Ruined by Desire

The city had always smelled like sin.

Seraphina Moretti knew that scent far too well — cigarette smoke clinging to velvet curtains, spilled whiskey soaking into cracked leather, rain washing the blood off the sidewalks. New York hadn't changed in the five years she'd been gone. It was still sharp edges wrapped in silk, still built on broken promises and the bodies no one ever found.

She hadn't wanted to come back.

The plane ticket had arrived in a plain envelope, slipped beneath the door of her shabby Miami apartment. No return address. No name. Just a single line scrawled in black ink.

Come home. Your father's debts are waiting.

Her hands had trembled as she read it. She'd convinced herself she was done with all of this — the whispered threats, the power plays, the Moretti name weighing around her neck like a noose. But the past had a way of catching up.

Now, here she was — back where it all began.

A black town car idled in front of the aged brownstone. Rain streaked down the tinted windows. Her heart pounded steadily as she stared at the front door, recalling the last time she'd crossed that threshold — a naïve girl of barely twenty, still believing she could outrun the destiny carved into her blood.

The memories were bitter on her tongue.

Her fingers tightened around the leather strap of her bag. She didn't want to knock. She didn't want to confront the ghosts waiting on the other side. But she had no choice.

Not when the Costas were calling.

Stepping into the rain, her boots splashed against the cracked pavement. The night enveloped her—cold, heavy, and unyielding. With every step toward that door, her spine straightened — head high, chin set, eyes hard. The posture instilled in her since childhood, the silent command to never show weakness.

The Moretti princess — immaculate on the surface, fractured underneath.

Her knuckles rapped twice against the wood. The lock clicked. A moment of silence stretched out, making her wonder if she should still run.

Then, the door creaked open.

Luca stood there — older, wearier, the scar above his brow deeper than she remembered. His brown eyes flickered with suspicion as he took in her presence.

"Well, well," he murmured. "The prodigal daughter returns."

Seraphina's smile was all razor edges. "Miss me?"

He snorted, stepping aside. The stale aroma of cigars and old whiskey greeted her as she crossed the threshold. The house felt smaller than the memories suggested — or perhaps she was the one who'd changed.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Her uncle's low voice drifted from the study, but it was the palpable weight in the air that made the hair on her neck stand on end.

Someone else was here.

Watching.

She sensed his gaze before she saw him—a phantom in the shadows, coiled and waiting.

Damian Costa.

Leaning against the far wall like a statue carved from darkness, he exuded danger in his tailored suit, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, eyes deep and unyielding. He hadn't attended her father's funeral. In fact, she hadn't seen him since that fateful night when everything unraveled.

Yet, he had always been there — lurking at the edge of her nightmares.

His gaze traveled slowly over her, invasive and unrelenting, setting her skin on edge.

Seraphina's heart pounded against her ribs.

Don't flinch. Never flinch.

A wry smile tugged at his lips, as if he'd detected the lie in her composure.

"Welcome home, princess." His gravelly tone scraped against her nerves. "Did you miss me?"

Her nails dug into her palm, drawing a thin line of blood.

God help her — she hated him.

And she despised the way her pulse betrayed her every time he was near.