Claimed Desires (Reign of Sin #2)

Prologue - Dante

Pro-logue - Dante

The scent of cigar smoke hangs thick in the air, curl-ing into the dim light like a ghost of past con-ver-sa-tions. It mixes with the fra-grance of whiskey and the faintest hint of gun oil—a com-bi-na-tion that de-fines Nic-colò Moretti’s study. The room is an ex-ten-sion of the man him-self: dark wood-pan-eled walls, shelves lined with leather-bound books no one ac-tu-ally reads, and a heavy desk that looks more like a throne than of-fice fur-ni-ture.

I stand be-fore that desk, wait-ing.

I’ve spent my en-tire life serv-ing this fam-ily, learn-ing that si-lence is power, that pa-tience wins wars. But tonight, there’s some-thing dif-fer-ent in the air. A weight that wasn’t there be-fore.

Nic-colò ex-hales a long breath, tap-ping ash from his cigar into a crys-tal tray. He doesn’t look at me right away, just stud-ies the smoke swirling above him like it holds the an-swers.

Then, he fi-nally speaks. “She’s in dan-ger.”

I don’t re-act. I don’t flinch. But I know ex-actly who he’s talk-ing about.

Elena.

Nic-colò’s daugh-ter.

The one he’s spent years keep-ing away from all of this—this world, this fam-ily, the blood that stains ev-ery dol-lar, ev-ery deal, ev-ery life we touch.

And now, some-one is af-ter her.

Nic-colò leans for-ward, his el-bows rest-ing on the desk, fin-gers steepled to-gether. His eyes lock onto mine, sharp and cal-cu-lat-ing. “I need you to pro-tect her.”

I nod once. “From who?”

He shakes his head, frus-tra-tion flash-ing in his ex-pres-sion. “We don’t know yet. Some-one’s been ask-ing ques-tions about her. Watch-ing her.” He flicks a glance to-ward the side ta-ble, where a sin-gle manila folder sits. “That’s where you start.”

I reach for it, flip-ping it open.

The first thing I see is her pho-to-graph.

Elena Moretti.

She’s changed. The last time I saw her, she was a teenager—wild, stub-born, al-ways push-ing back against the rules Nic-colò set to keep her safe. But in this pic-ture, she’s a woman.

There are curves that were not there be-fore, dark brown hair that cas-cades in soft waves around her shoul-ders. Hazel eyes that, even in a still im-age, seem to burn with some-thing fierce and un-tamed.

She’s beau-ti-ful.

And I im-me-di-ately know that’s go-ing to be a prob-lem.

I snap the folder shut. “What does she know?”

“Noth-ing.”

I frown. “She hasn’t no-ticed she’s be-ing fol-lowed?”

“Elena’s smart, but she’s been…dis-tracted.” Nic-colò’s lips press into a thin line, like he’s hold-ing some-thing back. “She’s spent her life run-ning that damn bak-ery of hers, pre-tend-ing she’s nor-mal. But that il-lu-sion is about to break.”

I ex-hale slowly, al-ready feel-ing the shape of the prob-lem form-ing in my mind. She’s go-ing to re-sist this. She’s not go-ing to take or-ders.

I glance back at Nic-colò. “She won’t like be-ing watched.”

“I don’t care if she likes it,” Nic-colò says flatly. “I care that she’s alive.”

Fair enough.

But there’s some-thing in his tone, some-thing deeper than just a fa-ther’s con-cern.

I nar-row my eyes slightly. “You’re keep-ing some-thing from me.”

A flicker of amuse-ment crosses his face. “I al-ways keep things from you.”

That’s not a de-nial.

I don’t press. Not yet.

In-stead, I ask, “Does she know who I am?”

Nic-colò smirks slightly. “She re-mem-bers you.”

Of course, she does.

We weren’t friends. Barely even ac-quain-tances. But I was al-ways there—on the fringes, a shadow in the back-ground when-ever she was near. Even back then, I had a job. And that job was mak-ing sure no one ever got too close to the Moretti princess.

Now, I’m about to get closer than ever.

Nic-colò reaches for his glass of whiskey, takes a slow sip, and then sets it down with a soft clink. “This isn’t just an-other job, Dante.” His voice is lower now, more mea-sured. “This is my daugh-ter. If any-thing hap-pens to her….”

He lets the words hang there, un-fin-ished.

I don’t need him to com-plete the sen-tence. I al-ready un-der-stand.

This is per-sonal.

And that means fail-ure isn’t an op-tion.

I straighten, ad-just-ing the cuffs of my shirt. “When do I start?”

“Tonight.”

I nod. That’s all I need.

But as I turn to-ward the door, his voice stops me.

“One more thing.”

I glance back.

His ex-pres-sion is un-read-able, but his voice car-ries the weight of an or-der that is ab-so-lute. “She can’t know.”

I hold his gaze. “That she’s in dan-ger?”

“That you’re watch-ing her,” he clar-i-fies. “I don’t want her scared.”

I let out a deep breath. “If some-one’s try-ing to kill her, she should be scared.”

Nic-colò shakes his head. “She should feel safe. That’s your job.”

For the first time in my life, I don’t like the or-der I’ve been given.

Be-cause pro-tect-ing some-one with-out telling them they need pro-tec-tion?

That’s a dan-ger-ous game.

I nod once, then turn and walk out of the study.

Out-side, the night is cold, the city hum-ming with life be-neath a vel-vet sky.

I slide into the driver’s seat of my car, toss-ing the folder onto the pas-sen-ger seat. It falls open slightly, and Elena’s photo stares back at me.

Some-thing shifts in-side me—some-thing I don’t like.

I’ve pro-tected as-sets be-fore. Ter-ri-tory. Money. Even Nic-colò him-self.

But this feels dif-fer-ent.

This feels per-sonal.

And that?

That’s a fuck-ing prob-lem.

Be-cause the mo-ment a job starts to feel per-sonal is the mo-ment you start mak-ing mis-takes.

And mis-takes get peo-ple killed.

I grip the steer-ing wheel tighter, jaw clench-ing.

Elena Moretti has no idea that her world is about to change.

And the worst part?

Nei-ther do I.