The Darkest King: A Dark Mafia Romance (The Dark Kings of NYC Book 1)

My eyes flick open for the second time this morning. Mia is gone, but I can still scent her on my sheets, my body.

God, what a night.

I lie thinking about her, about the way she looked as she came multiple times, then lay sated in my arms.

There was something different with her, and I’m not sure why. She’s not an escort, obviously, but I’ve slept with other women not sent to me by the agency and never reacted to them like I did her.

Mia has a sparkle in her eyes that, as ridiculous as this sounds, made me feel alive. She made me laugh. Sitting talking to her was refreshing and…fun.

When was the last time I had fun?

I don’t know anything about her, except what she does for a job—obviously has wealthy parents—but I sense she has a story she’s not sharing with people.

Has she lived abroad?

Lost a parent?

There’s a depth to her most people don’t have.

And for some reason, I didn’t intimidate her. At least, not when I didn’t have her tied up and screaming my name.

I push back the desire to have more of her.

No seconds. I don’t do seconds.

Not even with Mia…Mia? Whatever her name is. It’ll be on the contract.

I toss back the sheets to get on with my day and life.

Sunday mornings, I usually wake up early, go for a run around Central Park, and spend an hour in my gym. Grab a coffee and breakfast and scroll through emails for a few hours.

Then my focus is solely on Dark King’s work.

Not that it’s not front of mind every other day of the week, but after nearly twenty years, I’ve learned to control my anger and obsession.

After leaving the marines, I created The Dark Kings, a covert organization made up of myself and two former marines, Nathan and Decker, who I served with.

Men I would die for.

Men who every day put their lives at risk to help me find the mafia asshole who destroyed my entire family while I watched. The same mob who would kill me if they knew who I was.

Who think I’m dead.

All I have is one name and a face etched into my childhood memory.

Carlos.

One day, I will find him and he will stand—or rather, kneel—before me, pleading for his life. Once he’s screaming and barely alive, I will slit his throat and watch his blood seep from his body and stain the floor.

Just as my mother’s did.

As my father’s did.

As my sister’s blood did.

For my family, I will seek revenge, and only then will I welcome in the light, which will heal my soul and release my heart from the devil.

Until then, darkness remains my solace.

Until then, I have nothing to offer emotionally. I cannot love when I hate so thoroughly.

My empire is my cover, funding the real work.

I have an entire secure room in my penthouse, which looks like something out of an episode of CSI or some crime documentary. I covered the walls with images of mafia families from the United States and other parts of the world.

Which mafia is the question I ask myself every day.

I was nine when the men turned up at our house, storming it with machine guns.

My father was helping me with the setup of my train set when we heard the cars. His face paled, and he screamed for my mother. She came running into the room.

“Get Rebecca,” he yelled, referring to my sister, who was three.

Then he grabbed me and tore open the door under the stairs, held my face, and said, “Stay silent, no matter what you see. Do you understand?”

I nodded, my heart pounding.

“Don’t cry. Don’t let them find you. And never tell anyone who you are, son. Run! Run when it’s safe and find Detective Scott. Give him this, and he will work out the rest.”

Then he ripped a chain off his neck. On it hung a key. He put it over my head, tucked it under my sweater, and said, “I love you, Connor.”

Seconds before the door burst open, he shut me inside.

Then my world collapsed.

Through an air vent, I heard and saw them grab my father, pull my mother and sister from downstairs, Rebecca crying, and then smash them with the butts of their guns.

My mother fell to the floor, blood pouring from her head. My sister, tumbling from her arms. My father, screaming.

It took everything I had in me to follow my father’s instructions. Tears fell down my cheeks, and my fists clenched, anger and terror filling every cell in my body.

I knew then I could be next.

I would be next if they heard me, or if I had stepped out of that room. All I had left was the key, cold on my chest, reminding me of my father’s orders.

“Carlos. I have them,” a man with an accent said. He waved a brown folder. “Let’s go.”

Carlos nodded at the other man, who I couldn’t see, only hear, and lifted his gun. “You traitor, Beaufort. You piece of fucking shit.”

“You cannot kill me, Carlos,” my father said from his knees. “Leave. You shouldn’t be here. You know that.”

“Fuck you,” he had said, then swiveled the gun and shot my mother in the head.

Rebecca screamed. My father roared, drowning out my gut-wrenching muffled cry as my hand slapped over my mouth. I had nearly vomited.

“You will die for this, Carlos,” my father said, reaching for my mother. But he never got to her.

Carlos turned the gun at him and sprayed dozens of bullets at his body.

By then, I was numb from shock.

Rebecca, three years old, sat on her bottom, crying, terrorized and alone. My hand was on the door handle, ready to fly out and save her.

“Leave the girl,” a man nearby said. “She’s innocent.”

I watched Carlos look around, grunting something out, then slowly, he spotted something.

“Where’s the boy?” Carlos asked, picking up the framed photo on the cabinet in the hallway and poking the glass. “He could be in the house. Find him. He’s old enough to talk.”

Rebecca continued screaming as the men took off to search for me. I pressed myself far into the corner of the cupboard, shaking and in terror as another shot suddenly sounded out.

Then there was only silence.

Carlos had killed my little sister.

An innocent child.

I slunk to my knees, my hand over my mouth, my scream frozen, awaiting the moment I could release it.

I’m not sure I ever have.

He had killed my entire family in minutes. When the others returned, saying I wasn’t there, Carlos ordered them to hunt me down and kill me too.

I don’t know how long it took me to finally move and leave the space under the stairs, but it was the longest and most terrifying time of my life.

The bodies of my mother, father, and sister, drained of blood, greeted me once I did. I vomited multiple times, collapsing and crying in convulsions, until I eventually crawled to the phone and rang the police, asking for Detective Scott.

When I gave him my name and told him what happened, he took over. The house swarmed with police, and I was whisked away with a new name and put into a boarding school in Switzerland.

Well, a new surname.

I didn’t realize it then, but it was protective custody.

For the next four years, I grieved for my family and acted out. I fought and tried to run away multiple times. If it hadn’t been for a strict headmaster and one compassionate nun, I don’t know what I would’ve become.

Sister Maxine told me to seek peace in my heart for what ailed me. But I couldn’t tell anyone, Detective Scott said, or they would find me and kill me. And so, I did as she said—I chose a purpose for my life.

Revenge.

I would grow powerful and find this Carlos, no matter how long it took. Then destroy him.

You see, I knew when I turned eighteen, I would inherit one hundred million dollars. Detective Scott had visited me only once after getting me settled in the school, giving me enough information to act on when I was old enough.

The life insurances, cash, and assets of my family were mine.

And the key, which I had never given to the Detective.

I’d forgotten and then was too scared.

It sits in a box, along with files the now FBI agent had given me.

You traitor, Beaufort.

What had my father done?

I didn’t want the answers to that question—just wanted revenge. I didn’t want to know if my father, who I had loved and looked up to, could be responsible for what I’d witnessed that day.

So, I didn’t.

Instead, I focused on avenging my mother and sister. And my father. I started putting together a plan. Joined the marines, built a strong body, invested the money, and began to learn about buying businesses. Fast forwarding a lot of years, by the time I left the marines, I was a billionaire.

It was in the marines I met my two best friends, Nathan and Decker.

One night, in the dark deserts of the Middle East, I finally told them my story. We’d returned from a two-hour shootout with the enemy and had barely left with our lives. I wasn’t sure I would return to U.S, soil with my life at the end of this tour and needed to know someone else would hunt down Carlos if I was gone.

Nathan and Decker, as it turned out, shared a hatred for the mafias as well. They each have their own stories and a desire for vengeance similar to mine.

It was like the stars aligned.

Mafias caused a whole raft of pain and suffering around the world, with the drugs they pedaled, people and sex trafficking, and more. While taking on that motherfucking huge job was a recipe for failure—mostly because there was corrupt law enforcement, which allowed it to go on—it didn’t mean we were going to sit back and do nothing.

We were vigilantes in the making.

But we weren’t fucking saints.

We could find one man and avenge those who had destroyed our lives.

The three of us sat up all night talking that evening, about what we wanted to do and what we could do about it. By the early hours of the morning, we had formed the Dark Kings.

Best decision of my life.

I step into the gym and turn the treadmill to mid-speed. I’m a little jaded after my Mia-workout all night. As I begin to jog, my mind goes back to the Dark Kings, to the moment we realized just what we were undertaking.

“Fuck yeah, I’m in,” Decker said, reaching out his hand, and we shook, slapping shoulders.

“You only have a name and a memory of what this Carlos looks like?” Nathan asked, rubbing his shorn head.

“That’s right,” I answered.

“Shit, man. This could take years,” Nathan replied.

I didn’t care. I’d search for a decade, if that’s what it took. My family deserved to be avenged.

“It will take as long as it takes. I have the funds, and I will keep hunting the fucker until the day I die.”

Which defied logic, since Carlos was much older than me. Someone gave him the order. Or he was working alone.

I doubted the latter.

After hearing Nathan’s story, I knew he was on board. His brother had been fucked up by the mob, somehow getting involved with heroine. Every day, I saw anger and ghosts in his eyes. He needed an outlet for that rage. Just like I did.

“If you join me, we’ll bring these mobsters to their knees. This is a partnership. Even if we find Carlos, my funds are yours to avenge your loved ones. It’s not one or the other. This will be our life,” I reiterated.

“Then I’m in,” Nathan said.

“So, the mafia think you’re dead?” Decker asked.

“Yes.”

Detective Scott had heard from people on the inside that there was no talk of looking for a kid with my name, and now, so many years had passed, we both agreed it was unlikely they were looking for me.

“They probably thought you were a cousin in the photo. Whatever, there’s no noise about it. You’re a kid. Hardly a threat to them,” the detective had said when I asked him again before leaving for the marines.

“Do you have anything else to go on?” Nathan asked next.

“Not yet,” I replied.

I had the key—to what, I didn’t know.

And while the FBI had taken all our belongings, Detective Scott said he had put some personal things in storage for me when I left the boarding school. All of it was now in my possession, along with a new alias: Connor Barrett.

Connor Beaufort no longer existed. Nor did I feel like that person anymore.

I increase the speed on the treadmill.

We left the marines and spent six months setting up a strategy, looking at what we knew. My father had something of theirs and called him a traitor.

But which mob? That was the other fucking question.

I had narrowed down their accents to either the Mexican cartel or the Italian mob. Yeah, I know they’re fucking different, but when you are nine years old and men are screaming and shooting your family, accents are fucking accents.

I hadn’t given a shit.

What I had eliminated were Irish, Russian, and Chinese.

Which left Italian or Spanish.

So, then we decided to focus our efforts there and worked our way into the Mexican cartel—Decker—and Italian mafia—Nathan.

That was six years ago.

And despite multiple leads over the years, we still haven’t found Carlos.

Among the images on the wall in my office are facial recognition artists’ and software drawings of what I remembered Carlos looking like.

Every day, I stare at it and let my rage flow.

There are also images of all the mafia, their families, connections, and other gangsters he could’ve been working for or with. We put together profiles on all of them. It is like a fucking episode of CSI in there.

I knew this was going to take time, but my patience is running out.

Six damn years.

One of the biggest issues is getting close to the inner circle of the mob bosses.

They don’t trust easily, and both Nathan and Decker are Americans. Neither Italian nor Mexican.

We are at a disadvantage.

Frankly, I am getting concerned they have been in there too long. Both of them have done things they’ve despised to prove themselves and fit it.

Things that destroy a man’s soul.

There is only so much I can do to counter it on the outside without compromising them. I feel useless some days, wanting in on the action, but my face is too well known by most Americans, so it is impossible.

Instead, I keep the Dark Kings safe. I pull strings when needed with law enforcement and get them out of tricky situations.

Detective Scott is now working in the FBI, nearing retirement, and the one man aside from the Dark Kings—which includes Mack—who knows what I am doing. He doesn’t completely agree, but I don’t give a fuck. Let’s just say, he is going to retire a wealthy man, and not because of his pension. So, he helps when I ask.

Tonight, I am meeting with Nathan.

It is always risky to connect, but we keep most meets tight and fast. When Decker was on U.S. soil, we met at our Dark King’s headquarters in Lower Manhattan.

My phone beeps with a message from Mack.

A new location has been set.

AN HOUR LATER, my workout is done, and I step into the shower. Mia enters my mind again.

Damn, she was sweet. All that cinnamon and honey, like Christmas time, only hotter.

I press the button on the wall, direct the seven shower heads to different angles, and power them up. Fuck, yeah. The muscles in my body begin to relax.

I should’ve fucked her in the shower.

A missed opportunity.

Another button and the water stops. Reaching for a thick black towel, I dry off and then walk back into the bedroom naked, rubbing the towel across the back of my head.

I reach for my cock, wishing that woman was lying on my sheets, when something catches my eye. It’s white and sticking out from under the bed, near where Mia dressed this morning.

Did she leave something? I recall her dropping her bag but didn’t pick her as the type of woman to plant something so she had an excuse to return.

I’m also thinking I probably wouldn’t mind another taste. Crouching, I reach for the object and end up with a business card in my hand.

As I stand, flipping it over, I see the name, and my blood freezes. Mia Mancini—Event Coordinator.

Mancini.

I stare blankly at the carpet.

You have got to be fucking kidding me?

I storm down to my office, buck naked, punch the code into the security panel, and push through the door.

No goddamn way.

I find the Mancini mafia and stare at the notorious boss, Joe Mancini. My eyes trail down. Like a family tree, I have all the names and faces of the Mancini family—and others—showing their roles and any other information I deem important.

Motherfucking fucker.

My chest tightens when I find her photo and name right there on my goddamn wall—Maria Luna Mancini.

Jesus.

She’s younger in the photo. The data was collected when she would’ve been eighteen, at most. She wasn’t anyone we paid much attention to because she was a child.

The little Nathan ever said about Mia was that she spent most of the time with her mother, until the woman died. It was Cade, her brother and heir to the mafia throne, we needed to keep an eye on.

Recently, he’s been causing trouble. He throws his power and influence around town, being mostly a nuisance but making enemies. I’d love to know what Joe thinks about it, but that will never happen. We aren’t close enough to him to have a clue.

We do know Cade isn’t much liked but is respected because of his position in the family. I call it respect, but it’s not really.

I stare back at Mia’s photo and curse. It’s her. Maria—Mia—fucking Mancini. The mafia princess. The woman I fucked for several hours last night.

“Wait a damn minute,” I say as something occurs to me.

I storm down to the living room and lift the contract off the ground when I find it. Flicking the pages, I find her signature.

The little minx. She signed a false name.

I slam it down.

Well, well, well. The voice in my head tried to tell me something, and I didn’t hear it. I’m nearly impressed with how she fooled me. Not that she has any idea who I am and why I know all about her and her family. About every mafia on this planet.

What is she doing working for Donna?

I know for a fact her residence isn’t a Mancini-owned property. Did she get to me to drop her off somewhere other than where she lives? For a moment, I’m worried if she got home.

“Fucking hell, Connor. She’s Joe Mancini’s daughter. Who cares?” I growl out loud.

Then my brows shoot up when an idea occurs to me.

I kind of hate myself, but there’s no way I can ignore it.

A door which has been shut to the Dark Kings for years has just cracked open, and its name is Mia Mancini. Is there a way to leverage a relationship with her? Could she be a way into the upper echelon of the Mancini family?

That’s a big fat fucking yes.

Am I going to walk away and let this opportunity slip through my fingers?

No. Hell no.

I grin.

“Mia Mancini, you are about to be the first woman asked out on a date by Connor Barrett. And while I’m at it, I’m going to fuck your sweet pussy a few more times,” I say out loud.

Two birds and all that.

Mia fucking Mancini.

“You might be fooling everyone else, but I know who you are, princess.”

And she just became my pawn.

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, I’m sitting in a random bar downtown when Nathan slides into a barstool next to me.

We don’t look at each other.

He orders a beer.

Nathan has a new tattoo on his neck since the last time I saw him. Nearly seven weeks. I hate that it might not have been his choice. But then again, being inside the Italian mafia is his choice. We all have our reasons for doing this, and Nathan does too.

I lift my cheap, shit-tasting whiskey to my lips. There is no Macallan in this bar. I didn’t bother asking or looking.

Though I might be recognizable in NYC, with my baseball cap, bomber jacket, and jeans, I look just like any other American guy.

The no-brand clothing helps. And I left my thirty-five-thousand-dollar watch at home.

“’Sup,” Nathan says when the bartender slides the beer across to him.

“Nice ink,” I reply.

He just nods, leaning his thick forearms on the wooden bar. We’re both watching baseball on the screen in front of us, just drinking our beverages. We wait for the commentators to go nuts about something and then make it look like we’re discussing it.

“Cade Mancini is preparing to take over,” Nathan announces, and my brows rise on their own—like right the fuck to the top of my hairline.

There is no way The Rock—Joseph Mancini—is stepping down. His son isn’t ready, nor is he someone anyone on either side of the law wants in the top seat.

Fuck me.

Joe Mancini is a dangerous man, but Cade Mancini is a narcissistic psychopath. Twice as dangerous and ten times more unstable.

He’s also Mia’s brother.

“How much support does he have?” I ask Nathan, knowing without asking this is a coup.

They happen in the mafia. Most are shut down before they get much momentum because someone gets scared and talks. When it’s a family member, the chances of success do increase.

Yeah, I analyze this shit. Know your enemy, and you’ll always be one step ahead.

Nathan lifts his beer and takes a long swill, then points it at the screen. “Some key influencers on the team. Reasonable concern.”

I signal the bartender. “Another one.”

The shit is burning my throat, but this is all for show. I’m tempted to ask him to add fucking lemonade, but I’m not a pussy.

“Names?”

“Giordano, Botticelli, The Icepick, and…” Nathan glances at me, then spins on his seat to survey the bar behind him. It looks like he’s just chilling, but he’s carefully making sure there is no one listening or watching. “Salvo Vitale. New partnership.”

My breathing halts, and I wait to hear more. It’s like I’m having a psychic moment or some shit. Or maybe I just know too much about how these families work.

And Mia is of age.

“Promising expanded distribution of the white stuff in the state but a smaller cut. Oh, and Vitale gets the sister,” Nathan says.

Jesus.

Mia.

Not only does this mess with my plan, but I also fucking hate that she’s going to be traded as property. Which she isn’t, but to them, she is. It’s how these things work.

Am I any better? I planned to use her.

Now, unless we intervene, I’ll have to let this play out.

“When?” I ask, fiddling with the Bud coaster.

“Soon,” Nathan says, pulling out a twenty and dropping it on the bar.

I don’t know much about Salvo Vitale. Nathan is my source for accurate information. Vitale has always been small fry. A new kid on the block and not on our radar for the purpose of finding Carlos.

Nathan makes to leave.

I need to know about the gangster, so I do something I shouldn’t. Turning as Nathan stands, I meet his eye. It surprises him. I see the flicker. Otherwise, he doesn’t respond. The guy has so much control, he even impresses me.

“Salvo Vitale?”

“What’s the question?” Nathan asks after a long moment.

“Is he dangerous? For her?” I ask, knowing he’ll connect the dots. Mia is the only woman we mentioned.

Nathan stares at me, then nods. “Yes. He’s brutal.”

Fuck.