"The night is drenched in blood."
Dominic Moretti stands in the middle of the warehouse, smoke curling from the barrel of his gun. The scent of gunpowder and death lingers in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of spilled blood. Around him, bodies lie motionless-reminders of why no one crosses the Moretti Mafia and lives to tell the tale.
His men stand by, silent, waiting. Even they know better than to speak when their king is angry.
Dominic steps forward, his leather shoes crushing glass and bone alike. He crouches beside a trembling man-one of the few left alive. The man coughs, blood staining his lips.
"Please... I-It was a mistake-"
Dominic tilts his head, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "A mistake?" His voice is smooth, controlled. Dangerous.
The man nods frantically, chest heaving. "I swear-"
Bang.
A clean shot between the eyes.
Dominic exhales, standing as the body crumples at his feet. He tucks his gun away, his face completely emotionless.
Vincent, his right-hand man, steps forward, nodding approvingly. "That was the last one."
"Good," Dominic murmurs. "Clean this up." He turns, already walking toward the exit. The night air is crisp against his skin as he steps outside, but the chaos inside him never stills.
Because tonight, despite the bloodshed, his mind isn't on the war.
It's on a reckless, infuriating university student who shouldn't mean anything to him.
And yet, Elijah Sinclair is the only thing he can't stop thinking about.
---