Devil Mine: A Dark Cartel Romance (London Underworld Book 1)

Thiago doesn’t come back that night, nor the next. He leaves me in this strange house, full of staff who give me looks ranging from interested to wary. They incline their heads when I walk by, muttering a whispered “señora” before walking away. 

I spend the weekend exploring the house and familiarizing myself with the floor plan. The second floor features two master suites connected by one extravagant bathroom, eight additional bedrooms, a game room and a large study. The ground floor was conceived with hosting in mind, featuring large, open rooms — a recently renovated kitchen, multiple living rooms, a billiards room, a cinema, a library, and even a ballroom.

The house feels endless and also not what I expected of a cartel boss. I thought death would cling to the walls, but it’s a beautiful home mixing English and Colombian influences.

While exploring the house, I come across a door that seems to lead to a third floor, a basement of some kind. But when I go to open it, I’m stopped by a guard who tells me the area is off limits. I have no doubt that whatever I’d find down there, I wouldn’t want to see anyway. I don’t put up a fight and walk away instead.

I spend the rest of the weekend FaceTiming Dagny to show her the house, watching TV, reading, and generally wallowing in utter frustration that Thiago left me here alone, with no timeframe for his return. Now it’s late Sunday night, he’s still not back and I can’t sleep.

Lifting up on one elbow, I see the alarm clock on my bedside table indicates that it’s one a.m. I blow out a frustrated breath and settle back into my pillows. At least I have my first day back at work tomorrow. I’ll be able to leave this empty house where no one speaks to me and get back into my routine.

The hardest part of being away has been working remotely, so I’m excited to be back in the office and to see my team again. Anxiety swirls in my belly just thinking about seeing my father again, and wondering if he’ll throw me out the second I walk through the building doors or not.

When I’m no closer to sleep by two a.m., I throw back the covers and get out of bed. Donning my slippers and wrapping a robe around myself, I leave my room and amble down the stairs. I stop in front of a framed photo of a beautiful woman taking pride of place on a mantel in the foyer. It’s the only photo there and something about her stops me every time I walk past it. Warm chocolate-brown eyes twinkle above a bright smile and stare straight down the lens. She’s breathtaking. This must be Adriana.

Setting the frame down and wrapping my arms around myself, I head back towards the kitchen. I’m in desperate need of ice cream.

The kitchen is so large that there are two full fridges, plus a third in the pantry. The first freezer is filled with dozens of ice packs and nothing else, sending a shiver down my spine. I open the second expecting to find much the same, but instead see various boxes of frozen meals.

“This is a good sign,” I mutter to myself, rummaging around until my fingers brush against a rounded shape I’d recognize anywhere. Pulling it out, I let out a happy whoop when I see it’s cookie dough flavored. “Victory!”This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

“Find what you were looking for?”

I shriek and whirl around, slapping a hand over my racing heart as if to slow its beat.

Thiago is standing by the door, encased in shadows and barely illuminated by a sliver of moonlight. His hands are buried in his pockets, his tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck, the top three buttons of his dress shirt unbuttoned. His jacket is slung casually over his wrist.

“Are you trying to scare me to death?” I ask, working to calm my breathing.

He appears in the kitchen as if he hasn’t been gone for two days. I hate the needy feeling that tugs at my core when a smile pulls at his lips. He moves further into the room, coming to stand on the other side of the island.

“I made quite a bit of noise coming in. Although not as much as you were, rooting around in that freezer like you were digging for gold.”

“You did say this was my home now,” I answer, opening up a drawer and taking out a spoon.

He hums approvingly, setting his jacket down on the counter. I’m surprised when he takes a seat and stays, my body on high alert like it always is when he’s around.

“You like ice cream?”

“Do I like ice cream,” I repeat. “You don’t know your wife at all.”

He settles back into his seat, crossing his thick arms over his chest. The move stretches the fabric until it looks like it’s going to burst at the seams.

“I’m trying to get to know her.”

This close, I can see that his collar is covered in blood. I can even smell the metallic notes of it. My heart races faster, but this time I can’t claim it’s due to the surprise of his reappearance.

Swallowing thickly, I stab my spoon directly into the top of the ice cream and bring it up to my lips. His eyes languidly trace everything I do, coming to rest on where my mouth closes around the spoon.

“When I can’t sleep, I eat ice cream,” I admit. “There’s something about having it in the middle of night, maybe because it’s so cold, it just helps me relax and go to sleep.”

“What’s your favorite flavor?”

“I’m a rocky road kinda girl. I assume cookie dough is your favorite since it’s the only one you have?”

“It must be Diana’s. I’m not a huge fan of ice cream.”

“Right. Plus, Hell is obviously too hot a place for it to be a viable desert option anyway,” I add with a winsome smile. “Does the devil perhaps prefer snacking on innocent souls?”

Scooping another spoonful, I lift my eyes to meet his. I find them burning intensely on me already. They darken infinite degrees when my lips close around the metal once more.

“Give me a bite,” he asks, voice rough like gravel. He leans forward when I open the drawer, gaze boring into mine as he shakes his head. “I don’t need my own spoon. Yours will do.”

Butterflies erupt in my belly. I immediately want to douse them in flames. Nothing he does should be attractive to me.

I dig my spoon into the ice cream and am lifting it back up to my own lips when his hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist, stopping me.

Electricity sparks to life, sizzling where he touches me. Keeping his eyes on mine, he redirects my hand to his mouth. His lips close around the spoon and he groans as he licks the ice cream up with his tongue. His eyes flare as he pulls back, releasing the now empty utensil.

“Delicious,” he growls.

I don’t know if he’s talking about the ice cream or the taste of me he lapped off the spoon we shared.

“Obviously not as tasty as innocent souls, but maybe you’ll convince me if I try it enough.”

My breath catches in my throat when he stands. He’s still holding my arm and he turns it over carefully. Bending, he places his lips on the sensitive skin of my wrist. There’s no way he misses the frantic pulsating of my heartbeat. His mouth barely grazes me when he kisses me, the touch more teasing and maddening than anything.

He hovers there for a second, then pulls away. With one final indecipherable look, he walks out, leaving me with rapidly melting ice cream and a civil war raging inside my body between my heart who wants to throw caution to the wind and follow my husband up to his bedroom and my head who knows better.