To Desire A Devil (The Bellucci Brothers #1)

Prologue

Fiero

I was in ninth grade when I thought I’d found the most beautiful thing in the world.

I was in tenth grade when I discovered people like me don’t get to have beautiful things.

“We know who he is,” Alessio says.

I don't look up from my phone.

“Some lowlife crook called McAllister.”

Fifteen years on, the casual mention of that name still makes me want to burn down the whole of Atlantic City.

I don’t hear anything else because my pulse is thundering loudly through my ears.

I glance up, my gaze traveling across the table to my brother, Remo. He’s drumming his fingers on the table, one ear trained on a conversation about shipments stuck at borders and petty criminals who’ve dared to steal from my late father’s tacky casino, and both eyes trained on me.

The name settles deep in my bones, awakening memories I buried a long time ago. Memories I’ve spent years trying to forget.

But that’s the shitty thing about memories. The ones you want to hold onto fade away like blood washed down a drain. Whereas those you wish would disappear hang around like a fart in a car.

My jaw tightens slowly, the muscle ticking once as I roll the name over in my head. McAllister.

Of all the names in this city… it had to be that one.

It shouldn’t mean anything, really. It’s common enough. There are thousands of McAllisters scattered across New York, living quiet, irrelevant lives that have nothing to do with me.

But the name McAllister has forever left a stain on my history, and I detest that. Hearing it now drags me back to a version of myself I erased a long time ago—one I made damn sure no one would ever see again.

I’ve spent fifteen years rebuilding myself into something that couldn’t be broken again.

And yet, all it takes is that name…

And for a second, I remember exactly what it felt like to be small.

“We’ve managed to dig up some notes on this guy,” Alessio continues, oblivious to the plummet in room temperature. “Simple low-life crook, in and out of correction facilities. He’s already gambled the money, has fuck-all to his name. No job, no gigs, just siphoning off his older brother.”

“So blow off his kneecaps and get the money from his brother.” My tone is still calm but it’s taking all of my strength to keep it that way.

Alessio and Vito exchange a worried look. “I doubt that will turn anything up,” Vito says. “The brother works at the hardware store on Cherry Street—part time. We had him followed. Unless he’s got some bills stashed in the walls, he won’t have anywhere near what we’re owed.”

Alessio rubs his chin with bony fingers. “What about the piece of ass the brother was hanging out with?”

Vito frowns. “Who, the redhead?”

Remo’s gaze hasn’t wavered from me and I can feel his fingers still drumming on the table as if they’re pounding against my skull.

“She wasn’t a redhead. She was blond.”

“Reddish blonde.”

Alessio tuts. “Red, blue, whatever. Maybe she has money.”

I forcibly scroll through my messages. These issues are below my pay grade and the mention of a McAllister has eaten into my patience. I’m about to order everyone out of the room so I can smash a table in peace when another name hits me in the chest like a bullet.

“She’s the niece of the prick who owes us. Pfeiffer McAllister. Fresh back from Boston. Returned home to live with her father apparently. She doesn’t look like money though.”

Remo’s fingers stop drumming.

A dark fever erupts beneath my skin and sweat beads on the surface.

Pfeiffer McAllister.

The single specific reason I despise the name.

I haven’t seen her in fifteen years but that never stopped her haunting my head every single day. That’s how I know she moved to Massachusetts for college, graduated, then became a nurse at the Boston Medical Center, and has stayed there ever since.

I didn’t expect her to come back to New York, but she has.

And her good for nothing uncle owes me a shit ton of money.

I’ve been waiting for this moment for all this time—since the day I dropped out of school with nothing to my name except an abusive father, three brothers to look out for and a conscience as diminished as my ego.

Fast forward more than a decade and I’m exactly where I belong.

After orchestrating the murder of our monstrous father, I’m now the rightful don of the Bellucci family.

And Pfeiffer McAllister is blissfully unaware she’s nothing but a horsefly that just flew into the web of my underworld reign.

Our alliance with the Di Santos two years ago came with a piece of prime real estate perfect for our flagship club, and word has spread. It is now the favorite playground of New York’s finest, richest and darkest.

The eighties had Studio 54, the noughties had The Box, and now we have Velvet. It’s where the ruthless, the rebellious and the untouchable come to play.

Velvet is more than a club. It’s an epicenter.

It’s the home of the Fallen Angels—where once a month guests bid eye-watering amounts of money to fulfil their fantasies with a mystery masked companion.

It’s also the place from which we control entire worlds. The New Jersey Mafia, the Philly Mob, Atlantic City.

Remo, the eldest of my younger brothers, handles those crews, along with Brando, our quiet but deadly enforcer who gets his kicks from the kind of violence most news outlets draw a hard line at reporting on.

Then there’s the Ring. A top secret, closed door black market gambling circle so tightly sealed that even the Feds think it’s a myth.

Once a month, the basement fills with men and women who want to trade goods that shouldn’t exist. Some come for the rush of the game. Others come because power is an addiction, and some come simply because they’re immoral, dark and occasionally desperate.

Cassio oversees the games and the players. The Ring is his.

Velvet—the place where everything happens—and the night of Fallen Angels, are mine.

I’ve taken no prisoners on my climb to the top and I’m not about to start now.

Every person who’s ever betrayed me or my family has paid the price—be it a bullet in their brain or rock tied to their ankle before being shoved into the Hudson.

There’s only one person I haven’t avenged in my life, and it’s her.

For fifteen years, I've imagined what I'd do if I ever saw her again. Now, it seems, I no longer need to imagine.

The room falls silent as I rise from my chair.

“Bring her to the club.”

Alessio’s brows jump. “Here?”

I button my jacket and pull the mask down over my eyes. It covers the upper half of my face, sculpted from matte black leather molded perfectly to the bone beneath.

It’s the standard code of dress in the main lounge I’m about to walk through. Masks conceal fear, ego and identity, and blur the lines between predator and prey. Inside Velvet, everyone is equal until they aren’t.

“Yes. She’s going to pay off her uncle’s debt. As of tonight, Pfeiffer McAllister works for me.”

Remo smiles his approval as I head for the door.

I pause beside a vase filled with black feathers of every kind. I sift through them carefully, taking my time before selecting the perfect one—a small, delicate ostrich feather, dark yet fragile.

Opening my jacket, I slide the feather into the inside pocket, feeling Remo’s satisfied gaze on my back.

After fifteen years of waiting, fate has finally put Pfeiffer McAllister back within my reach.

And we all know what happens to those who wait.