Dedication
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.”
Chapter 1
Enzo
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.
I overheard conversations no child should, knowing that one day I would have to be the cold, ruthless killer my father was. It was only later in life that I learned that Salvatore De Rossi never got his hands dirty. He had men for that.
I on the other hand, love it.
The slippery crimson fluid on my hands has brought me a constant feeling of satisfaction. I don’t just kill anyone either. I ensure they deserve it. And the more deserving, the better. I allow my sadistic side to shine through while I slice flesh from bone.
“What’s going on?” I ask my father’s confidante, Valentino, when I step into the office. The older man looks up as I walk in, but stays silent. It is my duty to know what’s happened since I’m the Underboss, the second in command, but as I near the heavy oak desk, I realize that whatever has happened is bad. Very fucking bad.
For a long while, Valentino doesn’t respond. The silence hangs heavily with foreboding. He doesn’t need to speak because even before he utters the words, I know what he’s about to say. That intuition I’ve trusted all my life burns me from the inside with the truth about what I’ve walked into.
The stench is obvious the deeper I move into the room. I stop at the armchair I’ve claimed as mine, my hand gripping the backrest as my fingers dig into the leather. A smell I know so well permeates the air. Moments pass as I breathe in the scent of death.
Valentino steps aside and my head spins with the sight before me. My eyes lock on the sight and my stomach rolls as the acid rises to my throat. I swallow back the lump in my throat, and my nails rip at the smooth fabric of my favorite chair.
“Who was it?” I don’t recognize my voice as rage takes over. My heart thuds against my ribs in a painful rhythm of torture as I take in the horror. A sigh from Valentino causes me to snap my gaze to his, and once again, I grit through clenched teeth, “Who the fuck was it?”
I hear footsteps behind me, but I don’t turn. I can’t look away from my dead parents behind my father’s desk. Salvatore sitting in his enormous black leather office chair, with my mother sitting on his lap as if they were sharing a joke.
Only, they’re both bleeding from multiple stab wounds. There’s so much blood, my mother’s blouse is stained deep red, and my father’s crisp linen shirt is nothing more than ribbons from the blade. They’ve used a blade, a knife, my weapon of choice for completing my jobs. This feels as if it’s personal.
The sight before me blurs.
My lungs struggle to pull in air.
“We have reason to believe it was the Cavallone clan,” Valentino finally speaks. He has worked for my father since they were both teens. Dad took over from his father when he was only nineteen. And now, at fifty, he’s nothing more than a corpse.