Page 9 of Savage Devotion

There are modern furnishings in black and deep gray, more floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing London's skyline now glittering with thousands of lights.

A man stands by a glass dining table, his back to me as he studies something on a tablet.

Even from behind, I recognize power in his stance. Broad shoulders stretching the fine fabric of his tailored shirt, dark hair cut with a fade to tattoos inked across his neck.

Even from where I stand, I feel the controlled stillness of someone who never rushes.

Never rushes because the world waits for him.

"Mr. Castellano's daughter," he says without turning. His voice is deep, accented Italian wrapped in cold amusement. "You've caused quite a commotion in Vienna. Your family is frantically searching every corner of the city."

"How unfortunate for them," I reply, proud of my even tone. "Perhaps you should inform my father of my whereabouts."

"Oh, Antonio Castellano knows exactly where you are."

Now he turns, and I see his face for the first time.

The shock must show in my expression because his mouth curves into something too predatory to be called a smile.

I know this man.

Not personally, but his face has appeared in countless intelligence briefings my father received.

Dante Ravelli.

The monster of the Ravelli crime family. The brutal enforcer with blood-soaked hands. The one even hardened criminals speak of in whispers.

His eyes are cold gray… like winter wolves. They lock on and assess me with dark possession, traveling slowly from my face down the length of my body and back again, lingering at my throat, my breasts, my hips.

I feel each glance like he's touching me, leaving heat in its wake despite my fury.

"Welcome to London, Francesca," he says, moving toward me with slow steps, each one deliberate as a heartbeat. "Or should I say… welcome to your new home."

Understanding crashes over me with sickening clarity.

"My father sold me to you," I say confidently.

Dante Ravelli inclines his head and smiles evilly, confirming my worst fears.

"Ah. They told me you were smart. Quick, too."

He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. It's strong, laced with something expensive and masculine that makes my pulse quicken traitorously.

"Turns out… the Castellanos needed Volkov protection," he says, voice dropping lower. "And the Volkovs needed Ravelli territory."

His eyes never leave mine as he circles me like a shark scenting blood, his nearness raising goosebumps along my bare arms.

"Lucky for you, I needed something too."

I refuse to flinch, to step back, to show weakness.

"I am not merchandise," I say softly, dangerously. "I am not a bargaining chip. And I will never be whatever it is you bought me for."

His laugh lacks warmth entirely, a sound like broken glass. "What a pity. because you already are."

He reaches for my face, and I jerk away instinctively. His hand freezes in midair, those black eyes narrowing slightly, darkening with something that could be anger or arousal. I'm not exactly sure.

"You can make this easy or difficult,PrincessFrancesca. But whatever you choose, the outcome remains the same."

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