The rain always smelled like blood in this part of the city. Maybe it was the rusted iron from a hundred rooftops. Maybe it was the memory of men who died screaming in alleyways paved by deals gone wrong. Either way, Dante Moretti liked the rain. It drowned the noise. It cleansed the filth. It reminded him that no matter how high you climbed, the streets always knew your name.
He lit a cigarette with fingers that never trembled, despite the six bodies he'd buried this month. A silver lighter, engraved with the family crest a crowned serpent clicked shut between his gloved fingers. The only warmth tonight came from the soft glow of the city below and the steady burn behind his ribs.
Power was a lonely thing. But it had never failed him.
"Sir," Nico murmured behind him. "She's here."
Dante didn't move right away. He kept his gaze on the skyline; on the pulse of the city that obeyed him whether it wanted to or not.
"Bring her in," he said flatly.
When the footsteps echoed behind him, lighter than he expected, he finally turned.
Elena DeLuca looked nothing like her father. Salvatore had been a bloated pig of a man with dead eyes and a voice that reeked of fake pleasantries. Elena, on the other hand, stood tall and sharp like a blade. Red hair spilled over her shoulders like fire—wild, untamed. Her eyes were green, defiant, and far too observant for someone walking into a lion's den.
No fear. Just fury barely restrained.
Interesting.
"You're late," he said, flicking ash into a crystal tray.
"You kidnapped my brother," she replied. "You'll forgive me if I didn't rush to thank you."
That voice. Velvet wrapped in steel. He'd expected pleading. Instead, she brought a storm.
Dante leaned back against the desk, eyeing her like a chess piece he hadn't decided whether to play or crush.
"I didn't kidnap him," he said. "I detained him. There's a difference. He was caught running guns through my port. Unmarked crates. No permission. That's a declaration of war in my world."
"He's just a kid," she snapped. "He didn't know…"
"He knew." Dante's voice dropped, dangerous now. "And if he were anyone else, he'd already be in the ground."
Elena's jaw tightened. She stepped closer.
"What do you want?"
That was the question, wasn't it?
He could've said revenge. Power. Leverage. But none of those felt quite right anymore. Not since her.
He wanted to know why this woman, this fiery storm with DeLuca blood in her veins, haunted his thoughts at night. He wanted to know why she wasn't afraid—why she looked at him like he wasn't a devil in a tailored suit, but a man she might just burn down if given the chance.
"I want answers," he said. "And your cooperation."
"My cooperation?"
"There's a mole in my ranks. Someone helped your brother. I need to know who. And I need someone who understands both worlds. Yours... and mine."
She folded her arms. "You want me to spy for you?"
"I want you to survive," he said coolly. "Your brother's life depends on it. And maybe yours."
Silence stretched between them. Thick, volatile. She should've stormed out. Slapped him. Screamed.
Instead, Elena stepped even closer until the space between them buzzed with something Dante hadn't felt in years; danger of a different kind.
"I'll help you," she said quietly. "But not because I fear you. Only because I love my brother."
Dante studied her face. Not a crack. Not a single tremble in that voice.
"I don't need your love," he murmured.
"Good," she said. "Because you'll never have it."
But her eyes betrayed her. They lingered too long on his mouth. Her breath caught just slightly.
And in that moment, Dante knew two things.
One: he had her.
Two: she had no idea the kind of storm she'd just walked into.