Prologue
A/N; This is the third book of my Inferno Kings series. Book 1 is Mafia Lord’s Fake Escort. Book 2 is Mafia Lord’s Maid in Disguise, and Book 3 is now Mafia Lord’s Devious Angel.
I hope you enjoy this story❤️
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Ariana
I bought five bottles of alcohol because one felt too polite, and three seemed like denial. Five was grief and absolutely no one’s business.
The man behind the counter in the Liquor store stared at me like he was going to call my father. Oh, except that my father is dead. I almost laughed, dragging the hood of my sweater lower over my face.
He packed the bottles slowly, probably stalling so he could ask for my ID. His eyes kept flicking from me to the counter as if waiting for me to confess something. What? That it was my birthday, and I was getting wasted in a cemetery tonight? I sniffled, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. The cold was biting at my bones, and the weather outside was about to piss down on me again.
The guy pushed the brown paper bag toward me and whispered quietly, not to spook the ghost standing behind me, “I’m sorry about your father.”
The lump in my throat came back. “Thanks,” I said, grabbing the bag and leaving before I cried.
I yanked my hoodie tighter around my head and cursed under my breath. Of course, the wind was also against me.
The streets were mostly empty. Most of the shops had shut their doors hours ago—some because their owners had gone home to eat, laugh, and be loved. Others were closed because their owners had passed away. I didn’t even look at my father’s flower shop as I passed by it. Four days ago, the flower shop was his. Now, it was just another closed shop on a dying street.
I clenched my jaw and wiped at my eyes. The rain came just as my foot hit the next block. The icy droplets slapped my face as if nature was joining in on the abuse. The wind fought me for my hoodie again, but I held it.
Before I realized it, I was standing in front of the grave. The headstone was in place, but I couldn’t see it clearly in the dark. The streetlamps behind the fence tried their best, but they barely reached us.
I sat down on the coldness, the paper bag crumpled in my lap. I pulled out a bottle, twisted the cap off, and took a sip.
“Happy fucking birthday to me,” I whispered, and the wind answered. I let the first bottle empty into my body, but it couldn’t fill the space my father left behind.
The burn matched the ache in my chest that I had been pretending didn’t exist since they lowered him into the ground four days ago.
The bottle clinked against the stone as I set it down and pulled out another.
“A good father,” I muttered, yanking the cap off with my teeth, “a good father would have waited one more damn week and let his daughter turn eighteen to cheer her in the background.”
I sniffled. My nose was running. The rain hadn’t stopped since the funeral. It had poured through the service, through the speeches, through my eulogy that turned into a curse halfway through. And now here I was, soaked to the bone with liquor in one hand and loss in the other.
“But no,” I said. “You had to leave early, didn’t you? And the cherry on top? Alcohol. Of all things, it had to be because of alcohol.” I let out a breathy laughter. “Why am I even crying? Huh?” I pointed at the grave like he was going to answer. “You knew what alcohol could do to you. I talked you out of it more times than I can count. You promised. You said you’d stop, remember? You promised, Dad.”
Another drink. Another tear.
I wiped my eyes and looked up at the sky. “I miss you,” I whispered. “It hurts. It hurts so much. You were the only person who listened to me. Who didn’t make me feel like I was too much? Or too loud. Or too damn weird.”
I tried to open a third bottle but fumbled with the cap. “I can’t do this,” I muttered. “I’m too young. You shouldn’t have left me.”
I managed to get the third bottle open, but I was swaying. My words got slower, messier.
“It’s my birthday,” I whispered to no one. “And no one remembers because everyone’s too busy mourning you. I’m so hurt,” I said to the ground. “I feel everything and—” I paused when I heard the sound of footsteps behind me.
I turned my head, my heart pounding like I was about to see my father’s ghost standing behind me with one of those birthday balloons that said you’re officially grown.
But no, it was a tall figure dressed in black, standing still.
I stood too quickly, stumbling, almost dropping my bottle. My head spun, but I kept my grip on the glass like it was a weapon.
“Don’t come closer,” I warned him, “I will kill you. I swear to God. And if you’re a ghost, I am not the girl you’re looking for.”
I blinked to clear my vision. The man said nothing. Instead, he tossed a single flower on another grave.
That was it.
I let out a breath. “Well,” I said, raising my bottle at him like a half-assed toast. “Looks like I’m not the only sad soul in this cemetery tonight.”
He didn’t look at me. My hand trembled as I brought the bottle to my lips again.
“I still have one bottle left. That’s if you’re a bad person to irritate the dead like me.”
And then, I started singing. It was an old song I used to hum to Dad when he got admitted to the hospital. I used to sit on the side of that hospital bed, swinging my legs and singing like the world wasn’t falling apart around me. And somehow, he’d smile and say, “Sing it again, baby girl.” Because I believed he would make it out every time. But now? I sang with a broken heart.
The man in black moved. I noticed too late that he’d started walking away. “Hey!” I called, “Didn’t I offer you a drink?”
He paused but didn’t turn.
“Forget it,” I muttered, slumping back down. “You can go.”
I took another swig, waiting for his footsteps to fade, but they didn’t. They grew louder. Closer. He stood there staring down at my father’s grave.
“You want a drink?” I offered the bottle, hand half-raised. He reached forward and grabbed it without a word, took a long sip, and I laughed. “Bold,” I said, shaking my head. “Wanna sit?”
He handed the bottle back and said, “Go home.”
I scoffed. “It’s worse than here. At least here I can cry without my mom telling me to pray about it.” He didn’t reply. I cleared my throat. “You do have a really deep voice.”
I offered the bottle, and he hesitated, then grabbed it again. Before I knew it, he sat beside me.
The streetlights were doing a terrible job of existing. I couldn’t see his face well. But I felt his presence. He didn’t drink again. He just held the bottle, elbows resting on his bent knees, head tilted slightly toward me.
I gave a bitter laugh. “Bring the damn bottle.” He yanked it away. “What now?” I grumbled. “You want to control my life too? Like my mother does?”
“Happy birthday.”
I froze.
My mouth parted, but no sound came out. I blinked at him, and I swear I was somber again. My throat burned, not from the alcohol but from the realization that that was all I wanted to hear. Nobody said it, not my mother or my brother. It was this stranger, and I didn’t know how he knew it unless he had been around when I blurted it out.
Why the hell did those two words feel like a warm hand pressed to my back, like I could breathe again?
He handed the bottle back. I took it to my lips, but didn’t take a sip. I turned to look at him. “That’s all I needed, okay? Just… those two stupid words.”
He scoffed.
I tilted my head. “What?”
“So I should leave?”
“Yes,” I said. “On your way, Mister stranger. I could have kissed you if you weren’t a stranger.” I exhaled. “Thank you for making my day feel better.”
He stood and offered his hand. “Get up.”
“What?”
“Get up.”
I had never listened to anyone’s orders. I was particularly stubborn, but surprisingly, I got up.
Before I was fully upright, he stepped forward, wrapped one arm around my waist, and pulled me into him so fast I dropped the bottle. It landed somewhere in the grass with a muted thud.
Then his mouth found mine. I gasped and pushed at his chest, startled and scared. But he didn’t hurt me. His grip wasn’t bruising. His mouth moved over mine like he was trying to quiet every scream I never let out. And slowly, I stopped fighting.
I kissed him back.
Just as I started to forget that I was fatherless, he pulled out and let out a dark laugh like he knew he had no business doing what he just did and didn’t give a damn.
“You’re not bad,” he said. He let go of my waist and shoved something into my jeans pocket. “Now go home and try to fucking live, young lady. You owe me a good fuck. You better be alive when I come for it.”
He turned and walked away.
And I stood there, staring into the darkness where he had disappeared.
