Monstrous Urges: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

Goddammit.

I groan when I walk out of the 17th Precinct and see a familiar figure leaning against the side of his Aston Martin, with two black SUVs and half a dozen security detail camped out a few yards away.

“Jesus, Gabriel!” I hiss as I march over to him. “Do not tell me⁠—”

“Taylor—”

“Gabriel, you can’t do shit like this as fucking Gov⁠—”

“Will you relax?” He holds up his hands. “I’m just your ride, T. No string pulling on my end, I promise.”

It’s shitty of me to be angry with him, to accuse him of using his influence to get them to let me go. It’s not just “letting me go”, either. They’re dropping all charges, even after they showed me unnerving security camera footage and still images of me behind the wheel of a yellow Lamborghini driving down 5th Avenue last night.

Right around the time I was sleeping locked in the secure documents room at the office. At least, when I thought I was. After seeing the video and those pictures, though, it clearly happened again.

Physical involuntary discordance. Aka sleepwalking. Or, last night case, sleep-driving a stolen fucking car.

And yet here I am, walking out a free woman with all charges dropped and the record wiped, as a very annoyed Officer Horton told me when she unlocked my holding cell twenty minutes ago.

I’m tired. I’m hungry. I’m freaked out. I desperately need a shower after spending most of the day in that goddamn holding cell. And I still don’t believe that this wasn’t Gabriel pulling strings as the freaking Governor.

“So, they just let me walk after accusing me of grand theft auto?” I snap, eying him.

“Don’t forget indecent exposure,” he smirks.

“I’m allowed to have my fucking tits out! It’s New York!!”

“Yeeaaah baby!” a random guy on the street yells. “Let ’em loose!”

“Fuck off,” Gabriel snarls, sending the man scurrying away.

I grin at my friend. “Probably shouldn’t tell your constituents to fuck off when you’re Governor.”

“It’s called a learning curve,” he mutters. “C’mon, get in.”

I slide into the passenger seat and shove my hair into a messy ponytail as he climbs in next to me.

“They dropped it all. Totally clean slate, record erased.”

Gabriel says nothing as he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb with his security detail following. I turn to eye him suspiciously, and he laughs.

“Taylor, I swear it wasn’t me.”

“Would you have?”

“Obviously.”

I glare at him. “That’s corruption.”

“You’re family. It doesn’t count.”

I roll my eyes. “I think it counts extra when it’s family.”

Gabriel chuckles and guns the engine, heading downtown. My lip retreats between my teeth as I stare out the passenger window.

“They have a video of me driving⁠—”

“Not anymore, they don’t.”

I whip my gaze to him. “What?”

“They’re gone. Both videos: the car and the”…he clears his throat…“parking garage, uh, incident.”

I turn to glare out the window, blushing.

“Did you see it?”

“You in the Lambo⁠—?”

“The parking garage, Gabriel,” I mutter, my teeth clenched.

“I averted my eyes, don’t worry.” He reaches over and pats my arm. “T, you’re basically my sister. No offense, but I have less than zero interest in seeing that.”

I smirk as I glance at him. “Well… Thanks, I guess.” My brow furrows. “Wait—what do you mean, the videos are gone?”

“I mean they both literally don’t exist anymore. Gone. Wiped. The police gave Alistair and I a link to look at them on a secure police server until such time as they gave out actual copies during discovery if we went to trial. So, yeah, we saw them once. Then when we went to look at the link again, nothing came up. I called the Commissioner’s office ready to rain down fire and brimstone, and he told me they’d had a ‘breach’ of some kind. That whole section of the drive on that server was erased.”

What the hell?

Gabriel glances over at me, his brow lined with worry.

“What’s going on, Taylor?”

I blink. “How should I know?”

“Not the server thing,” he sighs. “I mean with you.”

I swallow. “W-what do you mean?”

“I mean I averted my fucking eyes but I still saw the video. You wanna tell me why you felt like streaking through the parking garage of the Soho Grand last night?”

I look away in embarrassment.

“I told Alistair, I took an Ambien⁠—”

“First of all, you don’t take sleeping pills.”

“How do you know?”

He rolls his eyes. “More importantly, Alistair said you didn’t bat an eye when they said you stole a fucking car.”

“Which I didn’t!”

“But you weren’t shocked at the allegation. Or, not shocked enough.  Talk to me, Taylor. C’mon.”

I take a deep breath and then exhale. “Fine. I’ve been…” I shrug. “Sleepwalking, okay?”

Gabriel cocks a brow, glancing at me as we stop at a light. “Sleepwalking.”

I nod.

“Just small stuff mostly. Reorganizing my tax returns, making a snack and not cleaning up. Crap like that.”

I don’t mention going into the office the other night. And I definitely don’t tell him that I know what I saw on that video that seems to have disappeared.

It was me.

No bullshit. No lookalike. I mean, sure, the video is grainy. But that was me driving a fucking stolen Lambo last night. A stolen Lambo that was apparently found neatly parked outside the Lincoln Tunnel without a single fingerprint in or on it. Anywhere.

Gabriel frowns as he accelerates through the green light. “Work stress?”

“Who knows.”

He sucks on his teeth as he glares at the road. “Look, I know you don’t like to talk about your personal life⁠—”

“Gabriel…”

“Are you still seeing Steven?”

He’s not wrong. I never, ever talk about my personal life. Maybe I touch on it with Fumi; she’s my gal pal. But I hardly ever go there with Alistair and Gabriel.

“Nope,” I say tersely. “Steven’s gone.”

He clears his throat. “May I ask…”

“Yeah, but I won’t tell.”

“Did he hurt you?” he asks quietly, with a slightly disturbing edge to his voice.

I shake my head. “No. And I’m over it.”

Well, that part is true.

“It’s just stress, Gabriel. I’ve been talking it through with Dr. Jesnick.”

“Ahh, the famous shrink,” he grins.

I roll my eyes. “You know, you of all people are at the top of my list of people who would benefit from therapy.”

“I’m good.”

“Wouldn’t you like a professional opinion confirming that?”

“Nope.” He grins as he turns to me. “Seriously, though, you’re okay?”

I nod before my face turns glum. “How bad is the gossip mill at the office?”

When Officer Ramone pulled out his handcuffs earlier, Alistair made them take me downstairs to the parking garage via the executive elevator. So, no one besides him and Amelia saw the actual arrest. Still…rumors…offices…enough said.

Gabriel just shakes his head. “Total lockdown on that. Alistair and Amelia obviously aren’t saying shit. Fumi and Eloise know…” He gives me an apologetic look. “I mean, they do. Sorry.”

I sigh.

“But they’re also obviously not saying a word.”

“And the fact that two police officers walked through the firm and straight to my office?”

He shrugs. “You were discussing a confidential case with them. Taylor, no one in the office is talking about a thing. You’re all good, okay?”

I nod, exhaling as he pulls up outside the Soho Grand.

“You want to tell me why you’re really staying here? Because there’s no fucking way a five-million-dollar apartment has a roach problem. Even in New York.”

Fuck it. Pick your battles.

“I walked in on Steven screwing one of his TAs.”

Gabriel’s face goes livid. “In your fucking apartment?!”

I nod. His mouth turns grim.

“I think Steven and I need to have a little⁠—”

“No, you don’t.” I shake my head firmly. “I’m fine. I was over it long before that happened. I just had to…get out of my place for a few days after seeing it.”

Gabriel scowls. “Taylor⁠—”

“I promise you, I’m fine, okay? But I am going to take the rest of the day off. I’ll be in tomorrow, and…” I trail off when I see him wince. “Okay, what.”

He exhales. “Take the day, sure. Unfortunately, you’ve been requested for a meeting tonight.”

Fuck. “With whom?”

“Drazen Krylov.”

My brow lifts. “Um, why? Alistair is taking over all his business.”

Gabriel shrugs. “All I know is, you’ve been specifically requested. You’re having dinner with him at D’Atella at nine.”

I groan. “C’mon, seriously? After the day I’ve had, I want to be in bed at nine. Chances of getting out of it?”

“Zero. Sorry. He specifically wanted you, and you alone.”

I grumble, but then take a breath, pull up my big-girl pants, and reluctantly slip into business-Taylor mode.

“Okay, fine. Do we know what the meeting is about?”

“All he told Alistair was that it was concerning some new business stuff.”

I roll my eyes. “Legal or not-so-much?”

“Little of column A, little of column B, I’m guessing.”

“Even though I’m not his attorney.”

Gabriel flashes me a grin. “Well, you never know. Maybe he likes you more now that you’ve got a rap sheet.”

I flip him off and slide out of the car.

I’ve been to holding tanks and jails before, to see clients, but I’ve never actually been in a prison cell. I have to say, spending eight hours in one is a…cleansing experience, in a weird way. It gives you a reset, and highlights priorities.

Honestly, it’s a great motivator to clear all the baggage out of your life.

For instance, after getting back to my hotel room, I plugged in my phone, turned off the location sharing setting on the Venom app, and then deleted said app.

I considered going full on scorched earth and getting a new apartment—not because of Steven, but because the stranger from Venom might very well know who the hell I am. I mean, he came to my hotel. He knew what room I was in. Surely that means he got my information from the front desk somehow.

But after grilling the manager at the Soho Grand, I’ve been assured that nothing of the kind happened.

And yes, the stranger did see my face without my mask. But that doesn’t mean he knows who I am. I’ve checked with George at the front desk of the Crown and Black building again, and he’s also assured me that no tall, dark, and sinister looking men with vaguely European accents have come looking for me.

So, a few hours later, after a much-needed shower and an outfit change into a black de la Renta number back home, the maître d’ at D’Atella informs me as he leads me to a table in the center of the lavish dining room that my guest will be arriving soon.

I’m checking my work email on my phone when I feel it.

A presence, like a dark shadow. Cold air coming from the open cellar door. Something almost malicious.

…Something freakishly familiar.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

I shiver at his voice. I’ve briefly met Drazen before, a few times, and obviously I’m aware that he’s a ludicrously attractive man. But that voice…

Down, girl.

It’s the mix of slight accent and dark, unquestionable power. A little rough and gravelly, yet smooth and cultured. The voice, like the way he wears his clearly top-of-the-line custom suits, suggests a humble upbringing that was then introduced to culture and refinement. Like the impoverished peasant boy who’s gifted enrollment at a prestigious boarding school.

His voice has a polish to it, but you can still hear the roughness under the shine. And the suits, insanely expensive and perfectly tailored though they might be, are worn with just enough disdain to highlight that he wears them because he knows he is expected to.

I clear my throat as I go to stand. “No, not at all, Mr. Kry⁠—”

“Please, don’t get up,” he murmurs in that honeyed baritone that I’m sure drives the legions of women he must have at his beck and call wild. He smiles a cool, charming smile as he sits across from me. Still, if you look, you can see it.

A little bit of…something…behind that smile.

Coldness. Darkness. Raw power.

I shake the thoughts away. If the stories are to be believed, the man grew up in a fucking war zone witnessing genocide, for fuck’s sake. And here I am telling myself I see malice and darkness behind his smile?

Fuck you, you insensitive bitch.

“So!” I say brightly. “What did you want to discuss, Mr.—”

“Why don’t we eat first, and then discuss business, Ms. Crown,” he murmurs quietly, exuding that raw power as he raises a hand to a waiter. “A bottle of the⁠—”

“Oh, I’m actually okay without wine.”

Drazen levels a charming, downright lethally attractive smile at me. “I insist, Ms. Crown.” He turns back to the waiter. “A bottle of the ‘59 Château Lafite. Thank you, Martin.”

I only just stop my jaw from hitting the table at the last second.

I make fantastic money. And a lot of our clients are insanely wealthy. But Drazen Krylov is beyond “wealthy”. I mean, the man is a literal billionaire, after…allegedly…working out a deal with Gavan Tsarenko and re-acquiring some Krylov family heirloom.

So, yeah, I guess I could be persuaded to have a glass of twelve-thousand-dollar-a-bottle wine.

I mean, twist a girl’s arm.

“Gabriel’s brought me up to speed on the work our firm is currently doing for⁠—”

“I thought we said we’d discuss business after we eat,” he purrs in that deep, smooth baritone.

Right.

“Well, Mr. Krylov,” I smile. “What shall we talk about, then?”

“Tell me a bit about yourself, Ms. Crown.”

I resist the urge to ask him tartly if this is a business meeting or a date.

“Since we’re going to be working together going forward, and yet I know so little about you.”

My lips twist. “I believe Alistair and his team are going to be working with you going forward…”

“I’m not sure I’ve finalized that.” Drazen smiles with a hint of darkness as he sits back in his chair, drumming the tattooed fingers of one hand on the white tablecloth. ‘Which is why I’d like to know more about you, Ms. Crown.”

I nod. “Okay. Well…” I lift a shoulder. “What would you like to know, Mr. Krylov?”

“Are you single?”

I blink, thrown by the wildly personal question way out of left field.

“I…” I shake my head. “Apologies, I’m not sure that’s relevant to our working together.”

Drazen tilts his head, a neutral expression on his face. His eyes don’t move from mine, nor does he blink.

“As I said, Ms. Crown, I know next to nothing about you, and I’d like to change that being that we may be working closely together.”

Our waiter Martin suddenly reappears with the obscenely expensive bottle of wine, presenting it to Drazen, who nods and merely gestures for him to pour both glasses rather than giving him a taste first. When the waiter is gone, Drazen raises his eyes back to mine.

“Well?”

I swallow, feeling out of sorts and under the gun. I never get like this. I mean, I deal with hostile counsel, bored judges, and clueless juries all the damn time.

Why the hell is this man throwing me off?

“I’ve recently ended a relationship.”

Goddammit. A simple “yes, I’m single” would have sufficed.

“I see,” Drazen smiles politely. “Who broke up with whom?”

My brow arches. “Mr. Krylov…”

“Too personal?”

I tilt my head. “Perhaps.”

“You’re more than welcome to ask me anything at all, too.”

I smirk. “You’ll answer anything I ask?”

“I don’t think I said that.”

My cheeks flush as I drop my eyes and reach for the wine.

Why the fuck does this feel like a date?

Maybe because you’re asking each other personal questions. Maybe because you’re FLIRTING with the Bratva kingpin.

…Am not.

…Are too.

“How about you, Mr. Krylov?” I throw him a sharp look. “Are you single?”

“Yes.”

Oh.

Of course he is.

I take a sip of wine. I almost moan when it slides over my tongue.

“Not too shabby, is it,” he growls.

“That is…delightful, actually.”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

I take another sip, letting my eyes roll back as I swallow.

“Are you a wine connoisseur, Mr. Krylov?”

He just looks at me, a small smile touching his lips as he inclines his head, and smiles. “It was my turn for a question.”

“Well, in that case,” I laugh, “ask away.”

“My previous question is still on the table. Who broke up with whom?”

I stare at him curiously, my brow furrowing as if trying to figure out if he’s fucking with me. And yet, something tells me Drazen Krylov isn’t much of a “fuck around” kind of man.

I take another sip of the incredible wine before I sigh and shrug my shoulders.

“Fine, if we’re getting personal…”

“I insist upon it, Ms. Crown.”

“Technically, I broke up with him,” I blurt. “But that was after I walked in on him with his dick in some other girl’s mouth. In my apartment. On my new sofa.”

The second all that tumbles out, I balk, horrified at myself not just for sharing all of that information, but sharing it such spectacularly crude fashion to the firm’s billionaire client.

Yet all Drazen does is curl his lips in slight amusement.

“Well, I supposed that’s a decent enough reason to break up with someone.”

“Amen to that,” I mutter, feeling flushed as I pick up my wine and take another sip. After I swallow, I frown when my gaze lands on his untouched glass.

“Why aren’t you drinking?”

Drazen smirks. “Is that your question?”

“Sure,” I shrug.

“Because I’m enjoying these questions too much.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not sure how fascinating my lackluster personal life is⁠—”

“Then perhaps you can change the subject with your next question.”

I shrug. “Fine. Where⁠—”

“It’s not your turn, Ms. Crown.”

There’s a slight flex of power in his voice that should be off-putting. But for some insane reason, it’s just commanding enough to…do something to me.

I clear my throat, raising my brows. “My mistake,” I all but giggle.

Okay, maybe I should slow down on the wine.

“Have you ever had any romantic entanglements with either of your fellow managing partners?”

Okay, what the fuck.

Another question about my personal love life? At least this one’s completely easy.

“No.” I shake my head. “Not even a little. Alistair and Gabriel are, and always have been, like brothers to me. I don’t really have…” I trail off and shake my head. “Anyway.”

“No, finish what you were going to say.”

I sigh. “I was going to say I don’t really have any family. So they’re sort of my unofficial one, if that makes sense.”

“Perfect sense.”

“My turn?”

He nods.

“Why are you so interested in my personal life?”

His eyebrow quirks up. “I believe I already told you: I’d like to get to know you better, since we might be working together.”

“Well, there’s a lot of things you could ask that don’t involve my dating history, or lack thereof, Mr. Krylov,” I almost snap. “Like, my favorite food? Hobbies? Sports team? Where I summered growing up?”

“Fine. What’s your favorite food, Ms. Crown,” he growls.

“French fries,” I shrug.

“Hobbies?”

“I’m too busy for hobbies.”

“Sports team?”

“Yankees.”

His lips curl. “Where did you summer⁠—”

“I have no idea. Where did you summer growing up,” I fire back.

“A POW camp in Kosovo.”

I wince.

Shit. Right.

The table goes quiet as I take another gulp of wine.

“Well,” Drazen smiles coldly. “I believe that’s covered enough bases for now.”

I nod, feeling…seriously not myself. I’m failing this meeting, and I eat meetings like this for breakfast.

Slow down on the wine, girl.

I set the glass down and push it away.

“So, what should we talk about now?”

Drazen’s piercing blue eyes meet mine, unblinking. Eviscerating me.

“I think we can talk business now, Ms. Crown,” he rumbles.

Thank God.

“Well,” I smile. “Which of your current ventures that we handle would you like to⁠—”

“Oh, not that sort of business. The business you and I have.”

What the— A wave of dizziness washes over me, and I quickly grab my water glass  and take a large sip.

“What business would that be?”

Drazen’s mouth is the thinnest of lines. “The sort that is…unfinished.”

I take another gulp of water to wet my suddenly dry, cottony mouth.

“Mr. Krylov, I’m afraid I don’t know what⁠—”

Just as I’m talking, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and pulls something out. Without any fanfare or flourish, his eyes still on mine, he deposits it on the table between us.

My gaze drops to it.

My pulse races. My entire thought process, my ability to think, everything… It all stops.

Because there on the table between us, is a sliced scrap of black lace.

Panties.

…My panties, that were cut from me the night I drove into the woods to meet my stranger.

I can’t breathe.

I stare in horror, reality itself ripping and cracking around me. My mouth opens and closes soundlessly, only to do so again. My face throbs and every square inch of my fucking skin crawls with a creeping, gnawing sensation.

Suddenly, Drazen claps his hands together, loudly. So loudly that the entire dining room of D’Atella falls silent.

“Everyone out.”

He barely even raises his voice when he says it. He simply speaks the words…

…And instantly every diner in the room sets down their glass or silverware and stands. The entire waitstaff puts whatever they’re holding down on the nearest available surface.

My vision blurs a little as I watch every single person in the restaurant, from the patrons, to the waitstaff, to the chefs, all the way down to the dishwashers in the kitchen, file out, leaving us completely and utterly alone at our table in the center of the room.

What is happening.

I grip the table and attempt to stand. But my legs aren’t working. My mouth is painfully dry, and when I try to speak, my head spins again.

“The thing is, Taylor…” Drazen murmurs quietly, his voice dripping with malice as he calmly watches me from across the table. All traces of his early charm are gone, replaced by a viciousness that radiates off him like a toxin.

“Ah, but you’re not Taylor at all, are you?”

I blink as my vision swims. “Yes…I…”

The room spins.

Oh my God…

My foggy gaze sweeps across the table, first to his untouched glass of wine, then to my half-empty one.

Oh, fuck.

“No,” he sighs quietly, taking a slow, measured breath and drumming his inked fingers on the linen tablecloth. “No, you’re not.”

My vision swims again as I feel gravity keep me in my chair and tug my head down to the way-too-soft tablecloth.

I’m only dimly aware of Drazen standing and buttoning his suit jacket, his eyes lancing into me as he comes around the table and taps his fingers on the tablecloth right in front of my face.

“Your name is Annika.”

Come play, Annika!

Come throw the ball!

Come play, Annika…

“Your name is Annika Brancovich, and you are my fucking wife.”

Inside, I’m screaming. But not a sound escapes my lips as the whole world spins and starts to go dark.

“And now,” Drazen snarls from somewhere very far away, “you’re going to pay for what you did.”

Strong hands grab my arms as I slip out of consciousness.

“Time to play, Annika…”