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I am a Killer. A
Rapist. A Monster.
I know only pain and
survival.
That is until the
Cappo's sister walked into my life.
And changed
everything.
She's a light who
makes my darkness darker, her smile makes my heart turn to ice, and I can't
escape the fear her seductive looks instill--knowing it's only a matter of time
before I fail--again, and take her for myself.
This is the story of
my redemption.
But it's not
pretty...I died, and now I'm alive, but not living, breathing but not surviving.
I am Phoenix De Lange, son to a murdered mob boss, estranged brother, horrible
friend, monster in the making, newest leader to one of the most powerful
families in the Cosa Nostra.
And I will have my
vengeance.
Or die trying.
I am Phoenix De Lange.
Death is all I know.
Until she offers me a
piece of life--I can't resist taking.
Excerpt
Once we were on the
road, Phoenix chose the correct music for our drive. I say correct because,
according to him, one didn't start the day listening to hip-hop or anything
remotely fun. No. Mr. Rogers had me listening to classical music.
Classical.
Mozart, to be exact.
Not that I wasn't a
fan of the arts, but really? It just seemed so against what you would expect
from him. He was the bad boy personified; like, if you put his name in the
dictionary, right next to it would be "And mothers warned their daughters
to stay away, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and that heart wants
that body… bad."
He was all lean
muscle and tight abs.
And I could have
sworn he had a dimple, but I'd never actually seen it. Phoenix's dimple was
like Bigfoot; I'd seen glimpses in pictures and via rumors, but I had never
actually seen it for myself.
One day.
One day I'd catch it
and take a mental picture or five. Maybe ten. Needless to say, I knew that if I
had one of his smiles, it would be a magical thing.
His hands gripped the
steering wheel so hard I had a brief moment of panic thinking he was actually
going to rip the thing from the dash and have a breakdown. Sad part? I
half-expected it. He wasn't acting normal… well, he was always moody, but this
morning he seemed downright suicidal.
"So…" I
tried to zone out the instruments assaulting my sanity. "You went to Eagle
Elite, right?"
He was quiet for a
minute then gave a swift nod.
"Wow, don't talk
so fast. I almost didn't get all that."
And crickets. Again.
I cleared my throat.
"You graduate?"
"Sort of."
"How do you sort
of graduate?"
"Did you bring
lunch money?" He asked in a tight voice.
I gaped. "Did
you just ask me if I brought lunch money?"
He shrugged.
"You're driving
me to school, forcing Mozart on my poor sensitive morning ears, and just asked
me if I had money for milk."
"I'm concerned
about you eating. Sue me."
"Pretty sure the
Nicolasi boss can afford to spare me a few dollars for a sandwich and a can of
pop."
"No pop."
"Who died and
made you my grandpa? Seriously. I want to know so I can steal your gun and
point it at them."
"Nobody touches
my gun."
"Which
one?" I smirked, hoping he'd find the humor in my sexual innuendo, but who
was I kidding? It was Phoenix. He simply grunted, rolled his eyes, and kept
driving.
In a moment of pure
rebellion, I undid the first two buttons of my white, collared shirt.
"What the hell
do you think you're doing?" he asked, his voice calm, his eyes still on
the road.
"Wow, you really
are like a parent. You can see me even when you aren't looking."
"Button that
shit to your chin before I pull this car over."
"Put on Jay-Z,
and we'll talk."
More cursing.
I undid another
button.
"Son of a bitch,
you're annoying."
"Is this our
first lovers' spat?"
"Were there
drugs in your toast?" He finally glanced at me, his blue eyes chilling me to
the bone. "Be serious. I don't want to get called into the dean's office
because you're high."
"Do I look like
I'm on drugs?"
"Is this a trick
question?"
Reading Order
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Rachel Van Dyken is
the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling author of
regency and contemporary romances. When she's not writing you can find her
drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The
Bachelor.
She keeps her home in Idaho with her Husband and their snoring Boxer, Sir
Winston Churchill. She loves to hear from readers! You can follow her writing
journey at www.rachelvandykenauthor.com
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