Marked by the Mafia devil’s heir

If stupidity were a criminal offense, I would be serving a life sentence without parole.

Because tell me why. Tell me why I decided to take a shortcut at midnight.

A shortcut. At night. Behind a massive hospital. Completely alone.

It’s like a lifetime of watching horror movies hadn't taught my generation a single damn thing. You don't walk down the dark alley. You don't investigate the weird noise. You just run.

But here I was, running dangerously late after a brutal, back-breaking shift at the hospital cafeteria. And let’s be totally clear—this wasn't some glamorous medical student life. There were no stethoscopes in my future. I was just surviving purely on cheap instant noodles, tap water, and vibes.

To make my night completely perfect, the sky was a threatening, bruised purple, and my cheap slippers were already betraying me by making an incredibly loud sound against the wet asphalt.

Chap. Chap. Chap.

"Alina, you’ll be fine. Just keep walking," I muttered to myself, rubbing my shivering arms.

BANG.

The gunshot shattered the night air, vibrating straight through my chest.

I froze so fast my ancestors probably felt the whiplash. My brain, possessing a normal human survival instinct, screamed: Run!

My legs, however, apparently wanted us dead. They decided: Let’s investigate.

Curiosity is a terminal disease, and I have it severely. Moving on autopilot, I crept forward until I was pressed flat against a cold, rusted dumpster, and slowly peeked around the metal edge.

Three men stood beneath a flickering yellow streetlight.

One was on his knees. Bleeding. Crying. Begging for a life that was already over. Another towering man held a heavy, black gun firmly to the back of his skull.

And the third man…

God forgive me, but even in the middle of a literal execution, my brain noted that he was illegally handsome.

He was impossibly tall, draped in a sharp, tailored black suit that probably cost more than I would earn in a decade. He had a chillingly calm face—the type of man who looks like he eats billionaires for breakfast. He wasn't shouting. He wasn't panicking. He just stood there with his hands buried in his pockets, looking like he owned death itself.

"Please!" the kneeling man screamed, his voice cracking with pure terror. "I didn't betray you, Lorenzo! I swear on my life, I didn't sell the secrets!"

The handsome devil—Lorenzo—let out a slow, bored sigh, like a customer forced to deal with terrible service at a restaurant. He didn't say a word. He just gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Thwip.

Another muffled shot. The kneeling man's body went completely limp, collapsing forward onto the wet concrete.

The grim reality of what I just saw hit me like a physical blow. A sharp, violent gasp ripped from my throat before I could slap my hands over my mouth.

It was, without a single doubt, the worst mistake of my entire existence.

Three heads snapped instantly toward my dark corner.

The devil's ice-blue eyes locked directly onto mine. They were piercing, cold, and entirely devoid of humanity. I stopped breathing. The air turned to pure frost in my lungs. He tilted his head slightly, studying me the way a scientist examines a strange new microbe under a microscope.

"Bring her," he said calmly. His smooth, low baritone voice cut right through the wind.

Excuse me? BRING WHO?!

The sheer terror finally broke my paralysis. I spun on my heels, kicked off my betrayal-slippers, and sprinted blindly into the dark alleyway.

"Stop her!" a harsh voice barked from behind me.

Adrenaline surged through my veins as I ran barefoot over the freezing, sharp gravel. I could hear the heavy, terrifying thud of combat boots slamming the asphalt right behind me. They were gaining. Fast.

I lunged toward the bright lights of the main street—safety was just twenty yards away.

But I didn't make it.

A massive, iron grip clamped down on my shoulder, violently ripping me backward. My feet left the ground, and before I could even draw a breath to scream, a heavy, suffocating black cloth was shoved over my head.

Plunging my world into absolute darkness.

“Give it to me, Alina,” he commanded softly, his blue eyes turning dark, the playful edge instantly vanishing.

I yanked the book back against my chest. “It’s poetry, Lorenzo. Unless you’re scared of a sonnet.”

“I’m scared of nothing.” His hand closed over mine, not violent, just absolute. “Which is exactly why I know you’re lying.”

He pried my fingers back one at a time, patient, like he had all the time in the world and my resistance was simply a formality he was choosing to enjoy. The book came free. The folded paper slipped loose from between the pages and fluttered toward the rug.

I lunged for it.

So did he.

Our hands collided over the paper, his palm crushing mine flat against the Persian rug, his whole body dropping down over me in the process. For one suspended second neither of us moved. His face hovered inches above mine, his breath ragged, his dark hair falling loose over his forehead for the first time since I’d met him — no longer the composed devil in a tailored suit, just a man who wanted something and hated that he had to fight a hostage for it.

“Move your hand,” he said quietly.

“Make me.”

His jaw ticked. Then his fingers pried mine open, one by one, and he lifted the paper out from under my palm.

He sat back on his heels and unfolded it.

I watched his face while he read it. I’d gotten good at reading Lorenzo De Luca’s face over the past week — the flicker before the mask “Give it to me, Alina,” he commanded softly, his blue eyes turning dark, the playful edge instantly vanishing.

I yanked the book back against my chest. “It’s poetry, Lorenzo. Unless you’re scared of a sonnet.”

“I’m scared of nothing.” His hand closed over mine, not violent, just absolute. “Which is exactly why I know you’re lying.”

He pried my fingers back one at a time, patient, like he had all the time in the world and my resistance was simply a formality he was choosing to enjoy. The book came free. The folded paper slipped loose from between the pages and fluttered toward the rug.

I lunged for it.

So did he.

Our hands collided over the paper, his palm crushing mine flat against the Persian rug, his whole body dropping down over me in the process. For one suspended second neither of us moved. His face hovered inches above mine, his breath ragged, his dark hair falling loose over his forehead for the first time since I’d met him — no longer the composed devil in a tailored suit, just a man who wanted something and hated that he had to fight a hostage for it.

“Move your hand,” he said quietly.

“Make me.”

His jaw ticked. Then his fingers pried mine open, one by one, and he lifted the paper out from under my palm.

He sat back on his heels and unfolded it.

I watched his face while he read it. I’d gotten good at reading Lorenzo De Luca’s face over the past week — the flicker before the mask slammed back down. This time the mask didn’t come back down fast enough.

His eyes went to the handwriting. Then to me.

“Where did you find this.”

“In a ledger. Top shelf.” No point lying about that part — he’d have the cameras.

“You know this handwriting.”

It wasn’t a question. I said nothing, which was its own answer, and we both knew it.

Lorenzo stood, refolding the map with slow, deliberate movements, like he was giving himself time to decide something. “Your father was in this library,” he said. “Recently enough that the dust hadn’t settled over that shelf.”

“That’s not possible. He’s been gone five years.”

“Then explain why there’s a hand-drawn map of my sub-levels with his handwriting on it, dated in ink that hasn’t even fully browned yet.” He crouched back down in front of me, close enough that I had to tip my chin up. “Someone has been in this house, Alina. Recently. And they left this exactly where you would find it.”

The floor seemed to tilt under me. “You think I set this up?”

“I think,” Lorenzo said, “that your father wanted you to find it. Which means he knew you’d end up in this library. Which means he knew you’d end up in this house at all.” His eyes searched mine, hunting for the lie. He didn’t find one, because there wasn’t one to find — my confusion was the only honest thing I’d given him all week. “Or someone wants me to think that.”

He rose, tucking the map into his breast pocket.

“That’s mine,” I said, scrambling to my feet. “He’s my father.”

“He’s a ghost who’s been running my family in circles for five years,” Lorenzo said flatly. “This map isn’t a family heirloom, little mouse. It’s a weapon. And I don’t hand weapons to my hostages.”

“Then what — you’re just going to lock me back in my room and pretend I didn’t see it?”

“No.” He turned, already walking toward the arched doorway, his shadow stretching long across the mahogany floor. “I’m going to take you down to Storage Unit 4-B myself. Tonight. And you’re going to tell me what ‘Cicero’ means to your father, or Dr. Evans starts losing fingers instead of sleep.”

He didn’t look back to see my face fall.

He didn’t need to.