Throne of Vengeance: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance (Throne Duet Book 2)

Rai is fast asleep, her lips parted slightly and her golden locks splayed all over the pillow.

I’ve spent the last hour watching her; the slight flutter of her thick lashes, the steady rise and fall of her chest under the blanket, and how peaceful she looks—safe almost. Her fair complexion appears bluish in the darkness, ethereal, and so fucking appetizing I want to take her all over again. But at the same time, I love how she drowns into me as she sleeps. How she wraps her hand around my torso and intertwines her legs with mine.

She’s so beautiful, it’s maddening.

My obsession with this woman runs deeper and darker than I originally calculated. The thought of putting distance between us felt like ripping my heart out from between my ribs.

I think it started when I first met her. When Nikolai introduced her to me with a gleam in his usually bland eyes, I wondered what could have made the merciless leader of the New York Bratva so proud.

At the time, I thought she looked normal like all American-born Russians with her head held high and her eyes sparkling like she wanted to discover the world and all of its galaxies in one lifetime.

The only difference was that Rai didn’t seem like she only wanted to discover the world. Even at that age, she was set on conquering.

The part that stayed with me other than her expressive eyes was her smile. Unlike other spoiled mafia princesses, Rai was too mature for her age.

She might have been spoiled by Nikolai, but she always knew her place and strived to be more for the brotherhood.

Back then, I didn’t realize I was obsessed.

After I left Godfather and the others back in London, my aim was to stay by Nikolai’s side. Not having a place to belong to ate away at my soul, but I couldn’t stay just anywhere; I had to be where I could somehow plot my revenge. So I figured if he trusted me enough to protect his granddaughter, he would keep me around.

My plan worked, but I didn’t count on this woman getting under my skin.

The first time I noticed how much of an effect she had on me was after I left. That morning I woke up and didn’t have someone knocking on my door demanding that I teach them how to shoot or accompany them on a walk.

I went into withdrawal with its buried screams, its burning memories, and its silent breakdown.

And I remained in that fucking withdrawal for seven years. But it’s not withdrawal if it lasted that long; it’s an obsession. As soon as I returned, that obsession grabbed me by the throat like nothing ever had.

It’s different from the obsession pulsing under my skin that’s been demanding I avenge my parents’ death.

One is bloodlust with the need to hurt. The other is still some sort of lust, but it’s like a never-ending ache, the type that carved its place into the very marrow of my bones.

Stroking her hair behind her ear, I brush my lips to her forehead, lingering for a second too long so I can inhale her. Then I carefully untangle her from around me and stand up.

I slide my boxer briefs on and head to the bathroom. I hit the light switch and stand in front of the mirror.

My hands grip the marble counter as I stare at the galaxy of colors. Scarlet red, violet, bluish. That fucker Vlad made a painting out of my face—a chaotic one at that.

My eyes are swollen and the cut on my lip has dried blood all over it.

I should have probably taken care of it a bit more before I got here. Peter had a fright when he saw me. The kid shouldn’t have joined the Bratva at all.

Instead of thinking of mundane things like cleaning my face, the only thought in my mind was that I needed to see her before she completely erased me.

I have no doubt she would live a perfectly normal life without me. I’m the one who kept having withdrawals for seven fucking years.

Reaching into the cabinet, I retrieve the first aid kit so I can clean the wounds.

Vladimir, the fucker, should start picking his funeral song, because he’ll pay. Not only for hitting me, but for taking my wife away from me.

The condescending piece of shit always made it clear that I shouldn’t be with her. She’s a mafia princess and I’m a nobody, a killer who should remain in the shadows and only come out when he’s needed to take care of extracurricular activities.

He’s not wrong, but fuck him and everyone who thinks of me as a bloody shadow.

The padding of feet comes from behind me. I don’t turn around, not wanting her to know I feel her, even when she’s far away.

She already thinks I’m abnormal, and I cemented that fact by telling her about my bloody past.

I never divulged those memories to anyone except for Godfather. With her, the words tumbled out of my mouth so easily, as if I was always meant to tell her about it.

Rai stops behind me and tilts to the side so she can peek at me through the mirror.

Her brows furrow when she makes out the cotton filled with alcohol in my hand. “Does it hurt?”

“It looks worse than it is.”

She slips under my arm so she can stand between me and the counter. The only thing that covers her is a flimsy white gown that teases at her rosy areolas and hardened nipples.

Fuck me. She always looks like sin waiting to happen.

“You don’t have to be modest about it. I know Vlad’s punches hurt like hell.”

“My punch hurts worse.” My tone is flat. I’m being petty, but I don’t like that she thinks any other man is stronger than me.

“I’m sure it does.” She takes the cotton from my fingers and dabs it with some yellow liquid instead of alcohol.

Feeling the need to further prove myself, I say, “I was the best sniper in my group.”

“Your group?” she asks without taking her attention from the cotton.

“At The Pit, we were divided into groups of approximately ten. We trained together and basically lived in the same space.”

“Did you go on missions together?”

“No. We went in pairs of two. We usually had a permanent partner.”

“Did you?”

“Not really, but I guess I spent a long time with Celeste.”

Her movements pause and she stares up at me. “Celeste? That sounds like a girl’s name.”

I hide my internal smirk. “It is. She’s crazy but fun to have around.”

“Then why aren’t you with her?”

“Because I’m with you, Princess.” I try to kiss her, but she places a hand on my chest.

“You’re hurt. Stop it.”

“It’ll hurt less if I kiss you.”

“No,” she scolds, going back to dabbing the cotton, not meeting my gaze. “Was she a sniper, too? Celeste.”

I feign nonchalance. “She can be, but she’s not at my level. We had better chemistry on groundwork.”

She presses the cotton to my lip and I groan, but her expression remains neutral. “Glad you had chemistry.”

“Are you jealous, Mrs. Hunter?”

“I’m not Mrs. Hunter.”

“But you’re jealous.”

“Why would I be? Because of the chemistry?”

“Don’t worry. You and I have better chemistry.”

“Screw you.”

“Finish cleaning me up and I’d be happy to oblige.”

“Why don’t you hit up Celeste for that?”

“And have you jealous?” I attempt to pinch her cheek and she swats my hand away.

I chuckle, and it ends on a grunt when my cuts sting.

“Stay still.” Rai rises on her tiptoes so she can reach up. I grab her by the hips, lifting her, and she squeals as I plant her on the marble counter. I open her legs and settle between them so she’s eye level with me.

She looks so soft right now, tempting, edible, and everything in between. Cleaning my wounds becomes the worst idea possible when all I want to do is to lay her down and pound into her until she screams. Then I would bite that pink nipple through the transparent cloth and suck on it until she’s writhing in pleasure.

Rai aborts the image when she diligently cleans my face. She starts with my mouth then moves to my nose. Her fingers pause when she’s about to take care of the cuts near my eyes. “It might hurt a little.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Have you been hurt like this before?”

“Of course. Being shot makes this look like a child’s game.”

She strokes the pads of her fingers over the scar on my chest. “How did this happen?”

“That was because of Godfather—Ghost.”

“Was Ghost part of your group?”

“He trained us. Godfather is one of The Pit’s first generation. They’re called Team Zero and all have weird names. My group is considered part of the second generation.”

She continues to carefully clean my wound. “What’s the difference between the first and the second generation?”

“The first generation are now old men—and women. We’re younger and prettier, I guess?”

She shakes her head. “Is that the only difference?”

“Well, that and the fact that they were drugged. Their loyalty was ensured by a special type of drug.”

“Is there a clear criterion on how to be in the first or second generation?”

“Not really, but the first generation lost most recollection of their previous lives. We didn’t.”

“That’s sad. Are there many of them?”

“Not really. About a dozen.”

“How do you differentiate between them and the second generation?”

“They all trained us so all second gen know them. Besides, they have weird names: Ghost, Crow, Shadow, Mist, Flame, Scar, Poison, and so on. It’s like a den of vipers. Needless to say, it’s not their real names, but even they don’t remember their actual names.”

“What about you?” Her eyes hold mine hostage, appearing darker in the late night. “Is Kyle your real name?

“It is. This is the name my mother gave me.”

“How about your last name? Is it Hunter?”

I could lie to her, but what’s the point? She already knows my plan, and I’m in no mood to keep her in the dark any longer. I slowly shake my head once.

“Then what is it?”

“Fitzpatrick. My real name is Kyle Fitzpatrick.”

She freezes, her hand remaining suspended in midair as the realization settles in.

“You…are you related to Rolan Fitzpatrick?”

“He’s my uncle.”

“You’re…”

“Irish? Yeah. Half, though. My mum was Northern Irish and she considered herself British.”

“Oh.”

“What type of ‘Oh’ is that?”

“It’s an ‘Oh, that’s what the accent change means’.”

“Accent change?”

“You sometimes speak in a different accent during sex.”

“I do?”

“You do.”

“Mmm. I didn’t notice that.”

“Do you slip into it subconsciously?”

“I guess. I shed it away a long time ago, but it keeps coming back.”

She gently strokes the cotton on my skin. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you shed it away?”

“Godfather is British and I was raised with him speaking in an English accent, so I picked it up.”

“That’s all?”

“And I didn’t want the memories related to the accent.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “I did speak in a Northern Irish accent when I was with Godfather because it reminded me of Mum and how my father wanted me to speak more like an Irish person. He was a snob about all his Irish lineage and what-the-fuck-ever.”

“Your father was Niall Fitzpatrick, right?”

I nod.

“I heard about him from Dedushka. He said he was a good leader and that his brother, Rolan, is worse than him.”

“I don’t know about good. He was like a lot of the crime organization leaders—blinded by profit and power. Still, he didn’t deserve to be shot in the back by his own brother.”

A soft gasp leaves her lips. “He was?”

“He died by the hands of the one person he trusted the most. Isn’t that ironic?”

“Unfortunately, it happens more often than you think in our world.” She strokes my cheek. “So now you want to destroy your uncle?”

“And everything the fucker stands for. He’s the one who sold me in the black market and made me into this, but he’s not the only one. The ones who contributed that night will pay too.”

“Oh, Kyle.”

“Save your pity, Princess.”

“I’m far from pitying you.” Her expression is determined, hard, and holds no doubts. “I want to murder him for you.”