Darkest Sin: A Dark Mafia Romance

22. CHIARA

Staring out the window of the grand library on the top floor, a stupid smile cuts across my face seeing Killian’s SUV barreling down the long driveway. It’s officially been six days since the gala, and while the memories of that night still haunt me, the bruises have finally begun to fade, and I can move around with ease. It also means he’s been fucking me more freely, and that’s always a bonus. He’s not someone who enjoys giving up control, but the days he lets me take the reins are the days I could drown in his ecstasy.

The SUV has barely come to a stop when I make my way out of the library. It’s a hike to get all the way down to the ground floor, and by the time I’m in the lobby, I’ve already missed him.

Glancing around, I try to search for a clue as to where he’s gone, when I give up and look to Rohan, the doorman. We don’t exactly have a lot in common, and he’s a man of few words, making it hard to form any sort of friendship, but he’s always kind, and that’s all a girl can ask for. Though, he insisted on calling me ma’am for the first few weeks, and it’s taken me up until now to break the habit. “Did you see which way he went?”

“He took off to the left. Perhaps he’s in his office.”

“Thanks,” I say, whipping myself around to the left of the stairs.

I weave through the corridors, proud of myself for learning how to navigate this maze—unlike the maze outside that I will never attempt again. I’ve been stuck on the how to punish Monica for her crimes train for two straight days, and I’m almost ready to admit defeat. The best I could come up with was a public beating like some kind of gladiator performance.

Killian claimed this world is ruled on the basis of an eye for an eye, and so I figured if she beat me in front of the other wives, then the equivalent would be for me to beat her in front of . . . Well, I don’t really know who, but I don’t think I care. I just want this shit over. Though there’s no point even suggesting the idea. Killian won’t accept a mere beating as punishment for betraying his loyalty. I was humiliated in front of everyone, made to appear weak, and a beating in return is nothing in comparison. I need to discover what Monica takes most pride in and exploit it. I want to ruin her, and it needs to be done in a way that she will never recover from.

The pressure from Killian to give a name has been getting worse, and soon enough, he’ll snap. I don’t mean to take so long, and I wish there were some way we could both get what we want, but it’s becoming crystal clear there’s not. He warned me though. He told me he was a callous monster and doubted that I could stomach what this world requires of him, but I’m choosing to see the good in him, and that’s on me. Besides, the moment I open my mouth, everything gets worse. Monica and Sergiu won’t stand for it, and honestly, the threat Sergiu gave that first time he came into my room hasn’t been forgotten. If I even think about telling Killian, he will return every night, and what he does to me will pale in comparison.

Not bothering to knock on Killian’s door, I stride right through the door of his office as though I have every right to be there. “Hey Killi—” I pause, cutting myself off as I find the luxurious office empty. My gaze sweeps left to right as my brows begin to furrow.

“Huh,” I mutter to myself. Where the hell could he have disappeared to so quickly?

My gaze sails to the small store room, and I quickly cut across the room, twisting the door handle as I shove my hip against the solid door. “You in here?” I ask, stepping deeper into the store room.

It’s bigger than I expected, and unlike the rest of the overly organized house, this room is different. There are papers, files, weapons, and briefcases scattered everywhere. It’s a stark contrast to everything else I’ve come to know. The back wall is covered with surveillance screens, and I can only assume this is some kind of private security office, different than the normal cameras scattered across the property.

A strange nagging pulls deep in my gut, and it forces me farther into the room. My gaze shifts over the shelving full of boxes. Some look worn down and tired as though they’re centuries old, while other boxes look as though they were only sealed yesterday.

There’s a big table in the center of the room with paper scattered across it and a half-empty coffee mug that looks as though it was only placed here this morning. My gaze shifts to the papers, and while I’ve never taken the time to look over a police report, I can tell when I’m looking at one.

“What the hell?” I murmur, skimming over the pages as my heart races.

It says something about a massacre at the home of Deago Donatelli, the leader of the Donatelli crime family, and while that name means nothing to me, I’d bet everything I have that it means something to Killian. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I start flicking through the pages, but when I find crime scene photos, that curiosity turns into dread.

Horror rocks through me, taking in the blood pooled on the ground and the dead bodies littered with bullets. There are hundreds of images, one after the other, taken from a million different angles, but when the attention focuses on a different man, everything stops.

This one is different.

He’s not littered with bullets like everyone else, he’s been tortured to death. Deep, precise stab wounds cover his body. This man bled out in agony. His death wasn’t quick or forgiving. It was brutal and callous, just like Killian.

I feel the blood drain from my face, leaving me faint and unsure.

Had I only seen the other photographs, I could have convinced myself that Killian had nothing to do with this, that he only had these police reports out of morbid curiosity for an opposing mafia family, but seeing the stab wounds over the body of the man I assume to be Deago Donatelli, I know it was him.

Killian orchestrated this massacre.

He did this.

Every bullet. Every death. Every last stab wound to that man’s body. Killian was responsible for all of it.

My stomach clenches as fear pounds through my veins.

This is the man I’ve been allowing myself to fall for. Despite his warnings and demands that I fear him, I foolishly chose to believe there was something good buried beneath the darkness. But how could that be true? A man who’s capable of wiping out a whole family couldn’t possibly be capable of love. How could there be anything good inside his heart?

Fat tears stream down my face, and as I take in all the boxes of files around me, I realize they’re all filled with the same thing—horrors of the crimes he’s committed in the name of family. Horrors of the leaders who’ve come before him.

And this man wants me to give him a child—a child who will eventually stand in his place and be responsible for the same demented acts. How could I allow that to happen?

Moving to the wall of screens, the dread begins to drown me, but I can’t walk out of here without truly knowing. After all, isn’t this what he wants? What he’s been trying to warn me about. He wants me to know who he is and what he’s capable of. He wants me to have an informed fear and to know the man I said I was beginning to fall for. This might not be how he intended for me to find out, but isn’t it best I know now before I fall too deeply?

I have to respect his decision to warn me. It’s about as noble as it gets in the mafia world, but now that I’m peeking through the window of his soul, I don‘t know how I’m ever supposed to belong to him.

How can I give myself to a man who’s capable of slaying an entire family line? A man who so unforgivingly can put a bullet through someone’s head simply for existing in the wrong room at the wrong time. A man who shamelessly walks into a human trafficking auction house and is the one they fear?

How stupid could I be?

My hands shake as I reach for the power button at the bottom of the screen, and as the screens come to life, something within me dies.

Each screen is just as horrifying as the next.

The first screen has a naked man hanging from chains, his body broken and beaten. His eyes are swollen, barely able to open them, but there’s no mistaking the tears staining his face.

The next is a frail-looking man in a cell with hollowed cheeks and his whole rib cage visible, even through this shitty camera. He looks as though he’s been there for years, and I bet if he had the option, he would end his misery without a second thought. Though it makes me wonder, someone so frail should have perished long ago. Is Killian giving him just enough nutrition to keep him alive and prolong his misery?

Moving to the next screen, I see a woman strapped to a chair. She’s filthy. Her hands are strapped to the arm rest, and while it’s hard to tell through the camera, it looks as though each one of her fingernails have been pulled out. I can’t imagine the pain, but I also can’t imagine what kind of crime she committed to deserve such a punishment.

The tears fill my eyes to the point I can’t make out the figures on the rest of the screens, but I’ve seen more than I can possibly stomach.

Feeling around the bottom of the screen, I turn it off before stumbling out of the store room, and as my mind becomes trapped by the horrid images, my stomach clenches.

Nausea sweeps over me, and I hurry from Killian’s office, slamming through the door of what I thought was a bathroom, only to come face-to-face with the man. He spins, not having expected anyone to come through the door. His eyes widen just a fraction, and I swallow the nausea as it quickly turns to fear.

He strides toward me, fury in his eyes, but despite his sheer size and his imposing nature, I see past him into the small room to a familiar woman sitting in a stiff-back chair with absolute terror in her eyes.

“What—what are you doing?” I demand, my heart racing as my gaze locks onto the woman’s pleading expression, but the longer I look at her, the more familiar she becomes. She’s one of the wives. I spent the majority of that interaction with my gaze locked on Monica’s, but there were three others. One of them clearly had Monica’s back, but the other two were silent and unsure. This woman was there, but she didn’t have a hand in any of Monica’s bullshit.

“OUT,” Killian roars, the venom in his tone making my whole body shake.

“No,” I panic, my horrified stare flicking between Killian and the helpless woman. “What are you doing? I thought you were going to let me handle this. She didn’t do anything. It wasn’t her.”

“Out, Chiara,” he spits. “I told you your time was running out. You failed to give me a name or come up with a suitable solution, so now I will take matters into my own hands, and believe me when I tell you that I will enjoy my chance to break her.”

Tears fall from my eyes, the horrors from that store room still too fresh in my mind to deal with this too. Is he going to strap her to a chair and pull her fingernails out one by one or hang her from an industrial chain and beat her black and blue?

“Killian, please,” I beg. “Don’t hurt her. She didn’t do anything. She didn’t know what was going to happen. She’s innocent.”

“None of them are innocent,” he roars. “Their silence is a betrayal of their loyalty. In protecting the woman who put her hands on my wife, they betray the DeLorenzo name and will be punished.”

I reach for him, fisting my hands into the front of his shirt, and I stare up into those dark, hollow eyes. “Please. If I give you a name, will you just . . . please. Don’t do this. She doesn’t deserve this. Let her go, Killian. I know there’s still good left inside you. You don’t have to be this way. You can still have power without the pain. Please, just let her go. For me.”

A softness shimmers in his heavy stare, and as he forces my hands to release his shirt, he reaches up and wipes the fresh tears from my cheek. “Go, Chiara. It’s too late. I will get the name I need, but it won’t be from you.”

The woman behind him sucks in a horrified breath, and I stand my ground, my chest heaving, knowing that despite everything I just saw on those screens, I trust that he won’t hurt me, and a part of me has to trust that means he won’t hurt her in front of me.

That softness still lingers in his eyes, and I struggle to believe that the same man who’s capable of looking at me like this is the same man who could brutally murder someone in cold blood. “Chiara,” he says after a tension-filled silence. “You said you didn’t want to give a name because the burden of their punishment would rest on your shoulders. You didn’t want their blood on your hands. Is that still true?”

“Yes,” I say with a heavy heart. “But I’ll accept that burden if it means preventing someone else’s unneeded suffering.”

“No, Angel. I won’t allow that,” he tells me. “Remember what I told you when we came in from the maze two days ago? What did I say to you?”

I swallow hard, knowing where he’s going with this. “That you would protect me, even if it meant protecting me from yourself.”

“Right, but as your husband, it’s also my duty to protect you from yourself. So, no, Chiara. I will not allow you to give me a name. The crimes of another woman will not rest on the shoulders of my wife. Now leave.”

There’s a finality in his tone, and without question, I turn on my heel and walk straight out the door, an irrevocable darkness latching on to my soul.