Emperor of Wrath: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

“Here’s the thing, dickhead,” I growl quietly. “You don’t get to just tap out. You don’t get to leave now and make me and Frey clean this shit up. You got that?”Property © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.

Damian doesn’t respond: unsurprising, since he’s still in a medically induced coma. But I’m damn sure he can still hear me and gets the message loud and clear.

It’s been a week since the shooting, and he’s apparently doing a lot better. Still in the coma, but that’s so his body can focus on healing. The specialist from Dubai that Kir flew in says that he and his team are going in one more time to remove a few last fragments of bullet that are still dangerously close to Damian’s heart. After that, they say he’s going to be better.

He’d fucking better be.

“Anyway, you’re missing so much drama while you’re napping like a lazy asshole,” I mutter at him, squeezing his hand. “I mean, I’m getting married, and you’re missing so many opportunities for solid A-list jokes at my expense. Let me say that again: I am getting married.”

I’d half expect Damian to wake up at that.

He doesn’t.

“I’m supposed to go wedding dress shopping. But I’m seriously considering just showing up to this stupid fucking thing in a burlap sack. Or maybe a halloween costume just to be hilarious. What do you think?”

The machines surrounding Damian beep and whir in tempo.

“Squeeze my hand once for scary clown; twice for slutty nurse.”

I glare at him.

“Well for fucks sake, dude. You gotta pick one.”

With a sigh, I smile, lean down and hug him.

“I love you, jackass. Seriously, get better.” I bite my lip as I squeeze his hand again. “I don’t know if I can do this without you.”

I give him a kiss on the forehead before brushing the tiniest bit of moisture away from my eyes and standing. No. Fuck that. I don’t cry, ever. And I’m definitely not giving Damian the satisfaction or the ammo by doing it over him.

Turning, I march across the room, fling the door open, and stride out⁠—

“Shit!”

Right into someone.

I stumble back, an apology on my lips until both of our brows shoot up in surprise as Hana Mori and I regard each other in stunned silence.

“Uh…hi,” I blurt awkwardly.

Her brow clears as she recognizes me too. “Hey.”

Again, I know Kenzo’s whole family and his inner circle because that’s what a smart person does if they’re being hunted.

Kenzo has three siblings. Four I guess, if you count Fumi Yamaguchi, aka the First Lady of New York these days. But on the Yakuza side, there are three Mori siblings. Sort of. Mal Ulstad is actually Kenzo’s cousin via his mother. But he’s been living as their sibling since he was like twelve or something.

After that, there are the twins: Takeshi and Hana. And it’s Hana who’s standing in front of me now.

Like her brothers, Hana has this gorgeous blend of both Northern European and Japanese features. She’s taller than average, with long, freakishly straight and perfectly bleached blonde hair, beautiful dark eyes, and soft lips. She almost looks like she could fit into Freya’s brand of techno-goth-punk, just more… I don’t know, fashionable? Professional?

No offense, Frey.

She’s dressed all in black, super sleek and stylish, like she’s the CFO of a moon-mining corporation in a sci-fi movie. There’s not a single wrinkle. Not a single—and I do mean single—bleached white-blonde hair out of place. And her ever-so-slightly goth makeup is…unff…chef’s kiss.

“So, uh…”

“Sister-in-law-to-be, huh?” she says dryly, arching a brow.

“Guess so,” I answer awkwardly. “So, um… Who’re you here to see?”

Jesus Christ. The assignment was to be less socially awkward, self.

She nods down the hall with her chin. “Okada. He’s one of Aoki’s men.”

I wince.

The only one of Aoki’s men to have survived the shootout in the nightclub with Damian and his men.

I suppose I should hate Hana for being on “the other side”. But there are no winners or losers in a scenario this stupid and senseless.

Everyone loses.

“How’s he doing?” I ask hopefully.

Her lips curl a bit, giving me a hint of a smile. “He’s…improving, thanks. He’s getting out tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” I say quietly.

She frowns as she nods past me to Damian lying in bed. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

“Oh, he’s not really…” I shake my head. “I don’t know why I said that. He basically is my brother. Thank you.”

Hana smiles wryly. “Found family is still family. I have a brother-who-isn’t-really-my-brother, too.”

I glance down at my feet then back up at her. “I’m sorry about Aoki.”

She shrugs. “I only met him once or twice. Honestly, by all accounts, he was kind of an asshole. But thanks.” She looks past me again at Damian, her lower lip catching between her teeth. “Is he going to be okay?”

I nod. “Yeah. He has another surgery tomorrow. After that, they think they can take him off life support and slowly bring him out of the coma.”

Hana flashes me a genuine smile. “That’s good.” We look at each other with a little less awkwardness and stiffness. “Look, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you have to marry my brother.”

I snort. “Oh, so you’ve met him too.”

Hana gives me a look. “To be clear, I love my brother.”

Shit.

But Hana flashes me another small smile. “I meant that I’m sorry you have to marry someone you don’t want to.” She glances at the super cute, very expensive looking silver watch on her wrist. “Look, I don’t know if this is weird, and you can totally say no, but I was about to go find a dress to wear to the party…” She arches a brow at me. “Wanna come with?”

Wait, what?

Freya was right the other day: I don’t have many friends, because honestly, I suck at them. Freya and Damian are about it, and I’ve sort of given up on trying to expand my social circle.

But this feels incredibly friendly, and I’m—embarrassingly—jumping up and down on the inside. Because Kenzo’s sister seems super fucking cool.

“Uh, yeah,” I shrug as casually as humanly possible. “I guess I could do that.”

“Cool!” Hana smiles broadly at me as we both turn and head down the hall toward the front lobby.

I furrow my brow. “So, what party is this?”

Hana pulls up short, causing me to stumble to a stop as she turns to raise a brow at me. “Please tell me you’re joking. The engagement party, of course.”

I bark a loud, sharp laugh, then stop. “Wait…you’re serious.”

“Um, yes?”

I snort, shaking my head. “Yeah, not happening.”

Hana winces. “Yeah, sort of non-negotiable, trust me. It’s not Kenzo’s thing, it’s Sota’s. And believe me, when that man says something is happening, especially if it’s a party, it’s not a case of if. It’s more where, when, and how crazy big is the budget.” She grins at me. “Sorry, but you gotta trust me on this one.”

I groan as I flop against the wall. “Shit.”

“Yeah, well…” she shrugs. “It won’t be that bad. I mean, maybe you don’t want to marry Kenzo⁠—”

“I don’t. No offense.”

She shrugs. “None taken. And maybe he doesn’t want to marry you⁠—”

“He one thousand percent doesn’t.”

Hana smirks. “Well, the feelings of the bride and groom aside, the shitload of people that Sota is inviting are going to spend the entire evening telling you how amazing you look, how lucky you are, and showering you with booze and gifts.”

I arch a brow. “Really.”

“So, might as well make the best of it, right?”

She slips her arm through mine.

“C’mon. Let’s find you a dress.”

Okay, not only am I not much of a “makes friends” type of girl, I’m really not much of a shopper. Or a fashionista.

Yet, despite all that, I end up having a fantastic time with Hana.

My soon-to-be sister-in-law is a huge fashion person and knows every single luxury boutique in Manhattan intimately. Every damn place welcomes her with open arms and champagne and treats us like freaking royalty. And hours and about seven boutiques later, long after nightfall, I’ve found the perfect dress for my engagement party, and I actually love it.

Okay, like it well enough. But for me? With a dress? Home run.

After I pay for the dress at the last shop, Hana gives me a hug and swaps numbers with me before saying she’s going to stay a little longer, since she and this particular boutique owner are old pals.

I give her another hug, grab my spoils, and pull my phone out as I walk out the door.

Yikes. Nine missed calls from Freya.

I’m about to call her back when suddenly a familiar-looking black Audi screeches to a stop right in front of me. The tinted window rolls down, and Freya smirks at me across the passenger seat.

“Have fun with your new gal pal?”

She nods past me. I turn and see Hana in the window, gabbing away with her friend and sipping bubbly.

“Jealous, Frey?”

“Of her?” Freya snorts. “Um, yeah. That bitch is put together. She’s like me if I had class. I’m the wish dot com version.”

I snort another loud laugh and nod at Hana inside the shop. “I bumped into her when I went to see Damian earlier. She’s actually pretty fucking cool.”

“Seriously. She looks like the coolest person I’ve ever met.” She smiles at me. “I saw Damian last night.”

“Night nurses okay with you coming after visiting hours now, or did you sneak in again?”

She grins. “Delores and I are cool now. She told me I remind her of her granddaughter.” Her brow furrows. “How’d he look today?”

“Good,” I smile as I lean down and plant my arms on the open window ledge of the door. “The doctors told me they’re confident they’ll be able to bring him out of the coma after this next operation.”

It goes without saying that we’re both just trying to cheer each other up about all of this.

“Wait, so what are you up to? You weren’t picking up my calls.”

I squint at her. “Frey… Did you track me here?”

She shrugs. “Like I said: you weren’t picking up.”

“Okay, we need to work on boundaries again.”

She snorts. “I think we’re well past that, don’t you?”

“What was so fucking important?”

The smile suddenly vanishes from Freya’s face. “You might want to get in.”

I slip into the car, rolling up the window as Freya turns to me.

“Ulkan isn’t letting it go.”

An icy skewer pierces my heart. I quickly try to shove it away.

“W-what do you mean?”

“I’ve been poking around on the dark web, talking to some people I know.” Her face pales even more than usual. “Word is, he’s putting out serious feelers. He’s seriously pissed about what happened.”

God-fucking-dammit.

Like I said, I rarely make mistakes. But aside from Kenzo, Ulkan Gacaferi was one of them.

It was a few months ago, right as I was being reunited with my sister after so many years apart. I know we shouldn’t have, especially for a psycho like Ulkan, but Frey and I took on a job.

Hindsight is a motherfucker. When I look back on this particular job, it had all the red flags I usually walk away from. But I was so focused on the Taylor thing, and the money was so stupid good, that I said yes without thinking.

Ulkan Gacaferi, a notorious Albanian crime boss and general psychopath, hired us to steal a car—a brand-spanking-new, neon yellow Lamborghini—from the parking garage of an ultra-exclusive condo building in Midtown.

He was willing to pay a lot: three hundred and fifty grand for the car itself, plus another hundred k for our time.

I mean, that’s the dumbest, quickest almost-half million you can possibly make. And Freya and I stole hundreds of high-end sports cars for buyers in Dubai and China in our day.

So we said yes. There was some concern about the money part, but he paid half up-front and spun us this tale that it was a joke on a friendly rival of his. That they played pranks like this on each other all the time, and everyone would have a big laugh about it later.

So we stole it. It took all of nineteen seconds, and we were on our way to the drop-off point when I thought to check the trunk.

That’s when the record scratched and the music stopped.

Inside the trunk, there was what looked like a hundred and fifty pounds of cocaine, maybe two million in cash, and a couple of very illegal-looking machine guns.

Unbelievably, that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst was that all of it was marked as belonging to him.

My devil. My demon. The man who almost killed me and snuffed out a part of me in the process.

The man I’d finally managed to escape, and now we’d just stolen a fortune from him.

Valon Leka.

That’s when Freya and I made a game-time decision. We ditched the car by the Lincoln Tunnel, wiped it of prints, and walked the fuck away.

Obviously, Ulkan’s people reached out demanding to know where the car was. We responded using Freya’s anonymous messaging service, saying that the job had been presented to us in bad faith and that we weren’t interested in stealing from Valon. Ulkan wanted his deposit back, but it was clear he wanted it to come accompanied by our heads in a bag.

So we ditched the burner accounts we’d used to talk to him and put the whole thing behind us.

Or so I thought.

“Shit,” I mutter. “How exposed are we?”

Freya makes a face.

“I mean, it’s a low number. But I’d like it a whole lot better if it was zero.”

My brows knit as I tick off our options. “There’s The Broker. But…obviously not.”

The Broker is a dark web guy that specializes in setting up jobs like this. He’s the one that reached out to us with the job offer from Ulkan. But he’s incorruptible. I mean incorruptible.

“There’s the guard.” Frey’s face is worried.

I shake my head. “No. He didn’t see me.”

It was the one thing we couldn’t plan for: a security guard in the parking garage who lingered on one floor too long to smoke a cigarette, throwing off his rotation. It meant he saw me crouched next to the car as I was getting the door open.

When he yelled, I launched into my “bimbo looking for clues that her boyfriend is cheating on her” routine, and when he got close, I pulled out my emergency gas can and sprayed him in the face, knocking him out.

Not my proudest moment.

“Anni…”

“We talked about this, Freya. Anyone who gets dosed with that gas loses their memory for the thirty seconds before it hits their system.”

“But you don’t know how long he was looking at you before he yelled at you and you got close enough to gas him.”

I shake my head. “No. No chance.”

“He might remember your face, Annika. I’m just saying, we should have⁠—”

“I’m not a killer, Frey.” I turn to see her looking sheepishly at her hands. “Neither are you, for that matter.”

She exhales. “I know. But, that’s our weak link. Just saying.”

“He’ll never place us.”

“Better hope not,” she mutters. Freya clears her throat and nods at the bag in my hand, changing the subject. “That looks suspiciously like a dress.”

“Brace yourself.”

She grins. “Seriously? For what?”

“My engagement party.”

She snorts loudly. I just shake my head.

“Laugh all you like, you’re coming too.”

“Not a chance.”

“Oh, come on. You know how Kir gets with tradition and fancy events, and it would mean so much to him if you came, what with Damian⁠—”

“You’re an asshole,” she grumps.

“And you love me in spite of it. So…yeah…anyway,” I laugh. “If you’re looking for a dress, I highly recommend this place.” I turn and nod at the shop I just left. “Just…” I roll my eyes. “Never mind.”

Freya frowns. “No, what?”

“I was going to say stay away from green because that’s what I’m wearing.”

“And then you remembered who you’re talking to?” she snickers. “All black, bitch. Maybe I’ll get some extra eyebrow piercings, since it’s your special daaaay,” she coos, laying on the sarcasm.

“Now who’s the asshole.”