mafia Romance

Dark Mafia Romance: Bitter Poetry by L.V. Lane 🫦

Jun 4
5 min read

Who is ready for a sneak peek at the prologue of Bitter Poetry?

I was craving darkness when I wrote this, and I did not hold back. High stakes, high emotion, and a plot to sink your teeth into! I have fallen deeply in love with our heroine, Carmela, and our two flawed heroes, Christian and Dante.

Enjoy the prologue. A little teaser of what is to come ...

Deluxe Hardback Edition available on Kickstarter

Prologue

Carmela

Le Petit Café. The name is French; it serves Colombian coffee, and the owners are third-generation Italians. It sounds messy, but the coffee is excellent, and the bistro-style decor has charm. Also, it’s considered part of the family, and I’m allowed to come here for my coffee and normality fix.

Normality? What does that even mean? I don’t think I’ve experienced a normal day in my whole life. But as I stare out the broad, slightly foggy window at the rain-slicked sidewalk, I see it passing in the form of everyday citizens going about their lives.

“Is this seat taken?”

I turn from my people watching, confused that someone is speaking to me, and make eye contact with a handsome man in a business suit. Probably an actual businessman and not—well, he looks regular, for want of a better word.

“I was waiting for someone,” I politely lie.

He smiles. “Well, he or she are not here yet, are they?”

Maybe his playful persistence usually wins him some points. It just leaves me faintly irritated. As I spot Christian sliding off his high stool beside the counter, my irritation shifts to unease. “You really should leave.”

“But we haven’t even exchanged names.”

His megawatt smile finally falters as he turns to see a man wearing a suit—this one not of the business variety—bearing down on us.

“Which part of fuck off did you not understand, asshole?” His deceptively soft voice bears a faint hint of amusement.

“Christian—” I start.

“I was just speaking to the lady.” The businessman turned asshole fronts up to Christian, giving him an up-down look of distaste. “I don’t believe that’s a crime… or any of your goddamn business.”

I grimace.

“Start praying.” Christian smiles cheerfully.

Mr. Persistent finally picks up on the vibe and takes a hasty step back—too slow. Christian fists the lapels of his suit and jerks him toward the small counter.

Tony, the proprietor, doesn’t utter a word as Christian manhandles the former customer around the counter and out the back of the tiny shop.

My chest heaves. My hands are shaking. I close my eyes briefly, wishing this were not real.

When I open them again, my coffee still awaits me, going cold. The few other patrons pointedly go back to their business.

My chair makes a sharp screech across the wooden floor as I stand.

“Mrs. Gallo—” Tony steps forward like he might block my path. When I keep going, he quickly steps aside, lifting his hands. He, at least, knows better than to touch me.

That doing so is signing his death warrant.

Speaking to me without my husband’s permission is apparently not much better.

I slam through the door just as Christian slams his fist into the man’s stomach. The rough grunt as the blow takes the wind out of him is followed by a crack as Christian yanks the man’s head down to meet his rising knee.

Blood splatters.

“Chris!” My voice is high and anxiety steeped, and his head whips around.

Meanwhile, the former customer’s eyes turn vacant. He wobbles in slow motion before he slides to the tiled floor. Another louder crack follows as his head makes contact.

I blink down at him, made stupid by the horror. I’m trying to process what happened, but I rarely see the ugly side of my world, and it still comes as a shock.

Christian’s dark eyes slide to the door I just passed through and back to me. His face softens into a smirk at odds with the violent scene. “What are you doing back here, babe?”

The man on the floor gurgles, redirecting Christian’s attention. He casually lifts a booted foot. His intention belatedly registers as his heel comes down toward the man’s vulnerable head.

“Don’t!” The scream feels like it’s torn from me—I’m surprised when he actually stops.

He lowers his foot to the floor beside the victim’s head and quirks one brow at me. Too pretty, too young, and yet his face tells a story in the faint scars: the evidence of his brutality and lifestyle.

The door creaks behind me, and Tony edges inside.

“Get one of the boys to dump him at the hospital,” Christian says, his voice soft and completely calm. “And get a takeout coffee for Mrs. Gallo.”

Tony nods, turns, and leaves.

Suddenly I can’t breathe. It’s like my throat has been sewn shut, and a terrible hoarse sound is all that I can manage.

Delayed shock?

A panic attack? Even surmising what it is, doesn’t help me get air into my lungs.

Christian palms my throat and yanks me over the body so abruptly that I crash into him. His other arm anchors me when my legs cut out. “Look at me, babe,” he says. “You’re okay. Just look at me.”

Touching him might be making it worse.

Behind me, I hear the door leading to the coffee shop open again, followed by footsteps and low voices.

“Breathe for me, Carmela. Slow and easy.” His body is solid and represents a confused source of safety. His hand is warm against my skin, the same hand that just administered violence to an innocent man.

Someone curses.

I suck in some much-needed air and try to break free. “Take your hands off me.”

“You’re as white as a sheet,” he says, glancing at whatever is happening behind me.

I hear scuffling and muttering as they drag the man out.

I can’t tear my gaze away from Christian’s.

Cold.

A monster.

A killer.

Completely unhinged.

My bodyguard.

And my jailer.

The man that my husband pays to ensure my life and the lives of anyone who stupidly stumbles into it play by his rules.

We’re alone. The silence is broken only by the rough saw of my breathing.

He still has not released me.

“Can’t have you fainting on my watch.” He winks. “Mr. Gallo would not be pleased.”

The faint lines forming at the corner of his eyes catches my attention. He smiles easily and often.

“You were going to kill him,” I hiss. Death—near death—triggers emotions I fight to push down.

He finally releases my throat and steps back. Where his fingers touched feels like a brand.

Strangely, the ghost of his fingers locked around my throat centers me and keeps the demons of the past at bay.

He shrugs.

No apology.

“You smell aroused. Clean yourself up in the washroom.” He adjusts the cuffs of his suit and smirks. It transforms his looks from handsome to devastating for the female population. His smile should be illegal or, at the very least, come with a health warning. “If word gets out you get off on violence, who knows where that might lead?”

It’s not the violence.

Not only, I correct.