Author: Jax Hart
Genre: Enemies to Lovers/Dark Romance/Mafia Romance
Release Date: November 12, 2020
I'm a bad man.
This is my story. The one where I find my redemption. But it's not pretty. My words are full of passion, spilling across pages in bold ink.
But I'm warning you, I'm not some unsung hero. I'm dark. Dangerous...deadly.
This story catapulted me into international celebrity status. Is is true? Or is it fiction? You decide. But it all did start one day with a girl with flaming hair and smug eyes who met a boy turning into a man. He was filled with so much darkness he wanted to steal all her light...
Some say I'm a hero. Others a villain. My nickname is Romeo Roque, but I'm just a Savage Poet.
Don't say you weren't warned.
Oh yeah and my bestie Johnny, he got screwed over by a woman, too. When he gets his revenge for her breaking his heart... it's pretty savage, too. I included his story after mine, for free. Because it's just that good.
Note: This is the entire Salvatore Syndicate Trilogy with bonus chapters including The #2 Guy.
Can a character in an author’s story write their own? I’ve had to triple my security. I’m not sure who is more dangerous, my enemies that always lurk in the shadows or my new sex-crazed, over-worked fans…?
“We’re live in three, two, one…”
“And we’re live on Bratva TV. I’m your host Alexi. We are here with none other than the king himself, the man of the moment ROQUE SALVATORE!!!!
Women scream. The bright lights make me wince. I turn, face the camera and give my smuggest smile with a special wink, knowing she’s on the other side of the lens, watching me. “It’s a pleasure to be here in Russia.”
“Tell us, is there really a Viktor, “The Russian?”
“Of course, there must be millions.” The audience laughs. My rivals seethe. I’ve turned the mob, the cartels, every crime organization on its head with my defense. I’ve fictionalized them all while they go between admiring me and hating me more. I’ve exposed our dirty, dark underworld in five hundred plus pages of pages that smell freshly printed. I’m a number one bestselling author in ten countries. My movie is set to premiere in six months. I’m no longer a suspected mafia Don but a beloved bestseller. “Savage Poet” made the NYT and USA Today. I can’t wait until it smashes the box office.
“Where is your leading lady? We all want to know!”
“Watching this show, of course!”
More laughter rings out. I’m killing this interview. “What inspired you? How did you come up with this crazy story?”
I school my face into a mix of pain and sadness. Looking down, I perfect the perfect tortured look and hunch forward as if I’m about to spill the biggest secret on the planet… the audience bends forward toward me and holds its breath. “My family was the mob. The Salvatore’s and The Fiorelli’s have been blood enemies for generations. My father did order me to kill the girl and avenge my family.” Shocked gasps echo around the studio. “But I couldn’t do it. I fell in love at fifteen and that was it. She was it for me from the moment we met…”
The gasps turn to sighs as all the women’s eyes glaze over wanting that HEA for themselves.
“Some say it’s not fiction. A few anonymous sources have called major news networks claiming they have proof your book is a memoir not a ‘dark romance.’ What do you say?”
“Please, I laugh. No one could get away with a fraction of that shit. Of course it’s fiction.” But I wink at the audience, grinning my ass off.
“When is your next book coming out?”
“I’m focusing on my poetry right now. Would you like me to read one of my latest pieces?”
Everyone starts clapping. I reach inside my Tom Ford suit, finding my new leather journal hidden inside the inside pocket. I clear my throat as I flip open the pages until I find the one poem that I keep going back to… the one that haunts my own soul. “It’s called Sub Rosa. That means ‘happening or done in secret’ in Latin.” My fingers still on the page, tracing the title she penned in that loopy cursive of hers. I wrote the poem, but I wanted her ink on the title.
“I betrayed the dead when I gave you back your life. The scent of your fear was the sweetest perfume. Your skin blushed like the fairest pink rose.
Just like that my dark soul was exposed. I purged you in ink but the pages bled. Over and over like a song on repeat, you were in my head.
So I tried something else, taking you to bed. In the dark hours you came for me. Cried out for the one who took and gave everything in return. Over and over we burned. Was it real or just a dream? Only you and I know the truth of every dark deed.
Sub rosa my love, under the rose; sealed with poisoned lips doth do I pledge my last kiss.”
I finish to silence. “Doth wasn’t a typo. It was a nod to the old Shakespearean language. It's the artist in me to mix one word from that time in my modern poem.”
The audience stands. “A standing ovation for Roque Salvatore! Stay tuned, hot kitty is up next and more from the contestants from sink or swim!” The lights fade. “And we’re off.”
I deftly unclip the mic from the lapel of jacket. I’m such a fucking good actor. The darkest new golden boy in Hollywood. I’m only doing all this publicity to keep myself and my woman out of jail. It’s already been polled. It won’t look good for the current administration to lock up the couple everyone on the planet is rooting for.
I wave as I exit the stage and practically run into my hired car. “Where to Mr. Salvatore?”
“The airport. I have a plane to Switzerland to catch.” I take out my bestseller with my own face on the cover. It’s vain as fuck but the publisher felt my face and body could outsell every other book if I agreed to do it. Hell, the luscious fans are right. This isn’t a romance but a memoir. A real-life story… and I’m guilty as hell for every crime I wrote down… I open the first chapter and lose myself in my own words. Maybe I truly am a narcissistic ass after all but the story is damn good. Everyone agrees…
“We’re live in three, two, one…”
“And we’re live on Bratva TV. I’m your host Alexi. We are here with none other than the king himself, the man of the moment ROQUE SALVATORE!!!!
Women scream. The bright lights make me wince. I turn, face the camera and give my smuggest smile with a special wink, knowing she’s on the other side of the lens, watching me. “It’s a pleasure to be here in Russia.”
“Tell us, is there really a Viktor, “The Russian?”
“Of course, there must be millions.” The audience laughs. My rivals seethe. I’ve turned the mob, the cartels, every crime organization on its head with my defense. I’ve fictionalized them all while they go between admiring me and hating me more. I’ve exposed our dirty, dark underworld in five hundred plus pages of pages that smell freshly printed. I’m a number one bestselling author in ten countries. My movie is set to premiere in six months. I’m no longer a suspected mafia Don but a beloved bestseller. “Savage Poet” made the NYT and USA Today. I can’t wait until it smashes the box office.
“Where is your leading lady? We all want to know!”
“Watching this show, of course!”
More laughter rings out. I’m killing this interview. “What inspired you? How did you come up with this crazy story?”
I school my face into a mix of pain and sadness. Looking down, I perfect the perfect tortured look and hunch forward as if I’m about to spill the biggest secret on the planet… the audience bends forward toward me and holds its breath. “My family was the mob. The Salvatore’s and The Fiorelli’s have been blood enemies for generations. My father did order me to kill the girl and avenge my family.” Shocked gasps echo around the studio. “But I couldn’t do it. I fell in love at fifteen and that was it. She was it for me from the moment we met…”
The gasps turn to sighs as all the women’s eyes glaze over wanting that HEA for themselves.
“Some say it’s not fiction. A few anonymous sources have called major news networks claiming they have proof your book is a memoir not a ‘dark romance.’ What do you say?”
“Please, I laugh. No one could get away with a fraction of that shit. Of course it’s fiction.” But I wink at the audience, grinning my ass off.
“When is your next book coming out?”
“I’m focusing on my poetry right now. Would you like me to read one of my latest pieces?”
Everyone starts clapping. I reach inside my Tom Ford suit, finding my new leather journal hidden inside the inside pocket. I clear my throat as I flip open the pages until I find the one poem that I keep going back to… the one that haunts my own soul. “It’s called Sub Rosa. That means ‘happening or done in secret’ in Latin.” My fingers still on the page, tracing the title she penned in that loopy cursive of hers. I wrote the poem, but I wanted her ink on the title.
“I betrayed the dead when I gave you back your life. The scent of your fear was the sweetest perfume. Your skin blushed like the fairest pink rose.
Just like that my dark soul was exposed. I purged you in ink but the pages bled. Over and over like a song on repeat, you were in my head.
So I tried something else, taking you to bed. In the dark hours you came for me. Cried out for the one who took and gave everything in return. Over and over we burned. Was it real or just a dream? Only you and I know the truth of every dark deed.
Sub rosa my love, under the rose; sealed with poisoned lips doth do I pledge my last kiss.”
I finish to silence. “Doth wasn’t a typo. It was a nod to the old Shakespearean language. It's the artist in me to mix one word from that time in my modern poem.”
The audience stands. “A standing ovation for Roque Salvatore! Stay tuned, hot kitty is up next and more from the contestants from sink or swim!” The lights fade. “And we’re off.”
I deftly unclip the mic from the lapel of jacket. I’m such a fucking good actor. The darkest new golden boy in Hollywood. I’m only doing all this publicity to keep myself and my woman out of jail. It’s already been polled. It won’t look good for the current administration to lock up the couple everyone on the planet is rooting for.
I wave as I exit the stage and practically run into my hired car. “Where to Mr. Salvatore?”
“The airport. I have a plane to Switzerland to catch.” I take out my bestseller with my own face on the cover. It’s vain as fuck but the publisher felt my face and body could outsell every other book if I agreed to do it. Hell, the luscious fans are right. This isn’t a romance but a memoir. A real-life story… and I’m guilty as hell for every crime I wrote down… I open the first chapter and lose myself in my own words. Maybe I truly am a narcissistic ass after all but the story is damn good. Everyone agrees…
Jax Hart: Singer, a songwriter, living creatively through art. Dirty Romance author from the great state of Washington. Duke is his first full-length novel. He generally hates most people, plays the bass guitar, and enjoys camping trips with his son.
Connect with him online.
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