Black Hearted Devil - Embroidery Cover - Ebook

She's a fighter. He's a widower. Their age gap is problematic. Their blackened hearts don't care...

For seventeen-year-old Gabriella Mitchell, every day is a fight. With her father long gone and her alcoholic mother completely checked out, she needs cash quickly or she’ll lose her siblings to the foster care system. Stumbling into mixed martial arts by accident, she finds a way to pay the bills, but is shocked when the local gym owner rejects her application to train under him.

Micah “Diablo” Kennedy guards his heart with his fists and his lethal tongue. Having sworn off training women after the death of his wife and son, he's forced to change his tune when Gabbi smacks down one of his best fighters. When he finds himself attracted to the determined teen, he refuses to acknowledge the opportunity for a second chance at happiness.

She’s a powerhouse, and he has no idea what to do with her, other than push her away… for both their sakes.

As their taboo emotions intensify, Gabbi and Diablo battle their protective instincts and an intruding world of vice and violence.

Will the broken-hearted teen and the self-proclaimed black-hearted devil accept that they’re stronger together before life knocks them out for the count?

Black-Hearted Devil is a gritty MMA meets MC novel that takes place in the Australian mixed martial arts gym owned by the Black Shamrocks MC. This 100,000-word standalone is the first book in the Blackards MMA series of interconnected novels. A dark tale of salvation and found family, this novel is set in a world where getting knocked down leaves you with no choice but to get back to your feet.

• BDSM elements 
• Drug use 
• Profanity 
• Violence 
• Emotional manipulation 
• Torture (on page, descriptive) 
• Non-consensual sex (under coersion)  
• Love triangle (readers may feel some events constitute cheating) 
• Dub-con (under coersion)  
• Attempted suicide of a main character 
• Pregnancy and birth complications 
• Infertility 
• Mentions of Abortion 
• Body Dysmorphia 
• Mental illness 
• Intellectual disability 
• Menage (MFM) 

Prologue

Diablo

Five years earlier

Blood streaks down the worn handgrips of my Harley when I roll on the throttle to lead the funeral procession. Bright and sticky against the faded neoprene-rubber blend. My blood, it seeps into the edges of my fingerless gloves to become an eternal reminder of this moment. Residue of the injury I self- inflicted when I punched the wall before Venom dragged me out of the empty gym to accompany the hearses on their final journey. 

Hearses.

Plural.

Fucking unfair...  

Rather than focus on the slow-moving convoy travelling down the main throughfare at snail’s pace, I flex my fingers. A sharp twinge. More blood. Throbbing ache. The sting that radiates through my hand every time I curl my fingers tighter around the throttle is edifying.

Pain is the only thing keeping me from unravelling.

The hearses roll ahead, slow and deliberate, dragging the weight of two coffins in their bellies. Mari. My wife. Twenty-six years old. Brave, reckless, too goddamn good for this world. Josiah. My boy. Eight years old and full of life. Already a warrior, already a joker, already a better person than I’ll ever be.

Another rev.

Extra sting.

Lonely in a crowd of people.

That thought cuts through me, sharp as glass. I grind my teeth, rev the throttle harder. The Harley’s roar blends with the storm swelling behind me. Rows of brothers from the Black Shamrocks MC. Hundreds of motorcycles, thunder filling the streets. Sydney, Perth, Brisbane, Melbourne, Adelaide. Riders from New York, Chicago, London, Dublin, and Naples. Every patch that bears the iconic shamrock skull emblem is here. Old ladies. Prospects. Hangabouts. Their kids.

Every person is her to support me in body and spirit.

Yet I am alone in this loss.

As one, we move down Mount Druitt’s central strip. Both sides of the street are jammed with people. Civilians. Kids Mari tutored at the gym. Mothers who came to her when they had nowhere else to go. Men who’d have been corpses or criminals if she hadn’t dragged them into the ring and taught them how to throw punches instead wielding of knives. Josiah’s schoolmates stand in a tight knot, their tiny faces blotchy and wet.

Signs bob above the crowd.

We’ll miss you, Mari.

Rest in peace, Josiah.

Forever Blackards.

We back the Shamrocks.

They watch me like I’m the one holding this whole street together.

Like I’m the pillar Mari always swore I was.

If they only knew.

Inside, I am a blackened, withered, husk of a man.

A body with a heartbeat, but no heart.

The cemetery looms. Gravel crunches under tyres as the hearses roll to a stop. I kill the engine, swing my leg over the Harley, and strip off my gloves. My busted knuckles throb like they’re alive, pulsing with enough pain to keep me on task when I’d rather turn on my heel and sprint for the familiarity of the Blackards gym.

We gather around the graves in a monolith. Rows of leather, cuts creaking, chains jangling in the breeze. My National president, Brutus Mayberry, towers at the front. His arms are folded over his barrel chest. His face is cut from granite. Venom shifts beside him, eyes flat and watchful. Slash and Toker hang back, smoking, both looking like they’d rather be throwing punches than standing still. Little Cherub’s a shadow at Venom’s side—eighteen, too-thin, pale, eyes darting like a trapped bird.

She’s a mess.

The closest to outwardly matching my insides.

Our chaplain, Cassius, steps up. Bible in hand, voice rolling low, he addresses the masses. He speaks of Mari’s compassion, of her fire, of how she gave everything she had to everyone she touched. He reminds us of Josiah’s laughter, of the future stolen from him. His voice is steady, but grief threads through every syllable.

I barely hear it, let alone register the words in my head.

All I see are those coffins.

All I feel is the emptiness in my chest—the hollowness consuming me like a black hole.

“Brother.” Cassius turns to me as he asks, “Would you like to speak?”

I snap.

“Fuck no.”

My voice is a rasp.

Rough from all the whiskey I’ve downed since I got the call.

Hoarse from too much screaming, then a prolonged absence of use.

“Micah...” Slipping out of biker mode, he uses my civilian name. “I will stand with you.”

“Fuck off, Cass.” Gasps ripple through the mourners as I shout, “You can’t stand with me because you aren’t me. You’ve lost a friend. I’ve lost my heart—” My gaze strays to Mari’s casket before landing on the smaller one holding my dead son’s body. “—and my fuckin’ soul.”

Hand out, ready to stop my exit, Angelo’s face twists when I glare at him. He meets my hostile gaze with a beseeching one. His jaw is set hard. His glass eye adds an eerie element to his unspoken pleading for me to lean on him.

In Mari’s absences, Angelo would normally be my first port of call.

My brother-in-law.

Mari’s brother.

The man who was taking a piss behind the servo while my wife and kid bled out.

I hate him.

Innately understanding that I would be crossing a line if I said that out loud, I spin on my heel and shove past Cassius. Our shoulders smash. Leather and muscle. He steps aside. Let’s me stride away. Skin crawling with awareness, I slam my helmet down on my head. Thumb the ignition. Kick up the stand.

Harley roaring.

Gravel spitting.

I tear off like the devil himself is nipping at my heels.

Which is fucking ridiculous since I am Diablo...

Halfway to the gym, I hear them.

Venom and his Lily.

Slash.

Toker.

They ride behind me. Their tyres squeal when I motor through the intersection on the amber light and they follow. I don’t slow to take the next corner. Don’t care that I run wide and swerve into oncoming traffic.

If I hit a truck, so be it.

At least it’d end this hollow ache.

By the time I slam through Blackards’ gates, my throat is raw from screaming curses into the helmet. I kill the engine, stumble inside, and lock myself in the office.

A bottle of Jack is waiting.

My only solace.

The attendees flood the wake. They pack the gym from wall to wall. Mourners spill into the ring. Perched onto the stacked mats. Loiter around the heavy bags. Music thumps low. Beer bottles clink. Laughter rings out, jagged and too bright for the occasion. Whiskey burns my throat as I pretend not to listen while they trade stories of Mari’s stubborn refusal to give up on them. A ghost of a smile curves my lips at my sister-in-law’s description of Josiah’s cheeky grin.

They toast to their memories.

Every word slices me open.

Cut after cut.

Bleeding me out.

Bottle in hand, I sink into the deepest shadows at the rear of my office when Venom breaks the lock on the door. He enters with Slash and Toker. They settle on the floor, backs to the wall, bracketing me. The two blond men on one side, Venom and little Cherub on the other.

We drink together.

Mourn in silence.

It’s macabre, but my gaze keeps straying to Cherub.

She’s curled into herself. Tense. Eyes clued to the floor, the small sips she takes of her drink are the only sign that she’s aware of our presence. Feeling the heat of my perusal, her eyes flick to mine.

For a second, I see recognition.

Lilianna Mayberry is as broken as I am.

Too young to carry scars.

Except, scars don’t care about age.

“You good?” Venom mutters. His voice is gravel. His gaze is piercing when he looks at me. “Not gonna blow up again?”

I laugh, bitter and hollow. “Do I look good to you?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just grips my shoulder and squeezes.

For a moment, it’s enough.

Then Angelo’s voice cracks through the air.

He’s squared off with his estranged wife.

It’s a fight weeks in the making.

Been coming since Mari was pronounced dead.

Jen has been patient. Given him space to grieve his little sister. She’s hovered, offering solace without pushing. Accepted his distance without rebuke. Been a better person throughout this time than I would’ve if I’d been on the receiving end of Angelo’s belligerent refusal to acknowledge reality.

Her expression is stone, filled with resolution and despair.

The solitary glance she aims my way when I emerge from the office is filled with apology.

I shrug.

I get it.

You don’t get to choose when and how you break.

You just... break.

Their words are knives, slicing the fragile peace of the wake. Angelo’s face is red and furious. The sight of him—loud, alive, while Mari and Josiah lie cold in the ground—makes my vision tunnel. Venom reads my intentions before they’re properly set in my head. With Slash’s help, he keeps everyone back. Toker tucks his cousin in at his side and turns Cherub away from the violence I unleash.

I’m on Angelo in an instant.

My fist smashes into his jaw.

He reels backward, spits blood, then lunges to drive a hook into my ribs.

Pain, energizing, empowering, comfortingly familiar, floods me.

And I lose it...

“It’s your fault,” I roar, swinging wild, only stopping after I have made him bleed. “You let them die!”

“My fault?” he snarls back. His knuckles split my lip when I let him hit me. “Hardly. You trained her. Changed her. Made her like you.” I see the moment he decides that our decade long truce is over. Hatred, black and oily like the revulsion I feel for him, infects his features as he declares for everyone to hear, “If she’d never met you, my sister would be alive today.”

It goes off like sonic boom.

A nuclear explosion.

Detonating, then leaving an unusable wasteland in its wake.

The gym devolves into chaos. Shouting, my club bothers drag civilians outside. Beer bottles shatter. Someone yells for calm.

All the while, Angelo and I circle each other like rabid dogs.

We spit and snarl.

Feint and lunge.

Glare and curse.

Once the gym is empty of everyone not connected to the Shamrocks, Slash and Venom wedge themselves between us. Arms straining to hold us back, they shove our chests until there is enough space to cool things down.

I taste blood.

See it staining my skin.

I want more.

I want Angelo’s.

I want to bleed out my family’s killers.

“Not more.” Venom shoves me against the wall. He pushes onto his toes to get in my face. “Not now.”

“Nah, I disagree,” I inform him as I rip free of his grip. Chest heaving, I hold my arms out from my side and turn in a circle until everyone wearing a Shamrocks cut is looking at me. “Sydney’s goin’ support.” My chin lifts higher with every word I speak carries across the gym, “Blackards SMC—no more outlaw. I want a vote on it now.”

The words hang heavy.

My demand chokes the oxygen out of the air.

Never one to back down, Venom grabs my arm.

He drags me away out of hearing range to say, “You’re out of your mind. Brutus will use this. He’ll push harder. Don’t do it, brother. Don’t throw away Sydney because you’re drowning.”

I meet his eyes.

His stare is steady.

His grip is strong.

I understand what he’s saying.

But it has no effect on the hollowness in my chest.

“It’s already gone,” I murmur with a burning sigh. “It died with Mari and my boy.”

Brutus calls a vote.

Hands rise.

Some reluctant.

Some sure.

The vote passes.

By one.

Me.

Angelo’s laugh is jagged glass. “You weak cunt. Mari would’ve spat in your face. You disgrace her. You disgrace Josiah.” He turns to Brutus. “You still plannin’ to build up in Brisbane?”

My ex-president nods once.

“Then I’ll take it,” Angelo snarls. He pulls his cut from his shoulders and tears the Vice President patch from his lapel. Handing it to Brutus, he nods once. “Anyone who still bleeds Shamrock in Mari’s memory—come with me.”

And they most of them do.

Even some of the bikers who voted with me.

They drift toward Angelo.

Choose him.

Leave me.  

Alone.

Breathing deeply, Angelo steps close enough to fill my ear with his poison. “Sell me your share of the gym. And remember this—I’ll never forgive you. Not for Mari. Not for Josiah. You’re no hero. You’re nothing. Truth is, I’m glad Josiah didn’t live long enough to see what a weak spine his father really had.”

While Slash acts as a sentry and bodyguard to little Cherub, it takes Venom and Toker to hold me back before I rip out Angelo’s throat. Victory gleams in his eyes as he grabs his things, then follows Brutus out to the parking lot. One by one, the room empties of club brothers. The three bikers who’ve chosen to stay in Sydney hand Venom their cuts. I shuck mine with an insolent shrug and allow it to drop to the floor.

A desecration that was once unthinkable.

Cherub pulls me in for a tight hug. The tremors that run through her body almost break me, but I rally long enough to return her squeeze, then push her into Slash’s waiting arms so he can escort her outside. Next, Toker clamps a hand on my shoulder and makes me promise to call him if I need anything.

Venom lingers. “Come with us back to Perth. Don’t go through this alone.”

“Pass.” I shove him out the door and slam it shut. “Alone is all I want.”

The padlock clink is final when I barricade myself away from the world. Shadows from the moonlight sky outside stretch long on the mats through the uncovered windows. Silence swallows Blackards MMA gym whole.

Unsteady on my feet, I slide to the office floor. The discarded whiskey bottle is clutched tight to my chest. Flailing my hand at the top of my desk, I retrieve the frame that once sat pride of place. Head resting on the rough carpet beside the photo, I allow myself one look at happier times.

The day we opened this place.

The realisation of a long-term goal.

Angelo and me with Mari sandwiched between us with our eighteen-month-old son balanced on her hip. We were smiling like fools. Believing in an infinite number of tomorrows. A purple butterfly hovers in the foreground of the image. Posed perfectly with its wings spread, it looks photoshopped in rather than a real-life moment.

A picture-perfect moment.

One of too many to count.

I can hear Mari’s voice in my head, declaring the creature’s invasion as a good omen.

Closing my eyes, I remember how her cheeks flushed when I hit her with a knowing look.

Our first time together was amongst butterflies.

A magical experience re-endorsed by every new sighting of the winged insect since then.

As always, Angelo had scowled at the idea of his sister and me. He tried to hide it, but his face gave him away. Despite that, he helped us distract Josiah from climbing to his feet to chase the butterfly long enough to pose for the family photo.

Family.

My wife.

Our son.

Her overprotective brother.

I bury my face in my hands and sob until there’s nothing left.

Whiskey, blood, and tears pool beneath me.

My family is in the ground.

Angelo and I have opened war on each other.

My brothers are gone.

My life is ashes.

And, I know with a conviction borne from terminal heartbreak, that I will never love again.