Dark Mafia Prince: A Dangerous Royals romance by Annika Martin Page A

are biting into my wrists—”
    “You’re lucky they’re cuffed in front of you,” I growl.
    “I could help.”
    “No.”
    I don’t look at her, don’t meet her eyes. I wish I still had the mirrored sunglasses on. My nowhere-to-run, nowhere-to-hide bit at the gas station definitely backfired. I don’t know what I was thinking, pressing her against that pillar, watching the fear in her eyes like there might be a little bit of lust in there. It was fucked up that I let myself think that.
    Mira is everything I can never have. I’m here for one purpose only—Kiro.
    And then I put on that boyfriend act for the civilians, pressing my hand to her cheek like that. I thought I’d combust—literally. The moment I touched her, all the people around there could’ve decided to rush at me all at once and I would’ve been no good for stopping them, being that my world had shrunken to the silky space between the curve of her cheekbone and the drumbeat of her pulse in her neck.
    I imagined pressing my face there and feeling that drumbeat with my lips, like it was the most erotic fucking thing. She would’ve let me, too. Not out of desire, but because she didn’t want to embroil innocent bystanders in a firefight. Because unlike me, she’s apparently still a decent person.
    I remember Konstantin and me doing a lot of reading in the run-down hideouts we’d move between. Usually he’d only want me to read shit like The Art of War , being that I was to grow up to be a capable killer and all, but sometimes I’d get my hands on regular stories.
    I remember reading this one crusty old one— The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. This guy stayed forever young while the painting of him aged.
    I would feel like that, looking at the photos that had Mira in them. Like she stayed safe and happy in that mansion or in the Chicago penthouse, while I got hammered into something dark and deadly. Two sides of a coin.
    Nothing’s on any of the computer files, like we feared.
    We go through more paper files. The dead ends have me feeling angry and fucked-up. “What the fuck good are files if everything’s blacked out? There have to be the names and addresses somewhere, or why keep files?”
    Finally we find some actual names and addresses, but they don’t help. They all seem to have a number, more codes. Hundreds of codes, maybe thousands.
    We decide we have to start matching things up, and then I catch sight of Mira, following our progress with interest. Like she understands something we don’t. She knows. She’s listening. Tracking.
    “You got some insight here? Something for the class?”
    “You want to let my father and me go free?” she asks.
    I grab the next sheet. I tell myself it’s stupid to think that a mafia princess who’s spent the past few years on international shopping trips could help.
    Kiro is out there, and as soon as somebody figures out we’re going for him, he’s fucked.
    “Illegal adoption agency,” Tito says. “Maybe they didn’t keep real records.”
    “No, there have to be records,” I bite out. “The answer is in here.”
    We go through each file, one reading off numbers, and the other guys hunting. It’s like matching serial numbers on dollar bills or something.
    We send a guy for pizza.
    I can’t shake the idea that she could help, that she’s not as stupid as she acts in that blog. When the pizza comes, I join Mira on the far end and offer her a slice.
    She takes it with both her hands, cuffed together as they are, and thanks me.
    “If you can help, you should,” I say.
    “And I should help you why?”
    “Because if this doesn’t work, we go to plan B.”
    She doesn’t react. She had to know something would come. She chews, staring thoughtfully out the window. Does she have an idea of what plan B is? I follow the direction of her gaze.
    “What are you looking at?” I ask.
    “The cartoons of laughing baby animals. Side of that building.”
    I spot the shitty mural on the side