The Mute Mafia King Is My Fiancé’s Nephew.

Good friends… we meet again. ❤️

Ian’s story is finally here, and I honestly can’t wait for you all to join me on this journey.

First of all, if you read the previous book in this series, you’ll remember that although I mentioned once or twice that Ian hardly spoke, but he did speak. After spending more time with his character, I decided to lean fully into that part of his personality because it simply felt right. A lot happened in Ian’s life that shaped him into the man you’ll meet in this book, and I promise every bit of it will make sense as his story unfolds.

I have a feeling you’ll be just like Kimora—determined to figure him out, frustrated by him, intrigued by him, and maybe even a little obsessed with him.

So come with me as we begin Ian and Kimora’s story. I truly believe this is my most dramatic, funniest, and most chaotic book yet, and I can’t wait to experience every twist with you.

As always, thank you for reading, commenting, adding the book to your libraries, and supporting me. It means more than you know. ❤️

Kimora

The zip tie cut into my wrists the moment I understood I was awake. For several long seconds, I couldn't remember where I was, my mind swimming through a thick haze that refused to clear. 

Then, all at once, the memories came crashing back with enough force to make my stomach lurch. The sickly-sweet cloth pressed over my mouth in the back seat of my own car. My driver's startled shout. The violent swerve that threw me against the leather seat. Then... nothing. 

Just an endless stretch of darkness that seemed to swallow hours of my life whole before finally spitting me back out into this cold, miserable room. 

My head pounded as I slowly lifted it, blinking through the dizziness. The room around me was little more than cracked concrete walls, a flickering light overhead, and the smell of dampness mixed with rust and stale gasoline. 

Every tiny movement caused the plastic restraints around my wrists to dig deeper into my skin, while the bitter metallic taste coating my tongue made me wonder what exactly they'd drugged me with. 

Panic tried to claw its way up my throat, but I forced it back down. Panicking had never solved anything. Observing usually did.

Two men stood a few feet away near the only door, arguing amongst themselves in voices that were meant to be quiet but weren't nearly quiet enough. "Should've waited for the signal," one muttered irritably. 

“The signal was three days ago," the other shot back. "You want to keep her waiting? The old man already thinks we botched the first attempt." 

The taller man scoffed. "That's because we did botch the first attempt." 

“Keep your voice down." 

“She's tied to a chair, not deaf." He jerked his chin lazily in my direction without actually bothering to look at me. "Besides, it doesn't matter what she hears. She's not walking out of here to repeat any of it." 

The second man folded his arms. "Boss said no marks. He wants her presentable when he hands her back." 

“Boss isn't the one who has to sit here listening to her complain about the ambiance." 

I ignored the insult entirely, choosing instead to memorize every useful thing they'd accidentally handed me. The old man. The first attempt. Hand her back. 

That last one sat uneasily in my chest. If they intended to kill me, why were they talking about returning me? Returning me to who? And why did that thought somehow terrify me more than the kidnapping itself?

I cleared my throat, the sound scraping painfully against it. "Excuse me." Both men stopped talking. "Not that I'm not enjoying this riveting conversation, but is there any chance I could get some water? Apparently I'm supposed to stay presentable and dehydration really isn't flattering on anybody." 

They turned to stare at me with identical expressions of disbelief. "She's awake," the taller one announced. 

I blinked at him. "Really? Outstanding observation skills. Have you considered detective work? No? Kidnapping's more your thing? Fair enough. Everyone deserves a career they're passionate about." 

He sighed heavily before crossing the room toward me. Up close, he smelled of cheap cologne, stale cigarettes, and something underneath both that took me a second to identify. Fear. Odd. Not mine. His. 

He crouched until we were eye level, studying me like he couldn't quite figure out whether I was stupid or simply insane. "You should be quiet." 

I smiled politely. "I could be. But then you two would have to go back to arguing about your boss's feelings, and honestly, I think I'm doing wonders for the atmosphere."

His jaw tightened. "She talks a lot for someone tied to a chair." 

“I contain multitudes," I replied without missing a beat. "Also, statistically speaking, people who talk too much before they die tend to be remembered longer. I'm simply thinking ahead." 

The second man barked out a laugh before quickly catching himself, looking almost offended that I'd managed to amuse him. "Shut up," he muttered. 

“Make me." I shrugged as much as my tied arms allowed. "Actually... you can't. Why? Because your boss wants me looking pretty when he gets me back. That really limits your options, doesn't it?" 

The slap came so fast I barely registered his hand moving. My head whipped violently to the side, pain exploding across my cheek as my ears rang and the room blurred around me. White spots danced across my vision, my chair creaking beneath me as I struggled to stay upright. 

Oddly enough, the pain grounded me. It gave me something else to focus on besides the fear sitting like ice inside my stomach. I'd been terrified from the moment the car failed to stop at my house. I just happened to be better at hiding it than most people.

"Still got a mouth on her," the man muttered. I slowly lifted my head again, blinking away the tears that threatened to gather from the sting. 

"I..." I swallowed carefully before forcing out a crooked smile. "...contain multitudes." The words sounded weaker this time, earning another laugh from the second man. 

He muttered something in a dialect I didn't completely understand, though I caught enough to know it wasn't exactly a compliment. 

I stored it away anyway. Languages. Accents. Faces. Voices. Tiny details had kept me alive much longer than being likable ever had, and if I somehow survived this, I intended to remember every single one of theirs.

The warehouse door suddenly exploded inward with such force that I nearly screamed. 

The sound echoed violently through the room, making both men whirl around just as three gunshots shattered the silence. One. Two. Three. Fast. Clean. Brutally precise. 

Neither kidnapper even managed to reach for his weapon before collapsing onto the concrete floor, blood rapidly pooling beneath them. 

The silence that followed was somehow louder than the gunfire itself. My breathing caught somewhere in my throat as I stared toward the ruined doorway, every sarcastic remark I'd been preparing evaporating instantly. 

A man stood there dressed entirely in black. Not the cheap, ill-fitting black clothes my captors wore, but an expensive tailored suit that somehow remained immaculate despite whatever violence he'd just walked through. 

His shoulders were broad enough to block the light pouring in behind him, his dark hair perfectly in place, and his face... God. His face looked as though someone had sculpted it purely to intimidate the rest of humanity.

He held the gun loosely at his side, not like a man who had just killed two people, but like someone who'd already forgotten he'd been holding it in the first place. 

He never once looked at the bodies bleeding out across the floor. Not once. His attention settled entirely on me, his dark amber eyes calmly moving over my bruised face, my restrained wrists, every visible injury, assessing me with such unnerving composure that my pulse stumbled. 

There wasn't triumph in his expression. There wasn't pity either. No anger. No satisfaction. Nothing. Just a terrifying stillness that somehow made him infinitely more dangerous than the two dead men lying only feet away. 

I had no idea who he was. I only knew one thing with absolute certainty. The men who'd kidnapped me hadn't been the most dangerous people in this room. They'd simply been unfortunate enough to stand between me... and whatever had just walked through that door.

“Well,” I said, somehow managing to keep my voice steady despite the bodies bleeding out at his feet. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.”

He didn't react.

Not even a flicker.

He simply walked toward me with slow, measured steps that carried none of the urgency of a man who had just shot two people. His polished shoes echoed softly against the concrete floor until he stopped directly in front of me. 

Then he crouched, almost exactly the way my captor had done only minutes ago, except everything about him felt... different. There was no cruelty in the movement. No desire to intimidate me. His eyes swept over my face with quiet precision, lingering briefly on the swelling already forming along my cheek before moving lower to my wrists where the zip ties had cut angry red grooves into my skin. 

They paused at the dried blood gathered at the corner of my lip before continuing their silent inspection, assessing every visible injury with detached efficiency. 

It reminded me of someone examining damage after a car accident, carefully noting every scratch before deciding whether it could be repaired. Somehow, that calm assessment unsettled me more than if he'd rushed over asking whether I was alright.

"I'm fine, by the way," I said into the silence. "Thank you for asking. Or... thank you for the overwhelming concern your face is radiating. Very comforting." He neither blinked nor acknowledged my sarcasm. Instead, a knife appeared in his hand so smoothly I genuinely had no idea where he'd hidden it.