged to Giovani Pagano.”

My brows fly up. “Wait, seriously? Ciara’s engaged?”

Carmy lifts a shoulder, then glances significantly at Dad again. “Well?”

Vito takes a slow, deep breath, followed by a large sip of wine.

“She is, yeah.”

Woah. I’m not exactly besties with Ciara. But we kinda grew up together. Her father, Cesare Marchetti, is head of the Marchetti family, one of the main families in The Commission together with our family, the Amatos and the Scaliamis. Up until recently, the Carveli family was also part of that group. Now, of course, there’s an empty seat at the table.

Carmy whistles. “Damn, that’s a shame.”

Vito’s brows knit. “Why?”

Dante sighs heavily. “Probably because now your degenerate son has to erase her number from his list of potential booty calls.”

Carmy rolls his eyes and flips Dante off. “Give me a little credit, fuck.” He takes a sip of wine, then winks. “As if I’d ever delete that girl’s number.”

Nico snickers. Even I crack up a little. Vito looks far less amused.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” he says gruffly, jabbing a finger at Carmine. “I mean it. Yes, she’s engaged to Don Pagano’s son, and you know damn well why.”

I wince. “Wait, it’s an arranged thing?”

Carmy snorts. “As if Ciara Marchetti would ever voluntarily settle down.” He frowns at Dad. “Is this about De Luca?”

My chest tightens.

“Yeah,” Vito says quietly. “It’s about De Luca. It’s always about fuckin’ De Luca these days.”

The table gets a little quieter as we’re all suddenly thinking about it. The Commission only works if there’s five families involved. If there’s four or six, votes could end in ties. If there’s only three, it’s not enough families. And if it’s seven, that’s too many cooks in the kitchen.

Five is the magic number. But ever since the Carveli empire crumbled, there’s been only four. Or there was, until they and a few other auxiliary Commission families decided recently to bring a new fifth family to the high table: the De Lucas, helmed by Nero De Luca himself.

Problem is, no one knew that Luciano Amato and Nero De Luca were distant cousins.

And that means two out of the five families on The Commission might decide to pool their votes and resources into a power bloc.

I can guarantee you, that is why Ciara Marchetti’s father is marrying her off to the son of another powerful New York Italian family. They’re cementing an alliance to shore up power in case the Amatos and the De Lucas get hungry and greedy.

Carmine frowns. You can see the “cocky playboy“ act drop from his face as he switches gears to mafia crown prince mode. It’s always interesting to watch the power dynamics between my brothers. Carmy is definitely the looser cannon. But he is going to be king one day, when Dad steps down. Meanwhile Nico, despite being younger, ends up acting like a big brother most of the time, like he’s helping to coach Carmy into being the man he’ll need to be one day.

“How worried should we be about Nero?” Carmine grunts, suddenly all business.

Dad tips his head from side to side, like he’s weighing out his answer. “I don’t know if we need to be worried. But it’s always healthy to be prepared. Nero is like a young lion. He’s new to being king, and he’s got something to prove to The Commission. It could make him a bold asset to the group, or a tyrant.”

Nico grins as he turns to me, raising his glass. “Well, Bianca, better go get fitted for that wedding dress.”

I glare at him as Carmine laughs. Vito just sighs and smiles, shaking his head. He reaches past Nico to pat my hand comfortingly.

“That’s never happening, Bumblebee.”

We’ve discussed this. At length. I mean, I know how the world I live in works, and the role of mafia “princesses” like me. Marriages are how power is planted and grown.

But years ago, when I was fourteen or so, Vito sat me down and told me I didn’t ever need to worry about that. He told me that no matter what, he’d never force me to marry anyone for political reasons.

“Yeah, we don’t do arranged marriages in this house!” Carmy crows dramatically, pounding the table with his fist. “Isn’t that right, Dante?”

Dante levels a withering look at Carmy as Tempest groans and hides her face in her hands, blushing furiously.

Yes, they had a forced marriage. In fact, in a weird twist, it was Tempest who forced it. But I think it’s safe to say that theirs is one that worked out perfectly for everyone involved.

But as for me, I don’t even know if I ever want to get married period…let alone because I have to for some stupid and crazy mafia reason.

Vito sighs as he sets his fork down. He frowns a little as he glances around the table. Carmine has managed to choke down his cacio e pepe. Nico’s is currently poisoning the begonia plant behind him. I have no idea what Dante and Tempest did to hide the evidence, maybe stashed it in their napkins, but the point is suddenly I realize I’m the only asshole left at the table with a plate full of food.

“You’re not having any more?” Vito asks, looking crushed.

“Ugh, love to,” I smile back. “But I had a heavy lunch.”

“There are starving kids in Africa, Bianca,” Carmine grins across the table at me.

“Great, let’s send it to them.”

Vito slides his chair back.

“Well then, is everyone ready for dessert? I made tiramisù!”

The entire table reflexively puts their hands to their stomachs.

Later, after I’ve watched everyone else try not to projectile vomit up Vito’s tiramisù, and after Nico’s stolen back into the dining room to dispose of the evidence of his crimes against begonia, he and I are in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.

“You know we’re both safe, right?”

I turn to my brother. “Huh?”

“We’re both future-proofed. Dad promised you that he’d never marry you off. Dante’s already wifed up. And I’m the second-born son, so who cares.” He grins. “It’s just Carmine that eventually will have to get his shit together and be a grownup. I mean, if anyone’s going to get forced into a marriage, believe me, it’s gonna be that guy.”

“Good thing he’s had years of practice of forcing his way into other people’s marriages.”

Nico roars with laughter. “Shit, I’m stealing that one.”

My phone dings in my pocket. I pull it out, and instantly, my entire body goes rigid as a blush explodes over my face.

“I… I’ll be right back.”

“Nah, take off if you need to. I’ll finish up here.”

I grin at Nico. “Thanks.”

Out of sight and safely alone in my room, I pull my phone out again and click through to the portal for Venom. That was the notification chime I got: a new message.

My hearts skips a beat when I see the single message sitting in my inbox:

My pulse thuds in my ears, my skin tingles, and an achy, needy desire throbs in my core. My thumb hovers the message and my breath catches, as if I’m frozen in place, trying to figure out if I’m going to walk through this door or not.

Yes, I am.

I click on the message, my heart hammering in my chest.

Dear BrokenBee,

A match has been made for you with another Member. You have both been notified. Please use this link to initiate a private chat with your potential partner. Like at the Club itself, we encourage the use of anonymity, as well as open and honest communication. Both parties should discuss hard limits and safe words before meeting. Please enjoy your experience.

For a second, it feels like I’m outside my body, watching myself read the message.

Holy. Shit.

Suddenly, this isn’t just fantasy anymore. I’m not just having dirty daydreams about this kink of mine. I’m literally standing at the front door with my finger on the doorbell. Do I push it?

The seconds tick by as I stare at the words “Please use this link to initiate a private chat with your potential partner”.

If I click it, this isn’t fantasy anymore, and there’s no going back. I mean, yes, I could not ask to meet up with this person. Or I could just say no, should they ask me first. Still, if I click it, I’ll have gone through that door and taken the first step down the rabbit hole.

And I’m not sure you can come back from that the same way you went in.

My thumb taps the link, and a jolt of something electric zaps through my core. Instantly, a chat window is brought up between me and my “potential partner”.

I blink, my heart skipping a beat.

That’s the first message. Not “Hello”, not “Good evening, BrokenBee”. No cheesy pickup line at all. I guess this isn’t Tinder.

This is something much, much darker, and much more real.

Why don’t you be a good girl…

Fuck, that’s hot.

I didn’t fill out much of the optional information in the portal, because I didn’t want to bring too much attention, or accidentally give out any personal details. But in the “what are you looking for in a partner?” section, I was pretty blunt. And he must have read it…which means he wants me to say it anyway.

Fuck, that’s hot too.

There’s a power in his language and the brief, stoic responses. It’s slightly rude, or at least a little brusque. At the same time, it’s also more than a little exciting. It’s thrilling, like this person has a real edge of danger to them.

Which, obviously, rings my bell, because I’m insane. Why yes, please, I would love a “dangerous” vibe to my internet stranger who I’m chatting with for the sole purpose of acting out a rape fantasy with.

You need psychiatric help, you nutbar.

I take a deep breath. Then my thumbs tap rapidly on the phone screen.

My pulse is roaring in my ears.

Heat pools between my thighs.

He’s silent for a second. It feels like ten hours.

Holy fuck. What the hell am I doing?

I think for a second, and then tap out an answer.

I hit send, then start typing again.

I blush, chewing on my lip.

I add it as an afterthought, like a lame excuse.

Oh hell yes.

It’s stupid. And a little embarrassing. But quickly, I tap it out, because why not.

I open a web browser and quickly find what I’m looking for. I copy the link to the image of the black mask with the neon X’s for eyes and the leering, creepy smile. Then I send it to RaisedByWolves via the chat interface.

There’s no response for a second. Then the chat moves on the page as he replies.

I take a shaky breath, squirming a little as I shift on the edge of my bed.

My mouth drops open. Fucking fuck, what am I getting myself into?

I hold my breath. Part of me is hoping my phone suddenly dies, or that he backs out and says never mind.

The seconds tick by.

A shudder violently rips through me. What the fuck. He wants to meet tonight? In two hours, so 11:30? In the middle of Central Park? Is he crazy?

Are YOU, girl?

My heart pounds as I stare at the chat.

My pulse spikes.

Jesus…

Vanish.

The lit “online” icon next to his username goes dark.

My heart almost stops as I stare at his last message.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

There’s no way I can do this. None. This is how you get murdered in the park, idiot.

…Or, conversely, this is how you have the hottest experience of your life.

Maybe wanting to get chased by a stranger through Central Park at night is crazy. Perhaps wanting that stranger to hurt me, and pin me down, and violently fuck me is insane.

Wanting this to be how I lose my virginity is definitely lunacy.

But tonight, I want to try on crazy and see how it fits.

Before I know it, I’m blurting out goodbyes to everyone, throwing out some excuse about an early call time tomorrow, and bolting downstairs. I grab a taxi to my place, rip off my clothes, and get through my bizarre bathing routine as fast as I can.

Then I’m frowning at my open closet. I mean, what the fuck do you wear to a rape fantasy chase?

In the end, I go with a not-too-short skirt, moderate heels, and a cute top. I even manage to put my hair up into something other than my usual scraped-back dancer’s bun. I ignore one call from Naomi, then another from Milena. I add a touch of makeup. Then, as a last-minute thought, I open a drawer and pull out the blonde wig I got for a costume party last Halloween.

I have no idea who this person is that I’m meeting tonight. But they’re obviously a member of Club Venom, which means they may know Dante.

That means there is a very slight chance they’d know who I am. And I’d rather be safe than sorry.

I stuff the wig into my bag. Then I’m locking the door to my apartment, feeling like I’m about five seconds away from having a heart attack.

I barrel out the front door of my building, and immediately scream as I slam into a body.

“FUCK!” I choke, almost falling on my ass as I spring back. I’m met with an explosion of laughter. My heart manages to start again, and I realize it’s Naomi and Milena standing in front of me.

“Holy shit, jumpy much?” Milena laughs.

I smile weakly, trying to form a sentence. Or even a word.

“Oh, good!” Naomi beams, eying my outfit. “You read my texts!”

I blink. “Um, what?”

“My texts about us going out tonight to celebrate?”

I blink again. “I… No, I don’t think⁠—”

Naomi’s brow furrows and she exchanges a suspicious look with Milena.

“What are you dressed up for, then?”

Yeah, like I’m going to tell them “Sorry, I can’t go out with you. I’m actually dressed up to go get chased and fucked by a stranger from the internet in Central Park”.

I laugh weakly. “Kidding! Yeah, let’s go! But I totally missed some of those texts. What are we celebrating, again?”

Milena groans. “My dad met with Boris Chernoff this afternoon about me potentially marrying his son, Anton.”

My face pales. “Fucking hell! Are you serious?! Why are we celebrating that?”

“Because it’s all good!” Naomi chips in.

Milena beams. “Yeah, Dad killed that quick.”

“Which is great, because this motherfucker definitely lives under a bridge somewhere.”

Naomi flashes her phone, revealing a picture of a truly troll-like young Russian man wearing a track suit, with awful facial hair, the world’s worst mullet, and…

“Is that…”

“A tattoo of a girl fucking herself with a vodka bottle on his neck?!” Milena huffs. “Sure the fuck is.”

“Yikes.” I make a face.

“So yeah, that’s why we’re celebrating.” Milena flashes a thick black credit card. “On Dad’s dime, even.”

I start to grin. Then suddenly the reality of my original plans for tonight hits me.

“I—”

“Well?” Naomi turns to hail a taxi. “Where should we go first?”

“Gimme a sec.”

I pull up the site again and click on the chat. The icon by the stranger’s username is dark, indicating he’s offline. I chew nervously on my lip.

I’m about to slip the phone back into my bag when it dings. My pulse skips as I see the new message.

I take a shaky breath.

I stare at the phone.

“Bianca!”

My head snaps up to see my friends getting into the back seat of a cab. Naomi raises her brows.

“Well? Unless you’ve got a better offer?”

Not one I can tell you about.

My eyes drop to my phone.

Shit.

I close the chat window and stuff my phone into my bag before I jump into the cab.