Novels by Draven X

POV: DanteI knew the second the air in the room changed. One moment, I was navigating Isabella Cruz’s thinly veiled insults; the next thing I felt the back of my neck prickled with a warning I’d learned to trust in the trenches of the underworld. I scanned the room. Luca was gone. Marco was looking toward the east hallway with a focused, lethal intensity. And Elara was nowhere to be seen.“Where is she?” I asked, my voice a low vibration that made the socialite next to me flinch.“She went to the powder room, boss,” Marco muttered, stepping into my shadow. “I lost eyes for five seconds. There was a distraction.”I didn't wait for him to finish. I moved through the crowded ballroom like a blade through silk. Every instinct I possessed was screaming. I didn’t care about the optics anymore. I didn’t care if the feds watching the house saw the mask slip. When I reached the east wing, the silence was too heavy. I found the study door ajar. Inside, the air smelled of ozone and the faint

POV: ElaraIf the penthouse was a gilded cage, the dress Adriana laid out for me was the silk wrapping on a trap.It was a deep, midnight emerald, the color of a storm at sea. The silk felt like cool water against my skin, but as Adriana pulled the zipper up my spine, it felt like she was sealing me into a coffin. The gown was backless, elegant, and dangerously expensive. “You look like a Moretti,” Adriana remarked, her voice devoid of emotion as she pinned a diamond necklace around my throat. The stones were heavy, a cold weight reminding me of the price Dante had paid for my silence.“I look like a target,” I whispered to my reflection.My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I had tucked a small, slim flash drive into the hidden seam of my clutch. It contained the raw data of my investigation. If I could find a single unguarded laptop at the Cruz Gala, I could end this. But I also knew what I’d seen on Luca’s phone. “The bait is set”.I wasn't just walking into a party; I was

POV: ElaraSeven o’clock doesn’t arrive with a chime. It arrives with the sound of a deadbolt sliding open, a cold, mechanical reminder that my autonomy has been replaced by a schedule.Adriana, Dante’s household manager, stands in the doorway. She is the human personification of this penthouse: expensive, sharp, and entirely impenetrable. Dressed in a charcoal suit that looks like armor, she doesn’t use words when a cold stare will do. She was the one who received me when the guards dumped me here in the middle of the night, and she is the one who monitors my every breath now.“Mr. Moretti is expecting you in the dining hall,” Adriana says. Her voice is as thin and sharp as a razor blade.I’ve spent the last few hours doing more than just pacing. I’ve been mapping. I noted the frequency of the guards' rotations in the hallway, every fifteen minutes and the fact that the floor-to-ceiling windows are reinforced acrylic, not glass. You can’t break out of them, even if you had a chair he

POV: DanteI don’t usually hesitate. In the Moretti empire, hesitation is a terminal illness.People who see my face when they’re not meant to don’t get second chances. They don’t get to go home, hug their families, and promise to keep a secret. They get removed. It’s the only way to ensure the silence stays absolute. By every law I’ve lived by for thirty years, Elara Vance should already be dead.I watched her through the one-way glass of the interrogation room before stepping inside. She sat in the bolted-down chair, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles looked like polished bone. Her eyes, a striking hazel-green that shifted with the dim light, traced the concrete walls, the single flickering bulb, and the two armed shadows guarding the door. She wasn’t crying. She wasn't screaming. She was observing. That was the first problem. Most people in her position are too blinded by terror to notice details. But she was looking for exits. She was cataloging faces. "She saw your fac

POV: ElaraI am not supposed to be here, this looks like the wrong floor. The realization hits me the second the elevator doors glide open with a hushed whisper. The air shifts immediately thicker, colder, carrying the faint scent of aged wood, leather, and something metallic I can’t quite name.My pulse kicks up. I press the elevator button again, harder this time, but the panel stays dark. The doors have already sealed behind me with a soft, final click, trapping me in this unfamiliar hallway like a verdict.“Great,” I mutter under my breath, gripping my small clutch tightly. The sequins from my own design dig into my palm. I only wanted five minutes. Five minutes away from the pounding bass, the sweaty bodies rubbing against each other. As a 21 year old aspiring fashion designer still fighting for every break, I had jumped at the chance when my friend got me on the guest list for this high-end event on the upper floors of one of the city’s most elite skyscrapers.I told my friend