1

APRIL

The first time I spot the devil is about thirty seconds before an ice-cold beer hits me in the face.

He's sitting in a booth at the far end of Goody's Bar when it happens. He's not drinking, not talking, just watching me. His eyes are dark, sharp, and heavy with danger, the kind that sends a chill down your spine even when you're trying to pretend you don't notice.

His hair is neatly cut, black as midnight. His suit matches it-tailored, expensive, and so dark it almost swallows the light around him. If fire suddenly started licking at his sleeves, it wouldn't surprise me. He looks like someone flames belong to.

I'm behind the bar, pretending to be busy pouring drinks, but I can feel his stare burning through me. He's got the stillness of a predator, waiting for the right moment to strike. I know I should be terrified, but instead, my pulse is picking up.

His features are carved like stone: a jawline that could split logs, tanned skin, faint lines around his eyes that only make him more intense. Everything about him screams control. Power. Trouble. Italian, maybe. Early forties. Definitely out of my league.

He's too composed, too dangerous-looking for someone like me, a twenty-something bartender barely making rent. Still, I can't help it. Something about him pulls me in like gravity.

I try not to stare back. I focus on the drunks yelling for refills, the smell of beer, the sticky floor, but all I can think about is him. I can feel those eyes on me, steady and consuming. His hands rest flat on the table beside a black cellphone, big enough to crush it in one squeeze. He looks like a man who doesn't have to move to make people afraid.

No one gets close to him. Even in this crowded place, it's like he's surrounded by an invisible wall. People glance his way, then instantly look elsewhere. It's strange, unnerving, but also magnetic.

My first thought is: what's a man dressed like that doing in a dive bar like Goody's?

My second thought, unfortunately-is that my ovaries might've just exploded.

I'm so distracted by him that I don't notice the argument happening right in front of me. Usually, I can sense when trouble's brewing, but tonight, my instincts are off. And that's when it happens.

A shout, a swing, and then a splash.

Ice-cold beer explodes across my face. It drips down my hair, into my shirt, soaking me completely.

It's the usual story-another disastrous first date. The woman's furious, the guy's smug, and she's thrown her drink. He blocks it, and guess who's standing right behind him? Yep-me.

Icy. Imported. Not my kind of shower.

The crowd bursts into laughter. My Goody's Bar tee is plastered to my chest, and I can feel every pair of eyes on me.

"Out!" Joe, my boss, yells. For a split second, I think he's defending me. No such luck.

"This isn't a strip club!" he shouts, pointing at my soaked shirt. "Go get changed and get your ass back here-we're packed tonight!"

A guy in the crowd whistles. "No need to change, sweetheart! You look perfect already!"

Laughter follows. I fold my arms over my chest, cheeks burning. I push past them, refusing to look at anyone.

But I can't help glancing back at the booth. The man-the devil.

He's on his feet. My heart skips. Maybe he's coming to help, to say something, anything.

But no, he just walks toward the bar, calm and cold. No reaction. No emotion. He's there for a drink. Nothing more.

So much for knights in shining armor.

Screw him. Screw the lot of them. Men are all the same-selfish, smug, and dangerous.

I shove through the door and step out into the night. The chill hits me instantly, sharp and biting. The sky is clear, and the city hums around me, but all I feel is the cold clinging to my wet clothes.

At least I don't have far to go. My apartment's just next door, one perk of working at Goody's. I climb the narrow stairs to the fourth floor, unlock the door, and hurry inside, rubbing my arms for warmth.

The apartment's freezing. The heater barely works, and the bills are piling up. Even with my roommate Aria splitting the rent, it's hard to stay afloat. If Joe ever fires me, I'll be screwed.

My fingers tremble as I dig through my closet for dry clothes. I've got three Goody's Bar shirts, all freshly ironed-because apparently, I like to suffer in style. I pull one on and glance in the mirror.

My hair's still damp, sticking to my neck, but I don't have time to blow-dry it. Joe will lose it if I take more than five minutes. I swipe on fresh mascara, a touch of lip gloss-my version of armor and fasten my favorite buttons on my shirt: a tiny bowling ball and an Italian flag. My good luck charms, though they're not doing much good tonight.

War paint on, I head back downstairs, running through the cool air to the bar.

When I get inside, my eyes go straight to his booth. The Italian devil-Diablo Romano.

He's gone.

A wave of disappointment hits me harder than I expect. I don't even know him, but the emptiness where he sat feels like something missing from the room itself.

Jammie's behind the counter, laughing with a group of men like she's born for it. I envy her so much. She can talk to anyone-smooth, confident, untouchable.

"Just fake it till you make it," she always tells me. "Confidence is an act first."

Maybe one day I'll try that. Not tonight.

"April!" Joe barks, waving me over. His face is red, and his voice cuts through the noise. "You planning to take a vacation on my time? Move it!"

He's been like this all week-snapping, stressed, running on caffeine and bad attitude.

"You're not even paying her!" Jammie fires back. "None of us have been paid in three weeks, Joe. You said you'd fix it last time!"

"Cashflow, baby!" Joe yells, ducking into his office. "All sorted in a couple of days."

"You said that last week!" she shouts after him. "How are we supposed to live, huh?"

His reply echoes just before the door slams shut. "The unemployment office is open if you got complaints!"

The laughter, the music, the smell of beer, all of it feels heavier now. I sigh, grab a towel, and start wiping down the counter, pretending everything's fine.

But I can't stop thinking about him.

The man with the black suit and eyes like fire.

Diablo Romano.

Even gone, I can still feel his gaze, like a promise I never asked for, waiting to be fulfilled.