When I was sixteen, I once bashed a man's skull into concrete. He had called Emilie a whore. I had smiled politely at him. Then I grabbed him by the neck, and it was lights out.

I had learned, from a very young age, to protect what is mine.

When I was seventeen, Tommy was twelve. He was in the awkward phase of growing, and he hadn't quite sprouted yet. A boy at school gave him a black eye. I gave the boy a mouth full of broken teeth.

Once, when I was eighteen, a new Wolf member grabbed my ass, leering. He called me a pretty lady. I gave him a right hook. He called me a fucking bitch. I slit his throat. He stopped talking.

When I was nineteen, a foreign mob boss from Japan visited the Underground. He was the head of a Yakuza family. Three of his men tried to overpower me. I shot them all.

Yes, I earned my reputation.

That is why, when people see me, they run the other way. That is why the florist trembled. That is why the receptionist stammered. That is why Reid turned as pale as a ghost when he realized who Jude was━under my protection.

Maybe being in the Mafia is in my blood.

But when I learned the truth about the Underground, I didn't want any part of it.

"Hunter," Anise purrs over the phone. I motion for my driver to stop at what seems like an abandoned strip of concrete.

"Sister," I acknowledge, pulling myself out of the car with my hand on the hood.

"I have a request."

"Do you?" I mutter, as I cock my gun and slide on my sunglasses.

"I want you to pick something up for me. A delivery."

"A delivery? Seriously? You have Lonnie and Reid for━"

"A special delivery," she interrupts smoothly.

I freeze, my heartbeat quickening. A special delivery can only mean . . .

"271 Lourde Street," Anise whispers. "And do hurry. I wouldn't want my shipment to be . . . damaged."

Damaged, because . . .

Oh, God. Oh, God.

Focus, Hunter.

With the pitch-black sunglasses tainting the world, I saunter towards the apparently empty building. This is where most Mafia bosses in the city stock their private planes, and I know Angel is no exception. I make it a habit to know the whereabouts of most people, and someone who was once the don of a Mafia family? She is no exception.

I walk calmly, despite what Derek told me over the phone.

Angel Falcone is holding a gun to my head.

Her soft, Italian-accented rasp murmured, You have twenty minutes before I kill him.

Which meant I had officially bought myself twenty minutes to get there before she left. My plan had worked.

You don't give the lamb to the slaughter without strategy. Or, at least, I don't.

My steps are remarkably cool. Precise. To anyone who knew what is happening, it would seem I don't care about Derek's life at all. And, of course, they might be right━but Derek was still a pawn in my game. I wasn't ready for the checkmate that would end him yet.

Once I walk into the echoing warehouse, I pull off my sunglasses.

Angel's private plane━La Bella Donna━is still here. Perfect.

And there she is. Her gun is trained to Derek's temple, and his eyes widen when he sees me. Turn around, he mouths.

I don't. I only say, "Why, hello. It's nice to see you in such pleasant circumstances."

"You ordered him to stop my flight," she says, her voice carrying through the warehouse. "Why?"

"For your company, of course."

She growls, and I hear the clicking sound of the safety being turned off.

Derek pales.

"Tell me the truth," she orders. "Why?"

I take a step closer. I recognize something in her that calls to me━something wild and reckless and fierce. Honed as sharp as a knife.

"Pierce," I whisper. "Pierce Nakamura. Where can I find her?"

There is a beat of silence. Angel's eyes scan me, missing nothing, and then she withdraws the gun. There is weariness in her posture as she asks, "What do you want to know?"

"Who she is. Why she's here. What she wants with━" I stop myself. "What she wants."

Derek tries to regain his confidence, but I can tell his ego is wounded. I tell him to leave, and then I follow Angel as she motions towards the inside of her private plane.

"This is going to be a long conversation."

From behind me, I hear the echo of a footstep and turn around so fast the person behind me doesn't have time to blink. My arm is at her throat and my knife is at her stomach before I realize who it is.

Angel's dark voice comes from somewhere behind me. "I would thank you not to lay a single hand on my fiancée, Hunter. There are a lot of things I learned as the boss to a Mafia family. Things I learned very, very young."

Then you and I have more in common than I thought.

But regardless of her weary voice, I can tell she means what she says.

Besides, hurting Cadenza isn't part of my plan. I let her go, and her blue eyes shine with a little bit of approval.

Even in Angel's gaze, I detect the faintest hint of grudging respect.

"Come, sit down," she says, her rich voice lilting. And across from her, I fall back against the lush velvet.

For a moment, she glances apologetically at Cadenza.

"I've never told you this before, Cade," she begins, and Cadenza raises a single eyebrow.

"Pierce," I say. "I want to know everything about Pierce."

My history with her . . . I've managed to fill in some of the blanks. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

And I need to figure it out━what she wants with Jude.

And what does anything, what does any of it, have to do with the HOLY MURDERER in the newspaper?

I met Pierce for the first time when I was fifteen.

Back then, her brother had just died. Anise had just come into power. When the foreign ambassadors from Japan came to trade, Pierce Nakamura came with them.

She was beautiful, even then.

Taller than most men, with long, slender legs. Her sleek black hair was a cascade of ink between her delicate shoulders. Her uptilted eyes were constantly glittering, like she kept the reflection of Tokyo city in her stare. And her lips . . . I'll admit. She was temptation and wild, intoxicating sin.

I met Pierce on a winter day.

Outside, Anise, Tommy and I stood, waiting to greet the Japanese mobsters. With a cunning smile, my sister shook the hand of the leader. A tall, strong man in a sharp-cut black suit.

Pierce's eyes honed in on me.

I didn't back down from her stare, and I think that interested her. Intrigued her.

Afterwards, once Anise had been introduced, Pierce pulled me aside into a dark shadow of the Underground. There was heady music playing, a thunderous heartbeat, and Pierce's slender hand flattened over the back of my neck.

She was one year older than me. She taught me a lot of what I know about the art of fucking.

By the time she left for Tokyo, I was thoroughly skilled.

I was fifteen, and I was trying to forget Jude.

I didn't realize that, even after all this, distracting myself wouldn't work.

It took me a long time trying.

But the problem with Pierce was simple. I only learned later, days after she was gone, that she had been teaching several other people the same thing.

Including Derek.

I still shudder at the thought of that. But now, my attention focuses on Angel Falcone as her tattooed fingers tighten over a bottle of wine. Pouring me a glass.

My hatred of Pierce is personal.

Which makes me curious to know what Angel knows of her.

"I knew Lonnie Nakamura," Angel begins, first glancing at Cade, like she's . . . making sure she's okay. My heart squeezes. "Pierce's brother was reckless. Foolish. When he died, it was a long time coming. But Pierce . . ."

I notice Cade lacing her fingers with Angel's. "You know we used to live in Sicily, right?"

My eyes flicker back and forth. "Yeah."

Angel continues, "Pierce is more cunning than your sister. I expect you probably know that already. But she's 21, and I've kept an eye on her since her father died. She's a shinobi. One of the best assassins of our generation."

The thought makes me pale. What does she want with Jude?

"So the fact that she's here is bad," Cade says carefully.

Angel nods grimly. "It's bad. If the Kai bosses are sending Pierce out here . . . she's staking us out. Searching for weaknesses."

"Which means . . . what?"

"The war between the Saints and the Wolves will greatly weaken New Orleans. Now that it has begun, the alliances you have with the Yakuza . . . let's put it this way." Angel laughs darkly, huskily. "They will betray you the moment your back is turned. Or, to put it better, they will betray you when both the Saints and the Wolves lay dead in the city streets. And that is when they will conquer."

Has Anise thought of this? Did my parents know this would happen? Did Jude's mother? I don't know if anyone could have predicted this.

"They'll ruin the alliance," I say slowly. "To take over both our territories?"

"The Kai are ruthless," Angel says. "Cade and I went to Tokyo at one point while we traveled the world together. And we've never told anyone this, but we had a . . . bad run-in with the Yakuza."

Cade's cornflower-blue eyes darken. "A nasty encounter. One of the Cai bosses even—"

Angel cuts her off with a look. I can tell she doesn't trust me, even if she respects me. But I don't care—my real priority lies with Jude.

"Pierce is looking for weaknesses," Angel concludes. "So if she's with Jude, then she's staking her claim. Who cares about Jude that Pierce could use her against them?"

My mouth opens. Closes.

Cade gives Angel a meaningful look. Oblivious, she mouths to me.

There is no way she can know I care about Jude—can she?

Unless Jude . . . has Jude ever talked about me?

The thought warms the cold in my chest. Thawing the fierce, bitter hatred. And even as Cade gives me a secret wink, it only helps for worry to crawl through me. Because if Jude really, truly is in danger, and Pierce is planning on using her against me . . .

"Thank you," I bite out, and I mean it. "I have to—I need to go."

Cade's answering smile tells me she understands.

The head boss of the Saints is named Elijah Napier.

He has a taste for flamboyant clothes—like purple business suits—and strange accessory choices. I once saw him wear a pink-sequined boa and swirling, bell-tipped shoes. I have seen him wear a French beret with no shirt and neon yellow pants.

If you saw him on the streets, I know what you would assume. He would smile—and he has a way of smiling, cold and dazzling all at once, like he belongs in a 1927 jazz film.

But Elijah Napier is nothing short of dangerous. The most powerful, invincible kind of dangerous.

Which is why, as I stroll right into the heart of the Saints' favourite strip club, I fight to keep my expression cold.

This is risky. This is incredibly, ridiculous risky.

The moment I cut through the path of half-clad dancers and the men beneath them, I feel the slice of tension as the room's focus narrows to me.

The music doesn't stutter, and the dancing doesn't stop, but the gazes of the men snap to me. Instantly alert. I see the shift of guns and knives, and I know they are waiting for it: the order that will allow them to kill me.

And they could. If Elijah Napier gives them the order, they will slit my throat and go right back to their lap dances. But I am betting—hoping—that he will not do that.

Because with this new information, I have something more to offer him.

I made a deal with the devil once—and yes, the devil wears Prada.

I will make a deal with him again.

>>>

Don't worry, we're getting there... hopefully, the next chapter will reveal some things for you.

From the moon and back,
Sarai