Devil’s Lily: A Dark Mafia Romance (Nightshades Book 1)

My teeth sink into my bottom lip as my toes tap out an impatient rhythm on the floor. He’s read the message, but the response is MIA. Did I let too much slip? Ugh, I shouldn’t have replied to his message, no matter how tempted I was. With a frustrated huff, I toss the phone on the nightstand and burrow under the covers.

I should’ve gone to sleep an hour ago, but I couldn’t stop agonizing over how to reply to his message. He asked me to meet him, and I froze. I mean, how was I supposed to respond to that? And now, even though I finally sent a reply, my pulse still refuses to settle. He wants to see me again. The thought sends delicious tingles down my spine and my toes curl involuntarily.

Who knew texting someone I’m not related to could be so… exhilarating! Not just anyone, though—him. The hot Italian from the restaurant, the one who tried to lure me close with expensive gifts like I was some prize to be won.

I toss and turn for what feels like hours, my mind a whirlwind of ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’. When sleep finally claims me, it’s anything but peaceful. My dreams are a chaotic mess, featuring my hot Italian—but not all of him. Just those dark-as-night eyes boring into my soul and that rich, masculine voice commanding me to meet up with him now. It’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

I wake up with a migraine, the kind that threatens to split my skull in two. Just what I need. A groan slips out as I push my unruly mane off my face and drag my feet to the bedroom. After peeing and washing my hands, I splash some cold water on my face, hoping it’ll shock me awake—or at least dull the pounding in my head. No such luck. With a sigh, I trudge out of my room like a zombie fresh from the grave.

Dren raises a brow at me as I shuffle past him. Usually, I’m Little Miss Sunshine in the morning, much to his constant annoyance. But right now, it feels like I’ve had all of an hour’s sleep, and I’m in no mood for pleasantries.

I make a beeline for the kitchen, knowing exactly what I need—Çaji I malit, my go-to Albanian mountain tea. Thankfully, there’s already a pot of hot water in the kettle, a small blessing in this moment, and I waste no time grabbing a tea bag and dropping it into a mug. As I pour the water over it, steam curls up, and I shiver with anticipation as the mouthwatering aroma instantly wafts up to greet me. My muscles relax just smelling it. It’s like the tea knows exactly how to soothe me.

Cradling the warm mug between my palms, I stare blearily outside as I wait for the tea to cool a little. I’m the only one in this house who drinks Çaji I malit, even though it’s one of the star products from Roan’s new beverage company. Roan and Atë prefer kafe turkit— classic Turkish coffee, another gem from his brand—and raki, the traditional Albanian alcohol.

Unable to wait any longer, I lift my mug to my lips and gulp greedily. It scalds my tongue and the roof of my mouth, but I don’t care. The burn is well worth it.

By the time I drain the mug, my killer migraine has dialed down from nuclear explosion to a vague annoyance at my temples. I’m wide awake now, practically vibrating with energy. I rinse the mug, place it on the counter, and glance around the kitchen, feeling a little more like myself again.

Of course, that’s when thoughts of my hot Italian guy sneak back in, and I shake my head at the ridiculous notion that he might be mine. Maybe baking some ballokume—good ol’ Albanian butter cookies—will help clear my head.

And distract me from the overwhelming urge to check the flip phone to see if he’s texted back.

I gather ingredients, ready to lose myself in the comfort of baking, but just as I’m about to start mixing, Besart, the cook, walks in with his usual grumpy expression.

“No, Elira. You’re not going to take over my kitchen today. Out, little miss.”

I pause mid-reach for the flour. “But, Besart—” I clasp my hands together, channeling my best puppy-dog eyes.

He’s not having it. “Out,” he repeats firmly. “I have to make breakfast for the shef and his guests. You can come back and bake your heart out later.”

Atë has guests? Frowning, I reluctantly start putting the ingredients back in their places. There have been a lot of men coming and going from the compound these past few weeks, but I hadn’t really given it much thought, since I was too focused on finding the courage to ask him about letting me out. Now, though, I can’t help but wonder if something’s going on.

As I head back to my room, Dren trails behind me, poking at me like always. “What’s up with you? You don’t usually rush for your tea like an addict chasing a fix,” he adds jokingly, and I flip him off without even looking back.

His laughter follows me as I slam the door shut.

My eyes immediately zero in on the flip phone on my nightstand, and I make my way to it. Oh crap, I was too careless. I should have hidden it, at least tucked it away in the drawer. What if someone had come in and seen it?

I snatch it up, silently thanking whatever deity is listening that Roan isn’t home. He’s the only one who still barges into my room unannounced, the jerk.

With shaking fingers, I tap the phone screen to wake it up. There’s a new message waiting, and suddenly my heart’s doing the cha-cha, my palm turning into a sweaty mess as I read it.

M.L: If you want to get out, I can help you.

I swallow hard. My heart is no longer doing just the cha-cha; it’s hosting a full-blown rave. He can help me get out? My immediate instinct is to say yes, yes, a million times yes. Being cooped up in here is starting to drive me insane. A 21-year-old who’s spent 90% of her life locked up like some fragile, overprotected flower. This can’t be it—this can’t be my life.

When I insisted on pursuing higher education after finishing my homeschooling and passing my GED, Atë gave me an ultimatum: either take virtual classes or forget about it. So, of course, I took the stupid online classes. Like I had a choice. With no friends outside my family and zero social skills, what else could I do? At least my brother made sure I picked up some survival skills along the way. Small mercies, right?

But going out on my birthday? That was a mistake. I thought I’d do it once and move on, scratch that itch, and be content. But now that I’ve gotten a taste of what I’m missing, I want more. No… I need more.

I read the message again, my fingers hovering over the keypad. Then, finally, I type out a reply.

Me: How?

His response is almost instant, like he’s been waiting for me.

M.L: You don’t expect me to reveal my secrets just like that, do you, rossa? I’ll need your full name to execute my plans. If you want my help, that is.

I bite my lip in worry, thoughts spiraling, crashing into each other until my mind is a jumbled mess.

Should I do it? I try to weigh my options. If I tell him my name and he somehow helps me sneak out for the day, he’s most likely not doing it out of the goodness of his heart. Sure, he wants his phone back, but he also wants something else. Me.

But hell, even the idea of that sexy man wanting me, creating a diversion just to have me, only makes me more tempted. Would it be so bad to spend a day with him? A day with a hot guy that wants me, out in the city, free from the suffocating walls of my gilded cage.

Whatever con there might be must be worth it, surely?

Atë will blow his top, probably triple my security and have people watch me all day and night. But what if it makes him realize he can’t cage me forever? That as I get older, I’ll only get more creative in my escape attempts? Okay. My mind is made up. I’m going to take this stranger’s deal.

But first…

Me: I want your help. I’ll tell you my name if I have to, but in exchange, you have to tell me yours.

M.L: Deal.

I chew my lip, hesitating. Once I send my name to him, there’s no going back. An illicit thrill rushes through me as I take the plunge.

Me: Elira Përmeti. Your turn.

I wait. He reads it. And then… nothing.

Five minutes tick by.

Then ten.

My blood starts to boil, and before I know it, I’m stabbing the screen with furious fingers.

Me: HELLO? YOUR NAME?

M.L: You’ll find out soon enough, mia rossa.

Me: Are you seriously going back on our deal?

M.L: Yes.

M.L: Never trust the word of a man you don’t know, Elira.

My jaw drops in disbelief as I read his texts over and over again. Somehow, it never occurred to me that he might back out of telling me his name. That asshole. Does he even have a plan to get me out of the compound, or was it all just a trick to find out my name? As if he’s read my mind, another message comes in.

M.L: The distraction will be orchestrated in an hour. Be ready. When it happens, lose your guards and leave the house. Come straight to me when you’re out.

I let out an exaggerated scoff. Right. A distraction. Because that sounds believable. Who does this guy think he is? Without giving him the satisfaction of a reply, I toss the phone in my nightstand drawer, mentally kicking myself for being such a gullible idiot.

I need a reset.

After a quick shower washes off some of the frustration, I’m dressed in a pair of jeans and a black V-neck top, curls pulled up in a messy bun that screams I don’t care. Then my hands automatically start filling my small purse with some essentials—credit cards, a few hundred bucks, lip balm. The basics. As I’m zipping it up, thinking about what else I should add, there’s a knock on my door.

My heart jumps, but I quickly reel it in. Calm down, it’s just a knock. Nothing’s happening. I’m not readying myself in case there is a distraction, I tell myself as I make my way to the door. I’m just… prepping for another normal, boring day at home, and filling my purse just because.

One of Atë’s men stands in the doorway with my breakfast tray, and I mutter a quick thanks as I accept it. The food is probably delicious—Besart is a phenomenal cook, after all—but it tastes like ash in my mouth.

After choking down breakfast, I’m still buzzing with so much restless energy and leftover anger that’s got nowhere to go, so I storm into the kitchen to bake. As I gather the ingredients for my favorite dessert, sheqerpare—those buttery, melt-in-your-mouth shortbread cookies—from the pantry, thoughts of the asshole Italian slowly fade until all that’s left in my mind is the familiar routine of caramelizing sugar and water.

Once the mixture starts boiling, I add a slice of lemon to the syrup and lower the heat. Got to let it simmer just right, or else it will crystallize and ruin everything. Next, I turn back to the counter and dig into the dough, kneading it with a vengeance while imagining the Italian’s smug face under my fists.

After molding the dough into perfect little rounds, I start scoring each one with a fork, getting them ready to top with almonds when suddenly—BRRRIIIIINNGG—an ear-splitting screech shatters the air, sending my fork skidding across the dough. The whole compound seems to explode into a frenzy, and I flinch, eyes wide as shouts in panicked Albanian reach my ears.

I shoot a confused look at Dren, who’s been silently guarding the doorway like he always does while I bake. He’s tense, eyes narrowed like he knows exactly what’s happening.

“What–”

“Fire.” He cuts me off, his eyes flicking to the window. I follow his gaze to see some men running past with extinguishers. “That was the fire alarm and⁠—”

The rest of his words are swallowed by another deafening alarm, then another, and another, until the house feels like it’s vibrating from the sound. Dren’s practically vibrating himself, all clenched muscles and twitchy glances, clearly itching to burst through the door and jump into the action. I get it—this isn’t just one little fire. Multiple alarms mean the fire is in more than one area.

How though? How can the compound suddenly just go up in flames without affecting the main house? That doesn’t happen by accident.

The distraction will be orchestrated in an hour. Be ready.

Oh. My. God.

I whip my head towards the digital clock on the wall. 9:46 AM. Only thirty minutes have passed. Could it be the Italian? My gaze darts to Dren who’s standing close to the window now to monitor the chaos outside.

Despite my pounding heart, I play it cool, calmly turning off the oven and removing my apron, then rinsing my hands before facing my bodyguard. “I’m going up to my room. Why don’t you go check out what’s going on? You know I’ll be safe up there.”

Dren barely blinks, too distracted by whatever is happening outside. So he just gives me a quick nod and stalks out of the kitchen, leaving me alone. Perfect.

As soon as he’s gone, I bolt upstairs and yank the nightstand drawer open. The flip phone stares up at me like a loaded gun. I snatch it up.

M.L: Now. The front gates are unattended.

I gulp. How does he know that? Did he actually set fire to my compound, or was it just some elaborate trick with the alarms? How did he even pull it off?

No time for twenty questions, Elira. What are you going to do?

I glance down at my clothes, tuck the phone into my jeans pocket, then pull my hair free from the bun, quickly tying it into a tight ponytail. Red hair stands out too much, so I grab a black hoodie from my closet and tug it over my head. Essentials? Check. Slinging my slim purse over my shoulder, I take a deep breath before carefully cracking the door open just enough to peek through.

The coast is clear. Thank goodness.

I force myself to walk casually down the hallways, descend the stairs, then slip out the back door. The usual patrol guards are nowhere to be seen—off dealing with the fire, no doubt—and though I know the cameras will document me sneaking out, I’ll be long gone by the time anyone checks the footage.

My heart pounds fiercely, hands nervously clenched into fists as I head towards the gate. Sure enough, the guard station is deserted, and the huge gates are just standing there, unwatched. I toss one last glance at the house, then push open the small door by the side of the gates and make my escape.

I’m not going to meet that lying asshole, of course. I didn’t really trust him before and definitely don’t trust him after he went back on our deal. Why couldn’t he just tell me his name?

But still… this is too good an opportunity to pass up. No guards breathing down my neck, no one keeping tabs on my every move. I can go anywhere I want, do anything I want, completely on my own terms. And when I’ve had my fill of fun, I’ll just sneak back into the compound.

Even if the guards are there by then, they wouldn’t deny me entry. And Atë… well, I’ll deal with his temper when the time comes.

I give myself a quick nod and pick up the pace, adrenaline pumping through my veins as I jog down the pristine street. My phone is already out of my purse to download a taxi service app. Taking one of the cars would’ve been way more convenient but too risky. Plus, they probably have trackers on them, and I’m not looking to get caught that fast.

Setting up the app is a breeze, and within ten minutes, my driver is pulling up in front of me, a few blocks from the compound. I pull down the hoodie, then shake out my red hair before sliding into the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver—Greg, according to his profile—asks, barely glancing back at me, eyes glazed with the same bored expression he’s probably worn for every ride today.

Where to? The world is suddenly wide open, full of possibilities. But I already know where I want to go. My heart does a wild little dance as I answer, “Flushing Meadows Corona Park.”

One of the biggest parks in the entirety of New York. I’ve only ever dreamed about going there. Roan and I tried planning trips there a million times before, but there was always one problem—me not being allowed to step foot outside the house. But today, nothing is stopping me.

I can already picture myself blending into the sea of tourists Roan says swarm there from all corners of the world. For once, I’ll be just another face in the crowd.

As Greg pulls off the curb, my phone pings with a text.

M.L: You still remember the way to Mughetto, don’t you? Or do you need me to send someone to pick you up?

This asshole. I roll my eyes as I debate how to tell him to go fuck himself in the nicest possible way. I scroll through the emojis until I find the perfect one. With a grin, I hit send and lock my phone.

Leaning back in the seat, I let my head rest against the window, feeling the vibration of the car as it speeds through the city. This is my time. My stolen freedom.

Once Dren realizes I’m missing, it’s game over. Atë will be alerted, and I know it will only be a matter of time before I’m found.

But until then, I’m going to milk every second.

Today, I’m not Elira Përmeti, the sheltered daughter of a powerful man. Today, I’m just a girl, ready to take on the world.

Let the adventure begin.