Chapter 1: The Devil Wears Armani

The silk of my wedding dress clung to my skin like a shroud.

I stood at the altar of St. Patrick's Cathedral, my hands trembling around a bouquet of blood-red roses, and tried not to vomit. The scent of lilies and candle wax was suffocating. Or maybe that was just the reality of my life ending.

"You may now exchange rings," Father Michael said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings.

Alessia Vitale. Soon to be Alessia Marchetti. The name felt like a cage snapping shut around my ribs.

Don Marchetti—my groom, a man three decades my senior with breath that smelled of garlic and cruelty—reached for my hand. His fingers were thick, his knuckles scarred from a lifetime of violence. I'd seen those hands break a man's jaw at my engagement party. Everyone had laughed. I'd smiled so hard my face ached.

"With this ring," he rumbled, sliding a diamond the size of a quail egg onto my finger, "I thee wed."

The stone was cold. Heavy. A beautiful shackle.

This was my father's doing. My debt. My penance for being born a Vitale daughter in a world where women were currency. The Marchettis controlled the ports. The Vitales controlled the unions. A merger, my father had called it. I called it a death sentence.

"With this ring," I whispered, my voice barely audible, "I thee—"

The cathedral doors exploded inward.

Not opened. *Exploded*. The ancient oak splintered off its hinges, crashing to the marble floor like a thunderclap. Gasps rippled through the pews. I spun around, my heart slamming against my ribs.

And there he was.

Dante Moretti.

The Devil of Chicago. The man they whispered about in dark corners, the one who'd clawed his way to the top of the Moretti empire by leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. He was rumored to have killed his own uncle for the throne. To have burned a rival's warehouse to the ground with the man still inside.

He stood in the ruined doorway, silhouetted against the gray October sky, and he looked like sin incarnate.

Black Armani suit. No tie. Dark hair swept back from a face that belonged on a Renaissance painting—if that painting had been commissioned by the devil himself. Sharp jaw, cruel mouth, eyes the color of aged whiskey that could freeze a man's soul.

He was alone. No soldiers. No backup. Just Dante Moretti, walking into a cathedral packed with his enemies like he owned the place.

Because he did.

"Sorry I'm late," he drawled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the silence. "Traffic was a bitch."

Don Marchetti's face turned purple. "Moretti. You have no business here. This is a sacred—"

"Save it, old man." Dante's gaze swept the room, dismissive, bored—until it landed on me. Then everything changed. His eyes darkened. His jaw tightened. Heat crawled up my spine, and I forgot how to breathe. "There she is."

He walked toward me. Not rushed. Not frantic. Measured steps, each one a declaration of war. The guests—mobsters and politicians and society wives—parted like the Red Sea. No one dared stop him. No one dared breathe too loud.

"Guards!" Marchetti barked, spittle flying from his lips. "Kill him!"

Two of his men lunged. Dante didn't even look at them. His arm moved in a blur—a flash of silver, a wet crack—and both men dropped, clutching their throats. Blood sprayed across the white marble. A woman screamed.

Dante kept walking.

He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell him—leather and cedar and something darker, smokier. His hand came up, and I flinched.

He didn't hit me. He cupped my chin, tilting my face up to his. His thumb brushed my lower lip, and a shiver racked my body that had nothing to do with fear. Or maybe everything to do with it. I couldn't tell anymore.

"You're not marrying him," Dante said. It wasn't a question.

"You can't—" I started.

"I can." He turned to the congregation, his voice rising. "Alessia Vitale is mine. She's been mine since the day I saw her three years ago, bleeding on a street corner, and she didn't cry. She didn't beg. She looked at me like I was nothing." A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "I knew then. She'd be the death of me. Or I'd be the death of anyone who tried to take her."

My heart stopped. Three years ago. The night I'd been jumped by rival thugs, left for dead in an alley. A man had appeared, killed them all, and vanished before I could see his face. I'd never told anyone. I'd never—

"It was you," I breathed.

"It was always me." He released my chin and grabbed my wrist, his grip iron. "We're leaving."

"I won't—"

"You will." He yanked me toward him, and I stumbled against his chest. His arm locked around my waist, pulling me flush against him. The heat of his body seared through the silk of my dress. "Unless you want me to kill every single person in this room. Because I will, dolcezza. For you, I'll paint this cathedral red."

I believed him.

"Let her go!" Marchetti roared, pulling a gun from his jacket.

Dante didn't flinch. He turned, shielding me with his body, and smiled. "You'll have to shoot through your bride, Enzo. And we both know you don't have the aim."

The gun wavered.

"Smart choice." Dante dragged me toward the ruined doors, his pace relentless. My heels caught on the broken wood, and I nearly fell. He caught me, hauling me against his side without breaking stride. "Keep up, princess. Your new life starts now."

"I never agreed to this!" I spat, struggling against his grip. "I'm not yours!"

He stopped. Turned. His face was inches from mine, his eyes blazing with something wild and terrifying and... hungry.

"Oh, you are." His voice dropped to a whisper, rough as gravel. "You've been mine since you waltzed into my club last month, looking for a way to escape your father. You've been mine since you asked my bartender for a job. Since you thought I wouldn't notice. Since you thought you could hide from me."

My blood turned to ice. "How—"

"I know everything, Alessia. Every secret. Every fear. Every dream." His thumb traced my jaw, gentle despite the violence simmering beneath his skin. "And I'm going to give you all of them. But first, we need to get you out of this dress."

A black SUV screeched to a halt at the bottom of the cathedral steps. The door flew open. Dante shoved me inside, climbing in after me, and slammed the door.

"Drive," he barked.

The car peeled away, tires screaming.

I stared at him, my chest heaving. "You can't just kidnap me from my own wedding."

"Watch me."

"They'll come after you. My father. The Marchettis. Everyone."

"Let them." He leaned back, loosening his cufflinks, utterly calm. "I've been waiting three years for this. For you. And I'm not letting you go. Not now. Not ever."

The car swung onto the highway, and the cathedral—my prison, my fate—vanished behind us.

Dante turned to me, his eyes burning in the dim light. "By the way," he said softly, "you look beautiful. But that dress? I want it on my floor by midnight."

Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his expression went cold. Deadly.

"What is it?" I whispered.

He showed me the message. One line, from an unknown number:

*We have your sister. Bring the girl, or she dies.*

Dante's jaw tightened. His hand found mine, and squeezed.

"Change of plans, dolcezza," he said. "It seems we're going hunting."