Chapter 1 The man in the backyard
[Trigger Warning & Author's Note‼️
This book is an intense dark mafia romance intended strictly for adult audiences (18+). It contains explicit, unfiltered sexual content (SNVL), graphic violence, gore, serial killer themes, and non-traditional/weird kinks, alongside depictions of trauma and abuse.
PLEASE NOTE: This book features highly toxic, possessive, and morally grey characters. As the author, I do not condone, praise, or support the actions, behaviors, or lifestyles depicted in this story. This is entirely a work of fiction written for dramatic and entertainment purposes. Reader discretion is strongly advised, enjoyyy ;).]
CHLOE'S POV;
The friction of my bare thighs against the cold marble of the kitchen counter was the only grounding thing left in my universe.
I was bent backward, my fingers clawing blindly at the polished edge of the stone as Grey knelt between my legs.
His mouth was buried aggressively between my thighs, his tongue driving into my soaking wet pussy with a clumsy, heavy hunger that tasted like the cheap cherry vapes and cigarettes he constantly smoked.
'Into You' by Chase Atlantic was vibrating violently through the floorboards from the downstairs speakers, the bass-heavy, dark rhythm filling the silence of the empty warehouse.
Every loud, desperate moan that tore from my throat was instantly swallowed by the pulsing music.
Nineteen years of being my father’s pristine, heavily guarded mafia princess meant my sexual experience amounted to absolute zero—but right now, the freedom of this secluded house in the middle of the woods had gone straight to my head.
Grey groaned against my slick skin, the vibration sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight up my spine. .
He gripped my hips hard, his thumbs bruising my flesh as he lifted me slightly, trying to position himself to slide two fingers deep inside my stretching cunt.
I arched into his mouth, my unbuttoned blouse hanging completely off my shoulders, exposing my black lace bra.
Then, right next to my head, the counter violently rattled.
A bright screen illuminated the dark kitchen. The caller ID made all the hot, liquid heat in my veins instantly turn to ice.
Dad.
“Oh, shit,” I gasped, the sudden spike of adrenaline completely shattering the high.
I slammed my hands against Grey’s shoulders, trying to push his head away from my thighs.
“Grey, stop. Stop right now. I need to answer this.”
Grey grunted, his grip tightening on my waist as he stubbornly tried to press his mouth back into my wetness.
“Babe, ignore it. Come on, don't ruin this right now. You’re soaking wet.”
“I can’t!” I yelled, my voice shaking as I forced my legs shut, kicking his chest back until he was forced to stand up.
I scrambled off the counter, my bare feet hitting the concrete as I tried to pull my ruined blouse over my exposed bra.
My heart was doing a violent skip—half lingering lust, half pure terror. “It’s my dad. You don’t understand, I have to pick up.”
“He’s a grown man, Chloe, he can wait twenty fucking minutes,” Grey snapped, his face flushing with heavy, aggressive irritation as he stood there with his pants pulled down to his thighs.
“Just let it ring out. You’re always so fucking tense about him. We were seconds away from it.”
“Because that is my father!” I fired back, my voice dropping into a sharp, dangerous tone that usually made people back off. I snatched the vibrating phone off the marble.
“I don't care if the world is ending. I don't care what I am doing. I will never miss his calls. Ever.”
“It’s a control thing, Chloe, and it’s freaking weird,” Grey scoffed, violently pulling his jeans back up and buckling his belt.
He glared at me through the dark, his chest heaving. “You moved out to the middle of nowhere to get away from his suffocating rules, but you’re still acting like his little puppet. I’m your boyfriend. I’ve been waiting a week for this, and you’re treating me like a fucking afterthought.”
“I’m treating you like a priority, but my dad is a non-negotiable!” I screamed back, the sexual frustration turning into pure, unadulterated rage.
“If you can’t handle the fact that my family comes first, then get the hell out of my house!”
“Fine! Have fun sleeping with your phone, you psycho!”
Grey snatched his shirt from the floor, shoved his feet into his unlaced shoes, and marched out of the kitchen.
A second later, the heavy oak front door slammed so hard the window frames rattled.
The distant, angry roar of his car engine tore through the quiet woods as he sped away down the dirt driveway.
I stood alone in the dark kitchen, my chest panting, my pussy still aching and dripping from his tongue, leaving me completely humiliated and furious.
The phone started vibrating in my hand again.
I swiped the screen aggressively, bringing it to my ear as I walked over to the stereo.
Streets by Doja Cat was playing now, the moody melody mocking my current state of absolute dissatisfaction.
I hit the power button, plunging the house into a heavy, dead silence.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, forcing my breath to steady, my voice completely regular.
“Chloe,” my father’s deep, gravelly voice echoed through the line. There was a subtle edge of suspicion in his tone.
“Why didn't you pick up the first time? You know the rules about keeping your line clear.”
“Sorry, Dad. I was playing some music pretty loud while unpacking some boxes. I didn't hear it ring at first,” I lied smoothly, leaning against the counter and rubbing my temples.
“Are you safe? Has anyone been lingering around the perimeter of the property?”
“No one, Dad. It’s completely quiet out here. I’m perfectly fine, just tired.”
“Good. I was just checking up on you.
Go to sleep, princess.”
When the call clicked shut, I threw the phone onto the couch.
I stomped back upstairs, kicked Grey’s discarded socks out of the way, and grabbed my heavy, noise-canceling headphones.
I shoved them over my ears, turned on a playlist of loud, ambient thunderstorm sounds, and pulled the heavy duvet over my shoulders, desperately trying to sleep off the chaotic adrenaline humming through my veins.
A few hours later, I stirred awake.
The ambient rain sounds were still drowning out the world in my ears, but my throat felt parched, dry like sandpaper.
Worse than the thirst, though, was a bizarre, prickling sensation on the back of my neck.
It was that specific, instinctual feeling of being watched.
My eyes fluttered open in the darkness.
I lay completely still for a few seconds, my heart rate spiking as my gaze darted around the shadows of the bedroom. The door was cracked open an inch. Hadn't I shut it after Grey left?
Slowly, I sat up and slid the headphones down around my neck. The silence of the house was absolute.
I stood up, creeping over to the hallway, checking the bathroom and the spare rooms. Nothing. There was no one here.
Shaking my head at my own paranoia, I walked downstairs in my lace underwear and unbuttoned blouse, my bare feet making no sound against the polished marble floors.
I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a cold glass of water from the fridge, and drank it down in three heavy gulps.
As I set the glass down, a faint, rhythmic sound from the backyard caught my attention.
Thwack. Shuffle. Thwack.
I froze. It sounded like metal hitting dirt.
I crept toward the heavy glass backdoor, the moonlight pouring through the panes and illuminating the kitchen floor.
I peeled back the edge of the dark curtain and peered out into the backyard.
My breath completely left my lungs.
A large, deep trench had been dug into the center of my lawn, the fresh dirt piled high into dark mounds. Standing right beside the pit was a man.
He was ridiculously tall, broad-shouldered, and entirely shirtless under the silver moonlight.
His chest and arms were covered in a horrific, glistening smear of dark crimson.
Blood. It was splattered across his collarbone, smeared down his washboard abs, and even painted across his sharp jawline.
But despite the gore, he was stunning—his sharp, aristocratic features looked like they had been carved out of marble by a twisted god.
As I watched, paralyzed, he bent down and effortlessly lifted a massive, heavy black plastic bag.
A pale, blood-drenched human arm spilled out of the top of the plastic, the dead fingers twitching slightly as the man carelessly threw the bag into the open trench.
My gaze drifted past him, and the horror multiplied.
Laying in a neat, orderly row on my grass were three more limp, bloodied human bodies.
Next to them sat three empty black plastic bags. And a few feet away, the crumpled, lifeless shape of a large dog lay in a pool of dark fluid.
My stomach violently turned. I smashed both hands over my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut to stifle the piercing scream that was tearing its way up my throat.
My knees shook so badly I had to lean my entire weight against the glass door just to remain standing.
A serial killer. There is a literal serial killer in my backyard.
Before I could even think about running, the wet, heavy thud of the last body hitting the pit echoed through the glass. The man stood up straight, letting out a soft, satisfied sigh.
He dusted his bloody hands off on his dark sweatpants, entirely unbothered by the massacre around him.
Slowly, his head turned toward the house.
The moonlight caught his eyes, and my heart completely stopped.
They were mismatched—one a striking, icy hazel, the other a deep, void-like brown that seemed to swallow the light.
He locked his gaze directly onto the exact spot where I was hiding behind the curtain. He knew I was there the entire time.
A slow sliver of a smile curved his lips.
“Hey there, love,” his voice cut through the glass, a low, smooth, terrifyingly polite drawl that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
“I really tried to keep it down. Sorry if I woke you.”
