ella

atching painfully in my throat. The amber light from the burning guest wing

two people. He looked like a god of death who

on of the kills-single shots, dead center between the eyes-screamed of a professional. Then, the flashing fire

symbol of T

errupted the boogeyman of the Chicago underworld during a sanctioned execution. Damien 'The Ghost' Gu

a low, smooth baritone that barely carried over the howling wind and the

I was the one who had just turned t

ng for help would only bring Alistair's men, who would kill me just as quickly once they realized wha

my neck. I needed a lever, something Th

show. I met his dead, obsidian eyes. "Killing me i

ed under his immaculate burgundy suit jacket, but his posture shifted, becoming infi

roat. "I know where Alistair keeps his secret ledger. It details eve

ity. The air between us seemed to drop ten degrees. I had hit the exact nerve

d even blink,

d against the rockery, knocking the wind out of my lungs. The rough stone bit into

e heat of his breath against my cheek. The scent of winter mint and fresh blood was intoxicatingly

lew up, gripping his thick wrist, but it was like trying to move a ste

leather glove and fought

desperate, raspy whisper. "It doesn't just

e grenade. The Romanos were the Sicilian suppliers, the

e, feeling the sheer terror and absolute certainty coursing through my veins. Slowly, the crushing pressure ar

ulating coldness. The immediate threat of death receded,