Adriana
Matteo, the Don of the Diavolli, was on his knees.
The Playboy of New York.
The man everyone feared.
On his knees for me.
The sight stole the air from my lungs. Words clung to my throat but refused to escape. All I could do was stare down at him, the most dangerous man I knew, folded before me like a supplicant.
I had told him earlier I was indebted to him, but the truth was heavier than that.
I owed Matteo my life.
And he wanted more than gratitude.
I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I let memory claim me. The first time I ever saw him, I was eighteen.
Papa had always made sure I stayed clear of Cosa Nostra business. “Art, Adriana,” he would say. “Stay with your paints, your brushes. Leave the evil world we live in to me.” It was his way of keeping me safe, or maybe of
