Emperor of Wrath: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

There’s a fury roaring through my veins I don’t quite understand as I walk away from a woman I’m not entirely sure I want to be walking away from.

Such is my confusion when it comes to Annika.

I want to be rid of her, yet I want her wrapped up in me. I want to hate her, yet I want to possess her completely. I want to punish her…and, well, I want to punish her.

Angrily, I duck into Sota’s home office and stride across the elegantly tasteful room decorated with priceless Edo-era Japanese artifacts to Sota’s bar cart. I pour a heavy splash of the good scotch I know he keeps in here, bringing it to my lips. My eyes stab out of the fourth-floor window looking across the West Village.

What the fuck is this fury inside me? This raging wrath? I mean, obviously I’m not jealous. But it’s still completely fucking not okay for her to be getting so close and chummy with whoever that motherfucker was.

I swallow a gulp of scotch, trying to place him. Older, well-dressed but a little sleazy. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but given that he got into the party, he’s someone important that either Kir or Sota knows.

I file that away as a clue, so I can track him down and…

What, exactly?

Hit him? Tell him to stay away from my fake wife that I don’t even like?

Maybe.

Or maybe just break his fucking face, and casually mention staying away from Annika afterward? Yeah. Better.

I grumble to myself as I finish my scotch, pour a second one, and walk back to the party before I’m missed.

But beyond the anger at Annika for talking to that fuck, and at him for getting so fucking close to her and goddamn touching her, there’s something else nagging at me.

A darkness. A hunger. A desire I should not have.

That kiss shouldn’t have happened.

I’m not exactly sure what drove her to grab me and fucking kiss me like that. I mean, it sure as hell wasn’t about “selling” the marriage. A, it’s clear Annika gives even less of a shit about this whole thing than I do. And B, there was something seriously weird in her eyes right before it happened. Like she was drowning in something. Almost like she was disassociating.

Which, to my fucked-up tastes at least, is more than slightly arousing: the idea of her being awake but not. Her body being mine while her mind has checked out.

What? We can’t choose our kinks. I didn’t pick an extreme free-use kink like somnophilia as the “thing” that gets me hard.

Sleep sex. The idea of taking a woman in her sleep. Or in Annika’s case, of fucking her mercilessly while she disassociates and “tunes out”.

I adjust my slacks, trying to hide the throbbing bulge between my thighs.

I digress. Again, that shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have allowed it to keep happening, and I absolutely should not have kissed her back. Hungrily.

Because I’m not a fucking idiot, and that’s hardly the first time a woman has decided to “get over” some other man, or get some kind of “payback” for her man slighting her, by trying to hook up with me.

I mean, I’m six foot six, I work out daily, and I won the genetic lottery. I’m hyper-aware of the way women look at me, especially when the ink on my arms makes it clear how dangerous I really am.

That fucking said, I’ve never been a fan of being someone’s “wild story” or their fucking payback. And I sure as fuck won’t allow my own goddamn wife to play that way.

I’m still stewing when I spot Mal across the room. Mercifully, he’s got our agent of chaos brother, Takeshi, with him. Good.

In an hour or so, Tak can go off and terrorize Manhattan with his usual brands of forbidden trouble all he likes. Before that, I need all my family present when Annika and I sign the blood marker which will bind us to this fucking marriage.

I make my way over, joining them near the windows overlooking Sota’s back garden and koi pond.

“Staying out of trouble, I hope?” I growl, eyeing Takeshi darkly.

He grins, pushing his long hair back from his face and turning to eye the room. “At present…mostly.”

“Think you can resist the urge to sow chaos and disorder for the next hour or so?”

“For you, brother, I’ll certainly try.”

I roll my eyes as he smirks at me, then claps me on the shoulder.

“I’m not the one anybody needs to worry about,” he shrugs. “You’re the one making out with your fake fiancée in the middle of your fake engagement party. That’s a cry for help if I ever saw one.”

“Or, shocker, he just wanted to kiss her.” Hana joins us, a glass of red wine in her hand. “I know real interpersonal connections are a mystery to you, Tak…”

He rolls his eyes at his twin. “As if we’re not all painfully aware of my many, many⁠—”

“I mean of the real, emotional kind,” Hana sighs heavily, giving him a stink look. “Like the romantic kind?”

“Whoa. That what that was, bro?” Tak smirks, glancing sidelong at me.

“Hardly,” I mutter. “Just selling it.”

“Well, you’re a hell of a salesman, then,” Hana mutters dryly, grinning as I flip her off.

“Let’s not forget Mal over here, mooning over that goth chick with the fucking collar,” Takeshi snickers.

“Who, Freya?” Hana asks.

“Wait, is there more than one goth chick with a spiked collar at this party?” Tak laughs. “Because now I’m interested.”

Hana ignores him as she turns to Mal. “Got a thing for Freya?”

“Not at all,” he growls. “Tak just likes making shit up and stirring the pot.”

The usual sibling bickering that I secretly love fades into the background and a dark scowl crosses my face as I spot something across the room.

Not something. Someone.

“Anyone know who the fuck that is?” I grunt, nodding my chin at the same motherfucker Annika was talking closely with before. The fucker who seems to have not made the enlightened decision to leave yet.

“Guy in the charcoal gray suit?” Hana asks. I nod. “Valon Leka.” Her brow creases. “Head of The Brotherhood, an Armenian crime syndicate. They do a lot of intermediary work on the smuggling pipeline between Italy and Turkey. Meth…coke…heroin too, I think.” She shakes her head. “By all accounts, not a nice guy.”

My eyes narrow.

What the actual fuck is Annika doing talking to an Armenian drug smuggler?

“How the fuck did he even get in?” I mutter.

Takeshi snorts. “Wait, are you serious?”

I eye him. “Yes?”

My brother grins. “Fucking hell, I love it when I know shit you don’t.”

“Stop being an asshole and just tell me.”

He scoffs. “Sota is in talks with him about contracting out some work to his organization.”

I stare at him. “Christ, that’s the smuggler he’s been speaking to?”

“Yup,” Mal grunts. “Do us all a favor and see if you can get Sota to back off there. Leka has a seriously bad rep. I mean, he’s offering a sweet deal, but that’s because Sota would be his first business with the Yakuza, and he wants that in.” Mal shakes his head. “Dude is a fucking psychopath, though, at least so I’ve heard.”

“Noted,” I growl. “Why the fuck is he even entertaining the idea of working with someone like that?”

Hana rolls her eyes. “Take a guess.”

Shit.

“Tengan.”

“Bingo,” my sister mutters.

Tengan is Sota’s business manager. He’s also a thorn in my side, and to say we don’t see eye to eye on most things is like calling World War Two a “disagreement”. Mercifully, I have almost no interaction with him. Hana, unfortunately, doesn’t have that same luxury.

“Seriously,” Hana says quietly. She turns to me. “Sota really should stay away from this guy.”

And so the fuck should my fiancée…NôvelDrama.Org owns all © content.

“Kenzo,” Mal says, elbowing me and tapping his wristwatch. “That time, brother.”

“Shit.”

Hana turns and smiles at me. “Hey, chin up. Like I keep trying to tell you, she’s pretty cool.”

Tak grins at me, clapping me on the shoulder. “Cool or not, you’re about to commit yourself to this in blood. No backing out now, bro.”

Traditionally, blood markers aren’t a thing in Japan. But as the Yakuza world moved into the twentieth and twenty-first centuries and started doing more global business with criminal organizations of the West and Middle East, they’ve become more common.

They’re exactly what they sound like: mafia contracts signed in the literal blood of those involved in said contract. Each signatory places their thumbprint next to their name, too, also in blood. They are absolutely, unquestionably iron clad. To break one is tantamount to excommunicating yourself and your entire organization from the criminal world.

In other words, they’re sort of a big deal.

When the four of us step out onto the rooftop deck of Sota’s brownstone, he, Kir, and Kir’s number two Isaak are already waiting for us.

So are Annika and Freya, off to the side.

I turn, frowning when I see Mal’s gaze stabbing across the roof garden into Annika’s friend. I elbow him sharply.

“Either tell me what the fuck this is, or let it go now.”

He turns to me instantly with his full attention.

“Nothing to let go.”

He nods his squared jaw as we both turn to bow to Sota, who walks over and hugs me close, patting my back before he pulls away.

“I’m proud of you, Kenzo,” he says quietly. “And in his own way, I know your father is, too.”

“Well,” Kir says, gesturing to the table laid out next to him. “Shall we?”

On it is the contract that binds Annika to me, and me to her. We’ll still be legally married a bit later. But this cements the engagement and ensures the wedding will happen. Next to it is the little metal medallion with a pin sticking out of it: the instrument with which we’ll prick our thumbs and sign in blood.

There’s no fanfare. No grand, drawn-out speeches. We both read over the contract, and then without any further ado, Annika is pushing past me to grab the medallion. She winces just a little as she stabs her thumb and squeezes, then dips the old-school fountain pen into the little well that now holds some of her blood.

Her hand moves quickly as she signs her name in rust, then abruptly she stabs her thumb onto the paper next to it.

“Done,” she mutters, like she’s just aced a pop quiz.

She doesn’t look at me as I take the medallion and the pen from her, doing the same routine, signing my name and making a thumbprint next to hers.

It’s official.

I’m turning to Annika to say—what? I’m not even sure yet—when my gaze snaps to the little red dot on her chest, hovering over her heart.

Oh fuck.

The dot slides up to her forehead, and I roar.

“GET DOWN!”

I slam into her, plowing her into the table and sending it, the contract, and us crashing to the ground. The sound is muffled, but there’s no mistaking the distinct pop pop sound of rifle fire as it slams into the wood of the patio. Glass shatters as Mal grabs Sota, and Tak grabs our sister, everyone hitting the deck as more shots ring out.

I whirl, my eyes darting first to Sota. Mal nods curtly, giving me a thumbs up before he yanks a gun out of his suit jacket. Takeshi does the same as I glance at him. It’s only then that I’m aware of the fists pounding on my arms and chest.

“Get the fuck off⁠—!”

“Stay down!!!” I hiss at Annika as she fights to get me off her. She hits me again, and I grimace as I grab her wrist and pin it above her head. I turn my head, my eyes stabbing into the darkness and across the street to a building one story higher than this one.

…And the shadowy figure quickly springing along the edge to crouch down for a better vantage point.

“FAR ROOF!” I roar.

Keeping Annika pinned down with one hand, I bring up my gun and squeeze off three shots. Tak and Mal do the same, jumping up to aim better. Isaak and Kir both have their guns out too, and the shadowy figure quickly drops back.

I snarl, finally letting Annika go as I jump to my feet. I can just see over the lip of the far roof. The guy is trying to break his rifle down quickly.

He’s going to run.

And I’m sure as fuck going to give chase.

“Stay with Sota!” I roar at Hana, who nods curtly. Kir hangs back, too, though not out of cowardice. The man is the head of the Nikolayev Bratva. With his only heir on life support in the hospital, he doesn’t have the luxury of jumping across rooftops chasing down a shooter.

But we do.

Mal, Takeshi, Isaak, and I sprint across the roof and make a wild jump to the private roof deck of the building next door. From there, we spring to the next building, which is still under construction and has a crane attached to the side of it to lift heavy materials to the top floor.

The crane sticks out over the street, forming a bridge to the other side…if you’re fucking crazy enough.

Turns out the four of us are.

Isaak hits the roof last, and we take off back in the direction we came. We move silently—Tak, Mal, and me because stealth is something hammered into you in the Yakuza. But I have to say, I’m impressed with Isaak’s speed and silence as Kir’s tall, built number two keeps pace with us.

“Down!”

Mal tackles me, dropping me to the ground just as a piece of the brick wall behind me explodes. Up ahead, we catch sight of the sniper as he quickly breaks his rifle down again. But this time, we’re much, much closer.

He’s fucking ours.

“Head right!” I hiss at my brothers. The two of them nod and take off to the neighboring roof, moving to flank the shooter. I glance at Isaak, and he gives me a stern nod.

“You on me?”

“Ten years special forces?” he grunts back. “Yeah.”

That’ll do.

“Go!”

We both take off toward the shooter as he drops to one knee and brings his rifle to bear. Then he flinches and ducks as Takeshi and Mal make a run at him from the side. He never saw them coming.

Got you, you fucker.

“Drop your weapon!” I yell as we charge at him.

He does so. Then, he does something completely unexpected.

He drops his rifle, stands, whirls, and then sprints to the edge of the five-story building.

“Wait—!”

He hurtles over head-first, arms to the side. I rush to the edge and look over, grimacing as I catch sight of him hitting the pavement below and his skull splattering like a melon.

“What the fuck?!” Tak grunts, also peering over the edge, his face twisted. “Why the hell would he do that?”

“Didn’t want to get caught,” Isaak grunts, shrugging as he calmly holsters his weapon.

“Yeah, but…seriously?” Takeshi mutters.

Isaak shrugs again. “What? He didn’t get caught.”

When we get back to Sota’s building, he’s who I go to first. His breathing is fucked up, but just from the adrenaline hit. He’s not wounded, and Hana and three of Sota’s men have already gotten his oxygen tank to him, allowing him to breathe easier.

Then I turn, and my eyes lock with Annika’s. Wordlessly, I cross the roof deck to her.

“You okay?”

She nods. She looks shaken, but not overly so.

It hits me: this isn’t the first time she’s been shot at.

Why does that bother me so much?

“You’re not hurt…?”

“She’s fine,” Freya mutters, shooting me a look.

“She can answer for herself, Morticia,” I throw back.

Freya’s eyes narrow, and then she grins. “I know you’re trying to be a dick, but I actually take that as a compli⁠—”

“Great. Take it however you want,” I mutter, pulling away from her to frown down into Annika’s face. “You’re really not hurt?”

She arches a brow. “Oh my God, how many times do you want me to say it?”

“Once, audibly, would be nice,” I grunt.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine. You can stop pretending to give a shit now, okay?”

She gets up, pushing past me to go over and talk with Kir, Isaak and Freya. I just keep staring after her.

The thing is…

I’m realizing how very urgently I asked her if she was okay, and that none of it was for show, to pretend that I gave a shit.

Which begs the question: why the fuck was it so important to me to make sure my fake wife, who I don’t even like, was okay?

The answer rustles against my ankles. I scowl, reaching down to pick up the blood marker before it blows right off the roof. My eyes stab into our names written on it.

I give a shit, because like it or not, duty or not, this woman is my fucking wife.

The marriage will come. It was pledged it in blood. It was cemented in violence.

And there’s no going back now.