The Devil’s Favorite Heart.

The Devil’s Favorite Heart.
Tiberio’s Point Of View

When I turned the corner, two of my men stood before me, their broad frames tense, muscles twitching like they were grappling with someone. Their backs were to me, but I could sense the struggle in their rigid postures.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

Their bodies froze at the sound of my voice. In unison, they released their grip, and a woman collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud. 

A soft whimper escaped her lips.

The men turned swiftly, and dipped their heads.

“Don,” Tobias muttered in greeting.

I simply raised a brow, waiting for an explanation. Their hulking figures blocked the woman from my view, but I could sense her there, crumpled on the ground.

"Lei è quella che Gerald ha riportato indietro", Tobias explained , his tone clipped.

(She’s the one Gerald brought back) 

Realization hit me, and my jaw tightened. I gave a stiff nod and flicked my fingers, a silent command for them to leave. They bowed again, their boots scuffing the floor as they retreated, leaving me alone with her.

I shifted my gaze to the woman. Her thick, curly hair spilled over her face like a dark curtain, shielding her features. 

Her dress—a cheap fabric and too loose—had ridden up her thighs, exposing smooth, honey-brown skin that caught the low hallway light like satin. 

She was trembling, not from cold, but from fear… or rage. Maybe both.

The sight shouldn’t have stirred anything in me. I’ve seen a thousand women look worse, beg worse. But something about this one—

She whimpered again, barely audible, and I clenched my jaw.

“What’s your name?” I asked, stepping toward her.

Silence. She didn’t move, didn’t answer. 

My fists curled at my sides. Disrespect I could handle—but defiance?

I drew a steady breath.

“I’m going to ask one more time.” My voice dropped, dead calm, razor sharp.

“What’s your name?”

Still nothing. 

Then, slowly, she lifted her head. Her thick curls parted, revealing her eyes that burned with defiance. Her eyes—dark, fierce, unafraid—met mine, and the world paused. Something ancient cracked open inside me. 

My breath caught, and I was rooted to the spot, caught in the intensity of her gaze.

She was the one.

The same woman from the door. The one who didn’t bow. The one who looked at me like I wasn’t a god to be feared—but a man who could bleed.

“Tell your men to let me go.”

Her voice was raw, shaking, but not weak. There was anger there. Pain. 

“I’m new to this city, and if you want, I’ll keep my mouth shut. Just let me go.”

She was trying to negotiate her way out—smart. 

Others begged. She bargained. But it wasn’t her audacity that struck me—it was her voice. 

Though bruised by fear, there was something buried in it. A softness. A hidden melody, like a song half-remembered in a dream. It curled around my ears and lingered in my soul, far too delicate for a woman with that kind of fire in her eyes.

I crouched to her level, my boots creaking against the floor as I reached out to brush the hair from her face.

She flinched.

My hand paused midair.

Tsk.

A smirk twisted my mouth. Not because it amused me—but because it annoyed me. She was already on the floor, already trembling—and still, she flinched like she had something left to protect.

“What’s your name, Angel?” I asked, my voice deliberately soft. A mockery of tenderness.

She rolled her eyes.

She fucking rolled her eyes.

That small, infuriating gesture lit something inside me—something violent. 

I hissed through my teeth and grabbed her cheeks, forcing her face up to mine. 

Her skin was warm and damp beneath my palm. She whimpered, a small pathetic sound, but her glare never wavered.

She looked at me like I was filth. Like I wasn’t worth the floor she knelt on.

“I’m done playing nice,” I growled, my grip tightening.

“You can make your already tough journey easier… or I can make it so much worse for you.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t beg. She didn’t cry. She glared at me—like she’d rather be dragged to hell than give me the satisfaction.

I almost respected it.

Almost.

I leaned in, close enough for her to feel the heat of my breath.

“Now, for the last time—what’s your name?”

There was a beat of silence. A flicker of resistance.

And then…she spoke.

“Alice.”

Her voice was a whisper.

“Alice Rodriguez.”

It landed like a spark on dry kindling.

She is the same person. The door lady, and the enchanting singer. 

I eased my grip, letting my hand fall away, but my eyes stayed on her. Alice. 

The name didn’t match the venom in her stare or the melody in her voice. It was too soft, too ordinary for someone who looked ready to burn the world down if I gave her half a chance.

————————

Alice’s point of view.

He stood up, his towering height casting a shadow that swallowed me whole. I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze, and my breath caught as I recognized him. He was the man from the doorway, the one who’d worn a mask that concealed everything but those unforgettable eyes.

His eyes were a paradox, a mesmerizing clash of colors—deep brown swirling with flecks of icy blue, like a forest caught in a winter storm. 

It was as if the earth and sky had fought over which hue to gift him, settling on a blend that was both warm and piercing. Those eyes had burned into my memory, and now, unmasked, they held me captive again.

So… he’s the boss of those men? The same men who manhandled me and dragged me through this godforsaken mansion like some criminal?

Of course he is.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he owned the DeVescori club too. If he controlled every shadowed alley and silent street in this cursed city.

And now that I was seeing him without a mask, I had to admit—he was a sight. He wasn’t just handsome—he was beautiful, sculpted from the finest dust of creation. 

His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, angular and defined, softened only by the faintest shadow of stubble that hinted at ruggedness. 

His nose straight, regal. Full lips that looked like they never smiled. He possessed the kind of beauty that was almost cruel in its precision—like he was carved by hands that knew exactly how dangerous perfection could be.

A single scar, faint and jagged, traced the edge of his left brow, a silent testament to battles fought and won. 

His dark hair, tousled yet deliberate, framed his face in waves that caught the dim light, glinting like polished obsidian. He was a masterpiece, a cruel irony of beauty housing a heart blackened by sin.

God’s favorite, no doubt—physically, at least. But his heart? That had to be the devil’s prized possession.

Because no man could look this breathtaking and be so brutal.

It didn’t take a genius to peg him as mafia. He was mafia. You could see it in his stillness, the way he held power like it was simply a part of his bone structure. 

He probably ruled this city, which explained why the streets turned ghostly at night. Shady deals and whispered threats unfolded under the cover of darkness, and the people locked their doors, shielding their families from men like him.

I glared at him, my heart pounding but my resolve steeled. 

“Look, sir—or don, whatever you are,” I said, my voice trembling but firm. 

“I’ve read enough books and watched enough movies to know how this works. I keep my mouth shut, you let me live. Just let me go. Please.”

I’d escaped one prison only to stumble into a worse one. The thought made my stomach churn.

He extended a hand toward me, his movements graceful yet commanding. 

“Follow me,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, deep timbre. His voice was the kind that could coax secrets from stone or silence a room with a whisper.

Then… my eyes betrayed me. I stared at the sculpted muscle of his forearm, admiring the way the veins curved beneath his skin, how the dark ink contrasted against the golden undertone of his flesh.

His tattoo snaked up his arm, intricate and dark, a labyrinth of symbols that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. I traced its lines with my eyes, lost in the artistry, until a low growl snapped me back to reality.

His patience broke. He yanked me up from the cold floor with a grip that was both effortless and unyielding. Pain flared where his fingertips dug into my arm, bruising the skin as he dragged me down the dimly lit hallway. 

“Let me go!” I screamed, thrashing against his hold, but it was like fighting a storm. His grip didn’t falter, his steps didn’t slow. 

My voice echoed, swallowed by the endless corridor.

What did he want? To kill me? To make an example of me? My heart thundered in my chest, each beat a frantic plea for survival. 

Fear clawed at my throat, but beneath it, a spark of defiance flickered. If he thought I’d go quietly, he was about to learn just how wrong he was.