WICKED MISTLETOE

NIGHTSHADES

ROSELYN ASH

SASHA LEONE

Copyright © 2022 by Sasha Leone & Roselyn Ash

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

PROLOGUE

EMILIA

6 years ago…

I’m a shadow, a ghost, a nobody.

My hands bury themselves deep into my hoodie pockets, elbows jutting out like awkward wings as I hunch into myself, trailing behind the group of four insanely tall high school seniors.

I’m not hiding—okay, maybe I am. But can you blame me? I’m just trying not to draw any unwanted attention.

Fat chance of that working.

I can practically feel the derisive sneers and glares drilling into the back of my head. Even the Christmas lights lining the hallway seem to join in, their mock cheer only sharpening the sting. Ho-ho-freaking-ho. It’s January, people. Let it go already. But no amount of festive decorations can soften the biting bitterness pouring off these seniors. A 16-year-old joining their ranks—in second semester? The horror!

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see my brain and sink deeper into my baggy cocoon. Screw them and their judgmental attitudes.

My gaze latches onto the feet of one of the guys in front of me. Nice shoes—probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Mesmerized, I fixate on his stride.

Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot.

The world narrows down to those alternating steps. My brain goes quiet, my breathing evens out, the hallway noise fades away, and suddenly I’m zeroed in on their conversation with supernatural clarity.

“Think about it, Michael,” one of them says. “Just how smart can this girl be? Are we talking genius level? This is a death trap for her. No way she can survive senior year coming from where—the junior grade? Sophomore?”

Great. They’re talking about me. Because of course they are. Why wouldn’t they gossip about the freak newcomer?

Another one guffaws, and I resist the urge to look up. “I heard she has OCD or some shit. And she has a neuro—neuro–something. A neuro deficiency perhaps?”

Oh, for the love of— These idiots can’t even get their insults right.

Now laughter bursts out among them—loud, hysterical, and grating. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, setting my teeth on edge. The fizzing in my veins boils over, and before I can even think, the words spill out of me. “You mean neurodivergent, blockhead?”

They come to an abrupt stop, and I nearly face-plant into one of their backs. As all four giants swivel to face me, I hold my breath. Shit. Why are they so freakishly tall?

My heart does the cha-cha in my chest. But I raise my chin defiantly, keeping my gaze glued to Mr. Nice Shoes’ feet—no way am I craning my neck to look at their faces. I may be small, but I’m not about to let them see me cower.

“I’m neurodivergent,” I continue, my mouth apparently on a suicide mission. “You want to know just how smart I am? Smarter than a bunch of morons walking around the school with their pants halfway down their asses, which is against the rules, by the way. Nobody wants a peep show of your stinking underwear.”

Scraping together every ounce of courage, I glance up. They look absolutely gobsmacked. Huh. Now I’m on a roll, my filter completely fried. I’m so over people talking down to me. “And what’s with the stench? Drugs? What are you guys? Some wannabe gangsters? Just because our town’s crawling with crime doesn’t mean a bunch of high school boys like you should glorify it. You could get arrested, you know.”

I wrinkle my nose in disgust as I sidestep around them. My hands are trembling inside my pockets, and sweat dribbles down my back.

Nice going, girl. Make enemies on day one. Stellar plan.

The cafeteria doors loom ahead. I push them open and⁠—

Silence.

I swallow hard. Every eyeball in there is already on me, gazes fixed like I’m some kind of alien specimen.

Oh crap, did they hear my little tirade? Please, ground, open up and swallow me whole.

A deep rumble snaps my gaze back. My eyes land on the familiar shoes first, then travel up, up, and up until they meet his face. My heart does a spectacular backflip and lodges itself in my throat. He’s laughing, but that’s not what steals my breath. No, it’s his face.

Holy guacamole. God must’ve been showing off when He made this one. Because why else is he so criminally good-looking? Strong nose with a roguish little crook—most likely the souvenir of one too many fights. Flawless golden skin that would make even the sun jealous. Full, pink lips that look softer than a cloud. And those eyes. Sweet baby Jesus, those eyes.

For one eternal second, our gazes lock. Grey? No. Chrome? No. Silver. Like moonlight. The kind that pulls you in and doesn’t let go. The guy who walks nice also looks nice. Haha. No, forget nice—he’s downright lethal. Breathtaking. Literally.

My eyes skip to his shoulder, and I freeze. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Run? Faint? Spontaneously combust?

“At least you have a sense of humor to match that big brain you supposedly have, piccola,” he says.

Piccola? Did he just call me small? The audacity!

But before I can retort, he looks up at the cafeteria, his voice booming. “Listen up, unless you want to deal with me, you leave her the fuck alone.”

Wait, what?

I stand there, completely flabbergasted, as he strolls into the cafeteria with the confidence of someone who owns the place, flanked by his three friends who now eye me with newfound curiosity. In fact, it’s as if a spotlight has suddenly turned on me, making me the focal point of a million scrutinizing stares. The sensation is so crushing, it feels like my skin is crawling off my bones.

Nope. I’m not dealing with this.

So, caught in a wave of embarrassment, I do the only thing my panic-stricken brain can come up with: I duck my head and practically sprint out of there. Did he really just threaten everyone not to bully me? My heart pounds erratically as I stumble into an empty classroom and collapse into one of the seats.

Why would he do that?

Why would he do that?

Why would he do that?

The question bounces around my skull in tune with my knees as I study the desk, desperate for some distraction. It’s covered in stupid little scribbles like ‘Mrs C has a huge rack’, ‘school sucks’, and ‘Scorpion was here’. I roll my eyes at the last one.

“Scorpion,” I mutter with a snort. What kind of pretentious douchebag calls themselves Scorpion? But my brain, the traitorous thing, bounces right back to the mesmerizing stranger in the cafeteria. The dark–haired god with eyes like molten silver. Shit, I’ve never seen anyone so devastatingly attractive, not even in those ridiculous teen dramas.

“Why did he do that?” I wonder out loud, and my stomach grumbles in response. Thanks, Captain Obvious. I get it, I missed lunch. I’m starving, but there’s no way in hell I’m stepping foot back in that cafeteria. I hate when people look at me—hate the crawling burning sensation on my skin of eyes following me like I’m some sort of freak show attraction.

Nerves buzzing, I spring up from the seat and pace the room agitatedly as my stomach throws a full-on tantrum. Maybe I should go to the library, distract myself with a book or something. Yes, the library. Go to the library. It’s safe there. Quiet. No prying eyes. I nod to myself, psyching myself up before slipping out of the classroom and back into the now-empty hallway.

“Emilia Rossi?”

I freeze at the sound of my name. Slowly, I turn to see the principal, Mr. Logan, eyeing me as if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. My eyes widen in surprise. “Uh, yeah, that’s me.”

Duh, of course he knows it’s me. We literally met a few days ago when Dad brought me to enroll in classes.

“Can you come with me for a moment?” he asks, flashing what he probably thinks is a warm smile, but it gives me the heebie-jeebies instead. I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? It’s only my first day here, and besides that minor drama at the cafeteria, I’ve been as low-key as possible. Invisible, even.

Mr. Logan doesn’t wait for my answer. He just turns and starts walking down the hall, expecting me to tag along. I do, though my legs feel like jelly.

“Is something wrong?” I manage to squeak out.

“Of course not.” He tosses a glance over his shoulder, brows arched as if daring me to spill some scandalous secret. “Unless you have something to confess?”

I shake my head mutely, suddenly finding it hard to swallow. We round the corner, and there it is—the door with “Principal Logan” etched in stern block letters. He swings it open, gesturing for me to enter first, and my pulse kicks up a notch.

“Have a seat,” he says, circling around to his imposing leather chair.

I perch on the edge of the visitor’s chair, acutely aware of how small I feel. My hands slip from my hoodie and fold neatly in my lap as I focus on a spot just past Mr. Logan’s ear, unable to meet his gaze directly. I’m trying not to fidget, but it’s a losing battle. The silence is making me squirm. Am I about to get the boot back to my old grade?

Mr. Logan takes his seat and gives me another one of those smiles. God, does he practice that in the mirror?

“Emilia,” he begins. “I’ve been looking through your records…”

Here we go.

“…and I have to say, I’m genuinely impressed. I’ve seen high school seniors struggle with AP chemistry, and you aced it at, what, fourteen?”

“Fifteen.” I correct automatically, even though I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

“Right, right.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Our curriculum must bore you to tears.”

You have no idea, buddy. I force a polite smile, fingers drumming nervously on my thighs.

“I see the courses you registered for are all AP. How did you find your first day of classes?”

“They were… okay.” A lie. In truth, they were mind-numbingly easy, and I was bored out of my skull. But I’m not about to mention that. Last time I whined about easy classes, I ended up skipping a few semesters and becoming a high school senior at sixteen. I’m definitely not in a rush to go to college and be even more of an outcast.

Mr. Logan nods to himself, then leans back, steepling his fingers. “How would you feel about a little mental workout?”

I perk up, excitement shooting through me despite my best efforts to play it cool. A challenge? Hell yeah. “Depends. What’s the catch?” I answer cautiously. There’s always a catch, isn’t there?

“I have this student. He’s promising and has a lot of potential, but he’s not exactly motivated when it comes to school.” He pauses, letting his words hang in the air.

I remain quiet, my gaze dropping to my hand as I doodle little circles on the desk, waiting for him to get to the point.

“I want you to tutor him.”

I stop doodling. My eyes snap up. “Tutor a senior? That—that—” That’s insane! I want to shout.

“Think about it as a service to humanity. Just like how your father serves the community, this could be your own little contribution.”

I blink, trying to connect the dots between my dad’s detective work and this tutoring gig. What does my dad’s job have to do with anything? Is this some kind of weird guilt trip?

I push the thought aside before I can fixate on it, my gaze flicking over Mr. Logan’s face, searching for any sign that this might be a joke. But no—his expression is dead serious. “Wait… did the student agree to this?”

“He’ll have no choice if he wants to graduate.” He waves a hand like it’s no big deal, but I can feel my stomach flip. My knees start bouncing again, a nervous tic I can’t control.

Great. So I’ll be teaching a resentful senior who probably wants to stuff me in a locker. Fan-freaking-tastic.

“I–I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Mr. Logan. If the student doesn’t want to be tutored, there’s not much I can do. I don’t want to waste my time.” Or get beaten up…

Mr. Logan leans forward. “Tell you, what. Why don’t you meet him first? I’ll arrange for him to come to the library, and you can see for yourself what you’re dealing with. If you decide he’s beyond help, then that’s that. He won’t be graduating this year.”

I frown, finger absentmindedly returning to trace those same little circles on the desk again. Great. If I don’t tutor this guy and he fails, I’ll probably drown in guilt for life. I’m only sixteen, for crying out loud!—has everyone forgotten that? But sure, let’s pile on the pressure. Why not?

“Okay,” I murmur, even though deep down I know I’ve already signed myself up. No matter how this meeting plays out, I’m going to end up tutoring him. Damn my overactive conscience.

“That’s the spirit, Emilia!” Mr. Logan beams, clearly pleased with himself. “I’ll have someone bring Rafael to the library. So go ahead and wait for him there.”

As I stand, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch period, and I freeze. Economics. Crap. I’m supposed to be in class right now. But Mr. Logan seems to read my indecision perfectly and waves a dismissive hand like it’s no big deal. “It’s fine. You’re excused from the class.”

Really? Shouldn’t he be a little more concerned that I’m missing my classes just to babysit some guy who’s probably failing half of his? Not that I’ll actually fall behind—I’ve already gone through the entire semester’s material. But still. Talk about misplaced priorities.

With a sigh, I shove my hands back into my pockets and wade through the sea of students heading to their next classes on my way to the library.

The library is a ghost town when I arrive, save for the elderly librarian behind the front desk who shoots me a quick, nosy glance over her horn-rimmed glasses, probably wondering what I’m doing here. And of course, the Christmas decorations are still up here too. Seriously? Why do people insist on dragging out the holiday spirit? It’s a new year, people. Does ‘new year, new me’ mean nothing anymore? Apparently not.

As I walk to the back of the room, I catch sight of the snow falling outside and groan. Damn it. That means Dad will be late again tonight. For some reason, criminals all get some twisted thrill from bad weather. Snow hits, and suddenly they’re everywhere, crawling out of the woodwork like roaches. And, of course, Dad’s always right there, chasing after them.

Dropping into a seat with a clear view of the door, I mentally prepare for this Rafael guy to show up. Rafael. I roll his name around in my head for a moment, then shake it off as I wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

My leg starts bouncing, fingers tapping the table, and before I know it, I’m up wandering around the bookshelves like a restless ghost.

What the hell is going on? Did he just bail on this whole tutoring thing? Rafael, Rafael, Rafael. His name sounds like trouble already.

Should I just go to class even though I’m late already? Or am I supposed to just wait here forever? What should I do? What should I do? What should I do?

My mind is spinning with indecision when the library door squeaks open. Oh shit. Quickly, I pull out the nearest textbook and scurry back to my seat to pretend I’ve been deep in study mode this whole time. I place the book on the table and run my hand over it—once, twice, three times—but it does nothing to calm the sudden rush of nerves.

When I finally look up, I see his shoes first. No way. My stomach flips. Same guy from the cafeteria? Mr. Nice Shoes? My gaze crawls up, and sure enough, there he is. Those silvery eyes catch mine for a second, and it’s like a mini staring contest before my eyes start burning and I quickly shift my gaze to his neck.

Fuck! It’s definitely him.

He slides into the chair across from mine, and we’re both stuck in this awkward silence. I’m just about to break it when he suddenly reaches into his jacket. For a second, I think he’s mimicking me. Then he starts to pull his hand out, and my brain jumps to something ridiculous—what if he’s about to pull something insane like a knife? Okay, maybe not a knife—but instead, he pulls out… a chocolate bar?

He pushes it across the table toward me without a word. And I just blink at the thing as if it might attack me, confusion pulling my brows together. Then my gaze drifts to the tip of his crooked nose.

“You missed lunch. Thought you’d be hungry,” he says by way of explanation, and a little warmth wraps around my spine. My fingers hover over the chocolate bar before I finally pick it up.

“Uh, thanks,” I mumble, quickly peeling off the wrapper and taking a bite. It’s rich and sweet, and suddenly I realize just how hungry I am. I’m aware of his eyes on me as I practically inhale the chocolate bar, but I deliberately focus on his hands—big, rough hands, resting on the table.

A little embarrassed at myself, I flip open the textbook in front of me for a distraction. Physics. Perfect. “So,” I ask, turning a few pages like I’m casually running a tutoring session, “what’s your weakest subject? Which one do you need help with the most?”

He waits a beat, then says, “Now that you’re not about to pass out from hunger, I’ll give you my answer: no.”

My gaze snaps to his brows. “No?”

“No, I do not want to be fucking tutored by a girl two years younger than me—no offense. I don’t need it, no matter what Logan thinks.” His face hardens into a fierce scowl. “I’ll come here every day like he wants, but don’t you even dare try to tutor me, got it?”

Huh. Well damn, isn’t he just a ray of sunshine...

My eyes drop back to the book, but the words on the page blur into an indecipherable mess as I try to think of how to get past this Mount Everest of an attitude. I mean, I was all set to begrudgingly help the guy, mainly to avoid feeling guilty when he inevitably failed. But now? Now that I know who it is?

I’m actually excited to tutor him.

Not just because he stood up for me in the cafeteria or gave me a chocolate bar. And not because I can’t fathom sitting across from him every day and just staring at each other in awkward silence. Not even because it might make me finally go mad.

No. It’s because I like being around him. Twice now. And every time my spine tingles and my toes curl, like my body’s reacting to his presence before my mind catches up. It’s like standing too close to a live wire—there’s danger, sure, but hell, is it thrilling.

“Rafael, I⁠—”

“How do you know my name, Emilia?”

“Probably the same way you know mine. From the principal, Mr. Logan.” I shoot him a look that says, “Seriously?” He grunts in response and leans back, crossing his arms, watching me with an almost amused intensity.

“Look,” I start again, “I’m grateful for what you did in the cafeteria, and for bringing me the chocolate. You seem like a nice guy and⁠—”

A snicker cuts through my sentence, yanking me out of my train of thought. I glare at him, but he just waves me on like this whole thing is a big joke. Whatever. I roll my eyes and continue, “If we’re going to meet here every day anyway, we might as well do the tutoring. What’s the point of wasting both our time?”

The corner of his lips tilt up in a smirk, and he leans in with his elbows on the table, “Here’s the deal: I’ll let you tutor me if you share something about yourself—something only a few people know, something you wouldn’t want others to find out.”

What? This guy, who’s been nothing but a mystery, is now asking for my deepest secrets? I chew on the inside of my cheek, weighing my options. “Fine… but only if you tell me something nobody knows about you as well.” I counter, meeting his gaze by accident, and⁠—.

Oh, God.

Everything muffles—even my thumping heart—and the world blacks out at the edges of my vision. I’m falling, drowning, lost in the shimmering depths that look like liquid mercury, a hauntingly beautiful silver, as chilling as the winter frost outside yet burning with a fierce intensity that makes my skin prickle.

“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” I whisper, the words escaping unbidden.

Something flickers in those mesmerizing depths—surprise? Amusement? For a split second, I see past the cocky façade, glimpsing something raw and real. Then I blink, and it’s gone. Did I imagine that?

Suddenly, the reality of what I’ve just done crashes over me like a tidal wave. Oh no. No, no, no. I just complimented him. Out loud. To his face. Panic rises in my throat, choking me. What’s wrong with me? Stupid, stupid, stupid!

My eyes skitter away to settle on his ears, my heart pounding so forcefully I’m sure he can hear it. Heat creeps up my neck, and I can feel the blush spreading, betraying me. Great, now he probably thinks I’m some awkward, blushing schoolgirl with a crush. Which I’m not. Definitely not… Right?

God, this is humiliating. I want to crawl under the table and disappear. Or maybe sprint out of the library and never look back. Yeah, that’s it. Just stand up, grab my bag, and run. I could transfer schools again. Change my name. Move to another country…

But I’m rooted to the seat, waiting for his response. Anything. But he’s just sitting there, cool as ever. How am I supposed to focus on anything when he looks like that? Handsome, so damn handsome—Godammit, stop it.

Then, as if nothing just happened, he asks, “Why don’t you go first?”

I frown, confused. “Huh?”

“Tell me something nobody knows about you, something you hate,” he elaborates.

Oh, right. My brain scrambles, trying to catch up. We’re seriously just going to pretend I didn’t just completely humiliate myself? Okay, then.

I clear my throat, grasping for some semblance of control. Still, I hesitate, unsure if I should share. But finally, I give in. “My middle name is Azalea.” Only Dad knows, and I don’t even know why I’m telling him. Maybe I’ve gone mad.

But he perks up like that’s the most fascinating thing he’s heard all week. “Azalea, like the flowers?”

“Yes.” I’m thrown off by his sudden enthusiasm. Is he mocking me or genuinely intrigued?

“Interesting.” He seems to look at me with new eyes, and I frown, wondering why that is. “They’re beautiful flowers. Why do you hate the name?”

I watch my index finger as I tap it on the table. “Because it’s none of your business. Your turn.”

Silence.

I glance up with a frown, but when he responds, his face is distant, detached. “I hate being backed into a corner and told what to do,” he says, voice flat, almost robotic. “I don’t like being tutored either.”

My lips part in surprise. Are you kidding me? I just gave him something real, and he gives me the most obvious, surface-level answer? Anger flares in my chest, hot and sudden. Is this all a game to him? Two can play at that.

He notices my frustration and, of course, his smirk returns. “So, when do we start our lessons?”

I want to tell him to shove it, but instead, I take a deep breath and flip to a random page in the textbook. “We start now.”

My heart races as I glance at Rafael from the corner of my eye. My mind is a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Dad would have an aneurysm if he knew I was in this truck right now. Hell, he practically did when I told him I was tutoring Rafael last week. He’s deep into an investigation on Alfonso Moretti, Rafael’s dad, and when I mentioned the tutoring, he flipped out and forbade me from continuing. Absolutely not, Emilia! he’d thundered, face redder than a fire engine. That boy is trouble, just like his father!

But Dad’s wrong. God, he’s so wrong it’s almost funny. Rafael isn’t trouble like his dad—I know he’s not—despite what the gossip mill churns out.

I sneak another look at him. Sure, he’s got that bad boy vibe nailed down, but beneath that persona, he’s got more depth than people realize. Biting my lip, I think back to our study sessions. It’s not that he needs tutoring, per se. What he needs is someone to light a fire under his ass. Once he’s motivated? The guy’s actually brilliant. Like, “make-Einstein-look-slow” brilliant.

If only I could make Dad see that. But how do you convince a bullheaded detective that the son of his prime suspect isn’t the devil incarnate?

“What? See something you like?” Rafael’s cocky voice pulls me from my thoughts. That trademark smirk plays on his lips as he spares me a glance.

Heat creeps up my neck. Busted. “Oh my God, watch where you’re driving,” I deflect, scooting closer to the window and hugging it dramatically as I stare at the winter wonderland outside. Yep, because awkward is my specialty.

His rich chuckle fills the truck as we slowly pull up in front of my apartment. “We’re here anyway. See you tomorrow, piccola.”

“I told you not to call me that,” I grumble, snatching my backpack from between my legs.

Unlocking the car door, I chance one last glance at him, and instantly regret it. Our gazes collide, and suddenly I’m drowning in those eyes again. Shit. Flustered, I practically tumble out of his truck.

I wave at him to go, but he just shrugs and leans back in his seat, looking infuriatingly comfortable. I roll my eyes as I spin around and climb up the front stairs, but inside I’m floating. The warmth I feel has nothing to do with my threadbare jacket and everything to do with the boy in the truck.

This is only the third time he has driven me home, but each time, he waits. Waits until I’m safely inside before leaving. As soon as the door shuts behind me, he honks and then drives off. It’s a small gesture, but it makes my heart do somersaults.

I bypass the perpetually broken elevators and trudge up the stairs to our sixth-floor apartment. By the time I reach our door, I’m wheezing while rummaging through my bag for my keys. Note to self: do cardio.

The apartment is eerily quiet when I enter. With a sigh, I flick on the TV for some semblance of life on my way to my room. There, homework gets neatly arranged on my desk—a habit Dad drilled into me—before I change into comfy clothes and return to the living room.

Our two-bedroom apartment is more like a sardine can with walls. The living room, kitchen, and dining area are one cramped space, everything squished together like a game of Tetris gone wrong.

I open the fridge, my stomach growling, and bite my lip at the barren shelves. Great. Time to go shopping again, only Dad’s been MIA for three days now and my pocket money is drying up fast.

“Guess it's a sandwich for dinner,” I mutter. A dinner for one. Again.

As I close the fridge, movement on the TV catches my eye. The camera pans across a crime scene, yellow tape fluttering in the wind. Another killing? I abandon my pathetic excuse for dinner and grab the remote, cranking up the volume.

“... Local detectives have been on the trail of this drug lord for the past year, and our sources tell us they believe the police were close to catching him. But something must have gone wrong because when the detective went to apprehend the suspect, he and his partner were ambushed and brutally killed. Police investigations are…”

The remote slips from my numb fingers as pictures of the killed detectives flash on the screen, my gaze honing straight onto that achingly familiar face on the right.

That’s my dad.

My Dad.

Dad.

No. No, no, no.

“No.” Tears spill down my face as I stumble closer to the TV, desperately trying to make sense of the horror before me. The room feels like it’s spinning, and my legs give out beneath me. I can’t breathe, my hands shaking, reaching out like they can somehow touch the image and pull him out of that frozen frame. He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He can’t be dead.

“Dad?” I choke out, the word a broken whisper. But the truth stares back at me from that grainy news photo, and suddenly, my world just crumbles to dust around me.

My dad is gone.

1

EMILIA

Present day…

My eyes snap open, and a dizzying blur of red and green floods my vision. Heart hammering, I blink until the Christmas lights strung haphazardly around the ceiling swims into focus. For a moment, I’m completely lost. Where am I? Not in Quantico, that’s for sure. No one gives a damn about festive cheer in the academy. Then reality crashes back in waves: The safe house. New York City. Tomorrow I’m⁠—

Suddenly, a cold gust of air slams into my face, jolting me further into wakefulness. Something’s… off. My skin tingles just as the curtain sways into my peripheral vision.

Shit. I didn’t open the windows. I know I didn’t.

Panic bubbles up in my chest, but I force it down. Cool it, Em. You’re trained for this.

Forcing myself to stay still, I slide my hand under my pillow, inch by agonizing inch. My fingers brush cool metal and tension melts into relief. In one fluid motion, I explode to my feet, my trusty 9MM aimed squarely at the shadowy figure lurking next to the flimsy green curtains.

“Who’s there?” My voice is steady, betraying none of the adrenaline surging through my veins.

“It really is you, Emilia.” The dark, husky voice washes over me with familiar heat that sends goosebumps all over my body. Oh shit. Oh shit. I know that voice. Even if the years had blurred every other sound in my memory, that one was burned in. No one else has called me by my full name in years. And no one else ever said it like that. “If you were going to run away, you should have stayed gone. What made you crawl back into my city?”

My city. Yeah, that seals it. No doubt now. There’s only one man bold enough to claim an entire metropolis as his own.

“Rafael,” I whisper.

He emerges from the shadows, and suddenly I’m sixteen again, seeing him for the first time. The gaudy Christmas lights paint him in reds and greens, turning him into some kind of festive avenging angel. Breathe, girl. Just breathe. But how am I supposed to remember something as simple as breathing when he’s standing there, looking like sin incarnate and danger personified?

My heart launches into a full-on gymnastics routine as I drink him in, noting every detail the last five years have shaped. His dark hair is longer now, parted in the middle, the tips curling rebelliously at the nape of his neck. His face looks sterner, meaner somehow, like life has been chiseling away at him with a vengeance.

But it’s his eyes that freezes me—the same chilling silver, as beautiful as they are dangerous. Yet now, they’re only an eerie, lifeless void.

Still, this is Rafael. My Rafael, the man who gave up everything to save me, even when it nearly cost him his own life. My friend.

Before I can think better of it, I’m dropping the gun on the bed and flinging myself into his arms. A grin bursts onto my face, fueled by a mix of sheer exhilaration and a deep, unexpected joy at seeing him again.

His grunt vibrates through me as I wrap my hands around his waist. But instead of the warm embrace I crave, his body turns to stone. Right. I’d forgotten how he hated being touched after… everything. Like tiny pinpricks of needles piercing my skin, he’d once said.

Reluctantly, I pull back, my heart sinking a little as I force myself to look up at him. My eyes, however, immediately get snagged on his clenched jaw before zoning in on a rogue lock of hair that falls over the bridge of his crooked nose. Even as he lowers his gaze to meet mine, that stubborn strand keeps pulling my focus. I want to look him in the eyes—I really do—but it’s like there’s this invisible force holding me captive, keeping my stare glued to that infuriating lock of hair.

What’s wrong with me? Why is it so hard just to look at him?

Long, thick fingers appear in my vision and grip my chin, tilting it upward with a slow, deliberate motion. He’s guiding me, insisting I meet his gaze. My heart lodges in my throat as our eyes lock, and suddenly the world narrows to just us. The pressure in my head builds, squeezing tighter and tighter. It’s too much. Gasping, I shift my burning eyes back to his nose.

“I thought you were going to fix that?” he rumbles quietly, and I swallow.

“I’m—I’m working on it.”

He studies me for long, agonizing seconds until blood rushes to my cheeks, turning my face hot. Thank God for the Christmas lights glowing on us. But when his gaze drifts lower, down my body, my breath stalls. Only then does it hit me—I’m practically naked, wearing nothing but a thong and an oversized t-shirt. His t-shirt. The one I stole when I left him and the others five years ago.

Does he notice? Does he care? Because I haven’t been able to forget it for a second. Five years, and I’ve still clung to this stupid piece of him. Now here I am, standing right in front of him, exposed in every way that matters.

Ugh. Just kill me now.

I steal a glance—and there it is. A flicker of recognition passes through his gaze. But he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, his lips curve into that familiar, lazy smirk. “You’ve changed, Emilia. Even more beautiful than I remember. And look at you now—all grown up. What are you, twenty–one?”

“Twenty–two,” I whisper, and he hums a low, throaty sound that seems to reverberate through my entire body, pooling heat low in my belly.

“Perfect.” His voice drops even lower, rich with something I can’t quite place. Desire? Possession? I steal another glance at his eyes and gulp at the dark hunger I find in those depths. “It means I can finally claim you. It means I can finally do this.”

And then he’s kissing me, and holy mother of God, it’s like being struck by lightning. My lips tingle from the shock of it—of him—and I gasp. He takes full advantage, plunging deeper, like he’s been starving for this.

Fuck.

My whole body lights up, every nerve exploding to life, burning bright just like the Christmas tree in the living room. I grip his shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric as my head spins, drowning in the storm he’s just unleashed on me.

I always knew he’d be a good kisser, but this… this is something else..

A moan slips past my lips, my eyes fluttering shut as I lose myself in him. His mouth—it’s not just a kiss anymore, it’s a damn takeover—demanding, fierce, and leaving me gasping for air. His hand moves from my chin and slides into my hair, gripping me with just enough force to make my head tilt exactly how he wants—so his tongue can map out every inch of me and leave no crevice of my mouth unexplored. A wild rush of heat spreads over my skin. My knees threaten to give out.

Before I know what I’m doing, my hands are gliding up his chest and around his neck to drag him closer.

Big mistake.

Rafael goes rigid, breaking the kiss and stepping back so suddenly I nearly topple over. My eyes fly open, and I blink up at him, panting and bewildered, as I try to figure out what just happened.

“No touching,” he commands, and then he spins me around until my back is resting against the solid heat of his chest. One hand circles my wrists, locking them in place, while the other collars my throat. It’s not choking, not really, but the implicit threat sends a shiver down my spine—equal parts fear and… something else.

I inhale sharply as he uses his grip on my throat to turn my head back to him, and then his lips descend again, claiming my mouth once more in a kiss that leaves me dizzy and weak-kneed. I melt back into him, surrendering, my bound hands clenching into fists, nails biting into my palms, but I don’t care.

Suddenly, we’re moving. My feet stumble blindly as Rafael pushes us forward, his mouth still fused to mine. The world tilts, and my breath catches in my throat—I’m falling. Reflex kicks in, and I try to throw my hands out to catch myself, but his grip is unyielding.

I hit the bed with a grunt, the air rushing from my lungs as Rafael’s weight descends on me. Just as quickly as we fell, he breaks the kiss, leaving me gulping for air like a fish out of water. With a savage ease, he rearranges my hands beneath my stomach, effectively pinning me down, before propping himself up with one hand next to my head. The other trails a scorching path up my now-exposed legs, my shirt having ridden up indecently high.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

This is fine. Everything’s fine. You’re just in bed with the man you ran away from five years ago.

Totally normal.

A deep, guttural groan rumbles from him as his hand circles my bare ass, and damn if I don’t moan too. His palm is calloused and impossibly hot against my skin, and I can’t help but push my ass back into his grip, seeking more of that delicious friction. More. Please, more.

His eyes fly to my face, dark and dangerous. “Rafael,” I murmur, my voice a breathy plea I barely recognize. But it’s all the invitation he needs to capture my lips again and steal what little breath I’ve managed to regain.

As he kneads the flesh of my ass, I moan into his mouth, writhing under him, clamping my thighs together in a desperate bid for some pressure on my clit. Rafael, ever observant, notices my predicament and wedges his thigh between my legs, effectively separating them. The loss of pressure has me whining in frustration, but he just breaks the kiss with that infuriating smirk.

“You want more, Emilia?”

I nod, frantically.

“Then beg for it.”

“Rafael, please.”

“Ah, ha, piccola,” he tuts, voice a low purr. “That’s not begging. You want the pleasure, you play by my rules and⁠—”

The shrill ring of a phone cuts through the heated atmosphere like a bucket of ice water. Rafael’s phone, to be precise.

“No,” I wail. “Don’t answer it.”

But he’s already peeling away from me, warmth vanishing as he fishes out a sleek smartphone from his pocket. With a final, intense glance at me, he fucking answers it. I melt into the bed in defeat, well aware that this interlude is over.

He thrusts his free hand into his pocket and paces away, speaking low, rapid Italian into the phone. If I strain enough to hear, I could probably make out what he’s saying—thank you, multilingual upbringing—but I can’t summon the energy to eavesdrop.

Not when my traitorous brain finally kicks into gear and decides now is the perfect time for a bout of self-flagellation.

What the hell was that? Are you out of your mind?

Even if it's Rafael, you can’t just throw yourself at someone like that. Slut.

What did you just do? What did you just do? What did⁠—

“I have to go.” Rafael’s voice cuts through the mental noise, and I’ve never been so grateful for an interruption. Once those nasty little voices start, they don’t stop—they just keep spinning, round and round like a messed-up merry-go-round I can’t get off.

I sit up, frowning as I watch Rafael adjusting his shirt, already moving toward the window he most likely came in through. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

“Don’t worry, amorina, I’ll be in touch.” And with that cryptic promise, he’s gone.

I scramble out of bed and rush to the window just in time to see him drop from my third-floor balcony. He lands with feline grace and melts into the darkness, while I stand there, freezing as the winter wind bites at my skin.

It’s snowing again.

Fuck.

As I slam the window shut, it hits me—the alarm didn’t go off. Gasping, I stare at the window in disbelief. This is supposed to be a secure agency safe house with top-notch security. Any breach should have triggered ear-splitting alarms.

Some safe house this turned out to be.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I pad downstairs. I need to confirm that I did, in fact, turn the alarm on last night. But when I reach the control panel, my stomach drops.

It’s off… How?

I gape at it, mind racing. I swear I set it, double-checked it even, and that was after locking every single door and window. It’s become a ritual, a nightly routine born of paranoia.

What the hell?

Switching it back on, I feel the tension coil tighter in my chest as I pace the living room, trying to make sense of it all. The oversized Christmas tree next to the fireplace catches my eye, and I can’t help but sigh heavily as I look at it—along with the mistletoe hanging over the doorway. Who decorated this place anyway? What the hell was the point?

I didn’t ask for this shit.

The cheerful baubles and twinkling lights almost feel like they’re mocking me, reminding me that Christmas is only two weeks away, and that once again, I’ll probably be spending it alone, just like every year since I was sixteen.

As I stare at the decorations, Rafael’s visit replays in my mind. The kiss, the touch, the promise of more… and then his abrupt departure. It’s all so confusing.

But with Rafael back in my life, there’s a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this year won’t be as lonely as the others.

The Uber crawls through Manhattan’s crowded streets, and I find myself pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the world go by. Snowflakes dance in the air, settling on the sidewalks where they’re immediately trampled by the endless parade of holiday shoppers and hurried office workers.

My eyes linger on the families hustling along the sidewalks, laden with shopping bags and radiating that particular brand of stressed-out joy that seems unique to the holiday season. A little girl in a puffy pink coat squeals with delight as her father hoists her onto his shoulders, and I feel a pang in my chest so sharp it takes my breath away.

“We’re here, ma’am.”

The driver’s voice jolts me out of my brooding, and I blink, realizing we’ve stopped in front of a towering behemoth of glass and steel—the Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building.

With a nod, I step out, staring up at the structure. Feels like a lifetime ago when I first walked through those doors, wide-eyed and full of hope. Excited about my future, and a little scared I was making the wrong decision by leaving the family I found behind to make something of myself.

Do I regret my decision?

Hell if I know.

It’s only been five years, after all, and I haven’t even started working for the bureau yet. I just finished my training at Quantico, and immediately after my graduation three days ago, I was ordered back to Manhattan.

Questions still nag at me as I force my feet to move, carrying me through the revolving doors and into the belly of the beast. The lobby is a hive of activity. Men and women in sharp suits and sensible shoes bustle about with purpose.

I make my way to the security checkpoint and fish out my credentials. My hands shake slightly as I present my shiny new gold badge, and I can’t help the little thrill that runs through me. It’s real. It’s actually real.

I’m really a special agent now. Holy shit.

The elevator ride to the 23rd floor feels endless. I watch the numbers tick up, each floor bringing me closer to my new life, to the person I’ve fought so hard to become. My chest tightens as I try to keep my nerves in check.

When the doors finally slide open with a soft ‘ding’, I suck in a deep breath and step out into the sprawling lobby of the FBI’s New York office.

This is it. No turning back now.

My eyes are immediately drawn to the bureau's badge, prominently displayed on a cobblestone wall, and I smile as I take it in.

But the mood in here? Definitely not festive. Christmas decorations are strung up like they’re trying to convince everyone it’s the happiest time of the year, but no one’s buying it. Every agent I pass is all business, eyes locked on screens and paperwork, clearly too buried under the never-ending mountain of crap this job throws at them to even think about a little holiday spirit. And honestly, I get it. This isn’t a place for twinkling lights and jolly tunes—this is a place for getting shit done.

I make my way to the front desk and ask to see Stacey Rodrigues, my direct supervisor and mentor.

A few minutes later, I’m being ushered down a long hallway, past a row of cubicles buzzing with agents in full grind mode. The further we go, the more serious it feels. Locked doors line the next stretch of hallway, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of classified secrets are tucked away behind them. Finally, we stop in front of a massive set of double doors gleaming with the engraving: Stacey Rodrigues, Assistant Director In Charge.

My pulse kicks up. Here we go.

I knock sharply, and Stacey’s familiar voice calls out, “Come in.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself before pushing the doors open.

Stace’s office is a sprawling, coveted corner space with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of City Hall and a glimpse of the Hudson River beyond. But it’s Stacey herself who commands attention, rising from behind her imposing desk with a grin that lights up her entire face.

“Welcome, Emily,” she says, waving me to a chair in front of her desk, rather than the plush seating area a few feet away. It’s a power move, I realize, but a subtle one.

I sit, my back ramrod straight, hands folded neatly in my lap. Five years of training kicking in automatically.

“I feel like a proud mother hen right now. Who knew I had it in me, huh?” she chuckles, picking up a folder from her desk. “You’re the child I never had, Emily. You know that, right?” Her eyes soften for a moment, then sharpen again. “I hope you do..”

My eyes flick to her perfectly manicured nails. “I do,” I manage to say, even though I rarely voice how much she means to me. Because I do care about Stacey. She’s been my rock, my guiding star for the past five years. She was the only familiar face at my med school graduation last year, and again at my graduation from the Academy at Quantico a few days ago.

She’s family. It’s just… weird to say it out loud. The word holds too much history, too much pain.

“Good,” she nods, seemingly satisfied. Then she slides the folder to me, and I reach for it eagerly, hungry for my first mission. This is it, the moment I’ve been working towards for five long years.

I open the folder… and the world stops.

Staring up at me is a face etched into my soul, more familiar than my own reflection. Dark hair. Eyes like molten silver. A crooked nose.

Rafael.

My blood turns to ice as Stacey leans forward, her expression suddenly serious.

“Your first mission is Rafael Moretti.”

2

RAFAEL

“Their network?” I ask Enzo, my second-in-command, as we walk down the deserted East Harlem street. The chill December air bites at my face, and the only sound around is the rhythmic tap of our shoes on the cracked pavement. Normally, this place would be buzzing, but not today. Not after Michael sent out that little encrypted message to every business and resident in the area.

The message was simple: disappear, or risk being collateral damage. And they listened. Smart move on their part—I’d hate to scrape some poor bastard’s brains off the sidewalk just because they couldn’t take a hint.

“Scrambled,” he assures me. “Those fuckers won’t send so much as a fucking emoji in or out.”

Good. Giovanni Conti and his pathetic excuse for a crew are sitting ducks, trapped in their own little cage. No more squirming out of my grasp, no more playing hide and seek like they've been doing for the past few weeks. No more distractions. The old bastard’s been a thorn in my side for too long, the biggest obstacle in my path to owning this city. And I’m done fucking around with him. It’s time to rip that thorn out and crush it.

I’ve got other, more pressing shit to deal with—namely a girl. A girl who deserves my full attention.

But first, I have to deal with this bastard.

We stop in front of the so-called “quaint” little Italian restaurant I know he’s holing up in. My lip curls in disgust at the over-the-top festive crap plastered across the storefront—flashing red, green, and blue lights practically assaulting my eyeballs. Fucking Christmas. A few twinkling bulbs and some cheap-ass tinsel can’t mask the rot festering in this city.

But no worries. I’ve got a gift for Conti. Just not the kind you’ll find under a tree.

With a quick nod, one of my men jogs forward to test the door handle. Locked—as if that flimsy piece of metal could keep me out. Idiots.

I yank my Glock from my waist holster and point it straight at the lock, then fire.

Bang! Bang!

Once, twice, until the thing bursts apart. The boom of the gunshots shatters the morning silence, and the air thickens with the acrid smell of gunpowder.

No silencer. I could’ve used one, sure. But where’s the fun in that? I want Conti to know the boogeyman is coming for him. I want him shaking in his designer shoes, knowing I’ve got him trapped and his only way out is zipped up in a body bag. And I want every fucking dickhead in this godforsaken neighborhood to understand exactly what happens when you fuck with Rafael Moretti.

Lowering my gun, I step back as my men kick the door open and flood into the restaurant. Their orders are clear; everyone inside is fair game, except Giovanni fucking Conti. He’s mine.

A symphony of chaos erupts. Screams cut through the air, blending with the rapid crack of gunfire and the jingle of Christmas tunes drifting from the restaurant’s old, tinny speakers. The whole scene is almost laughable. “Deck the Halls” playing while bodies hit the floor. My lips creep into a savage grin at the twisted irony as I step over the carnage, Enzo by my side, kicking dead bodies out of my way like they’re nothing more than discarded Christmas wrapping paper.

My eyes zero in on the refrigerator at the back—bingo. The rumored hiding spot of Conti’s little rat hole. Enzo throws his weight against it, but the damn thing doesn’t budge an inch. Figures. Conti’s too slippery for anything that easy. I signal to the three other men behind me, and they rush forward, grunting and straining against the metal hulk, their efforts drowned out by the ongoing firefight.

A frown creases my brow. Then it hits me—maybe the secret entrance isn’t behind the fridge. Maybe it’s inside it.

Clever, Conti. But not clever enough.

“Stop,” I command, then yank the door open, and immediately recoil from the godawful stench.

Steeling myself, I power through, shoving aside strings of rotten meat. And sure enough, there it is: a wall. A wall inside a refrigerator.

“Bastard really thought he was untouchable,” I mutter as Enzo squeezes his bulk into the cramped space and gives the false wall a push. It slides open with surprising ease, revealing a dark hole beyond. A fitting hole for a rat like Giovanni.

Enzo takes a step back, and I duck my head to go through.

This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.

As soon as I cross the threshold, a bullet whizzes past my ear. White-hot rage explodes in my chest. Motherfucker.

Immediately, I snap my gun up. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I growl, pulling the trigger.

The shot echoes, followed by a sharp howl of agony. I slap the light switch on the wall, illuminating the pathetic scene before me. And there he is—Giovanni Conti, sprawled on the floor clutching his bleeding shoulder, his gun on the floor just out of reach. I stalk towards him, savoring each step, and kick the weapon away. “If you were going to shoot at me,” I drawl, pressing my Glock against his sweaty temple, “you should have aimed for my head.”

He whimpers, and I take a step back, disappointed at the lack of fight. “Is this it? The great Don Conti? Pathetic.”

Something flares in his eyes—a spark of the old fire. And he spits out, “Only because you came after me when I was weak. I was not expecting you.”

I click my tongue in disapproval. “That’s the thing, Conti. In our world, you can’t afford to be weak. Not ever. You should always expect an attack.” I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Especially after you directly sabotaged my trading route last week. You lost me millions in firearms, cunt. Did you honestly think I’d let that slide?”

“Your father should have made sure he finished you,” he groans, pressing harder on his bleeding arm.

The mention of my father sends a jolt of ice through me, but I don’t let it show. Instead, a humorless chuckle leaves my lips. “He really should have. He and a dozen others would still be breathing if he had the balls to finish what he started.” I crouch down, getting right in his face. “You should have surrendered when I gave you the chance, Giovanni. Maybe I would’ve spared your miserable life.”

“Like you spared Arturo and the rest? Lies.”

“Hmm,” I tap my index finger against my cheek, pretending to consider his words. “You know what? You’re right. You would have died either way. But you get why, don’t you? I can’t exactly trust your allegiance, can I?”

“Fuck you, Rafael,” he spits out.

I stand up, towering over his wounded form. “If you had just stood back and done nothing, I would have granted you a quick and painless death. Now?” I pause for dramatic effect, relishing the fear in his eyes. “My men will take great pleasure in drawing out your pain. Consider it a thank you for the hell you put us through.”

“You think you can just kill your way into power? The city will never be yours,” he threatens, but it sounds more like the desperate whine of a corned animal.

My lips curl into a grim smile.

“Wrong again, old man. It’s mine already.” Without warning, I level my Glock at his legs and blow out both his kneecaps. The screams that follow are a symphony to my ears. When his voice finally gives out, he slumps to the floor, a broken heap of flesh and bone. “When my men are done with you, I’ll string out your entrails with the Christmas lights in your own restaurant and gift-wrap your bloody head. You’ll become the cautionary tale used to warn other idiots not to fuck with Rafael Moretti.”

Holstering my gun, I walk out of the backroom, Enzo close behind. I pause in the main area of the restaurant, admiring our handiwork. Dead bodies litter the floor and the Christmas tree is now decorated with splashes of crimson.

Perfect.

Enzo and I leave the carnage behind and make our way back down the street to where our cars are parked. He gets into the driver’s seat and tosses me a glance, “Back home?”

“Yes, but first, we need to stop at a florist.”

“A florist?” His voice rises in surprise.

I don’t bother to explain. With Giovanni now out of the picture, my thoughts have already shifted back to the next most important piece on my chessboard.

Emilia.

Five years. Five long, frustrating years I’ve been searching for her, ever since she disappeared without a trace. All she left behind was a measly letter that told me absolutely fuck-all. It was like she’d been wiped off the face of the earth, like she never existed at all. But I never stopped looking. As I climbed the ladder, got richer, more powerful, I kept upgrading my private investigators.

And then she just waltzes back into my city? Without so much as a heads-up? The sheer audacity of it makes my blood boil and sing at the same time.

My cock stirs, and my hand flexes as memories flood my mind—the feel of her soft ass in my palm, the way she ground up against me, her sweet little moans. I didn’t plan that out, not during our first reunion. But then again, when has anything ever gone according to plan with Emilia?

I certainly didn’t expect my chest to tighten when I watched her sleep in my old shirt, either. Or for my breath to momentarily seize when her eyes lit up with recognition. Or for the mouthwatering scent of her skin to fill my head when she hugged me.

And I definitely didn’t expect how much those pouty pink lips would tempt me… Goddammit.

I lost my damn mind. And that’s dangerous.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Emilia, it’s to always expect the unexpected. So maybe I should have known I’d end up kissing her.

And that she’d kiss me back with equal fervor.

But does she understand what that means? Does she realize how she sealed her own fate?

She wanted more. And fuck, so do I.

Emilia Rossi is mine.

And I will not let her slip through my fingers again.

3

EMILIA

“You want me to investigate Rafael?” I blurt out, my mind still spinning, struggling to process Stacey’s request. She knows about my history with him—how the hell could she ask this of me? Wouldn’t it be a conflict of interest? The very thought of spying on Rafael fills me with a sinking sense of dread.

Stacey’s eyes, usually warm and understanding, harden with resolve. “Flip the pages.” She nods toward the folder in my hand that I’m now clutching so tight, my knuckles turn white.

Something primal within me screams not to look, to toss the damn thing away and run. But I can’t. I’m rooted to the spot, my trembling fingers betraying me as they flip the page.

And I instantly regret it.

Oh, God…

Grotesque images assault my senses—bodies mutilated beyond recognition, flesh torn and twisted in ways bodies should never be. My stomach churns, and I taste bile at the back of my throat.

“All those people were brutally murdered by a group known as the Nightshades,” Stacey says, her voice oddly detached. “There’s more.”

I don’t want to see more. But I swallow and flip to the next page. The wave of nausea that hits me is so strong I nearly double over.

Little kids—girls, murdered with their limbs hacked off, and their middle sections gape open, showing missing organs. I feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead, and a strangled gasp escapes me. “W–what the hell?”

“Keep going.”

My fingers, numb and clumsy, fumble with the next page. The photos here are blurrier, like they were snapped from far away. But I’d recognize those faces anywhere.

Rafael Moretti, Michael Hart, Maximo Leonotti, and Romero Lombardi.

My saviors.

Men I consider family, even though they must hate me now.

They’re sitting across from each other in what looks like a rooftop garden, surrounded by flowers I know all too well. Nightshade. My lips part as recognition dawns. Those flowers aren’t just pretty—they stand for something.

Freedom. Revolution. Revenge.

Beneath the image, a scrawl of handwriting catches my eye: ‘the nightshades’ first meeting.’

“No,” I breathe, shaking my head in denial. “This can’t be right.”

“That meeting happened two months ago, Emily. Since then, the city has been turned upside down. Numerous deaths of the previous ruling mafia families. Massacres. Slowly but surely, the men in that picture took over New York, a borough at a time. They are the Cosa Nostra now. They rule the city. And Rafael… he is their leader.”

“You’re wrong.” I insist. “They would never⁠—"

“There’s more,” Stacey cuts me off. “Flip.”

I shake my head again. I don’t want to see. But Stacey doesn’t give me a choice. She leans over and flips for me. The first picture shows an elderly man, on his knees, staring down the barrel of a gun. The picture is grainy, probably pulled from surveillance footage, but I know the man holding the gun.

I kissed him last night. I made out with him. And I wanted to do more. So much more.

In the next picture, the elderly man is sprawled on his back, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. Dead. Executed.

More pictures follow, each one more brutal, each one featuring Rafael, Michael, and Maximo. I try to reconcile these images of cold-blooded killers with the boys I once knew, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

The folder slips from my numb fingers, scattering its gruesome contents across the floor. My hands fly to my ears, clamping down hard, as if I could somehow shut out the cacophony of thoughts screaming through my skull. It’s pointless, I know. It never works—never has. But old habits die hard.

With monumental effort, I force my hands down from my ears, just like my therapist drilled into me. Stay in control. I close my eyes and focus on counting my breaths.

In. Out. In. Out. Slow and steady.

When I finally pry my eyes open, Stacey gives me an approving nod. “Good job, Emily. You’re making progress.” Then she tilts her head slightly. “But you’re still struggling with eye contact, huh?”

A bitter laugh bubbles from my throat. Eye contact. Right. Out of everything, she picks that to focus on? But I bite it back. “Yeah. It’s the worst,” I mutter, squeezing my hands into a fist.

Holding people’s gaze makes my brain crawl and my eyes burn. A symptom of my condition, they call it. Like the urge to cover my ears or the endless loop of repetitive thoughts. Knowing doesn’t exactly make it any easier to deal with, though. Sure, I’ve fought off some of the habits, but the eye thing… that’s still a losing battle.

“I’m trying,” I feel the need to add.

“That’s all that matters,” she says with a warm, encouraging smile, always so supportive. But her support is bittersweet. It always makes me wonder what my dad would think of me now. He’s been gone six years now, and without him, I wouldn’t have met Stacey.

My gaze drops to the pictures on the floor, and it all comes rushing back—the dead people, the pools of blood, the grainy surveillance footage. Rafael… I swallow hard, my stomach twisting.

When I look up again, Stacey’s smile is gone, her face serious once again. “I know you don’t want to believe this, but think about it. Rafael came to see you last night. The very same night you set foot back in the city. How could he have known if he wasn’t involved in the underground?”

How did she—no, of course, she knows. Stacey knows everything. But how much?

Shit.

I swallow, her words sinking in. I know he’s been looking for me for years. But I thought I was hidden. Protected by the confidentiality Stacey promised. If he’s finally found me… it’s because she let him. Because she wants to use me to get to him.

A bitter taste lingers in my mouth as I wrestle with the thoughts spinning in my head. “Why me? I’m still just a newbie. You could send anyone else to cover this mission—someone with more experience.”

“No one else will do,” Stacey counters, her voice firm. “It’s easier if you go. You won’t rouse much suspicion, and the Nightshades are more likely to let you in than a total stranger.”

The Nightshades. The name sends a chill down my spine. I shake my head, clinging to the last shreds of my denial. “I don’t know about everything else, Stacey, but I do know Rafael and the other guys would never hurt kids. Never.” Not after the way they risked their own lives to save me when I was nothing but a stranger to them.

She sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Your mission is simple, Emily. You don’t have to do anything drastic. Just stay close to the man and watch him. You think Rafael Moretti isn’t the one responsible for the deaths of these kids? Prove it.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and slowly get up from the chair. This is my first-ever mission, and it’s Stacey asking. I can’t say no. I can’t say no.

“I will prove it,” I vow as I leave her office.

The world outside Stacey’s office is a blur. Whatever excitement I had walking into that building is now completely drained. I absentmindedly hail down a taxi, mumbling my address as I sink into the backseat. My head leans against the window, cold glass grounding me, but it’s no use. My thoughts spin out of control.

Rafael helped me all those years ago… saved me. They all did. Maybe this is my turn to help them. I shudder, shutting off the part of my brain that starts playing a reel of the events that happened that dark night. No. No. No. I can’t go back there. Not now.

Instead, I let myself drown in more recent memories—Rafael’s warmth, his teasing, his kiss. I sigh, embracing them.

There’s no hiding that I’ve always had this stupid crush on him, but I never dared to think he felt the same way. He always seemed a little… disgruntled. Even after we all ran away together, cramped into that tiny studio for a year. His teasing was relentless, especially when the others were around. So I buried my feelings, convinced they were nothing but a childish fantasy.

Now, worry spikes through me. He’s definitely going to reach out again. What if he hates me for what I have to do? He can’t find out. He can’t.

The taxi jerking to a stop jolts me out of my spiraling thoughts, and I blink in surprise to find we’re parked in front of my Manhattan condo. The driver’s impatient glance prompts me to fumble with the fare. Ignoring his annoyed huff, I scramble out, clutching my jacket tighter against the biting cold, my breath turning into frosty clouds as I jog to the entrance.

Inside the lobby, I give a quick nod to the doorman, grateful for the warmth that seeps into my bones. The place feels like a sanctuary against the cold outside. The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and I click the button for the third floor, finally allowing my shoulders to drop from their tense perch.

But as the elevator ascends, so do my worries. What the hell am I going to do? How the hell am I going to get Rafael to open up to me? How will I prove his innocence? Because he is innocent—of hurting children, at least. He has to be. No matter what he is now, I know that like the back of my hand. Rafael would never cross that line. We were those kids once. He just wouldn’t be that cruel.

The elevator chimes again as it reaches my floor, and the doors open to the quiet, empty hallway. I’m the only one on this floor, even though there are two apartments here. Both belong to the bureau, but I’m currently the lone occupant. Lucky me.

Halfway down the hallway, I freeze mid-step. Something catches my eye. My body goes rigid, and my hand moves on reflex to the holster at my hip. There’s something on the floor in front of my door.

I don’t move. My legs refuse. So I just stand there, eyes locked on that spot, heart hammering like it’s trying to send a warning signal. My eyes sweep the hallway, every nerve now buzzing with caution. It’s empty. Or at least seems to be.

But that doesn’t mean I’m alone. It doesn’t mean⁠—

Oh, get a grip.

I force myself to take a step forward, then another, each movement slow and deliberate.

With each step, the tension coils tighter in my chest. My hand hovers near the holster, ready to draw at the first sign of trouble.

And then I see it. And suddenly I feel ridiculous. My hand falls away from my weapon as my eyes focus on the shape on the ground.

It’s just a bouquet of flowers.

But not just any flowers.

Azaleas.

What the⁠—

I crouch down to get a closer look. My heart’s still pounding, but now it’s for an entirely different reason. The flowers are beautiful—purplish-red petals, wide and funnel-shaped, stand out vividly against the deep green foliage tinged with reddish–bronze at the edges.

A spicy, heady scent wafts up as I carefully lift the bouquet by its white wrapping. My lips stretch into a pleased smile despite myself, and a thrill I can’t quite squash rises up.

Rafael.

Only he would send me Azaleas.

Cradling the bouquet in my arms, I’m mindful not to let the flowers touch my skin as I unlock my front door. Beautiful as they are, Azaleas are poisonous. I’m not sure if mere contact is enough to cause a reaction or if indigestion is the real danger, but I’m not about to find out, thank you very much.

Pretty, but deadly. Just like the sender.

Before I go in, I shoot another glance around the hallway. Still empty. Okay. The door opens directly into the living room, and as I shut it behind me, something flutters from the wrapping around the flowers.

A card.

I deposit the bouquet on the coffee table before going back to the doorway to pick up the fallen card. The moment I see the hard, masculine scrawl, I’m transported back in time. It’s the same handwriting I remember from our tutoring sessions.

Have dinner with me. Be ready by 8.

–R.

My mouth goes dry. Typical Rafael. Not a request, not a polite invitation—an order.

I stare at the card, heart thudding as realization sinks in.

This isn’t just dinner. It’s a date. And not just any date…

A date with the leader of the Nightshades.

Exactly eight o’clock. Right on time.

My heels click softly against the marble lobby floor as I make my way toward the exit. Running a shaky hand down my coat, I smooth it out, while silently reminding myself to breathe.

You’ve got this.

The revolving door spits me out into the freezing winter air, and I have to bite back a curse as the cold slaps me in the face. My eyes immediately land on the sleek, black limo parked at the curb, and I frown. Seriously? This is a no-parking zone, but it seems whoever owns that car doesn’t give a damn. I glance around, searching for any sign of Rafael.

Where is he?

The limo’s driverside door swings open, and out steps a mountain of a man. Salt-and-pepper hair crowns a face that screams ‘don’t mess with me.’ If I passed him on the street, I’d probably mistake him for a bouncer or high-end security. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. But as he approaches, a small smile softens his hard features.

“Good evening, Miss Rossi. I’m Alfred, Mr. Moretti’s driver.”

Rafael’s driver. Oh. So, he didn’t come to pick me up himself. Disappointment flares, quickly followed by a flicker of annoyance. What did I expect? A grand, romantic sweep-off-your-feet entrance? Get real. I shake it off and cast another glance at the limo with new eyes as Alfred opens the door for me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, sliding into the plush interior where warmth instantly embraces me. Shrugging off my coat, I flip my hair over my shoulder before fastening my seatbelt. Alfred gets back behind the wheel, and we’re off.

The drive is a blur of city lights and winding turns. My stomach twists with anticipation. Where is he taking me? I have no idea, but Alfred seems to possess some kind of magic when it comes to navigating traffic. He weaves through the notoriously tight Manhattan streets like a pro, bypassing Hell’s Kitchen and Houston Yards before turning at the corner of 33rd Street, then 10th Avenue.

And all the while my mind is racing with possibilities about where we’re going. I chew on my lower lip. Rafael has always been unpredictable. That’s the part that scares me. I have no idea what I’m walking into.

Finally, the limo rolls to a stop in front of a massive skyscraper that dominates the skyline.

30 Hudson Yards.

No way…

My lips curve into a smile as I crane my neck to admire the building. Standing over a hundred stories high, it’s the sixth tallest building in the city and promises jaw-dropping views. Rafael and I used to talk about visiting once the development was complete. But it was only finished earlier this year, long after I’d left for Virginia.

He remembered.

Alfred opens the passenger door for me, and as I step onto the curb, a figure emerges from the shadows. My heart immediately kicks into overdrive, my breath hitching when I catch sight of those familiar, silvery eyes.

“Thank you, Alfred. I’ll take it from here.” He nods at his driver, then places a firm hand on my arm. His eyes sweep over me, like he’s already feasting on the appetizer. “You look stunning, piccola.”

A snort almost escapes me, but I manage to keep it together. “You haven’t even seen my dress yet.”

His gaze drops to my plain brown coat and a hint of a smirk plays at the corner of his lips. “You’re always beautiful, Emilia…. even when you’re just wearing one of my old threadbare shirts.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. Oh my God. He’s teasing me. I bite down on my lip, scrambling for a comeback. But before I can fire back a retort, his hand finds the small of my back and ushers me towards the entrance.

The opulence of the lobby nearly stops me in my tracks. I have to consciously keep my jaw from dropping as I take in the décor.

Holy shit.

I sneak a glance at Rafael from the corner of my eye, but he seems unruffled by the sheer luxury surrounding us. The old Rafael would have been at least a little bit impressed. This new version… who is he? He looks like he owns the damn place.

The elevator ride is an experience in itself, showcasing an animation of the city's gradual development and its current beauty. It’s lightning-fast, too, whisking us up to the 101st floor in about fifty seconds flat.

By the time we reach the actual restaurant, I’m blown away. Gorgeous circular chandeliers hang overhead, throwing a warm, inviting glow over the space, highlighting the understated but elegant gray and gold finishings and decor. It’s like stepping into a scene from one of those luxury lifestyle magazines.

My gaze drifts to the bar, where colorful Christmas lights add a bit of festive charm to all this sophistication. And then, there’s the tree—huge, lavishly decorated, commanding an entire corner of the room.

The place is breathtaking.

And also completely empty.

“Where’s everyone?” I wonder out loud as I glance around. At this time of year, a place like this should be bustling. Instead, there’s only the hostess who leads us to our table and a waiter who silently trails us with a bottle of wine in his hand.

“It’s just us. I wanted to have dinner with you. Just you. No one else. No noise. Just us.”

I cast another glance his way to try and confirm if his reaction has changed since earlier. As I watch him survey the restaurant, it’s clear he’s still not impressed. His gaze sweeps the room with a sharp, almost assessing look. Not wonder, not awe—something else. Something far more controlled.

Still, I only barely notice.

Because what the hell…

He reserved the entire restaurant?

My mind reels. How did he pull this off? Why would he? There’s no way that’s cheap. Five years ago, we had to steal to get by, and now he’s renting out fancy-ass places on a whim?

They are the Cosa Nostra now. They rule the city. And Rafael… he is their leader. Stacey’s words pop into my head, and I bite my lip in worry.

Before I can spiral further, the hostess presents our table. And oh my God… Whatever breath I have left is gone. My lips part as I take in the mind-blowing vista before us—a perfect panorama of the glittering city below. “This is—wow. The view is absolutely gorgeous,” I breathe.

Rafael shifts behind me and tugs at my coat. I glance up at him as I shrug out of it, letting him slide it off my shoulders. His eyes widen, and he inhales sharply as he takes in my dress for the first time.

Finally. There it is. That flicker of shock I’d been waiting for since we walked into this place. I fight to keep my smile discreet while savoring his reaction, but inside, I’m doing a victory dance.

After reading his note, I went on a rapid-fire shopping spree. My everyday wardrobe consists mostly of slacks and jeans—not exactly fine dining attire. So I splurged a little on this killer blue V-neck dress. And oh boy, Rafael’s reaction made it well worth every penny.

“See something you like, Rafael?” I tease, throwing his words from years ago back at him.

His gaze snaps to mine, holding me hostage for an intense moment. For a heartbeat, I stop breathing as I watch the storm of emotions swirling in his eyes. But then that all-too-familiar nagging itch starts in my brain, and I can’t help but shift my gaze to his shoulder, annoyed at myself for breaking the spell. Even now, even when I want nothing more than to lose myself in his eyes, I can’t… Why is it so hard…

His hand moves to my chin, fingers warm and assertive as he tilts my head up. I focus on the bridge of his nose but can see the little smirk playing on his lips. “As a matter of fact, amorina, I do see something I like. Very much.”

My heart roars in my chest, my throat runs dry, and my palms start sweating uncontrollably. I didn’t see that coming. When he finally lets me go, I feel an odd emptiness. But then I see he’s only pulling a chair out for me. Nervously, I lick my lips and sit down, hyper-aware of his presence as he pushes my chair closer to the table.

Rafael takes the seat across from mine, leaning back with the easy confidence of a king on his throne. The waiter hovers nearby, looking more than a little nervous as he presents the bottle of wine in his hand. Rafael nods slightly, barely acknowledging him, his eyes still glued to me. God, stop looking at me like that. I bite down on my lip, forcing my attention to the fluid motion of the wine being poured into our glasses.

Focus on the wine. Anything but those eyes.

“So, it’s been a while, huh,” I blurt out, grasping at the first words that come to mind. But he just keeps staring, studying me like I’m some unsolved puzzle. I squirm under his gaze, grabbing my glass and taking a long sip of wine. It’s delicious, rich, and full, but my nerves are so frazzled that I can’t even fully appreciate it. Damn it, why am I so rattled? It’s just Rafael. Even with my silly crush, I’d never been this nervous around him. So this shouldn’t be such a big deal.

But it is.

My heart is thumping erratically in my ears, and his eyes on me are like beams of electricity, sending tingles everywhere they touch.

“Five years.” His voice is low, almost a growl. “Where did you go? Why did you leave?”

And here we go. The million-dollar question. I frown into the wine, swirling the glass so the dark red liquid swishes around. “I um… I explained that in my letter.”

“Right. The letter.” He rolls his eyes as he picks up his own wine glass. Finally, his gaze breaks from mine, and I exhale softly, grateful for the momentary relief. “So, you went to medical school in Houston. Why come back to Manhattan for your residency?”

I glance up at him in surprise, though I really shouldn’t be. Stacey called me last night to warn me that she would release some information about my past to prevent suspicion when Rafael inevitably started digging. I just wasn’t expecting him to dig into it this quickly.

“What if I told you I missed the city?” I hesitate, feeling the words clog in my throat. “Missed…you?”

His eyes whip back to mine, and for a brief second, they flare with something—hurt, disbelief, maybe even a flicker of anger—before freezing over, turning as cold and distant as a glacier. “I invited you to dinner, Emilia. No need to lie to get on my good side.”

But I wasn’t lying. My heart sinks and a lump forms in my throat. I had missed him, missed all of them. But clearly, the Rafael sitting across from me now isn’t the same boy I left behind five years ago.

Before I can respond, the waiter returns, bearing a tray filled with food. I frown, confusion briefly overriding my hurt. We haven’t even had a chance to order yet. But, of course. Rafael must have ordered for us in advance, huh?

“I hope you still have the same tastes,” he says, studying me again with those endless eyes. “I made sure to order your favorites. You do still like the same food, don’t you? Or have you gone and changed on me, piccola?”

4

EMILIA

The restaurant is eerily quiet. The only sounds are the clink of our silverware and the waiter’s annoyingly calm voice as he presents each course of mouthwatering dishes. Not exactly the best vibe for a place this stunning. No, it’s like all this elegance is wasted on the thick tension hanging between us now.

My stomach churns, and it’s not from the rich food. Damn it, I’m such an idiot. I didn’t mean to piss Rafael off by saying I missed him, but clearly, that’s exactly what I’ve managed to do. Now what? My mind races, searching for a way to fix this mess I’ve created.

I chance furtive glances at him between bites. Should I say something? Apologize? Or will that just make things worse? He’s got that closed-off look, so I can’t read a thing on his face. It’s maddening.

I want to shake him, to make him understand that I meant what I said—I missed him. And not just him. Maximo, Michael, Romero; they were my friends too, even if it was only for that one fleeting year.

But Rafael… he was the one I missed the most. The one I couldn’t forget.

And now he won’t even look at me.

I poke at my dessert, trying to stretch out these final moments with him. My brain screams at me to say something. But what? Something light? Something serious? Or should I just blurt out an apology, after all. ‘Sorry I said I missed you.’ Yeah, right. Or maybe, ‘Let’s pretend I never said anything.’ What a classic. I can’t exactly tell him the truth, either: ‘Oh, I didn’t actually go to medical school in Houston. I was away for training in Quantico to become a special agent, not that I didn’t want to keep in touch.’ Yeah, that will go over well. I can just see the look on his face if I ever let that slip. Or that my first mission is to investigate him.

Ugh… Let’s just stay cool and try not to dig myself into an even deeper hole over dessert.

“Are you almost done with that?” Rafael’s voice breaks through the whirlwind in my head. Startled, I jerk my gaze up to see him frowning at my barely touched plate. “Do you not like it?”

“No, um,” I stammer, clearing my suddenly dry throat. “It’s delicious.” And objectively, it is—a work of art masquerading as dessert. I scoop up more of the ‘tropical egg,’ which isn’t really an egg but made of coconut, mango, and passion fruit. The flavors explode on my tongue, but I’m too distracted to really take it in.

Because the man before me leans back in his seat, his silver eyes now scrutinizing me again. Well, at least I got his attention back, I guess. Then, suddenly, he reaches into his suit jacket and takes out a small Tiffany box. My heart stops as he puts the sky-blue box on the table between us.

No. No way. This can’t be what I think it is.

He flips it open, and I inhale sharply, sending a mouthful of dessert down the wrong pipe. I cough violently, eyes watering, dropping my fork with a clatter. In a desperate move, I grab for my wineglass and gulp down the crisp liquid.

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I swear I see the ghost of a smirk, as if he’s amused by my reaction, but I’m unable to tear my gaze away from that damned box and the thing inside.

“What is this?” But I know. Oh God, I know.

It’s a ring. A freaking gorgeous ring. Rose gold, with a cushion-cut center piece of pale pink diamond. Tiny diamonds circle it, shaped remarkably like flower petals—Azaleas, just like the ones he sent me. And just above the petals, more pink gems make up a tiny tiara in a small arch.

It’s ostentatious. Too much. Way too much. Probably costs more than I’ll make in an entire year as special agent.

But I love it. Love it. Love it.

“I hope you still like pink? If you don't, we can change the ring.”

“What?” I breathe, finally managing to tear my gaze from the ring to fixate on the lock of hair toying with his brow. My fingers suddenly crave to brush it back. How would it feel?

“You’re going to marry me, Emilia,” he declares, his tone as commanding as the note he left earlier. Not a question. Just an order, a statement of fact, delivered with the confidence of a man who’s never heard the word ‘no’. Leaning forward, he places his elbows on the table. “You want to be a doctor? I won’t stifle that dream. On the contrary, I want our careers to take off together. But I want you by my side—as my Queen.”

My head shakes on instinct, heart pounding so hard in my ears it’s a miracle I can hear him at all. This isn’t really a proposal, is it? But fuck, it sure feels like one.

Before my brain can catch up, he pushes my dessert plate aside and takes my chin between his fingers. Then his calloused thumb traces slow, teasing circles over my skin, the friction sending jolts of electricity skittering all the way to my core.

“You and me against the world, Emilia,” he murmurs, leaning even closer, his warm breath fanning my cheek. “That’s the way it’s meant to be.”

My eyes flutter shut as a wave of dizziness hits me. “What are you talking about? It–it can’t work,” I whisper, even though my voice betrays how badly I want to believe otherwise.

“Why not?” His thumb traces up my chin to the corner of my lips, then drags across my lower lip. My breath catches, and my eyes fly open to find his gaze fixed on my mouth, filled with a dark, possessive hunger that sends a swarm of butterflies—no, the whole damn zoo—stampeding through my stomach.

Oh God, is he going to kiss me? Is he going to kiss me? Is he going to kiss me?

The thought ricochets around my skull until his lips on mine is all I can think about. My lips part instinctively, quivering, begging for it.

Come on. Please kiss me. Please, please kiss me.

“Why can’t it work, Emilia?” he asks again, and I blink owlishly. Huh? What’s he talking about? He must see the bewilderment in my eyes because he smiles—really smiles—for the first time tonight, and my brain officially throws in the towel.

“If you’re done with your meal, we should go.” The spell breaks as Rafael stands and comes behind me to pull my chair back. My heart drops a little. I wanted you to kiss me, damn it. But he doesn’t even seem to notice.

Then, just as I’m sinking into disappointment, his chest presses against my back, and my heart rockets up from the depths, right into my throat. He’s so close. I swear I can feel every hard plane of his body, and it’s doing things to me. Dangerous, delicious things. I bite back a gasp, my thighs clenching at the rush of heat pooling between them.

Girl, get a grip.

But that’s impossible when he's so casually setting my whole body on fire.

As if to torture me even further, he brushes the hair over my shoulders, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin on my neck, and I jolt. I can hardly control my breathing as he helps me back into my coat, and by the time we’re in the elevator, I’m panting like I’ve just finished an intense cardio session.

But that’s not the end of it. Before we even reach the ground floor, he crowds me against the elevator wall. He doesn’t touch me, but God I wish he would. My skin feels heated inside my coat, and I'm so, so aware of every inch of his body so close to mine.

“Are you okay?” he asks, but his voice is dripping with amusement.

Oh, the bastard knows.

He knows exactly how he’s messing with me, and hell if I can hide it. Not when he’s crowding me like this and smelling as mouth-watering as he does. My hand twitches up, half-expecting to find drool at the corner of my lips.

“I’m fine,” I manage to croak out, though my voice is a bit too breathless… too needy.

The elevator dings, and we spill into the lobby. Still, he doesn’t give me even a moment to collect myself. His arm snakes around my waist like an iron band as we walk out of the building. The limo idles at the curb, and Alfred is already outside opening the back door for us without a single word.

I slide in first; Rafael right behind me. What felt like a spacious interior earlier now feels almost suffocating. He’s sitting so close to me that his thighs press into mine. I fan my flushed face with my hand, but it’s useless; I’m burning up from the inside out. Shrugging off my coat, I hope for some relief, but it only seems to amplify the intense, searing heat that radiates from his presence.

“Champagne?” Rafael asks, nodding towards the well-stocked mini-bar in the corner as he raises the partition between us and Alfred. The soft whir of the mechanism seals us in our own private world.

“I’m good, thanks.” The two glasses of wine from earlier are already working their magic, warming my blood and loosening me up more than I’d like. I need to keep my head clear for… whatever this is.

He shrugs and leans in, way too close, his breath hot on my ear as he says, “Tell me, amorina, are you wet for me?”

A gasp tears from my throat, my whole body going rigid the second his hot, firm palm clamps down on my thigh. “Rafael,” I whisper, his name a shaky mix between a plea and a warning.

“It’s okay, little wife. I just want to play,” he purrs, his fingers creeping down my leg in an infuriatingly slow, teasing way until they find the hem of my dress. My breath hitches, stuck somewhere between frustration and heat. But all I do is watch helplessly as he gathers the material and pulls it up, inch by torturous inch, before his fingers start their wicked crawl back up my thigh.

“I’m—I’m not your wife.”

“Not yet. But you will be. Soon.” The certainty in his voice sends goosebumps racing over my skin, and a pathetic whimper slips out as his rough hand keeps climbing higher and higher and higher, until—I cry out, my head slamming back into the seat when he cups me over my panties.

The pressure is unbearable. Heaven and hell all at once. Exquisite, but… not enough.

“Fucking hell.” His low curse ring in my ear, and I moan shamelessly, shifting in my seat to press myself harder into his palm, craving more friction, more pressure, more everything.

But then, just like that, he pulls his hand away, leaving me aching, breathless.

Bastard.

“No,” I whine, clutching at his jacket, trying to pull him back. “Finish me.”

“We’re here,” he announces, smoothing down my dress like he wasn’t just about to detonate me. I blink, dazed, and peer out the window, struggling to focus on the world beyond our heated bubble. It takes several heartbeats to realize we’re at my condo.

No, no, no. Not now. Not when I’m so close…

A reckless idea takes root in my lust-addled brain. “Walk me up to my apartment,” I command, beyond caring how needy I sound. If he leaves me hanging again like he did this morning, I might lose it.

He chuckles as he rubs the back of his hand across my flushed cheek. “Whatever my little queen wishes, she gets.”

His eyes scan me, confirming no part of me is exposed, then he opens the partition and instructs Alfred not to wait for him. With that, he opens the back door, and I stumble out after him, feeling like I’m stepping off a roller coaster.

“Whoa, you good?” he asks, grabbing my arms to steady me.

Hell no, I’m not good. I’m a mess of quivering limbs and burning desire.

“Yes,” I mumble, failing miserably to keep the shakiness from my voice.

He gives me a moment to find my balance before guiding me into the building. As soon as we’re in the elevator, I’m on him. My hands fist in his shirt, my body seeking his heat, and he chuckles again, bringing his hand to my waist, “Easy, amorina.”

Frustration boils over, and I groan, dropping my face into his chest. His free hand slides into my hair and massages my scalp in soothing circles, but the tender gesture only makes me crave him more.

“Stop. Teasing. Me.”

“Teasing?” he echoes, amusement coloring his tone.

An eternity passes before the elevator finally opens on my floor, and I practically drag him out and down the hallway, consumed by a singular thought: I need him now. Now. Now. Now. My hands shake as I fumble through my purse, cursing under my breath until I finally fish out my keys and manage to unlock the door.

As I lock the door behind us, Rafael surveys the living room like a hawk on the hunt, then he quickly goes into the kitchen, and finally the bedroom. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was on a mission to sniff out potential danger, not that I care—I’m too busy trying not to explode.

I kick off my heels, padding after him on unsteady legs. The skin of my inner thighs rubs together with each step, adding to my pleasure. At this point, if he even just looks at me the right way, I might come. I’m that close to the edge.

In my bedroom, he methodically checks the closet and ensuite before turning to face me with a predatory grin stretching across his face.

“Now I’ve got you all to myself.” He stalks towards me, and as his hands sink into my hair, I moan, tilting my head back in eager anticipation of his kiss.

He doesn’t disappoint.

His lips crash against mine, and my world explodes. Electric heat surges through my body, a wildfire ready to reduce me to ash. The heady scent of his cologne wraps around my skin, clouding my senses until all I know is Rafael.

“Rafael,” I moan softly, my arms twining around his neck as I return his kiss with all my pent-up frustration. “Is this a dream?”

A low growl leaves his throat, and he breaks the kiss. “There are no dreams anymore, amorina. Only nightmares. But don’t worry, I’ll protect you. I’ll make sure you enjoy the darkness. Understand?”

“What-what are you talking about?”

“This.”

In a flash, he grabs my arms off his neck and spins me around, walking us forward until my chest is pressed tightly against the wall. “No. Touching,” he rasps, nipping at the shell of my ear.

I push back into him, relishing the groan that escapes his lips as my ass presses against his erection. His head drops to my neck, his tongue tracing a hot path before he sucks the sensitive flesh into his mouth. The suction goes straight to my core, and I moan wantonly, arching my neck to grant him better access.

He adjusts his grip, capturing both my wrists in one large hand, while his free hand snakes around my body, cupping my tit and kneading the flesh until I’m writhing against him desperately, my fists opening and closing involuntarily under his hold.

Then slowly, his hand descends until he’s cupping my pussy again. Stars explode behind my eyelids the instant he starts grinding the heel of his palm against my clit.

“Rafael.” His name falls from my lips again in a breathy groan as I feel my entire being set ablaze with every movement of his hand.

“You’re drenched for me, amorina. So fucking wet, you’re soaking my hand through your panties.” His words take a while to compute, and when I realize he’s speaking Italian, a fresh wave of arousal slams into me. Fuck, that’s so hot.

His touch abandons my core and returns to my wrists. With a firm grip, he lifts both my hands up and places them on the wall on either side of my head. “Keep them there. If they move away from that wall, I’m stopping.”

My fingers curl against the threat.

“You better not fucking stop,” I pant.

His hands move swiftly, unzipping my dress and unhooking my bra like he’s done it a thousand times. He’s forced to briefly lift my hands off the wall so I can shrug off the dress, and I can’t resist teasing him. “You promised to stop if I moved, remember?”

Without warning, his palm comes down on my ass. The sharp sting blooms into a delicious warmth that spreads over my burning skin, leaving me grinning as he guides my hands back in place, my cheek pressed against the cool surface.

“Happy?” he grunts.

“Not yet.”

“Don’t test me, amorina. You won’t like the results.”

“Says who?”

He taps my inner thighs, and I lift my legs obligingly, allowing him to pull the dress away. Once it’s gone, his palm glides up from my ankle to my ass, followed by feather-light kisses that leave tingles in their wake. When he reaches my raw cheek, he nuzzles against it, then bites into the tender flesh—hard.

“Says me.”

I yelp at the jolt of pain, but he’s quick to soothe it with his tongue by laving the spot until the sharp burn morphs into a pleasure so intense it makes my toes curl.

“Fuck.”

Fuck is right.

Still buzzing from the aftershocks, I barely notice when his fingers dip under my panties and slide them down. My legs lift on autopilot, one after the other, eager to be freed from the damp silk. Glancing back, I catch him just in time, raising the soaked material to his nose, inhaling deeply. My head spins as he rumbles out a pleased groan.

“Intoxicating,” he murmurs, pocketing my underwear like a trophy he just won.

I gulp audibly as he rises, excitement bubbling up in sync with his hands dragging up my skin until he’s right where I need him the most. When he parts my folds, a soft gasp escapes me, immediately followed by heat flooding my cheeks at the obscene squelching sounds that fill the air. I’m so wet, it’s practically dripping down my leg—how the hell did I get this turned on?

His thumb rolls over my swollen clit, and I groan, goosebumps erupting all over my body again. The rustle of clothes behind me catches my attention, and I peek back to see him unbuckling his belt and shoving down his pants. A delicious thrill runs down my spine.

“Are you on birth control?” he asks.

Before I can answer, his cock springs free, and my mouth instantly floods with saliva. Holy mother of all that’s unholy. My eyes widen, drinking in the sight of his impressive manhood—thick, sinewy, and pulsating with raw animalistic desire.

“Are you on birth control, Emilia?” he repeats, more insistent this time. There’s an edge to his voice now, a barely contained urgency that makes my insides clench with anticipation.

But still, it takes me a few more moments to process the question, my brain foggy with lust and spinning like a hamster on a wildly out-of-control wheel. “Yes,” I manage to say. “I’m on the shot.”

“Good.” He grunts approvingly and pats my inner thigh. My legs part for him instinctively, and he steps closer, notching the broad crown of his cock against my entrance. He glances down at me, and at the same moment, I glance up. Our eyes meet.

Then something magical happens.

For the first time in my life, I’m unable to look away from someone’s gaze. It’s like staring into the heart of a storm—dangerous, thrilling, and utterly mesmerizing. My brain tingles, a familiar pressure building behind my eyes. But this time, the pain doesn’t come. Instead, he thrusts into me, and my jaw goes slack as indescribable pleasure surges through my veins.

But even as my body is consumed by sensation, I can’t look away from his eyes. I don’t want to.

I’m seeing someone—truly seeing them—and being seen in return.

I stare at him in wonder, mouth agape, toes curling as he pushes fully into me. “Your eyes are turning dark blue,” I whisper, marveling at the play of emotions in his stare. He wants me. He really wants me. His cock is hard as hell inside of me, but his eyes… they hold a depth that goes beyond lust. There’s hunger there, for sure, but also something softer, something that makes my heart ache.

Without conscious thought, my hands leave the wall, drawn to his face like a moth to flame. I place my palm on his cheek, and his cock twitches inside me as his jaw tightens, his eyes going heavy-lidded. Huh. Well, that’s interesting.

Fascinated, I start exploring his face—the firm curve of his lips, the crooked tip of his nose, his thick brows, and finally, finally, my fingers sink into his hair.

Oh. Oh wow.

“So soft,” I whisper, threading through the silky strands and over his scalp. His eyes snap shut, and a sound almost like a purr rumbles through his chest. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a ravenous, savage hunger in them, but somehow, it doesn’t overshadow the affection I still see simmering beneath.

My heart flutters.

This is dangerous, a small voice in the back of my mind warns. You’re getting in too deep.

But my curiosity flares, and I lean in, ready to bury my nose in his hair and breathe him in.

“Hold the fucking wall, Emilia.”

I jolt at the command, dislodging his cock inside me. With a growl, he captures my wandering hands and press them firmly back against the wall, linking his fingers over mine as he thrusts into me again. I cry out, my head smacking against the wall and breaking the fierce connection between our eyes. But I don’t feel the pain.

All I feel is him.

I hold onto the wall for dear life, pressing my cheek against it as he pounds into me relentlessly. Each thrust sends shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through my entire being, building and building like a tsunami about to break. He hunches over my back, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses over my cheek and down my neck.

Then suddenly he adjusts his stance and pushes up at an angle that has his cock dragging over my g-spot just right, and oh god, oh god, oh god⁠—

My vision whites out. Bright lights burst behind my lids, and I’m lost to the scorching pleasure ravaging my body, leaving nothing but raw, all-consuming sensation in its wake. His name rips from my mouth as my orgasm crashes over me in endless waves.

And he isn’t far behind. With a guttural growl, he curses in rapid Italian I can barely decipher as he joins me, filling me up with his hot cum.

“Dio mio, sei incredible. Mi fai impazzire,” I catch through the haze. My God, you’re incredible. You drive me crazy.

I shudder around him as he collapses against me, pressing me even harder into the wall, our fingers still tightly interlaced.

For what feels like an eternity, I can’t hear or see a damn thing. My heart is beating so fast and hard, I swear it’s trying to leap out of my throat. Each breath is a desperate gasp, my chest heaving as I cling to the remnants of pleasure.

Then, like a cruel slap to reality, a phone starts shrilling through the air. My body goes rigid when I recognize the tune.

It’s my ringtone for Stacey.

Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Rafael pushes away from me, releasing my hand and pulling out with one last, tender kiss to my cheek. I remain sagged against the wall, legs trembling, while he tugs his pants back up. My mind spins and panic squeezes my chest. Still, some part of me can’t help but note—he didn’t even strip fully. Just his cock. And honestly, that was enough. More than enough.

“You good?” he asks, his hand running down my spine as he glances at me in concern. The touch should be comforting, but all it does is amplify the whirlwind of emotions inside me. My mouth is cottony, and my throat feels tight, so I just nod. “Do you need me to get that for you?” He gestures towards my purse on the floor, where my phone continues its insistent chorus.

Oh hell no. My eyes widen in pure horror, and I push away from the wall. “No!” The word bursts out of me. I move too quickly, and my knees give out instantly. But before I can crumple into a pathetic puddle on the floor, Rafael’s strong hands are there—steady, firm, saving me from myself. Again.

“Careful,” he scolds, his face pulled in a tight scowl. “I won’t get your phone if you don’t want me to. I need to leave anyway.”

But I barely hear him. My attention is now wholly focused on my ringing phone, so all I manage is another absent nod.

“Think about my offer, okay?” His voice drops softer as he brushes a hand down my cheek before releasing me. When he’s sure I can stand on my own, he takes a step back, and with a last lingering look, he leaves the room.

Don’t go, I want to cry out. But I bite my tongue. This is for the best. This is what needs to happen.

I have a job to do. I can’t let my feelings—or libido—get in the way.

Seconds later, the front door slams shut—right as my phone goes silent.

But relief doesn’t last. It just starts ringing again. “Oh, for crying out loud,” I groan, snatching my purse from the floor and fishing out the damn thing. I clear my throat several times, desperately trying to compose myself before finally answering.

“Hello?”

“I was worried something might have happened to you,” Stacey’s voice, laced with concern, hits me hard. And there it is—shame. Red-hot and burning through me like acid, eating away at the afterglow of the most intense sexual experience of my life. What the hell did I just do?

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” I repeat, as much for myself as for her. “I couldn’t answer because he was with me. But he just left.”

“How was dinner?”

I bite my lip, torn between duty and the desire to keep this night for myself. But I can’t keep it. This is my mission, after all. Bile creeps up my throat as I recount the mundane details of our dinner conversation and Rafael’s proposal. But there’s no way I’m mentioning what just happened at my apartment. That’s too personal, too raw. The memory belongs to me and me alone.

“Very good,” Stacey approves. “Things are going even better than I expected. You’re definitely going to accept his offer, Emily. It will help put you closer to him.”

I make a noncommittal sound, and she praises me for a job well done, expressing her eagerness to hear more from me. By the time she finishes talking, my nausea has piled up to the back of my throat, and I have to breathe through my mouth.

The moment the call ends, I bolt for my ensuite, where my fancy dinner makes a violent reappearance. But it’s not the act of betraying Rafael that leaves me retching—but because I have to do it again. And again. And again, until I’ve succeeded.

Because it’s my job.

Because I need to prove his innocence.

Because I’m already desperate to see him again.

5

RAFAEL

“Now that the first phase of our takeover is complete, we need to clamp down on our boroughs. No cracks, no loose ends. Anyone who even thinks about challenging us needs to piss their pants at the mere thought.” My voice rings out in the conference room.

I scan the faces of my brothers, my eyes lingering on each one. Maximo nods, his dark eyes focused on me from across the table. Next to him, Michael’s fingers fly over his laptop keyboard, his brow furrowed in concentration. The constant click-clack grates on my nerves.

For fuck’s sake, is he even listening?

“Michael,” I growl “You with us, or should I send a search party into that tech-addled brain of yours?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, waving a hand dismissively without tearing his blue eyes from the screen. “Sorry, bro, this is a make-or-break moment for HartSphere. Our first app is about to go live, and I need to squash as many bugs as possible before launch.”

I feel a vein throb in my temple. “Oh, of course. By all means, let’s put this meeting on hold while you play tech wizard. I’m sure our enemies will be as patient. Heaven forbid all the hard work you spent developing this groundbreaking gaming app goes to waste.”

I expect my sarcasm to fly right over his head—he’s usually oblivious when he’s working—but his fingers freeze mid-keystroke, and he looks up, frowning at me.

“You’re either fully in, or you’re out, Michael,” I remind him. “There’s no straddling the fence in our world.”

“And I am fully in, Rafael.” He gives his laptop one last longing look before closing it with a sigh that sounds like it’s torn from his very soul.

“Thank you,” I nod at him, knowing full well the herculean effort it took for him to disconnect. HartSphere is his baby. He just started the company, and he’s determined to make everything go right. It’s a single-minded drive I understand all too well.

“Right, just make it snappy,” Michael grumbles, sliding his gaze to his phone, which lights up on the desk. Don’t you dare. But he surprises me again and doesn’t reach for it.

“Fantastic. Now that we’re all—” The words die in my throat as the door flies open with a bang. I’m on my feet in an instant, ready to tear into whoever dared interrupt us, but my anger fizzles out when I see who it is. A grin splits my face as I wave away my anxious-looking secretary hovering behind our unexpected guest. “Fratello! You decided to grace us with your presence after all.”

Romero’s piercing green eyes land on me briefly before moving to our other brothers. “I see the gang’s all here. Quite the mess you’ve made of the city, boys.”

Maximo chuckles, “What’s wrong, Romero? Pissed you missed out on all the fun?”

I sink back into my chair as Romero strides further into the conference room and claims the seat next to Michael. “Is your offer still on the table, Raf?” he asks.

“Always,” I reply without hesitation, leaning forward.

Two months ago, I seized control of our old town—Piccola Italia, aka Little Italy. High on victory and craving even more, I reached out to my brothers and invited them to join me at the high table. After all, what fun is there in owning a city this big if I can’t share the power with the people I trust most in this godforsaken world?

I thought they’d jump at the chance. Both Maximo and Michael did, but Romero… he wasn’t as eager. Fresh off starting his shiny career as a hotshot criminal lawyer, he couldn’t quite stomach the idea of joining the other side. Until now, it seems.

What changed, fratello?

“Good.” He opens his briefcase, pulls out a thick manilla folder, then slides it across the table to me. “I want in, but on one condition.”

“Name it,” I say, my finger drumming a restless beat on the folder. I’m curious to see what’s inside, but I’m even more curious about his condition. What could possibly make Mr. Straight-and-Narrow abandon his precious ethics?

“I need your help—all of you—to bring a sick criminal to justice.”

I don’t point out the irony of asking us for help, but Maximo does. Of course he does. “Some would consider us the sick criminals.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Speak for yourself, stronzo. I might dabble in a few criminal activities, but that doesn’t make me sick.”

Maximo straightens, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he zeroes in on Michael. Before he can start something, I rap my knuckles on the table. “Let Romero speak.”

“You guys are different from this psycho,” Romero says, his voice tight with disgust. “You have codes you stick to, honor. But he doesn’t. No code, no honor, no limits. He’s going after kids, Raf. Le ragazze.”

The temperature in the room plummets. If there’s one thing that unites us, it’s our hatred for cowards who prey on women and children.

“Little girls?” Michael’s face darkens. “That twisted fuck. Spill it. Every detail.”

“Over the past two months, more than a dozen girls have disappeared from the city,” Romero explains. “And each time a new one is taken, the previously missing victim turns up… minus a few body parts. Open the folder.”

Michael and Maximo crowd behind, peering over my shoulders as I flip it open. Ice floods my veins at the first image. Behind me, Maximo lets loose a string of curses.

A small, broken body lies discarded by a river bank, mutilated beyond recognition. Her stomach has been cut open, showing that her intestines, heart, and other inner organs are gone, leaving nothing but a gaping hole. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Every single girl ends up like this,” Romero continues, his voice hollow. I look up at him as I close the folder. I don’t need to see more. I’ll be seeing that image in my nightmares for weeks. “I suspect someone’s making a tidy little profit selling their parts on the dark web. But the bastard is slippery, always one step ahead of the law. If playing by the rules won’t nail him, I’m prepared to throw the damn rulebook out the window.”

Michael stalks back to his seat and flips open his laptop with renewed purpose. His fingers fly across the keys with a ferocious look on his face. “If this piece of shit’s selling their parts on any part of the web, I’ll find him. And when I do…”

“We’ll make him wish he was never born,” Maximo finishes, dropping heavily into the seat next to Michael.

I turn back to Romero, studying him carefully. “Are you saying once we bag this bastard, you’ll bail on us again?” I ask, and Michael stops typing to glance at him.

Romero holds my gaze. “No. I want the power and authority that comes with the underworld. There are too many loopholes in the system, too many rules in the law that only aid and coddle monsters. I’m going to put an end to their reign of terror, one way or another.”

I grin at him. Everything’s finally clicking into place. I have my city, my brothers, and my woman. Emilia. Just thinking her name sends a jolt of electricity through me. My grin widens as memories of last night flash through my mind.

I need to get her to accept my proposal and move into my apartment where I can keep her safe. Because once words get out about her, she’ll be in danger. I’ve pissed off a lot of people during my rise to power, and they’ll jump at any chance to hurt me. I’ll be damned if I let anyone use Emilia to get to me.

As if he can hear what’s going on in my head, Michael’s gaze shifts to me. “You know one thing I’m great at, Rafael? Multitasking. Want me to look for Em while I hunt our sicko?”

Romero and Maximo perk up, suddenly laser-focused on me. My heart swells seeing how much they care about Emilia. To them, she’s more than just my girl— she’s a sorellina, the little sister they never had.

So it’s with a light heart that I announce, “No need for that, Michael. I’ve already got her. And soon, she’ll be by my side, ruling this city as my Queen.”

6

EMILIA

Dark voices overlap in hushed, rapid Italian. I’m too busy trying to force air through my nose to decipher their words, but their malevolent intent is crystal clear. My heart’s a wild animal, thrashing against my ribcage as I claw desperately towards a freedom I know is just a cruel mirage. I’m trapped, and in too much pain to run.

Help me!

The plea echoes deafeningly in my skull, but what comes out is only a weak, pitiful whimper. Behind me, someone chuckles, and I whimper again, digging my nails into the cold, unyielding floor, desperate for any semblance of grip.

Another chuckle, closer this time.

No. No. Please, no.

Then an icy, meaty hand clamps around my ankle. I shriek and⁠—

I jolt upright with a scream tearing from my throat.

My face is on fire, my heart pounding viciously, and my body won’t stop shaking. Drenched in sweat, I sit in bed, gasping for breath.

It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare.

It wasn’t real.

No. It was real. Once.

Six years ago, that nightmare was my reality.

And still, it refuses to let me go.

Hugging my knees to my chest, I start rocking side to side, my eyes flying around the room as I try to ground myself in the present.

Christmas lights. Fireplace. Green curtains. My purse on the dresser. The vanity. The closet. Sneakers by the door. The wall mirror.

I breathe. In, out.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, my breath evens out, and the shaking eases as I catalog the things I can see.

I’m not back there anymore. I’m in my room. Safe.

This nightmarish ritual has tormented me every single night since It happened. And it got so bad that that Stacey insisted I see a shrink—Lana. Sweet, well-meaning, utterly clueless Lana. As if talk therapy and pills could exorcise these demons. But she did give me one useful tool. This grounding technique. Because sometimes, in those first disorienting moments of waking up, it’s damn near impossible to convince myself that I’m not still there. To remind myself that Rafael showed up when he did, pissed as hell, ready to tear the place apart when he saw what was going on. That he cared enough to save me when everyone else was just getting their sick kicks.

And I owe him for that.

I blow out a long, shaky breath as my skin finally begins to cool and my heart rate normalizes. Shit, I slept so well last night, wrapped in the afterglow of what happened between Rafael and me, despite my self-loathing, that falling right back into my nightmare makes me a little bitter. One night of peace, then bam—straight back to the horror show.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and the sudden noise makes me jump. Jesus Christ.

Frowning, I scoot to the side and pick it up. My eyes narrow at the screen. 6 AM, and a message from an unknown number. What the hell? This isn’t my secured line for contacting Stacey, but I haven’t given this number out to anyone. So who could be texting me at this ungodly hour?

Curiosity piqued, I unlock the phone to read the message.

Unknown

Meet me at the address below. 8PM. Don’t be late, amorina, or else…

An address follows the cryptic line, and despite the ominous “or else,” I’m already smiling, warmth spreading through me like sunshine after a storm. It’s Rafael. I quickly save his number and text him back.

I don’t remember giving you my number. Stalker much?

My smile fades as realization hits me. If anyone’s the stalker here, it’s me. Sure, I didn’t have to track him down or anything, but my entire mission is to monitor his every move. My heart squeezes when I remember my call with Stacey.

It’s only been a few days, but she’s getting impatient with my lack of intel. Another girl was taken last night. I pointed out that Rafael was with me, so there’s no way it could have been him. Her response? Look up the term ‘accomplices’, sweetheart.

My phone vibrates with another message.

Rafael

Is it stalking if I’m simply taking what’s mine? Don’t be late tonight Emilia.

My heart does a little stutter-step as I remember his proposal. “He’s lost his damn mind,” I murmur to myself. Who proposes after just two days of reconnecting? I’m no longer the Emilia he once knew.

I bite my lip slightly at that bitter truth and scroll up our chat to study the address he sent. My blood turns to ice, lips parting as recognition slams into me. No. No fucking way. It’s that place. The place of my nightmares. Why would he want to meet me there? What sick game is he playing?

I blink hard, sure I’ve misread. But no, the same cursed address is staring back at me.

What is he thinking? What’s he thinking?

There’s absolutely no way in hell I’m setting foot in that place again.

No chance.

Not for anyone—not even Rafael.

My fingers dig into the steering wheel, knuckles white as I peer at the dark road ahead of me with trepidation. No streetlights. Not since two blocks back. Yep. Even they were too scared to venture further…

“This is insane,” I mutter.

When I went to the car rental service to rent this Corolla, I told myself it was just more practical having my own wheels while I’m in the city. No point wasting money on taxis, right? But it was a lie.

Deep down, I knew. Knew exactly where this Corolla would end up taking me.

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to turn tail and flee. Eyes fixed on the stretch of pitch-black road, pierced only by my headlights, my mind goes into a frenzy. Seriously, what am I doing here?

I swore I’d never come back to this godforsaken place. We all did, six years ago when it happened, didn’t we? I’m terrified, of not just what I’ll find, but of how I’ll react. Of the memories that threaten to drown me.

What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?

Lana, in all her infinite wisdom, had once suggested revisiting the scene might be ‘cathartic’, and I’d nearly thrown my coffee in her face. So, why the hell am I heading there right now?

Because Rafael asked you to. No, commanded.

Because even though he might be a criminal now, even though he might now be one of the monsters that nearly destroyed me years ago, some stupid, naïve part of me still trusts him. I trust him.

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,” I chant, pressing down on the gas. Then some kind of weird miracle happens. As I round the corner onto that fateful street, the lights suddenly flicker to life, almost blinding me. I squint until my eyes adjust to the new flood of light, and damn it, at least now I can see where the hell I’m going beyond my windscreen. Doesn’t make me feel much better, though.

I’m almost there. Almost. Just a few more seconds, and I’ll let Rafael have it, give him a piece of my mind and⁠—

“What the actual fuck?”

My jaw drops as I drive up to my destination. Did I take a wrong turn? I glance around the street in confusion, but no, I’m at the right place. Even if I hadn’t been reliving this hellscape in my dreams the past few years, I’d remember it. That’s the curse and blessing of having a brain that’s wired like mine—I rarely forget anything.

But what is this?

Where there should be a crumbling warehouse, a hub of nightmares and criminal activity, there’s a… supermarket? A massive, gleaming supermarket. Huh? But when my gaze locks onto the name blazoned across the front, my heart does a complicated little dance, and I know it was all Rafael’s doing.

AZALEA’S.

My middle name. He built a goddamn supermarket with my name on it. Right where my world shattered into a million pieces. I pinch myself, hard, because this has to be some kind of twisted dream. But nope, I’m awake.

And I’m out. I’m not doing this. I can’t do this. I’m about to throw the car into reverse, sanity finally kicking in, when my phone chimes.

Rafael: Three minutes to eight. The door is unlocked, piccola. I’m waiting.

In that very instant, I understand just how worried I should be about the hold Rafael has on me. Because despite my reservations, my better judgment, and okay, fear, I’m parking and out of the car.

I need answers.

My brain starts buzzing with agitation as I approach the supermarket, but I try to drown out the panic by admiring the strong, modern structure. Maybe it’s not so bad, a small voice whispers, to have something named after you. A middle finger to the demons of the past.

I pause in front of the thick, double glass doors, taking a bracing breath before pushing them open.

Inside, darkness greets me, broken only by the faint glow of street lights filtering through the windows. A shiver of unease snakes down my spine. I stand stock-still, forcing air into my lungs as I squint at the signs hovering above the shelves. Each aisle is meticulously labeled, but it’s the mistletoe dangling from the ceiling that makes me frown.

On my right, the checkout registers sit in eerie silence, and next to them an enormous Christmas tree looms ominously in the empty space. It should feel festive, but in the deserted supermarket, it just feels… wrong. My skin prickles. Through the dim lighting, I can make out bright, cheerful cherry walls, and beneath my feet the once grime-covered concrete floor is now gleaming tile, polished to a shine that reflects the faint light.

It’s all wrong. Nothing at all like the gloomy warehouse that once served as a criminal hotbed. Now, it’s been cleaned, dressed up in a false mask of normalcy. But I can feel it. Underneath the fresh paint and shiny surfaces, the memories are still here… buried but not forgotten.

A dark chill settles at the base of my spine as I walk deeper inside, eyes darting around with every sense on high alert. Suddenly, a huge, monstrous shadow appears in front of me, and my heart jumps to my throat. Fear skitters through my body like phantom nails racking down my skin as the monster approaches me.

I don’t think—there’s no time. Training kicks in, overriding terror. My hand flies to my holster as I plant my feet, refusing to give ground. In one fluid motion, I pull out my gun, flick off the safety, and aim directly at the monster’s heart.

“Stop right there!” I command, proud that my voice comes out strong.

But the shadow keeps advancing until the tip of my gun is pressed against solid flesh. Then… it chuckles.

“Very brave, amorina.”

Rafael.

A dizzying wave of relief hits me, and I sway a little as I take a step back from him, lowering my weapon and flipping the safety back on. “You’re sick,” I hiss, willing my heart to crawl out of my throat and back into my chest where it belongs.

What the hell is wrong with him? Luring me here, to the source of my deepest traumas, only to try and scare the living crap out of me? And what the hell is wrong with me that now, with the fear receding, a familiar heat begins to simmer low in my belly?

“We’ll talk about how quickly and efficiently you pulled that gun out later,” he comments, sending alarm bells off in my brain. Shit. Shit. Shit. The Emilia he used to know didn’t even know how to hold a gun. I just slipped up. Big time.

Before I can spiral into all-out panic about potentially blowing my cover, he continues. “But right now, we have more important things to discuss. Have you thought about my offer?”

I roll my eyes, trying to mask my relief as I re-holster my gun. “Is that why you dragged me back to this cursed place?”

“It’s not cursed anymore. I cleared up the ashes of your nightmare and made it into something new—a place where people can find happiness.”

My heart stutters, swelling in my chest as I watch him in the half-light. I already knew he did it for me, but hearing him confirm it… “Why would you do that?”

“Because I couldn’t stand to have the ground remain the same after what happened. That’s not why we’re here, though. I want to add to my offer. I know you still have nightmares about that night. I want to make them stop. What if I told you I could do that for you?”

I stare at him, caught between disbelief and a desperate, aching hope. “Unless you’re planning to slice my head open and reorganize my brain, I don’t see how, Rafael.” God knows I’ve tried everything else. Before Stacey settled on Lana, she’d paraded me in front of every top-tier shrink in the city. None of them could exorcise my demons.

His lips twitch, but he says nothing. So I cross my arms, impatience building, and with a bite of sarcasm, I push, “Well? How?”

No reply—Just his gaze traveling up and a sly smile stretching wider. My nerves instantly start buzzing.

What now?

He gestures above me, silent as ever, and I tilt my head back with a frown. I’m standing directly beneath one of the aisle signs. It reads: ‘A1:A2--cold beer, soft drinks, sports drinks, bottled water.’

But that’s not what he’s pointing at.

Oh.

Oh God.

7

EMILIA

He’s pointing at the mistletoe dangling just below the sign, and my frown deepens. When I glance back at him, I’m startled by how close he suddenly is. “What—what does the mistletoe have to do with anything?”

Rather than answering, Rafael just closes the impossibly small gap between us, sending my heart back into a wild, frantic rhythm. His fingers sink into my hair, tilting my head back, and in that moment, time seems to slow as his head descends, then⁠—

Bam! His lips slam into mine with a possessive force that steals every bit of air from my lungs. The kiss is fierce, like he’s claiming me. His tongue battles mine for dominance, and I can’t help but surrender as his arms lock me tight against his rock-hard chest.

Oh. My. God.

A strangled moan escapes my throat, only to get swallowed by his ravenous mouth. My body ignites, every nerve firing with pleasure.. I should push him away, demand answers—but I’m gone, melting into him, my bones liquefying as I become nothing but heat and want, completely at his mercy.

Rafael groans, his grip tightening in my hair as the kiss turns harder, more feverish. His other hand slides down my back, grabbing a fistful of my ass through my slacks, and I mentally curse. I should’ve worn a dress.

His lips break from mine and start branding a fiery line over my face, teeth nipping as he journeys down my neck. I gasp when he pulls the sensitive skin of my throat into his mouth and bites. Hard. Enough to blur the line between pain and pleasure

Fuck. My pulse roars in my ear, each thump echoing the pain-pleasure sensations that ricochet through me. I lose all sense of control, and my arms shoot around his back, desperate for more contact. But he goes rigid, pinning my arms at my sides, and I groan in frustration that he keeps denying me the chance to touch him. “Rafael, please.”

His eyes snap to mine, those silvery depths swirling with dark, primal emotion, drawing me in like a magnet. My breath hitches as he slowly falls to his knees, never breaking the magnetic pull. “Keep your eyes on mine,” he commands. But really, I’m so entranced, I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.

My brain skitters, still high on a mix of drugging pleasure and lingering pain, while he undoes the buttons of my pants and lets them pool around my ankles. The cool air rushes in, teasing my skin and making me gasp as he drags my panties down, too. Then, his hands clench my ass and pull me to him until I’m practically hovering over him.

Oh sweet baby Jesus, is he really going to⁠—

My hands dive into his hair, clutching him for balance as he settles between my thighs. “Rafael, I–”

“Shh,” he murmurs, blowing a hot breath through my folds. That one breath sends a thrill of electricity zipping through my body, and I can’t hold back a moan. My eyes flutter shut in pure bliss. “Open your eyes.”

And I obey, though it takes effort. He hums in approval, then presses his face to my cunt, breathing me in like I’m the sweetest flower. Holy shit. The first swipe of his tongue has me whimpering, my fingers clenching in his hair for dear life.

Another hum rumbles from his chest. “Hmm, delicious.”

The flat of his tongue glides through my folds, sending shudders through my body. Just when I think I can’t take anymore, he swirls over my swollen clit, making me cry out. But he doesn’t linger. No, the playful devil’s already moving on, circling my entrance, teasing me wickedly.

I tense in anticipation, and then—oh fuck—he stiffens his tongue and pushes it into me. My eyes slam shut, my head falls back, and I shout his name to the fucking ceiling.

He growls in response, a primal sound that vibrates through my core and sparks a wild firestorm of need in my veins. Holy hell, this man knows how to set me off. Fuck being quiet. My brain short-circuits as he tightens his hold on my ass and devours me, his tongue plunging deep inside my pulsing cunt.

In and out, he thrusts, over and over, a relentless rhythm that drives me closer to the edge. “Yes, Rafael. Right there, baby. Yes. Yes. Yess,” I pant, chasing my pleasure like a woman possessed.

He angles his head, one hand leaving my hip, then his lips are on my clit. Oh hell, yes. He sucks me into his mouth like an expert; like he knows exactly how to ruin me. And my God, he does. Suddenly, two fingers join the assault, plunging deep into my wet sheath. And my whole body goes haywire—ecstasy flooding every nerve, hot and electric. The pad of his fingers curls right around the bundle of nerves that’s my G-spot, stroking it mercilessly.

Then it hits. My fingers tangle deeper in his hair, and my mouth opens in a silent scream before his name bursts out, loud and ragged. “Rafael!” My vision blurs to white, and all I can hear is a drum in my ears. Holy shit, I’m going to break. Pleasure detonates within me, each burst harder than the last. My knees buckle, and light flashes behind my closed lids.

Before I can crumble, he grabs me, grunting as I sprawl over his body, pushing him to the floor. His arms tighten on my waist for a moment, his hard cock pressing into my belly. But then, with this controlled strength, he flips me gently onto my back. The cool tile against my heated skin only heightens my pleasure as he crawls down to settle between my thighs again.

One hand snakes up my belly to knead my breast, twirling and twisting my nipple as he sucks my clit. I writhe beneath him, my back arching sharply off the floor as I moan. He tightens his suction on my clit and thrusts his fingers inside me again, rubbing insistently on my G-spot, and it feels so good I can barely breathe. Each stroke sends aftershocks through me, my body still quaking.

I shove my hands into my hair, screaming his name, my soul bursting out of my body, soaring to dizzying heights as the pleasure slams into me a second time. I can’t even—it’s too much, too intense, but I don’t want him to stop. He’s still there, massaging my breast, fingers deep inside me as he laps up my cum, stretching out my orgasm until I’m shaking, completely spent. By the time I open my eyes, I’m floating, the room spinning pleasantly around me, my pulse a hard thrum in my throat.

Rafael takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and carefully cleans me up. It almost makes me laugh. How is he so calm right now? When he’s done, he pulls my panties and slacks up my legs while I’m still trying to remember how to move.

“So, as I was saying before I got… distracted,” he starts as he picks me up like a ragdoll and pulls me into him.

I give him a questioning look, having no idea what the hell he’s talking about.

“My idea to help you with your nightmares,” he elaborates, and I can only blink at him some more. He chuckles. “Did I put you in a coma?”

“As if,” I murmur hoarsely, shoving his chest weakly, earning another chuckle.

He smirks, his eyes glistening playfully as he glances down at me. “Do you want to hear my idea or not?”

I wave at him to go ahead, and he continues, “I want to reenact that night with you. You know me, you trust me, and you give me your consent. But we’ll pretend none of those things are true.”

I study him thoughtfully, trying to process his words, but the only thing registering in my post-orgasmic haze is that he wants to have sex with me.

Maybe if I hadn’t just come so hard my brain fizzled out, I might be reacting differently. But right now, my brain is mush, and all I know is that anything sexual with him will be mind-blowing, even if he’s suggesting… what exactly? Consensual non–consensual intercourse?

And damn him, I do trust him. More than I have any right to.

“Why would you want to do that?” I ask quietly, a small part of me still lucid enough to question him.

He shrugs, absentmindedly rubbing his hand over his chest. My eyes zero in, heat blooming inside me when I realize he’s unconsciously touching that particular spot. It’s where the scar is. The scar he got when he saved me. But there’s something else…

“Because I can’t stand seeing you in pain, tormented by nightmares from that night. I’ve already dealt with those bastards, but I can’t punish them for still invading your sleep. So, I’m willing to try anything I can to help you move past it. Plus, it will be hot as hell.” He flashes a roguish grin as he adds that last part, and I can’t help but smile a little. Rafael has always had that effect on me.

“Alright,” I say, my gaze still fixed on the hand rubbing over his chest. That singular action, more than his words, convinces me.

I might not know much about his life now, but I know this: Rafael will never hurt me. I know that as surely as I know how to breathe. And as I agree, heat spreads through my body, concentrating between my legs—as if I didn’t just almost faint from how hard he already made me cum.

His lips quirk up, “Yeah?”

I nod wordlessly. I’m not entirely sure his plan will work, but the more I think about it, the hotter I get. I’ve never thought about a rape kink before, and if someone else had suggested it, I’d be out of the door faster than you can say ‘hell no’. But Rafael isn’t just anyone.

If I’m being honest with myself—which I’m not—I’d realize that Rafael has the power to convince me to do just about anything. Instead, I tell myself I’m only agreeing because I know he’ll make it pleasurable for me. And hey, if I get a night or two without my usual nightmares, that’s just a bonus, right?

“Yeah,” I whisper.

“Thatta girl.”

With that, Rafael lifts me from his lap, and I feel a mix of disappointment and surprise as he arranges me on the cool, hard floor. What’s he up to?

He gets up, and my eyes follow him as he reaches for a wrapped gift box from one of the shelves and offers it to me.

Where the hell did that come from?

“What’s this?” I frown as I accept it.

“A gift. Open it when you’re alone. I’ll be in touch.” He tilts his head towards the door, and my heart sinks a little. Wait, he’s leaving already?

My lips part in surprise. “Oh. What about—what about—” I trail off, too chicken to say it out loud, but he gets what I mean.

He smirks as he hunches down in front of me. “Where would the surprise be if we acted it out now? It will happen when you least expect it.” He raises his hand to my face and rubs his thumb across my cheek before leaning forward to give me a soft, drugging kiss that has my eyelids fluttering.

He pulls back, still smiling, and helps me to my feet. Then with a final tap on my ass, he sends me on my way.

I leave the supermarket, his gift clenched tightly in my arms. Once I’m in my car, I have to take a moment to gather myself. Then my gaze drops to the mysterious package and curiosity piques—I need to see what’s in there.

Pulling off the green bow on top, I carefully tear through the wrapper and lift the cover. A scandalized gasp escapes me when I see what’s inside.

A matching wardrobe of red panties and lace gold bras, all with star knots—kind of like a ribbon knot across where my nipples would be—and green suspenders. There are three pairs of the identical lingerie and a note:

Start wearing these tomorrow. Make sure you always have them on. I want to unwrap that tight little body when I get my hands on you.

Twin flames warm my cheeks as I finger the sexy underwear. Then I cover the box up and place it on the passenger seat. With a shaky exhale, I start the car, mind racing.

Whatever happens next, one thing is clear—Rafael has the power to turn my world upside down with just a few words. And I’m powerless to resist.

8

RAFAEL

I watch Emilia’s taillights fade into the distance with a mix of satisfaction and unease churning in my gut. As soon as she’s out of sight, I fish my phone out of my pocket and dial. It’s time to get some goddamn answers.

“It’s late, Rafael.” Landon, one of the best hackers on my retainer, grumbles through the speaker. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

I snort. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Besides, it’s barely 9 PM, the night’s still young, and we’ve got work to do.”

“Let me guess. Emilia Rossi?”

“Bingo. I need you to keep looking into her.”

There’s a short pause on his end, then, “Didn’t you find her? I’m sure she flew into the city last week; I swear I sent you⁠—”

“Yeah, yeah, I found her.” I cut him off. “But something’s not adding up. I need you to dig deeper into what she’s been up to for the past five years.”

My jaw clenches as I replay our encounter. That effortless way she whipped out her gun—it was too fast, too smooth. Too practiced. Where the hell did she learn to handle a weapon like that?

Landon sighs heavily. “Alright, alright. I’ll see what I can do and get back to you next week.”

“No. That’s too long. You have until the end of this week.”

“But—”

“I’m not paying you to take scenic routes, Landon. I want results.”

I end the call before he can protest, then make my way toward the back of the supermarket where the security room is.

My mind races as I walk. The pieces don’t fit, and it’s driving me fucking insane. For years, I couldn’t find a damn thing about her, no matter how hard I dug. Then suddenly, her records pop up out of nowhere, like they were just sitting there waiting for me, and they’re so clean. Too clean. Nah, something’s not right.

I shake my head, still mulling it over as I enter the security room. One quick swipe and all footage of the last hour is erased. I’m not letting some curious and overzealous employee get an eyeful of my intimate moment with Emilia. No one gets to see her fall apart except for me. Satisfied, I adjust my suit jacket, making sure I look sharp before stepping out.

After locking up the supermarket and setting the alarm, I make my way around the building to the private lot where my car is parked.

As I get in, my phone vibrates with a text.

Michael

I think I might have found something about our kidnapper.

That has my full attention. Immediately, I dial his number, connecting my phone to my car’s speaker as I fire up the engine. He answers on the third ring.

“Christ, Rafael. Ever heard of texting back?” he complains. “I’m juggling multiple projects here. I can’t afford distractions.”

“Yeah, yeah. Spill it. Tell me what you found.”

“This isn’t the bastard’s first rodeo.” His voice mixes with the familiar click–clacking of his fingers on the keyboard. “Six years ago, little kids were snatched off the street following the exact same MO as our man. The cases were swept under the rug—hardly any media coverage because it was around the same time detective Rossi was killed. Then the warehouse fire happened, and… the death of your dad—” He pauses to clear his throat, “I mean Alfonso.”

My grip tightens on the steering wheel. I remember that time all too well. The media was in a frenzy about the death of Emilia’s dad. Everyone knew my father was behind it, but the son of a bitch had half the city in his pockets. Cops, politicians, judges—you name it, he owned it. But then a week later, my dear old dad… died, and the vultures had a field day trying to piece together who took out the big, bad don.

It’s no wonder a few missing kids didn’t make the headlines.

My thumb taps on the steering wheel as the gears in my head start turning. Is it the same guy or a wannabe copycat trying his luck? Someone who figured the same shit went unnoticed six years ago, so why not do it again? Nah. This feels too calculated, too deliberate. “It’s the same sick fuck, isn’t it?”

“Looks that way. I think our man got cocky,” Michael confirms. “Probably thought with everything going on right now, he could slip under the radar again.”

That’s his first mistake.

“I also found a pattern to the way his victims are decided,” Michael continues. “He’s targeting orphanages in the roughest parts of the city. Places with staff stretched so thin they won’t kick up a fuss over a missing kid or two. Manhattan alone is full of dumps like that, so he hasn’t hit the same place twice. Probably think he’s untouchable… But get this—he’s got a quota. Twelve girls. Same as last time.”

A dozen kids. That motherfucker.

“Bet he didn’t bank on Romero taking an interest in the case,” I mutter.

Michael clicks his tongue. “One thing about him, though—he’s smart. Very smart. He’s not going after the same places he hit last time, probably worried someone might remember and connect the dots. But that narrows down his options. I think I might even know which of the five boroughs he’ll hit next, but I need a few more hours to nail the exact pattern he’s using to pick his targets. Once I do, we can set a trap and wait for him.”

“Good. Great job, Michael.”

He grunts. “I want this fucker caught ASAP. No mercy for child killers.”

I hum in agreement. No argument there.

One thing my brothers and I share, despite our different bloodlines, are the scars left by our heavy–handed fathers—fathers who passed down their frustrations to their sons with their fists. It’s the glue that first bound us together all those years ago.

Michael’s dad, ex-senator Rick Hart, might have had the public fooled with his saintly image—like most of those crooked politicians—but I know all too well the monster that lurked beneath. A monster that bankrolled my father and had him do his dirty laundry. Hell, Rick might’ve even been worse than Alfonso. Because, for all my dad’s flaws, I always knew where I stood with him. Michael… well, his relationship with his old man was a whole other brand of messed up.

Shaking off the ghosts of the past, I ask him, “By the way, how did the launch of your game go?”

Michael’s end goes quiet. No more keyboard clicks. “Are you asking because you’re curious, Rafael, or because you’re worried my company’s about to rake in more cash than yours this year? Think you can’t keep up with me?”

His voice is playful, and I chuckle. “Fuck you. We’re not even in the same line of business.”

“If you must know,” he says, pride seeping into his tone, “StarQuest was released without a hitch last night and is already one of the most downloaded games in the world—and that’s just within twenty–four hours of its launch. That’s why my schedule is so tight right now. There are so many people downloading it that I have to constantly make sure it doesn’t crash… while also trying to incorporate the feedback from our beta testers.”

“Sounds like a good problem to have. You bragging right now, Michael?”

“Why the fuck are you still on the phone? You’re distracting me.” The typing resumes, faster than before.

“Yeah, whatever, I’ll let you get back to it. Oh, and Michael?”

“What?”

“Congratulations, fratello. You deserve this.”

There’s a beat of silence, then, “Wow, so touching, Rafael. Hold on while I grab a box of tissues,” he deadpans.

“Asshole.” I hang up with a chuckle.

9

EMILIA

The sound of my footsteps is all that follows me down the hallway. Always empty. Always quiet. It’s like the walls are mocking me, reminding me how alone I am.

I sigh, keys fumbling in the lock. It clicks open, and I shoulder my way inside, box of takeout in hand. As I turn to lock the door, movement flickers at the edge of my vision. My heart leaps into overdrive, and the takeout slips out of my hand as I instinctively raise my elbows, bracing for a hit.

But it never comes.

Huh?

Slowly, I lower my guard. The big shadow that caught my eye seems to have… disappeared? If it was ever there. My brows furrow as I scan the living room. There’s no way I imagined that. Right?

The only light comes from those stupid Christmas lights that cast weird, dancing shadows everywhere. Maybe that’s all it was. Still, there’s this gnawing feeling in my gut, like I’m being watched. But I don’t see a damn thing.

Just as I’m about to chalk it up to paranoia, a massive shape suddenly explodes out of the darkness and lunges at me. In the faint light, all I can make out is a terrifying, skeletal St. Nicholas mask, white beard swaying as he charges. My scream lodges in my throat, trapped by sheer terror. I try to back up, but my back is literally to the door. Shit. My gun.

I reach for it—nothing. Where’s my fucking gun? Of all the times to be unarmed. What a rookie mistake. No choice now. As the masked figure reaches for me, survival instincts kick in. I grab his wrists, twisting with everything I’ve got. When I do, the familiar cologne wafts up to my nose and silver eyes lock on mine.

Rafael.

He grunts as we grapple for dominance.

My heart keeps thumping, but the rhythm has changed from fear to something far more thrilling. The memory of our chat at the supermarket two days ago rushes back, igniting something wild inside me.

This is it. Game on.

I slam my foot into his shin and twist his hands up in an attempt to arch them over his head. But he’s a solid wall of muscle—too tall, too strong; doesn’t budge an inch. Sweat rolls down my back, adrenaline bursting through me as I feint to the right, then duck under his armpit and make a mad dash for the stairs.

His heavy footsteps echo behind me, spurring me on, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I push myself to run faster. Just need to reach the bedroom. Lock him out. Almost there, almost⁠—

His hand snags the back of my shirt and yanks me back into his solid chest, his arm immediately banding under my heaving breasts. A scream tears from my throat as he lifts me clean off my feet, my legs kicking uselessly in the air.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls in my ear. The deep timbre sends an involuntary shiver rolling down my spine. I writhe and squirm, fighting to slip free, but his grip is ironclad.

“Listen.” His hot breath grazes the nape of my neck, and I quiver, my nipples beading almost painfully. “If you want to end this at any time, say Azaleas. Got it?” He’s giving me a safeword? I’ve never needed one before, and the fact that he’s giving me one now… my core clenches at the thought. Oh, hell, this just got a lot more intense. I nod, feeling the anticipation thrumming in my veins.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“If I want you to stop, I’ll say Azaleas,” I respond.

“Good girl,” he purrs. Then his voice drops to a menacing baritone. “But let’s be clear—you can say ‘stop’ and ‘no’ all you want. I won’t stop. Because you want this, don’t you? Practically begged for it when I caught you staring at me from across the room. That’s what those big honey eyes said, even as you stood all sweet and innocent next to your little boyfriend.” The words rumble through his chest as he groans, running his nose through my hair like he's inhaling me.

Pleasure spikes through me. He’s following a script. Play along.

“No, please,” I say, putting a tremble in my voice just enough to sound convincing. “My boyfriend will be home soon.”

“Wrong.” His hands slip under my shirt and curl tight around my breasts, squeezing just shy of pain. My eyes slide shut as sparks rush through my body, but I press my lips together, forcing myself to swallow the moan trying to escape—stick to the script. “He won’t be back anytime soon.”

I let myself go limp in his arms, then inject more fear into my voice. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing… for now. If you are a good girl and cum pretty for me, I might even let him go.” He rolls my nipples through my bra. “Have you been a good girl, or have you been naughty?”

“Someone sent me a bouquet of Azaleas,” I begin, surprised at how easily the lies follow. “So, I bought a pair of protective gloves, carefully tore off the petals—you know, the poisonous ones—dried them out, ground them into fine dust, then… mixed the particles with my coffee grounds.” I pause for effect, flashing him a sweet smile.

“What are you getting at?” he grunts.

“Well… would you like some coffee before we proceed?”

He chuckles darkly, “Naughty then, huh? I hope for your sake you’re wrapped up like a delicious little present.”

His grip loosens just enough as he tries to brush my hair from my face, and I grab the chance, rearing my head back into his chin. He lets me go with a vicious curse, and I bolt.

“Bitch! You’ll regret that,” he snarls. His voice is menacing, but there’s something else—something dark and electric that ripples down my spine. It’s a foreboding sign of payback that fuels my adrenaline. I dash around my sofa, feet pounding towards my bedroom.

Finally, my hands wrap around the door, and my heart skips with the thrill of escape as I push it open. Yes! I’m in! Before I can slam it shut, though, a booted foot wedges in the gap, stopping the door. I glance up, and his eyes are dark as night with a glint that promises punishment.

I gulp, instinctively releasing the door to retreat deeper into the room. I’ve trapped myself. Wetness pools on my panties as he enters with a slow, deliberate intent, then locks the door behind him.

He strokes the white beard hanging from his chin, watching me with that predatory calm behind the mask. He knows he’s got me cornered.

As he starts to approach me, I launch myself at him with a feral yell, fists up like I actually plan to fight. If this were real, I’d go all out—years of combat training would give me a good shot—but he’s way bigger and stronger than my sparring partners, and this isn’t an actual altercation. More importantly… I want him to catch me.

And he does. He grabs my wrists, twists me around, and uses his grip to shove me forward. Then—click. Cool metal kisses my wrists, followed by another click.

He handcuffed me. Oh god.

Before I can even process this new development, his hand tangles in my hair and yanks, hard enough to send sharp stabs of pain down my scalp. My eyes water as he pulls my head back into him. “You shouldn’t have hit me,” he growls, nibbling my chin.

“Fuck you.” I moan, voice catching between defiance and lust.

“Do you hear that? Do you make that sweet sound for your boyfriend, or is that just for me?” He jerks my hair again, pulling even harder, and I can’t stop the tears rushing down my eyes at the painful sting. Gritting my teeth, I drive my elbow back into his chest, and he grunts, releasing my hair.

I’m free—for now. My feet barely hit the ground before I’m sprinting towards the bathroom. But with my hands cuffed behind me, I’m off-balance and slow. It’s all he needs. He grabs my shirt again, and I scream as he pushes me down. Pain reverberates through me, my knees hitting the floor with a jarring thud. But fuck if the pain doesn’t spread out into pleasure when he pushes me again until I’m forced chest-down on the floor.

Before I can even catch my breath, he’s on me, straddling my body, trapping my legs between his. “Stay. Fucking. Still,” he growls when I try to buck him off me like I still have a shot.

Spoiler: I don’t.

Suddenly, something cold and sharp grazes the skin of my back, sending a shiver through me. I crane my neck to look and—oh shit. My lips part at the wicked-looking curved knife in his hand. He runs the back of the blade over my skin again, and I must be out of my mind because it only makes me wetter.

The tip presses into my shirt, just enough to feel, as he starts dragging it up until the material rents into two. “You’re wearing the lingerie. Good girl.”

He moves the knife to the waist of my slacks, and with one swift motion, he tears them apart, shredding the material and shoving the pieces away until I’m lying on the floor in just the red and gold lingerie he got me.

My cunt pulses, clenching painfully around nothing while Rafael licks his lips, watching me with a hooded gaze. Then he tosses his knife aside, and his hand comes down on my ass with a loud smack. The pain radiates through me, drawing a ragged cry from my throat.

“That,” he snarls, “is for kicking me and running away, pretending you don’t want this when your panties are fucking soaked through.”

His hand kneads the flesh of my ass, sending waves of pleasure surging through my veins. I moan, melting into the floor like I’m ready to surrender. Then I remember I’m supposed to be fighting. He may have my hands cuffed and my legs trapped between his, but that doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for him.

I get even wetter as I renew my struggle, wrestling beneath him. He spanks my ass again, then fists his hand in my hair, yanking so forcefully this time that sparks burst behind my eyes. I scream, sensations exploding—twin currents of pain and pleasure so intense I don’t know where one stops and the other begins.

“You can scream all you want, but no one will hear you. No one is coming to save you.”

My heart races as his words wash over me, eerily echoing my own thoughts from years ago when I felt truly hopeless. But this time, there’s no fear. Because this is Rafael. My Rafael.

“No, no, please don’t.” My voice cracks when I feel the knife return to my hip. Real panic tightens around my throat, and I glance back, only to see him calmly slicing through my panties. The rush of relief nearly makes me dizzy. For a second, I was transported back to that dark moment in time.

Rafael’s gaze collides with mine, and his smirk grounds me again, so I slip right back into our script, wriggling beneath him now that the knife is away from my skin. “Please don’t do this... I don’t want this.” A big fat lie—I’ve never wanted anything so badly.

With a flick, he peels the ruined fabric from my hips, leaving my hot, wet cunt exposed to the cool air.

“Little liar.” He leans over my back, dangling the underwear in my face. “Look how soaked your panties are. And you want me to believe you don’t want this?”

I shudder as he pushes the panties under my nose and my own smell fills my nostrils, making me heady. I’ve never been this aroused in my life. It’s maddening—the more I fight, the more my body screams for him, so I keep fighting. I’m a raging fire, burning with need, but kicking is pointless. He’s a goddamn brick wall, and I’m just a leaf caught in a storm.

He chuckles as his hand lands on my ass and slowly snakes down towards my pussy. Immediately, I clamp my legs shut, but he just chuckles again, adjusting his stance behind me so that his left knee forces its way between my thighs, prying them apart like it’s nothing. My breath hitches, and I can’t help but feel a rush of vulnerability mixed with excitement.

A sharp ache builds in my shoulders, my arms straining like hell from being cuffed behind my back for so long. The discomfort only makes me more desperate, more frustrated, and I grind my teeth as I buck against him in one last attempt at pretending I have control here. But then his hand slides through my wetness, and every ounce of resistance evaporates. His finger slips into me with ease, and I swear I see the galaxy behind my eyes. Holy shit. My body betrays me—my moan is thick and throaty, and my pussy clenches his finger, welcoming the intrusion with an undeniable hunger.

“Fuck,” he grunts, withdrawing his finger just as fast, leaving me a mess of need. I whimper, my hips chasing his hand before I can stop myself. “That’s it, beautiful. Show me how much you want me.”

“Fuck you.” I hiss, balling my fists together as I writhe on the floor, desperate to rub my thighs together. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I need to come so badly. His eyes glitter under the mask, full of sick satisfaction as he watches me squirm, taking his sweet time undoing his pants. My pulse quickens, the wait almost unbearable. Hurry the hell up. Every second drags, making the ache between my legs even worse. I can’t take it anymore. Just do it already.

When he pulls out his massive cock, I can’t help it—my mouth waters, and I watch, mesmerized, as he strokes himself, squeezing the swollen, angry red crown. It takes everything in me not to whimper. Then his hand slips back between my legs, and it’s like my brain short-circuits. He rolls my clit between his fingers, and I’m powerless to stop the moan that rips out as pleasure slams into me, leaving me gasping, utterly at his mercy.

“That’s it, moan for me. You want this, you little slut. Girls like you always want it but act like you’re too good for it. Like you’re too good for me. So I simply have to take you for myself. Prove just how much of a slut you are.”

His words stroke my pleasure even higher. But just as I start to revel in it, his hand vanishes, replaced by his cock sliding wetly through my folds. I moan his name, feeling so impossibly turned on, knowing I’m on the brink of something explosive.

“That’s right, moan my name like you belong to me. Because you do. You’re mine, mine.” He drives each word home with a thrust and fuck fuck, fuck, it’s too much. I scream as a dizzying rush of pleasure swells within me., It builds to a crescendo, and I come so hard, my cunt pushes his cock out.

“Fucking hell,” he curses as he forces himself back into my tight sheath, fucking me right through my orgasm. “You’re so fucking tight. You’re going to milk every last ounce of cum from me. But not yet. No. I’m not done with you.” He groans the last part and spanks my ass as if punishing me for my own pleasure.

The pain mingles with his thrusting, stoking my arousal even higher. Before my first orgasm even ends, another barrels into me, hard and fast, followed by a third. My body shudders around him, my whole being focused on nothing but the pleasure and even more pleasure.

His thrusts become faster, harder, his rhythm no longer paced but frenetic.

Words spill from my lips, but I’m not sure what I’m saying. I’m lost, completely delirious with pleasure, until he yanks my hips higher and my body goes like a rag doll. His fingers find my clit again, rolling and pulling, and somehow, unbelievingly—God, I don’t know how—I come again, screaming his name so loudly I momentarily lose my breath.

This time he comes with me, his hot seed filling me as he groans my name. Then his warm weight covers my back, and for a moment, we’re one.

10

EMILIA

My eyes slide shut, my body sinking into the floor, completely wrecked. I can’t feel anything—except this heavy numbness spreading through me.

His breath ghosts across my face, blowing strands of my hair into my eyes. I should push it back, but I don’t have the energy. Hell, I don’t even know if I can move anymore.

Then, surprisingly, he does it for me—brushing the hair out of my face with this ridiculous tenderness, like he didn’t just tear me apart, body and soul.

“Are you okay, love?”

I can only manage a soft, “Hmm.” And honestly, what could I even say? I’m too spent, too ruined.

He shifts, pushing away from me. And—click, the handcuffs release my wrists, followed by the soothing sensation of his fingers massaging my skin. Then his warmth disappears, but I catch the sound of his footsteps padding towards the bathroom.

Curiosity nags at me to open my eyes, to see what he’s up to, but my eyelids feel like they’re made of lead. The soft sounds of running water and drawers opening drift to my ears, but I’m too far gone to care. My limbs are dead weight, and I feel like I might pass out right here, fused to the floor.

It’s like he’s fucked me straight into the floorboards.

Summoning every ounce of willpower, I force myself to open my eyes when I sense him re-entering the bedroom. He’s taken off his mask, so I notice the furrow in his brows as he scoops me up. Is he… worried about me? My head lolls against his chest while he carries me into the bathroom and slowly deposits me inside the bathtub. I let out a blissful sigh, sinking deeper into the warmth, allowing the hot water to cocoon my aching body and soothe every muscle.

The tub is too small for the both of us, but Rafael makes it work. He kneels beside it and slowly passes the washcloth over my body with reverent care. I lean back, too exhausted to do anything but let him tend to me.

After he’s washed me, he carries me back to the bedroom and dries my body. Then I watch through half-lidded eyes as he rummages through my closet for some clothes. My brain doesn’t fully compute what’s happening until he’s sliding sneakers onto my feet.

I blink at him, confusion cutting through the post-coital haze.

“Are we going somewhere?” My voice comes out scratchy and hoarse, so I clear my throat.

He glances up at me with a determined look on his face, “Yes. We’re going home.”

“I am home.” I point out, which earns me an irritated glare.

“No, you’re not. You’re going to accept my proposal, Emilia. And tonight, you’re coming home with me. Tomorrow, we’ll come back for your shit.”

A spark of defiance flares in me. “You can’t just order me to marry and move in with you. It doesn’t work like that. And I think I’d like to sleep in my own apartment.” But even to my own ears, my voice lacks conviction. Darn it.

He ignores my protests, just wordlessly tying my laces before moving to the other foot. “Rafael...”

“You’re coming home with me tonight, Emilia—kicking or screaming. Arguing won’t change that. I’ll carry you over my shoulders if I have to.” The sternness in his tone and tight set of his jaw tells me he means every word.

The fight drains out of me. Maybe he really did fuck the resistance right out of my body. “Fine.” I concede with a sigh. I can always argue more in the morning when my brain’s functioning again. “But we need to bring the takeout I bought with us. It’s probably cold by now, but I can warm it when we get to your place.”

A victorious smirk plays on his lips, and he leans down to press a soft kiss on my temple, sending warm fuzzies through my body. I shuffle to the closest to grab my coat and shrug it on. Then he grabs a hold of my hand, linking our fingers together, and my heart does a little flip.

We leave my apartment and hop in the elevator to the basement level, where the condo’s parking lot is. He leads me past a row of cars to a sleek, black, BMW. My jaw practically drops. “This is your car? Holy hell, it’s gorgeous!”

His grin is boyish and proud as he hits the key fob. With a soft beep, the car unlocks, the lights flashing like it’s showing off for me. He opens the passenger door, and I slide in eagerly, inhaling the intoxicating mix of that new leather smell and Rafael’s cologne. It feels like luxury and danger all rolled into one.

My hands roam over the sumptuous brown leather interior and the sleek touchscreen dashboard, admiring every detail.

“Buckle up, Emilia.” Rafael reminds me as he settles into the driver’s seat. I comply, but continue my tactile exploration of the car’s interior.

The ignition turns, and the engine comes alive with a low, vibrating rumble that seems to resonate through my entire body, and I giggle, kicking my feet out like an excited child. “Can I drive it later?” I ask, turning towards him with hopeful eyes.

“Absolutely not,” he answers without hesitation, and I smirk.

“Are you sure about that, baby?” I place my hand on his thigh, and he immediately goes stiff. He throws a sharp glance my way, and I freeze. Oh shit, too much? “Is this… okay?”

His brows pull together, his jaw clenching tightly, but after a tense moment, he gives a curt nod and shifts his gaze back to the road. I exhale a quiet breath, relieved, and resume my gentle caress, tracing soothing circles on his thigh. My heart is hammering like crazy. He’s actually letting me touch him. Again.

Slowly, careful not to break whatever fragile trust this moment holds, my hand drifts up his leg, then higher to his hard chest, up his collarbone and along his hard jaw. When I graze his day-old stubble with my fingertips, my breath catches, remembering the way he tensed before, how his cock twitched inside me. At first, I wanted to initiate something sexual, but now it feels too special for that. I’m really touching him again.

And somehow, it feels even more intense now.

My fingers circle the shell of his ear, then glide over his brows, before they slip into his hair. God, his hair is still just as soft. I gently rub the pad of my fingers over his scalp, back and forth, half-expecting him to purr like he did before. Instead, a low groan rumbles through him, and suddenly his left hand flies off the steering wheel, grabbing my wrist.

“Enough of that,” he says huskily. “Don’t distract the driver.”

He nips my fingertips, then links our fingers together and rests them on his thigh. My heart swells with emotions for him. Affection, desire… maybe even love.

The words bubble up in my throat, but I swallow them back painfully. No, it’s too soon to be feeling any of that. Sure, he’s basically browbeating me into moving in with him and has flat-out proposed, but he hasn’t said a single word about love either. Not really. ‘Little love’ doesn’t count, right? Amorina is most likely nothing more than a pet name to him.

Besides, I'm in no position to discuss my feelings with him right now. Not when I’m keeping this huge secret—when I’m actively betraying him. Once I get to the bottom of this and prove his innocence to Stacey, I’ll come clean about everything. He’ll understand. He will. He will. He has to.

We stay hand in hand for the entire drive to his apartment—a towering skyscraper off Madison Avenue that screams luxury and power.

“Welcome back, Mr. Moretti.” A hulking man in a bulletproof vest holds the glass door open for us. I frown, taking in the lobby. At least four more men, equally imposing, stand at strategic points. Their jackets bulge suspiciously, and I’d bet my last dollar they’re packing some heat.

Who wears a jacket indoors?

Rafael leads me to the elevators, seemingly oblivious to my growing unease, and presses the P for penthouse. As we ascend, I bite my lip, debating whether to mention those men downstairs. What would I even say? ‘Hey, what’s with the small army in your lobby?” But what if they’re not related to him? Maybe they’re just building security. I nod to myself, deciding to let it go. For now.

The elevator doors slide open into a large hallway, and I freeze. Men with AK-47s and pistols on their hips patrol the hall like it’s a military compound.

“It’s okay, amorina.” Rafael grabs my hand and pulls me out of the elevator. “They’re with me.”

They’re with him. Oh God, he really is back in the mafia now. My grip on his hand tightens as we walk past the armed men, not because I’m scared of them, no, because I’m scared of what this means. What if, in my bid to prove his innocence, I stumble onto evidence of other crimes? Or worse… what if he really is guilty?

I scan the hallway, cold fear seeping through my veins and down my spine as, for the very first time, I’m forced to face a thought I’ve been avoiding—what if it turns out he isn’t innocent after all? No, he is. He’s innocent. He has to be.

Still oblivious to my inner turmoil, Rafael nods at the men as he opens the front door. It’s not even locked. But of course, with the mini-army patrolling the hallway and lobby, I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to attempt a break-in.

We walk through the foyer, and for a second, I’m distracted from my worries by the sound of voices coming from the living room. More men? Rafael pushes open a glass door, revealing three men inside.

One is sitting crossed-leg on the floor, typing furiously on a laptop, his back is to me. Another lounges on the sofa, holding up a newspaper like he’s actually reading it. And the third occupies an armchair, flipping through what looks like legal documents. All three stop what they’re doing and turn their attention to us as we enter, and my jaw drops in recognition.

“Maximo! Romero! Michael!” I wiggle out of Rafael’s hand and rush towards them, grinning wide. In an instant, my fears are swept away by a tidal wave of joy as, for the first time in five years, I’m face to face with my friends—no, my brothers.

They leap to their feet, shouting my name as they bundle me in a tight hug, and I laugh waterlily, stretching my arms as wide as they can go, trying to embrace all three at once.

But then Rafael’s hand settles on my back, gently extracting me from the tangle of limbs and into his chest. “What are you assholes doing here?”

“Well, I discovered more about the–” Michael starts, only to trail off with a pointed cough, his light blue eyes flicking to me. “We needed to discuss a course of action for that… thing, so we came over to wait for you.”

Thing?

Frowning, I glance between them. It’s painfully obvious they don’t want me in on whatever they’re talking about.

“You should have called me,” Rafael grumbles, sinking into the other armchair and dragging me into his lap like I’m some sort of plush toy.

The guys are practically staring holes into us, their curiosity written all over their faces, and I feel my cheeks flame under the weight of it. I start to get up, but Rafael clamps his arm around my waist, locking me in place. “It’s fine, amorina,” he says casually, like it’s nothing. “They know about us.”

Oh great, perfect. Totally fine.

They awkwardly clear their throats, looking anywhere but at us now, and I bury my face in my hands. This is not how I imagined our reunion to go. How humiliating. As I peek through my fingers at the three of them, a touch of melancholy tempers my happiness. Even though I still care about them, they’re no longer the eighteen-year-old boys I knew and lived with. They seem… harder now, colder.

What happened after I left?

The awkward silence stretches, until Michael suddenly glances up at me with a small smile. “Hey, want to play my game?”

My hands drop, and my excitement returns full force. “Wait—you released it?” Michael has always been a tech whiz, constantly talking about his dream of someday releasing a fantastical war game. The guys used to tease him mercilessly, but he never let it deter him.

“A few days ago, baby,” he says with a grin, getting up to hook the huge plasma TV up. He connects the wires quickly, then picks up four controllers from the console. “Only brought four, though, so Rafael will have to sit this one out.”

“Oh no, I’m so hurt.” Rafael deadpans behind me, and I can’t help but giggle as I push off his lap. This time, he lets me go, but I can still feel his gaze tracking me like a damn hawk as I accept one of the controllers from Michael. He keeps one for himself and tosses the other two to Maximo and Romero.

Okay, this feels better. Like old times. Well, almost.

My grin widens, heart pounding in excitement as the game launches on the screen. An epic theme song blasts through the room, and the dark screen morphs into a breathtaking 3D image of the galaxy, featuring a massive horned man armed with a gun and a rocket pack.

“Wow. It looks so good already,” I say, nudging Michael with my shoulder. He tosses me a boyish grin as he pushes his dirty blonde hair away from his face.

“Five million people across the globe agree with your assessment, amorina. That’s how many downloads the game’s got so far.” Rafael calls out from his armchair, sounding proud as hell.

“Keep up, Rafael. As of an hour ago, it’s at six million,” Romero cuts in, sounding equally proud.

“Six million and counting,” Maximo adds, snatching up the newspaper he’d been reading earlier. “People are still downloading it like crazy, and it was just featured in The Times as ‘the game that’s taking the city by storm’.” He points to the relevant section, where StarQuest is prominently displayed.

“And it was released less than a week ago? This is huge, Michael. I’m so proud of you.” I grin at him.

He reddens, muttering in that gruff way of his, “Whatever, let’s play.”

11

RAFAEL

I never expected to enjoy watching Emilia with the guys so much, but something about it feels so… right, natural, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. For the first time in a while, I’m content with where I am. It's a weird feeling, but a good one, taking me back to those old days squeezed into that Queens studio apartment, all of us barely making ends meet but still… together.

The memory stirs something deeper, and I fish my phone out of my pocket to text Landon, reminding him I’m still waiting. He’s taking his sweet time getting back to me. An urgent, nagging feeling gnaws at my gut. It’s more than curiosity—it’s an instinct, a primal need to know where Emilia’s been, what she’s been up to during our years apart. It’s driving me fucking insane not knowing.

A loud robotic boom erupts from the TV where the game is still in full swing, and I glance up, surprised not to hear Emilia’s colorful commentary. Her character was killed a few levels ago, but she’s been enthusiastically cheering on Michael while shit-talking Romero and Maximo for ganging up to eliminate her character. It’s been non-stop chaos.

But now… silence.

My chest does a weird expanding thing when I spot her, fast asleep on the sofa. Her legs are curled beneath her, head resting on the cushion, brown hair tumbling over her cheek. Peaceful. It’s such a contrast from how loud she was just moments ago. Christ, she’s beautiful when she’s asleep. I pocket my phone and, before I know it, I’m on my feet, drawn to her like a moth to flame.

The guys pause their game and watch me as I approach her. “What are you doing, Rafael?” Maximo asks.

“Shh,” I hush him as I carefully slip my hands around her back and under her legs, lifting her warm weight into my arms. She murmurs sleepily, and then she does this thing—this tiny thing—that just wrecks me. She curls deeper into my chest, nuzzling her face into my neck, and my heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of my chest. Fuck. This woman. It’s unsettling how close she is, but at the same time, it’s right. This feels right. She feels right in my arms, with me.

Romero clears his throat. “We need to talk about why we’re here. Michael found something about the case.”

I nod curtly. “Give me a moment.” My voice is steady, but my mind is reeling. Thank fuck they had the sense to keep quiet around her. The things we have uncovered… no way in hell could she handle knowing about it. The brutal murders. Those poor girls. It would break her, and I want to shield her from that for as long as I can.

With my woman nestled in my arms, I make my way into my bedroom and, for a heartbeat I just stand still, absorbing the significance of this moment. No other woman has ever crossed this threshold before. It’s my space; my private world. The women I fuck I take elsewhere—but here she is. Right where she belongs.

I lower her onto my king-sized bed, careful not to wake her. She whimpers as she rolls over, but then she turns back to face me, eyes snapping open. Oh, shit. I freeze, covers bunched in my hands, not sure what to do next. Slowly, I start to pull them over her, hoping she’ll drift off again so I can slip away. But no—as I’m getting to my feet, her hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.

“Rafael. Don’t go.” Her voice is thick with sleep, but there’s a need there that hooks me.

Fuck me. At that moment, I swear she could ask me to fetch her the sun, and I would’ve been halfway out the door to go grab it, even if it meant the whole world would be in perpetual darkness.

Instead, I lace our fingers together. “Scoot over.”

She does, and suddenly I’m lying next to her, trying to ignore the tension coiling in my gut as she wraps herself around me like a vine—her thigh draped over my legs, arms across my torso, head on my chest.

My spine goes rigid, every muscle locking up as if on command. Phantom needles skitter across my skin, that familiar crawling sensation I’ve fought with for years. Breathe. I inhale through my nose, pulse roaring in my ears as I fight the instinct to shove her off me. This is Emilia. This is different. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the onslaught of panic that always follows.

But it doesn’t come.

Just like in the car earlier, her touch doesn’t send me spiraling into that dark place. And slowly, slowly, the needles skittering over my skin fade away, giving way to the warmth of her solid weight over me.

What the actual fuck?

My lips part, and my eyes fly open in disbelief. I glance down at her, but she’s back asleep. My heart pounds, but not out of panic—this time, it’s something else entirely. I had chalked up the car incident to being so focused on driving that my body didn’t have the chance to react to her touching me. But now? Here she is, touching me again, and I’m not losing my shit. It wasn’t a one-off thing.

I’ve never been able to withstand anyone’s touch after what went down six years ago with my father—after the guys and I burnt down his warehouse for what his men did to Emilia. Since then, a simple touch has been enough to catapult me back to that hellish moment, and it’s a constant battle to keep myself from lashing out at whoever dares to get too close.

I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head at the irony. She’s wrapped around me, blissfully unaware of how this moment is shaking the very foundation of my reality. But then the gravity of it hits me, and a twinge of worry starts building in my chest. I'm in deeper than I thought.

I wanted her, and so I went out of my way to have her. I want her to be my wife, and she will be. But I never really considered how much she’d worm her way into my heart or the wild implications of having real feelings for her. The depth of the power she’d hold over me... it scares the fuck out of me.

Time bleeds away as I watch her sleep, my mind racing a mile a minute, trying to make sense of the chaos she has stirred up inside me.

My phone beeps in my pocket—once, twice—but I don’t dare move to check it. I’m not about to disturb her for anything short of the apocalypse.

Eventually though, she stretches and rolls away from me. Only then do I carefully get up from the bed, rolling my neck and easing my stiff muscles as I leave the room.

Back in the living room, Maximo’s impatience is palpable. “What took so long? I’ve texted you twice.”

“My attention was otherwise engaged, so I couldn’t get to my phone,” I shoot back. Their faces twist in disgust, and it hits me—they think Emilia and I were having sex. I smirk, not bothering to correct their wrong assumptions. It’s way more fun this way. “What’s up?”

Michael pipes up. “I’ve traced our guy’s pattern. I know where and when the next kidnapping will happen.”

Romero chimes in, mentioning an orphanage about an hour’s drive from my penthouse, and adds. “We think he might hit the spot soon—tonight or tomorrow. So we need to act fast if we want to catch this sick fuck.”

Adrenaline rushes through me at the thought of finally putting an end to this. It’s about damn time that monster gets what he deserves. I hold up a hand, signaling them to hang tight, then make my way to the study where I tear out a sheet of paper and scribble a quick note for Emilia, just in case she wakes up before I’m back. The thought of her waking up alone, confused and possibly scared, twists something inside me.

I take the note to the bedroom, careful not to make a sound, and place it on the nightstand before stealing one last look at her sleeping form. She looks so peaceful; I can’t help myself. Leaning down, I press a gentle kiss on her temple. “Sleep tight and without nightmares, amorina,” I murmur, then leave her side silently.

When I get back to the living room, the TV is off, and my brothers are on their feet, faces set in grim determination. “Let’s go,” I growl.

Instead of taking our separate cars, we pile into one of my vans—one that Michael already rigged up with his computers, wires, and all that tech shit I can’t be bothered to understand. As we climb in, we all slip on our earpieces, ready for when we need to split up at the site.

Maximo takes the wheel, fingers drumming like he can’t wait to gun it. Romero slides into shotgun, his expression a musk, but his whole body tense, like he’s mentally running through every possible scenario. Michael’s already buried behind his monitors, tapping away with that geeky focus only he gets. I drop into the seat next to him, frowning at the jumble of numbers and letters flying across the screens. How the hell he makes sense of that, I have no clue. But I trust him. To me, it’s just noise. To him, it’s life.

“Let’s go over our plan one last time.” Romero throws out, glancing back at me and Michael. We already went over it a dozen times yesterday when Michael told us he was getting close, but Romero’s always the cautious one.

“Relax, fratello, we know what we’re doing. We’ll get him. No need for overkill,” I tell him and he just grunts. I get it—the stakes are sky-high. But overthinking now will only trip us up.

The plan is simple but tight: we park our van in front of the orphanage for easy access while Romero goes in. His lawyer card and charm should be enough to smooth his way through without anyone kicking up a fuss.

Once inside, he’ll plant Michael’s micro cameras in as many rooms as he can so we can monitor what’s going on inside. He’ll feed the head of the orphanage some bullshit about him being there with the cops who received a tip on a crime in the neighborhood and that we’re on a stakeout. After which, he’ll head back to the van, where we’ll wait for our prey.

Maximo floors it the entire way, breaking every traffic rule known to man, so what should’ve been an hour-long drive is over in thirty–eight minutes flat.

“Nice one, fast and furious,” Romero teases as he puts on his cap, getting himself Maximo’s middle finger in return.

Romero exits the van with that cool confidence and jogs up to the entrance of the orphanage that’s definitely seen better days, and I feel a pang of… something. Guilt? Anger? The place is falling apart on its inhabitants—peeling paint, broken shingles, the whole deal. It’s a miracle it’s still standing.

If we weren’t on this case, this would be the perfect hunting ground for our sicko to snatch a child and remain under the radar. The way this place looks, I doubt any of the staff here would even give a shit if one of the children suddenly went missing. I file away a mental note to send an anonymous donation when this is over. It’s the least I can do.

A few minutes after Romero knocks, the front door creaks open, revealing an old place bursting with character. I hear him through my earpiece as he takes out his card and hands it to the woman. “Good evening, I’m Romero Lombardi, a defense attorney. Have you heard about the crime ravaging this neighborhood?”

He waltzes inside, charming his way past her, and before long, she’s telling him to hold tight before bustling off to fetch the matron. There’s a rustle of fabric and hurried footsteps as Romero struts around, definitely not the obedient guest he’s supposed to be.

“Awesome!” Michael’s eyes light up. “One of the cameras is live! Can you adjust it a little, Rome? The view is mostly the ceiling—ah, perfect.”

More images flicker to life on the monitors, and I lean in, studying each one intently. We’re getting an eyeful—not only the kids’ rooms, but the hallways, too, and even the front and back doors.

As Romero fiddles with the stairway camera, a stern voice cuts in from his end: “You were supposed to wait for me downstairs. What are you doing here?”

I tense, but Michael’s calm. “It’s fine. We already got more than enough, Romero.”

We watch Romero crank his charm up to eleven, gliding forward with that killer smile and taking the older woman’s hand, kissing it like he’s auditioning for a movie role. “My apologies, miss. I couldn’t resist being drawn in by the warmth of this place. It’s definitely not what I expected from the exterior. What a great job your matron has done here.”

“Miss?” The woman titters, her fingers brushing the graying strands at her temples as her expression softens. “I’m the matron, Mrs. Churchill.”

“Oh my! Your radiant, youthful glow had me think you must be one of the assistants, Mrs. Churchill. Pardon my manners, I was informed the matron was in her fifties, but you don’t look a day over thirty.”

More giggling. The older woman practically melts under his attention. Christ, Romero could charm the scales off a snake.

“Oh, you young bucks these days have such a way with words. Sarah mentioned you’re a lawyer. What do you need from us?” Her hand settles flirtatiously on his shoulder as she guides him towards the study.

“Romero, that silver-tongued devil,” Maximo chuckles, watching the matron pour him a drink.

Less than thirty minutes later, Romero has explained our presence to the matron who waves a benevolent hand, even suggesting us ‘kind officers’ come in from the cold, but he graciously declines as he leaves the orphanage.

“Remind me never to introduce you to my wife… if I ever get one,” Maximo says, punching Romero’s shoulder playfully as he gets back inside the van.

“As if a rogue like you would ever settle down,” Michael ribs back.

“Have you seen me, Michael? The ladies would be devastated if I’m ever off the market,” Maximo grins, running a hand through his hair dramatically.

I roll my eyes. Idiots, the lot of them. But they’re my idiots, and there’s no one else I’d rather have at my back for this.

The banter fizzles out as we turn our attention to the surveillance cameras, watching the matron bustle through the kids’ rooms, ensuring everyone is tucked in tight before going back to her own wing of the orphanage. Her footsteps are soft, but they only add to the tension simmering in the van.

“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” Romero muses, breaking the silence. “Reminds me of that time Don Moretti sent us to oversee the arrival of his new shipment.”

I feel my muscles stiffen at the mention of that job. The thought had already crossed my mind, but I squashed it down ruthlessly.

“Yeah, that was the first time the four of us worked together. I was so excited!” Michael’s enthusiasm rings out, but it feels hollow, almost taunting against the weight of my thoughts.

“The first and only time we worked for my father,” I snap, and the mood in the van shifts instantly. They know better than to poke the bear. If it hadn’t been for that godforsaken errand my dad sent us on, we would have been at the warehouse as usual and would have seen Emilia when she stormed in angry and ready for revenge. We would’ve stopped those animals from laying a finger on her. Stopped everything that happened next…

I fix my gaze on the camera, hating that the lightheartedness in the van has vanished. But maybe it’s for the best. We need to focus on the reason we’re here and⁠—

“Oh! What’s that?” Maximo suddenly exclaims. He’s pointing at one of the hallway cameras, leaning so close his nose almost touches the screen.

At first, I see nothing. Then a curtain rustles and a man-shaped shadow emerges, blending with the walls almost instantly.

My pulse kicks up. This is it.

“Gotcha,” Michael whispers, fingers poised over his keyboard.

We watch in tense silence as the creep slinks down the hallway and cracks open the first door. A quick peek, then it closes. Boy’s room. Of course, no interest there. Prick.

He moves on, door after door, until he reaches one of the girls’ rooms. My gut twists, knowing exactly what’s coming. The creep tiptoes to a bunk bed, pulls out a handkerchief from his jacket, and clamps it over the nose of the girl on the lower bunk.

Fuck. My fists tighten, and it takes everything in me not to punch the screen.

The girl immediately bucks underneath him, struggling, but it’s futile. In seconds, she’s limp in his arms. Then, as if nothing happened, he pockets the cloth, hoists the unconscious body over his shoulder, and makes his exit.

Maximo’s out of the van in a flash, ready for his part.

Honestly, I didn’t expect us to catch the man on our first stakeout, but we were prepared. Maximo will wait for the kidnapper at the side of the orphanage and tail him to his vehicle, where he’ll plant a tracker. It’s all on him now.

The kidnapper climbs out of the window and disappears from view. And so we wait with bated breaths for Maximo. My gaze goes to the little blinking dot that shows his position.

The dot creeps along, each second dragging. Then, finally, Maximo’s voice crackles through the earpiece, “This cocky son of a bitch didn’t even try to cover his tracks.” The disgust in his voice is palpable, mirroring what we’re all feeling. “I put the tracker on his car—some busted-ass sedan with Michigan state plates.”

He rattles off the plate numbers for Michael to run through his database. “He dropped the girl in the trunk and is pulling out now. I’m coming back to the van.”

Sure enough, the red dot starts moving, slow at first, then picking up speed as the guy drives away. Moments later, Maximo appears, running towards our van like the hounds of hell are on his heels.

“Let’s stop this fucker,” he grunts as he gets in and starts the van.

12

EMILIA

My phone’s shrill ring jolts me from my sleep, and for a moment, I’m lost in a sea of unfamiliarity—the room around me exudes a masculine energy that’s both alluring and disorienting. Then, like a warm caress, Rafael’s intoxicating cologne wafts over me, and the events of last night come flooding back. Right, I’m in his penthouse.

I push myself up, frowning at the empty space beside me. My hand drifts to where he lay next to me, finding only cool sheets. He’s been gone a while.

The phone keeps shrieking—God, why did I pick such an annoying ringtone? As the fog in my brain finally clears, I recognize it. Stacey. I drag myself out of bed and stumble to my purse on the dresser. “Hello?” My voice comes out as a croak, and I clear my throat, lifting the phone from my ear to check the time. 4:15 AM. Geez.

“Emily. Another child has gone missing.” Stacey’s words hit me with a bucket of ice water, chasing away any remaining drowsiness. “Kidnapped from an orphanage in lower Manhattan. Is Rafael with you?”

My eyes snap back to the empty bed, and that’s when I notice it—a note on the nightstand. My stomach clenches as I walk over to read it.

Something came up at work, amorina. Make yourself at home. If you’re hungry, there’s some leftovers in the fridge or you can order in. Will be back soon.

–Rafael.

Something came up at work? At this hour? My heart jumps to my throat, and I squeeze the note in my hands as worst-case scenarios whizz through my head. No, no, no. It’s just a coincidence. But my traitorous brain chooses that moment to dredge up Michael’s words from last night when Rafael asked what they were doing here.

“Well, I discovered more about the–”

More about ‘the’ what? What’s the thing he was talking about? The little girl they were trying to kidnap? No. God, no. I can’t let my mind go there. I shake my head violently, as if I could physically dislodge the thought. The sick feeling in my gut intensifies. No, there’s just no way. There has to be another explanation.

“Emily, are you there?”

Stacey’s voice in my ears is jarring. For a moment, I’d forgotten she was still on the phone. “Yes, yes, I’m here.”

“Well? Is Rafael with you or not?”

“He’s not. He said something came up at work and⁠—”

A string of curses cuts me off, so vicious they make me flinch. Stacey rarely swears around me. In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never heard her lose her cool like this. “Find out everything you can and get back to me. I’ll mobilize a small team here while we wait for you.”

The call ends abruptly, leaving me in a suffocating silence. My throat feels tight, my stomach a roiling mess of anxiety and dread. This can’t be happening.

I force myself into motion, trudging out of the bedroom on unsteady legs to check every room. Living room—empty. Kitchen—empty. Dining room, library—all empty. Are the guys with him? The question nags at me, adding another layer to my growing unease.

Back upstairs, I start opening doors. Laundry room, two guest bedrooms, and finally… his office. I hesitate at the threshold, knowing this is it. The point of no return. Once I go in there and start digging through his things, there will be no coming back. If I find what I’m afraid I’ll find…

A shudder racks down my body despite the warmth blasting through the heaters in the penthouse. But then again, it has nothing to do with being cold. I inhale deeply. One deep breath. Two. Then I walk in, carefully closing the door behind me with a soft click that feels as final as a coffin lid.

The large desk in the middle of the office draws me like a magnet. There are two drawers, and I hunker down, fully expecting some kind of resistance as I tug on the top one. To my surprise, it slides open easily. Huh.

I freeze, a fresh wave of nausea washing over me as realization sucker punches my gut. He trusts me. Completely, utterly trusts me. That’s why the front door is unlocked, why his office is accessible. In his world, enemies don’t make it past his men. And me? He has no idea I could be working against him. These drawers are unlocked because the thought of me betraying him has never even crossed his mind. To him, I’m not an enemy. I’m his…

Bile rises in my throat, sharp and sudden, and I clamp a hand over my mouth, fighting it back. Then I drop my hand and carefully breathe through my mouth until it passes. When it does, I force myself to think.

I have to do this. If not for anything but to be sure what kind of person the man I’ve fallen in love with really is.

With shaking hands, I rummage through the drawer, but there’s nothing useful. Just a mess of receipts that make no sense, credit cards, some car keys, and… my fingers brush something that makes my heart stop—the familiar blue box he dropped on the table at our very first dinner together.

I slam the drawer shut.

The second drawer isn’t much better. It’s filled with random junk that’s not particularly useful or damning.

Then I direct my attention to the desk itself. Could he really be so brazen as to place something incriminating out in the open? As I sweep over it, my fingers brush against something—a handwritten note in unfamiliar handwriting. There’s a name on it: Little River Home.

It’s the name of an orphanage.

My hands now shake so badly I can barely type out the name to Stacey. Her reply is instant.

Stacey

That’s where the child was kidnapped.

It feels like the final nail in a coffin I never wanted built. No. There has to be a good reason why he has this on his desk. There has to be. My chest constricts until it burns to suck in oxygen, my heart pounding so painfully and loudly in my ears it drowns out everything else.

I move to his laptop and stare blankly at the password prompt. I key in his birthday—wrong.

I hesitate, then key in my birthday—wrong again. Tears of frustration prick in the corner of my eyes. Damn it, what password could he have used, what⁠—

A ridiculous notion pops into my head, and I almost laugh at the absurdity. No way it’s that. I hesitate again, but desperation wins out, and I type in the date from six years ago—the day everything went to hell.

The screen unlocks.

My jaw drops as I stare at the home screen of his laptop. I’m in. I’m actually in.

Several tabs are open at the bottom, like breadcrumbs left out just for me. This is almost too easy.

The first one is a Word document—a draft of some contract. I skim it briefly, but it’s nothing useful. Typical business jargon. I back out, careful not to close it. Can’t afford to leave any clues that I’ve been snooping.

The second tab pulls up a folder full of photos. Mean-looking men stare back at me, and I feel a chill crawl down my spine. Who the hell are these guys? I don’t recognize any of them, but they sure don’t look like the friendly type. Are these people he’s working with? Or worse, people he’s trying to take out?

Then I open the third tab, and my heart lurches. It’s a map of the city—no, wait. I squint, trying to make sense of it. The map is dotted with moving red points, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. It’s a tracker.

There are four dots, converging and moving in the same direction. It takes a second, but then it hits me. It’s him. And Maximo. And Romero. And Michael. My mind reels as I try to process what I’m seeing. They’re being tracked. Somehow, someway. There’s a device on them—phones? But more importantly, where the hell are they going?

My phone beeps with a text.

Stacey

Found anything?

I stare at the screen, paralyzed. This is it for real now. I have a moment to make a decision. Lie and say I found nothing, that there was nothing incriminating on his desk, and I couldn’t get into his computer. Or… tell her the truth, potentially destroying not just Rafael, but myself and the others in the process.

It shouldn’t be hard to make a decision, but fuck it is.

My eyes flick back to the tracker, studying it like it holds the answers to the universe.

What I’ve done so far can still be forgiven. I could rationalize it. But this, giving out their locations to the feds—that’s some next-level shit, even though I’m with the feds now—that would be breaking the omerta. And there would be no coming back from it.

But as I study the map, zeroing in on the little red line trailing what I assume is their vehicle, the air knocks out of my lungs. The more I look, the worse it gets. No, no, this can’t be right. My hands shake uncontrollably as I double-check the path, hoping I’m wrong. But there it is, staring me in the face. Little River Home.

What are the odds that they were right there the same night a child was kidnapped?

“No.” I shake my head in denial as I take a step back from the laptop. “No. No. No.”

But the evidence is right in front of me, undeniable and damning.

“Well, I discovered more about the–” Michael trailing off with a cough, his light blue eyes settling on mine. “We needed to discuss a course of action for that… thing, so we came over to wait for you.”

Rafael’s gruff, “You should’ve called me.”

The memories loop in my head like a horrible reel, over and over and over, until I’m about to break. I clamp my hands over my ears and shut my eyes, trying to physically block out the truth. But it’s no use. My knees buckle weakly, and I let myself crumple to the floor, rocking back and forth as my mind wages war with my heart.

There has to be an explanation. There has to be. There has to be.

What other explanation could there be? Stacey showed you evidence that you refused to believe, and now you won’t believe what you’ve seen with your own eyes?

Another message chimes in, breaking through my internal turmoil. I slowly drop my hands from my ears to check it.

Stacey

You there?

What does it say about me that even now, faced with hard evidence, I still can’t fully accept that Rafael could be capable of something like this? Am I really going to choose my heart over the right thing to do?

What would my father have done?

Even as it pops into my head, I know it’s pointless. Because I already know exactly what he would’ve done. Tomassi Rossi was a hero who died in the line of duty while trying to bring about justice. And who killed him? Alfonso Moretti—Rafael’s father.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.

I feel the numbness creeping in, taking over as I type out a reply to Stacey, spilling everything about the tracker. Time loses all meaning as she asks me to share the screen so the bureau’s tech team can duplicate it to follow the trail. I watch as the duplication happens, barely processing any of that.

“Stay put,” Stacey commands once it’s done. “We might still need your presence there. Be careful not to blow your cover.”

“Alright,” I answer emotionlessly.

There’s a pause, then, “I know you wanted him to be innocent, Emily. But it is what it is. Are you alright?”

No. I’m not alright.

I’m standing in the ashes of my world, and I lit the match myself.

“Let me know how it goes, please. If you—if you arrest him.” I force out before ending the call.

13

RAFAEL

“This fucker.” Romero’s voice drips with disgust as he tosses a glance back at me. “I thought you had Little Italy under control?”

I only clench my jaw, the rage building too strong to fire back a retort. Fuck. I do have it under control. Or at least, I thought I did until this little shit we’re following drove straight into my territory, proving that I absolutely don’t have it under contro, notl if it’s been the hotbed for these kidnappers all along.

We shadow him through the tight, winding streets I know by heart, into one of the redevelopment areas—or what’s supposed to be. Half-finished projects stand abandoned. Rotting. Perfect hideouts for vermin. Our target vanishes around a corner, but we don’t need visuals. Michael’s monitor shows the vehicle stopping in front of an old building that’s scheduled to be bulldozed any day now.

But then again, it’s been scheduled to be bulldozed ‘any day now’ for about six years.

My nails dig into my palms as the truth sinks in—these bastards have been operating right under my nose this whole time, and I didn’t even notice. Some king of the streets I’ve turned out to be.

Maximo pulls our van up to the curb and kills the engine. The silence feels loaded, expectant.

“Let’s get this asshole,” I growl, already on my feet. Michael nods, following suit.

My brothers and I exit the van and walk down the street, boots hitting the pavement that feels less like my territory and more like enemy ground now. We round the corner towards the dilapidated building—just a hollow-eyed corpse of brick and steel. No signs of life anywhere. Not even a stray cat.

I almost question if we’ve got the wrong spot, but Michael’s got this phone out, the screen glowing in his hand. And yes, the little blip on the map confirms it. Our suspect’s car is indeed parked somewhere inside.

We’re dealing with a smart motherfucker, no doubt.

Smart enough to operate from a place nobody would look twice. Smart enough to keep his head down until my brothers and I started our takeover of the city.

Six years ago, he got away with his sick games because of the series of crimes that took the city by storm. And hell, he would’ve gotten away with it again if it wasn’t for Romero taking on the case and bringing it to our attention. The thought makes my blood boil. How many more of these fuckers are hiding in my blind spots?

We walk through the gaping doorway of the building and, sure enough, there’s our suspect’s car—a run-down old sedan that looks like it’s been abandoned for decades. But Michael’s tracker doesn’t lie. This is his car. And when I place my hand on the bonnet, it’s warm.

A masterpiece of deception.

Maximo crouches, takes out the tracker from beneath the vehicle, and pockets it. I scan the wide-open space, searching for any sign of a hidden entrance. Since he’s not an amateur, he’ll have escape routes, security measures. My brothers fan out, combing every inch.

A few minutes later, Michael’s low whistle draws us in. He points to a ragged rug in the corner that wouldn’t catch your eye unless you’re looking for something out of place.

My gaze locks on it as I go down on my haunches to peel it back. Bingo. A wooden trapdoor, complete with an honest-to-god ring pull. How quaint. I yank it open, exposing a small ladder leading down to a basement.

My brothers and I exchange glances—Maximo’s already got his weapon drawn; Michael’s expression’s colder than usual. Romero’s eyes are sharp, calculating, and I can feel the tension crackling between us. We don’t need to say a word. We all know what to do.

I slide my gun from my holster and climb down the ladder first, followed closely by Maximo, Michael, and Romero.

We emerge into a narrow hallway, bathed in the sickly glow of red emergency lights. My phone vibrates in my pocket with a call, and I stiffen, coming to a halt.

Checking the screen, I see it’s Landon calling. He probably finally has something for me on Emilia. I end the call, refocusing on the task at hand. Whatever it is, it can wait. This can’t.

We continue walking down the hallway, silent as ghosts, until it opens into one big spacious room. Instantly, we put our backs to the wall, then inch forward to peek around the corner. One quick look tells me what we need to know—three tables pressed together to make one large surface, and on top, our kidnapped girl. She’s not moving, but I can see her chest rise and fall. The room is otherwise empty.

At the far end, there’s a doorway, and behind it, muffled Italian filters through. My instincts flare.

I signal behind me before I push away from the wall and quickly approach the door. The closer I get, the clearer the words become. My mind automatically translates as I listen, years of speaking both languages making it second nature.

“What do you mean you couldn’t find the fucking surgeon, Luka?” A commanding voice speaks—he’s in charge of this operation, no doubt about it. That’s the voice of someone used to being obeyed.

“I swear, boss.” This must be Luka. His voice carries a hint of fear. “It’s like he disappeared. He wasn’t home, his numbers were dead, and when I called you, you didn’t answer, so I went ahead to grab her anyway.”

The boss curses, then another voice speaks up, “You should’ve used your head, Luka. What are we supposed to do with the girl now that we don’t have a surgeon to operate on her?”

Chills run down my spine at how casually they’re discussing mutilating a child. I meet my brothers’ eyes, seeing my own disgust and rage mirrored there. With a quick questioning look, I silently ask for confirmation. And at their nod, I raise a finger—wait here so I can assess the situation first. They don’t like it, I can see it in their eyes, but they trust me.

The door handle is cold under my palm as I push it open.

Three pairs of eyes snap to me, and almost immediately, all three have their guns pointed my way. I force out a chuckle as I glance around the room that looks like someone’s sad attempt at a living space—a ratty mattress shoved against one wall, a mini-fridge humming in the corner, and behind a hulking desk, another door, probably leading to a bathroom.

“Hello, boys,” I drawl. “Heard you’re looking for a surgeon, and lucky for you, I happen to be—” The words die in my throat when my gaze meets the familiar brown eyes of the man sitting behind the desk.

Tomassi Rossi.

Emilia’s dead father.

“Detective Rossi?” I choke out.

He frowns as he takes me in, then his expression shifts. “Rafael Moretti,” he spits in disgust.

My phone begins to vibrate again—insistent, urgent—but I can’t tear my eyes away from this man who seems to have risen from the dead. His death was the catalyst for the torture we all faced at my father’s hands. Emilia was heartbroken, consumed by grief and anger. So, hungry for revenge, she went to one of my father’s warehouses and started the domino effect of it all.

But here he is—alive.

Not only alive but apparently dabbling in child trafficking and organ harvesting as well. What happened to that self-righteous son of a bitch who used to hound my father?

“What have you done?” The question comes out raw, disbelieving. I’m staring at him, trying to reconcile the upstanding law enforcer with this… this monster. How the hell does one go from upholding the law to—this?

“You don’t get to judge me, Rafael. Not after what you and your friends have been up to the past two months. So what if I faked my death to dodge suspicion for any of my crimes?”

Crimes? Just how much evil has this sanctimonious prick committed while playing dead? I grit my teeth, fury bubbling up. “And Emilia? You just abandoned her.”

“I never abandoned my daughter.” He says it with so much conviction, it almost makes me sick. “I knew she would be alright. I had… connections. People who promised to take care of her on the occasion of my death. She was fine; she is fine. Besides,” his eyes narrow dangerously, “you should be more worried about yourself right now.” He folds his arms across his chest and nods at the two other men, who cock their guns. “What are you doing here? How did you find us?”

I’m about to sneer out a response, but before I can, there’s a loud thud outside the room. Then two young boys burst in, both panting heavily, panic clear on their faces.

“Boss! We gotta split, now!” One gasps out. “Just passed by some officers on our way here. They’re nosing around outside—think they found something.”

His warning is accentuated by a loud gunshot from outside, and I stiffen, glancing back just as Rafael, Michael, and Maximo pour into the room, faces grim.

“There are over a dozen officers out there.” Michael frowns into his phone as he speaks. “But they’re not in uniform. They—fuck,” his head snaps up, eyes wide, “they’re feds.”

What the fuck are the FBI doing here?

“You fucking led them here!” Tomassi roars as he gets to his feet, raking his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair.

I raise an eyebrow and snort. “What a wild accusation.” But inside, I’m reeling. How did this go sideways so fast? What the hell is going on? And why won’t my goddamn phone stop vibrating! Landon is not the type to spam me with calls unless… unless it’s life or death. Something’s really wrong.

With a growl of frustration, I turn away from Tomassi as I answer, “I’m a little busy right now, Landon, we⁠—”

“Emilia Rossi is an FBI agent!” he gasps out, rocking my world.

Everything stops. My heart, my breath, time itself.

What the fuck?

“I’m on the run right now because the database I hacked into to get the information got corrupted as soon as I accessed it, and they might be able to trace my IP back to me. My life might be in danger right now, so I’m about to go off-grid. You won’t be able to reach me for the next few days.”

Landon’s voice fades into white noise. My mind’s still stuck on the first part—Emilia. FBI agent.

Before I can even begin to process this bombshell, an actual explosion erupts through the main room.

The blast shakes the entire basement, sending shrapnel flying as the walls shatter. The force of it throws me to my knees, ears ringing, the sharp sting of dust and debris scratching at my skin.

The girl. Christ, the little girl was out there.

Coughing, I scramble to my hands and knees, spitting out dust, eyes burning. Through the haze, I see Romero and we share a quick glance. He pulls himself up shakily, dust falling from his body as he tiptoes to check out the incinerated room. One look at his face tells me everything. She’s gone. Another innocent claimed by the FBI’s scorched-earth tactics. Fuck.

I hate the fucking feds. They don’t care about the collateral damage if it means they’re able to apprehend their suspects.

Maximo and Michael slowly get up from the floor with low groans. I start to move towards them, but before I can reach them, gunshots spray into the room.

“Get down!” I yell, my voice hoarse. But I’m not fast enough. White-hot pain lances through my arm as a bullet finds its mark. I hit the floor, gritting my teeth against the agony. “Michael!”

I lock eyes with my brother, jerking my chin towards the door behind Tomassi’s toppled desk. As we scramble for cover, I spot Tomassi on the floor, panting as he tries to lift the weight of the heavy desk off his legs. Our gazes meet, and he blinks at me hopelessly. Fuck. The sight of him—trapped, desperate—makes something twist in my gut.

“Keep going,” I order my brothers while moving towards Tomassi. I can’t just leave him there to die. Not like this. Whatever he’s done, he’s still Emilia’s father.

I grunt as I try to help him lift the heavy desk, but it’s no use. My arm screams in protest, weakening my efforts.

Tomassi curses, then grabs my wrist, yanking my focus to him. “There’s a backdoor in the storage room your friends went to. You’ll see a shelf, pull out the book with Emilia’s name, and it will open. There’s—” A bullet rips into his throat, his body convulsing. Blood spurts from his mouth as he gurgles out one last word. “Sta—Stacey.” Then his head drops. He’s dead.

This time, Detective Rossi is truly, irrevocably dead.

I suck in a sharp breath and whip around. Standing there, cold eyes glinting above a smoking gun, is an older woman with black hair pulled back in a severe bun. Slowly, I get to my feet, weary and on edge, body aching from the explosion, but my gun steady in her direction as I retreat.

I know her. I remember her. She was there that night Emilia disappeared, when I stormed into that damn restaurant she was working at after reading her letter.

The woman was one of the patrons, who watched me lose my mind looking for answers. And when I finally stopped raging, she had the nerve to look me in the eye and say, “It’s a good thing she ran away, isn’t it?” I can still feel the fury that burned in my chest, the way it fueled me as I stomped out, even more pissed off than when I went in. God, I hated her then.

Time slows as the puzzle pieces click into place. She must have worked with Tomassi. She might even be the ‘connection’ he was so sure would look after Emilia. Did she recruit her? Is she the reason Emilia’s with the bureau?

Emilia. Christ. She’ll be devastated when she finds out about her father. But fuck, I have other things to worry about right now. Like the fact that I’m clearly outnumbered here with several guns pointed at me.

“If you’re going to shoot me, do it already,” I spit out as I cock my gun. “But I promise you, I won’t go down alone.”

One trigger-happy agent hisses at me and starts to squeeze, but the woman stops him with a raised hand. “No.”

So, she’s in charge. I keep my gaze and gun trained on her as I edge backward, every muscle coiled tight.

“But he’s getting away, Agent Rodrigues! What do we do?” The agent asks, his finger still itching on the trigger.

Rodrigues holds my gaze as she says, “We need him alive. Besides, according to the blueprint of this building, that room he’s going into is a dead end, so it’s not like he can escape.”

Without lowering my gun, I back into the darkened room. I lock the door behind me, not even sparing my brothers a glance as I take out my phone to use my flashlight.

Then I walk straight to the shelf, scanning for the book with Emilia's name and there—a hardcover copy titled Azaleas.

How the hell did Tomassi know I’d recognize Emilia’s middle name?

Well, no time to dwell on that now.

I yank the book, and a quiet click fills the air as the entire bookshelf swings inward. “Let’s go,” I hiss, eyes flicking back to the locked door that I expect to be kicked down any second now.

We jog out into the new hallway, making sure to close the shelf behind us. The hallway’s tight, and I can feel the tension squeezing my lungs as we head for the stairs at the far end. Up we go, taking them two at a time, then out into the night.

By the time we hit the van, we’re ghosts. Gone without a trace.

“Shit, you’re bleeding out, Rafael,” Michael mutters when I slump next to him in the van. His jacket is off in a flash, wrapping around my arm while Maximo floors the engine.

“It will be fine. I’ll live.” I try to sound tough, but the pain tearing through me makes my words sound hollow. Michael pulls the jacket even tighter, and I have to grit my teeth to fight back a groan as the pressure digs into the wound.

“Shit. Wasn’t that Detective Rossi in there? How is he still alive?” Maximo asks. “The man has a fucking headstone somewhere in this city.”

“Well, he’s dead for real now.” Romero’s quiet correction fills the van with heavy silence.

Michael’s brow furrows. “Hell, forget Rossi—how did the fucking feds find out about that den? You think… you think he was right? Did we lead them there somehow? Have they been watching us?”

Lead settles in my chest. I know how. Fucking Emilia. But I just glance away, shutting my eyes as the last puzzle piece clicks into place.

“What if I told you I missed the city? Missed… you?”

That was her answer when I asked her why she came back to Manhattan for her residency. But that was a lie. She didn’t come back for her fucking residency at all, but because of us. For some reason, she was assigned to monitor us and report our movements to her supervisors.

Chills fill my body as the reality of her betrayal sinks in. I was such an idiot, inviting her back into my life, my home... my heart. That little traitor. My jaw clenches, muscles rigid with anger while my brothers argue amongst themselves about how we were found.

One word from me would clear their confusion, but I remain quiet. Because I can’t bring myself to say it—not even now, after everything. And that just pisses me off even more. The fact that I’m still protecting her makes me want to smash my fist through the fucking window.

When we pull into the underground garage at my penthouse, I finally speak up as Maximo cuts the engine. “You guys should head home. I’ll be in touch.”

“What?” Maximo frowns at me, but I’m already out of the van, feeling their confused gazes boring into my back as I make my way to the elevator.

I nod to my security team as I pass them in the hallway, then push into my penthouse. And there she is. Emilia. Pacing in front of the living room, looking like she’s rehearsing for a part in some drama. The second I walk in, her eyes go wide, mouth dropping open.

“Rafael, you’re hurt!” She rushes towards me, face etched with what looks like genuine concern. It’s convincing, but now I see it for what it is. What a little actress. Every touch, every smile, every moment between us—was any of it real?

I step back before she can touch me. “Don’t,” I say coldly. Ice coats every syllable. “What did you think would happen when you sicced your fed buddies on us? That we’d sit down and chat over fucking tea and cookies?!”

She recoils as if I just hit her, eyes flying to mine, and her arms just drop to her sides like she’s suddenly helpless. Oscar-worthy performance from the bureau’s finest. “You… you know?”

“What? You thought I wouldn’t find out?”

“I didn’t want to do it!” she cries. “But someone had to stop you and the others, Rafael. Did you think your takeover of the New York Cosa Nostra went unnoticed? The bloody trail you’ve left behind you? And, and now what? Kidnapping little girls? Torturing them? I couldn’t stand back and watch you destroy yourself. The Rafael I knew would never⁠—”

“Shut the fuck up,” I roar. My hands curl into fists as I fight the urge to throttle her while she goes on her tirade. So self-righteous—just like her father was. At least before he turned for reasons best known to him. “Shut the fuck up, you sanctimonious little traitor.”

“Oh, please, Rafael. I wouldn’t have had to betray you if you didn’t turn into this… criminal. What happened to you? I thought you hated your father and everything he stood for. How could you go down this path!”

I scoff, shoving my hands into my hair. “You want to know how? Maybe because I’m sick of being powerless. Of watching the people I love get hurt and not being able to do a damn thing about it.”

Images flash through my mind—that first hellish year after we left Little Italy. The gnawing terror when Emilia vanished with a trace. The soul-crushing loneliness as my brothers drifted away, forging their own paths.

“Maybe because I wanted to be so powerful no one would dare stand before me and spew the rubbish you’re spewing at me now. Maybe because I want to be able to protect what’s mine.” But she only stares at me with big eyes, shaking her head like she can’t understand.

I should fucking kill her for what she did—for putting my brothers and me in danger. My fists tighten in my hair because I know I can’t do that. Can’t stand to see her hurt.

“Get the fuck out of my house, Emilia. I don’t ever want to see your face again.”

She flinches, her face paling, eyes brimming with tears. I turn my back to her as my chest tightens and concern pierces through my anger. Fuck her and how she makes me feel.

“Rafael, please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “We can get past this. Don’t you see? The only thing standing between us is this… this career you’ve chosen. You want to get married? Let’s do that. A wife can’t investigate or testify against her husband.”

I glance back at her in disbelief. But she’s still looking up at me, eyes wide with desperate, fearful hope, with tears rolling down her face. Is she fucking serious? “You should have told me everything when I first proposed. We could have worked things out then. It’s too late now.”

“No!” She lunges forward, her face crumpling up even more as she grabs my arms. “Don’t say that. I only agreed to help them to prove your innocence, I swear. And then I saw the name of the orphanage on your desk and thought it might be best if you were stopped, and I—I…” She trails off, choking on a sob.

I watch, almost fascinated by the way her face contorts like she’s in pain, and despite myself, a twinge of doubt niggles at me, but I crush it. “Fool me once and all that, amorina,” I say, twisting the endearment into something bitter, mocking.

Then she does the one thing I least expect—she looks me dead in the eye. And for a split second, it fucking catches me off guard. She holds my gaze, unwavering, even as her lips tremble and more tears spill down her face. “You’re breaking my heart, Rafael. Can’t you see my sincerity?”

The rawness in her eyes stabs me. But I force the feeling back. “I can only break your heart if you gave it to me in the first place, Emilia. But you haven’t, have you? If you had, you wouldn’t have been able to go through with your plans to betray me.”

With that, I bury whatever doubt I still feel in the deepest part of me. Then, rolling my eyes with derision, I continue. “The guys and I could have died tonight because of you.” The reminder fuels my anger, effectively snuffing out the rest of my emotions. “I should kill you for that. You know the consequence for breaking the omerta is death. But you’ve got me so tied up I can’t even do that. But don’t test me, Emilia. Your deceitful tears can’t fool me, and if I have to look at your face for a second longer, I’m not sure what I might do to you.”

She sobs, backing away from me like my words are weapons. Then she spins around and flees from my apartment.

I watch her go, heart tightening painfully in my chest as the door slams behind her.

And with a roar of pure anguish, I drive my fist into the nearest wall, embracing the pain that vibrates from my wrecked hand.

Again and again, until my knuckles are a bloody mess and my throat is raw from screaming.

EPILOGUE

EMILIA

“You did well, Emily.” Stacey smiles at me from behind her desk. “We didn’t make any arrests, but we were able to put a stop to the child trafficking operation. That’s a great start for you.”

I nod numbly, gaze resting on a point beyond her shoulders. My brain is fuzzy, thoughts moving like molasses. I’m vaguely aware that I should feel something about this—pride, maybe? Relief? But The words ‘great start’ just echo hollowly in my mind. Great start to what? A life of lies and betrayal?

“There’s something you need to see” She continues, turning her laptop to me. “I debated if I should show you or not, but I think it’s for the best you know and⁠—”

The rest of her words dissolve into meaningless noise as the video starts playing. My entire world narrows to the screen in front of me, and suddenly my heart is trying to punch its way out of my chest.

It’s my dad.

Not the dad in my memories, the one forever preserved in the amber of the past. This is a dad that time didn’t forget—what I imagine he would look like if he had the chance to grow older. His hair, once purely brown, now carries strands of silver. New lines frame his mouth and eyes, telling stories of years I never got to witness.

My lips part as I lean closer, watching the video greedily, drinking in every pixel, every movement. “H–how?”

She sighs heavily, her shoulders sagging slightly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. We found Tomassi’s body after his altercation with Alfonso Moretti and nursed him back to life. By then, the news about his death had already spread. I was little more than a rookie back then. He was put into witness protection and, well, you know what that means.”

I do know. God, I know all too well. New identity, new life, complete secrecy—witnesses are hidden from the world, from anyone dangerous. But I’m his daughter, for fuck’s sake. I should have been told.

But then I realize what she’s saying.

He’s alive. My dad is alive.

Sweet hope and happy disbelief soar through me. I’m already imagining our reunion, the questions I’ll ask, the things I’ll tell him—but as I move my gaze from the video to Stacey, ready to demand answers and beg for a reunion, her grim expression stops me cold.

“I was going to let you two meet each other and catch up after you completed your first mission, but…” She pauses, and I can see the weight of her next words. “Rafael Moretti got to him.”

The words drop like stones into the pit of my stomach.

“What?” I gasp. The hope in my chest curdles into something dark and awful. There’s no way. Rafael wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t. But my brain conjures the cold fury in his eyes three nights ago when he came home with that jacket tied over his bleeding arm. The way he looked at me like I was a stranger. An enemy…

“I called Tomassi to the city when I saw how sad you were following your first mission. But Rafael got to him as soon as he arrived. Just like he got to you in your apartment the night you came back.” She watches me closely, studying my expression. “He killed your father, Emily.”

I shake my head slowly, my gaze drawn to the video on the screen where my father—my living, breathing father—is frozen in time once again. I can’t breathe. My brain is a tornado of thoughts, memories, emotions. Six years of grieving, of finally accepting his death—all undone in an instant. To find out he was alive all this time, only to lose him again… in the same breath? It’s beyond cruel.

“That family killed your father twice. First Alfonso, then his son. Are you going to let it slide?” Stacey continues, her mouth twitching a little like she enjoys watching my turmoil—but that doesn’t make sense.

I stand abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. Then without a word, I turn and leave her office.

Rafael killed your father. Rafael killed your father. Rafael killed your father.

My brain plays those words on a loop, over and over, as I walk out of the federal office building. A gust of cold air slaps me across the face, but I’m already so numb, I barely feel it.

But as I walk and those damning words become louder and louder and louder in my head, my numb fog is finally pierced by an emotion.

Anger. No. Rage. Pure, unfiltered rage.

So, what, because I betrayed him, he decided to retaliate by killing my dad?

Hot tears spill down my cheeks, evaporating almost immediately in the frigid air. I sniffle, trying to breathe through the familiar ache in my chest. The ache that's been my constant companion since our fight three nights ago, before I shut it all off.

Killed my father.

How did he even find out Dad was alive in the first place? The tiny side of me still clinging to disbelief asks, and I pause for a moment. Maybe the same way he found you the very first night you got back into the city, my cynical side supplies.

But it doesn’t fucking matter how he found him. What matters is that Rafael killed my dad. Stacey has absolutely no reason to lie to me about that. And he had every reason to do it after I betrayed him.

My heart freezes and hardens against him.

Too bad his own father is already rotting in the ground, or I’d gladly return the favor.

I stop walking, surprised to find myself in front of my old condo. Stacey had me move out after what went down. It probably isn’t safe to be here now, since Rafael knows this address and might be lurking, ready for another round of revenge.

Let him try. My hand moves to my waist, touching my gun. I dare that bastard to show his face.

The doorman doesn’t get his usual greeting as I march past. In the elevator, I tap my foot impatiently the whole ride up, hand still on my weapon. When the doors finally slide open on the third floor, I draw my gun, prepared for an ambush. But the hallway is empty.

No… not entirely empty.

My heart skips when I spot something near my front door—a huge blue planter and a gift box. The sprout growing from the sand looks ridiculously small in comparison to the oversized pot.

I take a deep breath, holstering my gun before bending down to inspect the bizarre gifts. There’s a sticker on the planter. I tear it off and read the message.

Think of this as our baby together and nurture it with love.

No signature. It doesn’t need one.

An angry growl bursts from my chest when a jolt of something suspiciously like excitement zips through me, and I move my attention to the flat square box next to the planter.

I snatch it up and slide it open, gasping at the contents.

No fucking way…

It’s even worse than the red panties and lace gold bras.

How dare he.

I’m about to throw the box back to the floor when I notice another note inside. Reluctantly, I examine it.

You can run from me, amorina, but you’ll always be mine, betrayal or not. When the time is right, I’ll find you and I’ll take what’s rightfully mine.

“The audacity of this murderous bastard,” I seethe. In what twisted world does he think there might still be something between us? After he killed my dad? Does he think he was so smart with it that I wouldn’t find out?

My fingers crush the note. “You’ll find me? No, Rafael. When the time is right, I'll find you first. And you’ll die by my hands.”

I slam the box shut aggressively, not able to bear the sight of his ‘gifts’ any longer.

This isn’t over.

Not by a long fucking shot.

What comes next?

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