To my babes who love an unapologetic anti-hero who likes to play with knives…
“I don’t care if I fall in love with a devil,
as long as that devil will love me
the way he loves hell.”
My life changed two days after my thirtieth birthday.
I am a man hellbent on revenge.
Stalking down the long hallway, I button my suit jacket as I make my way toward the theater. New York is a city reveling in its nightlife, calling to those souls who need something more out of their existence. My family runs every theater in this city, and as we continue to purchase venues across the world. I know I’ll have my revenge soon enough.
With a smile, I slide through the open doors and settle in the dark booth reserved for me. Mario, my right-hand man, joins me moments later. The seats are packed to capacity, and everyone is waiting with bated breath for the star of the show to appear.
“Are you sure about this?” Mario has been my conscience ever since I can remember. From the moment I was sworn into the clan—with blood dripping from my palm—to this day as I glare at the stage, he’s been by my side.
I was thrown into the world my father ruled, in a city filled with Made men and violence. Where bloodshed was the order of the day and cutting someone’s fingers off at sixteen was normal. This world is made up of three things that will always make more sense to me than living an ordinary life.
Money speaks loudly.
Threats are given with a smile.
And life is as fragile as a thousand-dollar crystal flute.
“Yes.” My voice is cold as the word that drips poison escapes my lips.
The lights dim, the spotlight is on the blood red curtains as the gentle tinkling of classical music fills the room. Every nerve in my body sparks to life, my spine straightens, and my shoulders are tense, as I prepare for what I’m about to witness.
When the crimson drapes slide open, silence hangs heavily as we wait. The male dancer prances onto the stage dressed in black. He’s the heathen in the show, the tormentor. I smile as I watch him move with grace and elegance, but it’s moments later that my breath catches as I see her.
This isn’t the first time I have watched her dance. Time and again, show after show, I’ve been in the darkness, a shadow in her life.
Mario leans in close, his voice a mere whisper, “It needs to happen tonight.”
He’s right. I know he is.
She’s poised and elegant, moving across the stage like a queen. The corner of my mouth tips upward slightly as I take in her long legs, her slight curves, her tits that are bigger than most of the other dancers.
She’s built for so much more than dancing, like taking my cock until she’s crying. But she’s born to grace the stage with her beauty. As much as I hate her, I can’t deny my cock loves her.
“Do it.” The two words are an order and Mario moves before I can say anything more because he knows that this is a matter of life and death. Not mine. But my pretty little dancer. He’s gone before the next twirl of her small frame.
I sit back and relax, enjoying the rest of the ballet as my mind replays what happened three years ago. A nightmare. The moment I knew I would take over from my father and ensure the De Rossi name is feared in every part of this city, as well as by every Familia that attempts to cross us.
Something is wrong.
Terribly fucking wrong.
At thirty, I haven’t yet found my passion. Even though I have a slew of men who would die for me, and I love my parents, there’s nothing more in my life that fills me with fire. And as I pull up to the house that I’ve called a home for most of my life, the twisting in my gut has me on edge.
My intuition has always been strong. When I have a bad feeling, I know I need to listen to it. The moment the engine purrs up the drive, and I come to a stop outside the ornate wooden doors of the De Rossi mansion, my stomach drops.
I’m out of the car within seconds. As I step onto the gravel of our driveway, the familiar scent of New York greets me. Our home is just outside the city, overlooking the bright lights of the Big Apple. I’ve missed it. Even though Sicily had welcomed me with open arms, New York is in my heart. I buttoned my suit jacket as I saunter up the steps which leads to our front door.
By the time I reach the entrance, I find two of my father’s men standing near the office door. My father’s sanctuary, which will soon be my own, has always been a place I have always felt at peace. The soft lighting with dark wood called to me from a young age. Father would allow me to sit in an armchair and I would read while he worked.
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