The Devil's Obsession
No humanity, just hunger.
“You’re him,” she whispered. “The Devil of the Underworld.”
He bowed his head slightly, a mockery of courtly manners. “Dante Moretti. Though most only whisper my name.”
Her heart pounded.
Dante Moretti wasn’t just a crime lord—he was a myth. A monster in a designer suit. A man with more blood on his hands than the war itself. Rumors said he didn’t age, didn’t bleed, didn’t sleep. That he struck deals in shadows, and those who betrayed him were never found again. Or if they were, it was in pieces.