Empire of Lust: An Enemies with Benefits Romance

“To what do I owe this unpleasant visit?”

I slide onto Nicolo Luciano’s hard leather sofa that has an exterior that matches its owner—uncomfortable.

He remains seated behind his old desk in the run-down office he’s been trying to keep in shape for the past two decades with no results in sight.

The man has countless companies, both legal and illegal, under his thumb, but he’s holding on to this rotten legacy with the stubbornness of a petulant child.

“Not your grim face, naturally.” I flip through a half-torn Italian magazine from the nineties, pretending the affair is more boring than missionary sex. “Might consider putting on a different expression than ‘Hello, awful to meet you. I’m a killer.’ if you don’t want to get locked up for it.”

He leans his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers at his chin and showing off the fine lines of his handmade Sicilian jacket. “Didn’t realize you had the time of the day to care about my freedom status, King. Either you’re more bored than an old hooker or you’re less subtle than a rookie detective with a badge hanging out of his ass.”

I throw the magazine back on the sturdy wooden table and stare at him. “What’s your relationship with Aspen Leblanc?”

I want to jam my fist into my mouth for uttering those words, but then again, I’m direct to a fault.

Always go in headfirst.

Never sideways, never backward, and definitely never stagnant.

I’ve been thinking about Aspen and her crimson hair and fuckable lips all night in my empty mansion. Mind you, the whole process was against my will and I fought it with the determination of a gladiator.

Yes, I’m after the woman’s demise, but she should, under no circumstances, occupy my thoughts.

Or worse, stroke my libido that she has no business coming close to.

Punching the bag didn’t help, working out for hours was a laughable distraction, and my escort contacts appeared as enticing as expired milk.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t come up with a reason for what the fuck changed last night.

It’s like a foreign demon took over my body the moment I saw her being manhandled by Nicolo’s thug. I don’t hit for women—except for beating Nate the fuck up when I found him making out with my daughter under my roof, because fuck that guy.

Point is, I’m the furthest thing possible from Prince Charming and his friend Knight in Shining Armor.

I have the assertiveness to admit I’m violent—prone to it, breathe it in the air, and dream about it. However, the reason is not, and I mean absolutely never, a woman.

Or a man, for that matter.

But last night, the demon who possessed my fist and flowed in my blood was definitely driven by a woman. And it wasn’t just any woman.

Fucking Aspen.

I’m going to bet my nut that her stubborn mouth had little to do with it. The truth remains, I’m used to verbally sparring with that witch as our favorite sport. But last night was the first time I’ve treaded into dangerous territory.

One filled with distant memories and clichéd nerd moments about Nietzsche.

Unable to find a logical reason that would satisfy both my brain and my dick, I graced myself with the repulsive presence of the asshole Nicolo first thing this morning.

Said asshole retrieves a cigar from the box on his vintage desk and slides it to the corner of his lips. He takes his sweet fucking time lighting it, inhaling and blowing a cloud of hashish-like smoke into the air. “And I should tell you because…?”

“She’s a senior partner in my firm.” That I’ve been plotting to kick her out of for as long as I can remember. But he doesn’t need to be privy to that small detail.

“Do you often play a knight in a black suit for all your senior partners?”

“Only when the necessity arises.”

“Didn’t think you’d let your demon peek through for a woman.”

“Might want to check your eyesight, Nic. Must be blurry from all the blood that’s gotten in it.”

“I’m twenty out of twenty. But are you, King? The way I see it, either she’ll shatter against your hard edges or you’ll get yourself a cut from her sharp cheekbones.”

“Are you sure your ophthalmologist isn’t blind? Someone needs to look into that license and give you a second opinion before you start seeing aliens.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” His lips pull in a disgusting smirk that should be at the same museum as ugly impressionist paintings. “Unfortunately, though, I don’t discuss my business with outsiders, which you made sure to become as soon as your father died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I take away your toys again, Nic?”

“Yes, and you won’t get a word out of me unless you give them back.”

“No, thanks. I’m not investing legitimately earned money in a blood pit.”

He leans forward, blowing smoke with the sole intent of turning the office into a life-hazard location. “Riddle me this, King. Is it still considered legitimate if the root is bloodied?”

“Yes. Nothing a little laundering can’t fix. I don’t give a fuck what type of deal my old man had with your family. I made it clear early on that I wouldn’t hold to the same bargain, and your brother, the actual Don, agreed.”

Though the janitor and his grandmother know that the actual leader of the Luciano family isn’t the eldest brother, Lazlo Luciano.

Nicolo has been pulling the strings, playing his demonic games in the background, and being a surrogate leader.

Lazlo is the accepted façade by the family and the world. Nicolo is too nihilist, eccentric, and barbaric for anyone’s liking. Stories of his secret torture chambers are enough to propel fear in anyone’s soul.

“My brother doesn’t control bookkeeping, I do. And I’m telling you that the only means to protect your woman is to pay up for it, rich boy.”

“Might want to visit your ENT and get those ears checked as well, because I told you she’s not my fucking woman.”

The idea itself leaves me with irritation deeply rooted in years of visiting the same memories about a certain femme fatale.

Fucking years of wondering if she was alive or if her last stamp on the world was Gwen.

“Sounds convenient then. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, but do leave it open for when Ms. Leblanc shows up for our meeting in a bit.”

This motherfucker’s head will be hanging on his office door by the time she shows up.

Instead of acting on what I’m thinking and inevitably getting myself killed by his guards, I retrieve my Zippo and flip it open. “I’ll call my broker and invest in one of your legitimate businesses, and I get to choose which.”

“Three. One illegitimate.”

“Two. Legitimate.”

“Done.”

I flip my Zippo shut. “Now, speak.”

He offers me his box of cigars. “You might need one.”

Fuck no. This shit reminds me of my father’s adultery and the surrogate killer role he played in my mother’s death. It’s why I’ve had a queasy feeling in my stomach since Nic started smoking it. Which I’m sure is on purpose because the bastard has more of a penchant for moral torture than physical.

I wave him off with the cool expression of an unperturbed monk. “Speak.”

He traps the cigar between his lips, blowing out polluted air. “She’s one of us.”

“One of who?”

He points a thumb at himself. “Us. Bloodbaths, laundering, and battery included.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Did you know Leblanc was her mother’s last name?”

No, I didn’t fucking know, because everything Aspen was so witch-like in nature, I avoided it while wearing fake charms.

“And that detail is important why?”

“She was born Aspen Locatelli.”

“Locatelli…” I rack my brain for the familiar last name, then stop. “You don’t mean the man who killed for your father like it was an Olympic sport?”

“That’s the one. Bruno Locatelli, an extravagant killer with a taste for fine torture devices. He’s the family’s favorite Grim Reaper and Lazlo’s best dog, but he’s old, so there’s no harm in expanding my options with his daughter.” He checks his phone. “After all, she ended a strike even my boys had trouble taking care of.”

I stare at him as if the load of information will materialize into a being beside him. “Aspen is Locatelli’s daughter?”

“Yes. But here’s the most interesting part.” He slides his elbows on the table. “She was the bird who sang to the FBI about one of his murders and landed him in prison. And in our world, snitches not only get stitches, but they also get thrown in ditches.”

Half an hour later, I’ve contemplated whether or not my earlier plan of putting Nicolo’s head on display would still work, then promptly decided I need to live for my angel’s sake.

There are a lot of things I gave up for Gwen. Including almost getting myself killed in a variety of dangerous activities or fully embedding myself into Nicolo’s blood-flavored world.

But the questionable truce I’ve formed with the man, as well as the deal we’ve made, is worth it. If not for anything else, for the expression on Aspen’s face the moment she walks into the grandpa-themed office.

If a mood can be measured by temperature, she’s definitely at the boiling point.

I take a sip of my coffee, pretending her presence bores me to death when all I want to do is trap her against the nearest wall and make her spit out the naked truth.

Or, actually, get her naked.

Wait. Hold on. What—and I mean this—the fuck was that thought all about?

I don’t want to get Aspen naked.

My type is mute, only screams when I’m pounding them, and doesn’t ever, and I mean, ever, talk back to me. In short, everything Aspen Leblanc—or Locatelli or whatever the last name the witch coven chose for her—fucking isn’t.

Soft and angelic wouldn’t touch this woman with a ten-foot pole. Even her younger self was a hellion through and through.

But then again, what do you expect from a kid from the ghetto who offered her father to the FBI on a platter?

No wonder she’s a hard nut to crack—or a nut that’s not to be cracked. She’s been in constant survival mode since she was a kid.

Not sure what that load of information adds to my agenda, but it’s nowhere near good.

“And what are you doing here?” she asks with the exasperation of a fed-up, stern teacher.

“He’s my chief legal counsel until further notice,” Nicolo answers, still sucking on a damn cigar like it’s a Popsicle.

“Guess that means we’ll be working together.” I tilt the coffee cup in her direction like a mock salute. “Again.”

“I came first,” she’s addressing both of us, but the glare is only for me.

“This isn’t a marathon. First or last doesn’t matter.” I cock my head at Nicolo. “Toys and connections do.”

“You gave me your word.” She jerks her attention to Nicolo now.

The asshole smiles at her, taking my advice about his grim expression seriously for the first time, and I want to reach out to the me from half an hour ago and kick him in the balls. “And I’m keeping my word, Ms. Leblanc. I never said you’d be appointed as my chief legal advisor. I just said you’d be on my legal team. The chief position never concerned you.”

“Because I’m a woman?”

“Because I don’t trust you…yet.”

“And you trust him?” She enunciates the “him” with a jerky finger in my direction.

“I trust his money, his profit-oriented mind, and his character that I’ve known for decades. You, however, are still on trial.”

She taps her toe on the floor, which is both a sign of distress and haughty behavior. Having survived and thrived in a male-dominated world, Aspen, like many of us, doesn’t take defeat so well.

I’m ready to bet half my fortune that she’s concocting a plan to bounce back up. This time, she’ll aim for the top.

She’s not a sore loser, she’s just not a loser. Period.

The word has never been in her vocabulary. Probably long before I first met her in the form of a seductress femme fatale.

“Will working with Kingsley cause any issues?” Nicolo asks on a puff of putrid smoke.

“Not at all.” She smiles at him, then glares at me. “We work so well together, he and I.”

“Is that so?” He stares between us like a dog with a bone. “From my extensive background check, I gathered you two are rivals who, by a stroke of fate, happen to share a daughter.”

More like a stroke of the devil while high on his lush desires.

And alcohol.

There was definitely an excessive amount of alcohol in both our systems that night.

“You heard the lady.” I offer her a smile that screams fake. “We can find a compromise.”

In hell.

While she’s riding my face under a volcano waterfall.

I pause again, my fingers tightening on the cup. That’s the second erotic thought I’ve had about the witch in the span of an hour.

What the fuck am I? An animal in heat?

She smiles back, mirroring my dishonest one, and I can almost see the venom spilling on the ground in a splash of black. “Of course we can.”

It’s on.

Looks like I’m in for a fucking ride.