Page 1 of Devour
PROLOGUE
Luca
The whiskey burns its way down my throat, leaving a trail of heat that does nothing to thaw the cold settling in my chest. I stare out the window of my penthouse office, the city glittering below like a bed of diamonds—sharp, deceptive, and crawling with desperation.
I’ve come a long damn way from the affection-starved seventeen-year-old I used to be. Now, at twenty-four, I sit at the top of it all, CEO of Falcone Financial, a fortress of black money and clean fronts.
We own nightclubs, hotels, restaurants, and more businesses than I care to count. Men flinch when they hear my name. Women whisper it like a prayer. I’m not just rich. I’m the Don of the Falcone family. And in this city, that makes me God.
I didn’t get here by being a fucking pussy. This empire wasn’t handed to me on a silver platter just because Claudia Falcone, my mother, once ruled with bloodstained hands and a diamond crown.
I had to earn it. Shipment after shipment. Body after body. Death became routine until I carved my name into this world, until I earned my cross, my ring, and my dagger. I’ve got the scars and the ink to prove it.
In my world, mercy is weakness. And no one crosses the Falcone family and walks away without bleeding. My phone buzzes. I glance down at the screen.
Dominic.
One of my most trusted lieutenants, second in command. Loyal to the bone. He handles the dirt—loan shark collections, threats, the occasional body dump. While I run the clean fronts and charm the politicians, he keeps our shadows in check.
“Boss, we caught the bastard. He tried to skip the country.”
I don’t flinch, just swirl the whiskey in my glass.
“Is he breathing?”
“Barely. Want us to finish the job?” A pause.
“No.” I take a slow sip from the glass. “Bring him in. I want him to bleed where he begged.”
I hang up, sliding the phone into my pocket, jaw tight. I don’t like getting blood on my suit—I have men for that.
But I’ve been stuck in this goddamn suit all day, playing nice with investors and council members. I need an outlet. And this fucker? He needs a reminder.
He borrowed from us and thought he could skip town when it was time to pay. Big mistake.
He got the warnings. The visits. The broken taillight. The message in blood. Now he gets the consequence. The elevator pings, breaking the silence. My secretary steps in without waiting.
“New applicant for the open assistant role. Would you like to interview them yourself?”
I exhale through my nose. I’m in no mood to entertain some desperate little thing who thinks high heels and a tight skirt count as qualifications.
“Leave it on my desk.”
Her heels click across the floor, followed by the soft sound of the folder landing on polished wood.
“You can go.”
I don’t turn around. Not until I hear the elevator doors close behind her. She’s probably wearing something that screams fuck me. Most of them do.
I should just fuck her and be done with it. Send her off with a pat on the ass and a severance envelope like I did the last three.
They’re always good for a quick fuck, but it doesn’t scratch the itch. Nothing does. I walk to the desk, flip the folder open—and my blood runs cold.
Ariel Lane.
Her name is printed in neat, black letters like it hadn’t already carved itself into my bones years ago. And then the photo. Her face. Older. More refined. Still fucking beautiful.
My heart doesn’t just ache. It roars. She dared to come back. After all these years. After what she did.
