"You aren't a purchase, Lucia," he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous velvet. "You’re a forfeit. Your father gave me your hand, but make no mistake—I intend to take your heart, your breath, and every secret you’re hiding. You belong in my world now. And in my world, there is no escape. Only me."
The study smelled of expensive bourbon and old blood—a scent that had followed Salvatore Vitale since the day he was born. He didn't just rule the city; he owned the shadows that lived within it.
Across the mahogany desk, she sat like a broken porcelain doll. Lucia. Her eyes were wide, a frantic shade of amber that made something dark and possessive stir in his chest. Her father had gambled away his life, and she was the currency used to settle the debt.
He watched the tear track down her cheek, and for the first time in years, the monster inside him didn't want to destroy. It wanted to keep.