THE BILLIONAIRE'S BLOOD DEBT

The glass elevators of Moretti Tower didn't just rise; they soared, leaving the grit of the city beneath a veil of clouds. For Elara Vance, every floor she ascended felt like a pound of pressure tightening around her lungs. She adjusted the hem of her pencil skirt, a cheap polyester blend that felt like sandpaper against her thighs compared to the marble and silk interior of the penthouse lobby.

She was here to save her father's architectural firm from ruin, but as she stepped into the office of Dante Moretti, she felt less like a professional and more like a sacrifice.

The office was vast, a panorama of steel and twilight. At the far end, framed by floor-to-ceiling glass, stood a man who seemed to command the very air in the room. Dante Moretti. Billionaire. Rumored King of the Underworld. He didn't turn when she entered. He was nursing a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, his tailored charcoal suit stretched tight across shoulders that looked broad enough to carry the weight of a sin.

"You're late, Miss Vance," his voice rolled over her, a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated in the pit of her stomach.

"The security downstairs-"

"My security is doing their job. They were checking to see if you were hiding a wire. Or a knife." He turned then, and the breath died in Elara's throat. He was devastating. His face was a collection of sharp angles and cold, predatory eyes that raked over her with the clinical precision of a man deciding whether to buy a piece of art or burn it.

When his gaze settled on her chest, Elara felt her nipples harden instantly against the thin lace of her bra, a traitorous reaction to his blatant scrutiny. Her heart hammered so violently against her ribs that she was sure he could see the fabric of her blouse jumping.

"Come here," he commanded.

It wasn't a request. Elara's legs moved before her brain could protest. As she approached, the scent of him hit her-expensive leather, sandalwood, and a metallic tang that whispered of danger. She stopped a few feet away, but he stepped into her personal space, looming over her. The height difference was staggering; she had to crane her neck back to look him in the eye.

"I've seen your designs for the estate," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped even closer, forcing her back against the edge of his massive mahogany desk. "They're soft. Delicate. This project requires something... harder."

He reached out, his hand hovering near her throat. Elara gasped, her breasts heaving with her shallow breaths. The movement caused the soft mounds to jiggle beneath the silk of her blouse, a rhythmic, enticing motion that drew his dark eyes downward. He didn't look away. He watched the way her body reacted to his proximity, the way her pulse throbbed visibly in the hollow of her neck.

"You're trembling," he whispered, his thumb finally making contact with the skin