Kiss Me in the Dark Anthology - Monica James Page 0,71
his dour expression illuminated in the glow that flares from the cherry of his smoke as he takes a drag.
“Off,” I growl.
Salinger smirks. “If you’re mad because I didn’t come back down for you, then you can calm the fuck down. I’ve been watching here the entire time. I would have shot them if they tried to kill you. And I would have lugged you back up here if the waves had reached your neck.”
Now that I have my facial muscles back under control, I put them to good use by glowering at him. “I’ll mail out your medal in the morning post. Now get the fuck down. No one sits on the hood of that fucking car. Not even me.”
“All right. No need to get pissy.” Salinger slides off the hood, landing on his feet. “I take it your meeting with the Rivins didn’t go according to plan?”
“No, it did not.” Mercifully, the keys to the Camaro are still in my jacket pocket. I unlock the car and fall into the driver’s seat. The engine roars into life, the headlights slicing through the darkness.
“Maybe next time you’ll rethink bullying your way onto reservation land, then,” Salinger muses.
I spear him through with dagger-sharp eyes. “They come back here every year? On the same day?”
Salinger groans. “Dust yourself off and let it go, man. They’re not worth it. Swear to me that I’m not gonna be dealing with your ass again next year.”
I bare my teeth at him in a savage, cold smile. “Not next year, maybe. But I never forget a date.”
The Camaro screams as I tear off Tulalip land.
If you'd like to learn more about the Rivin Clan and find out what happens with Pasha, Madame Shelta's son, then check out ROMA KING! https://tinyurl.com/ybo65x7b
The Blood & Roses Series
Comprising:
Deviant
Fracture
Burn
Fallen
Twisted
Collateral
The Chaos & Ruin Series
Comprising:
Violent Things
Savage Things
Wicked Things
The Dead Man’s Ink Series
Comprising:
Rebel
Rogue
Ransom
The Dirty Nasty Freaks Series
Comprising:
Dirty
Nasty
Freaks
The Roma Royals Series
Comprising:
Roma King
Roma Queen
The Raleigh Rebels Series
Comprising:
The Rebel of Raleigh High
Revenge at Raleigh High
Reckless at Raleigh High
The Crooked Sinners Series
Comprising:
Riot House (written as a standalone)
Book 2 coming soon!
Book 3 coming soon!
STANDALONES
Badlands
Vice
Calico
Rooke
Between Here and The Horizon
Mr. North
WRITING AS FRANKIE ROSE
Winter
Summer
The Blood & Fire Series
Comprising:
Halo
Radicals
Book 3 coming soon!
The Hope Series
Comprising:
Sovereign Hope
Eternal Hope
Lost Hope
Book 4 coming soon!
I was the boy who killed his first man at eleven.
I was the teenager who crushed his cousin’s throat at seventeen.
I was the man who bathed in his enemies’ blood without a flicker of remorse, who relished in their screams as if it was a fucking Mozart sonata.
Monsters are created, not born.
Bullshit.
I was born a monster. Cruelty ran in my veins like poison. It ran in the veins of every Vitiello man, passed on from father to son, an endless spiral of monstrosity.
I was a born monster shaped into an even worse monster by my father’s blade and fists and harsh words.
I was raised to become Capo, to rule without mercy, to dish out brutality without a second thought.
I was raised to break others.
When Aria was given to me in marriage, everyone waited with baited breath to see how fast I’d break her like my father broke his women. How I’d crush her innocence and kindness with the force of my cruelty, with relentless brutality.
Breaking her would have taken little effort. It came naturally to me.
A man born a monster, raised to be a monster, bound to be a monster to become Capo.
I was gladly the monster everyone feared.
Until her. Until Aria.
With her, I didn’t have to cover up my darkness.
Her light shone brighter than my darkness ever could.
With her, I didn’t want to be the monster. I wanted to shield her from that part of my nature.
But I was born a monster. Raised to break others.
Not breaking her would come with a price.
A price a monster like myself shouldn’t risk paying.
Luca, 9 years old
Matteo and I sat at the dining table, our eyes trained on the door, waiting for Mother. The bell for dinner had rung a long time ago.
Our nanny Marianna stood against the wall, glancing toward the clock on the sideboard, then back to us. Father rarely ate with us, but Mother always did—at least dinner, even when she could hardly stand. She was always on time in case Father decided to show up.
Where was she?
Was she sick?
Yesterday she’d looked white, except for the blue and yellow blotches on her face and arms where Father had disciplined her. She often did things wrong. It was difficult not to do wrong with Father. A thing that was okay yesterday could