Ross

ver. Isabella Vitiello's thick Italian accent d

he little slum rat has finally realized she doesn't belong in a palac

g the neon lights of the Manhattan skyline. Her insults meant nothing to me. They were just words. I had built my

I said, my tone

went dead

finally hissed, her

raceable. In exchange, I di

to Sofia was the cornerstone of a massive syndicate alliance. If the current mistress caused a public sc

te cafe on Fifth Avenue," Isabell

licked and

h. I stepped back out into the freezing downpour. I didn't hail a cab. I

d, locked out of my third foster home in the dead of winter, the cold had kept me awake. It had kept me alive. Right

d for the private elevator. The doors sli

a sterile, blueish glow over the sprawling, custom-designed furnitur

at and dropped it right onto the c

hottest setting. I didn't wait for it to warm up. I stepped under the spr

scrubbing furiously at my forehead where Dante had kis

over. I wiped a circle away with the side of my hand. My eyes w

Dante during a drive-by shooting in our second year together. I had bled out on the floor of a restaurant, gr

the very back, where an old cardboard box sat hidden behind designer shoe racks. I pulled out a faded, oversized

looking down at the glittering grid of the city. I looked around the room

the bottles of Macallan and poured

the marble counter.

ate. Sleep well, *m

h turn. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I usually sent back

: *Good

ossed the phone

under the massive king-sized bed and dragged out a battered duff

ut my passport, my birth certificate, and a few basic t

keypad on the front door

ck under the bed, grabbed a thick hardcover book from the nightstand,

th, my muscles

rivate hallway, followed by the crackle of a security rad

red the book and looked around the cavernou

nother day in t