Book 3: Somewhere in New York

Dante

My wrists burn from twisting them against the zip cuffs, my ankles chafe from the same treatment around the legs of the chair, my shoulders ache from how far my arms have been pulled back, my faces throbs from how many times these goddamn bruisers have hit me, but all I can think about is El.

I should be home in bed with her right now, fighting with whatever fiddly little fixtures they put on her wedding dress. She should be screaming my name. I should be screaming hers.

Instead, I’m sitting in a musty-ass basement, bound to a metal chair under one flickering light like these assholes got their set-up right out of an ‘80s mafia movie. I spit blood on the concrete floor and look up at the man who “arrested” me in the middle of my goddamn wedding.

“So tell me,” I say, “how do you go from Coppola to the Russians?”

That, of course, earns me another punch to the face. I grit my teeth and take it.

“Cuteness isn’t going to get you