1

How is this my life?

Did we live in luxury? No. We had a comfortable lower middle-class life. We never went without. Money was always tight, but we made it work.

At least, I thought we made it work.

And now we are hiding in a motel with roaches crawling up the beams; the paint is chipping away from the cement siding.

Shoulders back, chin high, I march into the parking lot, the gravel digging into the thin soles of my shoes. Looking left and right, I see only cars across the street at a junkyard. Digging out my phone, I order an Uber and then remember, I have no idea where Carmine Milazzo lives.

Someone has to know.

I wait outside the motel for my ride, biting on my fingernails, and think about what I’m going to say to him. What am I going to offer? Could I work for him in exchange for my father’s debt?

A light blue Nissan rolls to a stop, its tires crunching, as the Uber driver slams on the brakes to avoid the pot of dead flowers but hits it anyway. The vase cracks, and the soil spills free.

He rolls the window down to ask, “Delilah?”

“That’s me.” I open the back door and slide in; it smells much better in this car than out there.

“Where to? You didn’t provide an address.”

“Carmine Milazzo’s house please.”

He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, and his eyes widen in the rearview mirror before he spins around to look at me. “Lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking going there, but I’m not taking you to that man’s house. You won’t be walking out of it.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“People don’t talk to Carmine Milazzo.”

I lean forward and tilt my head. “Well, I’m going to, so that’s where I need to go.”

“Your funeral, lady.”

His concern has nervous turmoil brewing in my belly, and I started biting on my nails again—an awful habit I need to break. I have no idea what I’m doing, but something needs to be done, and I can’t just sit by and do nothing. I stare out the window, watching the trees rush by in a blur, and memories of my dad playing dress-up with me as a little girl run through my mind.

He’d even put on a tutu, which looked ridiculous, but mom left, and he had to play both parental roles. He’s an amazing father, so trying to settle this for him is the least I can do.

“We’re here,” the driver says.

“That was fast.”

“It’s been twenty minutes. You’ve been quiet, probably wondering what your fate is. Good luck.”

The moment I slam the door closed, the tires of his little Nissan spin burning rubber, and he speeds away.

And I’m left standing outside a fifteen-foot iron gate. It’s the only break in the giant metal wall that wraps around the entire property, and I can’t see anything behind it.

“You’re doing this. You are doing this,” I pep talk myself and walk up the driveway, then press the button on the intercom.

“What?” a man barks with a slight accent.

“I’m here to see Mr. Milazzo.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No—”

“You can’t just demand to see Mr. Milazzo. He’s a busy man.”

“I’m Delilah Reynolds. His people shot up my house last night because my father owes him money. I need to talk to him.”

Silence answers back, and then a growl. “We didn’t know he had a daughter.”

Something in the man’s voice sends a shiver down my spine, and the gate creaks open.

“Mr. Milazzo will see you now.”

“Thank you.” I want to hit myself. Why am I being nice to the people who ruined my life?

I step through the gate, and my breath catches. “Wow.”

Blood must pay well because this house is beautiful. It’s a large ivory-colored mansion with huge windows and round pillars bracing the front door. Green vines spread across the front of the house, giving it an inviting appearance in spite of the building’s intimidating size, and a fountain gurgles cheerily from a pond in the middle of a gorgeous green lawn.

I don’t allow people to make me feel less than, but as I walk up the marble steps and face two massive cherry-stained wooden doors, I feel small. With an exhale, I wrap my fingers around the metal ring hanging from the devil’s mouth, but the door opens before I can knock. A man dressed in all black is standing in the opening.

“Follow me,” he says, walking away without giving me a chance to respond.

I follow, but it’s hard to keep up when the inside of the house is just as beautiful as the outside.

Not wanting to be caught gawking, I keep my head down and follow the heavy footsteps in front of me. The click of the man’s expensive shoes echo down the vast hallway. Expensive paintings from the walls on either side of us, but I barely glance at them as we pass.

We came to a set of white double doors with sleek black handles.

“Mr. Milazzo? Ms. Reynolds is here.” the man speaks into his wrist. He must have received an answer because he swings the door open.

“Good luck.” He shoots me a predatory smirk and steps back so I can pass.

I wish people would stop saying that to me.

I enter what looks like a spacious office. The stranger shuts the door behind me, and a click sounds from the handle. I’m locked inside the room.

It’s brighter than I expected. Sunshine spills through a large bay window my left; bookshelves run along the walls to my right. In the center of the room, directly in front of me, stands a long desk with two leather chairs facing it for…clientele.

“Sit.” His voice permeates the air. There’s a hint of impatience roughing the back of his throat.

He is sitting in a chair that’s turned away from me, so I can’t see his face. The rich ink color of his hair peeking over the top of the seat is the only thing hinting at what he looks like.

“I don’t know whether you’re brave or stupid to come to see me, Ms. Reynolds.”

“A little bit of both,” I answer honestly, my throat suddenly dry.

He spins the leather throne around, and his hands splay across the desk.

My lips part when I see him. Carmine Milazzo is a beautiful villain. His eyes are so dark that they match his soul, and his skin has a gorgeous tan. His face is clean-shaven, which highlights the sharp edges of his features—high cheekbones, square jaw and plump lips.

I’m insane for thinking that the man who tried to kill my father and me is attractive. I need my head examined.

“My time is valuable, Ms. Reynolds. What do you want?” He uncuffs his shirt sleeves and begins to roll them up to his elbow.

“I want to talk about my father’s debt.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s plenty to talk about,” I argue.

He smirks and pours a glass of whiskey from the decanter on the edge of his desk, then he grabs a second glass and brings it over to me.

“Take it.” He towers over me like a giant, using his power to sway my mind into doing anything he wants.

I wrap my fingers around the glass, trying to stop my hand from shaking. I wind up having to hold the glass with two hands to steady it. “There’s plenty to talk about. “There must be something I can do. I’ll work for you to pay off the debt. Please, my dad is a good man.”

“Good men make bad decisions all the time, Sweetling,” he calls me, taking the second chair. He reaches between my legs, and I hold my breath wondering what the hell is he doing, when he grips my chair and yanks me closer. “Good men keep bad men like me in business.” He tucks a piece of loose hair that’s fallen from my ponytail behind my ear, and I tremble from how cold his touch is.

Every glide of his fingertips promises wicked things. It isn’t just pure terror weighing down my bones, but the lust causing my panties to become wet.

“Your father can only pay the debt with his life. That’s the term of the agreement we made, Sweetling.”

“I am not—” I hiss through tight teeth, “—Your Sweetling.”

“You’re the sweetest thing to have ever walked through my doors.” He grabs my chin and forces me to meet his dark gaze. I can’t tell where his irises end and pupils begin. “Do you know what they call me?”

I shake my head, gasping when his thumb brushes against my bottom lip.

“Carmine ‘The Devil’ Milazzo. I take, Sweetling. I punish. I demand. You’re an innocent soul, and now you’re trapped in the Devil’s lair.”

My breath hitches, and he tilts his head, but we don’t break eye contact.

“Your bravery impresses me. Even through your fear, you’ll take anything I give you, won’t you?” he whispers in awe, dragging his fingers across my jaw and staring at me as if I’m an exotic animal in a zoo.

“I’ll do anything for my family,” I answer, honestly. “Even if it means making a deal with a so-called devil,” I reply, unable to stop my voice from crumbling.

A sly, conniving grin spreads across his handsome face, showing rows of straight white teeth. He leans back, crossing one ankle over his knee while sipping his whiskey. His bottom lip shines from the amber liquid, and for some inexplicable reason I want to lick it clean.

What is wrong with me? This man is a monster, a devil like he claims. I’m disgusted with myself.

He sets his drink on the desk with a hard clunk, leaning forward again. Only this time, I can smell the alcohol on his breath. Palms twice the size of mine land on my thighs, and he yanks them apart. A whimper crawls up my throat, but I keep it locked inside my chest next to my pounding heart.

“I’ll forgive your father’s debt on two conditions. You marry me, and you give me a child. You do that, and your father lives.”

“What? No! I’m not having sex—”

He wraps a hand around my throat and leans closer, his lips almost touching mine. “You’ll be begging me to fuck you, Sweetling. And you'll be screaming my name when I do, not if. Everything about you will be mine. Those are the terms. Deal or no deal.”

Something about that sounds so good, so wrong, so tempting, but I ignore my body’s reaction and think of my father.

“Deal,” I grit, yanking free from his grip.

I can still feel the sear of his hand around my throat, hating how much I now crave his touch.

I’m a horrible daughter for liking how this man makes me feel.

I’m in hell, the soon to be bride to The Devil, himself.