Chapter One: The Devil's Contract
The city never truly slept—it only held its breath.
Rain glazed the streets of Ravello like polished obsidian, reflecting neon signs and the red glow of brake lights as if the ground itself were bleeding. From the balcony of the DeLuca estate, Alessandro DeLuca watched it all in silence, hands clasped behind his back, posture carved from control.
They called him the Devil of Ravello.
Not because he raised his voice. Not because he lost his temper. But because when Alessandro DeLuca made a decision, there was no escaping the consequences.
Behind him, the heavy doors creaked open.
"She's here," his consigliere, Marco, said carefully. "Right on time."
Alessandro didn't turn. "Good."
Time mattered. Punctuality was a language of respect—and fear.
Mila Romano stood in the center of the marble hall, trying not to let her knees shake.
The DeLuca estate was colder than she expected. Not in temperature—no, the air was warm—but in presence. Everything loomed: the ceilings, the pillars, the silence. It pressed down on her chest until breathing felt like an act of defiance.
She clenched her hands at her sides.
This was not how her life was supposed to go.
Hours ago, she'd been a girl with plans—college applications half-finished, a suitcase under her bed meant for escape. Now she stood in the home of the most dangerous man in the city, because of a debt she hadn't created but was expected to pay.
Footsteps echoed.
Slow. Measured.
Mila looked up.
Alessandro DeLuca descended the stairs like a shadow given form. Tall, dark-haired, dressed in black so precise it looked deliberate rather than fashionable. His face was calm—too calm—sharp eyes assessing her as if she were a problem to be solved.
Not a person.
He stopped a few feet away.
"So," he said, voice low and even, "you are Salvatore Romano's daughter."
Mila swallowed. "Yes."
"Your father owes me more money than he could earn in three lifetimes."
Her jaw tightened. "He's dead."
"I'm aware." Alessandro's gaze didn't soften. "Debts don't die with men like your father."
The words landed heavier than any shout.
Mila lifted her chin. "Then why am I here?"
A pause.
The Devil of Ravello studied her—her defiance, her fear, the way she refused to look away.
"Because," he said at last, "you are what he left behind."
The room seemed to shrink.
Marco shifted uncomfortably, but Alessandro raised a hand, silencing him.
"There are two ways this ends," Alessandro continued. "One is unpleasant. The other is… structured."
Mila's pulse thundered in her ears. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, stepping closer, "you will remain under my protection. You will follow my rules. And in return, your father's debt will be considered settled."
Her breath caught. "Protection from what?"
Alessandro's lips curved—not quite a smile.
"From everything that would come for you if I didn't."
Silence stretched between them, thick and dangerous.
Mila realized then that this wasn't an offer.
It was a contract.
And she had already crossed the line where refusal was an option.
Outside, thunder rolled over Ravello, as if the city itself understood—
The Devil had claimed what was his.