Toxic Love: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance
Toxic Love: Chapter 33

Fifteen years ago:

Hope can die.

An inch from my toes, the cliff drops to the swirling black waves below. The wind howls in my ears, clawing its way down my back and chilling the cold hard lump knotted in my chest.

They said it would get better, “eventually”. Somehow, someday, I’m supposed to “get over” Claudia’s death.

No. Some wounds don’t heal. Some pain cuts too deep to bleed its way back out again.

My freshman year here at Knightsblood was supposed to be a new start after what happened to my sister. I’ve even got Carmy here with me. But coming here has only underscored what I’ve tried to overlook ever since my parents died and Vito took in my sisters and me: we may be living in a house that the mafia built, but we are not mafia.

I’m here at Knightsblood because of Vito’s influence, power, notoriety, and money. Carmine is, too. But the difference between us is blood. Every mafia-connected student at Knightsblood is here because of their parentage.

I’m only here because Vito called in favors, and every day I spend here highlights that even more.

It’s not as if Carmine and I don’t spend time together. It’s just that he’s got his own thing going on with other mafia heirs: other students that one day he’ll either do business with, or make war on.

That won’t be my future, though. So I find myself on the periphery, my soul still ripped into pieces from losing Claudia.

I’ve tried: God knows I’ve tried. For her. For myself. For Bianca, of course. For the Barone family, too, after all they’ve done for us.

But sometimes trying isn’t enough. Sometimes, the harder you fight to keep your head above water, the quicker you tire and start to drown.

Interesting choice of words…

I glance down at the ocean beneath me and the cinderblock tied to my ankle. Arrangements have already been made. Bianca will get everything I have, including the letter I wrote to her last night. It’s not that I want to leave her alone—in fact, that’s the hardest part about going through with this.

It’s just that I can’t fight anymore.

I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m tired of it, tired of the endless pain in my heart whenever I think about Claudia and the horrible way she died.

Besides, what am I going to do with my life? Work for Carmine when he takes over as don?

I exhale slowly and tap my toe against the cinderblock.

“Dude…what are you doing?”

My head whips around at the soft, feminine voice. The girl is my age, maybe a year older, with big hazel-green eyes, dark hair, and an elfin chin. Her gaze drops to the cinderblock, and the rope, and the cliff behind me.

I don’t answer for a few seconds. I just stand there, studying this curious girl I’ve never met, but who is probably a fellow student, given the hoodie she’s wearing with the university emblem on it.

“Terrible way to do it, incidentally.”

“Excuse me?” I growl.

“It’s low tide right now, so the water’s maybe…eight feet deep?”

I just glare at her.

“If you went without the cinderblock, the waves would probably slam you against the cliffs hard enough to knock you out or straight up smash your brains in. Or carry you out further where you could drown properly.”

I lift a brow, still silent. This girl is fucking weird.

“But if you go with the stone, it’s going to anchor you. And you’re what, six feet?”

“Six-two,” I mutter.

“There you go. You’ll be tethered by the ankle. And that rope is like a foot and a half long, maybe, so you won’t even be underwater. You’ll just be stuck there until the tide goes out a little more, and then comes back in. So it’ll be slow, and really cold. Also, decent chance of breaking your leg on the way down, for what that’s worth. I’m just saying.”

I can’t stop staring at her. “You’re kinda weird.”

She arches a brow. “Dude, I’m not the one trying to commit suicide by cliff-jumping like some tragic Jane Austen character.”

The corners of my mouth curl up slightly.

“What is it?” she prods. “Grades? You get dumped?”

When I don’t answer, she shrugs.

“Whatever it is, trust me, it’s not that bad. You survived. You’re here, and you’re alive.”

“What’s so great about that?” I grunt.

“Umm… Not being dead?”

I smile slightly wider. Weird, but also fun. And interesting, in a curious way.

“I’m Layla, by the way. Layla Black.”

“Dante,” I growl quietly. “Sartorre.”

I look away over the ocean, the call of the abyss getting fainter.

“I wasn’t really going to jump.”

Layla smirks. “No?”

“Nah. Just taking my pet cinderblock for a walk.”

The smirk turns into a grin. “Good. I feel like he could use it. He’s looking chonky.”

“Bastard just can’t say no to cookies.”

She grins again, pulling a pack of American Spirit cigarettes—the light blue kind—from her hoodie pocket. “Want one?”

“No way. Those things’ll kill you.”

She glances significantly at the rock tied to my ankle.

“Touche. Thanks, I’ll take one.”

We sit in silence about a foot away from the edge of the cliff, quietly smoking and looking out over the black waves. When we’re done our cigarettes, I realize the rock is untied from my ankle, and I don’t even remember which of us did it.

We stand, and she shakes my hand as if she’s just sold me a used car.

“Well, nice to meet you, Dante Sartorre.”

“Likewise, Layla Black.”

She grins. “Have fun walking your rock.”

“Thanks.”

She turns and starts to walk away. When she’s maybe twenty feet from me, she turns and nods her chin.

“Hey, Dante?”

“Yeah?”

She shrugs. “Don’t go over the edge, okay? There’s a whole world out there.”

Thirteen years ago:

Sometimes, the darkness and sadness that grips your heart come from something so visceral, it’s like a slap in the face. It’s impossible to ignore, and it drives you to do reckless, stupid, hopeless things…like stand on cliff edges with cinderblocks tied to your ankle.

Other times, like in Layla’s case, that darkness just sort of…happens. And there’s no telling when, or how hard it’ll hit.

Depression is a motherfucker.

So is addiction.

The machines looming over Layla’s hospital bed beep rhythmically. I grit my teeth so hard it hurts as I stand there looking down at my best friend.

She looks so frail. So weak. Almost lifeless already.

How the fuck did it come to this?

Layla’s always said she has an addictive personality. I’ve seen that clearly over the two years that we’ve been friends. Cigarettes are the big one. But also guys who should’ve treated her so much better. And no, it’s not a jealousy thing on my part, seeing Layla date shitheads who treat her like dirt. It’s…protectiveness.

Layla is objectively speaking a very pretty girl, but there’s nothing between us. And nobody on campus would assume we were an item, because we hang out in private.

Not because either of us is ashamed of the other or anything. It’s just that she’s got her own world, with her own friends and her brothers Gabriel and Alistair, and I’ve got mine, with Carmy and Nico, and the other mafia types.

Layla says our platonic relationship is because I remind her of her brothers in different ways. She also says it’s because she’s my “wish dot com version of Claudia”, which feels somehow disrespectful to both her and my dead sister, and yet is also hilarious.

Hilarious.

I look down at the shell of a girl lying half-dead in the hospital bed.

No one’s laughing anymore. Because Layla’s addictive personality finally found its match, after getting bored with cigarettes and terrible boyfriends.

A year ago, Layla found heroin.

I will forever hate the day she did.

It’s not the first time she’s taken too much. I shot her full of adrenaline and drove her to a walk-in clinic when I found her in pretty bad shape once. I’ve put her into rehab twice.

I’ve almost told her brothers a hundred times. But I haven’t, because she’s begged me over and over not to. Layla’s never wanted her family to know about her demons.

I’ve wrestled with that ever since I found out about her addiction: telling them and potentially getting her more help, at the cost of losing her friendship. It’s a trade I’d be willing to make, for her sake. But she’s also not above bringing up that night we met at the cliff, and the way she saved my life.

So I’ve always kept silent.

Today, I fucking hate myself for it.

Things don’t look good. Her heart is shot: the surface has become infected. The doctor told me half an hour ago that it would take a miracle for her to see tomorrow, and suggested I start saying my goodbyes.

Layla’s eyelids slowly flutter open, and she makes a dry choking sound. I quickly grab the water from the bedside table and bring the straw to her parched lips.

After she swallows, her head sinks back into the pillow, a pained expression on her face. She turns away from me.

“I fucked up, didn’t I, Dante?”

When I don’t say anything, she glances back at me.

“How bad?”

This time it’s me that looks away.

“Shit,” she murmurs quietly. Tears bead in her eyes as she swallows thickly. “Fuck, Alistair and Gabriel are going to be so fucking angry at me for this.”

“You can get better,” I hiss. “You’re not going to⁠—”

“Dante.”

Her face is pained as she struggles to lift her hand to mine. I reach for it, grabbing hers and squeezing.

“You’re not⁠—”

“I am,” she croaks, a wry smile on her face. “I can feel it.” She looks down, her head slowly shaking side to side. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, Layla, just rest. I called a specialist in New York. He’s going to be here tomorrow⁠—”

“But I won’t be.” She looks up at me, her eyes no longer sad, just resigned. “I’m sorry I made you cover up my sins,” she whispers.

“It’s fine,” I grunt. “Don’t worry about it.”

She sighs. “And my God…Tempest. What the fuck is my sister going to think when she learns about this?”

I fight back tears as I grip her hand tighter.

“Dante.”

“Yeah.”

Layla’s face twists into something between a smile and sadness. “There’s something else. No one else knows, but I want you to.”

She starts to cry.

“I’m pregnant.”

Holy. Fuck.

I blink quickly, my breath coming faster.

“It’s early,” she says quietly, her face twisting in pain. “It’s super early…”

I hold her as she cries, cradling her against my chest as she sobs out her pain.

“Jason?” I growl.

She nods against me, and my face turns furious.

Her dealer.

Her scumbag, piece of shit dealer who she’s also been “sort of dating”. He’s the motherfucker who led her from cocaine to fucking heroin. And now he’s knocked her up just in time for her to overdose.

I’m going to fucking kill him with my bare fucking hands.

Literally.

“Dante, please,” she murmurs when I start to shake with rage. “Just…” she exhales. “I want it to be you that tells them. My siblings, I mean. Wait until I’m gone, because I’m way too much of a coward to face them about this myself. But when I’m⁠—”

“What if they never knew.”

She looks up at me. “About?”

“About any of it.”

She chews on her chapped lower lip, her face gaunt and gray. “How? I mean Alistair and Gabriel are my closest family. They’ll be told the second they walk in⁠—”

“What if you had other, closer family.”

She frowns. “I don’t get what you’re⁠—”

“What if you married me.”

The room is quiet but for the beeping of the machines keeping her alive.

“Ha-ha,” she says dryly. “Deathbed jokes. You never cease to surprise me⁠—”

“I’m not joking.” I lean closer. “If we were married, I could legally seal off your medical records, even from your siblings.”

She smiles wryly. “Heroin use is a felony, Dante,” she says quietly, her voice shaking. “I’m already in the system. The hospital was required to report it when I came in⁠—”

“Pregnancy isn’t.” I grit my teeth. “If you want, I can hide that part.”

She stares at me, her throat bobbing as her chest with the tubes coming out of it rises and falls.

“Why would you do that?” she croaks.

I hold her hand tighter. “Because you fucking saved me. And I can’t save you.” I choke out the last words, fury, rage, and sadness burning hot in my chest.

“If they ever do find out, they’ll all think it was you that knocked me up.”

“Yeah. But they won’t find out.”

“But if they do…”

She’s fading out again. Her eyes are losing focus and her pulse is getting weaker.

We’re doing this right now.

“They’ll hate you,” she whispers.

“Then they’ll hate me. Just say yes, Layla, and I’ll call the hospital chaplain and in-house lawyer right now.”

A tear trickles down her cheek as she grips my hand as tightly as she can, which isn’t very tightly at all.

“Yes,” she chokes out quietly. Then she nods, her eyes closing a little. “Better get that preacher, Dante,” she murmurs. “I don’t know how much longer you’ll have a bride with a pulse.”

I’m at the door when she calls my name again. “Oh, and Dante?” She opens her eyes and grins a sleepy smile at me. “Remember: don’t go over the edge, okay?”

Twenty minutes later, the documents are signed, and Layla is my wife.

Five minutes after that, I’m a widower.

An hour after that, I’m kicking in Jason’s front door and committing my first murder—with my bare hands, as promised.

And then I mourn the loss of my best friend, who saved me.

Whom I couldn’t save back.

Present:

Tempest is sobbing by the time I finish telling her everything. She collapses into my arms, clinging to me as she raises her tear-streaked face to mine and kisses me hard.

“You never said anything…” she sobs.

“I promised her,” I choke through clenched teeth. “I couldn’t break that.”

“So why now?”

I look away, my arms circling her tightly.

“Because your sister always used to tell me to not go over the edge. And going one more second without telling you the truth was going to be going over that edge.”

Tempest sinks into my arms as I hold her tight: our lips locked, our hearts beating together.

Two toxic souls crashing together.