Devil Mine: A Dark Cartel Romance (London Underworld Book 1)

“We shouldn’t be here, jefe. It’s dangerous.”

I lift my head from where it’s resting against the soft cushions of the velvet couch I’m sitting on and look at Arturo.

“Let them come,” I say, dropping my head back against the couch and closing my eyes.

“We’ve been watched from the moment you set foot in this club. We’re vastly outnumbered, we’re completely exposed and we’re surrounded by hundreds of civilians,” he says, disapprovingly. Lower, he adds. “You’re being reckless.”

“Relax, Turo. They won’t kill me here.”

I bounce my head along to the club music, enjoying the moment of relaxation. It’s been a busy two weeks and I’ve hardly had a moment to rest, let alone sleep.

“And why are you so sure of that?”

“Because they’ll be thinking I’d never be stupid enough to come to a rival organization’s club with only five men, completely exposed and with no way out,” I say, grinning at him. “They’ll assume I have additional men undercover in the crowd and reinforcements outside. They won’t risk starting something without making damned sure they’re not encircled and trapped themselves.”

Arturo is entitled to question the folly that is deciding to go to a club like Firenze. It’s owned by the Italian mafia and run as a joint venture with Armenian organized crime. The famiglia, once a pinnacle of the Underworld, has grown cancerous under the current leadership. They’ve sacrificed their morals and any hard lines they once had for short-term profits. I know that in addition to the usual drugs and guns, they’ve allowed the Armenians to run a sex trafficking ring through the club.

Disgust forces my fists to clench. The da Silva cartel doesn’t deal in women. Never has, never will. It’s bad business, one that leaves too many loose ends and is easily and often targeted by law enforcement.

It’s a selfish line we’ve drawn in the sand, not one born out of mercy or goodness. There are simply far better uses for women than forcing them into sex slavery.

Marco laughs. “So the reason they won’t attack is because they simply won’t believe you’d be stupid enough to do exactly what you’re doing. Respectfully,” he adds.

“Stupid, maybe.” I down the rest of my drink and wave at one of my men for a refill. “Or, maybe I’ve just outwitted them all.”

“You better be right, Thiago. This is a hell of a risk to take.”

I lean forward, narrowing my eyes at Arturo. He knows more than anyone exactly what I’m doing here. “This is where she disappeared. This is probably where they murdered her. I don’t give a fuck about risk. I’ll kill them all whether it’s tonight, tomorrow, a week, or a year from today. They’ll all die.”

He inclines his head, knowing to back away from this particular subject. Marco hands me a fresh glass and squeezes my shoulder in quiet solidarity.

I shake him off. I don’t need anyone’s pity.

I need revenge.

And that’s why we’re here tonight.

Three months before I arrived in London, my sister Adriana came here on holiday with her best friend, our unofficial adoptive sister. They’d both recently graduated from university and were in London celebrating, enjoying being young and excited for the promise of the future.

They came to Firenze looking for a night of booze and fun like so many other young people in their early twenties. 

Only one of them came home that night.

Adriana disappeared into thin air, never to be heard from again. Intel flowed in from multiple sources that she’d been raped and killed by an Armenian she crossed paths with that night. An Armenian who’d remained unidentified until yesterday when Joaquín, one of my men, had come to me with a name he’d gotten out of an informant.

Yuri Dadurian.

Adriana was never involved in cartel business. My father and I made sure of it, but she was never interested regardless. We’d hidden her identity and encouraged her to focus on her studies. She’d excelled and she’d graduated and then she’d walked right into the lion’s den, completely unsuspecting of the danger around her.

She was innocent. She didn’t deserve to die.

I didn’t understand why she was killed. It didn’t make sense. It made even less sense that the Armenians would do it. Sure, we didn’t have a presence in Europe at the time but the da Silva name was still recognized globally.

They should have known to stay away.

The muscle in my jaw ticks dangerously.

I’m going to make sure that anyone involved in her death dies a death a hundred times more painful than what she suffered. And I’m going to find her body so that I can give her a proper burial back home and my father can finally mourn his daughter’s death in peace.

“That’s why we’re here,” Arturo says, finally connecting the dots. His gaze turns wary. “You have a lead on Adriana?”

“Yuri Dadurian.”

Marco’s eyes widen. “Who is that?”

“Armenian gun for hire. He was seen with her that night. And he’s here tonight.”

Turo scratches his nose. “And why couldn’t we go after him in the street or at his home. Or frankly anywhere that isn’t here?”

“Because,” I say, standing and walking over to the edge of the balcony and looking down at the crowd of people below me. I throw a look over my shoulder at him. “I wanted to send a message.”

Arturo gets to his feet and joins me on the balcony. “We need to leave. You’re going to get us killed.”

“You knew that was a possibility when you signed on to be my consejero.” My gaze scans the crowd. “Plus, I have no plans on dying tonight.”

“Fuck yes, let’s do this,” Marco exclaims, jumping excitedly beside me, his bloodlust needing satiating. “I’ve been here before, I’ll get the back room ready and see if I can find Dadurian.”

“Thiago, think about this,” Arturo implores.

“I am,” I answer, eyes scouring the crowd looking for the man whose photo I spent hours studying since seeing it last night.

Arturo probably says something in response.

If he does, I don’t hear it because at that very moment my eyes land on pink.

A pink dress in the crowd, shining like a beacon as brightly in a nightclub as it had in her office space.

It’s her.

Unexpectedly, like a mad twist of fate, she’s here. Dancing with abandonment, arms above her head, neck thrown back, pleasure stamped across her features as her body undulates to the beat of the music.

Lust slams into me like a runaway train, with no more warning than it had last time. I’m immediately enthralled and unable to look away. Is that the face she makes when she comes, I wonder?

I intend to find out.

Sex has always been merely transactional for me; a way to release some tension with whoever was willing and available, no names, one and done, no strings attached.

And now I’m imagining all the ways I’m going to fuck her. How I’m going to bend her over my desk and pound into her until her hips are bruised. How I’m going to take her against the wall and watch as her eyes glaze over before she shatters around me. How I’m going to force her to her knees and shove my cock so far down her throat that she’ll feel me for days.

Scanning the people around her, I realize with annoyance that I’m not the only one who’s noticed her.

Suddenly shooting into the crowd doesn’t seem like such a terrible idea anymore. Turo won’t be happy, but I’ll be satisfied no other fucker will put his hands on her and that’s all that matters.

I don’t understand my reaction to her. Inexplicably, she’s a distraction. One I don’t need. She’d distracted me when we were dealing with Alex Noble.

I swear that I could smell faint traces of her perfume, almost like it’d followed me into his office. It had taunted me, engrossed me to such an extent that I’d sat quietly and watched Marco have his way with him for the first twenty minutes we were dealing with him.

Since then, she’s randomly popped back into my mind and pulled my focus away from the task at hand. I nearly got shot in the chest last week because of my inattention.

And now here she is again, the lady in pink.

She throws her head back and laughs. Something ugly and possessive pulls at my lower stomach. I want that blonde hair spread out on my pillow, her ass nuzzled on my dick as she sleeps against me.

Whatever this obsession is, I intend to follow it. I’m not one to let something, or someone, slip through my fingers once, let alone twice. 

“What?” Arturo asks, seeing the captivated look on my face. “Did you find him?” His eyes follow mine and search the crowd until they find who I’m staring at. His brows furrow momentarily before recognition slackens them. He shakes his head firmly, repeatedly. “No. Fuck no. That’s a bad idea, jefe.”

I ignore the fact that he’s getting much too comfortable telling me no and focus on what’s important. Arturo has a working knowledge of the most powerful families in the UK with legitimate businesses; if he knows her that means she’s someone worth knowing.

“Who is she?”Upstodatee from Novel(D)ra/m/a.O(r)g

Excitement tingles through my arms and down into my hands where they grip the railing at the potential reveal of her identity.

“Helen of Troy.”

I turn and give him an unimpressed look.

He points down into the crowd at her. “Figuratively that’s exactly who she is,” he explains. “You’ll start a war if you mess with her.”

An intrigued smile stretches slowly across my lips as I look back at her. “Will I?”

He groans when he hears my tone. He knows me well enough to realize he’s unintentionally issued a challenge. One I’m unlikely to pass up.

“No, I didn’t say that as some sort of dare,” he says, exasperated. “You’re not listening to me. Not her. You know her father.”

Surprise twists my features. “Do I?”

Arturo sighs. “You dislocated his shoulder and shattered his elbow a couple weeks ago.” He turns around, leaning back against the railing. “That,” he says, “is Alexander Noble’s daughter.”

I throw my head back and laugh.

Now, that is fucking hysterical. Truly. 

Somehow, it only strengthens my interest in her. He’s a problem I intend on permanently solving two weeks from today and she’s his daughter. 

A pretty English rose I intend to pluck with dirty, bloodied fingers.

Now it makes sense why she was there that day, why I continued to smell her in his office long after she was gone.

Looking back into the crowd, I’m unprepared for my gaze to immediately collide with hers.

I feel tectonic plates shift beneath my feet, powered by the impact of our eyes meeting for the first time. I’m hyper aware of the zap of electricity that travels uninterrupted through my body like an opiate through my veins. I lean forward, my gaze riveted on hers.

She startles, like the contact physically pushes her back a step. She’s not dancing anymore; she stands still amidst the crowd, staring brazenly back at me.

Even from this distance, her gaze traps me as mine seems to do with her. She appears as affected by whatever this connection is as I am.

“He took something of mine, Turo. What better justice is there than taking something of his in return,” I tell Arturo. Arousal makes my voice hoarse, so I clear my throat. “Has he made any payments yet?”

“No, but I’m serious Thiago. If you fuck her and throw her away, if you break her heart, she’ll run to daddy and all his buddies and there’ll be hell to pay. They won’t get involved in his gambling debts, but that changes if you start interfering with their women.”

“Maybe I won’t take her then,” I say with a ruthless smile as an idea forms. “I’ll play by their rules.” Reluctantly, I look away and turn towards him. “By your rules.”

He frowns before comprehension smooths his features. He drops his head in his hands and starts rubbing his temples.

“Joder, that’s an even worse idea.”

I don’t think so, especially not when I see her looking up at me like a believer worshiping at the altar of her God.

She looks away, severing the connection and sending my blood pressure rising. She doesn’t get to look away from me before I’m done with her.

I watch her tap her friend on the shoulder, trying to get her attention.

“Jefe!” Marco calls. I turn to find him back in the VIP area, a black look on his face. “Dadurian is gone. Apparently he slipped out the back when he heard you were here.”

Fury wraps around me and squeezes. It’s a band around my brain that blinds me with a rage beyond my control. My hands grip the railing, my knuckles going white with the effort. I shake it so hard, I feel the hinges go loose.

“Where did he go?”

Marco has the good sense to not meet my eyes when he answers. “We don’t have eyes on him,” he admits.

I push away from the balcony and punch the wall. My fist explodes through the cheap plaster and drives into the stud layer.

Shitty fucking club.

I roar in frustration as I extricate my fist from the wall.

“We’re leaving,” I announce. “Marco, find out where that piece of shit disappeared off to. I want him dead by the end of the week.”

I’m rattled. This is unlike me. I don’t let people get away, I don’t let them get the best of me.

It’s because of her. She distracted me again, pulling my focus away from what’s important.

From Adriana.

And still the madness finds a way to pierce through the rage. I round on Arturo. “What’s her name? Noble’s daughter?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Find out,” I order. “And find out where she’s going to be the next few weeks. This isn’t over.”