Corrupted Heart: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance
Corrupted Heart: Chapter 26

With a ten and a seven, hitting again is insanely risky. But I’m feeling a little reckless, and I’m in a fantastic mood. One, I can still taste Bianca’s pussy on my tongue from when I pinned her to the floor earlier, before I went out. And two, I’m not really here to gamble tonight.

What I’m here for is a sure thing.

Situated beneath a dry cleaner’s, a hipster bar, and a lingerie boutique, the Bratva-run Black Swan is one of New York’s most exclusive, luxurious, and decidedly high-rollers-only underground casinos. I’m not much of a gambler myself. But I know that most of the people who come here to play cards, toss dice, or bet on sports or fights are all members of criminal organizations. The few that aren’t but are crazy enough to want to play cards with gangsters for large sums of money are either, A: mafia-adjacent, or B: low-lifes and scumbags who’ve been barred from every legitimate casino in the New York area.

My target this evening falls squarely in category B. And knowing that he’s here tonight is at least eighty percent the cause of the smile on my face.

…The other twenty being that despite not being much of a card player, I’m doing pretty great.

The dealer drops a card in front of me. Instantly, the whole table groans. Some of the players clap, and the Japanese Yakuza looking guy next to me nods his approval as he pats my arm.

I just hit the four of clubs on seventeen.

Twenty-one, baby.

I grin as the dealer pushes my sizable winnings toward me. But again, I’m not only smiling because of this.

I’m smiling because after two weeks of prying, hunting, and outright stalking, I’ve finally cornered my prey tonight.

Tim Ciglione, who now works for some douchebag hedge fund in the city, isn’t just a scumbag piece of shit because he tried to force Bianca to blow him in a hot tub seven years ago. He’s also the kind of scumbag with a gambling problem who gets barred from upstanding, mainstream casinos. That’s why he’s here, probably triple leveraging his own house or his grandmother’s pension chasing the gambler’s high.

Oh, and for extra fuckhead points, Tim also likes to slap his wife around when he’s drunk—and not in a way she might like. He’s also fucking his secretary.

Classy.

Anyway, he’s about to have a very, very bad night. It’s no accident I’ve chosen this table. From where I’m sitting, I can look across the room to see Tim balls-deep in losing his shirt at a high-stakes poker table. Even from here, I can smell the stench of desperation radiating off him, even with his back to me. His hair is fucked up from constantly running his fingers through it. He’s ditched his jacket and his tie, his hand rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

With a smirk, I glance back down at my chips. I’ve got some time yet. It’s when he’s done at the table that I’ll be making my move.

“Well,” I smile, organizing my winnings into neat stacks. “Shall we play again?”

“I’m afraid the table’s gone cold. My apologies to you all.”

My ears perk up at the familiar voice. My eyes lift, my brow arching curiously.

The dealer has left. And in his place, looking right at me, sits a very stoic Lukas Komarov.

Around us, the other blackjack players shrug as they collect their chips and stand from the table. I clear my throat, sitting back in my chair with my arms folded over my chest.

“Lukas,” I growl quietly with a nod at the man clad in a black suit with a black shirt, buttoned all the way up but without a tie.

He leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table. “What are you doing in my casino, Kratos.”

I arch a brow. “I was under the impression that this was Dima Novikov’s casino.”

“On paper, sure.” His fingertips walk across the green baize of the card table. “So again, Kratos. What exactly are you doing here?”

“Blackjack, mainly. I hear it’s the best odds for the player.”

He looks the opposite of amused.

“Is that a problem, Lukas?”

“No,” he murmurs. “But you don’t gamble.”

“You don’t know that.”

He smiles. “Actually, I do.”

I could argue, but we’re talking Lukas here. I might be good at stalking and hunting for prey or information. But Lukas Komarov is on another level.

“Because I like and respect you, let me make this clear for you, Kratos,” he murmurs quietly, leaning forward. “Trust me when I say the usual mayhem you’re looking for when you go out at night will not be found here. Drinks? Yes. Degenerate gamblers? Also yes. And I’m not gonna lie to you, you’ll probably replace fantastic cocaine and pretty much any other poison you might be partial to, if you ask the right people.” His smile fades. “But my concern is that you’re after your usual choice in vices, which matches my own. If you’re looking for that here, you’re wasting your time.”

I shake my head. “I’m not looking for traffickers.”

“What, then.”

“I’m here to right a wrong.”

“Personal?”

“You could say that. Someone hurt someone I care about.” My pulse drums. “Someone I love.”

Lukas’ brow furrows. “And the nature of this wrong?”

“Sexual assault.”

His face goes grim. “Really,” he growls.

I nod. “He likes to gamble, and he’s in deep tonight…” I level a gaze across the table at Lukas. “And I’m not leaving without taking care of this. But I also didn’t realize this was your place. So, for the trouble, I can pay⁠—”

“I don’t want your money, Kratos.”

“Then I’ll be in your debt for a favor.”

He shakes his head. “Not that either.”

Lukas rises from his seat, buttoning his black suit jacket. He walks around the table and drops a hand on my shoulder heavily as he leans close.

“Just try not to make a mess,” he murmurs quietly. “Happy hunting, my friend.”

Great minds think alike.

I stand from the table, pocketing my hefty winnings and stopping by the bar for a drink. I sip the whiskey slowly, eyeing the poker table across the room. Tim is spiraling, I can see it from here. He shoves his fingers through his greasy, thinning hair, looking nervous. The dealer flips the river, and I can almost hear Tim’s stomach hitting the floor from here. He’s just lost more money.

I wait until he stands on wobbly feet. He slams back his drink and turns to stagger toward the restroom.

My lips curl dangerously.

Go time.

Tim is in the middle of pissing into one of the urinals when I grab him. He squeals like a stuck pig, screaming and thrashing and getting pee all over himself as I yank him by the back of his collar across the bathroom floor.

I kick open the stall door, dragging him inside and punching him hard in the face. His nose breaks, and he screams and burbles in agony as blood gushes down over his mouth. Without so much as a word, I grab the scruff of his neck, yank him to the toilet, and shove his face down into it.

I wait there for a moment, cracking my neck and rolling my shoulders as I easily hold Tim’s flailing, spasming body to the floor with his head in the toilet bowl. After about thirty seconds, I yank him out again, sputtering and choking and screaming as he blindly wipes bloodied, pink-tinged toilet water from his face.

“Please!!” he bleats. “Please! Tell him I’ll pay! I swear to fuck I’ll pay! I’ve got it, too!” he screams, clinging to my pants, begging on his knees. I scowl down at him and kick my leg, shaking him off like an annoying insect.

“This isn’t about money, Tim.”

He pales as I say his name.

“It’s—it’s not?”

“Nah.”

I grab his neck and shove his face back into the toilet. This time, I drag it out a little longer, letting him truly feel the icy grip of death as the threat of drowning has him spasming and kicking.

He chokes and immediately vomits up toilet water when I drag him out again.

“Being held underwater sucks, doesn’t it, Tim?”

He stares up at me with bleary, unfocused eyes. “W-what?”

He reels when I punch him in the mouth.

“Being grabbed, Tim,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “And forced, against your will, underwater.”

He blinks again, shaking. “I—I have no idea what you’re talking⁠—”

“Wrong answer.”

The back of his head rattles the stall wall when I punch him again. His eyes bulge as I grab his throat and snarl down into his face.

“If you so much as think about telling me you’re not sure whose head I’m talking about you holding underwater, I’ll rip your goddamn throat out right here and now.”

His face goes ashen as the penny drops.

“P-please…” he chokes, his voice quieter now, full of true fear. “Please, I never⁠—”

“Never what, Tim? Gave a fuck whether she had any interest in sucking your pathetic excuse for a dick?” I snap, smirking at his shriveled “manhood” poking out of his fly.

He swallows violently, trembling as he looks up at me.

“Who…who is she to you?”

My wrath fills the bathroom as I leer down over him.

“She’s my wife.”

“Oh God, please!” he squeals. “C’mon, man! Please!! I was a just a kid! You know? Just being stupid!”

“Boys will be boys, right, Tim?” I snarl. “Just having a little fun when you fucking shoved her head under the water?”

My hand clamps hard around his throat, squeezing until I see his eyes start from his head.

“Please!” he croaks. “Please! I have a wife!”

“You hit your wife, you piece of shit,” I grunt. “And you’re cheating on her. Try again.”

His croak turns into a gurgle as I shove his face back down into the toilet bowl. When I pull him out, he sputters, choking and wiping water and blood out of his eyes.

“If I die, they’ll go after her for the debt!”

Goddammit.

I exhale heavily.

Don’t get involved. Don’t get⁠—

“Who will,” I growl.

He swallows, his eyes darting around nervously.

“Deep breath…” I growl as I grab his hair.

“WAIT!”

My eyes narrow. “The Italians?”

A violent shake of his head.

“Not the Russians, surely…”

He smiles weakly, and I groan.

“You dumb motherfucker. You borrowed from the fucking Bratva?!”

He nods vigorously, looking ill.

“Who.”

His lips clamp shut.

“Tim, the next time you go in that toilet bowl, I’m fucking pissing in it at the same time. Who.”

If you knew me—the real me—you wouldn’t necessarily think I had any weak points. But I do: innocent bystanders. People who have the misfortune of being around fuckheads like Tim.

I might be perfectly content flushing his face in the toilet until he drowns. But he’s not wrong: if he croaks, the Russians will get the money he owes out of his wife, one way or another.

Tim squeals as I grab the back of his shirt and haul him, dripping toilet water, out of the stall and across the floor of the restroom. I slam him against the wall and let him crumple to the floor. Then I start to wash my hands.

“Chernoff!” he finally blubbers. “Boris Chernoff!”

I glare down at him.

You fucking idiot.

“Him and that fucking spooky witch of his!”

My brow furrows as I soap my hands. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know!” he cries. “Chernoff’s new attack dog. She’s like his new consigliere, or whatever that is for the Bratva!”

I have no idea who he’s talking about. But then, I don’t pay that much attention to Bratva shit.

“How much do you owe Chernoff?”

He gulps weakly. “Three hundred grand.”

I grit my teeth. I can’t believe I’m about to spare this piece of shit’s life for a measly three hundred grand. But I won’t have his wife, whose only crime was saying “I do” to this walking choad, getting dragged into this.

“How much cash do you have on⁠—”

Movement behind me pulls my attention up from the sink. In the mirror, I see Tim stumble to his feet, glance at me with terror in his eyes, and then lurch for the bathroom door. I roll my eyes as I turn.

“You’re not seriously going to make a run for it, are⁠—”

Tim’s feet skid out, slipping on the toilet water. He gasps as he tips backward, a shocked expression on his dumb face as his world goes upside-down. With a choked bleat, he somehow does a half backflip before landing on the floor, head-first, with a sickening crunch sound.

The bathroom goes silent.

Fuck.

“Tim?”

I frown as I walk over, then crouch down to slap his face once or twice. “Tim.”

Blood begins to form a puddle under his head. There’s no way his neck is supposed to be at that angle. My fingers go to his jugular, and my jaw grinds.

Shit.

He’s dead.

I exhale as I roll my shoulders and stand, staring down at him. Now, I’m not in any way shape or form bent out of shape about it. But it does look like I’m going to owe Lukas a favor after all.

I mean, he did ask me not to make a mess.

I’m on my way out of the Black Swan when someone catches my eye in one of the side poker rooms: Arian Kirakosian, sipping a glass of something, a grimace on his face.

Just leave, idiot.

I exhale with a groan.

In many respects—okay, in just about every respect—Bianca has been a one-thousand-percent net positive influence on my life. I’m noticing the goodness in the world. I sleep better at night. My…and my beast’s…need for bloodshed and violence is certainly tempered.

Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve killed at all since she crashed into my life like a goddamn basket of daisies and kittens. Tim just now doesn’t count. That’s his fault for running like a fucking idiot.

But there’s one side effect of overdosing on Bianca that’s a pain in the ass: I’ve got this thing now where I care.

It’s a habit I can’t seem to shake these days, and it’s a thorn in my fucking side. Every logical thought says to just walk the hell out of this casino right now. To leave well enough alone when it comes to Arian and the Albanians. And yet, even as I’m telling myself to walk the fuck away, go figure, my feet are carrying me into the room until I’m standing right in front of Arian.

The Bianca Effect, ladies and gentlemen, in all its chaotic glory.

Arian arches a brow as I stop in front of him.

“My condolences for your loss, Arian,” I nod stiffly. “Your father was a good man.”

He smiles wanly at me, but he nods back. “I appreciate that. He was short-sighted, maybe a little naive at times…” He shakes his head. “But thank you, Kratos.” He clears his throat. “I, ah, didn’t know you played cards.”

“I don’t,” I rumble. “Just here tying up a loose end.”

He smirks. “Should I be worried?”

“Not unless you need to piss anytime soon.”

He gives me a curious look. Just then, someone shoves me in the back, hard.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” a voice slurs.

I turn. When my gaze lands on Grisha Lenkov, swaying on his feet with a drink in his hand and a snarl on his face, my eyes darken.

“You wanna go another round, you fuckin’ bitch?” Grisha mumbles, breathing pure vodka in my face.

Goodness, that sounds like a fantastic idea.

Grisha’s eyes go wide as I grab him by the throat and wind my other hand up to smash his face in on principle. Suddenly, someone grabs my arm.

“Mr. Lenkov is a guest of mine tonight, Kratos,” Arian hisses, eyeing me coldly.

I’m about to make a sharp reply when I realize that just about every other guy in the room is looking at me with their hands hovering near their hips or the fronts of their jackets.

“I’m guessing these fine gentlemen are all with you?” I mutter at Arian.

“You guess correctly. Let him go, Kratos.”

“Yeah!” Grisha slurs, shoving at me. “Take your fuckin’ hands off me!”

I don’t mention that he was the one who suggested going another round. Instead, I just turn back to Arian, my hand still at Grisha’s throat.

“I think you need and deserve a better class of friend, Arian.”

“Kratos…” he warns.

With a grimace, I let the Russian shit-stain go. Ignoring his mutters and insults, I turn fully to Arian, my brow creasing.

“I didn’t realize Te Mallkuarit did business with the Bratva.”

Arian lifts a shoulder. “Who says we do?”

“Your questionable choice in poker buddies for the evening.”

Arian just shrugs again, not confirming or denying a thing.

“So, are you?”

“Am I what, Kratos.”

“Friends with the Russians.”

“I’m friends with lots of people.”

“How about this fucker’s boss. Boris Chernoff.”

Arian smiles thinly. “I didn’t come to a casino tonight to be interrogated, Kratos.”

I shake my head. “Not my intention. I was merely hoping you could help me tie off a loose end.” I jam my hand into my pocket and pull out a dozen or so twenty-five-thousand-dollar chips before I pass them into the hands of a confused looking Arian. “This is to settle a debt Boris is owed by a certain Tim Ciglione. He has a wife. She’s off the hook for anything after this.”

Arian eyes me with a curious look. “Why not give this to Mr. Lenkov to pass along to his boss?”

“Because Mr. Lenkov is a fucking Muppet,” I growl.

“Fuck you!”

“You’re a guest here, Grisha,” Arian glares past me, a warning note in his voice. “Control yourself.” His eyes shift back to me, and he nods stiffly. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you. I owe you.” I clap his shoulder. “And again, my condolences on your father.”

I’m turning to leave when suddenly, I hear the coughing hork of someone clearing phlegm from their throat.

Then something wet and disgusting hits the back of my head.

I go still and my shoulders stiffen before I slowly turn. Grisha is leering at me with a smug look on his drunk face.

Looks like I’m going to owe Lukas two favors by the end of tonight.

Arian groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You dumb fuck,” he mutters quietly.

Grisha grins at him. “Wha?”

Arian’s gaze drifts back to me. He sighs heavily, slipping the chips I gave him into his jacket pocket before he raises a finger.

“You get one hit. One.”

The smug grin drops like a stone from Grisha’s face. He whirls to Arian. “Wait, what?!”

I smile a shark-like grin as I roll my neck and turn to Grisha.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it count.”

Bianca’s reading in bed—our bed—when I get home. Wordlessly, I walk over to her as she puts the book down and grins at me.

“Hey, you⁠—”

“Come with me.”

She frowns curiously as I kiss her softly, then take her hand.

“Where—”

“Just come.”

I usher her into the bathroom. I leave the lights off and light a couple of candles on the vanity, until the walls are glowing and flickering softly. Without a word, I start to fill the tub with warm water. I place a folded towel next to it, like she always does, before turning to her.

“Clothes off.”

She smiles, an intrigued look on her face.

“This is new.”

“What is?”

“You don’t usually ask permission before my clothes come off.”

I smile. “That’s not what this is about. Just… Take them off.”

She does. I watch hungrily, shamelessly devouring her body with my eyes. But again, that’s not what this is.

At least, not yet.

“Kneel down.”

She stiffens a little. “What⁠—”

“I’m going to wash your hair.”

Her lip disappears between her teeth. “Kratos…”

“Something in your past hurt you. It scared you, and scarred you, and took away what should be a simple pleasure.” I stand and walk over to her, taking her hands in mine. “That thing doesn’t exist anymore. It no longer has any power over you.”

She probably knows me well enough by now to be able to read between the lines. She might even see it on my face, and guess what happened tonight. But she doesn’t say anything, and it’s not because she’s scared of me, or the beast that lurks inside me.

Not anymore.

It’s because she understands me. She knows what I am, and she accepts what I am. Entirely.

And maybe…just maybe…the darkness in her that mirrors my own is close enough to mine that she feels the same sense of elation knowing that the shadow from her past is gone.

Slowly, her eyes locked with mine, she nods her chin.

“Okay,” she says in a small voice.

I lead her to the tub and squat down next to where she kneels on the towel and leans over the water. My fingers comb through her hair, pulling it forward and letting it touch the water. I use a cup to gently pour warm water over her long hair. Bianca stiffens a little at first, and her breath comes faster than normal.

But slowly, it turns peaceful. Slowly, her shoulders relax.

Her eyes close, and a small smile curls the corners of her lips.

I shampoo her hair for a long time, slowly, sudsing every lock ever so gently with my fingers. I rinse out the shampoo and then add conditioner, again taking the time to massage her scalp and run my fingers through her hair before I rinse that out too.

When we’re done, her shoulders hitch a little. After I drape a towel around her, and then bundle her hair up in another one, she turns to me, a single tear beading in her eye as her lips pull into a smile.

Her hand reaches out, cupping my face.

“I love you,” she whispers quietly in the stillness of the bathroom.

“I love you too.”