Prologue

The wolf is my addiction now, an illicit attraction, and therefore a crime my mouth commits just thinking of him. I don’t think of the consequences this sin will bring, yielding as I do to the desires of his criminal mouth.

He drove with a fury, hatred, and loss of control that roared within him. The thirst for vengeance against that bastard intensified; his breathing grew increasingly ragged as he neared the agreed-upon meeting place. Adrenaline surged, triggering a deranged urge—a terrible desire to end Luca’s life with a single gunshot.

The wolf would blow his brains out. No one had ordered him to meddle in his affairs. He had Luna under his control, and he wanted her for himself, just as his father had asked.

Not in the hands of the enemy—in this case, the head of the Italian mafia.

The girl was his, and tonight he would rescue her.

"I’ve arrived. If I have everything under control, I don't want any interference, understood? Over," he spoke through the comms.

"Understood, boss. Over."

"I'm stepping out of the car, K71. Over and out," he warned.

He slammed his tires against the asphalt. Darkness violently reigned when he killed the convertible's headlights. Alek grabbed the gun at his waist, but also picked up a Colt .45 from the dashboard, stepping out and scanning the perimeter. Euphoria—the desire to roll heads on that dark July night—flowed through his veins like an anxious snake eager to inject its venom.

He advanced with firm, unhesitating steps, reaffirming the absolute confidence of his movements. He was ready to pull the trigger, even if he managed to make Frattini surrender and hand over the supposed defective "merchandise."

He was going to kill him for meddling anyway.

She wasn't the primary target—that was Grace, his mother’s daughter by another man. But once Luna entered the picture, the young woman had become a target.

Dimitri had thought it an excellent idea to take the wrong girl, since she was also Gregg’s daughter, and his traitorous wife wanted her just like her own.

He had plans—perverse and dark ones. He visualized a brown-haired girl crying out for mercy, begging for an end to the violence. The taste of her tears mixed with the sweat of desperation and blood was like sweet candy in his mouth.

Yet the plan had changed. He decided to give her to his son on one condition: that he torture her and ultimately dispose of her. Most importantly, he was to send her family photographs of the girl in the worst possible condition—images guaranteed to cause absolute consternation.

Aleksander hadn't hesitated to accept those conditions and the gift that had already been stolen from him.

Konstantinov glanced around the area. At night, Sardinia was completely different from daytime; the blue sky had transformed into a black void, and the summer heat had turned cold. A smile crept across his face, surrounded by the terrifying atmosphere that so fascinated his gloomy soul.

It was quite a spectacle, but without lights or spotlights—hidden beneath the cloak of darkness, just the way he liked it.

"Why don't you come out of your hiding place, you damned bastard?" he roared at the top of his lungs, a deep growling resonance tearing from his throat. He heard approaching footsteps followed by a cold laugh, and then the man he was referring to appeared.

"Oh, Aleksander, cut the insults. We aren't going to get anywhere like that," the man said calmly, taking one last drag of his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and crushing it with the toe of his shoe.

The Russian never once averted his furious gaze from him. Rage pulsed through the veins in his neck and showed in the tight clench of his jaw. He distrusted men like this; he needed to study his movements, his intentions, and what he planned to do, even if the man seemed imperturbable.

Any mistake could be a trap—an ambush.

He swept the area with fierce eyes, wondering if his men were hiding in the sparse grass.

"Who did you come with? Speak!" he demanded, focusing on the nonchalant man.

"Alone. I haven't broken my word. I hope you haven't either, Konstantinov," the man replied, clearly doubting the Russian was unprotected. "Lower the weapon."

Aleksander smiled maliciously, slowly lowering his pistol and holding it with a firm grip. He wasn't stupid enough to drop it on the ground.

"I'm a lone wolf tonight," he announced in a growl.

"Or a kitten," the man mocked, letting out a laugh.

Alek pressed his lips together, annoyed and exasperated.

"Listen to me, Konstantinov, I'm not giving you the girl unless you hand over the merchandise arriving Wednesday night at the port. It's that or nothing."

The Russian absorbed the words. The damned guy was asking a fortune in exchange for something that already belonged to him. Damn it.

"What? I'm not giving you a damn thing. Who do you think you're talking to, you despicable rat? I won't give you the satisfaction, Luca," he asserted without lowering his guard.

"Go to hell, then! The girl stays mine," Luca retorted, making a sudden move that Aleksander anticipated just in time, raising his gun to fire the first shot.

In response, Luca managed to graze Konstantinov’s arm—a scratch as insignificant as a wounded feline whining on the ground. The Russian advanced, emptying every bullet into the Italian's body, who was claimed by death in a heartbeat.

The inert, bloodsoaked man was just another prey for the wolf.

Alek stared down at him coldly, as if searching for a lingering trace of life to extinguish.

"Only an idiot thinks he can come alone. Now you're dead," he muttered, holstering his gun.

He communicated through his device again, signaling his men to step out of the shadows.

In the trunk of the Italian's car, he found the dying, defenseless girl. Viktor Volkov arrived with four other armed men, who took charge of finishing her off.

Once she was loaded into the back of the armored SUV Volkov was driving, Aleksander blew the enemy's car to pieces.

Then he walked away, climbed into the BMW, and started the engine.

"The mission was a success."