THE DEVIL'S PRIZE

DANTE'S POV

People call me the Devil of New York. They’re not wrong.

I’ve killed men for less than a dirty look. I’ve gutted rats who thought they could steal from me. I’ve fucked women who begged for mercy and made them beg for more pain instead. My empire runs on blood, loyalty, and fear. That’s the only language this rotten world understands.

And tonight, I reminded everyone of it.

Crawford thought he could play me. Thought he could borrow money from my syndicate, promise returns, and then ghost like I’m some dumb fuck banker. No. You don’t spit in my face and walk away.

So I took something from him. Something that makes men bleed harder than bullets.

His bride.

The girl’s slumped against the leather seat of my car now, her white wedding dress torn, veil long gone. Her head rests limply against the window, chloroform still working through her system.

I should only see her as leverage. That was the plan. Take his woman, hold her until Crawford crawls back on his knees. Maybe cut her up in pieces if he doesn’t.

But fuck if I didn’t notice her the second I ripped that mask off.

Wide eyes. The kind of innocence you don’t find in women anymore. Not here, not in this city. She looked like she’d never seen a gun in her life. She screamed like her lungs were made of glass. And she begged for him. Not for herself—for him.

That caught me off guard.

Most women at those rich-boy weddings would’ve shoved their bleeding fiancé toward me and bolted. Not her. She clung. Begged. Offered herself.

And when she said I’ll do anything, my cock twitched in my goddamn slacks.

Pathetic. But true.

I drag on my cigar, exhaling smoke toward the tinted glass. Outside, the city blurs by. Inside, it smells of fear, chloroform, and roses, the crushed bouquet we threw in the car with her.

She stirs, groaning softly.

My eyes snap to her.

Her lips part, full and pink. Her lashes flutter like she’s fighting the weight of the drug. For a second, she looks like some porcelain doll someone forgot in the wrong neighborhood. Too soft. Too pretty. Too breakable.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.

I should keep my distance. Remind myself she’s just a tool. But I lean closer anyway, studying the curve of her throat, the pulse hammering beneath that delicate skin. Her dress is ruined, lace ripped, one strap sliding off her shoulder. I can see more of her than I should, and my mind goes places it shouldn’t.

I grit my teeth. Focus, Moretti.

She’s cargo. Nothing more.

Her eyes flutter open, glassy at first, then sharper as panic slams into her.

“Wh....where am I?” Her voice is hoarse, raw from screaming earlier.

She sits up too fast, clutching her head. Her gaze darts around the car, landing on me. And just like that, fear floods her eyes.

“You,” she breathes.

I smirk around my cigar. “Me.”

She presses back against the leather seat, shaking her head. “No… no, no, this isn’t....take me back. Please.”

Her begging voice would’ve been pathetic if it didn’t make my cock hard. I flick ash out the window, calm as ever. “You’re not going back, princess. Not until your rich boy pays me what he owes.”

Her lips tremble. “Ethan…?”

“Your groom, yeah. That lying sack of shit.” I laugh, dark and sharp. “You really thought he loved you? That he wasn’t just waiting to sink his teeth into those company shares your granny left you?”

Her eyes widen, her chest rising and falling fast. She looks like I just slapped her across the face.

Good. Better she learns now than later.

“You’re lying,” she whispers. “You don’t know anything about us.”

I lean in, close enough that she can smell the smoke on my breath, the danger dripping off me. “Sweetheart, I know everything. I know he fucked your sister before he ever proposed to you. I know he only stuck with you ‘cause you were the key to doubling his empire. And I know he didn’t even lift a finger to stop me from taking you tonight. You think that’s love?”

Her eyes glisten with tears, her throat bobbing as she tries to hold them back. She looks so fucking breakable it almost pisses me off.

“Stop,” she chokes.

I chuckle low. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

“I said stop!” She snaps, surprising me with the sudden fire in her tone. She pushes at my chest, weak but defiant.

For a moment, silence stretches between us.

Then I grab her wrist, hard enough to make her gasp. “Careful, doll. I don’t like being touched unless I say so.”

She freezes, staring at me with wide, terrified eyes.

Fuck. There it is again. That rush in my blood, that sick mix of power and hunger. I like watching her squirm. Like knowing I could ruin her in a hundred ways, and she couldn’t do a damn thing to stop me.

My grip eases, and I let her go. She snatches her hand back like she’s been burned.

We ride in tense silence after that. Her breathing uneven, my thoughts darker than they should be.

When the car finally pulls into the gates of my estate, she stiffens. The mansion looms ahead ,all black stone, steel gates, guards with rifles pacing the perimeter. This isn’t a home. It’s a fortress.

And now, it’s her prison.

The car stops. My men yank the door open. One of them reaches for her, but I stop him with a look.

“I’ll take her,” I say.

She flinches as I grab her arm and pull her out. She stumbles in her heels, nearly falling, and I catch her against my chest. For a second, our eyes meet.

Up close, she’s fucking beautiful. Too beautiful for Ethan. Too beautiful for this world.

And I hate her for it.

I shove her forward. “Move.”

Inside, the mansion is dim, lit with chandeliers that cast long shadows on the marble floors. My men trail behind, silent.

I drag her up the stairs, down the hall, into one of the guest rooms. It’s not a dungeon, though I’ve got plenty of those. It’s luxury, silk sheets, gilded mirrors, a balcony that overlooks the estate.

She looks around, confused.

“You’ll stay here until I decide what to do with you,” I tell her flatly.

Her head snaps toward me. “You can’t just keep me here like some… some fucking hostage!”

I grin, wolfish. “Sweetheart, that’s exactly what you are. A pretty little hostage.”

Her chest heaves. “Ethan will come for me.”

I laugh, harsh and cruel. “If you believe that, you’re dumber than I thought.”

She flinches, but lifts her chin anyway. Brave little doll.

I step closer, backing her toward the bed. She stumbles, her calves hitting the mattress, and she drops onto it with a gasp.

I lean down, bracing my hands on either side of her. Our faces inches apart. Her breath hitches, her lips part.

“You offered yourself to me back there,” I remind her, voice low. “Said you’d do anything. Be careful what you offer, doll. I always collect my debts.”

Her pulse hammers in her throat. Her scent fills my lungs—roses and fear.

For one dangerous second, I want to taste her. Just to see if she tastes as sweet as she looks.

But I pull back instead, smirking at her trembling form.

“Get some sleep,” I say coldly. “Tomorrow, we’ll see what you’re really worth.”

And with that, I walk out, locking the door behind me.

Her muffled sobs follow me down the hall.

And for reasons I don’t want to admit, I can’t stop thinking about them.