THE MAFIA ALPHA'S LITTLE ASSASSIN

**Chapter 1** **Sera’s POV** I walked into the casino knowing I was about to kill a man. The red dress clung to my body like it had been poured on—high slit along one thigh, deep neckline, fabric so smooth it whispered every time I moved. My hair was darker tonight, falling in soft waves over one shoulder. Contacts changed the color of my eyes. Makeup softened every sharp angle of my face until even I almost didn’t recognize the woman in the mirrored walls. My walk was different too: slower, looser, the deliberate sway of someone who belonged in places like this. No one looked at me and saw a ghost. That was the point. The air smelled of money, expensive perfume, and the quiet desperation of people who thought chips could buy them anything. Cards whispered across green felt. Ice clinked against crystal. Somewhere a woman laughed too loudly. I moved through it all with a champagne flute in my hand, my target already locked in my peripheral vision. Victor Lang sat at a private high-stakes table near the back, laughing the way men did when they believed money made them untouchable. I had studied him for two weeks. His habits. His security patterns. The way he got careless after the third drink. Tonight he was celebrating something he would never live long enough to remember. I was three steps from the table when I saw the man sitting beside him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black that seemed to swallow the light around him. He sat with the kind of stillness that only came from absolute power—one arm resting along the back of the empty chair next to him, posture relaxed in a way that felt more dangerous than any open threat. His face was sharp, handsome in a cold, severe way. A woman in gold sequins leaned too close to him, smiling like she had already won. Across from him, a nervous businessman talked too quickly. I watched the woman in gold slip something into the drink nearest to the man in black. He saw it. He didn’t stop her. He simply looked at the glass, then at her, and a small, knowing smirk touched the corner of his mouth. Then he picked up the drink and swallowed it in one smooth motion, as if daring whatever she had put in it to try him. Interesting. Lang noticed the direction of his companion’s stare and followed it to me. His smile turned slick. “Damn,” he said, loud enough to carry. “You see something you like, Dante?” Dante. The name landed with weight. Dante Moretti. The man who sat at the top of the most powerful criminal empire on the East Coast. People who crossed him didn’t just die. They disappeared. Dante didn’t answer Lang. His dark eyes stayed on me, assessing, peeling back every layer of my disguise without effort. Then he lifted two fingers. A server appeared instantly. “The woman in red,” Dante said. His voice was low, controlled. “Whatever she’s drinking. On my account.” I accepted the drink. Then I walked toward their table. Lang pulled out the empty chair beside him. “Please. Join us.” I sat. Crossing my legs made the slit in my dress fall open along my thigh. I watched Dante notice. Watched the way his jaw flexed once before he controlled it. “I’m Isabelle,” I said. “Victor,” Lang replied, already leaning too close. “And this is—” “Dante,” he cut in. His eyes never left mine. “We were just talking about luck.” “Is that so?” “Yes.” His voice dropped slightly. “Some people spend their whole lives chasing it. Others walk right into it.” Lang laughed, oblivious, and launched into a story. I nodded in the right places. All the while I was aware of Dante—the controlled stillness of him, the faint scent of his cologne, the way his presence took up more space than it should. At one point his knee brushed mine under the table. It wasn’t an accident. He left it there. I didn’t move away. I let the contact linger for one deliberate second, then crossed my legs the other way and broke it. A small assertion. Something like approval flickered in his eyes. I stayed long enough to be polite. Then I excused myself, claiming I needed the restroom. Dante’s gaze followed me the entire way. I didn’t go to the restroom. I went to the service corridor I had mapped two days ago and waited. Lang eventually stood, unsteady from drink, and headed toward the same hallway. The moment he was alone, I moved. The knife was small. One clean strike beneath the ribs, angled up. His eyes widened. I caught his body, eased him into the shadowed alcove, and was already moving before the blood finished spreading. I had ninety seconds. Maybe less. I ducked into the nearest private lounge and stripped the red dress off in one motion. Underneath I wore black—fitted pants, dark top, jacket. I stuffed the dress into a decorative vase, wiped my hands, and was turning toward the door when it opened. Dante Moretti stepped inside and closed it behind him. His eyes swept over me—the changed clothes, the faint smear of blood on my wrist—and something dark settled in his expression. “You’ve been busy,” he said quietly. Voices rose in the hallway. Security. Shouting. I crossed the space in two steps, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him down into a kiss. His body stiffened for half a second. Then he kissed me back—deep, controlled, claiming. One hand slid into my hair. The other locked at my waist, pulling me flush against him as the door handle turned. Two guards stepped inside. They froze. Dante kept me against him, mouth still brushing mine. When he lifted his head, his voice was calm and absolute. “Is there a problem?” “Mr. Moretti—sir—we’re sorry—” “Get out.” They left so fast the door nearly slammed. Silence dropped over the room. I tried to step back. His hand tightened at my waist. That was his first mistake. I bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The sharp metallic taste flooded both our mouths. Dante snarled—low, surprised—and I used the second of shock to drive my knee up and twist. We hit the wall hard. I shoved him, using his own weight against him, and for a moment I had him pinned with my forearm across his throat. His eyes flashed something bright and dangerous. Then he moved. He flipped us with raw strength, slamming my back into the opposite wall. I twisted, drove an elbow into his ribs, and felt it connect. He grunted but didn’t let go. His hand fisted in my hair and his mouth crashed onto mine again—hungrier, messier, tasting of blood and heat. I bit him again. He growled into my mouth and spun me, trying to lock my arms. I dropped my weight, broke the hold, and shoved him backward onto the low couch. I followed him down, straddling his hips, one hand at his throat, the other already reaching for the knife at my ankle. He caught my wrist before I could draw it. We froze there—me on top of him, breathing hard, blood smeared across both our mouths. For a long second neither of us moved. Then Dante smiled, slow and sharp, blood on his teeth. “You’re good,” he rasped. “I’ll give you that.” I leaned down until our mouths were almost touching, my hand still at his throat. “I don’t need your approval,” I said. “And I don’t take orders.” “Good.” His free hand slid up my thigh, gripping hard. “I would have been bored otherwise.” He surged up and kissed me again—rough, open-mouthed, all teeth and challenge. I kissed him back just as hard, refusing to yield. We fought for control with mouths and hands and sheer will, rolling once so that he was above me, then again so that I was. The couch creaked. Something glass shattered on the floor. Neither of us cared. When we finally broke apart, both of us were breathing hard. My lip was bleeding. So was his. His shirt was half-torn. My jacket was gone. Dante stared down at me, eyes almost black, a streak of blood at the corner of his mouth. “You’re coming with me,” he said, voice rough. I smiled, sharp and cold, and wiped blood from my lip with the back of my hand. “Make me.” His answering smile was pure challenge. “Gladly.”