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“𝗗𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗺𝗲.” They grin like predators who smell a girl too dumb to be out alone. Joke’s on them. Daughter of Chicago’s mafia king. Locked in velvet cages, guarded by bulletproof glass and loaded guns. My father’s men wore me like a second skin I couldn’t peel off. So when a seam split, I didn’t hesitate. I slipped through. One of them rocks forward and leans on the dumpster, slurring. “𝗟𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗿. 𝗚𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝗹𝗹 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘂𝗽, 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿. 𝗕𝗲𝘁 𝗗𝗮𝗱𝗱𝘆 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘂𝘀.” Another one, wiry and ink-stained, laughs. “𝗦𝘄𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘁? 𝗗𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘆. 𝗪𝗲’𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆.” Sick bastards. They think I’m easy meat. But I was raised by monsters sharper than them, in woods where prey bite back. I square my jaw, chin lifted like a blade, daring them to try. Knowing full well that if I’ve ever needed a miracle, it’s now. And then the night itself answers my prayer. A voice slips from the shadows. Low, smooth, laced with Russian steel. “𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗹𝗲 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹?” He draws out the word, savoring it. “𝗖𝘂𝘁𝗲.” At first he’s only a silhouette. Broad shoulders. The kind of height that makes predators recalculate their odds. Every step lands heavy, confident, each echo a countdown to reckoning. Then light cuts across him. Time doesn’t just pause. It flatlines. My knees? Pure Jell-O. A square jaw, severe and uncompromising. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut. A mouth that curves like sin dressed in civility. And those eyes… glacial, merciless storms, circling, waiting for prey. Honestly, his face should come with a warning label: side effects include poor decisions. A black suit clings to him, cut to dominate, not flatter. Muscle stretches the fabric until it looks like armor sculpted to his body. The shirt is blinding white, a slash of purity against sin. Ink crawls down his wrist, teasing from under the cuff. Every detail is power. Every piece chosen to remind you he doesn’t need weapons. He is one. The devil’s in the details. And this man? He isn’t the priest. He’s the altar, and you come here to burn. Then he’s close enough for his scent to hit me. I can’t help inhaling. Bergamot, cedar, smoke. Dominance distilled, the kind of expensive darkness you can taste. It brands the inside of my lungs, claiming space before I can stop it. Eyes slam into me. Holy hell. I’m wrecked. Icy blue storms lock on, cutting, merciless. They don’t just look. They strip me bare. I know men like him. He’s either the one they send to kill you or the one they hire when the killing’s already done. And yet heat coils low in my stomach. Wrong. Filthy. Dangerous. Horny in the middle of disaster. My vagina clearly skipped survival training. Apparently my libido thinks danger is foreplay. “𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗿𝘂𝗻,” he says. The words drip sin and frost, authority threaded with heat. “𝗪𝗵𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂?” one idiot snarls. The monster’s mouth curves. “𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝗻 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘄𝗹 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝘆𝘀.” He halts, eyes flicking to me once again, like I’m already stamped with his name. “𝗪𝗮𝗹𝗸 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆,” he says, voice a blade. “𝗟𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗰𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗻. 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝘆, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂. 𝗣𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆? 𝗜 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿.” His words press into my skin like a brand. The men pause. For a breath I think maybe sense will wedge into their skulls. “𝗣𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳𝗳,” one snarls. Guess not. The fat one lurches forward with a bottle. Another slams his glass into a jagged weapon. Hot Russian guy exhales. Bored, like he’s dealing with toddlers. “𝗗𝗶𝘀𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴.” Then, softer: “𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗳𝘂𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹.” And then he moves. Impossibly fast. A black blur of muscle and intention. The fat man lunges. Snap. A wrist twists, the bottle clatters. The body collides with brick and slides down. The other two rush like idiots. He flows through them with brutal efficiency. An elbow strikes one, an uppercut drops another. One goes down into a heap by the trash, the last slams into the dumpster hard enough to rattle the lid. Out cold. I blink. Stare. What the hell was that? No one moves like that. Not even in my world. Like a damn weapon wrapped in silk. Deceptive. Dangerous. Violence disguised as art. This isn’t a rescue, it’s foreplay with a body count. And he’s not even winded. For him it’s routine. Just another Tuesday. He’s a monster at ease while my insides spiral into chaos. Then the tallest idiot lunges. Right at me. My breath catches. I brace. But he never touches me. My dark angel’s already there. Fist tangled in his hair, yanking his head back with effortless precision. His voice is low and sharp. “𝗧𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗜’𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗰𝗲𝘀.” “𝗦𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂,” the man spits. “𝗪𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗿.” Each word tastes like dark chocolate and danger. Fist lands hard in the gut, solid and final. The body folds, collapsing like it was never meant to stand. A soft laugh rumbles from the hot Russian, genuinely amused. He savors the crack of bones, and I hate how much it makes my pulse skip. Silence swallows the alley. Then he turns to me. The edge is still sharp, but his eyes soften. Heavy. Searching. “𝗔𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗼𝗸𝗮𝘆?” No, I’m ruined. But my mouth says, “𝗦𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗮 𝘄𝗶𝗻.” A slow, dangerous smile curves his mouth. “𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝗹𝗹 𝗱𝗼.” Up close, the ruin is worse. The scar at his temple gleams silver. Tattoos disappear beneath his collar like secrets. His scent is even more intoxicating. And damn if his proximity doesn’t ruin me. My pulse spikes. Heat cascades through me, drowning out logic. My brain stops braining. My ovaries are slow-clapping, while the rest of me wonders if I should book a therapy session or just embrace the madness. “𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗿𝗼𝗽,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing as they rake me. “𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘀 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽.” I blink, pulse fluttering. “𝗬𝗼𝘂… 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲?” His eyes linger on my mouth, my throat, the pulse at my neck. “𝗟𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝘂𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄… 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗹𝘆.” Who the hell is this man? His gaze darkens, dragging heat across my skin. Slow. Undressing. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with hands. “𝗦𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗜 𝗯𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿’𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲?” His laugh is dark velvet, the kind you feel in your spine. “𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗸𝗲𝗽𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲.” Hard to argue. I glance at the bodies. The blood. The silence they left behind. My knees threaten to give. I lean into him. His hand finds my waist. Firm. Grounding. Possessive in a way that should scare me. Maybe it does. I’ve grown up with shadows. But this one? He’s darker. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that promises ruin beyond repair. “𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗲, 𝗗𝗲𝘃𝗼𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗸𝗮,” he says, the Russian curling around the word like smoke. Devotchka. I know that one. Girl. The syllable lands like a brand and something in me answers to it whether I like it or not. We step out of the alley. His car waits. Sleek. Predatory. A forest-green beast made to outrun sin. He opens the door for me like a gentleman. Like a threat dressed in manners. Every bone in my body knows better. I’ve had killers open doors for me before, but never like this. Never with a touch that doesn’t ask, doesn’t force. Just waits. I hesitate. Then I slide in, and the leather greets me like sin. His scent is already there. Clean. Dark. Expensive. The kind of cologne that screws you senseless, steals your wallet, and still has you begging for more. He gets in beside me. No words. Just presence. His thigh brushes mine. A casual touch that feels anything but. A spark. A warning. A promise. The air shifts, heavy, pulled taut between us like a wire that wants to snap. God. Not the time to wonder what that suit hides. Not the time to ache for the answer. “𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼?” he asks, voice low enough to haunt. Low enough to unbutton things inside me. I should go home. I should run. I should— “𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲,” I say. “𝗜 𝗰𝗮𝗻’𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘄.” He nods, eyes forward. “𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗲.” No hesitation. No explanation. “𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗳𝗲.” The word hits me wrong. Safe? With him? I turn, sarcasm curling around my fear. “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗳𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴?” This time, his laugh is real. Dark. Dangerous. The kind of laugh that lives in a man who’s seen things and doesn’t flinch. “𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸.” He makes a turn. The towers of downtown Chicago loom ahead. “𝗥𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘅, 𝘄𝗲’𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗶𝘁.” “𝗦𝗼, 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗴𝘂𝘆𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗴𝘂𝗹𝗮𝗿 𝗵𝗼𝗯𝗯𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂? 𝗢𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝗹 𝗼𝗰𝗰𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻?” His mouth curves, but his eyes stay cold on the road. “𝗟𝗲𝘁’𝘀 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝗮𝘆 𝗺𝗲𝗻 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗿𝘂𝗯 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗮𝘆.” “𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗱.” I tilt my head. “𝗜’𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘂𝗽 𝗼𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲.” He glances at me, and for one breathless moment I can’t look away. Something in his gaze hooks beneath my skin. A warning. A promise. “𝗜 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗵𝘂𝗿𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻… 𝘂𝗻𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘁.” Ding, ding, ding. I’m toast. The car glides forward. Streetlights slice across his face, carving shadows over cheekbones built for sin and eyes that burn with cold fire. Reality crashes back. My bloodline writes the rules in this city, and right now I’m breaking every one of them for this dark stranger. If my father knew, he’d put a bullet between this man’s eyes. Or at the very least, he’d try. But here I am, and I’ve never felt more alive. Every instinct screams run. And yet tonight, danger doesn’t just tempt. It wears a tailored suit. It smells like ruin. And it looks at me like resistance was never even an option. Find out what happens in Dark Desires. Available on Kindle Unlimited: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FQ7GXWC8 ★★★★★ "Wow! I was so into this book I really couldn't put it down. I love the characters." - RebelReading, Goodreads Review ★★★★★ "I love mafia romances and this book hit the spot. Well written, great characters with amazing chemistry between them. A great book." -Michele, Goodreads Review ★★★★★ "The twists in the story kept it moving and spellbinding." -Janet, Goodreads Review