Sera POV
Las Vegas was a neon scar slashed across the dark expanse of the desert. It smelled of desperation, cheap perfume, and old money laundering as new.
I loved it immediately.
Aunt Sofia was waiting for me in the VIP lounge of the Inferno Casino. She had been banished here years ago by my father—a sentence for the crime of possessing too much ambition in a body meant for silence.
She looked at me over the rim of her martini glass. Her eyes were sharp, assessing. She didn't look like a woman who had been exiled. She looked like a queen holding court in hell.
"You have the look of a woman who just burned down a church, Sera," she said, her voice curling like smoke.
"I burned down a marriage," I corrected. "I need a job, Sofia. And I need protection."
She laughed, a dry, brittle sound. "You are a Moretti. You are soft. You are made for silk sheets and nursery rhymes."
I withdrew the pearl-handled pistol from my purse and set it on the table. Metal met marble with a heavy, deliberate thud.
"I am not soft," I said. "Not anymore."
Sofia stared at the gun, then back at me. A slow smile spread across her red lips.
"Then you should meet my nephew."
She led me down into the architectural bowels of the casino. The air grew hotter, heavy with sweat and aggression. The chime of slot machines faded, replaced by the wet slap of fists against flesh and the roar of a bloodthirsty crowd.
An underground fight club.
In the center of the ring, a man was systematically taking apart an opponent twice his size. He moved with a lethal grace, efficient and brutal. He didn't fight with anger; he fought with a terrifying indifference.
He dodged a heavy swing and drove his elbow into the other man's temple. The crack echoed through the room. The opponent dropped like a stone.
The victor stood over the body, his chest heaving slightly. He was covered in sweat and tattoos that looked like warnings.
"That is Dante Cavallaro," Sofia said. "The Black Sheep. The man New York is terrified of."
Dante looked up. His eyes locked onto mine across the crowded room. They were dark, endless pits. He didn't look away. He didn't smile. He looked at me like I was a problem he needed to solve, or a prize he intended to take.
He climbed out of the ring, the ropes groaning under his weight, and ignored the towel a handler offered him. He walked straight to us. Up close, he radiated heat and violence. He smelled of iron and expensive soap.
"Who is this?" he asked Sofia, though his gaze remained fixed on me, unblinking.
"Sera Moretti," I answered for myself.
"The runaway bride," Dante mused. His voice was deep, a subterranean rumble that vibrated in my chest. "I heard you left Luca Vance at the altar. Or rather, before you even got there."
"He deserved it," I said.
Dante stepped closer. He was towering over me, using his size to intimidate. It was a test.
"You have soft hands, Princess," he said, reaching out to graze his knuckles against my cheek. His touch was rough, calloused—sandpaper against satin. "You won't last a week in this city."
I grabbed his wrist. I didn't pull away. I dug my nails into the sensitive skin of his inner arm, hard enough to register as a threat.
"I have information, Dante. I know about the shipment coming in from Mexico next week. I know the fed on your payroll has flipped. And I know that without me, you’ll be a corpse by Friday."
Dante's eyes narrowed. The indifference vanished, replaced by a predator's focus. He didn't pull his hand away. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear.
"If you are lying to me, Sera, I will feed you to the desert myself."
"I am not lying," I whispered back.
"Good," he said, pulling back to look at me. "Then welcome to the pack."
