Devil’s Heiress

5 *THE MORNING AFTER 2*

Evelyn burst through the door of her best friend's Soho apartment like she was being chased by demons. Which, considering her night, might not be that far from the truth.

"Jesus, Evie!" Riley Martinez looked up from her laptop, designer coffee mug frozen halfway to her lips. "You look like you've been hit by a truck. A very expensive, very attractive truck."

"I need coffee. And possibly an exorcism." Evelyn collapsed onto Riley's pristine white sofa, still wearing yesterday's torn dress and what she suspected were the remains of her dignity. "I did something terrible."

"Define terrible. Like 'I accidentally bought the wrong shade of lipstick' terrible, or 'I burned down an orphanage' terrible?"

"I slept with a stranger."

Riley blinked. "That's it? Evie, honey, that's called a Tuesday night for most people our age."

"It's not—" Evelyn buried her face in her hands. "You don't understand. After everything that happened yesterday with Bradley and Sabrina and Mother, I went out and got completely wasted and threw myself at some random man in a club."

"Good for you! It's about time you did something spontaneous and fun."

"Fun?" Evelyn's voice pitched higher. "Riley, I don't even remember half of it! I woke up naked in some penthouse that looked like it belonged in Architectural Digest, and I ran out of there like my hair was on fire."

Riley set down her coffee and moved to the sofa, wrapping an arm around Evelyn's shoulders. "Okay, breathe. It's not the end of the world. Was he at least hot?"

Despite everything, Evelyn felt heat creep up her neck. "Devastatingly."

"Good. What else do you remember?"

"Dark hair, incredible body, expensive suit..." Evelyn trailed off as more details surfaced. "He smelled like danger and made everyone in the club nervous just by existing. His hands were bloody when I met him, and when I asked about it, he didn't deny hurting someone."

Riley's expression shifted from amused to concerned. "Evie..."

"I know! I know it sounds insane! But there was something about him—the way he looked at me like I was the most interesting thing in the room. Like I mattered." Her voice cracked. "Do you know how long it's been since someone looked at me like that?"

"What was his name?"

"Nico."

Riley was quiet for a long moment, her expression growing increasingly troubled. "Evie, I need you to describe him again. Everything you remember."

Something in her friend's tone made Evelyn's stomach clench. "Why?"

Instead of answering, Riley grabbed a magazine from her coffee table—some glossy business publication—and began flipping through pages with urgent fingers.

"Please let me be wrong," Riley muttered, then stopped on a page near the back. "Is this him?"

Evelyn looked at the photograph and felt the world tilt sideways. There was her mysterious stranger, looking devastating in a black tuxedo at some charity gala. But it was the headline that made her blood turn to ice water:

“NICO MORETTI: THE BILLION-DOLLAR KING OF NEW YORK'S UNDERWORLD”

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God."

"Evelyn Hawthorne," Riley said slowly, "please tell me you did not just sleep with the head of the Moretti crime family."

The room spun. Evelyn gripped the magazine so hard her knuckles went white, staring at the face she'd kissed last night, the hands that had touched her, the mouth that had whispered dirty promises against her skin.

"He's in the mafia?" Her voice was barely a squeak.

"Not just in it—he runs it. Half of New York's underground flows through his organization. Drugs, weapons, money laundering—if it's illegal and profitable, Nico Moretti has his fingers in it."

Evelyn couldn't breathe. She'd thrown herself at a mob boss. Had s*x with a man who probably killed people before breakfast. The blood on his knuckles suddenly made horrifying sense.

"I'm dead," she whispered. "He's going to kill me. Oh God, what if he thinks I'm a spy or something? What if—"

"Evie, calm down. You need to—"

A sharp knock at the door cut Riley off. Both women froze.

"Expecting someone?" Evelyn whispered.

Riley shook her head, her face pale. The knock came again, more insistent this time.

"Miss Martinez? We'd like to speak with you about your friend."

The voice was polite but carried an undertone that suggested politeness was optional.

"Back door," Riley hissed, grabbing Evelyn's arm. "Now."

They made it three steps before the front door exploded inward. Two men in expensive suits filled the doorway, their presence sucking all the air from the room.

"Ladies," the taller one said pleasantly, "no need to run. We just want to have a conversation."

Evelyn's survival instincts, dormant for twenty-five years of privilege, suddenly roared to life. She grabbed Riley's heavy glass coffee pot and hurled it at the nearest man's head.

He ducked, cursing, and Evelyn bolted for the kitchen. Behind her, she heard Riley scream, furniture crashing, and heavy footsteps in pursuit.

The fire escape window was painted shut. She clawed at it desperately while footsteps thundered closer. Finally, it gave way, and she tumbled onto the metal platform four stories above the busy street.

"Here!" she screamed down at startled pedestrians. "Help! Someone call—"

A hand grabbed her ankle. She kicked backward, connecting with something soft, and heard a satisfying grunt of pain. But there were two of them, and her dress was not made for acrobatics.

She made it one flight down before they caught her, dragging her back up the fire escape despite her struggles. One of them—the one she'd kicked—had blood streaming from his nose.

"Feisty little thing," he panted. "Boss is gonna love this."

"Let me go!" she screamed, loud enough that windows were opening up and down the block. "Help! Someone help me!"

"Nobody's coming, princess," the other man said, not unkindly. "Best to save your energy."

They zip-tied her hands behind her back with practiced efficiency and half-carried, half-dragged her down to street level through the building's service entrance. A black SUV with tinted windows waited at the curb, engine running.

"No, no, no," Evelyn chanted, digging her heels in, but designer shoes had no traction against their combined strength.

The last thing she saw before they shoved her into the back seat was Riley's face at her apartment window, phone pressed to her ear, probably calling 911 far too late to matter.

As the SUV pulled into traffic, Evelyn pressed herself against the far door and tried not to think about all the ways this could end. None of them involved her living to see another sunrise.

The two men sat on either side of her, silent and professional. The one with the bloody nose kept giving her murderous looks, but the other seemed almost apologetic.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, proud when her voice only shook a little.

"To see the boss," Bloody Nose said. "He's got questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"The kind you better hope you have good answers for."

Evelyn stared out the tinted windows as Manhattan blurred past, and tried to prepare herself for a conversation that would determine whether she lived or died.