Chapter 1

I'm an undercover journalist.

While investigating the notorious Moretti crime family, I caught their ruthless boss, Dante Moretti, in a secret meeting with a missing federal witness.

Turns out, that witness was my sister, Lily.

He ordered his men to put a gun to my head.

The cold metal pressed against my temple, and I couldn't breathe.

He leaned in and whispered, "Next time, I'll pull the trigger myself."

Later, I lost his baby in a pool of blood on his warehouse floor.

Despite being a man who killed without blinking, he carried me to the hospital in his arms, begging me not to close my eyes.

When I woke up, this mafia king was sitting beside me, his knuckles white, his eyes destroyed.

"Sera, don't leave me. I'll burn the whole world down if you leave me."

My editor, Dave, and I had been parked outside the Moretti-owned restaurant for six hours.

Rain hammered the windshield.

Everyone in this city knew the Moretti family ran everything—drugs, guns, politicians, judges.

But no one could prove it.

No journalist had ever gotten close enough to gather real evidence.

My boss at the City Sentinel gave me one shot. Get photos of Dante Moretti doing something illegal, or clean out my desk.

Dave was half-asleep when I grabbed his arm.

"Look."

A black Escalade pulled up. Two bodyguards stepped out first, scanning the street like wolves.

Then he emerged.

Dante Moretti.

Even from fifty feet away, the man radiated danger. Tall, dark suit, jaw cut from marble. He moved like he owned the rain itself.

But it was the woman behind him that made my blood freeze.

Blonde hair. Thin frame. A face I'd memorized since childhood.

Lily.

My sister who'd been missing for eleven months.

My sister who the FBI said had vanished after agreeing to testify against the Moretti family.

She was supposed to be in witness protection.

Instead, she was walking into a mob boss's restaurant, his hand on the small of her back.

Dave squinted. "Holy shit, isn't that—"

"Drive closer."

I grabbed my camera and started shooting.

Dante leaned down and whispered something in Lily's ear. She laughed—actually laughed—and touched his chest.

My hands were shaking so badly the photos blurred.

We got too close.

A flashlight hit our windshield.

Before Dave could start the engine, four men surrounded the car. They dragged us out and forced us through the restaurant's back entrance and into a private room.

Dante Moretti was sitting at the head of a long table, cutting into a steak like we hadn't just been thrown at his feet.

He didn't look up.

"Camera."

One of his men ripped my Nikon from my neck and smashed it against the marble floor. Lens, body, memory card—destroyed.

Eleven months of investigation. Gone.

Dave whimpered beside me.

Dante finally looked at me.

His eyes were dark, almost black, and completely empty.

"You know who I am?"

"Everyone knows who you are, Mr. Moretti."

"Then you know what happens to people who point cameras at me."

He returned to his steak.

"Marco, check her phone."

The bodyguard grabbed for my jacket pocket. I twisted away.

"Don't touch me—"

He wrenched my arm behind my back. I heard a crack before I felt it.

The scream tore from my throat before I could stop it.

I hit the floor, cradling my wrist, tears blurring everything.

Then a chair scraped back.

A sharp bang—Marco stumbled sideways, holding his jaw.

Dante stood over me, flexing his fist, his face unreadable.

The room went dead silent.

Every bodyguard stared at their boss, confused.

Dante crouched beside me, gripped my chin, and tilted my face up.

His voice dropped to a murmur only I could hear.

"You have her eyes."

Before I could ask what that meant, he stood and straightened his cuffs.

"Marco, take her to Dr. Bianchi. Now."