Black List

I never meant to spill whiskey on Valen Crowe's $10,000 suit. But when you're a broke waitress and the most dangerous mafia boss in Chicago grabs your wrist, accidents happen. His thumb strokes my pulse point. Too slow. Too possessive. Like he's taking inventory. "You owe me a new suit, little waitress," he murmurs, voice like sin and smoke. "But I don't take payments in cash." His ice-blue eyes drag down my body, lingering on my chipped black nail polish, my too-tight uniform, the tremble in my legs that I'm desperately trying to hide. "I take them in skin." My heart stops. Everyone in this city knows the rules: 1. You don't look Valen Crowe in the eyes. 2. You don't touch Valen Crowe. 3. You NEVER owe Valen Crowe. I just broke all three. And the way he's smiling? Like a predator who finally cornered his prey... I'm about to learn why they call him the Devil of Chicago. I never meant to spill whiskey on Valen Crowe's $10,000 suit. Not when every person in Chicago knows that spilling a drink on the Devil is a death sentence. But when you're a broke waitress working a double shift to pay your mother's hospital bills, and the most dangerous mafia boss in the city grabs your wrist out of nowhere, accidents happen. His thumb strokes my pulse point. Too slow. Too possessive. Like he's taking inventory of something he already owns.