Isabella POV
The gunshot cracked through the warehouse like thunder, and my brother’s body hit the concrete with a wet slap.
Blood sprayed across my white dress. Warm and sticky. Marco’s eyes were still open, staring at me in frozen shock as the life drained out of him. I screamed, but the sound never left my throat. Rough hands shoved me forward, and I stumbled into the pool of his blood, knees slamming against the floor.
“Marco!” My voice finally tore free.
A dozen guns swung toward me. Shadows moved in the dim overhead lights, men in black suits, faces carved from stone. And at the center of it all stood “him”.
Lorenzo Rossi.
The Devil of Chicago. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black shirt that clung to muscle like sin. Blood speckled his sharp jaw. His dark ey
