Angel Vitale stepped out of the private elevator into the penthouse foyer like she owned the world—because in every way that mattered, she did. The black marble floors gleamed under crystal chandeliers that dripped like frozen rain, reflecting the city lights of Lagos beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. She wore a crimson silk dress that clung to her curves like a second skin, the neckline plunging low enough to make priests reconsider their vows. Her long, dark hair cascaded in loose waves down her back, and her lips were painted the same dangerous red as the dress. At twenty-six, she was the only daughter of Don Salvatore Vitale, the man who controlled half the ports, the clubs, and the shadows of West Africa’s underworld. Glamorous. Untouchable. A gilded bird in a cage lined with gold
