The crown
The scent of premium Cuban tobacco and expensive cologne usually filled the grand study of the Moretti estate, but tonight, it was entirely eclipsed by the metallic tang of fresh blood.
Elena Moretti stood in the center of the room, her breath catching in her throat as she stared at the empty, leather high-backed chair behind the mahogany desk. Her father—Don Vittorio Moretti—was currently fighting for his life in a private wing of the hospital after a drive-by shooting outside his favorite restaurant.
"You shouldn't be here, Principessa."
The voice came from the threshold, low, gravelly, and vibrating with an icy authority that made Elena's spine stiffen.
She turned around slowly. Standing in the doorway, framing the dark corridor behind him, was Dante King.
Dante was the Syndicate's most lethal enforcer—the man her father called when problems needed to be permanently erased. He was a mountain of a man, easily six-foot-three, with broad shoulders that filled out a tailored, charcoal-grey suit. His dark hair was shaved close at the sides, and the collar of his shirt was open, revealing the dark ink of a skull tattoo creeping up his throat. He had a rugged, dangerously handsome face, marred only by a faint, silver scar running through his left eyebrow. His eyes—dark as midnight and completely devoid of warmth—locked onto hers.
"This is my father's house, Dante," Elena said, forcing her voice to remain steady, though her hands trembled inside the pockets of her satin trench coat. "I have every right to be here."
"Not anymore," Dante murmured, stepping into the room with a slow, predatory grace. The sheer size of him immediately shrunk the massive study. He stopped just inches away from her, his heavy masculine scent of cedarwood, leather, and gunpowder washing over her senses. "The moment the news hit the streets that the Don was down, a target was painted on your back. The rival families are already moving to split the territory. You're the only blood heir left."
Elena tilted her chin up, refusing to back down from his suffocating proximity. She hated the mafia. She had spent the last four years building a legitimate, multi-million-dollar digital security firm just to escape her family's shadow. "I am not part of the Syndicate, Dante. I am a civilian."
Dante let out a low, dark chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. He leaned down slightly, his face so close she could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes, making the air in her lungs instantly vanish. "The rivals don't care about your digital business, Elena. To them, you're a Moretti. You're the blood crown. And right now, my only job is to make sure nobody takes your head."
"I didn't ask for a bodyguard," she hissed, her chest heaving against the tight fabric of her blouse.
"Your father asked," Dante growled, his voice dropping into a deep, possessive register that sent a sudden, unwelcome shiver straight down her spine. "And in this family, my word is law. Pack your bags, Principessa. We’re moving you to a secure location before the first hit squad arrives."
Before Elena could argue, the heavy crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling suddenly shattered in a hail of automatic gunfire, plunging the room into darkness as bullets tore through the floorboards.
