I’m the one they all fear. The one they whisper about. A faceless ghost.
My hands are coated in crimson from souls I’ve sent to hell—at a price. I’ve never missed a target, and I always deliver. I’m the Grim Reaper of the Cosa Nostra.
Then there’s her. The cellist whose music soothes the malignance of my existence.
For years I’ve lurked in the shadows watching her play.
Waiting. Anticipating the day I’ll come for her.
Her innocence tempts me. My blackened heart craves to ruin it, to smother her light with my darkness.
She’s the nucleus of my obsession . . . and my next victim.