The Don's Forbidden Heir

The Viper

The black SUV glided through the streets like a silent wisp of shadow. Elara sat in the back seat, arms crossed over her chest as she stared out the darkened window. The unfamiliar surroundings of Manhattan drifted past as the vehicle left the rougher streets of Queens and wound its way into the wealthier district. The two men up front said nothing. One drove. The other watched her in the rearview mirror with the air of a professional.

She kept her phone in her pocket, thumb hovering over the power button. The signal had died the moment the car doors shut. Of course, it had

Forty minutes later, the SUV turned off a private road bordered by impossibly tall stone fences and came to a stop in front of an iron gate. The vehicle door opened without a word from the driver. Beyond the gate, a long winding driveway of crushed stone opened up to a sprawling mansion that looked more fortress than home. Security cameras perched like sentinels along the eaves of the building made it clear that this was no ordinary residence.

The SUV pulled up to the broad front steps and the door on the passenger's side opened. A tall man waited there. He was even taller than the bodyguards, all broad shoulders and tailored black coat draped over lean muscle. His dark hair was swept back from a sharp, angular face, the only softness coming from the shadow of a five o'clock shadow along his jaw. Ice grey eyes watched her with an assessing intensity the moment she stepped out of the vehicle.

Matteo Moretti.

She didn't need to be introduced. The air around him was the same as the man she'd seen in the lawyer's office, only this version was younger, more intense.

He didn't smile

"Get out," he said instead, his voice a rough, gravelly thing. Not used to soft talk, apparently

Elara hesitated, her fingers curling around the door frame. One of the men in the front seat shifted where he stood, his muscles tensing. Matteo's gaze snapped at him, and he went still.

She stepped out, the cold night air nipping at her nose. Suddenly aware of how short she was next to him, how much younger. He had to be at least six-three, and the rugged good looks, while softened by age, were still there in abundance. The sharp planes of his face were set in a look of permanent disapproval.

He took a slow, measured look up and down her body. Not exactly appraising, more like sizing her up. A predatory male gaze, except that usually, those looks came from shifters in heat.

"Elara Voss," he said finally, more statement than question.

"Yes."

"I'm Matteo. You're coming with me."

She tilted her chin up. "I've already told your people that I'm not staying."

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, quickly banked down. He took a step closer until she could smell the expensive cologne he was wearing, the less pleasant tang of gun grease and cold winter air clinging to him.

"You can tell them whatever you want," he said softly. "It doesn't change the fact that you're coming with me. Get inside."

He turned and strode up the steps without waiting for her. The two bodyguards remained where they were, apparently deciding that she was Matteo's problem now.

Elara followed after him, her boots sliding slightly on the icy stone steps. Inside, the manor opened up before her eyes. An expansive foyer greeted her, the floor covered in dark marble, the walls lined with dark wood panelling and heavy oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors who all seemed to share the same rigid bone structure. A grand staircase curved up and away, and the scent of old leather and money clung to the air.

Matteo stopped in the centre of the room, his back to her as he regarded the front doors. Elara barely noticed as he shut them with a resounding click, sealing them in

"Your room is on the second floor," he said at last. "They'll bring you things later. Dinner is at eight. My father will expect you to be presentable

"I'm not hungry

He turned to look at her then, his mouth pressing into a thin line. She had to look up to meet his gaze. Up close, his eyes were just as cold as she'd expected, the blue-grey colour of winter sea glass.

“I don’t care if you’re hungry,”

He said quietly.

"You'll sit at that table. You'll keep your mouth shut unless you're spoken to, and you won't try to leave the ground. The men at the gate have been instructed.

She squared her shoulders, her pulse hammering in her throat. His gaze lingered on the base of her throat for a heartbeat, too long before he looked up at her eyes.

"And if I do?"

Matteo's lips twitched into something like a smile. "Then I'll bring you back myself," he said smoothly.

His voice dipped lower. "And you won't enjoy the way I do it

Something about the way he said it made her skin prickle. For a long moment, neither of them moved. She could feel the heat of him, the tension in his body as he watched her. Her own heart pounded too loudly in her ears, and she hated that he apparently enjoyed looking at her this way. She hated that she could see the hunger in his eyes, the want.

Hate that it turned her on.

He held her gaze for another long moment before stepping back.

"Second floor, third door on the left," he said, voice low. "Be ready by eight

With that, he disappeared around a corner at the end of a long hallway, his jacket brushing against the wall as he walked. Elara remained standing where he'd left her, her heart still hammering in her chest.

She had the distinct impression that Matteo Moretti didn't need to use guns to make people do what he wanted.

One look from those icy blue eyes, and she'd have been on my knees begging for forgiveness.