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

The moment I hear the front door open, my heart does this ridiculous little flutter and my feet start moving of their own accord. I make it halfway to the doorway before my brain catches up with my body.

What. The. Heck? Since when do I jump like an eager puppy when he walks through that door?

Hello? Earth to brain: He’s the enemy.

Marco shoots me a questioning frown as I pivot mid-stride and force myself to walk—don’t run, don’t bounce, just walk—back to the couch with as much dignity as I can muster. Sitting down requires a delicate maneuver thanks to the plug in my ass that’s been my constant companion—and tormentor—these past days.

Footsteps echo louder, and damn it, my traitorous heart speeds up again. I glance at the doorway with anticipation.

Maximo appears, but he’s not alone. The parade behind him makes my brows climb towards my hairline. There’s a vaguely familiar older man, followed by two girls who look about my age, wheeling in a tall cloth rack bursting with designer dresses. And—good grief—half of Maximo’s men trail in with another cloth rack, a gleaming full-length mirror on wheels, and their arms strained under mountains of shopping bags.

“What in the world is all this?” I ask Maximo, rising slowly from the couch, proud that my voice comes out steady despite the circus unfolding in front of me.

“A sudden dinner event came up for tomorrow evening, so we need to get you some appropriate attire,” he answers as he walks into the living room with the crowd of people close at his heels.

“But I already have more than enough clothes in the closet.” The closet that you filled without asking, I want to add, but bite my tongue. We still haven’t had that conversation about him just buying clothes for me and dropping those extravagant gifts from my birthday in the closet. We should have talked about it, damn it. Maybe it would have curbed this fashion invasion.

Once the racks and mirror are wheeled into the room and the shopping bags carefully placed next to them, Maximo’s men make a swift exit. Marco gives me a small nod that somehow manages to convey both sympathy and amusement before following them out, leaving me alone with Maximo, the older man, and the two models-slash-assistants.

“This is a special occasion that requires a very special dress. Come on.” Maximo places a hand on the small of my back and guides me to the sofa, helping me sit before dropping down next to me.

The older man selects two dresses from the rack and hands them to the girls. I watch in confusion as they accept them with nervous glances in my direction. “Where can we change, ma’am?”

Ma’am? The title jars me for a second. They look about my age—or maybe even a little older? “Change?” I ask dumbly.

With an air of rehearsed elegance, the older man steps forward. “Hello, Mrs. Leonotti, I’m Fergio Dupont, owner of Dupont’s boutique down at East Flushing. These are Meghan and Paige. They’re here to try out the dresses for you, so you may choose one you like without the hassle of changing into them yourself. And don’t worry, they’re your exact size.”

I stare at Mr. Dupont, then at the girls. They’re going to model the dresses? For me? What alternate universe have I stumbled into?

“There’s a guest bathroom over there.” Maximo points to the powder room by the stairs, and the girls scurry off, clutching the dresses like they’re on some high-stakes fashion mission.

My jaw drops as I look between Maximo, Mr. Dupont, the dress racks, and the shopping bags. “This is too much, Maximo.” Sure, my father is rich, but this? This is next-level extravagance. I’d always ordered new clothes online and dealt with alterations through shipping labels if needed.

I didn’t realize designer stores go to clients’ houses and model their items for them in a private runway show. Is this how the top 1% lives?

I’m still trying to process it all, when the girls strut back out, twirling to give me a full view of the dresses. Both dresses—one midnight black and the other a dusty pink—are beautiful but have a distinctly corporate feel. Maximo vetoes them before I can even form an opinion.

As the girls prepare for round two, Maximo gets up from the couch with a murmured excuse. I frown as I watch him go, then eye the bags.

“What are in those bags, Mr. Dupont? More dresses?”

“Please, call me Fergio, ma’am.” His grin sparkles as he lifts one bag and brings it towards me. “And these aren’t more dresses—they’re accessories.” He opens it and I gasp at the pretty pair of silver Jimmy Choos. With a conspiratorial wink, he waves at the rest of the bags. “All accessories.”

My mind spins at the sheer excess. Maximo really thought of everything—except telling me where we’re going for the dinner and what it’s all about. That would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

The girls return in new gowns just as Maximo makes his way into the living room holding a bottle of wine by the neck. He gives them one glance and shakes his head.

“What? Why? They look really nice!” I push myself up from the couch, ignoring the delicious reminder between my legs as I follow him to the kitchen. His frown deepens as he works the wine bottle open, and I brush past him to take out the wine glasses, rinsing them before handing them over.

He pours the red liquid generously, then turns to Fergio. “Care for some?”

The store owner declines with a polite shake of his head.

Maximo hands me my glass and studies me critically. “This is not going to work.”

“If you had told me before bringing Fergio and company all the way here, I could have told you that myself,” I point out, gesturing upstairs. “There are literally dozens of dresses in my closet I can wear.”

“Not that.” He shoots a look back at the girls as they parade back in. “You may all leave. You too, Fergio. No, leave everything here. We’ll choose on our own.”

I gape at him. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You need to wear them yourself so we can see the full vision,” he tells me as Fergio and his staff make their exit, leaving their fashion arsenal behind.

I roll my eyes at him, even as my stomach flips. “So, what? You want me to model the dresses for you?”

He snaps his fingers. “Exactly.” Then he’s in my space, thumb grazing my cheek, sending my heart pounding and core clenching. “Finish your wine.”

He grabs his glass and the bottle, taking them back into the living area with him. There, he sets everything down on the coffee table before moving to the racks with a serious, almost intimidating focus, like he’s planning a tactical operation instead of choosing a dress.

With a sigh, I join him in inspecting the dresses. Because what else can I do? “Maybe if you tell me who we’re meeting with and where, I can get an idea of what to go for. I mean, believe it or not, I’ve been dressing myself for over a decade now.”

He glances at me briefly but turns back to the rack, shifting materials around as he answers absently, “Rafael has invited us to dinner. I know you’ll impress him naturally, but he needs to respect you the moment he sees you and⁠—”

The rest of his words fade into static. “What?” I ask, tightening my grip on my wine glass. He wants me to meet the king of New York City?

He tosses me another brief glance, as if that little detail is no big deal. “It’s fine, it’s not just us. My brothers will be there too.”

Oh, right, because adding his two equally intimidating brothers to the dinner somehow makes it better. He might have said that in an attempt to calm me down, but it only makes my anxiety worse. Not only am I meeting the most feared man in the NYC’s underground, but I’m getting the full collection of nightmares. A regular family dinner with the three most dangerous men in the city? Fantastic.

“You’re taking me to meet the Nightshades?” My voice comes out flat, fear strangling any inflection.

That gets his full attention. He stops and looks at me, his expression softening as he takes in whatever he sees on my face. “Hey, you’re going to be fine. You’re married to one of them, after all, and you’ve held your own with me.”

“But that’s different. You’re different,” I blurt out without thinking, and something dark flashes in his eyes as he gives me a slow, knowing smile, his dimples winking at me.

Oh no. Why did I say that?

“Oh, am I?” His voice drops to a silky murmur, and suddenly he’s there, in my space again, his fingers fisting in my hair, tilting my head back. “Tell me more about how I’m different.”

My heart hammers at the predatory look in his eyes as he leans forward and nibbles my chin. “Tell me everything.”

I gasp when he licks down my neck. Then I’m spun around until my back is pressed to his chest and I’m facing our reflection in the mirror. His hand snakes up to collar my throat, possessive but gentle. “Drink your wine before you spill it on the floor, dolcezza.”

I meet his gaze in the mirror as I lift my glass, my pulse racing wildly under his palm. As I swallow, his hand follows the movement along my throat, and his eyes go impossibly darker. “Such a siren. You tempt me beyond measure.” His words ghost against my ear before his lips claim the shell of it.

I can’t hold it together anymore. My body goes limp against him. His grip loosens, just enough to let his lips wander lower, tracing the curve of my neck. And then—oh hell—he bites. A sharp, searing bite right on the sensitive flesh. Electricity surges through me, and the wine glass slips from my suddenly useless fingers as I arch back into him with a shameless moan.

The glass shatters on the floor, but I barely register it.

Maximo lifts his head, smirking at me in the mirror as he steps back. “We can continue this later. For now, you need to pick a dress.”

Then he walks away like nothing happened, leaving me standing here, gasping, trying to catch my breath and settle my heartbeat. How does he do that? How can he be so unaffected? My eyes fall to the broken glass dazedly.

“Why are you just standing there? Choose a dress.”

I glance back to see him return with a broom and dustpan. “Move along so the shards don’t hurt you,” he says as he carefully sweeps up the evidence of my weakness. Then he goes to dispose of it in the trash and return the cleaning tools.

When he walks back in, he finds me running my fingers over the delicate, expensive fabrics of the stunning evening gowns.

“You’ve not decided yet? Choose one, wife, or I’ll be forced to make the choice for you.”

“Don’t rush me,” I murmur, but my protest loses its bite when his arm drapes possessively over my shoulder. A dangerous idea forms in my mind, and before I can stop myself, I’m speaking. “Actually, tell l you what, husband. You can pick whatever you like, and I’ll wear it. After all, it’s basically accessorizing your property. Me.”

Oh. The way his arm tightens around me and the sudden darkness in his eyes—I’ve struck a nerve. A good one. His voice comes out rough when he asks, “And what would you want in return?”

Clever man. “I didn’t say I want anything,” I tease, but suddenly I’m too nervous to tell him what I want. What if he says no and I end up ruining the lightheartedness of the moment? He simply raises a brow, clearly waiting for me to spill.

I sigh and take the plunge. “Fine. I want to call my father. I can use any of your burner phones, and I won’t tell him where I am. I just need him to know I’m okay,” I add in a rush.

He studies me silently, long enough for my heart to sink. He’ll say no, huh. But then he surprises me—he drops his hand from my shoulder and takes out his phone, unlocks it, and hands it over to me.

“Really?” I ask, lips parting in shocked disbelief. He gives me a soft, almost tender smile, taps the screen, and then puts it on speaker. I can hardly breathe as I accept the phone from his hand.

My pulse pounds in my ears through each ring. Three times, then⁠—

“What is it?” My father’s familiar voice fills the room.

“Atë?”

And just like that, I’m not Mrs. Leonotti anymore. I’m not the woman who just tried to seduce her captor-turned-husband with promises of submission. I’m just a daughter who misses her father, standing in a room full of designer dresses, trying not to cry.