My Dark Fairy Tale (My Dark Mafia Romance #1)

by Giana Darling

My hand pressed to my side, and I winced. “You most likely have a concussion,” he mused blandly. “Maybe bruised ribs and a painful contusion on your hip.” “Are you a doctor or something?” There was a light pause that felt almost like I’d pressed on a bruise beneath his skin. “No,” he said finally. “I am more prone to hurt than heal, which is why helping you is so oddly out of character.”

“You say you are unlucky, but from where I stand, you should count your lucky stars.” “And how is that?”

“Because,” the beautiful man before me practically purred. “Tonight, I feel like playing the hero instead of the villain.”

You are here, you will remain here until you are healthy and reestablished, and that is the end of the discussion.”

“Raffa?” I called as he opened the door. He hesitated, shoulders visibly tightening at the sound of his name. It tasted good in my mouth, chocolaty and rich. “I promise I’ll be out of your hair by the end of the week.” He gave a clipped nod and shut the door behind him. But as it turned out, I was a liar.

“Prego. Now, you are probably tired. I will leave you.” “No, I mean, yes. I am tired, but if you wanted to stay . . . it’s kind of boring laying around without anything to do. I’m not allowed screen time,

I had work to do. Two men to find and, hopefully, kill. What I did not have time for was caving to the whims of a girl with wide brown eyes and hair like silk. So why was I crossing the room to the bookshelf near the fireplace and picking up the book I knew I’d find on the second shelf?

I knew I was royally fucked the moment she twisted slightly to pull a pillow behind her back and then faced me with a beaming smile that brought out dimples in both cheeks.

“Do not be embarrassed when we go in,” he ordered. “You are not the kind of woman who should wear cheap American cloth, and I am not the kind of man to buy it for you. We will go inside together, and you will let me buy for you what I want simply because I want to and it will bring me joy. You understand?”

“Oh c’mon. You’re you. I’m sure you could have any girl in Tuscany with one snap of your fingers.” Slowly, he raised his hand between us and snapped his fingers. “Oh look. It is the only girl I want in Tuscany.”

“Leo, basta,” I told him. Enough. “I’m just making conversation with your . . . friend,” Leo protested with a plastic smile. “What did you say you do when you aren’t traveling? Or are you old enough to work?” A growl worked itself out of my throat, and I dropped my arm around Guinevere to step in front of her, blocking his view. “I said enough. Speak like that to her again, and you will not like the person I become.” “To defend her against me?” he asked in Italian, eyes blown wide with shock. “I’m your brother.”

“Who is this girl, Raffaele?” “No one to you,” I declared. But someone to me, I didn’t say.

“Apologize,” I suggested, unafraid to rub dirt in his wounded pride. Leo’s expression was sour as he spoke slowly in English, like Guinevere was stupid. “I am sorry. You just look like someone I once knew, and it took me by surprise.”

“It’s beautiful,” she admitted when I caught her, as if it was a secret. “Do not be embarrassed by your enthusiasm for life,” I told her, dredging up an old quote from Ivern Ball that suited her so well. “‘Knowledge is power, but enthusiasm pulls the switch.’”