Toxic Love: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance
Toxic Love: Chapter 24

My first outing as Mrs. Sartorre may have been a bit of a disaster. But again, I’m choosing to blame the disgusting cigar bar, not to mention dinner with the Mafia versions of the Stepford wives for that one.

It’s going to be tough to blame the setting the second time around, though, considering that the venue tonight is the stunning Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I mean, I’ve been to some pretty swanky parties and galas thrown by Crown and Black over the years. But when Dante pulls the black Mercedes G-Wagon up to the front of the museum, my jaw drops when I stare out through the tinted windows.

Holy. Shit.

The event tonight is a fundraising gala for the New York City Fallen Firemen’s Fund, a group that helps the families of firemen killed in the line of duty receive benefits and financial support. But you’d swear we’d just pulled up to the Oscars.

Paparazzi cameras flash. There’s a red carpet. Limos full of minor celebrities, the mayor, and more. Dante opens my door and helps me out, even catching me when a photographer who probably thinks I’m someone important blinds me with their camera.

Inside, he arches a brow at my hesitation when we stop by the coat check. The implication isn’t lost on me.

At that awful dinner, I kept my coat on for most of the meal. One, because it had been spared the stench of smoke, since it was coat-checked at the cigar bar. And two, because one of the Mafia Stepford wives—the one who asked me if I had cocaine—made a comment about my “perky little titties” when we were leaving the cigar bar. She even made a comment to her gross husband about it, who then made a point of staring at my chest for the rest of the evening.

So, yeah, I’m keeping the coat on this time.

“What?” I shrug at Dante. “I’m cold.”

“Lose. The. Jacket.”

“Why? Trying to show me off? Using me as bait to lure in⁠—”

“No, you just look fucking beautiful, and I think you should embrace that for once.”

We both stiffen the second he says it. My cheeks flush, and a tingle zaps through my core.

“I mean…the dress looks beautiful, on you,” he grunts, frowning. “Ginevra does amazing work.”

“That she does,” I say distractedly, looking down at the gorgeous black and gold strapless number she made for me that feels very vintage Audrey Hepburn. The dress arrived complete with black heels, thigh-highs, and matching lacy black lingerie that’s about one thousand times sexier than any underwear I’ve ever owned.

“Did Genevra pick the heels, too?”

He nods. “She does it all.”

“Well, she’s got fantastic taste in lingerie.”

“That part was me.”

My eyes lift back up, faltering before they even get to Dante’s when they lock onto his lips.

…His perfect, masculine and yet supremely sensual lips.

Okay, we seriously need to stop doing what we did last night at Club Venom. And then again, against the inside of the front door of his penthouse the second we got home.

Or…do we?

It’s something I’ve been wrestling with. A huge part of me feels like we’re not supposed to be crossing this line physically. But I mean, the clock is ticking for me, and there are worse ways to spend the last few months of your life than screwing a man with divine, God-like dick that he knows how to use.

Like, even if the relationship and the marriage are pretend, the orgasms are totally fucking real.

But now, the way he’s looking at me, and the tingle that creeps through my chest when he calls me beautiful…I don’t know. It does feel like crossing a line we’re not supposed to cross. I think we both realize that.

Hence him downplaying it immediately afterward.

I tremble when I let Dante take my coat and give it to the attendant. Then I shiver again when he slips his arm through mine and leads me into the gala itself.

It’s not from the cold.

I spot the mayor, and a late-night TV host who’s here with his B-list actress girlfriend. I also see two stars from the Knicks, the point guard from the Nets, and a Yankees pitcher. Also in attendance are celebrities of a far more notorious kind: Gavan Tsarenko, co-head of the Reznikov Bratva, along with his wife, Eilish, of the Kildare Irish mafia family. They’re in a group mingling with Eilish’s older sister, Neve, and her husband, Ares Drakos, head of the Drakos Greek mafia family.

I clear my throat, ignoring the tingle on my skin where Dante’s arm is touching mine.

“So, who exactly are we here to charm tonight?”

“As many people as possible.”

My brow furrows. “Is Venom that hard-up for money?”

He turns to smirk at me. “Hardly. You’ve seen the homes I own. Tonight is not just about the club.”

My brow arches as he sweeps me onto the dance floor. “What else is it about, then?”

Dante just cocks his brow a little, his mouth pointedly closed.

I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. Who am I going to tell?” I tap a finger against my temple. “This is a steel trap.” I grin wryly. “Actually, it’s a steel trap with a self-destruct button. Even better!”

He frowns.

I sigh, shrugging. “Gallows humor, remember?”

“I’m not sure I’m a fan.”

“Well, get on board.”

He shoots me a funny sort of dark look, but then shrugs it off. “I mean it’s not just about money or new investors. Venom also trades in favors, influence, information.”

I smirk. “You mean you trade in favors, influence, and information.”

“Well.” He flashes a grin. “I am Venom.”

“And here I was thinking I’d have to spend the whole evening suffering bad dick jokes from your brothers.”

Both of us turn to the deep baritone voice. I blink, looking up at an insanely handsome man who towers over even Dante. He grins a gleaming, shark-like smile as he shakes Dante’s hand firmly.

“Good to see you, my friend,” the man purrs in an Eastern European accent before turning his piercing gaze to me. He fixes me with a hunter’s smile as he takes my hand in his. I blush when he raises it, as if to kiss it. “And you must be⁠—”

“My wife.” Dante plucks my hand away forcefully from the other man, even if he’s still smiling. “Tempest.”

The other man chuckles and claps Dante on the back. “Indeed.” He turns to smile a much less wolfish grin at me, this time not reaching for my hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Black. Or is it Mrs. Sartorre?”

“Ms. Black,” I say.

“Mrs. Sartorre,” Dante says at the exact same time.

“Tempest,” Dante grunts. “This is Drazen Krylov, head of the Krylov Bratva, and a recently new resident of New York.”

I flash back to that luncheon, when the ladies I was sitting with were gabbing about the new-to-New-York Russian-Serbian Bratva kingpin whom they described as “God’s gift to the female gaze.” I gotta say…

They weren’t exactly wrong.

“Nice to meet you,” I smile, ignoring the granite look in Dante’s eyes as I reach out to shake Drazen’s hand.

Then I twist my gaze to Dante, frowning. “Wait, you have brothers?”

He makes a face. “No. I have two idiots who at times feel like brothers. But they’re not blood relatives. Carmine and Nico Barone, Don Vito’s sons.”

I remember Gabriel telling me about Dante’s background weeks ago, how he and his sisters lost their parents young and were basically raised by Vito Barone, for whom their father worked as his personal tailor. I guess we’ve never really had an in-depth talk about our families and all that.

Or even a not so in-depth talk on the subject.

…Which is weird, considering we’re, A, married. B, sleeping together. And C, standing like a couple at a fancy gala with his hand firmly on the small of my back.

Dante’s brow furrows. “I didn’t realize Carmy and Nico had secured invitations to the event tonight.”

Drazen smiles coolly. “I believe their invitations involve the back service entrance and dodging security.” He looks past us momentarily, and his smile fades. “My apologies. I suddenly have to be elsewhere.”

Dante looks intrigued. “Why is that?”

“Because I loathe Renata Bonpensiero and she’s walking right this way.” He turns and bows crisply to me in his even crisper tux. “Again, a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Sartorre.”

“It’s Ms. Black,” I mutter at his back just as Dante turns us around. Sure enough, here comes the miserable hag herself.

Renata comes to a halt in front of us, shooting me a sour look before she smiles imperiously at Dante. She offers her hand for him to kiss it.

Dante pointedly ignores it.

“Renata,” he grunts with all the warmth of a coal mine. “How are things?”

“Just lovely, Dante,” she responds in an equally chilly voice. “How’s the brothel business?”

“I wouldn’t know. What can I do for you?”

Her lips purse. “Your wife, if we’re even calling her that⁠—”

“We are.”

She grits her teeth at the interruption. I bite back a grin.

“Well, not only did she assault my son⁠—”

“Allegedly.”

A vein pops out on Renata’s forehead. “She admitted it!”

“I don’t think I did any such thing,” I shrug.

She shoots a cold glare at me. “Not only did she injure my dear Silvio,” she barrels on, still looking at me while addressing Dante, “but this little gold-digging whore⁠—”

“Don’t ever speak of my wife like that again.” Dante’s growl is quiet but carries all the lethal sharpness of a samurai blade.

Renata huffs. “The things this little bitch said to me⁠—!”

“—Were, I am sure, well deserved,” he snaps back. “And I already told you once not to speak to her like that. I won’t say it again.”

Her face goes purple.

“Before you say whatever you’re dying to say next,” Dante murmurs, leaning closer to Renata and dropping his voice. “We both know the side business your husband is involved in, don’t we?”

Her face pales so fast it’s as if he’s flipped a switch.

“I—I don’t know what you’re implying…”

“I’m implying that your husband has been selling arms on the side to the Croatians, not to mention taking kickbacks from Kratos Drakos not to bid on certain construction projects that your family might otherwise have bid on.”

Renata looks like she might throw up. “I—that’s…those are both grossly untrue⁠—”

“Maybe we should see what your uncle, Don Amato, has to say.” Dante finishes smoothly. “I’m sure he could sort out fact from fiction quite easily.”

Her eyes go wide and her mouth flaps open and closed for another few seconds like a fish on land. Then without another word, she spins and scurries away, shoving her way through the crowd.

I don’t realize I’m grinning widely until I turn to shake my head at Dante.

“What was that about?”

He shrugs. “You weren’t wrong. Renata is a cunt.”

My lips split into a grin. “Well, thank you⁠—”

In one motion, he pulls me close, cups my cheek gently in his powerful hand, and sears his lips to mine.

Leaving. Me. Floating.

A camera flashes right next to us, startling me back to reality. I flinch, but Dante holds the kiss for another half second before letting me go. We both turn, and he smiles at the professional event photographer before she wanders off to shoot more attendees.

“Image is everything,” Dante murmurs quietly.

“Yeah, no, of course…” I smile weakly. “Image. All these people and everything.”

We stand another second or two in silence before I blush and clear my throat. “I am going to go find the bar.”

Dante gives me a quiet smile. “And I, unfortunately,” he nods with his chin to a group of old men who nod back and raises their glasses to us, “have to go talk to creepy old Italian men who’ve spent more time in brothels and basement gambling dens than in their own bedrooms.”

“Well, you should be right at home.”

He arches a sarcastic, stern brow at me as I grin at him. “My my, Mrs. Sartorre⁠—”

“Yeah, no, it’s still Ms. Black.”

“You should pay more attention to legal documents you sign at wedding altars, dear.”

I grin as I roll my eyes. “Which—oopsie—I never mailed in. So, you know, checkmate.”

“That’s an oversight we’ll have to correct quickly.”

“I don’t think so.”

We both pause, both of us grinning.

Jesus Christ, am I FLIRTING with him?

Yeah, I am.

It feels pretty good.

“Enjoy your creepy old men.”

“Enjoy your cocktail.”

I’m grinning from ear to ear and floating as I make my way to the bar. I daresay, I might have a little crush on my husband.

I order a glass of white wine, and I’ve just taken a sip when a young woman slips out of the crowd and stops right in front of me.

“Oh my God—Tempest?”

My brows tighten. “Yes?”

Shit, I have no idea who this brunette is. She looks to be a couple of years older than me.

“Oh, we’ve never met, don’t worry!” She smiles as she thrusts out a hand. “I’m Michelle. I knew your brothers at Knightsblood. I was in Para Bellum with Gabriel.” Her smile fades. “I…I was actually friends with your sister, too.”

My mind flashes back for a second to my conversation with Alistair the other day about Dante’s involvement with that. I glance around looking for him, but I can’t see him in the crowd. I shake those thoughts away as I smile back at Michelle.

“Nice to meet you!” I shake her hand.

“I was going to ask you if I could buy you a drink, but…” She nods at the full glass of wine in my hand. Then she grins mischievously at me, reaches into her cleavage, and pulls out a joint.

“Would you….” She waggles her brows. “Care to join me?”

“Thanks, but no,” I smile and shake my head. “It’s just not my thing.”

“No worries,” Michelle shrugs.

I glance over my shoulder, looking for Dante again as the dark, intrusive thoughts involving my sister start to filter back in.

He was there the night she died. The night she overdosed on a drug she’d never taken before.

And Dante married her, sealed her medical records, and stonewalled our family.

I swallow weakly as I smile at Michelle. “You know what? I won’t have any, but if you’re going outside…I could use some air.”

She grins. “Awesome! Come on, I know a spot.”

She leads me out of the crowded main hall of MOMA and down a side hallway. There’s a security guard at the end of it, but he seems to know her, and waves us through with a knowing wink.

Part of me is beyond shocked that I’m following a literal stranger someplace random where she’s going to smoke weed. But Michelle seems nice, and she does know my brothers.

We round a corner and get to a big glass door that leads out to a dimly lit, beautifully landscaped little courtyard. Michelle slips the joint between her lips as she holds the door open for me.

“It’s a little chilly, sorry,” she mumbles as I step out.

I laugh lightly. “We’ll see how long I last⁠—”

I turn to see her suddenly yanking the door shut and hear the click of a lock turning: her still inside, me outside in the cold.

“What are you doing?!”

My heart climbs into my throat as Michelle leers at me and lights the joint, slowly taking a puff and exhaling a thin stream of smoke against the glass toward my face.

What the fuck?

My mouth opens as if to voice that very question out loud, when a man’s voice breaks the silence from behind me.

“Don’t mind Michelle.”

I gasp, whirling to see Renata’s son Silvio Bonpensiero. My face pales as he shuffles out of the shadows. Bandages still cover one side of his face.

“My older sister is a tiny bit overprotective of me,” he grins darkly, moving toward me. I try to move backward, but I’m stopped by the cold glass of the door.

“Funny, she doesn’t like it when people smash fucking cocktail glasses over my head,” Silvio growls, his face contorting with rage. “And neither. Do. I…”