Escaping the Pawn, Ensnaring the Don

ella

of white-hot agony up my thighs. The July sun over Little Italy was merciless, baking the

and offered my father the one thing I knew

a game, *puttana*?" he spat, pacing in front of me. "You disappear al

rls and a reputation for leaving them broken. My father, a low-level Associate with a gambling addiction,

esson in obedience. During my feverish recovery, my stepsister, Clara, had maliciously mixed rock salt into my bandages, smiling as I screamed

fed to a monster, I

e Falcone family's high-end speakeasy had been packed for the St. Gennaro's Feast. It took every ounce of my wits to secure a temporary

cone. The

r the key, slipping inside to find him passed out on the silk sheets. He was a lethal predator, beautiful and terrifying even in unconsciousness. Climbing onto him, for

me. I had drugged and used a Falcone. If he woke up and saw me as an enemy rather than an asset, my death would be far wor

rled, kicking a fresh handful of sh

e suffer. The clinking of ice in their lemonade glasses provided a mocking s

of an engine cut through t

rought-iron gates of our building. It was a vehicle that screamed i

riumph. "Look at that," he breathed, his chest puffing out. "The Vulture sent

lture didn't drive cars like

ldier. He didn't bother entering the grimy courtyard, merely stand

to collect

ompletely blind to the reality of the situation. "You hea

bones. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The gamble had been call