The Devil in His Eyes

Chapter Two Adrian POV The man knelt before me, trembling, his forehead slick with sweat despite the chill of the warehouse. Gasoline fumes mixed with the coppery tang of blood, clinging to the air like a curse. I stared down at him, my gun heavy but steady in my hand. He couldn’t even look at me—his eyes darted to the ground, to the shadows, anywhere but at the man who held his life in his hands. “You thought you could steal from me,” I said, my voice low, smooth. No anger, no heat. Anger was for men who lacked control. “From me.” He babbled something, words tripping over each other. Excuses. Pleas. Lies. I didn’t let him finish. The shot cracked like thunder, echoing off the metal walls. His body collapsed sideways, blood pooling beneath him, soaking into the concrete. My men didn’t flinch. They never did. This was routine. I handed the gun to Marco without looking at him. My consigliere wiped it clean, efficient as always. “Clean it up,” I said. My tone was calm, but final. “And let it be known—betrayal earns only one reward.” Two men dragged the body away. The rest scattered to handle the mess. I buttoned my coat and stepped into the night air, the cold biting my skin. Out here, beneath the shadowed sky, power didn’t just feel like mine—it was mine. Still, it wasn’t enough. Power never was. The black car waited, engine purring softly. I slid into the back seat, the leather cool against my palms. Marco was already there, a file resting on his lap. He passed it to me. “Romano made an offer,” he said. I arched a brow, flipping the folder open. Giovanni Romano. The man who fancied himself untouchable. Inside were the expected details—numbers, contracts, promises. And at the center of it all, a photograph. A young woman. Giovanni’s daughter. The picture was a candid shot. She was leaving a university building, books in her arms, her hair tumbling over her shoulder. She wasn’t looking at the camera. Her expression was soft, unaware. I studied her for exactly three seconds before closing the file with a snap. “And what does he want in return?” I asked. “Marriage,” Marco said. His voice was steady, but I caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes. “He wants you to take his daughter as your wife.” I leaned back, fingers tapping lightly against the closed folder. Marriage. A chain disguised as an alliance. I wasn’t a man who believed in love. Love was weakness. Attachment. A liability. My mother’s death had taught me that much. Affection only gave people weapons to use against you. But marriage as business? That was different. “What do we gain?” I asked. “Romano’s shipping ports. Political favors. Consolidated control of the East Side. The alliance would make you untouchable.” I considered it in silence. Giovanni thought he was playing a clever game, offering his daughter like a pawn. What he didn’t realize was that pawns, once moved, never left the board. “I don’t care who she is,” I said at last. “If taking her gets me what I want, then it’s done.” Marco nodded once, satisfied. I reached for the glass of bourbon waiting beside me, the amber liquid catching the faint glow of the city lights. I swirled it once, watching the way it clung to the glass before slipping back down. “She’ll be mine,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. Not with warmth. Not with desire. With possession. With inevitability. And through her, so would everything her father thought belonged to him. I took a slow sip of the bourbon, the burn sharp on my tongue, and allowed myself the smallest curve of a smile. Power. That was all that mattered. And this marriage was the next step to owning it all.