The neon lights of New York's underworld flickered against the rain-slicked pavement as Isabella Moretti stepped out of the black SUV. Her stilettos clicked with purpose, each step a declaration of power in a world that wanted her on her knees. At twenty-eight, she was the youngest don the Moretti family had ever seen, inheriting a crumbling empire after her father's murder six months ago. Tonight, she wasn't just a mafia queen - she was a woman on the edge, about to make a deal with the devil himself.

The warehouse loomed ahead, its rusted doors creaking open as her men flanked her, guns drawn. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of blood and money. And there he was - Damian Voss, leaning against a stack of crates like he owned the damn place. Six-foot-four, all sharp angles and shadowed menace, he was the city's most elusive billionaire - and, rumor had it, something far older than his thirty-two years suggested. His black suit clung to him like a second skin, and his eyes - God, those eyes - burned crimson in the dim light.

"You're late," he said, voice smooth as velvet, laced with a danger that made her pulse kick up.

"And you're dramatic," Isabella shot back, crossing her arms. "What's with the warehouse? Couldn't spring for a penthouse meeting?"

Damian smirked, pushing off the crates and stalking toward her. He moved too fast, too fluid - like a predator who'd already scented prey. "I like the ambiance. Besides, penthouses don't have the same? privacy." His gaze flicked over her, lingering on the curve of her leather jacket, the way her dark hair spilled over her shoulders. "You clean up nice for a Moretti."

"Flattery won't get you my shipment," she said, though her skin prickled under his stare. "Let's talk business, Voss. Fifty crates of weapons, untraceable. What's your offer?"

He stopped inches from her, close enough that she caught the faint scent of cedar and something metallic - blood? "Half a billion wired to your offshore accounts by morning. Plus, a favor from me. One-time use, no questions asked."

Her laugh was sharp, cutting through the tension. "A favor from you? What's that worth - your private jet or your soul?"

"Careful, Isabella," he murmured, leaning closer. His breath ghosted against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "Some say I don't have a soul to barter."

She tilted her head, meeting his gaze head-on. "And some say you're more than human. Which rumor's true?"

His smile was a flash of teeth - too sharp, too perfect. "Stick around, and maybe you'll find out."

The air between them crackled, and for a moment, she forgot the six armed men at her back, forgot the empire teetering on her shoulders. Damian Voss was a puzzle she wanted to unravel, piece by infuriating piece. But she wasn't here to flirt - she was here to survive.

"Deal," she said, stepping back to break the spell. "Weapons are yours. Money better be in my account by dawn, or I'll burn your empire to the ground."

"Threats from a pretty mouth," he mused, eyes glinting. "I like it."

She turned to leave, signaling her men, but his voice stopped her cold. "One more thing, Moretti. That favor? You might need it sooner than you think."