Dark Hearts Mafia Romance Collection

Chapter 1

Cristiano

I shift on my chair and sink backward into the shadows, where I’m most comfortable.

Joe’s Bar is the only establishment in this part of the city not under my family’s rule, and as I observe my surroundings with detached curiosity, I’m impressed at how the fabric of this place has transformed in just a few hours.

Since I arrived at five p.m., I’ve seen every type of patron, from workers having a quick beer and young women on a bachelorette party, right through to shady Casanovas out for a slow scotch and a quick lay.

And now the sky outside is black and those allergic to daylight have come out of the cracks in the street, it feels like I’m in a different place altogether.

Loud whispers fill dark corners; thick fingers graze bare skin. Deceit and debauchery taste too sweet in the air. As for the dress code, it appears anything goes, as long as you can turn a blind eye to bad behavior.

I came here to prolong the inevitable. As soon as word gets out that I’m back in New York, the days will no longer be my own.

The whole city has its eyes on the Di Santos, and just because I left ten years ago doesn’t mean I’m exempt from the view.

If anything, the changing dynamics of our family and my role in it are sure to make our advisors giddy with the suggestion of returning blood.

And that won’t please my brother at all.

My eyes drift to the clock. It’s getting close to midnight.

I pick up the glass of water I haven’t touched for several hours and bring the rim to my lips.

Glancing across the room one more time, I tip it back and swallow the lot.

Only a few heads turn my way as I stand.

My height and build make me a little conspicuous, but the tailored suit and black shirt cover up any clue as to who I am.

I’m almost at the exit when a door to my left bursts open and something small and fluttery collides with my ribs.

A young woman stares up at me, her large eyes wide with shock, and short, nervous breaths escape her full lips.

Her hands are pressed against my torso to steady herself, and I don’t miss the way her fingertips curl into my shirt when our eyes meet.

She swallows with some effort. Then she looks down, realizes she’s still touching me, and withdraws her hands quickly. Her cheeks are flushed pink when she glances back up.

“I . . . I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going. Did I, um . . . Did I hurt you?”

Her words are stuttered and slightly slurred, but her voice. She sounds like she just tanked a full pack of Marlboro Reds. I almost laugh, but she’s being serious, so I bite my cheek before I reply.

“No, you didn’t hurt me. Did I hurt you?”

She blinks long, dark lashes at me. The movement is lazy and languid, which tells me she’s had a few too many drinks. I take in her taut, unblemished skin and delicate build—she can’t be more than eighteen, surely. Too young and too fragile to be drinking alcohol in backstreet bars.

“Um . . . no.”

“That’s good.”

The sound of grinding bone vibrates around us, and it takes me a few seconds to notice I’m cracking my knuckles.

“You came at me with some speed.”

She wrings her hands together. “I’m really sorry.”

Something dark and more Di Santo than I’d like to admit crosses my mind. “Can I see your ID?”

Just like that, the blood drains from her face. “Excuse me?”

“Your ID,” I repeat. “Can I see it?”

Any sober person would question my right to ask, but I’m pretty sure this one isn’t sober at all.

“W-why?”

It’s a good question. Why do I want to see her ID?

At first I just wanted to see her reaction, and I’ve seen that now, along with everything but the stone-cold evidence she’s underage.

But I realize even though this is merely a fleeting visit and I’m not here to find a woman I can walk away from in the morning without so much as a backward glance, I want more than just a reaction from this girl. I want her name.

“Because I need to know whose secret I’m keeping.”

She blinks again, then her wide eyes soften, and she breathes out a resigned sigh. She reaches into a straw basket hanging over her arm and pulls out a driver’s license. I instantly spot the telltale signs of a counterfeit.

The photo is genuine and doesn’t do her justice. But it’s the wording below it I’m interested in.

Trilby Castellano.

A faint thread of recognition winds its way through my mind. There are a thousand Castellanos in this city, but not Trilbys, and I’m sure I’ve heard that name before.

Her bottom lip trembles slightly when my gaze glides from the license in my hand back to her.

Her large eyes are lined with black kohl that flicks up at the outer corners, and her lips bear the remnants of a cherry-red stain that probably wore off hours ago.

She looks oddly—interestingly—vintage. Her white dress clings to her waist and flares out at the hips.

Her dark hair has been bleached to the tips and curled in the style of Marilyn Monroe.

There’s even a crystal comb above her ear that looks just like the one my nonna used to wear.

Without another word, I hand the license back to her and shove my hands into the pockets of my slacks. Her lip’s still trembling, yet there’s a defiance in her expression as she tips her chin upward.

“Did it tell you what you needed to know?”

I wipe the beginning of a smirk from my mouth with a rough thumb. “For now.”

She straightens her shoulders, and her bleached hair bobs about her face like cotton candy. “Well then.” She goes to step past me. “It was nice meeting you.”

She’s implying I was on my way out, and I can’t tell if she’s feeling hopeful about it or regretful, which annoys me, because I can usually read people effortlessly. Managing casinos for the best part of ten years has delivered me an unrivaled education in human behavior.

“I wasn’t leaving,” I lie. “I was going to the restroom.”

Her cheeks flush again. “Well, this is the ladies’ restroom.” She nods to the other side of the room. “The men’s is over there.”

I run my tongue across my teeth, taking my long-ass time about it, and enjoy her obvious discomfort. Then I lazily cock a brow. “Thanks.”

She tugs the bag higher up her shoulder, turns, and walks clumsily back to the bar.

I silently curse my decision to stay as I head to the restroom. I was hoping to spend an early-ish, quiet night in my Tribeca apartment, lying low for a few hours longer, but for reasons I won’t try to understand, I don’t want to give this girl the satisfaction of a reprieve.

I reach the door and look over my shoulder.

She’s talking to the bartender, and even from the far corner of the room I can see his cheeks flushing and his eyes lighting up.

She sits haphazardly on a stool in front of him and then somehow manages to slide right off the other end, landing in a heap on the floor.

I find it hard to believe she’s a regular drinker, because she has no tolerance for it at all.

Three grown men rush to her aid and hoist her up.

When she’s back on the stool, she turns her head slightly until she can see me out of the corner of her eye. Embarrassment burns up those pretty cheeks. I save her from further mortification by walking straight into the restroom.

The door closes behind me, drowning out the thick bass of “Sinister Kid” by The Black Keys, which thankfully makes the voice in my head clearer.

One week, Cristiano.

That’s all I’m here for. To lay Father to rest, congratulate my brother on his new title, and tie up a few loose ends.

Then I’ll fly back to Vegas, never to return to this coast again.

I’ll have no reason to. Mama died ten years ago, Papa has gone, and my brother has taken on the top job—one that’s bound to keep him far too busy to be bothered with surviving relatives.

Sure, we have other family members in the city, but they’re more than happy to vacation in one of my casino hotels; I don’t need to be in New York to stay in touch.

The bottom line is, I’m not sticking around, so there’s no point in making nice with a random woman I just met in a questionable bar, no matter how much she intrigues me.

I emerge from the restroom in time to see the bartender push a cocktail glass into her hand: a bright blue concoction topped with a curl of orange peel and a paper umbrella. Her gaze drifts to the man at her side, then her lids lift, and our eyes lock. My breath sticks in my throat.

She’s sitting a good fifteen feet away, but I can see the color of her irises. Turquoise, like the Atlantic.

I walk to the other end of the bar and slide onto a stool.

The bartender looks up, his expression bordering on cocky. “You gonna have a real drink now?”

I wrap a hand around my neck and rub. My life in Vegas is hardly stress-free, but being back in this city makes me feel tighter than a wound spring. “Whiskey. Neat.”

“Coming right up.”

He pours two fingers and places the glass on a coaster. “So, where are you visiting from?”

“Who says I’m visiting?”

He huffs out a laugh, narrowing my eyes. “Our clientele is pretty steady. I haven’t seen you here before, and don’t take this the wrong way, but . . .”

My eyes narrow further. Whenever anyone says that, there’s never a right way to take it.

“But?”

“If you were from this city, you’d be sitting in a different bar.”

I knock back half the whiskey. “Why’s that?”

He stares at me like he’s trying to figure me out. “You know this part of the city is owned by the Di Santos . . . right?”

“Is it?” I decide to play dumb. People give up more information that way.

His eyes light up. Finally, new blood he can bestow his wisdom on. “Only a few businesses have managed to slip out from their greasy fingers. This is one of them.”

“Greasy fingers, huh?”

He leans toward me with a slightly curled lip. “Italian Mafia scum,” he says, low and quiet.