Page 3 of Stolen By the Devil

I pulled the trigger.

The shot was quiet, a whisper of death that echoed in the cold, dark room. Her body jerked violently before slumping to the floor, her eyes still open, wide and glassy with the shock of what had just happened. Blood pooled beneath her, minglingwith the man’s, their bodies now bound together in death as they had been in life.

I stood up slowly, sliding the gun back into its holster, the smell of blood thick in the air. It clung to me, soaking into my skin, but it didn’t bother me. It never had. It was a part of who I was, a part of the demon I had always been.

The room was quiet now, the only sound the faint drip of blood hitting the floor. I stared down at Domenica’s lifeless form, my eyes cold, my heart as empty as the void that now surrounded me.

This was the fate she had earned and I had no sympathy.

I walked out of the room, leaving the bodies behind, the darkness of the mansion swallowing me as I moved down the grand hallway. The silence returned, thicker now, heavier, but comforting. This was a silence I welcomed, a silence that allowed me to focus on what was important. Business. My legacy.

Love? Love was a weakness I had never been able to afford. Domenica had just proven that. My demon blood didn’t allow for such human things. I was born of fire and darkness, and I ruled the same way. I’d never known anything else.

At the base of the stairs, I called for one of my men. He appeared quickly, his face carefully blank as he waited for my orders.

“Clean it up,” I said simply with a wave of my hand towards the carnage that lay upstairs.

He nodded and hurried up the staircase without another word. He knew what that meant. He knew what kind of cleanup was required. My men always did.

I opened the French doors at the back of my estate and stepped out onto the terrace. The cool night air washed over me, refreshing, grounding.

I was Drago Barone. The Devil of New York. King of the Sicilian Mafia. And I ruled with blood and fire.

No one would ever forget that.

And no one would dare challenge me again. And if they did, Death would find them.

Chapter One

Angel

Two years had passed since the day I turned eighteen, and yet nothing had changed. The walls of our small apartment remained as thin as paper, the paint peeling like old memories that I wished I could forget. I stood by the doorway, watching my mother sprawled on the awful pea-green couch we’d gotten from the Salvation Army years ago when we’d moved in off the streets. Her body was limp from the remnants of her most recent high.The room smelled faintly of sweat and something more acrid, but I didn’t flinch. This was nothing out of the ordinary.

Carla Rossi, the woman who’d brought me into this world claiming I was a promise whispered to her by an angel, was now a husk of the vibrant woman I only knew through fleeting memories. Her cheeks were gaunt, skin pale and stretched too tightly across her protruding bones. Her once-beautiful hair now hung in stringy strands, and her eyes were hollow, only sparking to life when the drugs coursed through her veins. But she was still my mother. Despite everything, despite the countless nights of coming home to find her like this, I loved her fiercely.

I knelt beside her and gently tugged the blanket over her frail body. She stirred, her chapped lips parting slightly, but her eyes remained closed. I went to the kitchen, filled a glass with cool water, and set it on the chipped side table beside the couch.

"I’ll be back later, Mom," I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She murmured something unintelligible and turned away from me.

With a sigh, I stood, smoothing the wrinkles from my simple dress. My hair fell over my shoulders like a veil, the pale blonde locks reflecting the dim light filtering through the window. People always said I looked as angelic as my name — ironic, given the circumstances of my life. Maybe they saw something I couldn’t. Maybe they wanted to believe that someone who grew up in this darkness could still be a beacon of light. I hoped that was true.

Grabbing my worn coat from the hook by the door, I left quietly, careful not to wake mother. The streets outside were busy, the city alive even at this hour, but I moved through it unnoticed. People avoided eye contact these days. The diner where I worked was a few blocks away, and the walk was always the same—cold, gray, and littered with trash and memories, bothof which I wished I could bury. I shoved both hands into my pockets, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in already as I neared the fluorescent sign of the diner.

***

The shift was long. Too long.

By the end of it, my feet ached, and the muscles in my legs screamed for relief. I wiped the last table down, the rag rough against my skin, but I didn’t complain. I never did. Complaining wasn’t something I allowed myself. There were people who had it worse than I did. That was something I had learned early on. While Mom and I lived on next to nothing, at least we had a roof over our heads now.

When my shift finally ended, I was more than ready to collapse into bed. The walk home was slower this time, fatigue dragging at my steps. The dim light from our apartment window was still on when I arrived. Good. Mom was still there.

Pushing the door open, I expected to see her in the usual spot on the couch, the blanket pulled over her as if nothing had changed in the few hours I had been gone. But the couch was empty. For a moment, my stomach tightened. I called out softly, “Mom?”

No response.

A flicker of panic ignited in my chest. I glanced around, noticing that the glass of water was still untouched on the table. I took a deep breath, telling myself she was probably in the bedroom. Maybe she had woken up and decided to sleep there instead. But a noise—a muffled sound from down the hall—sent a shiver down my spine. It was coming from the bedroom.

My heart pounded as I moved toward the door, my hand shaking as I reached for the knob. The door creaked as I pushed it open. What I saw inside made my blood run cold.

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