Rome never felt dangerous to Ariella Winters until the night she walked straight into the devil's hands.
The city was usually alive in a way that comforted her cafés glowing with warm yellow light, scooters buzzing past, the gentle messiness of local street vendors. Rome felt like romance, art, warm laughter, and late-night pastries.
But tonight, something was off.
Ariella hugged her sketchbook to her chest as she hurried down Via Romana, shivering despite the warm night breeze. Her professor had kept her late after class, and the last bus had left her two blocks earlier than normal. She should've taken the well-lit path toward the metro. She knew that. She reminded herself five times.
But then she heard crying.
A woman's voice soft, choked, desperate.
Ariella paused.
Her heart tugged before her brain could warn her. She was too softhearted, too curious, too brave in all the wrong ways.
She turned into a narrow alley.
The crying stopped.
Instead, she heard men speaking low, accented, dangerous. Italian, but not the gentle kind she grew up around. Their voices carried a sharpness that made Ariella freeze mid-step.
She stepped back.
But it was too late.
The sound of a gun being cocked split the silent night.
Ariella's breath caught as she slowly turned her head. Three men stood farther down the alley massive, dressed in black, tattoos curling up their arms like snakes. They circled another man who was kneeling, shaking violently, begging in Italian.
Ariella saw the blood first.
Then she saw him.
The man holding the gun.
Tall. Cold. Dangerous in a way that didn't require shouting or theatrics. His presence alone filled the alley like smoke suffocating and inescapable. He wore a black coat with the collar turned up, sleeves rolled back just enough to show the black ink curling around his wrist.
His face was carved from stone sharp jawline, straight nose, dark eyes unreadable. Not cruel. Not angry.
Worse calm.
Emotionless.
As if he had done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.
Ariella didn't know his name.
But she knew what he was.
Mafia.
Her blood turned to ice.
She stepped back again quietly, carefully but her shoe scraped lightly against loose gravel.
The sound echoed.
All the men turned.
But he turned first.
The man with the gun.
Their eyes locked.
His gaze pinned her like a knife to the throat. Not surprised annoyed. His finger didn't even flinch from the trigger.
"Boss…" one of the men muttered in Italian, nodding toward her. "We have a problem."
"I see that." His voice was smooth, accented, dangerously calm.
Ariella couldn't move.
Her heart thundered so loudly she wondered why the men didn't hear it. She opened her mouth to say sorry, wrong turn, I didn't see anything, anything that might convince them she wasn't a threat.
But the words died when he lowered the gun.
Not to the kneeling man.
But toward her.
"Bring her," he said quietly.
The others didn't hesitate. Footsteps thundered toward her.
"No.. wait please, I didn't see anything" Ariella tried to run, but she barely made two steps before a strong arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing.
Her sketchbook fell from her hands, pages fluttering like wings before landing in the dirt.
"No! Let me go!" she cried, kicking helplessly. "Please, I won't say anything, I swear!"
The man holding her didn't respond.
No one responded.
They dragged her toward the Devil of Rome.
He watched her with the same calm intensity he'd given the execution. He didn't blink, didn't soften, didn't show a hint of mercy.
He stepped closer.
Ariella's breath hitched.
He was even more terrifying up close beautiful in the cruelest way. The kind of face you could paint for hours, because every angle held something sharp, cold, and unreadable.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Ariella swallowed hard. "Ariella."
His eyes lowered to her trembling hands. "You're shaking."
"You're pointing a gun at me," she whispered.
"No," he said quietly. "If I were pointing it at you, you'd already be dead."
She stiffened.
The man holding her chuckled under his breath.
The Devil, Dante Moretti, though she would not learn his name until later slipped the gun into his coat slowly.
"Boss, what do we do with her?" one man asked. "She saw us"
"I know what she saw," Dante said.
Ariella's knees almost buckled.
He stepped close enough that she could smell a faint mix of smoke and expensive cologne. He reached out Ariella flinched, but he didn't touch her. He simply tilted her chin up with one finger beneath it, making her look him directly in the eyes.
Those eyes…
Dark. Hollow. Haunted.
Like someone who stopped believing in softness a long time ago.
"You took the wrong turn tonight," he said softly.
"Please," Ariella whispered. "Please let me go. I swear I won't tell anyone."
He studied her for a long moment.
Too long.
Then he shook his head slowly.
"No," he murmured. "You're coming with me."
Her mouth fell open. "What? No! I did nothing, no, please! I didn't do anything!"
"You saw something you shouldn't have," he replied. "And now you belong to me until I decide what to do with you."
Belong.
The word crashed into her like ice water.
"I belong to no one!" she cried, struggling again.
He leaned in, voice dropping into something dangerous. "Everyone belongs to someone, Ariella. The only difference is who gets to decide."
She felt her stomach twist with fear.
"Take her to the car," Dante ordered.
A hand covered her mouth. Another gripped her wrists. She clawed, kicked, screamed but nothing helped. They carried her out of the alley like she weighed nothing and shoved her into a sleek black SUV.
Dante slid into the seat beside her.
He didn't look at her.
He didn't say a word.
He simply lowered the divider between them and the driver.
"Home," he said sharply.
The engine growled to life.
Ariella's breath trembled as she stared at him, at the calm, cold devil sitting inches away, a man whose silence felt more dangerous than shouting.
"Please…" she whispered one last time.
Dante finally turned his head and looked directly at her.
"Ariella," he said quietly, "I don't hurt people without reason. But I don't spare them without reason, either."
That didn't comfort her at all.
The car doors locked automatically.
Her fate was sealed.
The Devil of Rome had chosen to keep her.
And some part of her small, terrified, and deeply human, knew that whatever happened next…
She would never be the same.