Page 4 of Devil’s Reign

Mamma sighs heavily. “Statti accura.” Be careful.

I nod and start to leave but hesitate. “Are you working tonight?”

“Of course,” she replies automatically, turning back to the window.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I mutter, already knowing it’s pointless. Stubbornness runs in this family. “You know I⁠—”

“Vattinni e basta, Melani. Just go. You don’t want to be late for your first day.”

I narrow my eyes but let it go. This argument isn’t worth having tonight. She never listens anyway, no matter how many times Luciano and I beg her to quit her ‘escort’ work.

Before we came to New York—before boarding that nightmarish smuggling ship and being discovered by the ruthless crew members—Mamma would have been horrified at the prospect of doing something like this. She would rather have starved. But two weeks trapped at sea with men drunk on their own power has a way of breaking something in a person that doesn’t grow back.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat and walk out of the apartment, tugging my jacket tighter as the late-March cold bites into my skin. One thing I can never get behind is the depressing chill of New York winters. The kind that hangs on well into March and sometimes even April. At least it’s not snowing anymore—that’s something.

I release a slow breath, letting the frigid air cool my blood and clear my head. By the time I reach the subway station, I’m back to feeling excited about my new job. Not because of the job itself, obviously, but because of what it means.

I’m going to find you, Luciano.

I swear it.

The subway is crowded as usual, and I make myself as small as possible to avoid unwanted attention. At this point, I’m a pro at dodging altercations with rowdy evening commuters. The last thing I need is some stupid confrontation that ends with the police getting involved. Just thinking about it makes me shudder. They would ask for ID. An ID I don’t have. Meaning my ass would be shipped back to Sicily faster than I could explain myself—Sicily, where certain death awaits me. After all, I’m the daughter of a Cosa Nostra traitor. And they don’t take kindly to thieves.

I get off at my stop with ten minutes to spare and break into a brisk jog, my breath misting in the cold air. Within minutes, Zvezda looms into view, and I slow, once again marveling at the building’s understated exterior. It’s unlike any other nightclub in Manhattan—hidden behind an unmarked facade, the only clue to what might be inside being a subtle brass star emblem above the front door.

Two suited men with sleek earpieces stand guard by the entrance, monitoring the black SUVs and expensive cars idling nearby. It’s barely twenty past eight and the club doesn’t open until ten, yet people are already outside waiting for entry? Then again, this isn’t an ordinary waiting line. It radiates wealth and exclusivity.

I shake my head, my hair swaying as I turn towards the back entrance where I was instructed to enter. Shit. I need to put my hair up. I left it down to shield my neck from the cold, but during my interview, Nadia made it crystal clear that hair down is not allowed while working. It’s a ponytail or bun only. I fish my scrunchie out of my pocket and start gathering my hair with one hand as I round the corner and⁠—

“Oof.”

I collide face-first with what feels like a warm, solid wall, the impact knocking the scrunchie from my fingers. Cool leather presses against my cheek, and suddenly I’m breathing him in: cold night air, leather, the faint bite of gun oil under expensive cologne. And oh God, this human wall smells incredible.

“Watch where you’re going,” I snap—then look up and forget how to breathe.

Piercing blue eyes hold mine, flecked with slate. My lips part as heat surges through me. Ivan Petrov. Shit. I didn’t expect him to look this good in person.

He studies me with eyes that seem to take in everything, then bends smoothly to pluck my fallen scrunchie from the ground.

“You should watch yourself,” he says mildly, and holy hell, his voice is pitched so low I feel it more than hear it.

I just stare as his large hand closes around my scrunchie, the blood roaring in my ears.

“Come on, Vanya,” someone says behind him.

Only then do I notice the two men standing there. I recognize them from my research—his brothers. Dimitri, the one the streets call the Viper. And Aleksei. The King himself. My gaze accidentally meets his cold, silvery eyes, and I look down fast. You don't stare at the Pakhan.

Vanya steps back from me, still holding my scrunchie, then the three of them disappear through the back door. The moment it shuts, air rushes back into my lungs.

What the hell was that? I press a palm to my pounding chest, gulping the crisp air now that Vanya’s intoxicating scent isn’t overwhelming my senses. What is wrong with me? Am I really attracted to Ivan fucking Petrov—the enforcer of the Petrov family?

None of the brothers looked like anything special in the grainy pictures I dug up online—they avoid red carpets, keep a low profile. But in person… fuck me. Ivan Petrov is 'this is a problem' hot. And that's before you get to the other thing I learned—that half the whispers I dug up don't use his name at all. They just call him the Devil.

I give myself ten more seconds to get my shit together, then fish out the spare scrunchie I was smart enough to bring as backup and twist my hair into a ponytail. By the time I step inside, it’s already 8:30. So much for arriving early.

Two thick, heavy-set men in jeans stand inside the doorway, the exact opposite of the polished suits out front. These don’t bother pretending to be anything other than what they are. Made men.

“I’m Melani Monti,” I say hesitantly, trying to keep my voice steady while my eyes snag on the unmistakable bulges at their waistbands. Concealed weapons, no doubt. “Nadia told me to come through the back. I’m a new server.”