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She whimpers as I shrug my jacket off and start to roll up my sleeves as I approach her.
“Then you’d better bend the fuck over that vanity and lift your dress for me.”
“Yes, Sir—”
My mouth slams to hers.
Two black hearts.
Two broken black pieces, glued back together with gold.
* * *
The Dark Hearts series continues with Hades’ story in
Sinful Hearts.
Haven’t gotten enough of Cillian and Una?
Get their extra scene here, or type this link into your browser: https://BookHip.com/QHRLTPC
This isn’t an epilogue or continuation toVicious Hearts.But this extra hot “follow-up” story is guaranteed to keep the steam going.
DARK KINGDOM
Thank you so much for readingVicious Hearts! If you enjoyed the book, I’d be incredibly grateful if you could leave a review!
As mentioned, the Dark Hearts series continues with Hades’ story inSinful Hearts. You can also get a glimpse of a much younger Cillian inDark Kingdom, another dark enemies-to-lovers mafia romance, and book one of the Kings and Villains series. There’s even a sneak peek of that book on the following pages for you.
You can find complete book lists and suggested reading orders on my website.
www.jaggercolewrites.com
Scroll on for a sneak peek ofDark Kingdom.
* * *
Prologue
Adrian
Four Years Ago, Ascot, England:
Rain and fog shroud the cemetery, as if nature herself has dressed for the funeral today.
I look down numbly into the open coffin that cradles my father’s body. It’s dressed in a slate gray suit he never could have afforded when he was alive. Or at least never would have spent the money on, even if he’d had it.
Words like “alone” and “orphan” thud dully inside my head. First my mother, when I was four, and now my father, a month after my twentieth birthday. Her from the blunt violence of gunfire, him from the creeping assassin of cancer.
The priest finishes his words, and silence falls over the meager crowd of mourners. It’s just me, the housekeeper of the family and estate my father worked for Mrs. Dubois, the groundskeeper Mr. Peddleton, and Chris, my father’s friend and darts partner from down at The Spotted Hen.
A firm hand lands gently on my shoulder.
And my uncle, Jonathan. My father would have been enraged to know his brother was attending his funeral. But, you know, itishis funeral.
Sort of hard to protest the guest list.
I glance down at my watch—the one that Jonathan gifted me last night as we sat at the bar at The Spotted Hen over scotch. He and my father might not have spoken in sixteen years. The history between them might be the reason my father severed all ties with the rest of the Cross family and moved us away from Manchester for the job here in Ascot working for Jean Margaux.
