Page 1 of Dark Desires (Chicago Bratva #1)

ISABELLA

T he night I ran, death wasn’t just waiting. It was starving for me.

Daughter of Chicago’s mafia king.

Prisoner of velvet cages and bulletproof windows.

The alley tastes like piss, stale beer and every bad decision I’ve ever made. Glass grating my heels as the city closes in, breath hot on my neck: You knew better, Isa. You should’ve stayed home.

But fuck—sometimes knowledge is the cruelest noose. My father’s men wear me like a second skin, a curse I can’t peel off.

So when the crack in the cage appeared, I didn’t hesitate. I slipped through.

Into bass, neon, a drink burning like confession but tasting like freedom. No chains. No eyes stalking my back.

A deadly lie I swallowed whole.

Because the shadows were already waiting.

Three shapes peel from the dark, circling—wolves with ribs sharp enough to cut, hunger in every step.

Teeth flash. Eyes gleam.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” My voice is steel. My knees? Paper.

They grin like predators who’ve found fresh meat.

One of them—fat, stupid, the kind of man who thinks violence is a right—rocks forward and leans on the dumpster, slurring. “Look at her. Glass doll all painted up, lost in the gutter. Bet Daddy paid plenty to keep her out of filth like us.”

Another one, wiry and ink-stained, laughs. “Lucky fucking night. Toys like you don’t wander alleys unless you’re beggin’ to be played with.” He spits the words like filth.

The third leers, slow and smug. “Sweet thing, you lost? Don’t worry. We’ll happily show you the way.”

Sick bastards. They smell lamb.

Wolves who think the cornered girl is easy meat.

But I was raised in darker woods than theirs.

I lift my chin, jaw locked like a blade. Ready to give them hell.

And then— A voice. Low, smooth.

Cold enough to freeze marrow.

“Three wolves for one girl? Cute.”

The stranger’s Russian accent slides out like velvet threaded with a blade.

Time skids to a stop.

At first he’s a shadow: broad shoulders, an outline like a silhouette carved from night. Every step is a warning bell.

“This is where you run,” he says.

Not a suggestion.

A command.

Finally, light finds his face.

Holy hell. Holy fuck. I’m wrecked.

Black suit cut like armor. Shirt white as bone beneath it. Cufflinks glittering like tiny knives. A rare watch gleams, as if time itself bends for him.

Every piece deliberate. Calculated. Designed to kill soft.

The devil’s in the details.

And this man? He’s the devil’s high priest.

Eyes slam into me. Grey storms, ruthless and consuming. They don’t see. They strip. Claim. Own.

I know men like him.

He’s either the one they send to kill you—or the one they hire when the killing’s already done.

And yet heat coils low in my stomach. Wrong. Filthy. Dangerous.

Horny in the middle of disaster. New low.

Ink crawls down his wrist, teasing from under the cuff.

“Who the fuck are you?” one idiot snarls.

The monster’s mouth curves—sin, not smile.

“The man who doesn’t let vermin like you crawl in alleys.”

He halts, eyes flicking to me once again—like I’m already stamped with his name—then back to them.

“Walk away,” he says, voice a blade. “Leave now and this ends clean. Stay, and I break you. Personally? I prefer the latter.”

His words press into my skin like a brand.

The men gape. For a breath I think maybe sense will wedge into their skulls.

“Fuck off,” one snarls.

Right. No one’s smart tonight.

A fat one lurches forward with a bottle. Another slams his glass into a jagged weapon. The stranger exhales — bored, like he’s dealing with toddlers. “Disappointing.” Then, softer: “Your funeral.”

And then he moves.

Impossibly fast.

A black blur of muscle and intention.

The fat man lunges — snap — a wrist twists, the bottle clatters. The body collides with brick and slides down. The other two rush like idiots. He flows through them — elbow, uppercut — one goes down into a heap by the trash, the last slams into the dumpster hard enough to rattle the lid. Out cold.

I blink. Stare.

Did I just watch a performance?

Violence wrapped in art.

No one moves like that.

Like a fucking weapon wrapped in silk—deceptive, dangerous.

And he’s not even winded.

Like this is just business as usual.

Just another Tuesday for the monster I’m supposed to fear?—

But somehow want. Badly.

One of them stumbles up—bruised and stupid enough to try again.

Then the idiot lunges—right at me.

My breath catches. I brace.

But he never touches me.

My dark angel’s already there—fist tangled in his hair, yanking his head back with effortless precision. His voice is low and sharp. “Touch her and I'll make sure they never find all the pieces.”

“Fuck you,” the man spits.

“Wrong answer.”

Fist lands hard in the gut, solid and final. The body folds, collapsing like it was never meant to stand.

A soft laugh, genuinely amused. Erotic in how amused he sounds breaking bones.

Silence follows.

He turns to me, the edge still sharp, but his eyes soften—heavy, searching.

No, I’m ruined.

But my mouth says: “Still vertical. That’s a win.”

A slow, dangerous smile curves his mouth. “That’ll do.”

Up close, the ruin is worse. A scar slicing his temple, ink snaking down his throat, and the faintest trace of cologne—bergamot, cedar, and something darker. Something that whispers of expensive sins and midnight confessions.

And damn if it doesn’t work.

Heat floods my veins.

My brain scrambles.

Perfect. My ovaries are slow-clapping while the rest of me wants to run.

“You’re about to drop,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing as they rake me. “The martinis didn’t help.”

I blink, pulse fluttering. “You were watching me?”

His eyes linger—on my mouth, my throat, the bruised space between breaths.

“Long enough to know you’re running from something,” he says, voice low and slow, like he's savoring the shape of me with every word.

“And long enough to know… you don’t break easy.”

A pause.

His gaze darkens, dragging heat across my skin.

Slow. Undressing. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with hands.

“Should I be freaked out that a stranger had his eyes on me all this time?” My voice trembles, but it’s mine.

Barely.

His laugh is dark velvet, the kind you feel in your spine.

“This stranger kept you alive.”

Hard to argue.

I glance at the bodies. The blood. The silence they left behind.

My knees threaten to give. I lean into him.

His hand finds my waist—firm, grounding.

Possessive in a way that should scare me. Maybe it does.

I’ve grown up with shadows.

But this one? He’s darker. Sharper.

Beautiful in a way that promises ruin and delivers it in moans.

“Come, devotchka,” he says, the Russian curling around the word like smoke.

Devotchka. I know that one. Girl. The syllable lands like a brand and something in me answers to it whether I like it or not.

We step out of the alley.

His car waits—sleek, predatory, a forest-green beast made to outrun sin.

Made to hold secrets.

He opens the door for me like a gentleman.

Like a threat dressed in manners.

Every bone in my body knows better. I’ve had killers open doors for me before—but never like this. Never with a touch that doesn’t ask, doesn’t force. Just waits.

I hesitate.

Then I slide in, and the leather greets me like sin.

His scent is already there—clean, dark, expensive.

The kind of cologne you’d find on a lover who ruins you in a hotel room and leaves you wanting the ghost of him forever.

He gets in beside me.

No words. Just presence.

His thigh brushes mine.

A spark.

A warning.

A promise.

The air shifts. Heavy. Pulled taut between us like a wire that wants to snap.

God.

Not the time to wonder what that suit hides.

Not the time to want the answer.

“Where to?” he asks, voice low enough to haunt?—

low enough to unbutton things inside me.

I should go home.

I should run.

I should?—

“Not home,” I say.

“Not tonight.”

He nods, eyes forward.

“Then mine.”

No hesitation. No explanation.

“You’ll be safe.”

The word hits me wrong.

Safe? With him?

I turn, sarcasm curling around my fear.

“You sure you’re not into human trafficking?”

This time, his laugh is real.

Dark. Dangerous.

The kind of laugh that lives in a man who’s seen things and didn’t flinch.

“Not my business model.”

He glances at me, and for one breathless moment, I can’t look away.

Something in his eyes hooks beneath my skin. Something that says: I don’t hurt women… unless they beg for it.

The car glides forward.

Streetlights slash across his face—all chiseled sin and cold fire.

My last name is Mancini.

My bloodline writes the rules in this city.

And right now, I’m breaking every one of them.

If my father knew, he’d put a bullet between this man’s eyes—no questions, no hesitation.

But right now?

I’ve never felt more alive.

Every instinct screams: run.

But tonight, danger doesn’t just tempt me.

It’s wrapped in a Russian accent and looking at me like I’m already his.

It wears a tailored suit and smells like sin.