Novel & Cerita The Devil In The White City Barnes And Noble

The man beside me wasn’t Harrison Pierre Whitmore. Shit. I had slept with the wrong man. Panic surged through me as I stared at the sleeping figure beside me. The sharp, chiseled features, the dark tousled hair, the sheer dominance radiating from his very presence—even in sleep, he looked intimidating. No. No. No. This can’t be happening. I had just spent the night with Zion Yohan Warren. The CEO of Warren Hotels and Casinos. The infamous, ruthless billionaire known as ‘The Devil.’

“Oh, come on, Hazel. I saw the way he looked at you during dinner. And the way you looked at him.” “I wasn’t—” Hazel began, but Evelyn cut her off with a raised hand. “Save it. You can deny it all you want, but there’s definitely something there.” Evelyn leaned back against the pillows, her expression turning more serious. “Look, I know you hate this situation, but maybe there’s more to Damon than what people say. Maybe he’s not just... well, the devil everyone claims he is.”

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.

I found the library first, and despite everything, my breath caught. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three walls, filled with thousands of volumes. Leather armchairs positioned by windows. A rolling ladder to reach the higher shelves. It looked like something out of a period drama. I ran my fingers along the spines, reading titles. Classics. Contemporary literature. History. Philosophy. Everything organized with obsessive precision. I pulled out a worn copy of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment and opened it. The margins were filled with notes in neat handwriting.

It was slowly driving him insane. Bane was sitting in his office with Emma next to him. She was concentrating on her latest crocheting project. Bane had a stack of mail he needed to go through. One of the envelopes caught his attention. It was cream white with black calligraphy letters; the back had the city seal. “Looks like your idea of the charity has worked splendidly, Angel,” Bane said as he read the invitation. “How’s so?” Emma asked. “We have been invited to a black-tie event to celebrate the success of the donation program. All the bigwigs in the city will be there. Including us,” he told her.

I got into bed and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my heart beating with the irregular insistence of something that was doing more than it was supposed to. Downstairs—he’d left a book on the kitchen counter with a sticky note on it. I discovered it the next morning, a monograph on the industrial ruins of Detroit, the photography I’d mentioned, marked with a tab to a specific page. The photographer was someone I’d cited as an influence in an interview I’d given to a regional magazine three years ago. An interview he would have had to specifically find. I held the book for a long time and the note just said 'In case it’s useful. — D.'

The way he checked behind him, just a glance, just a flick of his eyes, to make sure I was still there. He was covered in blood. He had cut off a man's head. He had killed and killed and killed and he had not stopped because stopping meant something might reach me. And then I remembered who he was. The Devil of Vercelli. A man so feared that criminals stepped aside when he walked in. A man with blood on his hands and darkness in his soul. A man who had bought me at an auction and called me a ward and told me not to settle into his house.

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.