LOGINWhen Mia is abducted by Axel Morino—the heir to a brutal mafia dynasty—she’s thrust into a world of violence, luxury, and dangerous desire. Trapped between his soft touches and the cruelty of his darker side, Mia must play along to survive. But as feelings blur with manipulation, and secrets about Axel’s family curse unravel, she realises the most dangerous thing in his world… might be falling for him.Trust is a luxury. Love is a risk. And Mia is running out of choices. But Axel’s world is darker than she ever imagined, haunted by a curse that’s ruined generations before him, and stalked by the threat of his own father’s cruelty. Everyone in this game is dangerous. Everyone has secrets. And the closer Mia gets to Axel’s heart, the more she realises she might be the one secret that could destroy them both. Love was never supposed to be part of this. Survival was the only plan. Now? She’s not sure she wants to leave. If you're enjoying this book please let me know and leave a review! Head to my profile for my other book Bloodlines of Fire and Fate!
View MoreThe safe house stank of antiseptic and gun oil. Daniel lay unconscious on a cot in the corner, bandages tight around his ribs, stitched up like a broken doll. His chest rose in shallow, stubborn breaths, the kind that dared death to try again. Bruises spread across his torso like ink stains, several ugly reminders of how close they’d come to losing him. A battered IV bag hung from a bent curtain rod Mitch had rigged as a drip pole. Every third drip hit the bottom of the bag with a soft splash in the echo around them. It was the only sound Axel hadn’t started to hate. He paced. Again. Across the same five feet of worn linoleum beneath his feet. Back and forth like a caged animal. His boots thudded too hard. His breath came too fast. He hadn’t slept in 72 hours. He couldn't. Not when Mia was still out there. Not when her last known location was a goddamn auction manifest with her collar serial number coded as “UNBROKEN.” And not when Daniel was in such a criti
The cell door clanked shut behind her, the sound echoing like a tomb sealing. Mia didn’t flinch. She refused. She had been practicing. Getting good at not flinching. Not when the world yelled at her. Not when they yanked her by the chain. Not when orders snapped in the air like whips. Not even when bruises bloomed across her ribs like spilled ink. She had been breaking, rebuilding, breaking again, and now, she had learned to stand still through it all. The pain had become a rhythm, a metronome in her chest. A counting device for survival. She measured herself in breaths, in heartbeats, in the quiet moments between the shouts. The other girls barely looked at her anymore. She had risen in the hierarchy of pain: too pretty to pity, too valuable to befriend. Too dangerous to underestimate. Except for Anna. And one of the newer girls. Her name was Kat. Maybe Katherine. Maybe not. She was nineteen, pale, brittle-boned, and looked like she had once lived in a house with hot cocoa an
The collar was too tight again. It always was. Slade liked it that way, he liked how it choked her breath just enough to remind her who held the leash. He said it made her neck look graceful. Like a prized show horse with a bit in her mouth, especially with the electric element Mia didn’t speak. Not when he clipped the leash to the front ring. Not when he paraded her through the mirrored halls like a jewel he’d stolen off a corpse. Not when the other girls looked at her with fear, pity, or worse. Defeat. She wasn’t the new girl anymore. She was the crown jewel, the one Slade adored most. The one who didn’t flinch when they barked. The one who smiled like a ghost and danced like it didn’t hurt, she had adjusted once again to the hellhole surrounding her. She’d learned quickly. How to move without showing pain. How to listen when no one thought she was paying attention. How to breathe shallow so the collar didn’t bruise too deep. How to smile and keep the venom behind it hidden.
The dream didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like he was going through it all over again, but this time he knew exactly what was going to happen. Daniel stood outside the bar, rain soaking through his hoodie, the taste of cigarette ash and bourbon lingering on his tongue. His phone buzzed in his pocket again, it was Mia. Her name was lit up like a warning sign, like something sacred he didn’t deserve to touch anymore. Not after what he had just found out. Inside, the music pounded like a second heartbeat. He barely remembered walking in, barely remembered the way the whiskey tore his throat to bits or the way he’d started shouting at the guy next to him for bumping his shoulder. Everything blurred after the fourth drink. Just flashes. Dark and dreary lights. A set of fake lashes and a warm hand pulling him into a cab. When he woke up, it was the sunlight that hurt the most. Blistering and invasive, making everything too clear too fast. A pounding head. A strange ceiling. And a woma
The cold hit her first. The damp and hard concrete crumbled against her back. Metal bit at her wrists and her concussion beginning to clear. Air that stank of mold, piss, and despair surrounded her. Mia’s eyes fluttered open, pupils struggling against the weak, flickering light overhead. Pain thro
She’d looked like a fucking goddess walking out of the dressing room that morning. A vision in silver. Sharp, stunning, dangerous. But all Axel could see was the risk. The way her hands trembled before she slipped on the heels. The way Daniel went silent. The way the air changed when she walked int
The words pulsed in her head like a steady drumbeat as she leaned back in the private jet’s plush seat, her gaze locked on the glittering lights of Los Angeles inching closer through the window. Axel and Daniel sat across from her, deep in conversation about security routes, surveillance footage, a
The call came just after midnight. Daniel was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his phone pressed to his ear. The voice on the other end was one of Axel’s informants embedded in the darker underbelly of L.A.—a man who didn’t speak unless he had something real to speak about.






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