My EX's Mafia Twin

PROLOGUE I: Who is she? Killian. |Past| 20 years old. Katarina Volkov would become my greatest curse, and I knew it from the very moment I saw her. Or I should say, from the first moment I saw her ass—because that’s the first thing I see when I walk into the kitchen. A perfect, perky ass greeting me. The owner of said ass is bent over, half her body inside the refrigerator, rummaging around with enthusiasm. I frown, confused, because it’s the first time Reid ever brings someone home. Finally, a cheerful little sound escapes the girl—a sound that gives me goosebumps in the worst way. She turns around with an already opened jar of Nutella, dips her finger into the thick chocolate and brings it to her mouth. “Got something bigger you can suck on,” I tell her. The moment she sees me, the excitement over the chocolate disappears from her eyes. It's unbelievable how fast her expression turns cold—impenetrable. We’ve got a good actress here. “There’s two of you?” she asks, almost uninterested, licking Nutella off her finger again. “Two?” I laugh, though for some reason her words piss me off. “There’s only one of me, sweetheart.” She clicks her tongue against her palate—a bratty, defiant gesture—then shouts with exasperation, “You could’ve told me you had a twin, i***t!” I feel Reid walk in behind me. He mutters a low “good morning” as he grabs something from the fridge, repeating, “Killian, Katarina… Katarina, Killian.” His lazy introduction tells me everything and nothing, and I stay there, standing, trying to understand what the hell is going on. Who is she? And why does her mere presence irritate me this much? I roll my eyes and get myself a decent breakfast while the redhead stuffs herself with chocolate and my brother pours liquor into the orange juice he just served. My day looks promising: dealing with a sugar coma and an alcohol-induced one because of these two. Whatever. I don’t give a s**t. I eat while working on my laptop, ignoring the girl’s chatter toward Reid. I wonder if they slept together, but I discard the idea as soon as I approach the sofa: it’s covered in crumpled blankets, turned into an improvised bed where my brother probably spent the night. I shove them aside while I hear the girl still in the kitchen, talking to what’s probably a half-drunk Reid by now. I plop down on the sofa and drown myself in my own s**t until the little firecracker sits right next to me, watching what I’m doing. A few seconds later, my brother goes upstairs, barely giving us a look, leaving me alone with this mouthy little brat. She can’t be older than eighteen; her cheeks still have that childish roundness, and her nose is sprinkled with dozens of freckles that look like cinnamon dust over a perfectly crafted vanilla latte. I hate vanilla. “Who the hell are you?” I growl, pulling my face back because she’s invading my personal space and her sweet scent tickles my nose. Katarina leans even closer to the laptop, her hair brushing my chest as she peers at the screen. Then she lifts her head and looks at me with a peculiar spark in her eyes. “Are you a hacker?” she asks, perceptive. I snap the laptop shut, staring at her eyes that are way too close to mine. “You are a hacker,” she repeats, this time with an intelligent smile, because she knows she caught me. “Are you my brother’s groupie waiting around for a threesome?” “I’m more famous than he is. Why would I be his groupie?” “Then do you want a threesome?” I press, irritated. “Because I don’t do that s**t, so get the hell away from me.” She studies my face, almost meticulously, as if she’s trying to read me. “Do I make you nervous?” Her question makes me laugh. Does this little firecracker with freckles and an infuriating addiction to chocolate really think she does anything to me? Ridiculous. Laughable. And f*****g irritating. Slowly, I set the laptop aside and lean toward her with calculated ease, forcing her to move back until her spine presses against the armrest of the sofa and her perky breasts stretch the thin straps of her tank top. Angel face, devil-tempting body; too bad I’m an expert at feeling absolutely nothing. I watch her: her fake bravado, the way she thinks a smile or a word will put me at her feet. Katarina Volkov. Now I remember. Reid has mentioned her more than once at family dinners. Actress since childhood, with award-winning parents. Born into luxury, with the world at her feet. My brother seems to have a soft spot for her, but not in a romantic way; it’s more like he wants to protect her from the s**t he’s involved in. Being a rising rock star has its cost, and my brother signed away his soul with full awareness. I wonder if she knows who she’s friends with. I study her face slowly: her large gray eyes, her small but straight nose that gives her character, and those red lips that look like they’ve just been stung by a bee. I blink—and when I catch myself staring at her lips for too long, I drop my gaze to her chest, where her n*****s are already greeting me. I smile. So damn predictable. I wonder if it’s my brother she wants or me—and the mere thought pisses me off; the reaction unsettles me and makes me hate her a little more. Who the hell is she? And why the f**k do I care who she wants to f**k? “Do I look nervous to you?” I ask, locking my eyes on hers. She holds my gaze—already a rare feat. Not many people can. They say eyes are the window to the soul, but if the soul is empty, you can drown in a deep pit of absolutely nothing. Does she not see I could devour her whole if I wanted to? And rip her into pieces… small, irreparable pieces no one could ever put back together. I wonder if I’d enjoy it. While I weigh how far I’d get by playing with her, how much of her fake ice I could melt, she does something that actually surprises me—knocks me slightly off balance. She lifts her face and presses her lips against mine. The little i***t. We both stare at each other, eyes wide open, while her plump lips provoke mine, catching my bottom lip in a long, slow suck that makes me growl. I pull back, but she follows, trapping my lip again in a firm, lingering suction that tastes like Nutella. Fuck, I hate Nutella. My hand shoots to her waist and I squeeze her with a grip so firm it makes her tremble. I push her back into the sofa, guiding her soft body exactly where I want it. She falls back with a restrained gasp, a satisfied smile curving her lips as her eyes drop to my mouth—probably flushed from her assault. She looks pleased with herself, like she won some game by getting a reaction out of me; like her sole purpose on this earth is to piss me off… and she succeeded. I hate her. I look at her with almost manic rage, and—surprising even myself—I do something I’ve never done before: I lower my face to hers and bite her lip. Hard. I taste her blood in my mouth, and when I pull back, I brush my thumb over her lip, wiping the red liquid with my finger. I stare at the scandalous stain on my skin, then at her equally stained mouth, and bring my thumb to my lips to savor what’s left of her blood. Perfect. Katarina Volkov looks at me, frozen, breathing hard, torn between staring at my eyes or my mouth, unable to choose. She thinks she can play with me? I wouldn’t let her make a single move before I tear her apart. And she’s already beginning to understand it. The air is heavy, charged, so tense our breaths sound like war drums, invading the space between us. An ice princess… she thought she could handle me, but she has no idea the predator here is me. I lean in, sliding my nose along the curve of her neck in an involuntary movement. My eyes shut when her scent hits me, invading my lungs like a vice. Unable to stop myself, I stay there for several long seconds… until finally I bring my mouth to her ear. “You don’t want to play with me, Katarina,” I murmur, tasting her name on my tongue, and she closes her eyes as if she’s tasting it too. “I’m not afraid of blood; I seek it… and you don’t want me getting addicted to yours.” With that final warning, I pull away, grab my laptop, and lock myself in my room. And I keep tasting her, not her blood… but her. Warning: Killian is not a hero, he is an anti-hero who is willing to do absolutely anything for Katarina, if this is not your kind of book, please refrain from reading it. This is the second book of The Colleman Brothers. It is recommended to read The Rockstar's Redemption first, in order to better understand the events.