Prologue:9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBMNvkBimTt
New York City’s skyline glittered like a million scattered diamonds against the night’s velvety darkness. Beneath the grandeur, the city’s shadows writhed with secrets, and among them ruled a man known only in whispers—Dario Marcelli.
In the penthouse office of one of Manhattan’s tallest buildings, Dario stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his sharp profile illuminated by the city’s lights. The faint hum of jazz music drifted through the air, muted beneath the weight of unspoken tension. He held a crystal glass of bourbon loosely in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his tailored suit. His emerald-green eyes scanned the skyline, unseeing. He wasn’t a man prone to sentimentality, but tonight, his mind strayed to the past.
“Il Diavolo,” they called him. The Devil. Not without reason. His rise to power in the Marcelli crime family had been as swift as it was brutal, his cunning and ruthlessness ensuring that no one dared cross him. But power came with a price. Every betrayal, every deal sealed in blood, carved another layer into the armor he wore around his soul. Now, the armor felt like a cage, even as the world bowed at his feet.
A sharp knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Dario turned as his consigliere, Marco Russo, stepped inside. The older man’s weathered face was etched with concern, his usual calm demeanor shaken.
“We found her,” Marco said without preamble. “Giulia Valentini. She’s here in New York.”
The name hit Dario like a gunshot, though his expression remained stone. He turned back to the window, masking the storm brewing within him. Giulia Valentini. It had been years since he’d last heard that name, but he’d never forgotten it. Or her.
“What is she doing here?” Dario's voice was low, measured, but Marco hesitated, sensing the undercurrent of tension.
“She’s… an artist now. Her work is gaining attention. But we believe her presence here is no coincidence,” Marco replied carefully. “The Valentini family might be gone, but her arrival raises questions. What if she’s—”
Dario raised a hand, silencing him. He didn’t need Marco to finish. He already knew the risks. But he also knew Giulia. Or at least, the woman she had been.
“I’ll handle it,” Dario said, his tone brooking no argument. Marco gave a reluctant nod and left the room.
Dario downed the rest of his bourbon, the liquid burning a path to his stomach. He placed the empty glass on the desk and stared at his reflection in the window. The Devil stared back, a man who had sacrificed everything for power. But tonight, he felt something stir within him—a flicker of something he couldn’t name.
He turned away from the window and reached for his coat. If Giulia Valentini was here, he wouldn’t wait for fate to make its move. The game had already begun.
Halfway across the city, Giulia Valentini stood in the center of her modest studio apartment, paintbrush in hand. The scent of turpentine and linseed oil filled the air, mingling with the soft strains of classical music playing from an old radio. The canvas before her was a whirlwind of color and emotion, her escape from the memories that haunted her.
She wiped a stray curl from her face, leaving a streak of paint on her cheek. Her hazel eyes flicked toward the clock on the wall. Midnight. Another sleepless night. She sighed, setting the brush down and stepping back to survey her work. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest—a reflection of her fractured soul.
Moving to the window, she gazed out at the city that had become her sanctuary. New York was nothing like Sicily, where the shadows of her family’s past loomed over her every step. Here, she was just Giulia, an artist trying to build a new life. Or so she told herself.
But deep down, she knew the past was never truly gone. And tonight, as she stared into the city’s endless sprawl, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, was watching. Waiting.
The Devil always found his prey.
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