Her Brutal King: A Reverse Age Gap, Mafia Romance (Black Hearts Book 4), page 1
Copyright © [2023] by [A.N. Stauber]
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Dedication
Author's Note
Prologue
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty-One
32. Chapter Thirty-Two
33. Chapter Thirty-Three
34. Chapter Thirty-Four
35. Chapter Thirty-Five
Read On
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To all my girlies with daddy issues:
Sammy's father was written to show that not all dads are deadbeats. May you find a tattooed book boyfriend with a giant pierced schlong to treat you like a princess since your real daddy wouldn't.
Declan is ready to fill those shoes for you now.
Author's Note
Welcome
CONTENT GUIDE:
This mafia story is NOT a clean romance. I do NOT condone any situations or actions that take place in this fictional story.
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE:
Saoirse (Sur-shuh)
Aoibheann: (Ev-in)
If you don't have any triggers, please feel free to skip the rest of this message.
WARNINGS:
This book includes but is not limited to:
Extreme graphic description of violence, explicit language, alcohol abuse and sexual content. There is also murder, torture, descriptive mention of the loss of a significant other (for both MCs), suicidal ideation, attempted suicide on page, breath play, PTSD from traumatic death events. The characters in this story are mentally fucked.
Prologue
“Get the fuck outta here!” the bouncer yells, his Boston accent thick as I’m tossed onto the street.
My body hits the concrete with force, and I groan at the pain in my wrist. The door to the bar closes with a thud, echoing through the street. This time of day, everyone’s at work. Attempting to stand and right myself, I stumble instead. I drank too much, and now, my entire body is useless.
This will hurt tomorrow.
It will be worth it, not to feel the pain now.
Not to see the face of my lost girl, the dead eyes staring back at me as I pulled her from the bloody water. I was only a kid and had already seen so much death. But hers had been the worst. Hers had actually mattered.
“Killing her without trying her out would be a shame,” a man says, his Russian accent thick.
His voice comes from the alleyway, and I turn to figure out what he’s talking about. I half expect him to be toppling over a woman, but all I see are two men dressed in black with their hoods up. There’s no one else in the alley with them. And in the afternoon light, I’m able to take in the scar on the right side of one’s face.
“We have to be quick. There’s a panic button, and if she activates it, we’re fucked,” one of them says.
“Still. If we catch her by surprise, she won’t be able to press any buttons. Just seems to be wasteful. I haven’t gotten laid in weeks, man. The old lady’s pissed at me.”
The scarless one snorts, dropping the butt of his cigarette to the ground. He snuffs it with the heel of his boot. “That’s what happens when you’re a cheating bastard. Wanna add rapist to the list too?”
The one with the scar shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The other one laughs. “Fine. We should get going. Gotta make it quick.”
I move to make myself known, grunting loud enough that they’ll know they aren’t alone. I may not be a good guy. Hell, I know I’m a dark monster. But raping and murdering women is where I draw the line. And if I can stop it, I will. I’m not carrying a firearm today. I had business this morning in the police station, and the last thing I need is to be caught with an unregistered weapon. My fists will have to do.
“What’s up, fuckers?” I ask, a sly grin on my face. I’m sure my words come out slurred, but they have the desired effect.
Both heads swivel toward me. Recognition hits the one with the scar. His eyes pop as he takes in the sight of me. “Declan Murphy in Russian territory?” he chuckles, rubbing his hands together. “We just hit the lotto, Dinetto.”
I hum, excited to get what I fucking came here for. I’ve been brewing for a fight since the second I stepped into the bar.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you, Irish fuck.”
“Bring it, old man.” I grin sardonically.
A fist flies toward my face. I’m slow because of the alcohol I consumed but dodge it.
The fists continue to fly until one of them connects with my jaw. I fall on my ass, laughing as I savor the pain. Yes, this is what I wanted. One of them towers over me, grabs my shirt by the collar, and he pounds into me over and over.
Blood pours down my face, the taste of copper on the tip of my tongue. My head pounds, until finally scar man is pulled off me.
“Get off him,” someone mutters. I recognize that voice. It belongs to Ivan Novikoff. He’s from Miami, though I’m sure he’s here on some type of business with the Boston Bratva.
It would be my luck that he’s here now, preventing me from taking the brutal beating I deserve.
My vision blurs from the hits, and I’m sure an eye is swollen shut. The adrenaline courses through me, despite having my ass handed to me. A gun cocks, the sound drawing my attention as it’s pressed to someone’s forehead. “Get out of here before I tell the Pahkan what you’ve done.”
The two men hurry out of the alley, leaving me alone with my savior. “Jesus, Declan.” He towers over me. I grin, glancing at the blurry figure in front of me. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I’m lifted, my arm wrapping around his neck. He grunts. “You’re fucking heavy, man.”
“Should have let them kill me,” I murmur.
My chest tightens, a lead balloon inflating inside of me. I didn’t stop them from hurting her. Whoever she is.
Chapter One
Five Years Later
Images of blood flash with each blink of my eyes. It covers my hands. Every man I’ve killed. Their faces come into focus, from the most recent all the way to my very first. And then, all I see is Cara.
I still remember every detail. When I found her. The way her eyes were opened. How my stomach churned with bile. The raw ache in my chest that cracked open when I felt her cold skin. How pale she was with the blood drained from her body.
Her mother’s primal screams still pierce my ears. Earth-shattering screeches that sliced through my chest like butter. The way she dropped to her knees while I jumped into the pool, tainted with her daughter’s blood. The way I performed CPR on her, despite the slashes in her wrists that drained the life out of her before she could drown.
I still remember how I shielded her from her brother, Scotty, and their mother so that image couldn’t be burned into their brains the same way it is in mine.
Every. Fucking. Day.
I take a swig of the metal flask, then toss it into the passenger seat, not caring to put the lid back on. My foot hits the pedal, accelerating even faster. I’m ready to make the replay stop. I’ll reach the bridge in about thirty-five seconds.
I know this because I’ve done it too many times before. Tonight, though? Tonight, I won’t chicken out.
I’m tired of everything. Of not getting enough sleep, of reliving the worst days of my life over and over again. Of not being able to file away every detail of my life.
People say that if they could, they’d love to read their favorite book for the first time, or watch their favorite movie for the first time, to relive those emotions that story stirred in them.
But I can, and it’s a fucking curse, not a gift. That gift dies today. With me. This is it. The final ending. I roll the windows down.
“For Cara,” I say, white knuckling the steering wheel. And then I yank to the right, flying over the railing of the bridge.
The Lamborghini hits the water like concrete. It doesn’t take long for the
My socks are wet.
The engine kicks out.
The water is to my knees. I breathe in; I breathe out. I reach for the flask, but my belt locks and I can’t reach it. Mother fucker.
I’m submerged to my chest now. There’s no going back, and I don’t want to.
There’s no oxygen. I’m completely submerged. But I welcome the forever sleep. Arms wrap around me, trying to pull me free. I buck, wanting to fight against their hold. No, please. Let me go. Let me be free. Leave me to die.
I can’t relive this moment anymore.
A buzz sounds; the bars unlock. Metal rolls, and then there’s a click. The draft of the cell threatens to send a shiver up my spine, but I force away that feeling.
“Murphy. Get the fuck up,” an officer says, his tone clipped.
I don’t budge. I want to be numb, but my brain won’t let that happen. Metal hits metal again, this time in a symphony as handcuffs are dragged across the bar to create an abundance of noise.
“Declan Murphy. On your feet.”
I hear him calling me, but I don’t respond. Can’t they just leave me laying here and let me die. I wait for the pain from what the frustrated asshole will do to me. I welcome it. To help drown out the incessant highlight reel of how I failed Cara. If I can’t be numb, I’ll take whatever uncomfortable feelings I’m able to grasp.
“Last fucking call,” he grinds out.
Yes, please. Fight me. Make me bleed the way she did. Make me hurt, end me. Stop it all. Make me numb. He won’t do it, though. He knows who I am, what would happen if he touched a Murphy boy. The empty threat hangs in the air, and I still don’t move.
The officer huffs, his footsteps becoming louder as he approaches. His hand clutches my shoulder, then he tosses me to the floor.
I don’t react. I just lay on the cement floor, waiting.
“Your ride is here. Jesus. Get up, Murphy.”
My ride? I called no one, told no one about what I did. It was reckless, stupid now that they pulled me from the murky waters.
The second my family finds out that I drove intoxicated, they’ll start up an intervention, and that’s the last thing I need.
“Who’s here?” I ask, grunting as I bring myself up on all fours.
He shrugs while I stand, stumbling to regain my balance. “Fuck if I know.”
My mind flickers back to the scene of the accident. Someone was there. Someone pulled me out of the water. My eyes were closed, so I didn’t get a good look at their face, and that makes the memory fuzzy. Vision makes the vivid scenes so real, so when I don’t have the image, the memory isn’t as sharp as when I can see something so clearly.
Was it a man? A woman?
I shuffle through the options, the other senses I had at my disposal. Touch. The hands tugging me toward the light were rough. Large, strong hands that probably belonged to a man. All I could smell was dirty river water and dead fish. That wouldn’t help decipher anything.
When I came to, I only saw the face of a paramedic pushing down on my chest. I coughed up water. Fuck. Had my heart stopped beating? Maybe.
My heart sinks with that realization. For a moment, my mind was blank, and I let the darkness slip through my fingers. I could’ve ended the pain that festers deep inside of my bones, but someone prevented that.
A faceless someone.
The officer grabs me by the elbow and drags me down the hall. I didn’t go to the hospital. I convinced the sergeant on duty that I’d be fine. Just take me to jail, lock me up. Maybe I’d get lucky, and some secondary drowning would happen in the cell.
Hours later, I’m still breathing. I may be Irish, but I did not, in fact, get lucky.
“Here.” The officer shoves a plastic bag at my chest, then opens the door to the lobby.
I glance around, trying to take notice of anyone in the lobby, but it’s empty. My feet ache, and my clothes are a sopping wet mess, but I walk to the exit.
“Christ, you look like shit,” Scotty says.
I turn, groaning when I see my friend leaning against the railing of the stairs. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, and I do a double take—the scruff of blond hair on his cheeks is something new. I’m not used to this side of him, only used to him wearing the black suit, with a clean-shaven face. That Scotty is gone now that he’s out of organized crime. It’s only been a month or so, but civilian life seems to have softened his face. He’s not as tense, smiling more.
Love and all that shit. They say it’s good for the soul. I wouldn’t know. I’d never know, since my love is gone.
“See my sister’s making sure you’re getting fat.” I grin as I head toward him and punch at his stomach.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ve gained weight. But it’s all muscle, bro.” He flexes his bicep, then extends his hand for a shake.
I take it, pulling him into a brotherly hug. “I’m glad you’re happy.” Even if it is with my baby sister. The words hang in the air, left unspoken.
“I wish you were,” he says, pulling away. He grabs the duffle on the ground beside him, then shoves it at my chest. “You can get dressed in the car. Saoirse is waiting, and she’s about to give you an ear full.”
I snort. My youngest sibling, and only sister, is a spitball to be reckoned with. So, I brace myself for her wrath. Together, we head down the stairs, then down the block to the parking garage. When we get there, Saoirse rolls down the window of the front passenger seat. She pokes her head out of the blacked-out Rolls Royce, her red hair almost to her shoulders already. She’d cut it off last month after she was rescued from her kidnapping. It looks great on her, but the reason behind it always causes my stomach to swirl with rage whenever I see the new style.
“You asshole!” Saoirse shouts. “The hotel opening is tomorrow. As if I don’t have enough on my plate, I get a phone call from the chief of police telling me you’re in the drunk tank?”
I roll my eyes, open the back door of the car, and climb in. Scotty rounds the car to get into the driver’s seat. And I take off my dirty clothes. Saoirse doesn’t care, though. She whips her head around, continuing her lecture.
“God, Declan. You smell like rotten fish.” Her nose crinkles.
I grunt.
“Why?” she practically shouts. “You could have killed someone, Dec. You could have killed yourself.”
That was the point. I did it because I wanted to die.
My gaze snaps to hers. “Drinking and driving is nothing compared to the other heinous crimes, Saoirse,” I grind out. “Leave it be. I was just letting off some steam.”
She huffs, shaking her head. “Leave it be. Do you understand why Chief Santez called me and not Callum?”
Callum is the oldest of us, the one in charge. I don’t respond as I pull on a fresh t-shirt.
“Because of Scotty, Declan. You may not give a fuck about anything but yourself, but this hinders his run for mayor.” Her voice softens, and I know it’s for the fear that she may not get out of this life. Scotty going for mayor of Boston will help further his political career. It’ll get both of them away from the danger of the Mafia, and that’s what she’s always wanted.
“It’s fine, princess,” Scotty says, starting the engine. “We took care of it.”
“Took care of it,” Saoirse says, but the bite to her tone is gone. She turns forward, and he rests his hand on her thigh. Immediately, it douses her anger. My best friend since childhood, Jameson Scott Burne, has put out the fire inside of my sister’s soul. Or at least dimmed it so it’s not a raging, uncontrollable forest fire.
I stare in shock, mouth agape. “If I knew you’d calm her down so easily, I’d have told Callum we needed to set up a forced marriage the second she turned eighteen,” I deadpan.
Saoirse’s head snaps back toward me. “Shut up and get dressed. You can shower at the hotel. I had your belongings sent to a penthouse there already. You’ll be sober and smiling for this dinner tomorrow, Declan. Or I’ll shove you in the trunk, and when I drive you over a bridge, you won’t be able to get out.”
I snort, shimmying on the sweatpants they packed for me. Silence fills the air, and I swallow as the guilt for ruining her big night settles. “I’m sorry, Saoirse. I forgot about the hotel opening.”
