I was a “fixer” for the Ruin—a syndicate for the Bratva, Cosa Nostra, Cartel, and any other organized crime faction that dealt in the darker, crueler aspects of humanity.

And then I saw her. She was a fragile little thing who tried to be strong. But I could tell she’d seen too much horror in the world, too much of the ugly within people. I should have stayed away. I’d only bring her farther down into the darkness.

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Carol of the Bells

Maria Luis

Chapter One

Laela

Glittering chandeliers hang from the ceiling and flames flicker in the grand stone fireplace to my left, but not even the elaborate décor of the Morellis’ dining room can disguise the uncomfortable reality of tonight’s Christmas gala.

My name is a poison dripping from everyone’s tongue.

I set the champagne flute down on the bar a little too hard. “Another, please.”

The bartender drops his gaze to the empty glass—my third in forty minutes—and clears his throat. “Maybe some water, Miss Donna? You look a little . . . unsteady.”

I’m only unsteady because my Louboutins are currently murdering my feet.

Since I’d rather take a five-inch heel to the jugular than give New York’s finest another reason to whisper my name, I force a saccharine smile that hopefully conceals my tendency to bite first and ask questions later. “Water is perfect, thanks.”

Appeased, the bartender pushes a glass across the bar. “Have a good night.”

That’s unlikely.

With a nodded thank-you, I turn and scan the crowd over the crystal rim. Those with the backbone to acknowledge my presence only do so long enough to make sure that I feel the sting when they purposely look away. The rest are spineless bastards who would have eagerly crawled at my feet only three months ago, before—

Well, before.

I drain the glass like it’s a hell of a lot stronger than water and abandon it on the bar. Twenty more minutes and I’ll have fulfilled my promise to Lucian to stay for a full hour.

You can’t hide forever, he’d scrawled on my invitation.

I’m not hiding—a Donna never hides—but as I face off against a sea of men in tuxedo suits and women in expensive gowns, none of whom bother to draw me into conversation, all I feel is the overwhelming urge to ditch my death-trap heels and make a run for it. On reflex, I sink my fingers into the fabric of my floor-length gown, hiking up the heavy velvet just far enough that I can edge toward the door without tripping over my feet.

I’m not a coward.

I am not my father.

But this . . . God, I can’t do this. I need to go, right now, before any of them see that stone-cold Laela Donna isn’t so very stone-cold after all.