His Angel: A Dark Mafia Romance (Dark Sovereign Book 10)

I remember when my dad died, what I felt. It was a kind of sadness I can’t put into words, almost like an ache that lingers, a bruise I could press on if I wanted to.

Somehow, it was something I could choose to feel, something I could shove into a drawer, and pull out whenever I had a bad day, or when the melancholy of a rainy afternoon seeped into the corners of my heart. It just sat there, a quiet companion in the backdrop of my life that I could acknowledge whenever necessary.

People always talk about grief as this bone-crushing weight, a tidal wave that drowns you whole, but it never hit me like that.

I mourned my dad, sure, but it was a distant kind of sorrow, muted by the years of resentment I’d stacked between us. He cheated on Mom, tore our family apart, and I was left to deal with a man like Michele. So, when my dad was gone, I cried, but it was more for the idea of him, the father he never was, than for the man I lost. The pain didn’t shatter me. It didn’t consume me.

But now I get it. I understand that true loss isn’t sadness. It’s not tears and heartache. It’s a hollowing, a carving out of everything that once was, a void of memories that once brought you joy that now brings you anguish. Pain. It’s that pang when you taste something that sparks a memory, or a familiar song on the radio, and you realize you’ll never hear his laughter again. His voice. Or feel the comfort of his presence.

I lost Anthony. And somehow, it feels like I lost a part of me, too.

I’ve been on this island for days, weeks, months, years. There’s no way of telling because, to me, time has just stood still.

I haven’t left this room. I’ve barely eaten. I haven’t been able to get the image of Anthony’s blood out of my mind. Oddly enough, the only time I manage to be semi-alive is when Isaia walks in, when I look into his eyes and am reminded how much I love him.

But then reality knocks my soul out of my body, the reality that I love the man who killed my best friend. That, even after watching him pull the trigger, I still desire him. I still need him in ways I’ve never needed anyone. And that’s when the crushing guilt sets in, its icy fingers entwining around my heart, squeezing the warmth and life out of it until all that remains are shards of broken glass.

The worst part is, I don’t even blame Isaia. He held the gun. Pulled the trigger. But me? I’m the who loaded it. With a lie. With a mistake. By choosing to marry Anthony, I deceived my best friend and gave the man I love the bullet that killed him.

If I had told Anthony the truth, told him about Michele’s blackmail, my mom’s life hanging in the balance, maybe there could have been a way to change the outcome. Maybe there could have been a way for me to reach out to Isaia, explain to him what’s going on instead of having him make his own assumptions and declare Anthony the villain in our love story.

But I didn’t.

And now Anthony’s gone.

Because of me.

“Okay, that’s it.” Isaia storms in, lifts me off the couch, and throws me over his shoulder.

“What are you⁠—?”

“I’m done watching you sit in this room and waste away.” I’m trying to wiggle out of his grip as he carries me to the bathroom.

“Put me down.”

“You need a shower. And you need to get outside for some vitamin D and fresh air.”

“I don’t⁠—”

He sets me down on my feet, hands on my shoulders, pinning me with his dark gaze. “Shower. Sun. Air. And a fucking drink. In that order. Besides,” he steps back, “I have a surprise for you.”

“Isaia, I really don’t⁠—”

“Shush.” He presses his finger against my lips, and there’s a flicker of heat that stirs between us. “I gave you time. I gave you space. Now I’m drawing a line in the sand and saying enough is enough. You have thirty minutes before I haul your ass out of here.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to respond and closes the door behind him. It’s when I see my reflection in the mirror that I get a healthy dose of reality. My eyes are hollow, framed with deep, dark circles. My skin is pale as a ghost and my hair a completely tangled mess. I look terrible.

Reluctantly, I step into the shower. The cascading drops of warm water feel heavy on my frail body, yet soothing at the same time. Each drop washes away a fragment of the pain I harbor, taking with it a part of my guilt and self-pity.

What’s done is done.

There is nothing I can do that’ll change anything. Nothing can take me back in time so I can do things differently. It is what it is. And while grief can keep you captive within the past, the world around you doesn’t stop turning.

The shower scrubbed away the sweat and the sticky mess of him, but it can’t wash out the ache still gnawing at my bones. I’m not sure what to do with the chaos still raging inside me. Should I try to smother it? Or let it burn me alive?

It comes in bursts of guilt, moments where I forget how to breathe. Anthony wasn’t supposed to die—especially not because of me. Now there’s this deep, hollow emptiness that I’m not sure what to do with.

I’m dressed in a dusty pink sundress, the fabric light against my thighs, soft where my skin’s still tender from Isaia’s hands. It’s sleeveless, loose, fluttering with every step, and the pale color makes me look fragile in the mirror—like I’m not carrying blood and lies beneath it.

My damp hair sticks to my shoulders, curling at the ends, and I shake it out, padding barefoot into the room.

Sunlight floods through a wall of glass—the wall Isaia fucked me against. The air’s thick with salt, warm and lazy, drifting in from an open window. It’s a bedroom, sparse but sharp, with dark wood floors, a bed with rumpled white sheets. Isaia’s scent lingers everywhere, black pepper and primal musk, like he’s stitched into the walls of this place.

Maybe he’s stitched into me.

I cross to the window, and the view hits me hard, like I haven’t been staring out at it for God knows how long. It’s the most beautiful beach I’ve ever seen with miles of white sand, the ocean sprawling beyond, turquoise fading into deep blue, waves crashing against a shore dotted with palms. No boats bob in the distance, no planes hum overhead. Just sea and sky, endless and untouched.

A figure moves along the beach below, a rifle slung over his shoulder, one of Isaia’s guards patrolling the perimeter. Another’s perched on a ridge, eyes scanning the waves. They’re everywhere, shadows in the sun, but the island feels empty, secluded, like we’ve dropped off the edge of the world.

The door swings open, and I turn as Isaia steps in, all lazy swagger, black tee hugging his chest, jeans frayed at the knees, smirk tugging his lips.

“Caught you admiring my empire, huh?” His voice has that cocky lilt that makes me want to smack him…or kiss him.

“Empire?” I snort, crossing my arms, the dress swishing against my legs. “Looks more like a sandbox with extra steps. Where the hell are we?”

“My island. Private. Pristine. Like it?”

“It’s a prison.”

“Oh, come on. It’s paradise. Can you seriously look at that view and tell me you’re not impressed?”

I glance out the window again, the isolation sinking in. No towns, no roads, just jungle and water. “It’s… quiet,” I say, arching a brow. “What’s the catch? No Wi-Fi? No pizza delivery?”

His laughter is low and rough. “No Wi-Fi, no delivery boys eyeing you up. Just me, the guards, and an ocean between us and the rest of the world. You’re stuck with my cooking, baby girl. Hope you like bourbon with everything.”

“Great,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Death by overcooked steak and bad decisions. How long have I been catatonic in this room?”

“Few days.”

“Huh.” I glance out the window again. “And you’ve just been hovering around because you’re the patient type?”

There’s a flash of something dark in his irises. “Not gonna lie, baby girl. It’s been hell watching you cry over him.”

I suck my bottom lip into my mouth.

“But it’s what you needed. And it seems I’m all about that lately.”

I merely nod in response, not sure what to say.

“Come on.” He snags my wrist. “Let me show you around. Can’t have you thinking my empire’s just a sandbox.”

Electricity sparks across my skin where he touches me, and I stumble after him, the sundress fluttering against my legs. The hall’s all creams and beiges, wood walls polished to a soft sheen, with a white runner underfoot that echoes the sandy beach outside.

It’s bigger than I expected, sprawling and open, lazy beach vibes dripping from every corner. Sunlight pours through wide floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off white linen curtains that sway in the breeze, and the air smells like salt and driftwood.

“Living room.” He gestures as we pass a sunken space with plush beige sofas piled with cream cushions, a driftwood coffee table, and a massive glass wall framing the ocean like it’s a portrait. “Good spot for brooding or whatever you do when you’re pissed at me.”

“Plotting your demise,” I quip, earning a grin as he pulls me deeper into the house.

The kitchen’s next, open and airy, all white tile and stainless steel, with turquoise accents in the backsplash. A basket of limes sits on the counter, and a wide window overlooks the palms swaying outside. “Where I’ll burn your steak.” He winks, and I snort, picturing him fumbling with a spatula.

It’s a lavish beach house, but it’s easy, relaxed, with high ceilings, soft rugs, furniture that looks like it belongs in a magazine but feels lived-in, like the island’s sun has soaked into every inch. If I had the chance to design my own beach house, it would be exactly this.

We pass a staircase curving up to a loft, then a hall lined with abstract art in beachy hues. “Do you come here often?”

“Me? Maybe once every two years. Since Alexius and Nicoli had kids, they come here with their families more often. For us, this is the safest place in the world since no one knows we own it. No paper trail that leads it to us. Whenever we’re here, it’s like we dropped off the face of the Earth.”

I stop, easing my hand out of his. “Is that why you brought me here? So we could disappear?”

There’s a moment where something dark flashes in his eyes, something unsettling.

“Isaia?” I press. “Why are we here?”

“I need to get you fed first.” He snakes an arm around my waist and hoists me up, causing me to squeal as I wrap my legs and arms around him while he carries me down the hall.

“I can walk, you know.”

“Remind me to fix that later.”

“What? You’re going to break my legs?”

He smacks my ass. “Why would I do that if I can just fuck your body into thinking you can’t stand without me?”

“You’re an idiot.”

He lets out a chuckle that sounds more like a throaty rumble, and it does something to my insides.

My gaze snags on a locked door—heavy wood, out of place among the breezy openness, a steel bolt glinting under the light.

“What’s in there?”

He glances at the door then passes without slowing down. “My office. Boring stuff. Maps, bourbon, bad ideas.”

I narrow my eyes, catching the flicker in his tone, the way his grip tightens around my waist. “Boring, huh? You hiding a dungeon in there?”

“It’s way worse than that,” he quips playfully.

With one arm tight around me, he reaches and opens a glass door that leads out to the deck, then sets me down carefully.

“Wow,” is all I can say as I take it all in.

The deck stretches out from the house with a large infinity pool that makes it seem like it’s part of the ocean. Shimmering turquoise water matches the sea sprawled beyond, the edges smooth cream tiles glinting in the sun, and the surface ripples lazily, catching the breeze that drifts off the waves.

A few tan-colored lounge chairs line one side, cushions plump and inviting, the kind you sink into with a drink and forget the world…except I can’t, not with guards pacing the shore below.

Framed by potted palms, their fronds swaying, softening the edges, the whole setup screams Isaia—rich, relaxed luxury minus the gaudy showiness. I can already see him smirking poolside, shirt off, daring me to jump in and drown my doubts.

“Sit,” he says, nudging me toward a table shaded by a large umbrella. “Lunchtime. Made it myself. Don’t faint from shock.”

I drop into a chair. “If it’s edible, I might.”

He disappears inside, returning with a tray of grilled fish tacos, simple but damn good-looking, the mahi-mahi golden, topped with a mango salsa that’s all bright chunks and cilantro.

Warm tortillas sit beside a bowl of lime wedges, and he’s even tossed together a side of charred corn, kernels popped with smoky spice. It’s not fancy, but it’s skillful, clean, fresh, the kind of meal that says he’s not just bullshit in the kitchen.

“Impressed?” He slides into the chair across from me, popping a piece of corn into his mouth with that arrogant flair I hate to love.

I take a taco, biting in, the fish flakes tender, the salsa sweet and sharp. “Not bad,” I say, chewing, keeping it cool. “Didn’t peg you for a chef. Thought you’d just strangle a fish and call it dinner.”

He grins, leaning back, sun catching the edges of his black hair. “I’ve got layers, baby girl. Stick around. You might like them.”

I swallow, the taste lingering, and glance out at the sea—empty, endless, guards dotting the shore like silent reminders. This place is his, a private kingdom cut off from everything, and I’m here, free to roam…yet tethered to him.

Washing the food down with a crisp, minty mojito, I decide the sting of alcohol is exactly what I need, so I down the whole glass.

Isaia lifts a brow, and I pick up the crystal decanter, pouring some more minty freshness into my glass. “So…are you going to tell me why you brought me here?”

The taco’s halfway to his mouth when he pauses, his eyes locked on mine. He then proceeds to place the taco back on his plate, roughing a hand through his hair, his body language screaming that this is the last thing he wants to talk about.

“The Paladino family’s out for revenge.” He says it so casually, like it’s just another Tuesday. “Anthony was their golden boy, and I painted the church with his blood. They’re not exactly sending thank-you notes.”

I freeze, the mojito’s chill seeping into my chest—or maybe it’s his words. “The Paladino family wants you dead?”

It’s the way his dark gaze settles on me—heavy, weighted, painfully honest. “Memento mori,” he murmurs, and it’s like a piece of glass slicing into my gut.

I swallow hard. “Remember…you must die.” The words slay me, the idea of Isaia…of him…no. It’s even worse than the guilt I carry for Anthony’s death.

“I’m not afraid of dying, Everly. And they know that.” His voice drops to a gravelly rasp, eyes burning into mine. “What fucking terrifies me is them ripping you from my hands, leaving me alive to choke on the emptiness. And they know that, too.”

My heart beats a staccato rhythm against my ribs, and I can’t speak. I can’t find any words.

As he reaches across the table, taking my hand, lightly squeezing, it’s like the air in my lungs no longer has purpose. All I need to breathe is him. How can I mourn Anthony while still loving Isaia?

“They want to hurt me in the worst possible way, and they know killing me isn’t it. But taking you from me…” He pulls back, rubbing the back of his neck, veins bulging along his arms. “Fuck, baby girl. If my death would settle it, we wouldn’t be here. I’d be in a box. But they’re not after my blood. They’re after yours, to gut me alive.”

Seconds pass as I take it all in. The threat of the Paladino family. The promise of Isaia’s devotion. I have no idea what to do with all of it, my mind struggling to process.

Finally, I manage to say, “They’re looking for us… for me?”

“Yeah. Like fucking bloodhounds. They’re out there, boats sniffing coasts, bribes greasing palms. Their influence stretches far and wide. This island’s the only place they can’t reach.”

Panic chokes me. “My mom… is she?”

“She’s a Rinaldi. They won’t touch her.”

“Why would her surname mean anything if her husband’s dead?”

“The Paladino family had a business relationship with Rinaldi. They won’t hurt her. If anything, they’ll protect her if needed since she’s a widow now.” He shrugs. “But I have eyes on her twenty-four-seven just in case.”

“I need to be with her, Isaia.”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

“She’s sick. She needs treatment, and she can’t go through it alone.”

“She’s getting the treatment she needs. I made sure of it.”

My chest squeezes. “She’s going to need me.”

“Not right now, baby. It’s too risky.”

“I don’t care. My mom might die, Isaia. You can’t expect me to just sit here on this island, not knowing if I’ll ever see my mom alive again.”

Growling with frustration, he pulls a palm down his face. “Like I said, I have eyes on her, not just to make sure she’s safe, but also to monitor her condition.” He reaches across the table, placing his hand over mine. “Right now, she’s doing fine. If that changes, if her condition worsens, I swear to you I’ll make sure you get to see her.” He lets go of my hand and leans back. “But right now I need you to trust me.”

“How can I trust a man who drugged me?”

The atmosphere turns cold even though we’re sitting in hundred-degree heat, and his gaze levels me. “I did what I had to do.”

I want to be angry with him. I want to hate him. I want to blame him for everything that’s gone wrong. But I can’t. None of this is entirely his fault. I played my hand in it as well, made wrong decisions out of desperation to keep those I care about from harm. Isn’t that exactly what he’s doing now?

Doing whatever is necessary to keep safe someone he claims to care for? Me.

And no matter from which angle I look at it, I’m the one at the starting point. Everyone who had a hand in the church massacre was simply a reaction to an action I took. I’m the one who fell for Isaia Del Rossa even though I knew what kind of man he was. I’m the one who chose to ignore the warning signs. I’m the one who lied to my best friend. And now he’s dead.

A profound sadness drops over me, chilling me despite the tropical heat. I finish my mojito, then wipe the wetness of the glass stuck to my palm down my dress.

“Don’t overthink it, baby girl.”

I’m staring at my hands in my lap. “I could sit here and blame you for everything, be angry at you for drugging me, for bringing me here, for not allowing me to see my mother while she fights the battle of her life.” I glance up at him. “I could sit here and hate you for killing my best friend, but the truth is, I chose to lie. I was weak, fell for Michele’s bullshit, and was too much of a coward to fight back. Michele’s leash, my mom’s life—I tied that knot, Isaia. They’re after us because of something I started.”

He’s on his feet in a flash, gripping my arm and yanking me up, pulling me flush against him. His fingers seize my chin, forcing my eyes to his, dark and blazing.

“You need to listen to me real fucking carefully. You did what you had to, and there’s no one who can blame you for that. That lie? It kept your mother alive. This is our war. Not your fault.”

I open my mouth to argue, guilt still clawing at my throat, but he cuts me off, crashing his lips into mine, swallowing my words. It’s not gentle; it’s a storm.

His tongue shoves past my defenses, tasting of mango and lime and desperation, killing the stupid spiral in my head with every bruising press.

My hands fist his shirt, clinging as he devours me, heat surging through my veins, drowning the blame in raw, unfiltered want. He’s relentless, claiming me like he can kiss the guilt right out of my soul, and for a moment, I let him—let it burn me clean.

Then he pulls back, leaving me gasping, lips swollen, chest heaving. His hands drop from my face, and he steps away, turning to the deck’s edge, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles blanch.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough, staring out at the sea like it’s the only thing keeping him steady. “I can’t…” He trails off, shoulders tense, the unspoken hanging heavily between us.

I touch my lips, still tingling from him, heart pounding as I watch his back. “You can’t what?” I ask, voice soft but pressing, stepping closer.

“Never mind.” He shakes his head, voice low. “All that matters is that you stop blaming yourself.”noveldrama

“How can I if⁠—”

“It’s on me, Everly,” he interrupts. “Every death, every drop of blood spilled is on me. Let it stay there. I alone carry that burden. Not you. Understand?”

“Isaia, I⁠—”

“Say you understand,” he snaps, his harsh tone recoiling up my spine.

“Okay,” I murmur.

“Good girl.” He catches my wrist and pulls me to him, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as my cheek presses into the hard planes of his chest. “Being mine has its perks, baby girl. It means I get to protect you. Keep you safe. Keep you happy. And all you have to worry about is making sure you’re ready to take my cock, whenever. Wherever.”

I snort against his shirt, the sound muffled, half-laugh, half-scoff. “That is such an Isaia thing to say.”

“Isaia thing?”

“Adding some filth to an emotional mess.”

“Oh, did you think I was joking?”

I slap his arm, and he presses me to his chest, his heartbeat thudding under my ear, and it anchors me, pulls me out of the guilt spiral, if only for a breath. He’s warm, solid, a wall between me and the Paladinos’ vengeance, and damn it, I need that right now.

My eyes close as he weaves his fingers through my hair, placing a kiss on the top of my head. “I love you, Everly Beaumont.”

The words sink in, heavy and warm, and I clutch at his shirt, breathing him in—citrus, cedar, that primal musk that’s stitched into this whole damn place.

“I love you, too,” I murmur, and his grip in my hair tightens as a growl vibrates up his throat. There’s no use in denying it, in fighting it. It is what it is, no matter how fucked-up everything is around us, the fact that I love this man is unchangeable.

The deck stretches out around us, pool glinting turquoise, ocean roaring beyond, guards pacing the shore like silent sentinels. This island’s our shield, his kingdom, and I’m here—his bullet, his heartbeat, whatever he calls it—and there is no other place I’d rather be.

“So, what’s the plan? We just sit here? Play house until they forget about us?”

“Play house? Tempting. But the Paladinos don’t forget. This island’s our ground, our rules. You can roam, swim, tan your ass off. Just don’t try swimming to Fiji. Guards will haul you back before I do.”

I huff a laugh, despite myself. “Oh, so I’m free-range now? How generous. What’s stopping me from stealing a boat?”

He leans in, breath brushing my ear, voice dropping low. “No boats to steal, troublemaker. I own the only keys, and my men shoot first, flirt later. You’re stuck with me.” I can feel his smirk against my skin. “Poor you.”

“Tragic,” I deadpan, shoving his chest, but my hand lingers, feeling his heartbeat under the fabric. “You’re enjoying this marooned thing too much.”

“Maybe I am,” he says, catching my wrist, thumb grazing my pulse. “You, me, sand, sea, and all the time in the world to figure out how loud you can scream my name.”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I yank my hand free, stepping back. “You’re the worst.”

“Oh, talking about the worst. That reminds me.” He glances over my shoulder, and I turn in time to see one of his guards opening a glass door off the deck, leading into a side room. Then Luna comes bounding out—well, bounding as much as a basset hound can, her long ears flapping, stubby legs churning, that goofy grin lighting up her droopy face.

“Luna!” I drop to my knees, voice pitching high as she barrels into me, her warm, wriggly body slamming against my chest.

I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her soft fur, breathing in that familiar doggy smell—earth and love and home. She’s my heart, my slobbery, sad-eyed shadow, and the sight of her here, tail wagging like a metronome on speed, cracks something open in me.

“Oh, baby girl, I missed you so much,” I croon, scratching behind her ears as she licks my chin, her whines pure joy.

Isaia chuckles, crouching beside us, his hand brushing Luna’s back. “Figured you’d lose it without her. Had my guys grab her when we pulled you out. She’s been napping in the guest room, drooling all over my shit.”

I glance up at him, still petting Luna, her warmth grounding me. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, baby girl. Even slobber duty.”

“Can I take her for a walk?”

“Go ahead. Beach is yours. Just don’t trip over a guard. They’re not as charming as me.”

I narrow my eyes at him as Luna and I walk off the deck. With every step, I feel his gaze on me, hot, searing, burning my flesh. But I also feel some weight lifted off my shoulders, lighter, somehow.

The sun’s high, baking the shore, and the guards are specks, distant but constant, rifles glinting. The jungle hums behind the house, thick and green, no paths cutting through. It’s paradise, sure, but it’s cut off, controlled, a fortress disguised as a getaway.

The sand’s hot under my feet, and I head for the water. Waves lap at my toes, and Luna waddles through the water, splashing, barking, wagging her tail like we just found the Garden of Eden.

There are no words to describe the joy she brings me, the unconditional love, the unfaltering loyalty. To me, she’s the most powerful creature in the world. After the shittiest day, she gets the tension drained out of me within two minutes of rubbing and cuddling her. Having her here is the best gift Isaia could have gotten me.

“Come on, girl,” I say as we make our way along the beach. It’s soothing, listening to the crashing waves while watching the pure joy on Luna’s face. But Isaia’s words echo. The Paladinos don’t forget.

We’re safe for now, but this island’s no vacation. It’s a chessboard, and I’m the queen he’s guarding…or the pawn he’s playing.