King of Regret (Kings of the Underworld #2)

Chapter 1

DAHLIA

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Breathing is not only a biological mechanism, but also my grounding method. And doing it consciously ensures I remain sane. The process reminds me that I am alive.

There’s a beginning and an end to life—the ultimate truth, the most unequivocal fact.

The in-between is just a mess. Wasted chances, lost opportunities, dead dreams, and unfulfilled potential.

Pain decided not to skip life’s celebration by bringing a dish of irony, making you choke on its bitter taste.

In my case, it’s served with a lethal dose of unrequited love.

My heart overflows with it, sinking my soul until my chest threatens to cave in under the pressure.

Some days are more challenging to navigate through the numbness.

My heart rebels, the what-ifs clawing at my chest, bleeding me out until I am nothing more than the vessel safekeeping the memories of those three days.

I went through every second of every minute of every hour obsessively, yet I can’t go back and change the outcome.

Change my desire to steal a forbidden kiss.

Put a stop to a love that has caused nothing but raw misery and unfiltered regret.

It’s a never-ending cycle of destitution, feeding me agony until I am filled to the brim with a pain I can’t expel.

Other days, it’s like my brain refuses to stay online, sabotaging my best-laid plans of surviving one day after another.

I’ve been enduring for the last four years.

The thought of doing that for the rest of my life drains me of any joy.

You don’t have to be dead to be a ghost. I am a perfect example.

Wandering lost through the cemetery of my soul, I roam through life, barren.

Bent over the keys of the piano, my fingers fly over them in a wild chase as if I could expunge everything out of my soul if I reach completion. My music is as haunting as his eyes—silver like the moon and just as unreachable.

Sweat beads on my forehead as I pour my shattered heart into every high note, reaching a crescendo of shattered dreams and a broken heart.

My fingers play a violent dance over the keys as I lose myself in the soulful classical melody with no way to escape, trapped in the hell of my sorrow.

Channeling it, I give my all into creating a faraway place where I find solace for a few moments.

A high note screaming of my despair chases a low key as I continue playing—out of breath, vulnerable as I strip myself bare to my soul.

An avalanche of clasps pulls me out of my disarrayed thoughts.

My hands hover over the keys, lost on what to do next, just like me.

Dazed, I realize I finished playing the last note.

Thank God for tactile memory. My hands remember what to do even if my brain has checked out. The harder I suffer, the better I play.

Inhaling deeply, a solitary tear rolls down my cheek.

The concert hall falls silent; the dim light set on me slowly eases me back into the cruel reality, yanking me back from sweet oblivion’s arms once again.

That’s my only reprieve, as if my heart contains an endless well with unlimited replenishing resources.

Some distant gasps reach my ears, reminding me I am not alone on my journey. These strangers accompany me. The spectators might not understand my story, but my music claws into their souls, tugging at their heartstrings, and for a few seconds, my solitude vanishes.

Standing up on shaky feet, I reach the edge of the stage, forcing a smile on my face. My eyes sweep over the packed rows of velvety chairs and elegant balconies above. The audience greets me with a standing ovation.

Palming my chest, I mouth a thank you as I witness what my playing achieved.

Tears brim in their eyes, some allowing them to fall freely while some fight with them, blinking them away.

Some stare ahead, caught in a trance, while some remain perfectly still, and others clap and cheer so loud the echo pierces my ears.

Each listener reacts differently to my compositions, yet the awe is constant.

Their reactions fill me with a deep gratitude that I can do what I love most and share my passion.

My play used to be vivid, loud, joyful.

Now, it’s dark and eerie, reflecting my inner world—the void and the turmoil, delineating the past from the present. What I lost cannot be returned. Which is ironic because if I asked him to pay for his sins with blood, he would slash his skin open and pour his life essence at my feet.

That he would give me—his death.

God forbid he gives me his life. No.

I, Dahlia Ferrara, the tainted Mafia princess, am destined to love Mikail Morozov.

And Mikail Morozov, the Pakhan and my brother’s best friend, is destined to protect me.

In a cruel twist of fate, we can never happen even though our lives are intertwined with spiky threads of steel.

We bled for each other, sharing a secret that could bring the brACON organization to its knees.

I would rather live miserably for the rest of my life than jeopardize what he and my brother, Enzo, succeeded in uniting—the Cosa Nostra and the Bratva.

It is a cliché to fall for my brother’s best friend.

Forbidden at best.

Disastrous at worst.

I had little choice though. I’ve loved him since I was a girl who had big dreams and an even brighter future.

But my eighteenth birthday ended it. What should have been our beginning shifted drastically into the end, massacring all my na?ve dreams of us being together.

Seventy-two hours later, all my hopes were butchered at my feet in that godforsaken warehouse where I had been held captive.

Mika sees himself as the monster when all I’ll ever see him as is my savior, my knight in dark armor. My king of darkness forged in violence and spilled blood. A killer who smothered his morality to save me. I owe him everything, but he wants nothing from me even if I’d gladly give him my all.

If he only wanted me like that. If he stretched out his hand for me, I’d take it and never let go.

Love him in the light. Worship him in the dark.

I know Mika cares about me, but it’s soaked in regret, dripping between us whenever our eyes meet.

While I want his love, I am doomed to face daily his biggest torment—me.

I carry my love for him like a torch that never fades but burns hotter with longing every day.

I have his family’s blood on my conscience.

He has my innocence on his.

Guilt and secrets. Remorse and misery. That’s what will forever connect us, welding our souls into an inextricable link—never together but sharing a deep-rooted connection that runs thicker than blood and transcends the perennial.

Profound. Deep. Endless.

Our relationship just scrapes at everything that could be. If only he would listen, but my heart is a mere whisper while his mind rages at him, always silencing my plea for love.

In the absence of his love, my piano, my compositions nurture my starved soul. I prevail through this instrument, and in exchange, he sings to my soul.

From the corner of my eye, I catch his shadow, just as imposing as him, stomping on my airways. No wonder it always feels like I will suffocate in his presence. Letting me asphyxiate would be the generous thing. But Mika is not known for mercy.

The thick burgundy curtain separating the backstage does nothing to shield him from me. I feel his presence as if he’s attached to my heart.

I bow my head to the audience, ready to be done for tonight and crawl back to the safety of privacy where solitude awaits me. Just a few more minutes. I let the knowledge appease my frayed thoughts.

The sound of the spectators chanting my name follows me all the way to my dressing room in the back. Keep that smile up. Don’t show the cracks threatening to split you open. Nothing could happen to me. Physically, I am safe. Emotionally not so.

My personal bodyguard supervises the perimeter as the staff congratulates me. His firm presence alone keeps people at a distance. Letting no one too close, he eyes everyone as if they were a threat and is ready to attack.

Mikail appointed Kiril to watch over me. As he accompanies me down the hall, I smile at him in both gratitude and apology. More guards scatter across the perimeter. My safety is my brother’s and his top priority.

Inside, I close the door and blow out a heavy exhale. A bout of nostalgia crashes into me like a wave, drowning me under its heavy weight.

Today my brother got married, but the intimate celebration lasted only a few hours before Enzo whisked his new bride away for their honeymoon.

And I kept to my regular Saturday schedule, giving a piano concert at city hall in downtown Reno.

Trapped in the inertia of my life, I don’t know how to break free.

I merely exist. My brother escaped the hellish cycle. I wish I could too.

I sink against the door, wishing to return home to seclusion, to quiet. At the compound, my mother and I live our unbothered existence of being alive while long dead. Two ghosts coexisting peacefully.

The dim light casts the small room in a familiar glow. A small velvet sofa spans the left side. In front of me, a vanity table rests against the wall with a round mirror and a plush armchair. An adjoining bathroom completes the room.

My eyes catch the immense bouquet of dahlias next to an elegant orange box on the vanity table. Pushing myself off the door, I don’t have to look to know it’s another purse. Another gift. No note, even though I am aware it’s from him.