Velvet & Violence

Prologue: The Handshake ​The deal wasn’t signed in a boardroom; it was sealed over crystal glasses of vintage scotch and the smell of expensive cigars. The Malakais owned the underworld’s logistics—the ports, the routes, the "silent" cargo. The Watsons owned the politicians and the banks that cleaned the ink off the money. ​"They fight like cats and dogs, Arthur," Silas Malakai chuckled, watching his son, William Andrew, through the window. Out on the lawn, a twenty-four-year-old Andrew was currently laughing as he held a frustrated Gemma Watson’s handbag just out of her reach. ​"They’ll learn to coexist," Arthur Watson replied coldly. "Our empires are too large to remain separate. By the time they realize this is a business merger, they’ll already be at the altar." ​​Gemma Watson wanted to scream, but her mother had spent twenty-two years teaching her that Watsons don’t scream; they negotiate. ​"I won’t do it," Gemma said, her voice trembling with a controlled fire. She looked at the heavy diamond ring sitting on the mahogany table as if it were a live grenade. "He’s a criminal, Mother. And more importantly, he’s an idiot." ​"He’s a Malakai," her mother corrected, smoothing her silk skirt. "And he’s downstairs. Try to look less like you’re heading to a funeral." ​Gemma marched downstairs, her heels clicking like gunfire against the marble. She found William Andrew Malakai leaning against the grand piano in the foyer. He wasn’t wearing a suit—not a proper one. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the faint edge of a tattoo, and he was tossing a gold coin into the air. ​"Ah, there she is," Andrew beamed. His eyes, dark and perpetually dancing with some private joke, swept over her. "The future Mrs. Malakai. You look radiant, Gem. Is that a scowl or just your face settling into its natural state?" ​"Do not 'Gem' me, Andrew," she hissed, stopping inches from him. "You’re going to tell them no. You’re the 'mafia prince'—go be rebellious and tell your father this is a mistake." ​Andrew caught the coin and stepped closer, invading her personal space. He smelled like sandalwood and something metallic. "And miss out on a lifetime of you trying to poison my coffee? Not a chance. Besides, my father said if I marry you, he’ll give me the Mediterranean routes. Think of the vacations, sweetheart." ​"You’re a pig," she snapped. ​"And you’re a delight," he countered, his grin widening. He reached out, his thumb grazing her jawline. For a second, his humor flickered into something sharper, more intense. "Look, Gemma. We’ve been enemies since I pushed you into the koi pond when we were six. But the world is getting dangerous. My family has enemies, and by extension, so do the Watsons. You’re safer behind my name." ​Gemma pulled away, her heart racing—from anger, she told herself. "I can protect myself." ​"I know you can," Andrew said, his voice dropping an octave as he turned toward the door. "But it’s more fun when someone’s watching your back. See you at dinner, wife-to-be. Try not to miss me too much." ​He winked, the sheer audacity of it leaving her speechless, and strolled out the door. Gemma looked at the ring on the table. She hated him. She truly did. But as she watched his black SUV pull away, she noticed the four armored cars following him. ​The war wasn't just between their families anymore; it was coming for both of them.