"He had blood on his hands the night he touched me.
My brother's blood.
And I still let him kiss me."
The storm outside was nothing compared to the one inside me.
Gunshots echoed through the marble halls of the Valente estate. My world was collapsing — flames, broken glass, the cries of men dying for nothing but power.
And then… he walked in.
Dante Moretti.
Black shirt soaked in rain and blood. Eyes like frostbitten steel. He was the man who had murdered my brother. And now, he was walking toward me with the calm of a king claiming what was already his.
I pointed my pistol at his chest.
"I'll kill you," I spat, voice trembling with rage.
He didn't flinch. He didn't even raise a brow.
"You won't," he said, voice deep and smooth like aged whiskey. "Because if I wanted you dead, Seraphina... you'd be in the ground already."
My breath caught.
"Get out."
"No."
He stepped closer. I could smell the smoke on his skin, the danger in his silence. Something inside me twisted — anger, fear… need.
I hated him.
But I wanted him more.
He reached for me. I didn't move.
His hand brushed my cheek — warm despite the storm. His thumb slid down my jaw, slow… possessive.
"You think I killed your brother for nothing?" he murmured, his lips brushing mine.
"You did—" I gasped.
"He tried to sell you to the Russian Bratva."
I froze.
Lies. They had to be lies.
But the way he looked at me — not with pity, but with something far worse — truth.
"You're mine now, Seraphina," he said. "By blood. By war. By choice."
Then he kissed me.
And I let him.