THE DEVIL WANTS HER

Italy. Sixteen years ago. The first thing Dante Moretti remembered about the night he disappeared was the rain. It fell hard against the windows of his father's estate, blurring the gardens into dark shapes and turning the gravel driveway into a ribbon of black mud. Somewhere downstairs, men were laughing. Glasses clinked. His mother had told him to stay in his room until the guests left. Dante was ten years old, and he hated being treated like a child. He sat on the edge of his bed, turning a silver lighter over in his hands. His father had given it to him that afternoon, despite his mother's protests. You're too young for that thing, Dante. His father had only smiled. Then he'd better learn to be careful with it. Dante had liked that answer. He liked his father best when his father spoke to him as if he were someone worth preparing for the world, rather than someone who needed protecting from it. A knock interrupted his thoughts. "Come in." The door opened, and his mother stepped inside. Elena Moretti wore a dark silk dress, her hair pinned neatly at the back of her head. She looked beautiful, as she always did, but tonight her smile seemed forced. "Your father needs you downstairs." Dante frowned. "Why?" "There's someone he wants you to meet." "Who?" "A business associate." Dante slipped the lighter into his pocket. "Then why do I have to meet him?" His mother didn't answer immediately. It was the first thing he noticed. His mother always answered him, even when the answer was a lie. Tonight, she looked toward the hallway before closing the door. "Dante, listen to me carefully." She knelt in front of him and took both his hands. Her fingers were cold. "If anything happens tonight, you do exactly what your father tells you. Do you understand?" He stared at her. "What's going to happen?" "Nothing." She smiled too quickly. "Nothing is going to happen." "You look scared." Her expression changed. For a moment, he saw something in her eyes that he would spend the next sixteen years trying to understand. Then she kissed his forehead and stood. "Stay close to your father." She left before he could ask another question. Dante waited thirty seconds. Then he followed her. He reached the upper landing just as his father emerged from the study at the end of the corridor. Two men stood behind him. Neither belonged to the household staff. His father looked toward Dante. "Go back to your room." "But—" "Now, Dante." His father's voice was quiet. That frightened him more than shouting would have. Dante turned. The lights went out. For one second, the entire estate fell silent. Then came the crash of breaking glass, a shout from downstairs, and the thunder of footsteps racing across the hall. Someone grabbed Dante from behind. He screamed and kicked, striking a shin. The man swore. Another hand clamped over Dante's mouth, and the world became the smell of leather, rain, and something sharp that made his eyes water. He bit the hand covering his mouth. The man struck him across the face. White light burst behind Dante's eyes. He heard his father shouting his name. He heard a gunshot. And then he heard nothing but rain. They dragged him through a side entrance and into a waiting car. Dante fought until his wrists hurt, but the men were stronger. One held him down while the other tied his hands. "Who are you?" Dante demanded. Neither answered. "Do you know who my father is?" The man beside him finally turned. "That's precisely why we're here." The car pulled away. Dante pressed himself against the door, trying not to cry. He told himself that his father would find him. His father always found a way to get what he wanted. That was what powerful men did. They got what they wanted. But when the car stopped, Dante was taken into a building he had never seen before. The room smelled of damp concrete. A single bulb swung above a metal chair. They left him alone. He waited for his father. He waited for his mother. He waited until the fear became so enormous that he couldn't remember what it felt like not to be afraid. Hours later, the door opened. A man entered carrying a glass of water. He was tall, with dark hair and a pale scar running from his temple toward his ear. He crouched in front of Dante. "Your father has a decision to make." Dante's throat hurt. "I want to go home." "Then he should have thought about that before refusing the offer." "What offer?" The man studied him for a long moment. "You really don't know, do you?" Dante said nothing. The man stood and walked toward the door. "Tell your father something for me when you see him again." Dante's heart lurched. "You're letting me go?" The man paused. "Tell him the territory was never worth his son." Then he left. Dante didn't understand what he meant. Not that night. Not when the hours passed and nobody came. Not when he began to wonder whether his father had already made the decision. And not when, far away, in a room overlooking the black waters of the Mediterranean, Richard Santiago placed a document on a table and waited for the Moretti patriarch to read it. The document transferred control of a stretch of port territory that had belonged to the Moretti family for generations. Richard pushed a pen across the table. "Sign it." Across from him, Dante's father stared at the paper. "You have my son." "And you have a choice." "If you touch him—" "Your threats are becoming repetitive, Moretti." Richard leaned back. He was a handsome man, impeccably dressed, with the sort of pleasant expression that made strangers trust him. There was nothing pleasant in his eyes. "Sign the document, and your boy comes home. Refuse, and we can discuss how much a father is willing to sacrifice for his pride." Dante's father looked down at the paper. For a long time, he didn't move. Then he picked up the pen. He signed. Richard examined the signature and smiled. "See? That wasn't so difficult." "Bring me my son." "Of course." But Richard didn't leave immediately. Instead, he opened a second folder. Inside were photographs, financial records, and a list of names. Some belonged to men who would have paid fortunes to see the contents destroyed. Richard placed one photograph face down on the table. "There is one more matter." Dante's father looked at him. "The territory is yours," he said bitterly. "Take it. You have what you wanted." Richard's smile faded. "No," he replied. "I have what I need." He closed the folder. "And that's a very different thing." Dante came home three days later. His mother ran to him before the car had fully stopped. She held him so tightly he could barely breathe, crying into his hair and repeating his name as if she could make up for every second he had been gone. His father stood a few steps behind her. Dante looked at him. He wanted to ask why it had taken three days. He wanted to ask whether his father had been afraid. He wanted to ask what the men meant when they said the territory wasn't worth his son. Instead, he ran to him. His father caught him and held him against his chest. For the first time in his life, Dante felt his father's hands trembling. That night, his mother refused to let him sleep alone. She lay beside him until morning, her arm wrapped around his waist, waking whenever he moved. His father visited once. He stood in the doorway, looking at Dante as though he had returned from somewhere no one should ever have to go. "Are you going to find the men who took me?" Dante asked. His father was silent. "Dad?" "Go to sleep, son." "Are you?" His father walked to the bed and sat beside him. "Some things are more complicated than they seem." Dante looked away. He was ten years old. He didn't understand territory, hidden accounts, political alliances, or the price powerful men were willing to make other people pay. But he understood one thing. His father had surrendered something to bring him home. And whatever it was, it had cost their family more than anyone was willing to admit. Dante closed his eyes. He made a promise in the dark. One day, he would find the man responsible. One day, he would make him feel the same helplessness, the same fear, the same sickening certainty that everything he loved could be taken from him. And when that day came, Dante would not stop at an apology. He would take everything. Sixteen years later The photograph lay on Dante Moretti's desk. Lucia Santiago. Twenty years old. Dark hair. Watchful eyes. A face that looked softer in photographs than it probably was in person. Dante had studied her life for months. He knew about her younger sister, her father's expectations, and the quiet rebellion that had finally driven her away from home. He knew she wasn't responsible for what Richard had done. That had never been the point. She was Richard's daughter. And soon, she would be his wife. His most trusted adviser, Matteo, stood on the other side of the desk. "Once the marriage is official, you'll have access to Santiago's private dealings," Matteo said. "His people will assume you're there to strengthen the alliance." "They'll assume whatever I allow them to assume." "And the girl?" Dante's eyes remained on the photograph. "Lucia." "Will you tell her why you're marrying her?" A faint smile touched Dante's mouth. "No." Matteo shifted uneasily. "She may not be as easy to control as her father." Dante finally looked up. "I'm not marrying her to control her." "Then why?" For a moment, the room was silent. Dante turned the photograph facedown. "Because Richard Santiago has spent sixteen years believing he got away with what he did." He rose, buttoned his jacket, and walked toward the window. Beyond the glass, the city glittered beneath the night sky. Somewhere across Italy, Richard Santiago was probably enjoying another expensive dinner, surrounded by people who smiled when he spoke and obeyed when he commanded. Dante imagined the day that smile disappeared. He imagined the fear in Richard's eyes when he finally understood who had entered his family. And he imagined Lucia standing beside him when it happened. She would hate him eventually, perhaps. That didn't matter. He had spent sixteen years preparing to destroy a man. He could survive the hatred of the man's daughter. At least, that was what he believed. Dante picked up his phone. "Confirm the wedding arrangements," he ordered. "I want everything ready." Matteo hesitated. "And if Santiago changes his mind?" Dante's expression became cold. "He won't." He ended the call and looked once more at Lucia's photograph. "Your father took sixteen years of my life," he whispered. His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. "Now I'm going to take something from him." He turned off the light. And for the first time in sixteen years, Dante Moretti felt certain he knew exactly how his revenge would end. He was wrong.