Surrendering to the Don's Dark Desires - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

My fingers wrap around the hilt of a blade from my collection spread across the velvet cloth.
These are my treasures, locked away until the darkness inside demands release.
Like now, when that bastard's words still burn in my veins.
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
What the hell was he implying?
Sure, I share his face, his cunning...
But where it counts—in my soul, in my choices—I'm nothing like that monster.
I refuse to be.
Yet what about the twisted desires coiled under my skin?
The hunger for pain that pulses through me?
The need to push until someone screams?
My brothers and I share these... urges.
Did we inherit this from him?
This loss of control when the cravings get too strong?
When only steel biting into flesh can quiet the storm?
And when my own skin isn't enough, I carve into others.
Willing partners, always consensual.
They come to my bed knowing what I am.
Mostly.
Few realize how deep the rabbit hole goes.
Some come back, addicted to the edge.
Others run before dawn, never to be seen again.
Since I can't stand the thought of another woman in my bed—not when she still haunts me—there's only one outlet left.
I raise my arm and let the knife fly.
It sinks into the thigh of the man tied to the far column.
No shaky hands.
No nausea.
That brief guilt after the last kill must've been a fluke.
I adjust my stance, eyeing the gagged and blindfolded captive.
He's screaming—I see it in the strain of his neck—but the sound is muffled.
Not that I give a damn.
Marco questioned him first, then Cristiano.
Neither got him to talk.
That's when I took over.
I'd told my brothers to leave, but Matteo and Cristiano stayed.
Their choice.
Makes no difference to me.
His buddy—tied to another column—watches with bulging eyes.
Already pissed himself when the first blade hit.
We'll see how long he lasts.
Another knife.
Another throw.
This one slices his opposite arm.
I keep the rhythm—thigh, foot, foot—until Matteo steps in.
"Enough, Dom."
"Since when do you give orders, Matteo?"
Silence.
I aim again.
The blade buries itself in his gut.
One left now—I line it up with his forehead.
"Dead men can't talk," Cristiano warns.
"Since when do I care?"
"What did he say to you?"
I pause.
"Don't know what you mean."
"Every time that bastard Don Vittorio shows up, you lose it."
I lower the blade slightly.
Release.
The whoosh of steel, the wet thud of impact—it calms the rage.
Another knife.
Another.
Until only one remains in my hand.
"Take off his gag," I order.
Cristiano obeys.
Blood spills from the man's lips as the blindfold comes off.
His eyelids flutter open.
He looks at me—really looks—and whimpers.
"Who sent you?" I murmur.
"Might as well confess."
"Clear your conscience before you meet your maker."
More blood bubbles past his lips.
His buddy shudders, mumbling.
"Speak up."
"The... Kane firm," he gasps.
"They sent us."
Fucking hell.
"Who's in charge?" I growl.
He hesitates.
I raise the last knife.
"Vincenzo," he blurts.
"Vincenzo calls the shots."
"Vincenzo who?"
"Never met him!"
"Just... texts."
"I'm not Camorra, I swear—"
The knife lands between his eyes.
I turn to the other captive—already gone, head slumped.
Matteo checks his pulse.
"Done."
I crack my neck.
"Got boring anyway."
Right on cue, Marco walks in—the man's timing is perfect.
"Clean and return every blade," I snap.
"Consider it done, Boss."
As Marco unties the first body, a phone rings.
Matteo answers.
"London?"
"You have the daughter's location?"
He listens, then nods.
"Seraphina West?"
"Send the details."
He turns to me.
I raise a hand.
"I'll handle this."
His brow furrows.
"You knew this intel was coming today?"
When I don't answer, he exhales sharply.
"That's why Don Vittorio visited?"
"To tell you to make her pay for her father's betrayal?"
"Among other things."
"Christ, Dom."
He rubs his jaw.
"We're your brothers."
"Let us help."
"I know."
My jaw tightens.
"Old habits."
"Not about trust—just used to shielding you all from il nostro bastardo di padre."
Matteo's expression softens.
"We're not kids anymore."
"And you'll always be my family."
"My responsibility."
Cristiano shifts.
"So... this girl."
"We're grabbing her?"
"I'm grabbing her."
"You?"
He blinks.
"Since when does the Capo go on retrievals?"
"Since my reputation's on the line."
"You don't trust us?"
I glare.
"Questioning orders now?"
He crosses his arms.
"Just saying, Boss."
"Keep your suggestions to yourself."
My tone shuts him down.
He nods stiffly.
"Of course."
"Her father's betrayal cost us millions."
"Took years to recover."
I meet their gazes.
"This debt?"
"It's mine to collect."
"How?"
Matteo asks.
"With her life."
Seraphina
"Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day..."
Byron's words slither through my mind, unwanted.
Not that I'm some poetry lover, but words have always been my escape.
When everything falls apart, they stay—steady, loyal.
This verse sank its teeth into me years ago.
Its darkness coils inside me now as I watch London sleep from Waterlow Park's grassy slope.
Somewhere out there, the mafia's hunting me.
That's why my sister and her new husband insisted on bodyguards.
I agreed—to shut them up—then ditched my security at dawn.
They won't think to look here.
Not yet.
I close my eyes.
Silence.
Wind through leaves.
Distant trickling water.
I could be the last person alive.
Forgotten.
Doomed.
Stop.
I scrub my face.
Try again.
Focus.
"Morn came and went—and came, and—"
My voice cracks.
"Bloody hell."
I yank at the grass.
"—brought no day."
A voice—rough as gravel—finishes the line.
I whirl.
His silhouette dominates my vision.
Backlit by the rising sun, his face stays shadowed, but I see the slicked-back dark hair, the silver at his temples.
This man wears his years like battle scars.
My mouth goes dry.
Not some office drone.
Not a civilian.
This is a predator.
A beast in human skin.
The kind of darkness that calls to mine.
His hooked nose.
Thin upper lip.
Full lower one that promises wicked things.
My thighs press together.
Then I see it—the scar slicing his throat.
What kind of horror left that mark?
"Of this their desolation; and all hearts were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light..." he continues, voice like crushed velvet.
My palms sweat.
"Who are you?"
He ignores me.
"Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour they fell and faded—and all was black."
Heat pools low in my belly.
How does his voice alone do this?
I scramble up.
"Sit."
A command, not a request.
His black jacket stretches across shoulders that block out the sunrise.
That one strand of hair falling over his brow—it's the only soft thing about him.
My lungs burn.
He's stolen all the air, claimed this space as his.
I edge back.
"I won't ask again."
Ask.
Demand.
Take.
He'd have me any way he wanted—and I'd beg for more.
"No."
"Yes."
Absolute.
Final.
Everything I've feared.
Everything I've wanted.
He'll ruin me.
Remake me.
"Run if you want," he murmurs.
"You have until five."
"And if you don't catch me?"
"Then I'll hunt you."
"Haunt your dreams."
"Steal you from your bed at midnight."
He turns.
Blue eyes—deep as a storm—lock onto mine.
"And then..."
"Then?" I whisper.
"Then you'll belong to me in every way."
"Your breath."
"Your thoughts."
"Your screams."
His smile is a blade.
"Only me."
He stands.
A mountain of a man.
A monster who always wins.
My pulse races.
Some primal part urges defiance.
"Why?"
He cocks his head.
"Because you can?"
"Or..."
I swallow.
"Is this about my father?"
"The mafia?"
His stillness says it all.
"You're one of them."
"Clever girl."
His lips twist.
"Your father promised you to me."
"Then he backed out."
"Now I'm here to collect."
"No."
The word tastes like ash.
"Yes."
No mercy in his gaze.
The past always finds me.
No matter how fast I run.
"Tick tock, bella."
He adjusts his cuffs.
"Five."
My knees shake.
"Four."
I should run.
But my feet won't move.
"Three."
He rolls his shoulders.
"Two."
Blood roars in my ears.
"One."