Bishop: Dark Mafia Romance, page 1
CONTENTS
1. Bishop
2. Abri
3. Abri
4. Bishop
5. Abri
6. Bishop
7. Abri
8. Bishop
9. Abri
10. Bishop
11. Bishop
12. Abri
13. Bishop
14. Abri
15. Bishop
16. Abri
17. Bishop
18. Abri
19. Bishop
20. Abri
21. Bishop
22. Abri
23. Bishop
24. Abri
25. Bishop
26. Bishop
27. Abri
28. Abri
29. Bishop
30. Abri
31. Abri
32. Abri
33. Abri
34. Abri
35. Abri
36. Abri
37. Bishop
38. Abri
39. Abri
40. Bishop
41. Abri
42. Abri
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Also by Eden Summers
About the Author
Copyright © 2023 by Eden Summers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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To the readers who grew up fantasizing
about the dark prince instead of the white knight,
you are my people.
Enjoy all the red flags.
1
BISHOP
I’m going to kill the woman I was sent to protect.
Call me psychic. Or maybe it’s intuition. Who the fuck knows? But something inside me vibrates with a level of homicidal certainty. My palms itch to wrap around Abri’s delicate throat as she schmoozes with the Denver elite in this seductively lit hotel ballroom with its pompous decorations and endless supply of expensive liquor.
I’ve called her fifty goddamn times today without answer.
I’ve left innumerable messages. Sent endless texts. Not once did she respond.
I explained to her voicemail how I’d been sent halfway across the country by her brothers because she—she—called them this morning begging for someone to watch her back after her dad made changes to her security detail.
But she seems more than fucking peachy now.
She’s charming every man in a three-piece, her shiny golden gown dazzling, a matching sheer scarf covering the front of her neck like a choker, the long length of material draped down her back as her temptress smile hides whatever sinister intent she has lurking inside.
She’s the queen of this smorgasbord of upper-class snobbery. She laughs with politicians. Rubs shoulders with those I assume are tech billionaires. Bats her lashes at old money in expensive tailored suits.
She’s in her element, lapping up their attention without a care in the world while I remain by the bar at the back of the ballroom, my presence unknown to her.
For now.
The lights dim and a middle-aged guy in a tux walks onto the stage, introduces himself as some successful asshole from who-the-fuck-cares, and directs everyone to find their seats.
The herd of blue bloods comply, a grey-haired guy placing a hand on the curve of Abri’s back to escort her to a table in the middle of the room then taking the chair beside her.
The formalities drag on, the unending speeches harder to endure than a root canal. Some slick asshole receives a gold star for donating what I assume is his pocket change to an Ethiopian orphanage. Another gets recognition for starting a charity with no mention that it was obviously launched as a tax dodge.
An hour into this ego masturbation, Abri silently rises from her seat with her gold sparkling clutch in hand and discreetly maneuvers her way around the mass of circular tables, smiling at those who make eye contact as she saunters to a side hall leading to the bathrooms. To isolation.
I scrutinize the members of security stationed around the room, waiting for the dogs on her detail to follow—the ones she doesn’t trust. Because that was her issue this morning. She doesn’t have faith in the guys in charge of her safety.
Funnily enough, those concerns appear valid. Nobody pays her attention, at least not in a professional way. There’s no protective concern from the men I scan—only sexual interest.
I throw back the last of my scotch, slide the glass onto the bar, and stalk after her as the MC encourages yet another jerk-off to approach the stage to receive his participation award.
I reach the start of the hall as she disappears around the corner toward the ladies room. I follow, making sure nobody trails me while I take the same path and pause at the open archway into the female bathroom.
It’s quiet inside. Barely a shuffle of noise until a violent retch breaks the silence.
I frown, tempted to storm in there to find out what the hell has caused the picture-perfect princess to start throwing her guts up. Instead, I lean back against the wall separating us and listen to the splash of her stomach contents against the bowl.
She looked flawless in the ballroom. Exuberant. Downright fucking sprightly.
So what’s with the violent heaving?
Food poisoning? Bulimia?
The toilet flushes. The gentle bang of a closing stall follows. Heels tap against tile. A faucet turns on with a haphazard splash of water before being shut off. Then nothing.
No sound. No movement.
I chance a glance around the wall, catching her staring at her reflection in the mirror, her hands clutching the counter.
She stills for a moment, blinking back at herself, breathing slow and deep.
Then with a sigh, she straightens her bare shoulders and stands tall, her mask of charm shimmering back into place. Confidence curves her lips. Her eyes sparkle.
What the hell is she up to? Or, more accurately, what the fuck are her and her piece-of-shit father trying to achieve tonight?
She unclasps her clutch to remove a tube of lipstick and I inch back against the wall, not needing to watch her prep the moneymaker. I attempt to distinguish the shifting sounds, the popping of her lips, the rummaging through her clutch, then an unmistakable fast and hard sniff.
Once…
Twice…
Great. I signed up for junkie detail, too.
Isn’t she just the most delightful goodie bag of surprises?
Fucking hell, Langston.
I knew my best friend’s sister had issues when I offered to keep an eye on her. But this shitshow of downfalls is growing beyond my tolerance. I’m tempted to storm in there and snatch whatever stupid shit she’s snorting up that pretty nose of hers. That’s what Langston would want. Yet when he’s MIA and copying his estranged sister’s habit of dodging my calls it’s only natural I take the opposite path to his preferences.
This should be his job. His annoyance.
I was only meant to watch out for her during the day. Langston was supposed to be here by now. He was meant to make the cross-country journey as soon as his meeting finished with my boss, who also happens to be his Uncle Lorenzo. But I guess the conversation of murdering your own father takes longer than I’d anticipated, because neither of those fuckers are keen to communicate.
Either that or they’re both dead, which I refuse to contemplate.
There’s another sniff. Another poke at my annoyance.
I shouldn’t give a shit that Abri’s dabbling in dangerous territory. Not my circus. Not my fucking monkey. But this shit irks me. Big time.
Langston will have to address her extracurriculars. He needs to tell the mistress of manipulation the most fundamental rule in this line of business—if you sell drugs, you never do drugs.
Unfortunately, that gem of advice is something most learn the hard way. I guess I was the lucky son of a bitch with a past that made me immune to those types of adult mistakes.
There’s more rummaging in her clutch. A click of the clasp. Then the tap of approaching heels.
I time my push from the wall, making sure to step into the path of the bathroom archway the moment she exits.
Right on cue, she collides into my chest with a thud and a gasp.
Her hands snap up to grab my arms for stability. Her clutch falls to the floor. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t…” Her frantic gaze raises to mine, the shocked, faux Bambi look blinking away in an instant as sheer loathing takes its place. “You.”
“Me.” I glower.
Sadly, this isn’t our first fairytale meet-cute.
I’ve been right beside Langston as he spied on his family for years. Yet it wasn’t until recently that we actually met—when I was in charge of looking after L angston’s woman and this witch helped her escape.
Abri didn’t score brownie points with me then. And she sure as shit hasn’t now after ignoring me all goddamn day.
But I’ve never been this close to her. Not where I can see the differing shades of blue in her eyes. The smooth flawlessness of her skin.
She truly is beautiful. An exquisitely mesmerizing dick trap.
“Why are you here?” She shoves at my chest in a pitiful attempt that makes her stumble backward.
“You wouldn’t have to ask if you answered your fucking phone.” I bend to grab her clutch and hand it over. “You wanted more security for tonight. So here I am.”
She snatches my offering. “No. I wanted Remy and Salvatore.”
“Well, lucky you. You got an upgrade.”
“I doubt it.” She shoves the clutch under her arm, holding it against her ribs. “Where are they?”
“Currently indisposed.”
Her eyes flash, in fear or ferocity I’m not sure. “What did you do to them?” she snaps.
Okay, it’s definitely ferocity. “Calm down. They’re with Langston. Safe and sound.”
Except for a bruise or two. But she doesn’t need to know about the injuries I took pleasure inflicting. This whole working-together bullshit is new to all of us. Last week, Langston and I were ready to choke out his younger brothers. And apparently now we’re on the same side.
Fucking awesome.
“You need to leave.” She makes to walk around me. “I don’t want you here.”
I counter with a sidestep. “I don’t want to be here either, belladonna. But that’s the job description.”
She pauses. Straightens. Slowly regains her composure. Or maybe the speed ball is kicking in. But instead of her fury increasing, her seductive mask glistens back into place like a spell has been cast.
Her expression gentles, those sapphire eyes blinking with manipulative beauty. “I guess it’s safe to assume Remy told you I called this morning with concerns.”
I incline my head.
I overheard the conversation, from her pleading for Remy and Salvo to return home to protect her to her aggressive emotional onslaught once she found out they were in the midst of a plan to take down their father.
She turned livid, laying down the law, forbidding their intentions.
She made it known she wouldn’t forgive and forget if action was taken against Emmanuel Costa.
Not that they listened.
Hence why I’m here and they’re probably still in Virginia Beach, throwing back whiskey and discussing strategy with Lorenzo like the motherfuckers they are.
She drags in a long breath and waves an errant hand in my direction. “I apologize over how you’ve been caught up in this. I overreacted when I spoke to Remy. I assure you it isn’t necessary for you to be here.”
I wish I was born yesterday because then I could accept this act of blatant bullshit and be on my merry fucking way. Toodaloo, Viper Barbie. I’m outta here. “There was mention of you having an issue with the guards your father assigned to look after you. Are you telling me that’s no longer a concern?”
She inclines her head. “That’s correct.”
“Great. Then you won’t mind pointing me in their direction. We need to have a chat.”
“No you don’t. If my father finds out you’re here, he’ll—”
“It’s not up for negotiation. Especially since I walked into the hotel through the kitchen, without ID, while strapped.” I mimic her synthetic smile. “I’ve come across better security at Starbucks. Your men need a good dressing down for putting you in your current precarious situation.”
“I wasn’t aware I was in a precarious situation?”
I step closer, getting in her personal space, her neck craning in her attempt to maintain eye contact. “You could be. If I was someone else—”
“Someone other than a murderous member of the Italian mafia?” She breathes a laugh. “I can handle myself.”
She’s delusional. Careless. Or maybe just plain fucking stupid.
“I could haul you over my shoulder and drag you out the fire exit.” I take another step, forcing her to retreat, backing her against the wall. Her perfume infiltrates my lungs, the exotic sweetness increasing with every breath. “Where are they, Abri?”
Her hands fumble around her clutch. The clasp clicks. Then it all falls to the floor as I inch closer. But despite her flustering, she doesn’t break our gaze. “Get out of my face.”
“Just as soon as you tell me who’s meant to be ensuring your safety.” So I can teach them a lesson in customer service.
“I won’t ask again,” she purrs.
“Neither will I.”
“Then I guess we’re at a fork in the road.” Her smile increases as something nudges my crotch. Something hard. My dick responds with interest despite the blatant threat to my manhood. “Have you ever been tasered in the balls, Bishop?” She raises a haughty brow. “That is your name, right?”
My nostrils flare. My pulse fucking surges.
“It sure is.” I inch harder against the threat. “And no, nobody has ever dared to taser me. Anywhere. Let alone the crown jewels. So just to make the repercussions perfectly clear, if you decide to make that move, you’d want to hope it kills me.”
She chuckles, sickeningly self-assured. “And why is that?”
“You break it, you bought it, belladonna.”
Her laughter continues, the sound deceptively innocent despite the underlying venom. “Move.”
“I will once you tell me how it was possible to get this close to you.” I plant my hands on the wall on either side of that gorgeous face. “How I can continue to remain a fucking dick length away without interference?”
She stares at me, the seconds ticking by without response. But that condescending brow of hers wavers slightly. The smile, too.
I edge closer, a breath from those venomous lips. “Dear ol’ daddy took away your regular detail and left you with chumps, didn’t he? They couldn’t protect you if their lives depended on it, could they?”
She raises her chin in defiance. “I’m sure they could.”
There’s something about her words. That tone.
“Where are they?” I glide a strand of hair behind her ear, appreciating the strength it must take for her not to flinch. “You’re not going anywhere until I get an answer.”
“Or until I fry your little swimmers.” She pokes my dick with the measly stun gun.
I grin. “Fuck around with my private parts and I’ll do the same with yours.”
She rolls her eyes. “You think I’m scared of you? I eat men of your caliber on a weekly basis.”
“You have no clue of my caliber.” I’m tempted to push this further just so she can have a first-hand account of the type of man she’s dealing with. But fuck that. Fuck her. I’m tired of this shit. And so unbelievably fucking tired in general. When was the last time I slept? “Just tell me where the hell they are so I don’t have to walk into that ballroom and start asking people one by one.”
She falls silent. Unresponsive.
What is she hiding?
I retreat an inch, removing myself from her heavenly scented poison cloud. “Are they even here?”
The quiet remains. There’s nothing but the droll tone of the MC carrying from the ballroom while her stun gun remains poised near my favorite asset.
Her delicate swallow gives her away.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” I retreat farther, giving her space to wallow in whatever shame is brimming to the surface. “It’s not that they’re shit at their job—they’re nonexistent, aren’t they?”
She bends down to retrieve her clutch, ignoring the question.
“Answer me,” I growl. “Are they unreliable or nonexistent?”
