Theirs

Anya Morelli doesn't just walk into a room-she unravels it.

A prodigy with a paintbrush. A daughter forged in blood. An heir to the Russian mafia by birth and the Italian syndicate by bloodline, Anya was never supposed to be soft. But she doesn't kill like her family. She captures. With art that stops hearts and eyes that never flinch.

No one gets close. Not anymore.

Not since them.

Santiago and Matias-best friends, lovers, and heirs to the Spanish throne of crime. Together, they gave Anya a taste of forever. Then they shattered it. What's left of her still bleeds into every canvas she paints, strokes of beauty born from ruin.

But destruction has a scent. And it's returning.

Vincent Delacour-the newly crowned French mafia king-rules with silence and steel. Beside him, Jules: sharp-tongued, smooth-smiled, and deadly in ways that don't leave marks. They see what others don't. They want what others wouldn't dare.

Anya.

Not her family name. Not her legacy. Her.

And in the dangerous quiet between memory and temptation, something begins to smolder. Something volatile. Something inevitable.
-
"You think you've hidden the worst parts of yourself," Vincent said, voice like ice sliding over flame. "But we see you, Anya."

My laugh was soft, almost cruel. "No. You see what you want to break."

Jules leaned against the studio doorframe, eyes dark. "Wrong. We see what we want to keep. And we don't share."