Devil’s Lily: A Dark Mafia Romance (Nightshades Book 1)

“No, Elira.” My bodyguard, Dren, plants himself in front of me, arms spread wide as if he’s trying to contain a wild animal. Which, honestly? Not far off. My heart’s pounding a desperate drum of freedom-freedom-freedom.

I roll my eyes, mustering every ounce of princess-y disdain I can manage. Time for plan B—or as I like to call it, the old switcheroo. I spin on my heel, the picture of dejected obedience, shoulders slumped just enough to be convincing. That’s right. I’m going back to my room. Good obedient Elira.

Three, two, one…

The second I sense Dren’s guard dropping, I whirl back around and duck under his arms, darting past him like a rabbit escaping a cage. The marble floors of our mansion-slash-prison are cold under my feet as I sprint away, my red curls a wild corona around my face.

“Elira!” Dren’s voice cracks with that edge of panic I’ve heard too many times before. But I don’t listen. I’m done listening to what I’m supposed to and not supposed to do. At least for today.

Because it’s my twenty-first birthday, for crying out loud. I’m an adult now, not the helpless girl I was ten years ago. If I can’t taste freedom today, then when?

You’re the princess, El. You need to be kept safe from our enemies. My brother, Roan’s voice echoes in my head like it always does when I’m about to rebel against our father’s dictatorship. But this time, I don’t listen to it either. It wasn’t my fault what happened all those years ago, so why should I keep paying for it?

I make it halfway down the hall before it dawns on me—wait… no footsteps? Skidding to a stop, I glance back to see Dren standing where I left him, arms crossed, face set in an expression that screams I’m too old for this shit. The sight makes me grin; he looks so done with my antics.

“Well?” I call back, pushing my red curls out of my face. “Are you coming with me or not?”

“Your father is going to kill us both,” he mutters under his breath, but he starts walking towards me anyway.

“Probably,” I agree cheerfully, already heading for the sweeping staircase that leads to my atë’s office. “But think how boring your day would’ve been otherwise!”

I bounce down the steps, sliding a little on the polished marble, the thrill of rebellion making me giddy. Yet, as I near the office, the excitement gives way to a tightening knot in my stomach.

“What?!” Atë’s voice booms through the door as we approach, and I walk faster, pressing my ear to the wood to catch the voice replying in low Albanian. It’s Gjon, his second-in-command.

“Unfortunately, Leonotti was at the harbor when our shipment arrived, and he had his men check through the container to make sure we weren’t smuggling people in. That’s when he came across the weapons.”

“That son of a bitch.” A violent thud follows Atë’s curse, and I can almost see his fist hitting his desk. I shift against the frame, eager to hear every detail, and my gaze accidentally meets Dren’s disapproving frown. I glance away wordlessly. I know I shouldn’t be listening to this, but I’m so tired of being kept in the dark.

“He’s refused my request for a meeting. He’s not going to give in, Afrim. We need to do something drastic and—” Gjon trails off, and my interest piques. I lean closer, ear practically glued to the door now. Is he whispering? Why can’t I⁠—

The door suddenly yanks open, and I stumble forward with a very un-princess-like yelp. My hands flail out, trying to catch myself, but Gjon’s iron grip clamps onto my wrist, hauling me upright before I can hit the floor. Ugh, not that I’m grateful; I’d rather face-plant than let him touch me.

Before I can complain, he’s dragging me deeper into the office, sneering down at me, “Eavesdropping, princess?”

The way he says it makes my skin crawl. When Roan calls me that, it’s wrapped in affection and love, so I don’t mind it. But Gjon’s tone is just pure mockery, and I hate it. I flatten my lips, raising my chin in that arrogant way I’ve noticed pisses people off, and stare down my nose at him.

“No. I simply wanted to talk to my atë. But you yanked the door open before I could knock. Why did you do that? What if I got hurt?” I frown in censure, satisfaction blooming as his eyes darken ominously.

“Let her go, Gjon,” Atë says wearily. His green eyes meet mine, exhaustion etched in every line of his face. “What is it, Elira?”

Gjon releases me with a contemptuous scoff, and I shake my arm, fighting the urge to scrub at the skin where he touched me as I walk towards my atë’s desk. The dark circles under his eyes make my heart clench. “Did you get enough sleep last night? What about your⁠—”

“Elira.” His sharp tone cuts me off before I can ask about his medication. His gaze flicks pointedly to our little audience. “Gjon and I were in the middle of an important meeting. What’s this about?”

Oh… He doesn’t remember.

I blink back the sudden sting of tears, cursing myself for caring so much. Even Roan, who’s currently somewhere in Long Island, remembered to send me a text. But my own father… who’s right here? I inhale sharply and steel myself. “Today’s my birthday. I want to go outside.”

Behind me, Gjon practically chokes like I’ve just cursed out the gods. If I weren’t fighting back tears, I might have enjoyed it more. But let him choke.

Atë’s eyes narrow, but I don’t miss the flash of contrition in them. “Happy birthday, angel,” he finally says, and despite him forgetting, my heart lifts at the endearment. He studies my face with a little furrow between his brows before his gaze shifts over my head. “Take the jeep, Dren. Have Anton and three other men go with you.”

Wait. What? I blink. Did he just…? No freaking way. Freedom—actual, beyond-the-compound freedom—just handed to me? A wide grin stretches across my face, and before I can stop myself, I’m circling the desk to throw my arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

He pats my back awkwardly, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the affection I’m throwing at him. When I pull away, something warm flickers in his eyes, but his gaze once again moves behind me, and the moment passes. That’s just how he is. My father’s not one to show affection or say sweet words, especially not in front of others. Because, in his world, any display of emotion might make him appear weak.

I don’t really mind, though. I know he loves me, even if that love has become suffocating as I’ve grown older. His overbearing protectiveness and his reluctance to let me out of our compound—it’s all rooted in love, twisted as it may be. Honestly, it’s a miracle he even agreed to let me go out this easily today. I was ready to fight him, to manipulate him with my tears if I had to. But here we are—he’s actually saying yes, and I’m so not about to question it.

I skip out of his office before he can change his mind and practically float up the stairs with anticipation rushing through my veins. In my room, I make a beeline for my closet and dive right in, pushing aside clothes like a treasure hunter searching for gold. Five years. It’s been five freaking years since I’ve been beyond our compound’s walls. Last time, I was sixteen on Roan’s twenty-first birthday, when we snuck out for what was supposed to be a night of harmless fun. Instead, some idiot catcalled me, Roan broke his nose, and suddenly I was back to being Rapunzel in her tower.

Atë was so angry when he found out that he tightened the security around me even more, which is so unfair. Roan was the one who got into the fight, yet he didn’t lose his outside privileges like I did—not that I had those privileges to start with. But after that, sneaking out became impossible.

Now, a taste of real freedom is finally within reach! Well, freedom with a five-man security detail, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.

At last, I settle on a pair of black skinny jeans, a sleek camisole, and a leather jacket that screams badass. The finishing touch: the black leather boots Roan got me for Christmas, still spotless from only being worn around the house. Time for you to see the real world, babies.

I twirl in front of my full-length mirror, admiring the girl staring back. She looks dangerous, ready for anything. Free. One last glance, then I’m out of my walk-in closet, bouncing outside my bedroom where Dren is waiting for me by the door.

His usual stern expression softens just a fraction when he sees my barely contained joy. “That happy?”

A vigorous nod is all I can manage. Then with a giddy laugh, I dash outside and, unable to help myself, do a spontaneous little dance. A quick twirl, a few goofy steps—just because I can—before hopping into the back of one of the Range Rovers. My phone is already in hand, fingers flying to text Roan.

ME: Guess who just got permission to live it up OUTSIDE on her twenty-first birthday? This girl!

I drop my phone face down onto the seat as I lean back and glance out the window during the long drive up to the tall gates of our compound. Roan’s currently in Long Island on our paternal uncle’s territory to learn how to better expand our hold here in Queens. I miss him so much it aches.

After the playground accident ten years ago—the one that cost Mama her life and made me a prisoner in my own home—my uncle and father had a huge falling out. Then two years later, we all moved out here, even though I always hear Atë murmuring about the Italians blocking his way, making everything hard for him.

But right now, none of that matters.

The gates slowly part, and my heart leaps into my throat. My face almost smashes against the window as the outside world unfolds before me. Our pristine, suburban neighborhood comes into view, looking bigger, brighter than I remember. The houses sit farther back from the road, each spaced out with pretty little gardens. A few even have gates, though none as imposing as ours. None as much of a prison. This… this is what freedom looks like. Wow!

“Where to, birthday girl?” Dren asks from the passenger side, his voice light but not fooling anyone with how tense he looks.

“Nowhere. Everywhere.” I grin at him, my mind racing with possibilities. “I want to see it all—downtown Flushing where I’ve read everything seems to happen at once, Forest Hills, Astoria. Heck, let’s leave Queens in the dust and hit Manhattan or Brooklyn!”

I’m finally outside, and knowing my father, this might be my one shot for the next five years, so I’m set on exploring every inch of this city and beyond. A bitter laugh suddenly bubbles up. Funny how my name literally means freedom, but I’ve never been free.

Anton and Dren share a look, clearly thinking I’ve lost my mind. Typical. With an exaggerated eye roll, I say, “Park the car.”

Dren’s head whips around, his eyes wide like I’ve just asked him to hijack a plane. Actually, he’d probably freak out less about that. “What?”

A second eye roll threatens to surface, but I stifle it. They need to get it together. I’m serious about this, damn it. “You heard me. Park the car, Anton. I want to drive.”

Anton’s gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror, and for a moment, I think he’s about to tell me no. But then he pulls over, and I try not to bounce in excitement as I slip into the driver’s seat. Victory! I make a point to ignore the identical blacked-out Range Rover slowing down behind us. The rest of my entourage are there. But whatever. Let them follow. I’m outside. And now I’m driving.

The seat, mirrors—everything needs adjusting, of course. I huff under my breath about ridiculously tall men as I fiddle with every lever, button, and knob, shifting things until they feel just right.

Then comes the best part. I twist the key, and as the engine purrs to life, so does something wild inside me. Slowly, I pull away from the curb, wiggling and giggling in my seat like a crackhead. Roan would get a kick out of this. I love him so much.

A silent thank you goes out to him for all those secret driving lessons in the compound. If it were left up to Atë, I’d be completely clueless about half the stuff I know. But Roan refused to let our father’s rules hold me back. He taught me how to drive, how to fight, how to hotwire a car, shoot a gun—yeah, don’t tell anyone that part—and basically a lot of other things that would make Atë lose his mind to find out about. Roan’s not just my brother, he’s my best friend. My partner in crime.

Damn, I wish he were here.

But there’s no time to dwell. I shake myself off before my excitement can fade and press down on the gas, laughing maniacally when Dren’s hand shoots up to the handlebar above his window, white-knuckled. Behind me, Anton starts muttering what sounds suspiciously like a prayer.

Their sheer terror only feeds the adrenaline surging through me, and I slam the pedal down harder as we hit a stretch of open road with no traffic.

I don’t know these streets, since I’ve only ever driven around our compound, so I let instinct guide me for the first hour, zipping through street after street until they blur together. I’m pretty sure I’ve turned us around a few times, but who’s keeping track? Every new road is an adventure.

Eventually, I slow down to take in the bustling sidewalks and the various buildings clustered together. So many people, all going about their lives. Free to go wherever they want. Must be nice.

“You wanted to go to Flushing? Welcome to Flushing,” Anton says dryly from the backseat.

I drink in the streets with fresh eyes. So this is Flushing. I glance at the blend of modern and older historic buildings, glass-frosted malls, and the mishmash of commercial buildings. It’s chaotic, alive, and it hits me all at once. My heart swells. I love it.

Rolling down the window at a red light, I stick my head out, letting the city air—exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, and who knows what else—fill my lungs. “Everybody, it’s my birthday!”

“For Christ’s sake, Elira,” Dren groans like I’m giving him an ulcer, but whatever. Somebody on the street yells at me to shut the fuck up, another flips me off, while everyone else simply keeps moving, heads down, too caught up in their own worlds to care about some crazy redhead yelling about her birthday. My grin threatens to split my face as I bounce in my seat. Best. Day. Ever.

I take a few more turns until we find ourselves in a quieter neighborhood. The energy shifts immediately. Anton goes rigid behind me, and from my peripheral, I catch Dren’s hand sliding into his jacket, where I know his gun is. I frown at him, then promptly put it out of my mind as I observe the street. The buildings here are newer, and with that understated elegance that screams money—or rather whispers, ‘we’re rich but pretending not to be’.

My stomach lets out an angry growl, reminding me it’s been way too long since breakfast, and I glance at the dashboard. 12:18 PM.

Oh no. I’m starving, but this looks like a residential area. Not exactly brimming with places to—wait. There. Just up ahead, a brownstone building catches my eye. Four stories tall, with deep blue awnings over the glass windows, pretty black railings, and most importantly, the unmistakable sign of a restaurant.

Mughetto’s. Next to the name is a picture of a pretty flower with numerous white bell-shaped bulbs drooping down from its green stem: lily of the valley. I smirk, feeling way too proud of myself for recognizing it, all thanks to that random botanical book I flipped through in the library when I was bored a few months ago. Who knew it would actually come in handy!

I slow down, scanning for a parking spot, but after a minute, I just give up and pull right in front of the restaurant. Twisting the key in the ignition, I shut off the engine.

“Elira, no. Let’s go somewhere else,” Dren says, his voice edged with warning. “Start the car. Now.”

I give him a long look, then glance back at Anton, who also seems fidgety. What’s with these two?

“No,” I say firmly. “You can’t tell me no today, Dren. Atë gave his permission for this excursion, so unless you have a good reason, if I want to eat some pizza or pasta at this lily-of-the-valley restaurant, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

I wait, but he only grinds his jaw in silence. So, with a decisive nod, I pop open my door and step out. A chorus of doors follows as my security team reluctantly falls in line.

“Elira, please you have to—” Dren’s protest dies when I push open the restaurant’s glass door. Chin up, I strut right in to the sound of cursing behind me. Part of me wants to know what has him so spooked, but a bigger part is tired of always being told what to do, where to go, how to live. He can’t just say ‘you can’t go in there’ without giving me a real reason—and I doubt he has one that would stop me today.

The interior is stunning—just as gorgeous as the outside promised. Gleaming hardwood floors, soft brown walls adorned with more lily of the valley paintings, and immaculate wooden tables paired with cushioned chairs. Classy. Elegant. My stomach rumbles in approval.

However, it’s also empty.

Well, almost.

I go still as my gaze meets those of about eight or so muscular men sitting around a large table at the back. Oh. Their surprise mirrors my own, and as one, they rise to their feet.

All except one.

The man still seated raises one strong masculine hand, fingers crooked in what must be some sort of silent command. Instantly, the others sit back down, though they remain tense, eyes pinned on me like predators watching prey. But do I feel like prey? Hardly. I feel more like the one on the hunt.

Because I can’t tear my gaze off him, the one obviously in charge. My throat dries up, and I almost swallow my tongue. Sweet Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. That’s a face that’s broken many hearts—and probably a few bones too.

Hair black as midnight is cropped close to his nape and ruthlessly smoothed back from his temples, leaving nothing to distract from that carved-from-stone face. Total Greek god vibes. Chiseled jawline, sharp nose, full lips that should come with a warning label, and eyes—dark, intense, dripping with sin. He’s the full package. And though he’s currently sitting, I can tell he’s tall. The navy suit shirt he’s wearing, minus the jacket, stretches across the muscular frame of his broad chest and thick arms like it was created specifically for him. His tie is neatly knotted, but the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing a smattering of tattoos climbing up from his wrist. Yeah, he’s a walking contradiction of polished and raw.

He leans back in his seat, all casual, those dark eyes doing their own assessment of me, and even if I hadn’t just seen him command eight men without a single word, the power rolling off him is impossible to miss. It’s almost electric—buzzing, alive, filling every inch of space around him.

Actually, now that I think about it, he’s the opposite of me in every way. Not that I’m ugly, far from it, but I mean the features. Where I’m pale, he’s blessed with tanned skin, and where I barely have any control over my own life, he’s clearly the master of his domain and everyone in it. That combined with his devastating handsome looks sets every nerve in my body tingling.

As I watch, he lifts a tumbler of deep brown liquid—whiskey, if I had to guess—at me in a silent cheer before taking a slow sip.

Heat infuses my body, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, sending my heart into a wild drumbeat as I walk deeper into the restaurant and slide into one of the many empty seats. Behind me, the familiar shuffle of boots signals my guards filing in, surrounding me in their usual protective formation.

My handsome guy’s gaze flickers to them, and for a fraction of a second, I catch the briefest flash of something crossing his too-calm face. Annoyance? Recognition? Whatever it is, his expression smooths out so quickly it’s almost like I imagined it. Almost.

Ohh, but that tiny crack in his armor… I love it.

When his dark, smoldering eyes return to mine, a delicious thrill zips through me.

My twenty-first birthday just got a whole lot more exciting.