Speak Of The Devil 소설 & 이야기

Rules, Secrets, and Humiliation There was an actual list. I found it in the morning, slid under my door sometime before I woke up. A folded piece of paper, thick and cream-colored, the kind that costs money. Someone had knocked twice and walked away quickly. I picked it up off the floor in my dressing gown and stood by the window in the early grey light and read it. Do not speak unless spoken to in company. Do not interfere in his professional or personal matters. Do not embarrass him publicly, in any setting, by any means. Be present when your presence is required. Be invisible when it is not.

He just stared at me, evaluating me like prey. The silence pulled tight between us, charged and thick. For twenty years, I had been taught that the devil walked the earth as an ugly, deceptive spirit, but looking at him, I realized the church had lied. The devil was beautiful. He was sitting right in front of me, wrapped in a bespoke black suit, exuding an authority that made the massive parlor feel incredibly small.

The Devil found himself wanting something he couldn't simply buy. Someone.

Only the foolish make deals with the devil. Only the ones drowning in pride… or pain. Because the devil doesn’t barter. He doesn’t wait at crossroads. He doesn’t ask for permission. He takes. He does not knock—he kicks down the door. He does not beg—he commands. He does not love—he consumes. He wraps his hunger in charm, his cruelty in confidence, his madness in tailored suits and cold, perfect smiles. And once you catch his eye, it’s already too late.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. “Matteo,” I said, keeping my voice calm.

Devil looks furious, but there’s pride and admiration in his eyes too. “Just a question, big bro,” I say. “Do you always let bitches speak for you, or were they lying about you not wanting me here? I’m guessing the latter, but hey, you never know.” I wipe the blood off my knuckles with my jeans and wait for his answer. “Bitches were lying. I never even talk to them. I just fuck ’em,” Devil says. He’s not looking at me, though... he’s eyeing the unconscious women on the floor.

The second text pops up right under the first one: **~ Sexy Devil: I can still taste you on my tongue, Rebel. That sweet little whimper you made when I finally took back control… Fuck, I’m hard just thinking about it. You’ve had your fun wrecking the devil. Now it’s my turn. When next I see you, make sure to wear something easy to rip off. ~**

"I fucking hate you" He didn't even seem fazed by my little outburst. Just stared at me like I was boring. "I haven't even started Matilda, you can't break already, that would be fucking boring" I was starting to realize why they called him the devil. His eyes spoke of torture and for the first time, I was truly scared of what he might do to me. A notification cut through the silence. His phone. He glanced at it once. Then his expression shifted slightly. Not emotionally, Just focused now.

My mind seemed to travel, so I couldn’t understand her very well. “W-What did you say again?” Yes, it seems obvious that I understand little of what she said, but I understand the devil she’s talking about. Does she define herself? She doesn’t look like a devil to me. Or maybe I’m just mistaken? I was even more stunned by what she said. My chin may have landed on the floor because I was barely gaping. He speaks as a man does. “I am no saint. I am a devil ready to take your soul.”

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.