Blood on Michigan Avenue

The bitter November rain turned the asphalt of Michigan Avenue into a slick mirror reflecting the neon glow of Chicago’s skyline. It was past midnight when the black armored Cadillac Escalades screeched to a halt at the intersection of Adams and Michigan.

Inside the rear cabin of the lead sedan, Isla Moretti gripped the mother-of-pearl handle of the five-inch switchblade concealed beneath the sleeve of her cashmere coat. Her heart was beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but her dark green eyes were steady, cold, and calculating.

"Status on the rear flank?" Isla demanded, her voice cutting through the hum of the engine.

"Clear, Donna Isla," the bodyguard in the passenger seat answered, clutching an automatic submachine gun. "The drop at the port was clean. We have the ledger."

They didn't know they were already in the jaws of a wolf.

Without warning, the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler flared from a side alley. The colossal steel grille slammed into the side of the Escalade with deafening, bone-shattering force. Metal crumpled like paper, airbags detonated in blinding clouds of white powder, and the luxury SUV spun across the wet asphalt, slamming into a concrete light pole.

Elena—no, Isla—coughed, blinking through the stinging chemical dust. Blood trickled down her forehead from a cut near her hairline. Groaning in agony, she saw her driver slumped over the steering wheel, unconscious.

Outside, the rain hissed against shattered glass. Then came the steady, unhurried crunch of heavy leather combat boots on gravel.

Through the broken windshield, Isla saw him.

Lorenzo Falcone.

Known across the underworld as 'The Reaper,' Lorenzo was the supreme Capo of the Chicago Outfit—a myth carved out of gunpowder, Italian tailoring, and merciless brutality. At thirty-one, he stood six-foot-four, a mountain of lean, lethal muscle clad in a tailored charcoal wool coat over a bespoke black three-piece suit. His dark hair was brushed back, wet with rain, his jawline sculpted like granite and shadowed by a dark beard. But his eyes were what froze Isla’s breath—mercury-gray, predatory, and burning with ruthless dominance.

Lorenzo holstered his suppressed Kimber .45, stepping up to the passenger door. With terrifying, effortless strength, he ripped the crumpled door off its hinges and tossed it aside.

He reached inside, his large, gloved hand gripping Isla's collar, hauling her out of the wreckage into the freezing rain.

Isla didn't scream. She struck.

Her silver switchblade flicked open in a flash of lightning. She drove the blade upward, aiming straight for the hollow beneath his jaw.

Lorenzo didn't flinch. With the blinding speed of a striking cobra, his bare hand caught her wrist mid-air. The impact sent a shockwave vibrating through Isla’s arm. Lorenzo twisted her wrist with agonizing, controlled pressure until the switchblade slipped from her numb fingers and clattered onto the wet asphalt.

He shoved her against the side of the truck, trapping her slender frame between his massive body and cold steel. His gray eyes raked over her flushed face, tracking the crimson blood dripping down her porcelain temple, before locking onto her defiant green eyes.

"Isla Moretti," Lorenzo murmured. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated right through her chest, carrying the heavy scent of Cuban tobacco, dark leather, and rain. "Your father sent his only daughter to steal my port ledgers. Did he think your pretty face would keep you breathing?"

Isla spat a mouthful of blood at his polished boots, her chin lifting with fearless pride. "Pull the trigger, Falcone. Because if you don't, I will slit your throat in your sleep."

A low, dark rumble of laughter shook Lorenzo’s broad chest. His hand left her wrist and rose slowly, his gloved thumb roughly wiping the blood from her cheek.

"Kill you, little bird?" Lorenzo whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear, his hot breath scorching her cold skin. "Death is too merciful for a Moretti. You belong to the Outfit now. You are my captive, Isla. And by Sunday, you will be my bride."