Toxic Love: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance
Toxic Love: Chapter 11

She’s insane.

She’s certifiably insane.

It’s not like I’ve ever once thought of Tempest in the brief time I’ve known her as rational, cautious or anywhere near someone who, oh, I don’t know, thinks literally anything through, ever. I mean she’s fucking chaos personified, despite being so tiny.

But this is too much.

Club music pounds through my chest, the dazzling blue and pink lights of the place flickering in time to the beat as I prowl through the crowd. I know they’re here because Lorenzo rarely doesn’t know where my sister is, and Bianca was a last-minute invitee to Tempest’s bachelorette party.

I ignore two club girls who throw themselves at me, grinning with drug-fueled energy and powdery noses. Pushing past them with a low growl and my jaw set, I shove my way through more sweaty dancers until I get to the staircase that leads up to the VIP booths and rooms that ring the perimeter of the top floor.

It’s no Club Venom, but Doomsday, the Cold War-themed clubI’m barging my way through does have pretty tight security, being that it’s a popular celebrity hangout.

That said, the two bouncers at the bottom of the stairs nod when they see me and instantly step aside.

So sue me: I know the owner and called ahead.

Upstairs, I immediately catch sight of the group I’m after, dancing around in a glass room overlooking the DJ booth: Tempest, Bianca, Fumi Yamaguchi, who’s one of Crown and Black’s top lawyers, and Elsa Guin, another of their top attorneys, who happens to be married to Hades Drakos, of the Drakos Greek mafia family.

They’re all in head-to-toe black.

Like a fucking funeral.

How cute.

Trust Tempest to throw up a middling finger at every conceivable opportunity. And there’s the blushing bride herself, dancing to the music thudding through the club, her bare arms up in the air and the skin-tight black dress clinging to every single…

Fuck.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped walking and that I’m just standing there outside the room staring at Tempest until it’s been…longer than it should have been. My eyes wander over her gyrating hips, the swell of her breasts in the tight dress. The way her dark hair tumbles down her back, and the way her ass…

Yeah, this has to stop now.

I’m marrying her to save my empire, to keep my club, and because that little fucking hurricane in there tricked me into it.

Not because I want to watch her gyrate exactly like this while my cock is buried to the hilt in her tight little cunt.

“Dante.”

I flinch, thoughts of Tempest scattering as I turn, locking eyes with Taylor Crown.

Contrary to what I let Tempest wonder about, no, I’ve never once slept with my attorney. Nor have I ever wanted to. Not because powerful, intelligent women scare me.

Because you don’t fuck your goddamn attorney.

She’s also simply not my type, and plus, we’ve got a good relationship professionally…and as friends of a sort, I suppose.

“What the fuck were you thinking getting into this with that girl?”

I arch a brow. I also like Taylor because she’s completely fine throwing my shit in my face. And that’s not something I get much of.

“Don’t pretend for a second that Alistair and Gabriel haven’t filled you in on every single detail,” I mutter. “You know damn well how it happened.”

Taylor eyes me, shaking her head as she shoves her fingers through her long red hair. “I know, but honestly, Dante. She’s twenty-four.”

“Yes. And for the last time, counselor,” I hiss, “if you’ve got a magic cheat code for breaking fucking blood markers, I am all ears.”

She frowns, glancing past me. I turn, my jaw clenching as I watch Tempest dance, her eyes closed and her hips swaying.

“If you mistreat her⁠—”

“Taylor—”

“If you mistreat her,” she repeats, “you won’t have to worry about Alistair or Gabriel coming after you. Because I will first. That girl is like a little sister to me, Dante. That supersedes any professional relationship you and I have.”

“Yeah, well to me she’s a fucking pest. I won’t be laying a finger on her.”

Taylor’s eyes narrow. “See that you don’t. Also, why are you even here, anyway?”

I roll my eyes. “Miss Hurricane and I need to⁠—”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

I turn, immediately locking eyes with a particularly sassy-looking Tempest. Her cheeks are flushed, too, and not just from dancing. I glance past her to where the girls are dancing, spotting the bottle of vodka on ice with numerous glasses around it.

Interesting, considering I know for a fact that Tempest doesn’t drink much at all.

“You and I need to talk.”

“No,” she shrugs, smirking. “I don’t think we do.”

The sassy little attitude drops as I surge right into her, looming over her as she presses her back against the glass wall behind her.

“Dante…” Taylor warns behind me. But I ignore her as I lean down, putting my lips right by Tempest’s ear.

“You and I need to talk,” I growl quietly. “Alone, right now. You can come willingly, or I can hoist you over my fucking shoulder right here in front of all of your little friends and make it happen myself.”

When I pull back, the pink is flooding her cheeks even more.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

My lips curl. “I would ask yourself exactly how well you know me before you choose to start calling my bluffs, little hurricane.”

Her lips purse. “It’s Tempest,” she mutters. “Stop calling me hurricane or cyclone or whatever, it’s bullshit.” She fidgets in front of me another five seconds, but then clears her throat. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

“This way.”

I grab her hand, ignoring Taylor’s wrathful glare as I pull Tempest after me. Another bouncer nods as I approach, opening the door to a non-glass VIP room. The second we’re inside, I whirl and slam Tempest against the door behind her. She gasps.

“Fuck you, you⁠—”

“Stop,” I snarl, silencing her with a dark look and a firm grip on her upper arms, pinning her to the door.

I refuse to acknowledge the sultry mood of the room. The low lighting and deep sofas behind me. The way the club music thuds like a pulse in the air.

Or the glint in Tempest’s eyes.

The way her tongue slips out to deftly wet her lips.

Get your shit together.

“Do you have a death wish?”

She frowns. “What?”

“You do understand the world you’ve chosen to insert yourself into is the fucking mafia, right?!” I hiss. “Not the sanitized Hollywood version, not the musical Chicago. The real, actual, dangerous fucking mafia.”

“Thanks, I’m not nine, dickhead,” she spits back.

“Good to know,” I smile coldly. “Then maybe there’s another perfectly good explanation why you would call Renata fucking Bonpensiero a cunt to her fucking face?!”

Tempest raises a single brow. “Uh, because she is one.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“She’s also Frank Bonpensiero’s wife!”

“And?”

“Oh, and the small little detail that she’s also Luciano Amato’s niece!”

“Great,” Tempest groans in a bored tone. “So make me a family tree or a flow chart thing so I can ignore it and tell you I studied⁠—”

“You need to know these things,” I hiss.

“I don’t think that’s part of the⁠—”

“If you shit on this, Tempest…” I shake my head. My fingers tighten on her arms, feeling the thud of her pulse beneath her soft, warm skin. I inhale the scent of her—jasmine and citrus, mixed with something floral and slightly spicy.

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to try to calm my roaring pulse. But all I get is more of her scent—more of the heat of her body, so close to mine.

“If you shit on this,” I growl quietly, “then this whole thing falls apart.”

“I’m not shitting on anything,” she snaps back.

“The fuck you’re not!”

It comes out much more forcefully than I intended. Tempest’s eyes go wide, her mouth falling open as a little gasp tumbles from her lips.

That gasp has no business being so fucking sexy.

Focus.

“If this falls apart, there are forces at play that could destroy us both,” I continue. “And I don’t mean ruining our credit scores, in case that needs to be made clear. As I said before…” My eyes lock with hers. “You made this bed, and now you’re going to fucking lie in it.”

Tempest doesn’t say anything.

“Take this fucking seriously. I know that’s a foreign concept to you.”

I ignore the “asshole” that falls from her mouth as I push her aside and storm out of the VIP room.

Not because I’m angry.

Because if I stay in there another fucking second with her, neither of us will be leaving until I have taken her in every single way a man can take a woman.