Wicked Devil (Ruthless Heirs #4)

Prologue

Matteo

The second she walks in, I feel it. It’s not just the way the air shifts, like a storm’s about to break, but something deeper. Familiar. Like a song I used to know, now warped by time and distance.

She’s a silhouette in the doorway of my office at the Velvet Vault, framed by the neon-blue light leaking in from the hallway.

Tight black dress. Long, bare legs. Blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail and a mask that covers the majority of her face.

It’s lace and silk, sleek, elegant, and dangerous.

None of this is unusual for The Velvet Vault, the decadent, lush nightclub my cousin Alessandro owns. We get masked women all the time. But none of them ever made my pulse stutter like this.

“The private event is upstairs, sweetheart,” I mutter, kicking my feet off the desk. Then I stand slowly, smoothing down the sleeves of my dark button-up. “Unless you’re here for a private dance. In which case…” I flash her a grin. “You’re about to make my night.”

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. Just levels a gun at my chest.

Well, shit.

My mind races through all the possible reasons why this woman could want me dead.

As the son of Nico Rossi, head of the Gemini empire and one of the most powerful crime syndicates in Manhattan, the possibilities are endless.

The most recent and notable is the debacle with La Spada Nera, when Alessandro went on a rampage putting a hit on half their men after he thought they were responsible for an attempt on his wife’s life. Which proved to be wrong.

Then there’s the likelihood I just fucked the girl and never called her back… Nothing worse than a woman scorned.

I lift my hands palm up, not out of fear, but because I want to keep her calm. She’s trembling, but barely. The last thing I need is a trigger-happy assassin with good aim.

“Careful, bella,” I murmur. “Those things tend to go off when you’re emotional.”

A rueful chuckle squeezes past her pouty lips. “You don’t remember me, do you?” Her voice is like gravel and honey. Soft, rough, and angry. With the faintest Irish lilt.

And fuck me, it lights something inside my chest I haven’t felt in years.

“Should I?” I’m still staring at the barrel of the gun instead of her face. It’s easier that way. Safer.

“You should.” She pauses for an endless moment. “You killed my fiancé.”

That gets my attention.

My eyes snap to hers, the only part of her face I can really see beneath that mask. Blue. Sapphire. Haunted.

And damned familiar, though for the life of me I can’t place them.

“Lots of men have died at my hands,” I say, voice flat now. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Her jaw tightens. “He was Conall Quinlan’s lieutenant.”

Fuck.

Another beat.

My thoughts swirl back in time, the scent of gunpowder filling my nostrils. Three months ago in Belfast. The asshole that captured Ale’s wife, Rory.

A wall of heat punches through the air, knocking some of the front-row guests at Conall Quinlan’s estate off their feet. The ground bucks under me like a living thing. My ears ring, and smoke coils across the perfectly manicured lawn as we storm the compound.

The explosion tears through the east wing of the house, a wall of fire and smoke billowing into the sky then tearing toward the gardens. Screams erupt. Chaos. Gunshots crack all around me.

We weave around the terrified guests, Alessandro leading the charge like a man possessed.

We’re all clad in black tactical gear, armed to the teeth.

The notorious Valentino and Rossi cousin crew, the Gemini forces, along with some help from the Ferraras.

No one steals the woman my cousin loves and survives.

And Ale is like a brother to me so here I am right beside him, along with Alessia, his twin, Serena and her fiancé, Antonio, and Isabella and her boyfriend-slash-bodyguard, Raf.

Screams pierce the winter air like broken glass, jagged and slicing through the silence.

The gathered crowd erupts into anarchy as chairs are overturned, skirts are tangled, and Quinlan men yell as they reach for weapons.

Fucking Irish mob. Smoke chokes the garden, thick and fast, curling like a ghost around the altar.

The altar where Conall Quinlan was trying to force Ale’s girl to marry him.

I can barely make out the bastardo, the so-called Butcher of Belfast, with Rory only a few yards away.

Ale’s dark gaze latches onto them as Conall shoves Rory behind him, barking orders to his men as if he’s still in control.

I barely contain the smirk from parting my lips. There will be nothing left of the Quinlans once we get done with them.

Alessandro shouts Rory’s name, then turns to me, fury flashing across those midnight eyes. Before he gets a word out, I shout, “Go get your girl. I’ve got your back.”

He nods, a thousand unspoken words hanging in the air between us.

I flank his side, followed by Serena and Isabella, the Valentino portion of our cousin crew, dressed to kill in every sense of the word.

The Ferrara brothers are glued to either side of them, protective to their core.

The Gemini men pour in like a damn cavalry, cutting through Conall’s soldiers like it’s just another Saturday.

“Go, go, go!” I yell as Alessandro races across the lawn, and I pepper the air with bullets, providing cover. When Rory is finally safe in his arms, I release the breath I’ve been holding. After a scorching kiss, which I so did not need to see, he grabs her hand and races toward us.

Some asshole leaps out from behind a pristine column, reaching for Rory, and I don’t waste a second squeezing the trigger. The bullet hits true, straight to the head and the guy drops to the ground.

Gunfire erupts again as Conall shouts at his men to regroup. The estate is a blur of shouts and blood and crumbling stone as the Gemini and Ferrara crews lay waste to what’s left of the Butcher’s empire.

“Back to the SUV,” I shout at Serena and Isabella, and the Ferraras at their side.

We tear down the back path toward the escape vehicle. The Quinlans attempt to reorganize, but we caught them off guard, outnumbered and outgunned. They were expecting a wedding, and they got a massacre instead. Still, they keep coming. Until Conall’s dead, anyway.

Ale and Rory reach the SUV just as I round the tall hedges. “Let’s move!”

Serena, Antonio, Isabella and Raf are already leaping into the car.

A flash of motion at the manor’s edge catches my eye. Shit, Conall. He’s bloodied and snarling with a gun in his hand.

He raises it and aims at Alessandro.

No. Before I can get a word out, Rory lunges in front of my cousin, shoving him out of the way just as the shot rings out. She hits the ground hard, and a gasp rips from my throat as blood blossoms across her white lace gown.

Fuck.

“Rory!” Alessandro’s on the ground beside her, cradling her in his arms, eyes wild with terror.

Ale spins toward Conall, but with my hands free, I’m faster. I fire once, and the Butcher crumples to the dirt like the piece of shit that he is. Then Alessandro shoots off a dozen more rounds until the bastardo goes still.

Silence. Just for a second.

“Let’s go!”

A sharp inhale draws me back to the present. The scene blurs, the scent of smoke and blood returning to the dark recesses of my mind. I’m back in my office at the Vault with a gun now pointed at my head.

“The man you killed,” she barks, “his name was Eoin.”

The name hits like a hammer I didn’t see coming. Eoin Quinlan. He was the Butcher’s righthand man… his cousin from what I remember.

One of the assholes I—

Ah.

I exhale, slow and measured, but inside there’s a fucking war zone going off. I lean against the desk casually, calculating my next move. I still don’t know who this woman is, but now I know why she’s here. And it’s definitely not to dance.