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

Engaged? To Connor Barrett?

What was I thinking? I hadn’t been thinking—that was the problem. I can’t even explain where the idea came from. The words just fell out of my mouth.

Let’s call it survival.

Now, though, I am in an even bigger pickle. My family thinks I am engaged to one of the wealthiest men in the U.S. Connor thinks I am a girl he enjoyed—hopefully—great sex with last night. Someone he will never see again.

If he finds out, I will look like an idiot.

I have to fix this.

But my situation is far worse than I thought. Salvo Vitale? Surely, my father can’t force me to marry someone I don’t want.

Right?

I mean, I know how these things work in the family, but it’s not the last millennia anymore. Right?

And it’s kind of illegal. Right?

I nearly snort at my legal argument. As if that stops mobsters from doing anything.

My father demanded I end the engagement while asking a whole lot of questions.

When are Mr. Barrett’s people announcing our engagement?

Is he ever planning to ask for my hand?

Does he have a death wish?

When is the wedding planned for?

Am I pregnant?

All of which, of course, I have no answers for.

Except there is no baby, and we aren’t actually getting married—least of all because Connor knows nothing about it.

I have to tell him, and fast.

There’s every chance, despite me agreeing to bring Connor over to the house—I know, I’m insane!—that my father could go over my head and contact the sexy billionaire directly.

I don’t trust my father.

It’s better Connor hears it from me.

Herein lies my next problem. I have no way of getting in touch with him. We didn’t swap phone numbers, and aside from hovering outside his building like a crazed ex-lover, I’m not sure what else to do.

I could go to his office tomorrow. Or ask Donna for his number. Which would need an explanation, and I don’t have any spare brain cells left to conjure something clever.

I could break into our company database and pull his details? I doubt he has his personal phone number listed, and sending an email will be intercepted by his PA.

Can you imagine it?

Dear Connor, so turns out I forgot to mention I’m the Mancini mafia princess. Also, I told Joe Mancini—mob boss and also my father—that we are engaged. Don’t worry, I’ll get us out of this, but for now, can I move in and live with you?

Yours sincerely

Mia Mancini

Jesus, I’m in deep here. Which is why I’m currently chewing my thumbnail while my friends keep giving me weird looks as I sit opposite them at Toast Bar.

I should’ve stayed home instead of joining them at the bar, but there’s no way I could relax and sleep, although I’m physically exhausted.

“Mia, are you okay?” Sienna asks, scooping nachos loaded with sour cream into her mouth.

“Hmm, yip. Fine. I’m cool.” I nod.

Duncan snorts. “Cool as a forest fire.”

“Huh?” I ask, then laugh awkwardly. He’s a NYPD firefighter, and if he can fit a fire analogy into a joke, you bet your life he will.

Fortunately for him, he’s hot and women like men in uniforms. Just not his jokes.

Isabelle lets out a groan, proving my point. She’s immune to his muscles and pretty blue eyes.

“No, I just had a late night,” I say, leaning my elbow on the table and resting my head on my hand.

Sienna squints. “Did you go out after the Gala? Jeez, I was exhausted.”

Everyone stares at me while I try to come up with an answer. I obviously can’t share my situation with them because a) they don’t know who I really am, and b) I might’ve signed a false name on Connor’s contract, but I won’t break his confidence.

I understand why he wants his privacy. Plus, I don’t want to find myself in the NY Times. Connor is featured every week for one reason or another. Mostly business or appearances, but also gossip about his relationship status.

I trust my friends, but I agreed, and my lips are sealed.

So, I lie.

What I learned about lying from my father was, you should keep it as close to the truth as possible. Then people are more likely to believe it and shrug off any doubts.

Yeah, like I said, I’m no princess.

My dream is to have my own business, but I have no idea what I want to do. I’m endlessly working on a business strategy for an idea that’s not fully formed—and changes by the day, if not the hour.

“I was working on my business plan. Couldn’t sleep. It happens after a big event sometimes,” I say. “My feet and body might have been tired, but my brain wouldn’t shut up.”

They all know how passionate I am about my business ideas. Most of which I run past them and end up hitting a brick wall, but you have to start somewhere.

“Yeah, that happens. Sometimes you get overtired,” Sienna says, nodding. “I wish my apartment had a tub to soak in. Although, I’d most likely drown.”

I snort.

“Magnesium,” Isabelle says. She’s studying natural therapies so is always giving us advice on some supplement or another. Magnesium is the answer to many things, I’ve learned in the past two years. “Relaxes your muscles and calms your nervous system.”

I nod. “Thanks. I’ll try that.”

I won’t.

Magnesium isn’t going to fix this. It won’t stop my gangster father from forcing me to marry some old disgusting mobster or breaking up my fake engagement with an unsuspecting billionaire.

Lord, what a mess.

“Well, here’s to another successful event,” Sienna says, lifting her glass of wine, and we do the same, then drink.

“And Mia’s business ideas.” Isabelle winks. She’s been a freelance designer for six months while studying and is always encouraging me to follow my dreams.

I’m so proud of her. And envious.

“Thanks, Iz,” I say, taking a long sip of my wine.

Perhaps a few glasses of Dutch courage will help, while I work myself up to do the inevitable. I can’t hide my head in the sand over this. I have to tell Connor.

Tonight.

Then, if I can buy myself some time, I will find a way out of this situation. To live independently of my family. To get out of the arranged marriage to Vitale.

The truth is, no one leaves the mafia. Certainly not Joe Mancini’s daughter.

But I have to try.

Which is why, two hours later, I find myself outside Connor Barrett’s apartment building.

A little drunk.