Dark queen, p.1
Dark Queen, page 1
Dark Queen
A mafia Romance
by Ker Dukey
Contents
Dedication.
Quote.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Book List.
Copyright © 2021 Ker Dukey
Cover Design: The Pretty Little designs co
Photo: Adobe Stock
Editor: Word Nerd Editing
Formatting: Book Design Formats
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dedication.
For Christian,
my Babydaddy, husband, best friend, and my fierce, strong, delicious King.
I’m honored to be your Queen.
A queen will always turn pain into power
~ Author Unknown
Chapter One
Alyssa
Pain, sharp and pulsing, explodes within my flesh, spreading like a wildfire up my back and abdomen.
The shocked eyes of the man who promised me safety will be the last thing I ever see.
The intensity steals my breath.
My mouth opens, but only a squeaked, inhuman noise exits.
My sight becomes cloudy, tears welling and falling to my cheeks.
Is this how Mom felt?
Cold…the darkness closing in…
I’m going to die here.
My chest aches as the pounding slows.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The world spins, fading…
How can it end like this? I was a queen—his queen—and it will be his kingdom that kills me.
Chapter Two
A couple of months before…
Alyssa
Burying my mother left me with a sense of freedom. I could finally breathe, and that opened a pocket of guilt inside my chest.
I need to get out of here.
She was ill for such a prolonged period, I came to terms with the fact that she was dying a long time ago, but I didn’t think it would be so slow, so degrading.
She withered away painfully, lost herself day by day, until all that was left was a pathetic carcass unable to even relieve her bladder on her own terms.
I’m so glad she’s gone.
Those thoughts fill out that pocket, expanding within me.
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
I’m drowning in it.
“Is it wrong to feel like she died well before she stopped breathing?” I wonder aloud, the memory of her ragged breathing and coughing rattling her chest bone lingering within me.
She sounded like a spluttering generator out of gas. The noise still haunts my dreams.
Clint, my best friend for over a decade, looks at me. “No. Her battle was long and hard on you both,” he reassures, like a good friend should.
Though, I’m not sure if he means hard on me and Mom or me and Dad.
My dad will be fine. They practically became strangers over the years, two ships docking at the same port but completely separate entities.
Sometimes I wonder if they only stayed together because of some messed up sense of duty they thought they owed me…or themselves…or the world.
The truth is, Mom resented Dad for ruining her chance to take her dance career to the next level.
Resentment is corrosive. It rotted away inside her until all that remained was a bitter, angry woman.
She channeled all that poison into me, molding me into what she wanted for herself.
“Make a wish,” Clint says, pointing up at a shooting star.
We lay in the field at the back of my house under the inky night sky, the humming of crickets all around us, night animals coming awake in the woods at the border of our property.
Clint’s hand nudges mine, hoping I’ll take it, but I won’t. No matter how hard I wish I had those feelings for him, I don’t.
If anything, he bores me. But it would crush him to know I hate these nights with him. I only used to come out here to escape the sounds of mom’s death rattle.
It would be easier if my heart wanted him—hell, even my body—but neither are drawn to him.
“So, when do you think you’ll be back?”
Never.
I tilt my head toward him, taking him in, memorizing his features to keep me company on lonely days in the big city.
He’s handsome in a typical kind of way.
His wavy blond hair casually falls over his forehead, making it hard not to notice his pretty blue eyes with flecks of lighter shades throughout the irises.
Playing lacrosse has given him an athletic physique most girls get giddy over.
He’s well-liked, popular, and could have any girl he chooses, but he’d rather hang out with me.
I don’t see why he even likes me—I don’t even like me half the time.
We don’t have a lot in common. I dedicate most of my time to dance, and he just slots himself in my life wherever he can.
He’s lived across the small lake from me since I can remember, always joking we’re the real-life Dawson and Joey from Dawson’s Creek, a show we watched re-runs of with Mom while she slowly faded away.
I’m no Joey, though. There’s no deep-seated crush, no good girl virgin waiting for him to notice me.
He did notice me.
The looks he thought were subtle, the brush of his hands against my body at any opportunity, the anger toward anyone who would flirt with me.
I’ve known for a long time he’s wanted more, but the very thought of settling here, living the same life my mother did, cripples me with dread.
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt filling me up.
“Ally.” He nudges me, his brow furrowed, and I realize I’m still staring at him.
Turning away, I say, “It’ll depend on if I get in.” Smiling wistfully, I think to myself, I have to get in.
Sighing, he pulls at the blades of grass. “You’ll get in. You’re the best dancer I know, and they invited you, right?”
Wrong.
“I’m the only dancer you know.” I snort.
The truth is, I should have applied two years ago, but Dad was useless, so Mom needed me here, and now I’m two years older.
To anyone else, a couple years is nothing, but to a dancer, it can mean everything.
Swan Academy of Dance is for the elite and costs a fortune. They’re selective—especially with girls my age.
You have to be in the best health, have the right physique and structure suited to the demands.
This open audition was like winning the lottery.
They’re offering five students the chance to train with them for a year in a special scholarship program, and I need one of those spots.
A year of studying at their academy, and you have a golden ticket to any ballet production company you want, anywhere you want.
Freedom.
The breeze ripples through the trees, lifting the scent of fresh-cut grass, filling the air with it.
Tonight feels like the end of an era, like this will be the last time I have to fake it while I lay here with my “best friend,” safe, secure, with only the dreams of venturing out into the real world.
It’s juvenile. Normal. I can’t wait for it to be over.
“It’s getting late,” I muse, getting myself into a sitting position, brushing out the creases in my plain black dress.
I don’t get why people wear black for funerals.
It’s so formal.
Boring.
Mom was a colorful person. We should have worn shades of the rainbow. Purple was her favorite color, and no one wore it. There weren’t even purple flowers on her coffin.
A chill races up my spine. Her purple face. Bloodshot eyes staring up at the yellow ceiling above her bed in her musky room.
Dad rushing in after hearing my screams.
There was no look of horror on his face, no sorrow or shock.
He didn’t cry, check her pulse—nothing.
He didn’t even ask why her mouth was agape, bed rumpled, why my arms were bleeding from being scratched so badly.
He wasn’t there while her body jolted like a fish being plucked from water, but the evidence was.
Flop. Flop. Flop…
While I held the pillow over her face, clutched so tight in my hands, my nails punctured the skin on my palms through the fabric. Tears coursed down my cheeks as she clawed at my arms, wanting air.
Flop…flop…flop…
Nothing.
She just stopped. Stopped moving—breathing—living.
Silence.
I gave her mercy.
It’s an easy lie I tell myself. It was me I gave mercy to.
“I’m cold. I’m going inside.” I push the words out, rubbing up my arms to ward off the non-existent wind.
“Wait,” Clint begs. His brow furrows as he seems to struggle to form words. His mouth opens and closes three times before he finally says, “I’m not ready to say goodbye.”
He covers his face with his palms, scrubbing downward.
Poking his rib, I roll my eyes. “I’m not going off to war.”
He’s always been dramatic, a little immature. The trouble with growing up in a small town: there’s no rush to grow up and nothing exciting to experience. It’s a slow way to die. “You can come visit.” I shrug.
Please don’t visit.
His body jolts with a burst of laughter. “I know that.”
Getting to his knees, he chews on his lip and swipes a hand through his blond locks.
“There’s something I want you to know before you go and get swept off your feet by some city guy.” He shakes his head, and I squirm at his awkwardness.
“What is it?” I scoot forward, annoyed this is taking so long.
His eyes soften as he takes my hand from my lap. I have to school my features to hide the internal cringe.
Tightening his grip, he rests it on his thigh, stroking his thumb over the healing wounds.
A cold sweat breaks out over my brow. I want to run back to the house, pack my suitcase, and never look back.
“I know today has been crappy and it’s not really the time, but if I don’t say anything now, I may never get the chance.”
My heart picks up, sending the blood rushing around my body. My stomach dips. “What is it?”
Please don’t say you love me.
Please don’t say you love me.
Please don’t say you love me.
“I love you.”
Chapter Three
Luca Leto
Jumping from the car, I stride toward the back door of my club, hands fisted, my mind racing, how the hell did this happen, and why her.
Silence greets me when I pull open the door and enter, a sense of dread lingers in the air, a group of employees huddled together advert their eyes as I pass, the faint hum of weeping follows me down the corridor.
Ricardo, the head of security for this club, walks toward me, hands raised in defensive posture, his clothes rumpled, a cut across the bridge of his nose.
“Mr Leto, I don’t know how.” He wobbles his head, alarm glowing in his eyes, a visible tremor rattling his body.
He’s right to fear me, most men do.
That’s why it’s so hard to grasp the events that’s unfolded here.
“Just fucking move,” I bark, shouldering past him. I’ll deal with him later.
Marcello my cousin and number two has beat me here and is standing by Serena’s room, our room, his hands on his hips, head bowed.
We’ve both seen a lot of death, been the cause of most of it, so to see him rattled it unsettling.
My chest thuds violently, his eyes lifting to meet mine, the pinched features are shouting, No. Don’t come closer. Don’t fucking look. But I have to. I have to see her.
The scent hits me first, the metallic tinge clinging to the air coating my tongue with every inhale, my eyes explore the room and land on her, Serena.
Fuck what did they do to you.
Blood.
So much blood.
Everywhere.
It’s on the walls, the ceiling, seeping through the cracks of the tiled floor, congealing beneath her naked form. Thick, wet crimson slashes cover every part of her pale flesh, her body discarded at the foot of the pole she’d danced around a hundred times for me.
It was supposed to be only me, she was my exclusive girl. I don’t like sharing and everyone knows she belonged to me.
I’m not the sort of man to claim a woman for more than sexual gratification. I’m a selfish bastard, never offering her more than my cock and a paycheck—and she was greedy for both. It works for us—worked.
Who did this to you? The questions barrel through my mind coiling my muscles.
A small pile of fabric, what looks like bra and panties have been discarded on the small booth but there’s no money—champagne bottles—glasses all the things you’d expect to find in these rooms when a girl is entertaining.
My eyes flick up to the video monitor, the wire deliberately cut to shut off the live feed.
Dropping on my hutches I stroke a strand of hair from her face, she’s beautiful even in death, the slash across her throat is deep, vehement, her killer enjoyed this.
“This is an attack on me,” I rumble, running my hands through my hair, getting back to my feet. Someone has a death wish and when I find them it’s going to be slow and painful.
“We don’t know that.” Marcello jerks a shoulder, his brow dipping.
“Look at her,” I snap “This is my club, my girl, someone is trying to send a message.”
Exhaling he places a hand on my shoulder, “No one is foolish enough, Luca, this is just some sick prick who gets off on hurting women, just a coincidence.”
“This can’t just be another coincidence.” I bite, a pounding sounds in my ears. “Not after my mother.” I’ll burn this city to the ground if someone is inciting a war, every battle scar I own is from victory and this time will be no different.
“The police said your mother’s murder was a mugging gone wrong—"
He’s words fall flat when I shoot a scathing glare his way, my finger coming up to his face. “You know better than that,” I warn through gritted teeth. NYPD doesn’t want a battle in their city. They would say anything to keep that from happening.
“We looked into every lead. She was my aunt, Luca. I lost her too. It was an opportunist. Bad luck—nothing more. And the cunt who did it is fucking dead.”
“I know!” I bellow, rage festering in my belly. It’s always there.
“Her handbag was taken, Sir, nothing else.”
My jaw ticks with the memory of that day.
A low life, drug addict piece of shit was arrested close to the scene the purse still on him, he wasn’t getting prison, I took that bastard apart piece by piece, peeled the skin from bone, and hung him from George Washington bridge for all to see what becomes of a man who wrongs a Leto—only after making him first watch his own mother and brother die.
My mother was a Queen. It will haunt me to my grave that she was shot and left to bleed out next to the men hired to protect her.
My fist clenches, and I smash it into the door until the skin over my knuckle splits and blood trickles between my fingers.
