Prologue

PROLOGUE

Zara Riley

I t’s close to midnight by the time I walk home from work and get to take a cool shower to wash away the day’s dirt and sweat. I comb my fingers through my long, sodden curls and pile the wet strands on top of my head in a messy bun, then wrap an old, nearly see-through beach towel around my still damp body, tucking it into the front of my chest. It’s way too muggy to put on clothes just yet, and I’m not yet tired enough to sleep after my twelve-hour shift.

Strolling out into my slightly cooler seven-hundred square foot apartment, I debate killing the air conditioner to open the window and save a little on my electric bill when my bare feet come to an abrupt halt.

“Oh, shit.”

A massive, manspreading mobster sits in the middle of my ratty sofa with my broken-hinged laptop on his lap. There’s a big- ass gun with a silencer on the muzzle, lying a fingertip away from his thigh on the cushion next to him. He’s staring at me over the top of the crooked screen with a clenched, unshaven jaw.

“Hello, Zara .”

His deep, rumbling voice and clipped words make it clear he is not messing around.

Tall, dark, and dangerously handsome in his flawless black suit, he stares back at me with nothing but violence brimming in his eyes. With his wavy, shoulder-length jet-black hair and aura of wrath, he looks exactly how I imagine death would look if it was masquerading as a human.

Accabadore.

Beautiful but deadly, he’s the Italian mafia’s angel of death.

I didn’t see the danger in him last week in the dim light of the nightclub, but tonight, there’s no escaping it.

Dammit! I knew Izaiah Rovina was going to drag me into deep shit. Not only does Creed Ferraro know my name, but he also knows where I live, and is going to shoot me in the middle of my shitty Queens apartment.

Grasping my towel tighter to my chest, I glance over my damp shoulder at the locked and chained door.

“Wh-how did you get in here?”

Yes, that’s the most important question to ask the man who has obviously come to kill you. Like the logistics will help me out of this disaster.

“The window.” His voice is tight, his angular face stern. “Do you know why I’m here, Zara?”

I immediately nod as my gaping mouth completely dries up. The way he keeps saying my name, he makes it sound like a swear-word or an accusation. Maybe both.

Of course, I know why he’s here. His brother is dead, and he rightfully blames me. I blame Izaiah, but I doubt he’d believe that son of a bitch made me do it. Still, I want to try to explain .

Wetting my lips enough so I can try to speak, I tell him, “I swear I didn’t know what was going to happen. I-I thought —”

“Bullshit!” he roars. Flipping my laptop onto the sofa next to him, he surges to his feet. When he begins stalking toward me, I retreat until my back hits the closed and locked door.

I have two choices here. I could try to unlock the bolt and chain and outrun the man who is nearly a foot taller than me at five-eight, or I can try to reason with the don.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, unable to think of anything else to say to a man who just lost his brother.

“You’re sorry?” he repeats quietly. I think I prefer him yelling in anger. Just like I knew it was coming, his fist slams into the door right next to my head making me jump. I swear my heart is going to race its way right out of my chest. “No, you’re not sorry. Not yet. But you’re going to be. And you’re not the only one.”