Forced to Marry a Ruthless Mafia Boss

The rain had returned with a vengeance, turning the neon-lit canyons of downtown Chicago into slick, reflective rivers of asphalt.

Outside the luxury penthouse suites of the Drake Hotel, the street was eerily silent. The regular police patrols had been redirected three hours ago by senior city officials who knew better than to interfere when the Kavalcante family settled an account.

On the fortieth floor, inside the grand suite overlooking Lake Michigan, Beatrice sat on a white leather sofa, holding a glass of vintage champagne. Across from her sat Mateo Carlos, the ruthless head of the North American branch of the Spanish cartel, his face scarred and his fingers adorned with heavy gold rings.

"You're certain Damian walked into the trap at the docks?" Beatrice asked, her red lips curving into a venomous, triumphant smile.

"My men planted five hundred pounds of commercial explosive beneath pier seventeen," Mateo chuckled, lighting an expensive cigar. "The moment his convoy reached the warehouse, my demolition team triggered the remote. Damian Kavalcante is currently fish food at the bottom of the lake."

BANG.

The reinforced oak double doors of the penthouse didn't swing open.

They exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood, twisted brass, and pulverized drywall.

Two cartel mercenaries standing guard in the foyer were blown off their feet by the concussive blast of an entry charge, their bodies skidding across the white marble floor, leaving smears of bright crimson in their wake.

Through the drifting smoke and pulverized plaster stepped Damian Kavalcante.

He did not carry his cane.

He wore a tactical black combat vest over a dark shirt, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his bare skin streaked with soot and engine grease. In his left hand, he held a heavy twelve-gauge tactical shotgun; in his right, a customized high-caliber automatic pistol. His face was a mask of unyielding, demonic fury, his storm-gray eyes sunken, dark, and hollowed out by grief.

Beatrice dropped her champagne glass. It shattered against the marble, spraying sparkling wine across her designer shoes.

"Damian..." she gasped, scrambling backward over the sofa cushions like a terrified insect. "You... you were at the docks!"

"Your explosives were ten seconds too late, Mateo," Damian said. His voice was not loud, but it cut through the hum of the air conditioning like a serrated hunting knife.

Mateo reached for the submachine gun resting on the coffee table, but Damian was faster.

BOOM.

The shotgun roared, its concussive recoil barely registering in Damian's broad shoulders. The heavy buckshot obliterated the wooden table, sending splintered mahogany and the shattered remnants of the weapon flying into the wall.

Mateo screamed, clutching his shredded, bleeding forearm as he collapsed behind a marble pillar.

"You took her from me," Damian whispered, stepping forward with deliberate, rhythmic strides, his combat boots crunching over the broken glass.

He didn't look at Mateo. His eyes were locked entirely on Beatrice, who was now cowering against the base of the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Damian, please!" Beatrice shrieked, tears of raw, unadulterated terror cutting through her thick foundation. "It was Mateo! He forced me! He threatened my family in Madrid! I never wanted Elena to die! I swear to God, I never touched the thermostat in that room!"

Damian raised his automatic pistol, leveling the heavy barrel directly between her eyes. His hand did not tremble by a fraction of a millimeter.

"You killed the only thing in this miserable world that was pure," Damian said, his voice breaking into a dry, jagged rasp that sounded torn from an open grave. "You made her think I hated her. You made her die alone in the dark, believing I betrayed her."

He stepped closer, his thumb pulling back the hammer with a sharp, mechanical click.

"And for that, Beatrice... neither heaven nor hell has enough mercy to save you."