ella

ell of rich whiskey and burning wood. I stood barefoot on the dark hardwood floor, the

, sat Damien Falcone. He didn't look up immediately. The scratch of hi

low, gravelly command that

ad bowed. I stopped a few feet from his

s as a winter storm-swept over my body. He took in the La Perla lingerie,

yes locked onto the vicious purple bruise blooming o

spoken, devoid of any inflection, yet they car

loor, playing the broken capt

on on his intercom. A second later, the heavy oak doors op

d his chin toward my face. "Find out who touched her,"

t a flicker of hesitation, turning

ed shut. We we

his tailored Italian suit doing nothing to hide the sheer, brutal power of his p

ised a hand, his long, calloused fingers gripping my chin with an inescapable force. He tilt

rror of being this close to the Underboss, combined with the agonizing adrenaline c

of dizziness hit me so har

apsed

ore I hit the floor. The momentum carried us both, and I found myself crashing into his ches

re pressed flush against the iron-hard muscles of his thighs and chest. The in

rambled, pressing my hands agai

the sound vibratin

his other hand shackled my delicate wrist, pinning me against h

y heart against his ribs. Damien didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply held me there, his grip un

beneath my palm-a crack in the ice. H

avy oak door

cy of his task. A solid twenty minutes had passed since he'd left-enou

y, a flash of lethal intent crossed Hanson's face. He thought I was a seductress, a dirty Rossi trying to compr

nned Hanson to the floor with a glare

nded. Two words, drippin

ad. He backed out immediately, pulli

before. I was trapped in the arms of the devil, my heart ham