SHADOWS OF THE VISCARI EMPIRE

Billionaires stopped talking mid-sentence. A federal judge lowered his crystal whiskey glass. Men whose names appeared only in sealed court files stared as my warm blood dripped onto the cold, polished black marble floor. I did not care about their stares, their whispered judgments, or the ruined silk of my dress.

Marcus was right behind me.

And if he caught me again, I knew I would not survive the night.

Then I saw the man standing at the top of the grand marble staircase.

Adrien Viscari.

New York’s most feared mafia boss, the kingpin of the five boroughs. He wore a tailored black suit without a tie, one hand resting casually against the mahogany railing. He did not look surprised to see a half-conscious, bleeding woman stumble into his private kingdom.

He looked angry. Not at me—at whoever had dared to break me.

The heavy double doors behind me slammed open with a violent crash.

Marcus stormed inside, rainwater running down his pale face, his shirt stained with blood where I had struck him with my broken heel.

“There you are,” Marcus snarled, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “You stupid little—”

His eyes lifted toward the staircase, and the rest of the insult died instantly in his throat.

Adrien descended the stairs slowly, his heavy leather dress shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone. No one moved in the entire club. Not his armed guards, not the corrupt politicians, not even the jazz singer standing beneath the golden lights on the stage.

He stopped in front of me, removed his heavy wool jacket, and draped it gently around my shivering shoulders. The warmth nearly broke what little composure I had left.

“She’s drunk,” Marcus said quickly, trying to step forward, his hands trembling slightly. “She gets hysterical. I’m taking her home.”

I tried to answer, to expose his lies, but a sharp pain tore through my cracked ribs, stealing my breath.

Adrien looked down at the dark, raw bruises encircling my wrists. Then he asked softly, “Who did this to you?”

Marcus took another bold step. “She’s mine.”

Adrien’s dark eyes hardened into glacial steel. “Not anymore.”

The room became so quiet that I could hear the cold rain striking the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Marcus gave a nervous, mocking laugh. “You have no idea who you’re protecting, Viscari.”

Adrien moved closer to him, his presence suffocatingly absolute. “I know exactly who you are, Marcus Blake. Senior corporate attorney. Two harassment complaints sealed by your firm’s partners. One former girlfriend hospitalized after an alleged fall down the stairs. A father whose two-million-dollar gambling debts were mysteriously erased three days before you started dating Lena.”

My stomach tightened. I had never told a single soul about Marcus’s father.

Marcus’s face drained of every drop of color. “You’ve been investigating me?”

“No,” Adrien replied coldly. “I investigate threats.”

Marcus pointed a shaking finger at me. “She’s not some innocent girl! Ask her who her mother was!”

I stared at him through my tears. “My mother died in a car accident when I was seven.”

Marcus smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes—only pure venom. “That’s what they told you.”

Before I could speak, my knees buckled entirely. Adrien caught me before I struck the marble floor, his grip firm, powerful, yet extraordinarily careful.

“Marco,” Adrien ordered his chief lieutenant. “Get Dr. Bell.”

Marcus backed toward the grand entrance, panic finally shattering his composure. Adrien looked over my shoulder at him.

“You will never call her again,” Adrien spoke, his voice dropping into a register that chilled the entire room. “You will never follow her. And you will never speak her name.”

Marcus swallowed hard. “Or what?”

Adrien smiled—a terrifying, predatory curve of his lips. “Then one night, when you think you’re safe, I’ll remind you why this city fears my family.”

Marcus fled into the rain.

The last thing I remembered was Adrien lifting me into his arms as the dark world finally swallowed me whole.

When I woke, I was lying in a massive four-poster bed inside a dark room that smelled of cedar, tobacco, and expensive leather. Adrien sat beside the arched window, watching me silently from a distance.

“Where am I?” I whispered, my throat raw.

“You’re safe,” he said softly.

Before I could answer, the bedroom door opened. Marco entered, holding a sealed manila envelope.

“We searched Blake’s penthouse,” Marco said, his tone dead serious. “Boss, you need to see this.”

Adrien tore open the envelope. Inside was a weathered photograph of me at twelve years old, standing outside my childhood home in upstate New York. Behind me stood a tall woman whose face had been violently scratched away with a sharp blade.

On the back, written in thick red ink, were eight words:

Find the girl before Viscari learns she survived.

Adrien stared at the message, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. Then he looked at me as though he had just seen a ghost from his past.