THE DEVIL'S CLAIM
a deep voice commands.
I turn.
He walks in like he owns the place. Broad shoulders under a tailored black suit, dark eyes that slice through the chaos. His presence is heavier than the gunfire.
Dante Morreti.
I know that name. Whispers. Mafia. Blood. Power. The devil of New York.
His gaze pins me in place. My chest tightens, breath shallow.
“She’s the bride?” he asks, almost amused.
“Yes, Boss,” one of his men answers.
“Pretty little thing,” Dante murmurs, eyes raking me head to toe. “Shame she belongs to a coward.”
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