Love Sprung From Hate: A Dark Mafia Romance (Dark Romeo Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Love Sprung From Hate

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  31

  The Scent of Roses

  Stalk me! I like it

  Books by Sienna Blake

  Acknowledgments

  About Sienna

  Love Sprung From Hate

  Dark Romeo 1

  ____________

  Sienna Blake

  Love Sprung From Hate: Dark Romeo #1 a novel / by Sienna Blake. – 1st Ed.

  First Edition: June 2017

  Published by SB Publishing

  Copyright 2017 Sienna Blake

  Cover art copyright 2017 Romac Designs: http://romacdesigns.com. All rights reserved Sienna Blake. Stock images: shutterstock

  Development editing and proofreading services by Book Detailing.

  Proofreading services by Proof Positive: http://proofpositivepro.com.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it wasn’t purchased for your use only, then please delete and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Love Sprung From Hate

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  The Scent of Roses

  Stalk me! I like it

  Books by Sienna Blake

  Acknowledgments

  About Sienna

  Love Sprung From Hate

  ____________

  Sienna Blake

  I didn’t know she was a detective, the only daughter of the chief of police.

  I didn’t know he was a Mafia prince, heir to the Tyrells’ bloody empire.

  It was only supposed to be one night.

  God help me, I can’t stop thinking about that night.

  When she walked into the interrogation room, my heart almost stopped.

  I can’t believe he might have tortured and killed someone.

  I must avoid her at all costs.

  I will be his downfall.

  So begins a deadly game of cat and mouse, of blood and lust, of love and duty, and of an attraction so fierce the consequences are inevitable…

  Inspired by Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, this is a retelling for mature audiences. Don’t enter the Underworld if you’re scared of the dark.

  For Terrie,

  Who called dibs on Roman.

  And for being your bad-ass miracle-worker multi-tasking ninja self.

  Love you.

  ____________

  “My only love sprung from my only hate!

  Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

  Prodigious birth of love it is to me,

  That I must love a loathèd enemy.”

  ____________

  ~ Romeo & Juliet by William Shakespeare

  Act 1, Scene 5

  1

  ____________

  Roman

  I was being hunted down like a dog at my brother’s own funeral. I ran bent over, weaving through the rows of gray and bone-white gravestones. Praying angels with pitying eyes stared down at me from their tall moss-covered pedestals, their eerie silence making my heavy breath seem like screaming. My polished black leather shoes sank in places. My tailored Armani suit pants were edged with mud.

  It would be too easy for him to find me. I was leaving too many tracks.

  What did you expect, Roman? I growled internally. That you could sneak into the back of your brother’s funeral and no one would notice you? That you could come back here to Verona and not have to face him?

  I didn’t have a choice but to come back. Even though Jacob and I hadn’t spoken in years, he was still my older brother. Flashes of when we were younger entered my mind, causing a touch of softness in my cold heart. He’d protected me from schoolyard bullies, read stories to me at night. He’d been my friend, my protector. That was before we grew up and he morphed into a bully himself. That was before I learned to take care of myself. That was before I ran away.

  I thought I could live the rest of my worthless life in my self-inflicted exile in Europe. The plan was perfect. Until my eldest brother got himself killed. Why did you have to die, Jacob?

  “Roman,” a male voice barked out from somewhere behind me—too close behind me—the irritation clear in his gruff tone. “Don’t be so tiresome.”

  I thought I could sneak into the back of the service without being spotted. I thought I could then sneak out before it ended.

  I had been so wrong.

  Abel Montero had seen me. My father’s “dog”.

  That’s why I had to run. I wanted to swoop in and out of Verona quietly, without a big mess. Shooting Abel, as much as I’d enjoy it, would be a big fucking mess.

  I zig-zagged through the gravestones, grateful for the large ornate slabs and crypts the size of small cottages that provided me with some cover. Waverley Cemetery was Verona’s oldest, dating back over 300 years, and most prestigious, spanning across almost fifty acres. Large enough for me to lose Abel in. Hopefully.

  I skidded around a corner and ducked behind a large mausoleum, pressing against the cold stone, slimy with moss. I heard a soft gasp. I came face to face with a young woman standing meters away in front of one of the gravestones.

  I thought I’d been alone in this graveyard on this watery late Saturday afternoon.

  I was wrong.

  Her almond eyes widened as they locked with mine, two orbs of amber whiskey. My heart began to hammer in my chest. I found myself gripping the mausoleum to keep my balance. I guessed she was about my age. Her long honey-and-wheat hair fell over her slim shoulders and over her round breasts, their shape visible through her fitted white summer dress printed with large sunflowers. It showcased her tiny waist, just wide enough that I could wrap both my hands around it. She had sharp cheekbones and a slim neck, her skin a lovely tanned color. Her red rosebud mouth parted on a gasp. I instantly imagined myself licking those lips before pushing past them to enter her with my tongue. I almost groaned as the image stabbed me like a hot poker in the lower belly.

  She was one of the most stunning creatures I’d ever seen in my life. She exuded sexuality but n
ot in a fake, obvious way. She was natural and classy: her full, naked lips; her alert, intelligent stare; the way her hair swooped partly over one eye, as if she were playing peek-a-boo with me. The way her dress dropped past her knees and yet tucked in at all the right places, hinting at the glorious body underneath, slim yet curvy with the perfect hint of muscle on her arms. A lady on the outside, a sexual creature on the inside.

  She was lovely. Perfect.

  For a second I forgot I was hiding. Hell, I forgot who I was running from. And why.

  2

  ____________

  Julianna

  Almost fourteen years… and I still haven’t gotten her justice.

  I’m sorry, mama.

  I laid down white peonies against her pale headstone and stepped back to stand at the base of her plot. I folded my fingers together in front of me, staring at the elegant clusters of still-closed petals, a brush of pink at the tips. They had been her favorite. She used to dress the house in them, generous bunches spilling over the tops of clear vases set on the surface of every table. She’d brush the petals lovingly every time she passed them, the same way she used to brush against my cheek. My heart squeezed. For a second my emotions threatened to spill over.

  I wrestled them into control in a tight space in my chest. Fourteen years. Fourteen years and it still hurt that she wasn’t here anymore, the wound as raw as it was when my heart was first torn open. It could not heal without answers, answers I’d failed to deliver. There was no moving on without closure. The need for justice still burned through my veins.

  “Happy birthday,” I whispered to the silent earth. She would have been forty-seven today if fate hadn’t taken her away from me. I would have woken up early and snuck over to my parents’ house. My father and I would have made a huge stack of blueberry pancakes and fresh coffee and crowded them onto a tray. My father would have carried it into the room that my parents’ shared, me in front holding the pot of milk and jug of maple syrup. She would have pretended to still be sleeping as we burst in, waking her up with my off-key singing and my father’s magnificent alto voice, one that rivalled Pavarotti. My mother was always up at the crack of dawn, except for her birthday, when she “slept in” to let us surprise her. She would have sat up in bed, the most beautiful woman in the world, even without a stitch of makeup, clapping her hands and laughing as we jumped in around her and spoiled her with flowers, gifts and breakfast in bed that we shared from one plate using three forks.

  I never heard my father sing again after she died.

  I glanced at my watch before looking around the deserted cemetery. Where was my father? He was supposed to be here by now.

  On sunny days this place looked peaceful, but on days like today, the overcast clouds made the gravestones seem all the more solemn and dull. I felt very, very alone, the only heart beating in a field of dust and silent memories.

  A sound made me turn my head. Someone was approaching and approaching fast. A tall, dark figure came leaping out past the corner of the huge mausoleum before me. I opened my mouth to let out a noise of surprise. Until I saw him.

  My breath was trapped under the thick knot that developed in my throat. Everything above it—my mouth, my tongue, my lips—all went dry. My heart began to thump against my ribs. I could hear the glugging sound of my blood in my own ears. Suddenly I felt dizzy, my mind going blank except to focus solely on the sight of him. Was I having a heart attack? Surely not. I was only twenty-five for God’s sakes. What was happening to me?

  Somewhere deep inside, I was vaguely aware that I was staring. I should look away. I should say something. Anything.

  I opened my mouth and…

  Nope, nothing. How curious. My voice seemed to have stopped working.

  My eyes kept working, though. They drank in the sight of him from head to toe as he pressed his back against the mausoleum, his hands gripping the stone. He was so beautiful that it hurt to look at him. Like I was staring at the sun, his image burning a permanent mark on my brain.

  His dark hair was long, almost too long, curling over his collar, tousled and messy like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times today. It was done in a way that looked incredibly sexy, like he’d just rolled out of bed. His deep-set, hooded eyes were dark, either deep chocolate or black; I couldn’t tell from where I was standing. Framed by thick black lashes and dark brows, they were much too intense, like two black holes drawing my awareness towards him. The features of his face were expertly put together like an artist had sculpted him: straight nose, high cheekbones, smooth light-brown skin, a hint of stubble shadowing his strong square jaw.

  He was tall, his wide shoulders and thick torso evident even through the tailored black suit jacket he wore unbuttoned, showing a white shirt underneath and a slim black tie which sat slightly askew. Even this didn’t make him look unkempt but rather roguish instead. His trousers matched, fitting perfectly, showcasing strong thighs. His black leather round-toed shoes were expensive; I guessed Armani or Gucci.

  He had a sophisticated polish to his air, like he was born wearing a suit and yet… there was something dark about his demeanor. Something rough. Aggressive. Like he’d fit just as well in a boxing ring or wearing a black leather jacket and straddling a bike. Like he’d give me a run for my money in a shoot-out.

  What a curious combination. One I’d never seen before. I’d met plenty of men. They were always one or the other. Either educated and well-mannered yet almost feminine in their polish. Or coarse and brutishly aggressive without a scrap of sophistication.

  He raised a hand and pressed a finger to his lips, making a shushing motion. God, those lips. Even from here I could see they were thick and pillowy; the kind of lips that were made to suck and nibble on.

  Whoa. Julianna. Where did that thought come from?

  Heavy footsteps came towards us, echoing off the gravestones. I tore my eyes off this curious stranger. On one side of the mausoleum a wiry man in a dark suit and black leather gloves approached, a nasty-looking scar going from his left ear across his cheek and to the corner of his lip.

  Instinctively I leaned back. All my years as a trained police officer gave me a second sense for bad men. He was one of them. It was something in the cruel whip of his mouth, in his eyes… they were dull and flat, like no spark of life or humanity was left.

  I fought a shiver, my fingers going to my hip. Shit. No gun. I was off-duty today. I had a piece in my car parked in the lot about a ten-minute walk from here, but it was no use to me now.

  Scarface halted at the sight of me, pausing for a second, probably wondering what to do now. I dropped my gaze, hoping he would ignore me.

  “You.” His voice was harsh and rough like someone who’d spent too many years smoking cigarettes. He spat out his words as if he was angry that I was even here.

  I looked back up to him, willing myself to remain calm even as he glared at me as if he was picturing cutting me into little pieces. I would not attack first, but I would defend myself.

  “Did you see a man coming by here?”

  It clicked into place. Scarface had been chasing the beautiful man still hiding against the mausoleum wall right in front of me. A man that Scarface would see if he took two steps forward.

  A protectiveness rose inside me. Scarface could not have him.

  “I did,” I said. Even though I took pains not to glance in his direction, I could sense the beautiful stranger flinching, no doubt wondering if I was going to give him away. I had to speak fast so he wouldn’t do anything stupid. “He went running that way.” I pointed out towards my left, towards the other side of the cemetery.

  Scarface glanced over to where I had pointed. He looked back to me, doubt clear in his narrowed eyes. “That way? You’re sure?”

  “Good-looking guy in a black suit, running bent over? He went that way,” I said casually as if I didn’t care whether Scarface believed me or not.

  “Good-looking,” Scarface muttered. He snorted. “Yeah, that’s
the bastard.”

  He turned and ran through the gravestones in the false direction I had given him. He didn’t even say thanks. Rude prick. In case he decided to glance back, I lowered my eyes back to my mother’s grave.

  My awareness drew back to the beautiful stranger. I could feel his eyes on me, making every inch of my skin become super-aware; I could sense where the air met my bare forearms, feel my hairs standing on end, feel the way my breath caught in my lungs. Or was I just imagining that he was looking?

  I glanced up. Sure enough, his eyes were focused on me. My stomach did a shaky little flip. Why was he staring? It was making me feel…weird.

  I forced my eyes back down to the grave. I wasn’t sure I could stand to maintain eye contact with him while he was looking at me like that. Maybe if I ignored him he’d go away?

  Not a chance. The stranger pushed off the stone and strode towards me, causing my gaze to jerk involuntarily up to him again. He moved like a panther, proud and prowling, powerful strides making me want to back up. My heels wobbled in the grass and I longed for something to grab on to.

  He stopped at the back of my mother’s headstone and placed his hands lightly on the top of the gray stone. We were only meters away from each other now, separated only by a grave’s length. It felt too close. His eyes were intense, focused on me, yet revealing nothing, while I felt like an exposed wire, an open book.

  Say something, Julianna. Something. Anything!

  Weirdly, my voice had stopped working. Why was I reacting this way to him? I had never reacted like this to anyone before.

  He spoke, breaking the silence. “You didn’t have to help me.”

  Holy shit. That voice.

  I learned in high school science about how sounds at certain pitches could make a tuning fork hum, but only at the perfect frequency. Whatever frequency his voice was, I had been tuned to it. It sent a vibration through my body unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. Deep and raspy, it was the kind of voice you’d hear on an old-time jazz vocalist. The kind of voice that induced images of sultry summer nights, soft sheets and nothing but skin on skin. It wasn’t fair. That voice on this man. It was too much. Too much beauty. Too much…sex.