Page 1 of Love At the Gates of Hell (The Seven Sinners Trilogy #1)

one

Benedetta

When Benedetta Russo dreamt of her death, which she did often due to the circumstances of her birth, she dreamt of a warm breeze and a gentle caress, a blinding white light and her mother’s voice welcoming her into the afterlife.

She did not dream of a small, cramped bedroom with boarded windows and an iron chain shackling her to an old radiator as it spit hot water on her skin.

She had hoped for a little bit more glory in her passing.

A hero’s death. Or at least a hell of a fight.

She sank back against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest as she let her head thud against the peeling wallpaper.

She was starving. A half-eaten sandwich lay on a paper plate on the floor beside her.

She was weighing the consequences of finishing it, knowing it was laced with something to keep her foggy and confused.

All her meals had been since she’d been tossed into the room.

Each plate nearly the same so she couldn’t tell what was lunch or dinner or breakfast. So, she couldn’t track the passing of time.

Or the time of day. Even when she pressed her ear to the boarded-up window, she couldn’t hear anything, not even the white noise of traffic.

The cuffs on her ankles and wrists rubbed raw. Her very bones felt tender.

Without the shackles, Benedetta had a chance to make it out of here.

As it was, the iron was depleting her strength more and more with every passing day.

How many days had it been? Two? Three? A week?

Even now she could feel her eyelids begin to droop, the effects of her meal beginning to seep into her skin.

She tried to widen her eyes, her hand tapping at her cheek, anything to keep her body and brain alert as movement in the hallway caught her attention.

It was too soon for another meal, wasn’t it?

As she fought against the sleep she knew was inevitable, a deep and guttural voice barked an order as the bedroom door began to creak open, light spilling into the otherwise dark room.

“Perfect timing little witch,” came the drawl. “Now, why don’t you hold your arm out so we can draw some of that delicious blood—"

Benedetta could hardly make him out, had never been able to glimpse his face.

But his voice.

She would never forget that voice.

Even as she tumbled back into sleep, his voice haunted her dreams.