Plaything Of The Enemy

They said revenge was a dish best served cold.

But I liked my vengeance served hot, scorching, screaming, and delivered with a bullet to the skull.

That was the plan, at least.

Until I ended up cuffed to a silk-draped bed in my enemy's penthouse, half-naked, and utterly at his mercy.

Several hours earlier....

The rain fell in sheets, drowning the city in a cold, merciless haze. Every drop felt like a warning. Like the sky itself wanted to stop me.

By the time I reached the gates of La Fortezza, Damian Moretti's skyscraper-fortress, my clothes were soaked and my nerves wired tight. The tower stood like a loaded gun pointed at the center of Europe, its black-glass skin hiding the rot beneath. You didn't walk in unless you were invited... or you didn't plan to walk out.

I had only one purpose.

I was going to kill Damian Moretti. To avenge my brother. I'd waited too long, planning and grieving until this day. I wanted his blood on my hands like Matteo's had been on his.

Security cameras were everywhere. Two men in dark suits stood at the front entrance, eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, hands twitching near their weapons.

I didn't come in through the front.

I circled to the loading bay, slipped through the fencing, and followed the blueprints Matteo had given to me months before he died. It was almost as though he predicted his own death. I saw an old maintenance shaft still unlocked. It was a security flaw...

I scaled the shaft in silence, each rung slick with rain and rust. The steel groaned under my weight like it resented me. Floor after floor blurred past in the dark, until I hit the top.

A reinforced door waited for me. There was no keypad. Just a fingerprint scanner and a voice prompt.

I didn't have the voice.

But I had a stolen guard's severed thumb in a plastic bag.

I pressed it to the scanner. It scanned for a bit and then....

Access granted.

The door hissed open.

The lights were dim and there was total silence.

And then I saw him...

He stood by the window, shirtless, glass of bourbon in hand, watching the skyline like a god surveying his domain.

And he didn't even flinch when he spoke.

"You're late."

I froze. Did he know that I was coming?

My finger tightened on the trigger. "Turn around."

He did. Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world.

My heart raced.

Damian Moretti wasn't just beautiful. He was unholy. His black hair was a mess, it seemed deliberately disheveled. Ink wound down his arms in brutal, elegant patterns, muscles shifting beneath them like coiled wire. A scar slashed across his collarbone and his eyes were like storm clouds, cold, unreadable, and dangerous.

"Luca Romano," he said, smirking like the devil himself. "Did you really think I wouldn't know you were coming?"

Before I could react, something sharp jabbed into my neck.