Wicked Prince (Royal Syndicate #2)

Chapter 1

Aron

“How do you want your pancakes, honey? I can add something special, like chocolate chips or fresh blueberries.”

“How about you make mine plain and add some cyanide or strychnine to yours?”

Emily, who is technically and legally still my wife, turns around with a twisted smile on her face. “Aron, baby, that’s no way to talk to the mother of your child. What if Maria was old enough to understand you? She’d be so scared.”

The whole scene is like some kind of sick version of a nineteen fifties sitcom.

Stark white cabinets line the wall over the black Formica countertop, which has all the necessary ingredients for breakfast lined up in a neat row.

Chrome accents reflect the harsh fluorescent lighting, and the floor is covered in faux marble linoleum.

The remaining walls have brightly colored wallpaper with bold geometric patterns.

Emily’s wearing a pristine white apron over her sapphire blue dress, and our daughter, Maria, babbles softly in her carrier across the table from me.

Sounds idyllic, right? Except for a couple small details: the chains that bind me to the steel chair at the head of the kitchen table, and the shoulder holster Emily wears, complete with gun.

My dad, Javier Martinez, had his men transport me from the cell I woke up in to this facade of a house the first night I was here, when I’d been drugged again with the first sip of water Dad offered me.

I haven’t had another sip since, nor have I eaten a Goddamned thing that Emily has cooked.

This supposed kitchen has no windows, no way of telling time beyond the Felix the Cat wall clock, which doesn’t even tell time. I don’t know how long I’ve been held here, don’t know where “here” is, don’t know how close my boyfriend and boss, Matteo Mangione, is to finding me.

I don’t know if I want him to find me.

Matt heads the Royal Syndicate, the oldest mafia organization in the city.

My dad killed his father, Tito Mangione, and half the senior Syndicate associates just a couple weeks ago in one evening of mass explosions.

Until Dad’s mole drugged me and took me from the mansion I share with Matt, I’d thought that Emily and Maria were casualties of that destructive night.

“You don’t think that she’d be frightened to learn that her mother murdered a pregnant woman to fake her own death?”

Emily wags an admonishing finger at me. “Now, Aron, your father and I explained this to you. We had to make you think I was dead to test your loyalty to your family and your father’s new Empire.

And you failed that test, didn’t you?” She clucks her tongue.

“It’s a good thing for you that Javier and I are rather forgiving. ”

Right. The same way the Spanish Inquisition was forgiving.

“Here you go, sweetie!” Emily’s singsong voice drips with saccharine joy as she places a plate of pancakes in front of me, but I don’t trust a fucking thing that comes from her anymore.

“Not hungry,” I mutter, pushing the plate as far away as my chains will allow.

“Now, now, you have to eat something. It’s been days!”

Has it, though? I can’t tell.

“Hmm …” Emily taps her lip with a finger. “Maybe you need to vacate before you can eat. Once again, I will gladly offer to help you. We’ve got clean, hospital-grade equipment, and as your wife, I don’t mind cleaning you up.”

“I can wipe my own fucking ass, you whore!”

Maria’s tiny face crumples, and she starts to squall. Fuck. I shouldn’t have yelled. I keep forgetting that I have a daughter now. Or rather, Emily and my father claim she’s mine. That could be another lie, for all I know.

Emily picks Maria up and rocks her back and forth, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Shh, sweetheart, Mommy’s here. Daddy just got a little hangry at Mommy, that’s all.”

“I’m not angry because I need to eat,” I say. “I’m angry because I need to get home.”

“You’re already home, silly.” She turns to Maria. “You see, baby girl, Mommy thinks your abuelo Javier gave Daddy too much sedative. He’s so confused that he thinks the Syndicate is his home. But don’t worry; once the drugs wear off, Daddy will remember that he belongs here with us.”

She’s crazy. I don’t know if Dad did this to her or if she was fucking nuts before we met, but Emily’s missing a few crucial brain cells in that pretty head of hers.

“Just let me go, Emily. Let me out of these chains. I can help you take care of Maria then. Change diapers, feed her … be a real father to her.” I lean forward as far as I can with the chains. “You unchain me for just a little while. Just until Dad gets back. I promise I won’t tell him you did it.”

Emily’s mouth forms an exaggerated O of surprise. “You’d lie to your father?”

I’d tell Dad anything if it meant a few moments’ freedom.

Ever since his men brought me here, I’ve known nothing but chained discomfort.

The manacled links holding my wrists to the table weigh a ton, and the ones wrapped around my chest, waist, and hips that keep me in the chair aren’t any lighter.

My feet are shackled directly to the chair legs, so I can’t even shift or change position to get some relief from the cramping.

Sleep is impossible. At best I can doze lightly when I hit extreme exhaustion.

Emily wasn’t kidding about the hospital supplies, either. It’s a bedpan and a urinal or crapping and pissing my pants. Those are my options.

“Listen, Aron, we’ve discussed this. Until we can trust you not to run back to Matt, you’re stuck right there in that chair.”

“I’m not going to go back to Matt, okay?

I’m—I’ll stay put. I promise.” I hold my hands up as high as they can go, as if in surrender.

“It’s just you, me, and Maria. I don’t need anything else, but these chains hurt, baby, and after a while they’ll start to do permanent damage.

They’re chafing and cutting into me in places. ”

Hysterical giggles bubble out of Emily, and she twirls in a circle on the linoleum, her skirt flaring.

“You were naughty, Aron. You ran away from home, and now you need to learn your lesson.”

Frustrated doesn’t begin to cover what I’m feeling right now.

Any conversation with Emily since her miraculous return is always the same, always cycling back to me “running away” to the Syndicate—and Matt.

Weirdly, I don’t think jealousy has anything to do with it.

She just seems completely sold on my dad’s fucked-up views of the world.

Was she always like this? Was I just oblivious?

There are clearly some misfiring neurons in Emily’s brain.

Sane people don’t murder a pregnant woman to fake their own death.

They don’t let their husband believe they’re dead for weeks.

They don’t kidnap said husband after drugging him while he’s sleeping.

And they certainly don’t carry their daughter while strapped with a nine-mil under their arm.

A sharp staccato of knocks sounds at the only door in the room, and Emily perks up.

“Abuelo is here, Maria! Isn’t that exciting?”

I don’t know why Emily is using the Spanish term. Dad’s a fourth gen American adopted and raised by an Italian American family. He barely knows any Spanish himself.

Emily skips to the door and opens the series of locks to let Dad in.

I’m not quite sure who they’re trying to keep out. I doubt Matt knows where I am, and it’s not like interior locks are going to keep me here. Outside locks I’d understand, but these? They don’t really make sense.

Dad strides in wearing a tailored black suit. His scarred, tattooed face is puckered in a tight scowl, and his hands are clenched in fists as his sides. Unlike Emily, he hasn’t put on the pretense of a happy family life since bringing me here. He’s pissed, and he wants me to know it.

“Why is Aron still in chains?” he asks, though I suspect he knows the answer.

Emily sighs dramatically. “Oh, he’s still convinced that we’re the bad guys. Doesn’t trust us. Won’t even eat my pancakes.”

Pulling a wooden chair out from the table and turning it around, Dad straddles the back and sits in front of me. “You need to eat, Aron. Your beautiful wife makes the most amazing pancakes. You really should try them.”

“Why? So you can drug me again?”

Dad reaches across the table, grabs my fork, stabs the top pancake, and shoves the whole damn thing in his mouth, maintaining hard eye contact the entire time. He chews silently, then swallows and sits back, crossing his massive arms across his broad chest.

Okay, then. They might not be dosed.

I sit for about five seconds debating on whether I should keep up the stubborn act, but hunger finally wins out.

I devour the pancakes in minutes while Dad and Emily watch.

My throat is so dry from refusing any drink that I almost choke a couple of times, but Dad just sighs, pours a glass of orange juice, takes a swig, then hands me the glass.

I shouldn’t give in. Shouldn’t take it. I should be strong.

I down the rest in one long gulp.

With my breakfast finished, an awkward silence begins.

Emily hums to herself as she feeds Maria, but otherwise, a pin drop would be deafening.

Dad stares me down like he expects me to speak first, but what am I supposed to say?

“Sure, Dad, I’ll join your evil organization that murdered the man who was like an uncle to me, blew up an innocent pregnant woman, and almost killed my boyfriend”?

He’ll be sitting there a long time if he thinks that will happen.