It was pouring rain when I locked the bookstore for the night. Bar neon shone down from across the street, dying the puddles at my feet a disturbing red and gold. I had decided to stay late reorganizing the antique section until I found my thoughts; perhaps the peace and quiet would do me some good. But my mind was agitated all day long — ever since that letter came. With no return address or name of the sender. Merely three words on the front in bold impatient ink: We found you. Inside was a single playing card — the ace of spades — and a number I remembered far too well. It was my father's old poker signature. The one he had used while working for the Valenti crime family.
Over the years, I had promised myself that I would cut off any links; my father's mistakes were not for me to inherit. But the moment I laid my eyes on that card, it was as if I were reminded that some people out there did not care much about my rules; they cared about bloodlines. And in our world, blood was money.
A black Maserati parked across the street, engine running, tinted windows. For me, its presence was an unsettling premonition. I felt my hand reach for the pepper spray tucked inside my coat pocket, but before I could maneuver my way into an urgent escape, a man exited through the passenger door. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was dressed in a charcoal suit that likely cost more than my rent for the entire year. The streetlight caught the planes of his face with a sharp jaw; he had olive skin and eyes that were cold and unblinking like glass.
"Isabella Moretti?" The voice was deep, the kind of voice that had the power to command.
"No," I snapped back without a moment's hesitation.
He smirked as if he had expected the answer. "Mr. Valenti would like to speak with you."
The name punched the air out of my lungs. Lorenzo Valenti. The Devil of Naples, the man my father used to whisper about when he thought I could not hear him. The one who ran half the city in the shadows and made the other half beg for his mercy. I had never met him, but I had heard enough tales to know that no one left a meeting with him unchanged. Some did not leave at all.
"I am busy," I forced my voice to say, steadied against the tremor that threatened.
His sly gaze examined me from head to toe, somehow both slow and calculating. "Busy with what? Selling books no one reads anymore? You owe him a debt, sweetheart. Your father made sure of that."
Adrenaline hammered in my chest. "My father is dead."
"And that doesn't erase the debt." He opened the car door a little wider, an invitation or maybe a command.
Every single muscle in my body screamed to walk away into the rain and disappear; however, this was a very lucid truth: if I didn't leave now, they would just come back again. And next time around, perhaps I wouldn't fancy a polite chauffeur. I settled into the leather, my fingers curling into fists in my lap. The door shut behind me with a resounding sound like a cell door slamming shut.
The ride elapsed in silence except for the engine's hum. City lights blurred by outside the car window, and I got brief glimpses of streets I knew too well yet felt suddenly estranged from. My mind raced — What would Valenti want from me? Money? Information? Revenge?
By the time the car halted, we stood outside a building I had known only from the society pages — L'Ombra, Valenti's private nightclub. From the outside, it's all glass and steel where power and pleasure meet. Inside, the air bore a heavy musk of dangerously expensive perfumes.
The man guided me through the crowds against velvet ropes and hurtling glances to a private elevator. By the time the doors opened onto the top floor, my heart was up in my throat.
There he was, lounging against the window wall from floor to ceiling, the vast city like a glimmering map sprawled behind him. Lorenzo Valenti personified. Even from this distance, the force was choking. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit with no tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone to flash a hint of gold against the brown hue of his skin. And then his eyes found me, and it felt like being pinned.
"Isabella-," a smooth caress slathered with warning fell from his lips.
I stood still. "Mr. Valenti."
A smile danced on the edge of his lips. "You look just like him.
"No, I am nothing like him," I retorted.
The smile widened further, but the amusement never quite reached his eyes. "We'll see." He stalked toward me, each step measured with hunger. "Your father owed me, and in my world, debts are paid. One way or another."
"I don't have the money," I replied, forcing myself to stand taller as best I could.
His eyes flared. "Who said anything about money?"
My stomach twisted. "Then what do you want?"
He was quiet again. Staring at me. The kind of stare that seemed to peel back every layer I had and somehow search for something beneath. Finally, in a voice that made every hair on my nape prickle with consciousness, he uttered, "Loyalty. You're going to work for me, Isabella. In return, I allow you to keep breathing."
I laughed bitterly, short and harsh. "You think I'm just going to agree to that?"
He had stepped close enough that I could feel his warmth and detect the smoke and cologne that clung to him. "I don't need you to agree. I just need you to understand what happens if you refuse."
"What about if I run?" I dared.
Now he smiled, but it was the smile of pure evil. "Run, and I'll find you. Hide, and I will burn every place you ever set foot in. By the time I'm done, you will wish you took my offer."
An icy shroud descended upon me, but I refused to flinch. "Truly, you are the devil, aren't you?"
His gaze remained fixed steadily on mine, unwavering in its glare. "And you just made a deal with me, bella mia."