PROLOGUE
Matteo
The second she walks in, I feel it. It’s not just the way the air shifts, like a storm’s about to break, but something deeper. Familiar. Like a song I used to know, now warped by time and distance.
She’s a silhouette in the doorway of my office at the Velvet Vault, framed by the neon-blue light leaking in from the hallway. Tight black dress. Long, bare legs. Blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail and a mask that covers the majority of her face. It’s lace and silk, sleek, elegant, and dangerous.
None of this is unusual for The Velvet Vault, the decadent, lush nightclub my cousin Alessandro owns. We get masked women all the time. But none of them ever made my pulse stutter like this.
“The private event is upstairs, sweetheart,” I mutter, kicking my feet off the desk. Then I stand slowly, smoothing down the sleeves of my dark button-up. “Unless you’re here for a private dance. In which case…” I flash her a grin. “You’re about to make my night.”
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. Just levels a gun at my chest.
Well, shit.
My mind races through all the possible reasons why this woman could want me dead. As the son of Nico Rossi, head of the Gemini empire and one of the most powerful crime syndicates in Manhattan, the possibilities are endless. The most recent and notable is the debacle with La Spada Nera, when Alessandro went on a rampage putting a hit on half their men after he thought they were responsible for an attempt on his wife’s life. Which proved to be wrong.
Then there’s the likelihood I just fucked the girl and never called her back… Nothing worse than a woman scorned.
I lift my hands palm up, not out of fear, but because I want to keep her calm. She’s trembling, but barely. The last thing I need is a trigger-happy assassin with good aim.
“Careful,bella,” I murmur. “Those things tend to go off when you’re emotional.”
A rueful chuckle squeezes past her pouty lips. “You don’t remember me, do you?” Her voice is like gravel and honey. Soft, rough, and angry. With the faintest Irish lilt.
And fuck me, it lights something inside my chest I haven’t felt in years.
“Should I?” I’m still staring at the barrel of the gun instead of her face. It’s easier that way. Safer.
“You should.” She pauses for an endless moment. “You killed my fiancé.”
That gets my attention.
My eyes snap to hers, the only part of her face I can really see beneath that mask. Blue. Sapphire. Haunted.
And damned familiar, though for the life of me I can’t place them.
“Lots of men have died at my hands,” I say, voice flat now. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
Her jaw tightens. “He was Conall Quinlan’s lieutenant.”
Fuck.
Another beat.
My thoughts swirl back in time, the scent of gunpowder filling my nostrils. Three months ago in Belfast. The asshole that captured Ale’s wife, Rory.
A wall of heat punches through the air, knocking some of the front-row guests at Conall Quinlan’s estate off their feet. The ground bucks under me like a living thing. My ears ring, and smoke coils across the perfectly manicured lawn as we storm the compound.
The explosion tears through the east wing of the house, a wall of fire and smoke billowing into the sky then tearing toward the gardens. Screams erupt. Chaos. Gunshots crack all around me.
We weave around the terrified guests, Alessandro leading the charge like a man possessed. We’re all clad in black tactical gear, armed to the teeth. The notorious Valentino and Rossi cousin crew, the Gemini forces, along with some help from the Ferraras. No one steals the woman my cousin loves and survives. And Ale is like a brother to me so here I am right beside him, along with Alessia, his twin, Serena and her fiancé, Antonio, and Isabella and her boyfriend-slash-bodyguard, Raf.
Screams pierce the winter air like broken glass, jagged and slicing through the silence. The gathered crowd erupts into anarchy as chairs are overturned, skirts are tangled, and Quinlan men yell as they reach for weapons. Fucking Irish mob. Smoke chokes the garden, thick and fast, curling like a ghost around the altar.
The altar where Conall Quinlan was trying to force Ale’s girl to marry him. I can barely make out thebastardo,the so-called Butcher of Belfast,with Rory only a few yards away. Ale’s dark gaze latches onto them as Conall shoves Rory behind him, barking orders to his men as if he’s still in control.
I barely contain the smirk from parting my lips. There will be nothing left of the Quinlans once we get done with them.
