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

Even though I try to reassure my father that I’m alright, he bulldozes right over my words, demanding I give the phone to ‘that bastard’. I guess he’s figured out I’m with Maximo.

“It’s fine, Atë. I’m fine, I promise. I just wanted to let you know not to worry.”

“It’s been two weeks, Elira.” His voice cracks with emotion that makes my chest ache. “Two weeks. Did he hurt you? I swear to God I’m going to kill him, I’m⁠—”

My eyes fly wide, and I take the phone off speaker so fast I nearly drop it. Maximo’s dark eyes dance with amusement as I spin away from him, pressing the phone close to my ear. “No, you won’t, Atë. Maximo is my husband now. He’s…” I swallow, surprising myself when I realize I mean what I’m about to say. “He’s family.”

When did my shotgun husband begin to mean something to me?

“I don’t want to hear that bullshit from you, you hear me? He kidnapped you! And then he killed my men.”

I throw a questioning glance at Maximo. That’s news to me. I didn’t realize he’d met my father. “I’m sure he had reason to do that. Did you threaten him?”

“What did you just say to me, Elira?! My God!” He explodes into Albanian, cursing and ranting. I bite my lip. This is bad. My father rarely curses in my presence; he’s always been careful about that. He must be out of his mind with worry about me.

“Atë, your blood pressure,” I whisper. “You need to take it easy.” I wince when he continues his tirade in rapid Albanian, his voice rising to drown out my attempts to speak. Maximo taps my shoulder, and I give him an apologetic look.

“Listen, I have to go. I’ll—I’ll try to call you again soon. I love you.” I quickly end the call before he can protest and hand Maximo back his phone. My chest aches like someone’s squeezing my heart, and tears burn behind my eyes. I stare at my hands, blinking furiously. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“He knows I have you already.” Maxim shrugs. “Now, come on. I’m going to choose your dress now, and don’t even try to back out of our deal.”

I smile faintly. “Never.”

Monica, the hair stylist-slash-makeup artist who showed up about two hours ago, steps back with a satisfied smile and spins my chair to face the mirror. “What do you think?”

My breath catches as I take in my reflection. Is this really me? I carefully reach up to touch the tips of my transformed hair, half-expecting my fingers to pass through an illusion.

She’s worked some kind of magic on my usually unruly curls. Instead of the tight ringlets I’m used to, they cascade down in loose, fat locks. A neat middle part now divides my hair, with the red curls styled in a half-up, half-down look, some falling over my right shoulder, settling just above my breasts.

“Wow,” I breathe, turning my head this way and that to admire my hair and the subtle yet sultry makeup she’s applied to my face. I don’t know what she did with the colors, but somehow, they make the green in my hazel eyes pop like emeralds.

“You like it?” she asks, and I can hear the hint of anxiety in her voice.

“I love it!” I return with a grin. “Thank you so much.”

Her relieved exhale makes me smile wider. “Awesome.”

Together, we turn our attention to the dark green, shimmery evening dress laid out on the bed—the dress, the one Maximo chose last night with that predatory gleam in his eyes that still makes my stomach flip just thinking about it. I get up from the chair, sighing with pleasure as she helps me into it.

The satin flows over my skin like water—a long, sexy V-neck with off-shoulder sleeves and a shimmer that catches the light with every small movement. The built-in cups hug my breasts perfectly, the fabric clinging from there to my upper waist where a thin band holds it in place before flaring out into a ball skirt that falls in dramatic folds to my ankles.

A daring slit climbs from the right ankle up to my upper thigh, and—best of all—hidden pockets. Nestled so seamlessly into the sides that they’re invisible but deep enough to be useful. Whoever designed this dress deserves a place in fashion heaven.

Once I’m zipped into the dress, Monica helps me back into the makeup chair, spinning it to face away from the mirror as she opens the mystery jewelry box next to her. Maximo took it from one of the numerous bags Fergio brought yesterday and wouldn’t let me peek inside because it’s supposed to be a surprise. But now… I sneak a look and inhale sharply at all the bling.

She lifts out a stunning necklace first—a delicate silver chain adorned with a big round, brilliant-cut diamond pendant that settles just above my cleavage. Next come the matching earrings: long, elegant, with a cascade of diamonds that dangle gracefully near my neckline.

I think perhaps that might be all, but no, there’s more. A diamond tennis bracelet is wrapped around my left wrist, competing with my wedding ring for the title of most dazzling. And on my right wrist, she fastens a slim, silver Rolex that makes me feel like I’m ticking with power.

As I’m about to stand—because surely that has to be it now, right?—Monica stops me. “Hold on, one last thing.” She takes out what looks like the world’s longest tennis bracelet. I’m about to ask where on earth that’s supposed to go when she starts weaving it in through my curls. Ah, not a bracelet after all, but some sort of hair accessory.

“All done now!” She gives me a delighted grin as she moves back to scoop up the silver Jimmy Choo heels and their matching clutch from the bed and kneels to help me slip on the shoes. Then I get up from her chair for the last time and take a deep breath before turning to face the mirror again.

My lips part in awe. The long tennis bracelet winds twice around my head at the end of my middle part, making it look like a headpiece. A sparkly little circlet. I twirl slowly, eyes wide with wonder, watching as my jewelry and dress shimmer like something out of a dream. A delighted giggle escapes me, and I spin again, completely caught up in the magic of it all.

I look like royalty. Regal. Cool.

“Well?” Monica asks, hands on her hips, grinning like a proud artist.

I grin back. “I can’t wait to see my husband’s reaction.”

Though, maybe that’s not such a good idea…

If he looks at me the way he did yesterday during the fitting, we might not make it to this dinner at all. My cheeks heat at the memory, and a tiny spark of nervous excitement twists in my belly.

Carefully, I follow Monica out of Maximo’s bedroom—which has somehow become our room—and down the stairs. The heels slow me down at first; it’s been years since I had any reason to wear them. Clutching the railing like my life depends on it, I descend step by step, already catching the deep rumble of Maximo’s voice coming from the living room.

When we enter, his back is to us, and he appears deep in conversation with Dante, who sees me first.

His reaction is priceless. He does a double take that nearly snaps his neck, his eyes bulging so wide I can’t hold back a giggle. The sound makes Maximo turn around in what feels like slow motion, and then he sees me.

Time. Stops.

Good lord. He’s wearing a tux with a cute dark green bow tie that matches my dress perfectly, and he looks good enough to eat. The way those pants fit his muscular thighs and the stretch of the jacket over his broad shoulders should be classified as a deadly weapon. I let out an embarrassingly dreamy sigh as he also takes me in and slowly approaches.

“Dolcezza, you take my breath away,” he murmurs, raising my left hand to press a lingering kiss on the inside of my palm. A delicious tingle jolts up my arm and spreads through my body. “Absolutely stunning.” His dark eyes are wolfish as he rises from my hand, making my knees weak with the promises they hold.

“You don’t look too shabby yourself,” I compliment through my racing heart. He chuckles, and those darned dimples appear like twin invitations to sin. I hold my clutch tighter so I don’t do something silly like try to trace those cute dips with my fingers.

“Come on, we should leave now if we want to make it on time.” He drops his hand to the small of my back and leads me to the elevator, with Marco and Dante on our heels.

At the basement level, a procession of four cars is already waiting for us, each flanked by fully armed men. Maximo opens the backdoor for me, and I slide in, scooting over for him—but he only shuts the door.

My jaw drops as I watch him walk away through the window and get into another car. “What’s going on?” I ask Marco, who’s climbing into the passenger seat.

“It’s a safety measure. In case we’re attacked on the way, you two won’t make easy targets for our enemy.”

Well, that’s reassuring. Exactly what a girl wants to hear when she’s dressed up like a queen—the possibility of getting shot at.

I glance back at Maximo’s car, my chest tightening with a mix of unease and… trust? It’s strange, but I already know he’ll do whatever it takes to keep me safe.

The cars pull out of the garage in perfect synchronization, and I rest my head against the window, careful not to ruin Monica’s masterpiece. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it? If we’re attacked, they’re not just going to pick random cars to shoot at, right?”

“No, but they won’t know which car you’re in,” Marco says. “And if you’re–you’re carrying an heir, we can quickly squire you to safety.”

An heir. My heart does a long pitter, and I drop a hand on my belly as I think about possibly getting pregnant, even though there’s no chance of that—thanks to the implant. But still, what he’s saying makes sense in a way. With this sort of precaution, the whole bloodline won’t get wiped out in one single incident.

And then another nervous punch hits me in the belly. One of those potential attackers could be my own father. His anger over the phone last night still feels fresh in my mind. I sigh, watching the scenery blur past as our cars pick up speed. What a mess. I’ll have to convince Maximo to let me call him again. Try to calm him down before he does something reckless.

The rest of the drive passes in heavy silence, and I try to talk myself out of my nervousness, but it doesn’t help. Without Maximo in the car with me, I feel so alone. Crap, when did I start depending on his presence?

All too soon, we’re going down another underground garage—this one even more secure. Armed men check us in like we’re entering a high-security vault, and I half expect them to demand retinal scans. The moment we’re parked, Maximo is out of his car and yanking my door open. His eyes search mine. “You good?” he asks as he helps me out.

I swallow, gripping his hand tightly. “I’m not sure.”

“You’ll be fine,” he assures, squeezing my hand once before his palm finds its home at the small of my back again.

We approach the elevator, flanked by two men holding assault rifles angled towards the ceiling. They dip their heads respectfully as Maximo pulls what looks like a key card from his jacket. He gives a curt nod and taps it on a panel, prompting the elevator doors to slide open with a soft ping. We walk in alone.

“What about the men?” I ask as the doors slide shut and the elevator begins its rapid ascent without us even selecting a floor.

“They’ll stay downstairs on alert with my brothers’ men.” His casual tone does nothing to settle the butterfly convention in my stomach. They’re all here already? I rub my slippery palms down the back of my dress and resist the urge to shove my hands into those glorious hidden pockets without looking ridiculous.

“You’ll be fine,” Maximo repeats, noting my nervousness and rubbing my back soothingly. But before I can draw comfort from his touch, the elevator stops and the doors open into what can only be described as the anteroom to heaven—or hell, depending on how this night goes.

We step out directly into a great room that is a striking mix of grandeur and simplicity. Soaring ceilings and pristine white walls give it the feel of an art gallery, while the large drooping gold chandelier, sparking with countless crystals, screams old-world opulence. The beige marble floors gleam like mirrors, making me grateful for Monica’s hour of heel-walking practice.

What catches my eye, though, are the paintings. Four massive flowers—an Iris, Lily of the Valley, Azaleas, and Tulips—burst from their frames in a vivid explosion of colors, breathing life into this stark monochromatic paradise. They’re mesmerizing, yet somehow threatening at the same time, like poisonous blooms in a deadly garden.

“Come on.” Maximo’s hand gently urges me forward.

We twist around the corner into the living room, and I forget how to breathe. My eyes are immediately drawn to the enormous brass arch windows spanning an entire wall, forming the illusion of Manhattan being right outside, bathed in the soft, golden hues of a setting sun. Without thinking, I step away from Maximo and float towards the windows, and for a moment I forget my nerves, forget where I am, forget everything except the breathtaking panorama.

“Stunning, right?”

It takes all my self-control not to jump at the deep, strange voice. My body goes rigid for a split second, then I turn slowly, my heart doing a frantic drumroll against my ribs, and find myself pinned by a pair of icy blue eyes that could freeze Hell itself.

The man is lounging on the oversized couch that fits the oversized room—explaining why I didn’t see him from behind it—legs crossed over each other. But his relaxed pose is deceptive, because his eyes are razor-sharp, alert, and I can practically feel the tension coiling through his muscles.

There’s no question in my mind that he could be on his feet and neutralizing any threat before I even have time to gasp. It’s like he’s made of calm on the surface and pure danger underneath.

He’s wearing a gray tuxedo, but it doesn’t make him any less scary. Dark ink claws up from beneath his collar, climbing to either side of his shaved scalp and framing a mop of short, dirty blonde hair that falls over his brows—his pierced brows. Small dark earrings circle his earlobe, and as he raises a hand to push his hair back with mild annoyance, I catch even more tattoos creeping across his knuckles and peeking out from his sleeve.

“Elira Përmeti. You’re a fine little thing,” he smirks as his eyes slowly peruse me. “Ravishing.”

Heat blooms across my cheeks, but it’s not the flattering kind. It’s irritation, mixed with a dash of discomfort. But before I can say a word, Maximo is suddenly there, his arm snaking possessively around my waist. “Michael,” he growls. “And it’s Elira Leonotti.”

Michael chuckles, completely unbothered by Maximo’s territorial display, and cracks his knuckles—loud, deliberate, and so disrespectful. “Whatever man.” His hand dips into his pocket and pulls out an expensive-looking cigarette case. From it, he extracts one thick cigarette, slides it lazily between his lips, and flicks open a lighter that gleams gold in the light. The cigarette glows bright red as he takes a slow drag and exhales a perfect smoke ring towards us. I watch him, fascinated despite myself.

Michael Hart.

So this is the CEO of HartSphere, a tech titan whose brilliance has shaped the modern world. He started out with video games, and once he broke into the market, branched out into everything tech—messaging apps, a social media platform, phones, tablets. Heck, I own a Celtro Ultra, one of the latest generations of smartphones from his company.

He’s rich as sin, the stereotypical bad boy, and absolutely mad as a hatter. At least, according to Roan. He called Michael unhinged—the wildcard of the Nightshades, the one no one can predict. But watching him now, lounging like he owns the air in the room, I wonder if ‘unhinged’ even covers it. Though, he does look normal. Aside from the tattoos and piercings.

“No smoking inside the apartment, Michael, for Christ’s sake.” The irritated voice comes from a man strolling into the living room through a pair of open glass doors. I recognize him instantly—Romero Lombardi. Famous criminal lawyer.

Famous for helping criminals escape the wrath of the law, that is—nothing noble, mind you. This is a Nightshade we’re talking about. His face is constantly splashed in one article or the other about his brilliance manipulating the law, or in gossip rags chronicling his escapades with women. He’s the notorious womanizer of the group, never seen with the same woman twice. They say he hooks up once, then sends them a bouquet and a fuck off note. No bubbly. No apologies. Ruthless in and outside the courtroom.

His steps don’t even hitch when he spots us by the windows. In fact, his lips curve into a smile so disarming, so utterly beguiling, that I find myself smiling back at him. Damn… that’s probably exactly what convinced countless women to ignore all the warnings about him.

“Hell, have I gone and gotten myself killed, or is there an angel standing in the middle of Rafael’s boring living room?”

“Romero,” Maximo grits out, tightening his grip on my waist.

“What a vision for sore eyes you are. Finally, a dash of estrogen to tone down the ugliness of these fuckers,” he continues as if Maximo hadn’t spoken, his charm dialed up to eleven. My smile widens as he glides forward with the grace of a dance, taking my hands like we’re old friends and pressing kisses to both cheeks.

“That’s enough, you smooth-tongued devil.” Maximo pushes his friend back with a hand and steps in front of me. Steps in front of me.

I can’t help it; I peek around his shoulder, giggling as Romero winks at me, his green eyes filled with mischief.

But suddenly, the warmth in the room vanishes and a chill settles in my spine as the last member of the group walks in. The leader.

Rafael Moretti.

Those metallic chrome eyes of his make Michael’s icy blues seem downright friendly, and the heavy silence that falls is suffocating, as if the room itself holds its breath. He flicks a disinterested gaze at Michael. “Put out the fucking cigarette.”

Michael’s response is to take a slow, deliberate drag and puff the smoky air at Rafael, almost challenging him. Another drag follows, and I brace myself for the explosion, but Rafael just shakes his head, looking like he’s resisting a strong urge to smack him. My lips twitch briefly, but any form of amusement is wiped off my face when he turns his attention to me.

Oh shit.

Don’t fidget. Don’t look away. Don’t show fear.

I repeat the mantra in my head as my heart skitters nervously in my chest and a swarm of angry horses stamp in my belly.

“Step back and let me see her,” he tells Maximo, voice a deep timbre.

My husband hesitates for a fraction of a second, then offers me a reassuring smile before complying, leaving me exposed to that unyielding gaze. I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of courage I can muster. I will not be intimidated in my own borrowed ballgown. A ghost of a smile appears on his face so flitting that it’s gone before I can register it.

Then he’s standing in front of me, pinching my chin between his thumb and index finger, turning my head this way and that, studying me with cool, almost disinterested regard. I keep my expression neutral, though my lungs seem to have forgotten how to work properly.

When he releases me and turns to Maximo, I nearly sag with relief.

“She’ll do, I suppose,” he says to my husband, and my fear is pierced by a tendril of anger.

Excuse me? I’ll do? He came in here like a bad cloud, studying me like I’m some trinket his brother picked up at a garage sale, and he’s saying I’ll do? What am I—a piece of furniture to round out his collection?

My glare burns into his back as he walks away, and before I can stop myself, I take an angry step forward, ready to give him a piece of my mind. My mouth is already forming words that will no doubt land me in trouble when Maximo catches my arm and shakes his head at me subtly. I scowl up at him, but his warning is clear. Not now.

Rafael glances back at me like he knows exactly what almost happened, then turns away. “Now that everybody’s here, shall we go to dinner?”

Michael finally stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table and unravels himself from the couch, barely sparing me a glance as he follows Rafael. We all troop through the glass doors Romero came in from earlier into⁠—

A second living room?

I blink, my brain struggling to process the sheer absurdity of it.

Who needs a second living room? This guy, apparently. Does he host simultaneous parties that can’t mix or something?

This one is even more over-the-top than the last. In the middle of the room, behind a C-shaped white couch, is a sculptural wrap-around glass staircase with tall white railings. Rafael leads us past it, through the impressive apartment that I realize is basically a huge statement-piece castle in the sky, to an oversized dining room. I mean, everything in this place is oversized, so I’m not even surprised.

A gold pedestal glass table dominates this space, surrounded by ornate cream-and-gold chairs. But the chair at the head of the table—the throne, because what else would you call it?—demands all the attention. It’s massive, easily three times the size of the others, with thick, elaborate carvings spiraling up the back.

When Rafael lowers himself into it, he glances around the room arrogantly—king of all he surveys. And somehow, the chair doesn’t dwarf him like it would anyone else. If anything, he makes the thing look small, like the throne bends to his presence. How does someone pull that off? Is it the confidence, the raw authority, or just the sheer audacity? Probably all of it. Still, it takes a special power to achieve that.

As I slide into my seat, I can’t help but study the carvings on his chair again. Those spirals… They’re almost the exact same design as the tattoo on Maximo’s arm. A detail so specific has to mean something. But what? Some secret code? A family crest? Or maybe just a fancy design they both liked? Yeah, right. Nothing in this world is ever just aesthetic.

My thoughts whirl as Maximo settles beside me at Rafael’s right hand, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne grounds me. But even with him so near, my mind keeps circling back to the strange connection between the carvings and his ink. I glance at him, considering whether to ask, but the sharp glint in Rafael’s gaze makes me swallow the thought.

Romero slides into the seat across from me, Michael next to him. As I admire the dining room with its vaulted ceilings and the same brass wall-length windows that seem to be everywhere in this place, my eyes land on the chair at the opposite end of the table.

Another throne. Smaller than Rafael’s, but with the same intricate carvings. Clearly designed for someone important. Designed for a woman?

A throne for a queen?

I surreptitiously glance at Rafael’s ring finger, but it’s bare. That doesn’t mean much in this world, though, does it?

My gaze drifts back to the smaller throne. He has to have a woman. I mean, why else would he have a throne for a queen in his home?

And if he does… where is she? Hidden away? Gone? Or maybe she’s just late for dinner. The last thought feels ridiculous, but I can’t shake it.