DEVIL’S TULIP

NIGHTSHADES

ROSELYN ASH

SASHA LEONE

Copyright © 2022 by Roselyn Ash & Sasha Leone

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

GIANNA

“No.”

The word hangs between us, a fragile lifeline I’ve just thrown myself. In the ten years I’ve lived under Uncle Aldo’s roof, I’ve never dared to say it. Not to his face. Not aloud. I didn’t have the guts. Hell, I still don’t. But sometimes, the scariest monster isn’t the one who raised you—it’s the one he’s chosen for your happily never after.

Uncle Aldo narrows his cold, dead eyes at me, and I feel that fleeting spark of courage shrivel up and die somewhere between my racing heart and churning stomach. Stupid, stupid girl. What were you thinking? When he leans forward in his chair, I clamp my lips shut and force myself to breathe through my nose. The last thing I need is to puke on his expensive rug.

That will only piss him off more.

“The wedding is on Friday,” he continues, as if my refusal didn’t register at all. “Carlo wants to take you out tomorrow to officially propose. We’ll say you two met a month ago, fell madly in love⁠—”

I can’t hear the rest.

His grand plans fade into an annoying buzz as my mind does what it does best lately—it retreats. Still, I can’t escape the cruel glint in his eyes, the eager way his meaty hands gesticulate as he monologues.

Whether he’s thrilled to finally be rid of me or savoring whatever sick deal he’s struck with Carlo in exchange for my unwilling hand in marriage, I’m not sure. All I know is that, for once in my pathetic life, the cost of defying him feels cheaper than the price of obedience.

The man he wants me to marry, Carlo Santiago, is famous—or infamous— for his untimely marriages. It’s hardly a secret that his poor wives’ accidental deaths were anything but. And now I’m supposed to be next in line.

I always knew that when I eventually married, it would be to a man of my uncle's choosing, not my desire. But why Carlo of all people? That’s not a marriage; it’s an execution with extra steps.

And I sure as hell won’t smile my way to the gallows just to please my family.

“You hear me, girl?” Uncle Aldo’s voice snaps like a whip, jerking me out of my thoughts.

“I said no,” I repeat, the word stronger this time despite the way my legs threaten to buckle.

He doesn’t ignore this one.

Uncle Aldo’s face darkens like a storm rolling in, his chair tilting dangerously as he pushes up with sudden force.

I stumble back instinctively, away from him, nearly tripping over my own feet. Another step, then one more—just in case he decides to backhand me like he’s been doing more and more lately whenever his patience with me runs out.

“Enough of this nonsense,” he growls, nodding to one of his ever-present guards, stationed there for reasons known only to Uncle Aldo and his constant paranoia that his enemies will get to him, even inside his own home.

Then I feel it: the oppressive heat of another body searing into my back, bringing with it the acrid stench of sweat and gunpowder that clings to all his men. My stomach gurgles audibly as rough fingers dig into my upper arm. Fuck, not now. I swallow back the nausea, but it’s no use. Uncle Aldo’s smirk spreads. He’s reading it all—every ounce of my fear—and he fucking thrives on it.

“Yes, Gia. It is done. You’ll go to dinner with Carlo tomorrow and smile prettily at him. Come Friday, you’ll be his blushing bride, just as I’ve arranged. Do you understand me? Now go get yourself dolled up.”

Another curt nod, and I’m being dragged towards the study door and shoved over the threshold with enough power to send me lurching forward.

The unforgiving tiles rush up to meet me as I throw my hands out to break my fall. My palms slap the icy marble, and I hiss a breath at the sharp, stinging pain that vibrates up my arms. For a few heartbeats, I just stay there, chest heaving with my panicked breaths.

Shit. Shit. What do I do?

I can’t marry Carlo.

I refuse to end up another convenient accident.

Gritting my teeth, I push myself off the floor. Every movement aches, but not nearly as much as the bitter longing gnawing at my chest. I’m not asking for love, damn it. Just a shred of decency. A flicker of care. Something to remind me I’m a person, not a bargaining chip.

When I finally push myself off the floor, I hear footsteps, and Aunt Marie appears around the hallway corner.

We both go still, studying each other warily, before her perfectly painted lips curve into that familiar arctic smile that never reaches her eyes. “I see Aldo told you the happy news.”

Happy news. Like hell.

I don’t respond, just watch her for a moment longer. Aunt Marie has always made her feelings clear: she hates my guts. Even during the early days after my parents’ deaths, when Uncle Aldo and everyone else coddled me in an attempt to snap me out of my destructive grief. I still don’t know what I did to earn such loathing. Every attempt to please her only seemed to deepen it.

“I’ve had Bea lay out a dress on your bed. Your fiancé sent it himself. That’s what he wants to see you in for your date tomorrow.”

My fiancé.

The ache in my chest swells into a suffocating throb, each beat making it harder to breathe as the room spins around me. And in a moment of desperate insanity, I make the stupidest move imaginable—I seek out an ally in her. Crossing the space between us, I grab her hand. “Aunt Marie, please. I can’t marry Carlo. Talk to Uncle. I’ll marry anyone else without a fuss, I swear, but not Carlo. He’s been widowed five times! His wives were killed by⁠—”

“Enough!” She yanks her hand away, her face twisting with revulsion. “You’ve always been such an ungrateful brat. My husband and I housed you when you had nowhere to go. We fed you, raised you, and now, when it’s time for you to repay us, this is how you do it?”

Words tangle on my tongue, caught behind the lump in my throat, as her face blurs through stinging tears. “B–but⁠—”

“This is the problem with orphans,” she continues her rant, her voice dripping with the same hateful disdain she’s always reserved for me. “If your parents didn’t have the good grace to hang around long enough to take care of you, then you should at least have the decency to be grateful to your benefactors and do as you’re told. We don’t owe you a thing, Gianna. You owe us. And it’s high time you paid your dues.”

“But I’ve always done what I was told! I’ve never⁠—”

“Silence!” Her hand snaps up, and as I flinch, tears spill down my cheeks before I can stop them. That brings a sickening glint of glee to her dark eyes, like I’ve just given her what she wanted.

Right. My pain has always seemed to feed her joy in some twisted way. Forgetting myself, even for a moment, was stupid.

I swipe at the tears quickly, refusing to give her more. Then I swallow around the painful lump in my throat, drop my gaze to the floor, and shuffle past her, practically plastering myself to the opposite wall to avoid brushing against her.

What did I do to deserve this? Seriously, what?

I’ve tried so hard to be the perfect niece. I do as I’m told, keep quiet, earned grades so good I got a full academic ride to college. Bled my very soul onto the⁠—

“Ugh.” The grunt slips out as I collide with something solid. Before I can process what’s happening, I’m slammed into the wall. The impact sends a jolt through my skull and hip, so hard there’s an audible crack, followed by a burst of pain that knocks the air from my lungs.

Through watering eyes, I make out Dario’s scowling face as he snarls, “Watch where the fuck you’re going, Gigi.”

My cousin invades my space deliberately, ramming his shoulder into mine as he passes. I stagger, gasping as my head connects with the hard surface again. The hallway tilts, and I desperately slap my palms against the wall, hugging it to stay upright.

As I stand there, trying to breathe through my pain for God knows how long, something deep inside me just… snaps.

Maybe it’s the thought of Carlo’s ring on my finger, or the way Dario’s smirk mirrors Uncle Aldo’s. Whatever it is, it seems to swallow my fears whole until all that’s left is a strange, crystalline clarity. And suddenly, I stop giving a fuck about the consequences.

I limp to my room, straight to the tattered backpack slung over my chair. It’s a relic from my teenage years—the last gift my parents gave me. Somehow, it has survived all this time, just like me, so I always carry it with me on errands. I guess it makes me feel like they’re still here. Like I’m not completely alone.

Dumping the bag on my bed, I make my way to the walk-in closet, where I peel off my clothes in front of the mirror. The sight stops me cold. The ugly, purple swelling on my hip stands out like a trophy of Dario’s latest victory, a fresh addition to the fading bruises already decorating my stomach. My lips press together as I twist for a better look. At least this time he stopped at shoving me against the wall. Lucky me…

I grab a pain relief patch from the back of my underwear drawer—my makeshift first aid kit, stocked up over years of “accidents”—and carefully smooth it over the worst of the swelling. Then I turn to the racks of clothes.

I’ve fantasized about running away from home for years but never had the lady balls to actually do it. Amazing how being offered up as the sacrificial lamb to Uncle Aldo’s ambitions makes a girl grow a pair.

First challenge: walking through the house with an obviously stuffed backpack would raise red flags. Solution? Wear as many clothes as physically possible.

Layer by layer, I transform myself into a walking closet. I yank down two pairs of leggings, then jeans, then slacks, stacking them slowly over my legs. Each tug sends a flare of pain through my hip, but I grit my teeth and keep going. Next, I raid the tops: a tank top first, then a silk top, a crop top, and finally, a turtleneck.

When I check my reflection again in the mirror, I look like I’ve suddenly gained five kilos overnight. But I don’t care how I look. Function over fashion.

My coat goes on last—the final layer of armor. Not exactly bulletproof, but it’ll have to do.

After twisting my hair into its usual messy bun, I walk back into the bedroom. The picture frame from my bedside table goes into my bag first. Then it’s off to the bathroom to add essentials: toothbrush, toothpaste, and a few toiletries. I don’t take too much. The goal is to look normal, not like I’m running for my life.

Underwear goes in next, followed by my credit card—a measly three hundred bucks daily limit, but it’s enough for today. I’ll drain it and ditch it before they can use it to track me down.

Okay. That’s it.

Swinging my backpack over my shoulder, I take one final look around and feel… nothing. No regrets. No sadness. Just a cold, determined resolve. The dress Carlo sent lies sprawled across my bed like a funeral shroud. A grim reminder of the fate waiting for me if I stay.

Not a chance. That won’t be me.

Without a second glance back, I step out of my room. For the last time.

Uncle Aldo’s men barely flick their eyes my way as I limp past them out of the house. Another day, another bruise—nothing worth their attention. And since they’ve never bothered looking too closely, none of them notice the extra layers I’m smuggling under my coat.

I reach the garage without any trouble, naturally drifting towards my old Buick. But then something shiny catches my eye, and I stop. Slowly, my gaze drifts to the luxury sports car in the corner. Dario’s baby.

A wicked smile creeps across my lips as a delicious, reckless, utterly insane plan takes shape.

Before I can second-guess this surge of vindictive brilliance, I make my way to the safe where the keys for all the cars in the garage are stored, take out the Jaguar’s key, and press the fob.

The car chirps cheerfully, its lights blinking as if eager to join my rebellion.

What’s the worst they can do when they find out I ran away and took Dario’s baby? Kill me? I throw my head back, laughing maniacally as a thrill of adrenaline rushes through my veins.

My steps are lighter as I approach his car. The door yields to me easily, and I slide into the driver's seat like I’ve always belonged there. I place my backpack between my thighs as I turn the ignition, and oh—the engine wakes with a deep, satisfying purr that vibrates through my bones and straight into places that make me shiver.

“Sweet baby,” I murmur appreciatively, gliding my hand over the steering wheel’s smooth curves. “You don’t deserve what I’m about to do with you.”

And God, I mean it. Every word. The thought of it almost pains me—I’m not exactly the destructive type. Not like them. But then I picture just how enraged and frustrated Dario will be when he finds out what I’ve done… and that makes it all worthwhile.

It’s in that moment that I realize: there’s nothing more dangerous than an angry woman with nothing to lose.

And I’ve officially reached my breaking point.

A week ago, the very idea of running away would have been unthinkable, a fantasy so far beyond my reach it might as well have been on another planet. And doing it in Dario’s expensive car? I’d have been scared shitless of his retaliation.

But that was before Uncle Aldo signed my death warrant with a wedding invitation. If I’m going to die anyway, I might as well go out on my own terms, middle fingers raised.

Fuck them. Fuck this place.

I throw the car into reverse and back out of the garage. For a moment, I brace myself for shouts, pounding footsteps, even gunfire. But the compound stays silent. Nobody stops me, the huge front gates opening up automatically as I approach them.

The tint on the windows and the upper windshield keeps me hidden from the guards. And because Dario is a piece of shit everyone here fears even more than Uncle Aldo, they’d never imagine anyone brave enough to steal his car—least of all little ole me—so they don’t bother to stop and search it like they would if I were leaving in my Buick.

My grin grows wider as I drive out of the compound.

1

MICHAEL

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.” I narrow my eyes on the house filled with bright, almost blinding lights sitting back from the road. “Are they really in there?”

No one could possibly be that stupid, right?

Everyone in this city knows the rules: you steal from me—or my brothers—and you might as well dig your own grave. If you’re dumb enough to try, and you’re caught, you run like Satan himself is on your heels. What you don’t do is hole up in a house that might as well have a neon sign saying, Here we are.

And yet, these brain-dead morons haven’t just been stealing our pharmaceutical products, they’ve been diluting them with addictive drugs and regurgitating them back onto the streets. The arrogance is unreal.

Lorenzo chuckles beside me. “Oh, they’re in there alright. Jake has a hard-on for his fancy security system. Thinks it makes him untouchable.”

I don’t miss his jab at me. I’ve been refusing his advice to bring guards into my home instead of relying solely on my security software. But there’s a crucial difference between this Jake character and me—I don’t just put blind faith in my security.

I built that software with my own hands. Line by line, code by code, dismantled and rebuilt it countless times until it became unbreachable by anyone except the creator. Me.

And the delicious irony? Jake’s fortress runs on my architecture.

“Stay here until I call you in,” I order while unlocking my car.

“Oh, trust me. I’m perfectly content watching the ‘Mad Hatter’ in all his glory from the comfort of this seat.” He smirks, propping his feet up on the dash.

I would roll my eyes if I were the type, but I’m not. So instead, I flip him the middle finger on my way out. The nickname doesn’t bother me—in fact, it serves its purpose perfectly, instilling just the right amount of fear in the cockroaches I have to share this planet with. Hell, I even tracked down the man who coined it four years ago and gave him a million dollars for his ingenuity. After ripping out his tongue for his audacity, of course. The name stuck, and I’ve grown rather fond of it. It’s catchy and popular.

I adjust the lapel of my suit as I cross the lawn, a ripple of satisfaction rolling through me with every step that triggers the motion sensor lights. It’s theatrical, almost poetic—like the universe itself is spotlighting my arrival. I hope Jake and his partner are enjoying the show as much as I am. These are their final moments breathing my air, after all.

At last, I reach the front steps and climb to the porch where a thick, reinforced glass door separates me from my prey. Beside it, a sleek panel awaits a code or biometric scan.

“What genius designed this?” I smirk, admiring my handiwork. Then, suddenly, light floods the anteroom, and I glance up to see two men watching me through the glass. One of them cowers back the moment our eyes meet, but the other one… arrogance practically drips off him.

“What is the Mad Hatter looking for on my doorstep?” he sneers, crossing his arms over his chest with disdain.

My smirk vanishes as I study him. While I don’t mind the nickname, only a very select few can call me that to my face and keep their head attached to their body. If I had any notion of showing these two mercy—which I hadn’t—his comment just buried it.

“You’ve been stealing from me, Jake. I’ve come to collect my due.” My gaze slides to his spineless sidekick, who gulps and takes another stumbling step back.

“No, don’t be scared, Damien.” Jack waves at the terrified man, motioning for him to stay put before returning his focus to me with a smug grin. “Mr. Hart here has no proof we’re the one he’s looking for. And besides, we’re safe here. This house is perhaps the safest place on earth for us.”

I chuckle slowly. “Is that so?”

“I paid millions of dollars for the security this fortress provides. It’s unhackable,” he brags, then faces Damien. “He can’t override the system no matter how big a brain he has.”

Damien doesn’t look convinced, but Jake just grins wider, making a show of flicking the mic off inside so I can’t hear the rest of the bullshit he’s spouting.

I tilt my head, amused by his idiocy. He honestly believes anywhere is safe from me. Me. Michael Hart. It's like he doesn’t know me, even though my reputation obviously precedes me. His naivety is only accelerating his death sentence.

Time for a reality check.

“What’s this system? Core Power?” I ask, almost conversationally, as I pull my work tablet from my suit jacket and start tapping a few keys. “Funny thing about that system. Know what company makes it?”

Jake’s smug smile falters. He mouths something to Damien, but the dumbass just shrugs.

“No? It’s Innovicore. And Innovicore, well, they’re a subsidiary of HartSphere.” I let that little nugget of info sink in before I twist the knife. “And you know who owns HartSphere, right?” I smirk, pointing to myself.

“No. No way.” The frown that creases his forehead is delicious—confusion giving way to the first tendrils of fear. “HartSphere specializes in phones and gadgets and some video games and a little security that—” His mouth goes slack as understanding finally dawns.

“Ah, there it is,” I say, grinning as my tablet pings. “Here’s a fun fact. You see, unless you specifically request a customized security system from Innovicore, all our software shares a similar base code—and my signature. Makes it quite easy for me to recognize the systems I design when I come across them. And guess what?” I pause, tapping the screen lazily, letting the silence drag just long enough to make him squirm. “That means I can override them. Anytime I want.”

His eyes widen comically, darting to the door lock. He licks his lips nervously before meeting my gaze again. “You–you’re bluffing. You can’t do that. It’s ethically and legally wrong and—” He stops short when he realizes who he’s talking to.

I chuckle, immensely pleased to see his face lose color. “Oh, Jakey boy. I absolutely can..” Without breaking eye contact, I press a single button on my tablet, corrupting the smart security. There’s a quiet buzz as the system disarms and the thick glass doors separating us slide open. “And I absolutely will.”

He lets out a cowardly squeak and scrambles backward as I step inside. “I keep things out, Jake. I’m not kept out.”

His nerve snaps. And off he goes, spinning on his heel and bolting, leaving me alone with the terrified Damien, who’s frozen like a cornered rabbit—wide eyed, pale, trembling. His gaze pleads for mercy, but I’ve got none to offer.

I heave an exaggerated sigh, pulling my gun from the small of my back. “I so hate it when they run. I don’t even chase women, and these rats expect me to chase them?”

Seeing the weapon seems to jolt Damien to his senses, and he flees in the same direction as his friend. My tongue clicks in irritation. Now I have to hunt down two targets. And I doubt they’ll make it easy for me by sticking together.

Goddamn waste of time when I’ve got shit to do.

Grumbling, I text Lorenzo to get his lazy ass inside so we can wrap this up quickly. There’s a prototype waiting for me at home that I need to perfect, and I still need to check our medication inventory at the warehouse and monitor the next shipment.

I log into the cameras Jake so helpfully installed in every corner of his home, and just as I locate the vermin, Lorenzo walks in. “Damien is in the pantry and has found himself a knife,” I inform him, already heading deeper into the house. “He’s all yours. Jake is mine.”

Less than thirty minutes later, we step out of the house as our cleanup crew walks in to do their part of the job. Damn, I love it when shit runs smoothly. We’re a well-oiled machine, my team and I—everyone in sync, no questions asked, no hesitation. I roll my neck, the tension melting away as I sink into the backseat of my Phantom.

Lorenzo gets into the passenger seat with his usual ease, and the driver promptly fires up the engine. Just as I’m settling in, my phone buzzes. I raise a brow at the ID. “Rafael, to what do I owe this displeasure?” Lorenzo shakes his head up front, drawing a smile from me.

“I sent a brief to your email. There’s a missing girl I need you to look into,” Rafael answers, getting straight to the point—exactly how I like it.

“A missing girl,” I repeat slowly. Oh, he fucking didn’t.

“I know you don’t like these kinds of jobs, which is why I’ve kept this off your radar until now. But it’s important. She’s important. She’s Aldo Cabello’s niece, and she’s been gone for two months.”

Ah. Now it makes sense. Aldo Cabello is one of the very first men to swear fealty to Rafael, and by extension, to all of us. So whenever he has a request, Rafael bends over backward to accommodate it. After all, if there’s no reward for loyalty, what will keep these dangerous men as our allies?

I let out an irritated sigh. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do about it.”

Truthfully, I could track down the girl before sunrise if I cared enough to try. But I don’t. Aldo’s loyalty—and the rest of the capos’—doesn’t mean shit to me, not the way it does to Rafael. She’s already been missing for two months; if Aldo’s men are too incompetent to find her, he can wait another goddamn week.

“I appreciate it, fratello,” Rafael says, though he sounds a little distracted. He must be quite busy on his end as well.

“Yeah, whatever.” I hang up and glance out the window, watching my city blur past.

“Who are we looking for?” Lorenzo asks, twisting in his seat to get a read on me.

I don’t answer him. My gaze stays glued to the moving buildings outside, but my curiosity burns about the mystery girl. She ran away from Aldo—one of the most feared capos after my brothers and me—and hasn't been caught after two months? How?

Either she’s incredibly lucky, or there’s more to her that’s worth paying attention to.

My phone glows faintly in my hand, my thumb hovering over the mail icon. But instead, I lock the damn thing and push all thoughts of her out of my head. Not now. Business first. “Marcos, take me to the warehouse.”

He nods and turns towards East Harlem. When we reach the quiet 119th Street, the car slows and comes to a stop in front of our commercial building—just another warehouse to unsuspecting eyes. I pocket my phone as I get out, Lorenzo trailing close behind me. Marcos heads straight to the steel door, knocking in a practiced rhythm—once, twice, then three quick raps.

Rocco pulls the door open within seconds and steps aside to let us enter. I breeze through the front area, making my way towards the back, past the men at the counting machines tallying the money made so far.

At the supply door, I pause. This barrier of reinforced steel yields to only four men in the world—Rafael, Maximo, Romero, and me. I lean in for the retinal scan, the machine humming softly as it reads my eye. There’s a low click and the hundred-ton door opens with a snick, expelling a controlled burst of chilled air that raises the hairs on my neck.

The supply room is kept cold for a reason—some of the medications here need strict temperature control to stay effective. It feels like a damn icebox, but the drugs don’t care about comfort. Shaking off the chill, I get to work, inspecting the shelves stacked with precisely cataloged inventory, while Lorenzo scrolls through the list on his tablet.

“Everything is as it should be,” he confirms after our walkthrough.

“Good. You need to clamp down harder on the people we supply to.”

This isn’t just business—it’s personal. The whole reason my brothers and I started smuggling these meds was to cut through the bullshit big pharma throws at people. The corporations drive up prices, making life-saving treatments like gabapentin and opioids scarce and out of reach for anyone who isn’t filthy rich. So, we filled the gap. We bring in the stock, sell it cheaper, and still make a profit.

Not charity, but justice. Romero is more passionate about it than any of us. He still carries the grief of his mother’s death—two decades and counting—because she couldn’t get the medicine she needed in time.

That’s why I see red when I find scumbags buying from us, mixing the product with addictive garbage like benzodiazepine, Percocet, and cocaine, then selling it back to my community. That shit won’t fly in my city. Jake and his idiot friend learned that lesson.

Lorenzo nods. “Of course. I’ve already given the order to the men. We’re narrowing our seller list to those we’ve vetted. No exceptions.”

I give the shelves one more pass before I leave the warehouse.

Back in my car, I finally surrender to temptation. The email opens, and—fuck me.

My breath catches at my first glimpse of the missing girl. She’s gorgeous. Pin-straight black hair falls like liquid ink to her waist, lush pink lips curve in the faintest frown, and those eyes… Christ. They’re amber, hypnotic pools framed by long, dark lashes that could drive a man to madness. My cock stiffens embarrassingly fast, and I curse under my breath.

Being pretty isn’t all that special. This city is full of gorgeous women—hell, I’ve had my pick more times than I can count.

But her… there’s something else about her, something in the way she holds herself in the picture. A sad hopelessness in those whiskey-gold eyes that calls to a dormant instinct inside me.

I lick my lips as I scroll down.

Gianna Tulipa Cabello. Tulipa. A fucking tulip.

I stare at the name, lost in thought. My mind spirals. Then, with a sharp inhale, I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket. One more stop at the club to check the accounts before heading home. I can conduct my research on her then—there’s no rush, no need to⁠—

I shift restlessly in my seat, earning curious gazes from both Marcos and Lorenzo. It’s unusual behavior for me; I’m usually composed, unreadable. Cool as a fucking cucumber. But as the car rolls on, I still can’t settle.

Three minutes. That’s all I last before I tell Marcos, “Take the next turn for home.”

“The club?”

I narrow my gaze at Lorenzo. “We’ll drop you off up ahead. You can handle it.”

His jaw drops, and he stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. I never delegate work unless something really important comes up, and for all he knows, nothing of the sort has happened. But for me, my whole fucking world has just tilted on its axis.

I offer no explanation. I just wait for him to recover. Eventually, he nods.

The lights flicker on as I cross my threshold, and Maya, the voice-controlled AI, chimes in with her usual greeting, “Welcome home, Michael.”

I nod absently, already shucking my tie and taking the stairs two at a time to my office. Once there, I shrug off my suit jacket, roll up my sleeves, and sink into my chair.

My fingers itch as I boot up my computers and grab my latest project—the tablet prototype I’ve been working on for the past few weeks.

The mail icon beckons. I click, and there she is. Gianna. Damn. I drink in her photo again, letting myself stare—too long, probably, but who the hell cares? Her face is a riddle begging to be solved, and I’m not the kind of man who walks away from a challenge. Finally, I hit download. Time to strip back the layers. Find out who you really are... and where you’re hiding.

Since the slim, cutting-edge tablet is still in its early stages, I can see through her pretty face to the dark wooden desk beneath. Setting it aside, I swivel to face my curved monitor, behind which three larger screens are running different codes in the background.

Thanks to the seamless sync between my devices, my missing girl’s photo transfers effortlessly. And a few keystrokes later, it’s uploaded into the sophisticated software I rely on to track people down.

Powered by intricate coding and connected to cameras I’ve hacked into all over New York City and forty-two of the fifty states in America, the program begins its meticulous scan of her face. Come on, come on. My fingers drum against the desk as the program churns through a labyrinth of data points, isolating potential matches and validating them against traffic cameras, security feeds, ATMs, cell towers—even real-time satellite imagery from classified channels.

If a pigeon takes a shit in Central Park, I’ll have a timestamped geotag before it even hits the ground.

While the software does its thing, I shake off the restless energy and skim Rafael’s email again.

Name: Gianna Tulipa Cabello.

Age: 23

Eyes: Brown.

Height: 5’5

Hair: Black. Long.

Whoever put this pile of pig shit together listed her eyes as brown. Did no one notice the flecks of gold swirling in those brandy-colored depths, glowing like smoldering embers just waiting to catch fire? How can they not see it? Am I the only one paying attention?

I’ve gone through these details a dozen times during the ride home, but her middle name still fucks with me. Tulipa. I glance down at my arm, studying the intricate flower tattoos covering my scar from that dark night so long ago, my eyes staying longer on my tulips.

Is it a coincidence her middle name means Tulip? I fucking think not. I’ve yet to meet the girl, but I’m not one to ignore a sign this blatant. Nothing in my world is random.

Gianna is made for me.

My computer beeps. The search is complete. Gotcha. I click through the footage until I reach the day she ran away—two months ago. Ballsy little thing, doing it in the fucking daylight.

Satisfaction curls my lips as I watch the first camera feed: a green Jaguar driving down a quiet street. I zoom in through the slightly tinted windshield. It’s definitely her behind the wheel. Is it her car? Somehow, I doubt it. Did you steal it, beautiful? My smile widens at the thought.

The jaguar swerves onto the highway, speeding up. Reckless. “Slow down,” I murmur, though she obviously can’t hear me. However, she does ease off the gas, slowing just enough to take the next turn. My software jumps to the next camera, and my heart nearly stops.

She’s driving straight towards a thick tree.

“What are you fucking doing?” I lean towards the screen, fingers gripping the edge of my desk. Is she trying to kill herself? Is she⁠—

I grimace when the Jaguar smashes into the tree, the impact sending smoke billowing from the crumpled hood.

For a gut-wrenching moment, there’s no movement. Then the driver’s door creaks open, and Gianna stumbles out, shoulders shaking—likely from coughing. She picks up a weird-looking bag from the wreckage, takes a few unsteady steps back, and just stands there… admiring her handiwork? What the hell? Not a hint of worry on her face.

What’s going on in that head of hers?

When she finally moves, it’s to circle around to the trunk, take out a red canister, and start pouring what can only be gasoline.

“Tell me you’re not that crazy…”

She is.

She makes sure the liquid is everywhere—on the inside, the tires, over the body. Once satisfied, she pulls something out of her coat pocket. A lighter.

Oh, fuck. She flicks it on and tosses it.

“You’re too close. Take a fucking step ba–”

But it’s too late.

The car explodes, the force of the blast hurling her back against a tree. I zoom in frantically on the camera to make sure she’s okay. She’s slumped on the ground, but she’s smiling—a wild, beautiful thing—as she watches the flames devour the luxury vehicle.

My cock stiffens, and I press my hand down on the throbbing length.

“She’s fucking crazy.” She’s fucking mine.

2

GIANNA

Ugh, my neck is itching like crazy again.

I reach up to scratch it, eyes darting around the quiet streets of this rich-as-hell Seattle suburb, suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings. Shit, am I about to be found again? The warning signs are all there. That familiar prickle means I’ve stayed too long, gotten too comfortable despite the endless godforsaken rain.

Two months on the run and my instincts are sharper than ever. Which is the only reason I’m not face down in a shallow grave right now, courtesy of my psycho uncle.

I sigh heavily as I jam my finger into the doorbell of my latest employer’s mansion. Mrs. Churchill—old money, more art pieces than sense, and a peculiar obsession with having every surface gleaming like it’s never been touched by human hands.

The door swings open mid-sigh, and the housekeeper’s face appears with her usual ‘What now?’ frown. “Something wrong, Bree?”

I startle at the name—Bree. Right. My new alias. It’s getting harder to keep track. The names are piling up faster than the false trail I’m leaving across the country. Bree, Madison, Anna, Kate… after a while, they all start to blur.

I’m losing pieces of myself every time I shed my skin. Pretty soon, there won’t be anything left.

Maybe it’s for the best.

The housekeeper’s deepening frown snaps me back, so I plaster on my best everything’s-fine smile. “Nope, all good, thanks.”

Her suspicious gaze drills into the back of my skull as I make my way to the supply closet. I gather my weapons—mop, bleach, gloves, cleaning brush—and march towards the ground-floor powder room, determined to push through another day of scrubbing this ridiculously huge mansion.

Professional cleaner. That’s my current gig.

Turns out the stupidly rich shell out a decent chunk of cash for ‘professional’ cleaning services. And lucky for me, I’ve gotten damn good at playing the part.

The bathrooms are my starting point, as always. Hair goes up into a bun, leather gloves snap on. Time to get to work.

Cleaning an entire two-story mansion is tedious, but I grit my teeth and tough it out, humming under my breath to distract myself as I listen to my playlist through my AirPod.

Five hours later, my back is screaming and my thighs are jelly, but the job’s done. I return the supplies to the closet and find the housekeeper waiting for me in the foyer, envelope in hand. The moment that makes this all worth it.

At every house I’ve worked the past few weeks, I’ve made it a rule to collect my payment the same day—you never know when you’ll need to run, and being broke while on the run is a death sentence I’ve already narrowly avoided once.

I accept the envelope and count the crisp twenties right there, not caring if it seems rude. Trust is a luxury I can’t afford anymore. Satisfied, I flash her a quick smile and turn to leave.

“See you next week?” Her question stops me on the front steps.

I work here once a week, and this is already my second week. Any longer, and I’d be tempting fate. Still, I hesitate before I say, “I don’t think so. This might be my last time here.”

I need to stick to the rules I set for myself. They’re why I’ve managed to stay off my uncle’s radar—and out of reach of his criminal cronies—for two whole months.

Rule number one: never stay longer than two weeks in one place. Seattle’s time is up.

She narrows her eyes, and I can see the questions on her tongue, but she swallows them. “Goodbye then, Bree. I’ll be sure to let Mrs. Churchill know.” The door shuts with a soft click of finality, and I let out a long sigh.

Goodbye, Seattle; goodbye to the name Bree. Another identity to shed. Because rule two: never reuse names. Each alias is a one-time mask, worn and discarded. This is so if someone manages to connect one false identity, they won’t be able to follow the breadcrumbs to the next. So Bree dies here in Seattle, just like Sarah died in Philadelphia and Maria in Detroit. No connections, no trails.

The only constants in my nomadic life are my go-to jobs: Cleaning, bartending—anything that pays cash and doesn’t need an ID.

I stuff the envelope into my backpack and jog through Madison Park’s picture-perfect streets to the bus stop. The doors start closing as I approach. “Hold the bus!” I yell, breaking into a sprint. Thankfully, the driver shows mercy, reopening the doors just long enough for me to stumble inside with a breathless thanks.

I slump into the nearest empty seat and press my cheek to the cold glass, watching the city go by, tired as hell.

Two stops from my place, I get off the bus and walk the rest of the way on foot, sweat dripping down my back, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Because rule three—though it really should be part of rule two—is to never leave a direct trail from the bus stop or taxi to wherever I live. Can’t be too careful.

The road gets progressively filthier the farther I walk. I have to weave around a minefield of broken bottles and suspicious-looking lumps as the houses start to crowd together, the pristineness fading like a mirage when I reach the other side of Capitol Hill: the poor side.

People loiter on the sidewalk, smoking, their eyes glazed. The tall schizophrenic guy I usually see walking around at this time is out, his curly hair a tangled mess and his soles blackened from walking barefoot. He catches my wince at the state of them and rewards me with some particularly creative curses. Poetry of the streets.

I walk faster, head down, avoiding eye contact as I hurry to my run-down apartment.

Rule number four: no meaningful interactions. The fewer people who remember me, the better. If they don’t know me, they can’t say anything about me.

Finally, I make it into my building and groan when the ‘Out of Order’ sign still mocks me from the elevator—it has worked exactly twice the entirety of my two weeks here, and I’m starting to think those times were hallucinations brought on by wishful thinking.

My legs protest as I drag myself up the stairs to my second-floor apartment, on the verge of collapse by the time I reach the door. The key slides home, and I slip inside the one-room space, immediately locking the door behind me before wedging a chair under the handle—a habit born of necessity and too many close calls.

Now, time to visit my ‘safe’.

See, I learned real quick not to leave money lying around after some junkie broke in and cleaned me out two weeks into being on the run. So I got creative. I peel back the lid on the toilet tank and pull out a Ziplock bag. Then another. And another. Three layers of plastic protect the money I’ve earned over the past two weeks. Today’s one-fifty joins the pile.

Five hundred dollars total.

I sigh as I reseal all the bags and plop my meager life savings back in the tank, replacing the lid. Not nearly enough, never enough, but it’ll have to do.

After a quick shower that barely qualifies as more than a rinse, I collapse on my sorry excuse for a mattress. Just a quick power nap before my shift at the bar tonight. One last shift. Then it’s bon voyage Seattle.

The gnawing hunger wakes me before my alarm can do its job. I blink blearily around my dark room for a moment before I force myself up. My feet hit the cold floor, and I fumble my way to the kitchenette, retrieving the remains from this morning’s breakfast—stale bread and jam, the glamorous food of a woman on the run.

I wolf down my dinner-breakfast hybrid, finishing just as the alarm blares to life. I smack the off button and groggily start getting ready for my last shift at the bar. Once I'm done, I grab my bag from the floor and throw all of my meager belongings into it, except my toilet tank savings—I can get that when I’m back later. I toss the backpack on the bed, then shove the chair away from the door so I can get out.

I lock the door and jog down the stairs, already counting the minutes. Damn, I’m cutting it close.

“You’re late!” Vince yells at me as soon as I walk into the establishment—a medium-sized bar in the middle of downtown Seattle that’s mostly patronized by tourists. I glance at the huge digital clock on the wall. 9:10 PM.

“By ten minutes,” I point out, lifting the divider and slipping behind the bar so I can go to the staff room at the back.

“This is the first time you’re late, so I’ll let it slide. Next time, it’s coming off your check,” he calls after me.

“Lucky for us both, there won’t be a next time…” I murmur under my breath, rolling my eyes as I push inside the female changing room. I change into my uniform—a mini skirt that barely covers my ass and a top with the name of the bar engraved on it that exposes more cleavage than I’m comfortable with. But hey, more skin, more tips, right? Doesn’t make me hate it any less, though.

With a sigh, I toss my old clothes into the locker and slam it shut before heading back out to the main bar. Its modest size means it’s just Vince and me running the show, even during the peak hours. Small space, small crew, big headaches.

By 10 PM, we’re open for business and customers slowly trickle in. 2 AM and I’m dead on my feet but we still have an hour to go. At least it’s a slow night, being the middle of the week and all. But that also means my tips tonight are going to suck. Can’t win.

Thirty minutes to closing, I’m wiping down the bar when the door opens, and I start my usual closing-time spiel: “We’re closing soon, so we can’t—” The words die in my throat as I look up and see him.

Holy mother of sin.

An aura of danger oozes off him like sweat in the summer heat, and it’s not just the tattoos covering his muscular frame.

He carries himself with the entitled nonchalance of a man who has never heard “no”—wealth and power in human form. The custom suit should scream civilized, but not on him. If anything, it only emphasizes the raw danger beneath, like a tiger trying to pass itself off as a house cat. And no one’s fooled. His hair is shaved on both sides, leaving a thick mass of dark blond curls on top, surrounded by dark lines of tattoos.

The inked lines stretch down from his skull to the back of his neck, his muscled throat, and disappear into the crisp white collar of his shirt. Drool pools in the corner of my mouth when he shoves curls off his face, revealing more of the cryptic patterns inked on the sides of his skull. I squint as I try to make sense of the scribbled lines and words, but my brain short-circuits somewhere between “art” and “Jesus Christ, that’s hot.” So I move on.

Gold studs wink from his earlobes, matching the piercing in his brow and the gold circle in his nose. By looks alone, he’s the living, breathing cliché of every stereotypical bad boy teenage girls crush on.

Except this is no teenage fantasy. This is a grown-ass man who could probably snap me in two without breaking a sweat. And fuck me, if that thought doesn't make me clench…

I’ve never seen a more handsome man in my life.

As if sensing my appreciative stare, he turns his full attention on me. Pale blue eyes, sharp as icicles, knock the breath clean out of my lungs. Fuck, it should be a crime to be that gorgeous. No, really. His beauty borders on angelic.

He’s getting closer to the bar, and I can feel my brain turning to mush, my heart stumbling over itself, and—lord have mercy—little pools of liquid leaking from my core.

I squeeze my thighs together and quickly look away from him before I can embarrass myself. A surreptitious swipe across my cheek confirms no actual drool, thank God. But still, I keep scrubbing the same spot on the bar over and over, hyper-aware of his gaze searing into me as he closes the distance.

Shit. Shit. What do I do? What do I say? ‘Hi, welcome to the bar I can’t even pretend to manage because I’m too busy picturing you naked’? Hell, no.

Then his scent hits me, and my whole thought process goes up in smoke. He smells like dark chocolate, bergamot mixed with cigarettes, and sinful nights. It’s dizzying... It’s delicious. I inhale deeply, greedy for more of it, even as more arousal dampens my panties.

“Hi, there.” The rich baritone of his voice is the final nail in my coffin.

I make the mistake of looking up, and those striking eyes capture me completely. The slight quirk of his lips—not quite a smile—sets off fireworks in my stomach. And suddenly I’m desperate to see what a real smile would look like on that beautiful face. Dangerous, probably.

My pulse kicks into overdrive and I go stock-still, hardly daring to breathe, when he reaches out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear. His warm fingers barely graze the shell of my ear, but I shudder. My breath hitches, and he notices. Oh, he definitely notices.

His eyes kindle with amusement, but that maddeningly restrained smile doesn’t budge. Damn it.

“Bree! What are you doing?” Vince’s grating voice, far too close, jolts me out of my trance. Literally. I jump a little, heat flooding my cheeks as I realize how blatantly I’ve been staring. Ducking my head, I scuttle away from the handsome stranger and escape to the other end of the bar, putting as much distance as possible between me and him.

What the hell is wrong with me? It’s not like I haven’t seen a hot man or two in my lifetime. I’m not some bumbling virgin, for crying out loud.

From the corner of my eye, I see him lean over and say something to Vince that I miss while attending to another customer. Whatever it is, it has my boss rolling his eyes as he stalks over to me. “He wants you,” he mutters, jerking his head back towards my handsome stranger.

My heart skips at his choice of words. He wants me. Could a man like that really want someone like me? No, don’t be ridiculous. He looks like he could have any woman. All he’d have to do is snap his powerful, tattooed and ringed fingers, and panties would drop—mine included.

“Did you hear me?” Vince barks. “Go take his order. And be quick about it.”

My feet are moving on autopilot, taking me back to him—back into his orbit. I have to force myself to meet his gaze, instantly getting lost in his electric blue eyes again. “What–what would you like to order?”

He tilts his head just the slightest bit. “What are you offering?”

I freeze. Is he… flirting with me? No, no way. I clear my throat, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism. “You can, uh, check the menu if you’re not sure what you want yet.”

“What if I want you? Would you give me yourself?”

My core clenches, nipples pebbling beneath my bra. Fuck. He’s definitely flirting with me. This glorious man is hitting on me. Is this a joke? A dream? Did I slip in the shower and crack my head open? Because no way this is happening.

I stare at him awkwardly for a moment, trying to remind myself of rule number three—or was it number four? Never make any meaningful interactions. Don’t let anyone remember you.

Just walk away Gianna. Tell him to fuck off. Do not engage.

Except…

Except when else will another god in a suit hit on me like this? Fuck it. I’m leaving tomorrow anyway. Might as well have some fun on my way out.

I put on my best coy smile. “Trust me, baby. You wouldn’t be able to handle me.”

3

GIANNA

He chuckles huskily, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe, transfixed by how his mirth transforms his face. “That’s it. You’re officially banned from laughing in front of me, ever.” The words slip out before I can stop them. His chuckle deepens, and I swear it vibrates through my entire body.

I lock my knees to keep from melting into a puddle of lust-addled goo. Shit. Abort mission, abort mission! I can’t flirt with him. I’m leaving tonight, and a man like him? Yeah, he only flirts with a very specific endgame in mind. One I definitely cannot indulge. No matter how badly I want to.

Clearing my throat, I spin away from those arctic eyes and go on my tiptoes to grab the quality Jameson from the upper shelf. The familiar weight of the bottle steadies me as I pour a generous splash of the golden liquid into a clean tumbler.

When I slide it to him, he raises a single brow at me, his expression unreadable, but accepts the drink nonetheless. The diamond ring on his index finger winks under the bar lights as he takes a sip, and gives a nod of approval that sends electric warmth rushing through me. I like his approval very much. Maybe a little too much. Because my brain is already racing, trying to figure out how to earn that approval again.

“Bree!”

I snap out of my thoughts and turn gratefully to Vince, who waves me over to his side of the bar, pointing at some last-minute patrons who just walked in. I check the time and groan—ten minutes until closing time. Fantastic.

Plastering on my best customer service smile, I head over to take their orders. Through it all, I swear I can feel the tattooed stranger's gaze boring a hole into the back of my skull. But every time I glance his way, he’s looking elsewhere.

Am I going crazy?

Shaking it off, I keep busy, cleaning up the bar as the new patrons sip their drinks. Thankfully, they only order one round, and by the time I get to them, they’re on their feet. I follow them to the front door and flip the sign to ‘Closed’ with a relieved exhale.

When I get back to the bar, the stranger has finished his whiskey. I pick up the tumbler, avoiding eye contact. “We’re closed now,” I inform him, giving the bar top an unnecessary wipe-down.

“So you’re kicking me out?” That almost-smile returns, sending my heart into overdrive.

I attempt a casual shrug, but it probably looks more awkward than anything. Not that it matters. Nothing can happen here—nothing should happen here. I try to convince myself as I walk to the back of the bar where Vince is perched, watching me like a hawk. “I’m done. I’m leaving now.”

He hands me a bunch of bills—my pay for the night. After making sure nothing is missing, I pocket it and nod towards the tip jar in his hand.

Vince operates on a strict 50/50 tip-splitting system, which means we divide whatever we make during the shift equally. Never mind that he barely gets any tips himself and that I’m the one schlepping my ass all night getting groped and hollered at.

“Don’t be late tomorrow, or else,” he warns as he begrudgingly opens the jar to count out my share.

I hesitate, debating if it’s even worth telling him. “I’m not coming in tomorrow. Actually, this is my last night. Take this as my notice.”

He stops mid-count and glares at me like I just spit on his shoe. “No.”

“No?” I ask incredulously. “What do you mean no?”

“You can’t just quit. You started two weeks ago—you need to work for a minimum of two months and then give me a month's notice to find a replacement before you can quit.”

My eyes nearly pop out of my head. “What the hell are you talking about? That’s not how this works.” But he just sets his jaw stubbornly, and I’m too fucking tired to argue with this prick. “Fine, whatever. Just give me my tips.” I stretch my hand out.

“Will you arrive on time tomorrow?”

I smile sweetly. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of being late.” Late to get the hell out of this city that is. If he doesn’t see me tomorrow, he’ll figure out that I’m serious, and that he doesn’t control me. Nobody does. Not anymore.

His eyes narrow like he’s trying to decode my thoughts, then he shoves the money back into the jar and twists the lid shut. “When you arrive on time tomorrow, you’ll get your tips.”

“What?!” The growl rips out louder than intended. “That’s bullshit,” I add more quietly, cringing when I remember we have an audience. How embarrassing.

“No, not bullshit. Insurance. To make sure you show up for work tomorrow. You can’t just leave me in a lurch, Bree. These are hard times.”

I stare at him in utter disbelief. Is this asshole for real? As I’m gearing up to tell Vince to go fuck himself with a rusty chainsaw, a deep voice speaks up right behind me, “Is there a problem?”

It’s the stranger.

“None of your business, fucker. I’m having a private conversation with my employee. Get lost,” Vince snaps.

The stranger takes a threatening step forward, and I can practically taste the testosterone saturating the air. But I don’t have time for this alpha male bullshit.

The time is literally ticking down on how much longer I have in this city. And I swear I can almost feel the hot breath of Uncle Aldo’s man, the one who’s been chasing me all over the country, on the back of my neck.

So, I just roll my eyes and leave the two of them alone. Let them have their little pissing contest without me.

I book it to the changing room and frantically shimmy out of my skimpy uniform and back into my street clothes. Then I exit the bar for the last time. Good fucking riddance.

My ankles are killing me as I hobble down the sidewalk, so to celebrate my last night in Seattle and another two weeks undetected, I splurge on a taxi to take me home. I sigh as I get in, leaning back into my seat as I watch the city whizz by me.

Where do I go next? California? Arizona? New Jersey?

A streak of lightning splits the sky, followed by a deep rumbling thunder. I smile just a little and roll down my window, inhaling the sharp, crisp air. I sure as shit won’t miss this constant rain.

New Jersey. The thought crystallizes suddenly. It’s so close to NYC, Uncle Aldo and his men would never even think to look there. Hiding in plain sight—sometimes the best camouflage is no camouflage at all.

When the cab is a few blocks away from my apartment, I lean forward and tap the driver’s shoulder. “You can drop me here.”

He tosses me a concerned frown in the rearview. “In the middle of nowhere? You sure, miss? It ain’t exactly safe for a young thing like you to be wandering around alone at this time of night.”

I flash him a smile. “It’s fine. I’m a big girl. I can protect myself.” I lived with my uncle for ten years, didn’t I? And nothing can be more dangerous than the mafia.

He still looks uncertain but pulls to the curb. I shove some bills at him and hop out before he can argue.

I wait for him to drive off, watching until his car disappears from sight before continuing home. If, like I suspect, Uncle Aldo’s man has found me and links me to that cab driver, he won’t get much out of him. All the driver can do is bring him here, and that will buy me thirty minutes, maybe an hour to get away.

I jog down the dark, lonely road to my apartment, my nerves buzzing. Once inside, I take my money out of its hiding spot and drop it into my backpack. After zipping it up, I sling the bag over my shoulder, mentally tallying the total. Getting to New Jersey, finding a place to stay, feeding myself—it will burn through most of my meager savings.

“Damn you, Vince.” My tips would have helped me a bit.

Now that I’ve decided on my next move, I start feeling antsy, restless. I pace the cramped studio apartment—once, twice, a dozen times—until the steps blur together. My mind’s racing just as fast, too loud and chaotic to find any sense of calm.

I’m still exhausted, and I can feel a migraine creeping in, so I should probably take a nap, but I don’t feel sleepy at all—I’m too keyed up. The first bus to Newark leaves at 7:45 AM. I can nap at the station while I wait… or during the long ride.

I check the alarm clock obsessively as I pace, willing time to go faster.

How long can I keep doing this? Running every two weeks, barely making enough money to scrape by before packing up and fleeing again?

As long as you want to stay alive.

Because one thing is for sure: Uncle Aldo is never going to stop sending his men after me until he finds me. And with what I did to Dario’s car—and running away—I know there’s a heavy punishment, if not outright death, waiting for me back in New York.

Another glance at the clock. 4:30 AM. Time to go.

I drop the apartment key on the table for the manager and slip out like a ghost. Taking a bracing breath, I walk down the stairs as quietly as possible. The silence is so heavy, I’m afraid even the smallest noise will draw attention.

But finally, I make it outside, leaving the crumbling building behind me, its decaying walls no longer a part of my world. I don’t dare look back, focusing instead on the road ahead.

I’m about fifteen minutes from the bus station when I hear it. Footsteps.

I hold my breath, walking on my tiptoes to confirm if the footsteps are mine. They’re not. My stomach drops, twisting itself into knots, and I chance a glance over my shoulder.

A tall figure in a hoodie stalks several feet behind me.

Heart hammering, asshole clenching, I pick up my pace, no longer caring about stealth.

He speeds up too, matching my stride.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

A whimper crawls up my throat as I break into a run. His footsteps follow, a staccato rhythm that matches my hammering pulse. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Who is it? An armed robber? Some other criminal? This place isn’t exactly nirvana.

Or has Uncle Aldo's man finally caught up to me?

My feet pound the asphalt, sending jolts up my thighs and sweat down my back. I grit my teeth, powering through the discomfort, slipping my fingers under my backpack strap to shift it to my chest. As I do, I risk another look behind me—and nearly choke on my scream.

He has gained so much ground, he’s literally on my heels now.

I push harder, unzipping my backpack just as the turn to the bus station shows up in the distance. Please, let me make it. Please, please.

Fingers trembling, I rummage through my backpack as I run, never breaking stride. Where is it? Where the fuck is it? There! I close my hand around the cool metal canister of my pepper spray. My only weapon.

But because I’m so intent on getting the damn canister out, I don’t see the broken chunk of pavement jutting up from the sidewalk. My foot catches, and I go sprawling, a grunt tearing from my throat as I hit the ground hard.

No no no no—fuck please no.

Frantic, I twist onto my back, scrabbling to aim the pepper spray, to get back on my feet, to do any-fucking-thing. But he’s already on top of me.

A hand clamps around my throat, and I scream bloody murder, my finger mashing down on the trigger. A spurt of liquid fire bursts into his face, and he roars, flinging me away from him and sending my only means of protection clattering into the dark.

“No!” I lunge for where I think it fell, but he’s faster. So much faster. He grabs a fistful of my shirt and buries his other hand in my hair, forcing me up and slamming me face-first into the rough brick of the building we’re grappling beside.

A sob escapes as my cheek scrapes against the gritty surface, tears springing to my eyes when my attacker grinds my face harder into the wall. I buck and writhe, desperate to break his hold but it’s useless. He's so much bigger and stronger than me.

The man adjusts his stance, digging his fingers into my necklace, holding it together with the scruff of my shirt. He yanks harder than necessary, causing the gold chain to bite into my throat, choking me.

“You little piece of shit, you think you’re so smart, huh? Leading me on a merry-go-round for the past few weeks. But I’ve got you now.”

My heart thuds frantically against the wall, chills filling my being at the sinister tone. He’s been following me for weeks? I glance around the empty street as much as I can, but there’s no one. No one else crazy enough to be walking out here at 4 AM. I’m all alone. Trapped.

Shit. I’m well and truly fucked.

But even though I’m trapped with no help in sight, I'm not going down without taking pieces of this bastard with me, damn it. I slam my head back into his chin with everything I’ve got, losing my breath as the necklace digs even deeper into my throat, cutting off my air for a terrifying moment.

He curses and shoves my head back into the wall. “Enough!”

“Who the hell are you?” I gasp out, though I already know. Still, I need to hear it. Need to know how close to death I really am. “And what the hell do you want?”

“Aldo asked me to get you, Gigi.” His voice drips with sick glee as he uses my uncle’s nickname for me. “Do you remember him? You’ve been a bad girl, running away from your beloved uncle.”

My stomach flutters frantically, and I gag, bile building up at the back of my throat as my worst fear is confirmed. Yes, I do remember my uncle, and there’s no fucking way I’m going back to him.

I’d rather die right here on this street where nobody knows my real name.

As If punctuating my morbid thoughts, lightning slices the sky like God’s own judgment, the sudden bright light blinding me for a moment. An angry rumble of thunder follows immediately, so close it rattles my teeth.

Then a chilly gust of wind, sharp with the scent of rain I’ve learned to detect, rushes down the street, sending our clothes rustling.

“Damn dreary, rainy city,” the man mutters, just as another, louder rumble shakes the air. Then the sky opens up, unleashing a torrential downpour. He growls in frustration and takes half a step back.

It’s all the opening I need.

I drive my heel into his shin and rush away from him. He curses, not letting go of my necklace, but I keep fighting—there’s no way in hell I’m going back to NYC with him. Not alive, not breathing. Not ever. I thrash like a rabid animal, kicking, twisting, clawing. But in the scuffle, there’s a faint snap. The clasp of my necklace must have broken because suddenly I’m released, stumbling forward as his grip on my shirt slackens.

Yes, I’m free!

But then I see it—the necklace, my mom’s necklace, glinting in a puddle between us. For a split second, everything else fades. That necklace is all I have left of her. My body moves on instinct, diving towards it like it’s my salvation.

But I’m too slow.

The man snatches it up before I can even touch it, his fingers curling around the pendant like it belongs to him. A cruel smirk tugs at his lips, his eyes flicking to me with a spark of triumph.

“No!” The word rips from my throat. My stomach twists, the sight of his filthy hand on her necklace igniting something primal in me.

I lurch towards him, but he steps back, holding the chain high like he’s taunting me. “You’re really attached to this little trinket, huh? Guess I’ll hold onto it—for safekeeping.”

Lightning tears through the sky, the flash illuminating the rain-drenched street and his smug, granite-like face. The pendant dangles beneath his fist, and I freeze, my throat closing up as my brain cruelly flashes an eerily similar scene from a decade ago for me.

The necklace dangling down a lifeless neck, a mixture of rain and blood dripping down the pendant.

My knees almost buckle, my chest tightening to the point of agony.

I can’t lose it. I can’t lose her.

A hand slams into the middle of my back, crushing me against the wet pavement. The impact jars me violently, yanking me out of the nightmare of my past only to throw me back into another.

The scream that tears from my throat is raw, inhuman, but it’s drowned out by the roaring storm. Rain pelts my face, mingling with the hot sting of tears and the metallic taste of blood on my lips. My chest heaves, but the air feels thick, suffocating, like the storm itself is pressing down on me.

I don’t move. I can’t. My heart throbs painfully in sync with the pounding in my head, a cruel reminder that I’m alive—though I’m not sure I want to be. The front of my shirt clings to me, soaked and cold from the puddle beneath me, while the rain beats down on my back like punishment.

Is this all worth it?

This endless running, this desperate struggle to survive… for what? For who? Nobody gives a shit whether I live or die. Maybe I should just let go, hope there’s something better waiting on the other side. Maybe I’ll see my family again…

More tears blur my vision as I lie there, lifeless, letting the man drag me across the wet ground like I’m nothing more than a broken doll. My skin scrapes against the pavement, but the sting barely registers through the numbness settling over me.

Please kill me, I silently beg him. Please don’t let Uncle Aldo get his hands on me again. I close my eyes and feel myself floating up and away from the shell of my body, desperate to distance myself from whatever is about to happen⁠—

A deep rumble fills the air again. At first, I think it’s thunder, but it grows louder and louder. My eyes fly open just as headlights pierce the darkness.

My captor freezes, his grip on me tightening as a car barrels through the storm, splashing water everywhere before slowing down beside us.

I blink at the sleek, white supercar without much interest. Probably just some rich asshole out for a joyride. From my experience, they never stop. A smart person would speed off, not wanting to get involved in street violence. No one sticks their neck out for a stranger in these parts.

But to my surprise, the car rolls to a stop, and the passenger window slides down.

I glance at the driver and my heart damn near stops. A spark of hope I didn’t know I still had flares to life. It’s him—the gorgeous, tattooed man with the piercings from the bar. The one I momentarily flirted with, who had butted in during my argument with Vince.

His electric blue eyes take me in, and something unrecognizable passes through his cool gaze. “Need help?” he asks casually, as if he has stumbled across someone with a flat tire instead of a kidnapping in progress.

My lips part in disbelief.

Need help?

Is he fucking serious?

“What does it fucking look like, asshole?” My voice is lost in the rain, but his lips quirk up—just enough to let me know he caught at least the gist of what I said.

4

GIANNA

Seeing her sprawled on the ground, rain-soaked and helpless with that fucking asshole hovering over her, has cold rage pumping through my veins. But I’m not the type to let my emotions control me. I keep my gaze on her pretty amber eyes. “Need help?”

The utter disbelief on her face amuses me, and her response almost has me cracking up. “What does it fucking look like, asshole?” I can’t hear her voice through the heavy downpour, but I can read those perfect lips just fine.

“Keep driving, man. This is no business of yours.”

I move my gaze to the man holding my girl hostage on the floor and any trace of humor bleeds out of me. I pin him with a look that could freeze hell over, and sure enough, he flinches. That’s right, motherfucker.

Methodically, I slip the rings off both my index fingers, unclasping my Rolex from my left wrist and shrugging out of my designer jacket. Then I’m stepping out into the downpour, relishing the bit of the icy drops on my overheated skin. I roll my neck, the pop and crack of tendons and bones snapping into place barely audible over the drumming rain.

The man cowers back but keeps a bruising grip on my girl. “Let her go.” Lightning streaks the sky, punctuating my command with an ominous boom of thunder.

Beady eyes dart between Gianna and me, clearly calculating his odds. He’s an idiot, but even he can tell they’re slim to none. Yet, instead of backing down, he does what any cowardly piece of shit would do.

Shifting his grip, he yanks her up slightly, using her like some pathetic shield. Then he waves his fist at me like that’s supposed to scare me. “Back off, pretty boy. I don’t answer to you.”

I tilt my head, letting the rain drip off my face as I push my wet hair back. “You think I’m pretty?” My gaze drops to Gianna, and I flash her my most charming smile, which she doesn’t appreciate if her scowl is any indication. “Do you agree with him?”

She gapes at me, wide-eyed, like I’ve just grown a second head. “Are you fishing for compliments right now?”

Maybe.

I mean, I need to know if she’s attracted to me as well. But I suppose that can wait for a more convenient time.

Rolling up my sleeves, I step forward as the bastard finally grows balls and shoves Gianna aside. She stumbles but catches herself, freeing me to focus entirely on him. I crack my neck, raising my fists, ready to make him regret every miserable choice that led him here.

But instead of squaring up like a man, he pulls something from his pocket, and the glint of a blade flashes in the storm.

“That’s how you’re going to play it, huh?” I raise a brow as I wipe the rain out of my eyes.

He sneers, slashing the air between us with his laughably small knife. “Just ‘cause you got some tattoos doesn’t make you some dangerous gangster. Get the fuck outta here before you get yourself killed.”

What did this motherfucker just say to me?

Before he can blink, I’m in front of him, disarming him with the same effort I might use to take milk from a baby. Too easy. His dark eyes widen in shock as my fist smashes into his face.

There’s a choked gasp behind me, nearly lost in the downpour, and I’m reminded I don’t have the fucking luxury of taking my time to kill this fucker with my bare hands, no matter how much I want to. I have someone to protect, and I can’t let him think he has even a sliver of a chance to survive this.

“You shouldn’t have accepted Aldo’s mission to find Gianna,” I whisper to him so she doesn’t hear. “You took the wrong fucking mission. But for putting your filthy hands on her, you’re going to die.”

Confusion flickers across his face, but I don’t give him time to respond. I pull my gun from the small of my back, and press it right into his temple and pull the trigger. His body jerks as his head explodes, spraying blood, bits of bone, and brain matter over my clothes before his body crumples to the floor.

Gianna lets out a terrified scream, and when I whip around, she’s scrambling backwards on her ass across the wet pavement, those amber eyes wide with horror. “Stay fucking still, Gianna,” I command her as I return my gun to its holster.

I head to the back of my car, pop the trunk, and heft the dead weight of Aldo’s man into it. Then I sweep my gaze over the scene. The rain is already working its magic, washing the little pool of blood mixed with his brain and other stuff down the storm drain, and I nod to myself. No cleanup needed. This area hasn’t had a functional CCTV in years, so even if some busybody reports the gunshot, there won’t be any evidence left to find.

But as I study the pool of blood, a flash of silver catches my eye. I crouch down for a closer look and realize it’s the necklace Gianna was wearing in the bar earlier. I glance at her—she’s sitting with her knees hugged tightly to her chest, head bowed as she slowly rocks herself.

She’s in shock.

I pocket her necklace and approach her carefully, like one might a wounded animal. “Hey, are you okay?” I ask softly.

She looks up at me through long, dark lashes that have water dripping down them, and fuck—I’ve never seen anything more alluring than her in this moment. My crotch tightens as my cock swells between my legs. Not now, you bastard. The girl’s in a crisis, and here you are popping wood.

“I–I—you—” Her lips tremble as she stutters, “You–you killed him.”

“He was going to kill you first.” I remind her, though that’s not entirely true. He wouldn’t have killed her—just dragged my little runaway bird back to her gilded cage. She doesn’t respond, so I add, “Come on, let’s go. Get in the car.”

She shakes her head, some of that fire returning to her eyes. “Get in the car with a psycho who just murdered a guy in front of me?” A semi-hysterical giggle hiccups out of her. “I don’t fucking think so, pal. For all I know, I’m your next target. Can’t leave any witnesses, right?

Christ, this girl. She’s magnificent.

My heart warms at her spirit, and I smile down at her, running the pad of my fingers down her cool, wet cheek. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but I promise you’re safe. I just killed that man to save you, Gianna. It would be fucking stupid to just turn around and off you myself, wouldn’t it?”

A spark of wary suspicion flares in the glossy depths of her gorgeous eyes. “How–how do you know my name?”

I push a thick, wet strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger. “Get in the car and maybe I’ll tell you. I also have your tips from the bar waiting for you.”

She frowns, her fuckable lips pouting so adorably. My thumb trails down the shell of her ear to trace their shape, and she shivers, goosebumps erupting all over her skin. “Fuck,” I curse under my breath. “You’re going to catch a fucking cold.”

With my fingers wrapped around her arm, I help her up and lead her to the passenger’s side of my car. I open the door for her, and she goes in without a fight. My wet clothes squish as I circle to the driver’s side.

When I get inside, she has her tip jar sitting on her lap, her fingers gripping it like a lifeline. “How did you get the tips from Vince? He can be a big asshole, so I doubt he willingly gave this to you.” She glances over at me as I start the car. “Did you—kill him too?”

I flash her a grin. “Nah, I can be charming when I want to be,” I say, blasting on the heater and picking up my suit jacket from the backseat. I toss it at her, ignoring her look of disbelief as I continue, “Is that really what you’re curious about right now?”

She meets my gaze briefly, then her eyes skitter to the side as I pull away from the curb. “No. I have a million questions buzzing in my head, which I doubt you’ll answer. And to be honest, I don’t really give a shit. What I’d like to know is how you know my name. Do you know who I am?” Fear edges into her voice on that last question—she’s probably wondering if I was sent by her uncle as well.

I don’t want to lie to her, so I just shrug, hoping she’ll drop that line of questioning.

She doesn’t.

She bites her lip and persists. “How do you know my name?” She waits for a few seconds, then sighs when it’s clear I have no intention of answering her. At least, not right now.

“I was going to the bus station before that—before that guy showed up. Can you take me there?”

No, I won’t be fucking taking her to some bus station so she can run away again. But that’s not the answer she wants to hear, so I just offer another noncommittal shrug that she takes as agreement.

The next few minutes pass in silence as I navigate the streets, driving past the rundown area she lived in. Once we finally make it to downtown Seattle, I take the stretch of road that leads towards Puget Sound, pressing down on my accelerator.

The rain begins to ease, and the sky lightens with the first hints of dawn. I need to get her safely to my home before daybreak. Beside me, Gianna sits up, glancing outside. “This is not the way to the bus station.”

“I’m taking a shortcut,” I reply smoothly, but it’s clear she doesn’t buy it.

She starts fidgeting, passing her tip jar from one palm to the other, her toes tapping the floor restlessly. I can practically see the calculations running behind those golden eyes, and I find myself almost excited to see what she’ll do.

I ease off the accelerator, just in case she decides to do something stupid like grabbing the wheel. But surely, she wouldn’t—she’s not that crazy.

Or so I think.

Because fuck me if she doesn’t suddenly lunge towards me, her small hands clamping over mine as she yanks the wheel, trying to veer the car straight into oncoming traffic.

Jesus. She might actually be as crazy as I am.

5

GIANNA

My so-called rescuer swears up a blue streak as he fights to keep control of the car, but I keep my death grip on the wheel, wrenching us off the road and straight towards the tree lined up at the side of the road.

If this asshole thinks he’s dragging me back to Uncle Aldo, he’s got another thing coming. I’ll take my chances with the oak over that hell any day.

“Stop it, Gianna! I’m on your side, dammit!” he yells, slamming the brakes. The car jerks to a violent stop, tires skidding against the wet road, before lurching just inches from the massive oak trunk. The sudden stop throws me forward, but his arm shoots out instinctively to catch me.

“Then tell me how the fucking hell you know my name!” I yell back, but I don’t wait. I’m already scrambling over him, trying to reach his door controls. I need to get out, need to run, need to⁠—

He stops me easily, holding me back with just one hand. “There’s a bounty on your head.”

That freezes me in place. My breath catches as I look up, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we are—we’re practically nose to nose, his warm breath fanning my face. The intimacy of our position hits like electricity, sending shivers down my spine. He misreads my reaction, grunting as he guides me back to my seat and tucks his jacket more securely around me.

“What do you mean? What bounty?” I ask, forcing myself to focus on his words rather than how stupidly good looking he is with rain-darkened hair. Though deep down, I already know what he’s talking about. I’ve suspected someone was hunting me. That constant prickle between my shoulder blades, the feeling of eyes watching, hot breath on my neck.

I always attributed my restlessness to the knowledge that Uncle Aldo wouldn’t just let me go, and so it drove me to keep moving, never staying longer than two weeks anywhere. But a bounty? Shit.

“Aldo has been searching for you for months, as you well know,” he starts, and I nod in response. “When he realized you were too smart for his men, he put a fifteen-million-dollar bounty on your head, leading several mercenaries on a search for you. But they couldn’t find you either.”

Jesus Mother-fucking Christ on a cracker.

Fifteen million? My scumbag uncle put a fifteen-million-dollar bounty on my head? I think I’m gonna be sick.

But wait… was that a note of admiration? Approval?

Sure enough, when I glance up at him, the pride is clear as day on his face. “You outsmarted and outwitted all those men. My beauty with brains.”

My heart jolts, cheeks heating at the possessive note in his voice. “I wasn’t so smart this time. That man found me after all.”

“Nah, that was pure luck, trust me, nothing else,” he answers, a slight smile lurking at the corners of his lips.

I narrow my eyes. As nice as the compliments are, they don’t change the facts. This guy, hot as he may be, is still a stranger. One who seems to know an awful lot about my situation. “And you? How do you know all this? Who are you?”

His hesitation chills my blood as realization dawns. He’s one of them. A mercenary chasing that fifteen million.

“When the mercenaries failed after two weeks, Aldo sought my services. I’m one of the best trackers in the States.”

I roll my eyes at his arrogance, but the fact that he actually found me proves he’s not just bragging. I go silent, letting the weight of it settle. “So, what now that you’ve found me? Taking me back to my uncle?” I straighten my spine, summoning what’s left of my courage. “I won’t go willingly.”

His smile deepens. “No. I’m not taking you back to Aldo. I changed my mind.”

Changed his mind? My breath hitches at the heat in his blue eyes as they roam my face. What does that mean for me? “Why?” I whisper.

“Tell me why you ran away first.”

Tell him about Carlo? About discovering I was being sold to a man famous for making his wives disappear? About finally realizing that no matter how much I twisted myself into knots, my family would never love me? That the scraps of kindness they gave me my first year living there were all they had to offer?

I think not.

Instead, I say, “Since you know so much, I’m sure you’re aware my uncle was in a dangerous association.” He only raises a brow, so I continue, “I couldn’t keep up with that lifestyle. I needed some independence for myself.”

He doesn’t buy it. I can see it in the way his jaw tenses, but he just restarts the car. “Buckle your seatbelt.”

I do as I’m told, staring out the window as the first hints of daylight creep across the sky. Now that I’m warm and relatively safe—at least for now—the exhaustion from the constant running and sleepless nights of the past few weeks suddenly hits me, almost paralyzing me.

A deep sigh escapes, followed closely by a wide yawn. My mind feels fuzzy around the edges, my eyelids becoming suffocatingly heavy.

Stay awake, I order myself. This guy worked for my uncle, and even though he claims to have changed his mind, he can easily change it again.

But something about his presence makes me feel safer than I have in months—maybe years. It’s ridiculous, dangerous even, but I can’t fight it. My eyes drift closed despite my internal warnings.

I must pass out, because the next thing I know, a ringtone has me jerking awake.

“Sorry about that,” my rescuer mutters, muting his phone.

I squint out the windshield to take in our surroundings, but my groggy brain struggles to process where we are. We’re in what looks like a dense forest, trees pressing so close their branches scrape against the car. The road—if it can even be called that—is overgrown with weeds, barely visible beneath the tangled greenery.

We take a left turn, and a pair of tall, thick gates appear, opening automatically as the car gets closer. Beyond them stretches another tree-lined drive, but here the wilderness feels more… taken care of. Unlike the wild mess outside.

“Where are we?” I ask through a yawn, sitting up and discreetly wiping my chin to check for drool.

“My house.”

While I stare at him speechlessly, he drives into the private property, the gates closing almost ominously behind us. He brought me to his house? Why? I should be panicking right now, kick the door open and run back into the forest like some unhinged Disney princess. But I’m so fucking relaxed. Because I just woke up? What the hell is wrong with me? Where are my survival instincts?

What is it about this man that makes me feel so safe and warm inside? I literally just met him tonight—or rather, last night—for goodness’ sake. It can’t be that he looks safe. In fact, he looks the opposite of safe, with his tattoos covering what seems to be his entire body, ink snaking past his elbows and crawling up his neck to the sides of his skull—and multiple piercings adding to his rough edge. Oh yes, and let’s not forget the splatter of blood on his shirt from the man he murdered at close range.

Yet, I feel safe.

The road curves again, and as he leans into the turn, a house comes into view—a charming single-story home with sandy beach-white walls that seems to be made more of glass than brick. It’s both modern and timeless, with shrubs that are just a little overgrown, softening its clean, unexpected lines.

It’s very pretty. Quaint. And I fall in love with it almost instantly, but…

“Why are we here?” I ask, turning to face him again. And for the first time, it occurs to me that I don’t even know this man’s name.

“Where else would we be?” he says, like it’s obvious. “Manhattan, where your uncle is waiting for us? Nobody knows I own this place. Technically speaking, it doesn’t even exist. It’s the safest place you can be.”

He cuts the engine, and silence settles between us.

My heart melts traitorously as I watch him. Without thinking, I place my hand gently over his, my fingers brushing a small bloodstain—reminding me of what could have happened tonight if he hadn’t shown up when he did. How things could have gone so wrong. I’m still not sure what his intentions are, but for now, I’m grateful to him.

“Thank you.”

Something flickers in his icy blue eyes as he registers my touch. Then he glances up at me with so much heat it sends my heart into overdrive and makes my core tighten reflectively. He’s so fucking hot.

I gulp, quickly snatching my hand away and trying to change the subject. “What’s your name?”

Instead of answering, he gets out of the car, and I frown at him as he rounds the hood and opens the passenger door for me. I step out slowly, thinking he won’t say anything, but then he shuts the door behind me and crowds me against it. His now familiar scent—mixed with rain and the faint metallic tang of blood—surrounds me, turning my brain to mush.

“Michael,” he murmurs. Hell, even his voice is so damn sexy, the dark tendrils flirting with my mind.

I blink at him in confusion, and he smirks, tapping his index finger playfully under my chin as he steps back. “My name is Michael.”

Michael.

An old memory of my mom floats to the surface, her voice clear as day in my head.

Saint Michael the Archangel, defends us in battle. He’s our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. The prince of the heavenly host’s presence is heralded by storm and lightning, accompanied by deep, throbbing thunder. His eyes reflect the maelstrom of the Holy Ghost.

“Michael, as in the angel?” I blurt out, the bittersweet memory of Mom’s fierce belief in some greater power somehow echoing my experience last night, messing me up.

A strange feeling surrounds me as I watch him, and I swear the low-rising sun forms a sort of halo effect behind him, making his hair appear platinum.

The more I stare, the more I almost believe he actually is some kind of avenging angel sent to save me. From the moment I first saw him, there’s been something otherworldly about his beauty, something that defies explanation.

He chuckles darkly, running his long fingers through his hair, artfully mussing it and highlighting the ink decorating his skull. “More like the devil.”

He turns away from me, walking towards the thick glass doors of the house. My gaze drops down his back to the gun I know is hidden somewhere there, and a shiver runs through me as I remember the cold rage on his face when he killed my uncle’s man—and how nonchalantly he stuffed his body into the trunk of his car.

Hell, the blood still staining his clothes and hands doesn’t seem to bother him at all.

Yeah, he’s no angel. In fact, the angel Michael probably doesn’t even exist.

No, I know he doesn’t exist.

Where was the mighty Michael when my parents’ car slipped during that rainy night on the highway? Where was divine protection when that robber took everything we had and then took their lives too? Where was heaven’s warrior when I needed him most?

Angels don’t exist. Period.

I shake my head to clear these useless thoughts and start to follow him, my hand instinctively reaching for my necklace—only to feel bare skin. My heart lurches, and I stop walking as I frantically pat my neck.

It’s gone.

Then it hits me. The chain snapped during the scuffle with my attacker earlier. He had it in his grip.

I spin around, feet slapping the ground as I run towards the trunk of Michael’s car.

Please, please, let it be there. I can’t lose this too. I can’t.

6

MICHAEL

I glance over my shoulder as I place my palm on the biometric lock beside my front door, expecting to see Gianna right behind me. But she’s not there. Instead, she’s sprinting back down the driveway towards my car. What the hell? Frowning, I abandon the door and follow her.

She grabs the trunk and yanks on it like her life depends on it, but of course it doesn’t budge. It’s locked. Doesn’t stop her from trying though, her chest heaving with the effort. Or is it panic?

“Hey, what’s going on? What are you looking for?” I ask curiously.

She whirls to face me, and I’m floored by the raw desperation in her eyes. “Open it! Open it! Open it!” she screams at me, tears carving tracks through the grime on her flushed cheeks.

My chest constricts painfully, and I rub a hand over it unconsciously as I fish out my key fob and pop the trunk.

She sniffles and dives for it immediately. She pulls it up harder than necessary and starts going at the dead body inside, dragging him this way and that as she frantically searches through his clothes.

I approach her cautiously. “Gianna, talk to me. What is it? What did you lose?”

She doesn’t stop searching or even spare me a glance as she stammers through her heaving breaths and tears, “M-my necklace. I can’t find my necklace.” Her words end on a long, broken sob before she slaps the dead body in frustration and collapses to the floor, defeated.

Necklace?

My hand slips into my pocket and closes around the object I picked up earlier. I pull it out and study the gold chain, my eyes tracing the shield-shaped pendant with the words inscribed on the front.

At the top of the shield, bold letters read: Saint Michael. At the bottom: Protect us.

In the center, an image of a winged figure—presumably the archangel himself—is carefully engraved. Surrounding it are more words, likely in Latin, with small crosses interspersed between them.

On the back, there’s more religious gibberish—a prayer for protection from the angel.

“You mean this?”

Her head snaps up, and the moment she recognizes it, she launches herself at me and snatches it from my outstretched hand, cradling it to her chest like the precious thing it clearly is. “How…?” She hiccups, red-rimmed eyes searching mine. “Where did you…?”

“I saw it on the ground beside his body, and I remembered seeing it on your neck earlier. It’s broken, so I picked it up to fix it.”

She nods but doesn’t release her death grip on the pendant. I watch her curiously as she sniffles again and quickly wipes the tears from her face. What’s so important about that thing that has her almost breaking into pieces?

“S–sorry about that. It was my mom’s. The last thing I have of hers,” she says by way of explanation as she slams my trunk shut.

Well, fuck. No wonder she was losing her mind.

By all accounts, Agnes Cabello, her mother, was a religious fanatic. A way to cope with her criminal husband? I wonder how that affected her daughter.

I study Gianna as she walks towards the front door where she patiently waits for me. She’s only twenty-three, but she’s already endured more than most. And yet, she stands there, steady, unshaken. Strong as hell.

She lost her parents a decade ago, back when she was just thirteen. They were driving home from her school recital that rainy night when they got into an accident, which they might have survived—if they hadn’t been unlucky enough to be attacked by a group of thieves. The bastards killed them, left their bodies in the wreck, and vanished. The men were never found. That part I find odd.

According to the reports, Gianna was unconscious in the backseat, completely helpless. Maybe that’s the only reason they spared her—they thought she was already dead.

Her father was one of the more powerful dons in NYC at the time. How could a man like that just get taken out by some low-level street scum, and the perpetrators were never brought to justice?

Something about the whole thing stinks.

“Are you coming?” she calls, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I nod at her and lock my car again, then make my way towards the front door. She stands there, waiting, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to disappear into her damp clothes. I unlock the door and push it open, letting her step in first before locking up behind us.

The sensor lights flicker on as we walk inside, and without a word, I lead her up the stairs to the guest bedroom, trying not to think about how right she looks in my house.

“You should take a bath,” I suggest, my gaze lingering on the mess the night has left on her. No argument from her—just a silent nod as she goes in.

I need a bath myself, but first, I head to my room to grab a change of clothes for her—one of my old shirts and pants. Something comfortable. Something clean.

Back at her door, I knock, but when I get no answer, I crack it open. Empty.

The sound of the shower running filters through from the ensuite. My eyes drift to the bathroom door, and for a second, my mind conjures up an image of her—skin glistening, water streaming down her curves⁠—

Snap out of it, Michael.

Shoving the thought away, I drop the clothes on the bed and knock lightly on the bathroom door. The water stops instantly.

“What do you want?” There’s a panicked edge in her voice, like she almost expects me to barge in on her. I can’t deny that the thought is tempting, but that’s not why I’m here.

“I left some clothes on the bed for you,” I say. “When you’re done, come down to eat.”

A pause. Then, a clipped, “Alright. You can go now.”

Did she just issue a command to me?

I chuckle under my breath as I leave. Can’t remember the last time someone—other than my brothers—had the audacity to do that and remained alive.

This is the first time in years I’ve been with someone who doesn’t know who I am and isn’t afraid of me because of my reputation.

I like it. I like it too much.

I head back to my room where I exchange my bloodstained shirt for a clean one before stepping out again, taking the steps two at a time. In the kitchen, I swing open the fridge, fully stocked with everything she likes.

So what if, during my research into Gia’s past, I came to learn about the food she favored and stocked up on them? I wonder if she’ll even notice.

I shrug as I pull the first plate of food from the fridge. Not that it matters. It doesn’t mean anything. Let her think it’s coincidence if she recognizes anything.

My phone buzzes insistently in my pocket. I frown and pull it out—Rafael. Of course. He called me earlier when we just got home, waking Gia up from her short nap.

“What?” I answer, putting him on speaker so I can work while we talk.

“What’s the status? Do you have her?” he asks as I shove the food, container and all, into the microwave.

“It’s been just three days, Rafael. I’m a tracker, not a magician.”

Silence stretches before he finally asks, “What’s the delay? Have you not found her?”

I pause, weighing my words. I’ve never had a reason to tell Rafael a lie before—I usually don’t give a shit about his reaction to my truths, so I’m always blunt, honest to a fault. But knowing him, the second he finds out I have Gianna, he’ll demand I bring her back to New York immediately.

And that’s not fucking happening.

I just got her. And I’m not ready to let her go. May never be ready.

So I dodge his question. “I mean, we’ve been searching for Emily for years and haven’t found her. It’s been three days, Rafael. Don’t you trust that you’ll be the first person I call as soon as I have her?”

The dial tone is my answer, and I chuckle under my breath as I take out some plates and spoons.

Yeah, mentioning Emilia is a surefire way to piss him off. I don’t know much about what went down between them five years ago, and I don’t give a shit either way, but he really shouldn’t let her get under his skin like this.

People like me will use it against him.

I’m almost done plating the food when I sense her behind me. “Oh, good, you’re right on time. Come on in,” I say without turning around, sealing up the leftovers to put them back in the fridge.

Footsteps approach, and I glance up—then freeze. My mouth goes dry.

She’s drowning in my clothes, the shirt falling almost to her knees, sleeves rolled up multiple times. She looks… claimed.

A cautious step brings her to the table, eyes flicking to the plate I’ve set out. “What’s this?”

The suspicion in her voice makes me smirk. “I think you’re old enough to know what this is. Sit down.” I nod at the chair, and she hesitantly takes her seat.

“I didn’t know you could make ziti. It looks really good,” she comments mildly as she picks up a fork.

I take the seat across from her, watching her closely as she spoons up some of the baked ziti and places it in her mouth. Her eyes pop open wide in surprise before drifting shut, and the small moan of pleasure that escapes her goes straight to my cock. Christ, what other sounds could I draw from that pretty mouth?

“You like it?” I tease. I know she fucking likes it.

She opens her eyes, locking those whiskey-colored irises onto mine. “This is from Bellevue Bistro in Manhattan. How do you have it here?” Her second question is silent but I can read it clear as day on her face: How did you know it was my favorite?

I lean back, playing innocent. “What makes you think it’s from there? I could be a great chef for all you know. Are you being discriminating right now?”

My teasing draws a small smile from her. “You know what? I don’t care how you got it here. Thank you for the meal.” Her voice softens. “It means a lot… having food that tastes like home on what could’ve been a horrible day.”

Something in my chest expands painfully at the way she looks at me, gratitude shining in her eyes. I would do anything—anything—to get her to look at me like that again and again.

She continues eating, and I’m unable to take my eyes off her as she digs into her food with gusto.

I love it. Love watching her eat the food I provided for her with such obvious pleasure. My gaze drops to her lush, pink lips, glistening as she chews. Would she approach other activities with the same enthusiasm? Suck cock?

I shift uncomfortably in my seat as my cock hardens.

Damn it, what is this? The third time I'm getting hard in her presence today? The fourth? Get a fucking grip.

When she finishes, I push a glass of water towards her. She drains it in one go, sighing as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Then those eyes find mine again, and I watch, enraptured, as color blooms across her skin—starting at her ears, spreading across her cheeks, down her throat, disappearing underneath my shirt. Fascinating.

Blood rushes south, draining from my brain to my hard-as-a-rock cock as my mind fills with obscene thoughts of licking and sucking those red splotches, discovering just how far down they go, how pretty she would look with my cum splashed all over⁠—

“Sorry about that,” she mumbles. “I don’t usually inhale food like that.”

“It’s fine.” My voice comes out rough, so I clear my throat and stand abruptly, gathering plates, trying to distract myself from mauling her. What the hell is it about her that’s got me feeling like a randy teenager who’s after his first tail?

She immediately gets up as well and tries to take the plate from me. Our fingers brush, sending a surge of heat through me, a spurt of precum shooting from my cock as my spine tingles. Fuck.

She jolts like she felt it too, letting go of the plate just as I do. We both watch in suspended animation as it crashes to the floor, shattering the tension along with the ceramic.

“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry. I didn’t⁠—”

I turn away from her before she can finish, walking off like a man escaping a goddamn war zone. I tug on the collar of my shirt uncomfortably, trying to ignore the throbbing length of cock between my legs. Then I shove open the front door, stepping into the crisp morning air, and slam it shut behind me.

Fuck, if I’d stayed in that room one second longer, I would’ve done something crazy. Like bending her over the damn table and fucking her senseless.

I exhale sharply, raking a hand through my hair. I need to get my head straight. She’s not ready for me like that. No matter how much she drives me insane with lust, no matter how perfectly she fits into my world, I’m not going to push her.

Lucky for me, I have the perfect distraction—a dead body in my trunk to dispose of.

I slide behind the wheel, adjusting myself with a grimace, then turn the key and drive off for some much-needed respite.

7

GIANNA

I stare after Michael’s retreating form, bewildered, as the front door slams shut behind him. The roar of an engine and the crunch of gravel announce his hasty departure, and I’m left standing here like a lost duckling. Alone.

Did he… did he feel that too? That electric zing when our fingers brushed? Is that why he ran away?

Nah. Can’t be. A man like that, with those looks and that swagger? No way a little spark from an accidental touch would spook him.

No way he felt what I felt.

I glance around the now empty dining room, trying to shake off the sense memory of his skin on mine. The lingering heat. The phantom tingle.

Fuck. Get it together, girl. You’re sleep deprived and running on fumes. Your brain is playing tricks on you, turning nothing into something. Stop it.

I should be using this time to take stock. Plan my next move before he gets back from wherever the hell he scurried off to.

But…

Now that silence fills the space around me, I finally have time to process everything that happened… and I’m a little lost on what to do.

I can’t believe I was ‘this’ close to being shipped off back to Uncle Aldo. The dark possibility makes me shudder, and I shove it aside as the shattered plate decorating the floor catches my eye. I should clean that up.

Now where would a man like Michael stash a vacuum or broom in a place like this?

Just as that thought pops up in my head, there’s a faint buzzing sound from the foyer. I tense, heart kicking into overdrive when the door suddenly opens—as far as I know I’m alone in here right now.

Fuck, where did you go, Michael?

Instinct kicks in, and I quickly bend down to pick up a shard of porcelain, ready to defend myself as the buzzing gets louder and louder. But then—oh, for goodness’ sake.

A laugh bursts out of me, all that built-up tension draining from my shoulders. It’s just one of those automated robot cleaners, making a beeline straight for me, or rather the mess on the floor.

I take several steps back, watching in fascination as it efficiently sucks in every broken piece. When it’s done, it does a little spin—like it’s proud of itself—then rolls back the way it came.

Curious now, I trail after it, surprised when the door slides open as the machine gets closer. Huh. I was so out of it earlier, I didn’t even notice the doors are automatic.

The little bot leads me to its docking station behind the staircase and powers down with a decidedly satisfied beep. I crouch, studying the now-dormant device. Back when I still lived with Uncle Aldo, he used to rant about these whenever commercials came on TV—called them “freaks of nature” and swore he wouldn’t have one in his house even if they paid him.

My eyes land on a tiny camera at the top. So that’s how it finds its way around. Does it record? My stomach knots. If Michael has access to the feed, he could be watching me right now.

Straightening, I turn to head back to the dining room—but then something else grabs my attention. A sleek, glassy panel mounted on the wall.

I hesitate briefly, then tap on it.

“Hello, I’m Synthia. How may I assist you?”

I jolt back, eyes darting around. But no one’s there. A second later, the artificial tone registers. Right. AI.

The panel glows a soft blue, and tiny functions pop up on the screen. I squint at the words at the bottom. Synthia: Voice-Controlled Assistant.

I scroll through the options. Smart thermostat. A few taps and the room warms slightly. Huh. Neat.

Then I dig deeper. Synthia controls 90% of the functions in the house—everything from lights and heating to opening doors for the little vacuum army. There are four of them total, two upstairs, two downstairs, and Synthia clears their paths automatically.

It—or she?—also allows remote monitoring of the apartment, which means…

I swallow.

Michael really could be watching me from wherever he is.

And the cameras? Yeah, I don’t have access. My prints aren’t authorized.

I tap on the microphone option, feeling a little silly as I say, “Uh, hi, Synthia.”

There’s a beep. Then, “Hello, I’m Michael’s virtual assistant. I’m here to make navigating the house easy. How may I assist you?”

I smile but press cancel, because I don’t really need any assistance right now. Wiping my hand down my shirt, I step back and round the stairs, glancing up at the winding staircase. I’ll explore that later. First, I want to check out the rest of the ground floor.

I wander to the other side of the stairs to the only door there, but it’s just a coat closet filled with neatly hung jackets. Boring. Moving on. I shut the door and head back to the living room, which is one huge, sprawling space with an L-shaped sofa smack in the middle, facing a large flat-screen TV and an electric fireplace.

As I get closer, the door leading into the area slides open on its own, and I can’t help but smile. Fancy.

I brush my fingers along the back of the couch as I pass it to the dining area on the other side, where a dark oak table sits near the tall glass windows, surrounded by soft gray chairs that are ridiculously cozy. Beneath them, a thick, plush rug covers the space, separating it from the living room.

I grab my mug from the table and drain the last of my water, then head towards a glass door that, from the looks of it, leads to the kitchen. It slides open smoothly, and as I step inside, the wall lights flick on, illuminating the airy space.

The countertops are slick marble with a glossy finish, and I can’t help but run my hands over them with pleasure. If I was the type to cook, this might be my dream kitchen.

I rinse my mug out in the sink, then hover for a second before setting it down on the counter. A faint glow catches my eye. I turn to the window, tugging the blinds just enough to peek behind them, and streaks of sunlight bleed through.

I blink. Huh. The sun’s already up? I guess with all the curtains closed, it still feels like the early hours of the morning.

Letting the blinds fall back into place, I poke around the kitchen, not surprised to find the pantry stocked mostly with canned meals. The fridge, though, is another story.

It’s packed. Not with the random, half-used groceries I expected, but with neatly stacked plastic containers filled with frozen takeout.

My brows furrow as I study the labels. Different types of food, all—I snap the door shut before I can overanalyze it. It doesn’t mean anything that they all seem like my favorite foods. It can’t.

It’s just a weird coincidence that the meal I had earlier also tasted like something straight out of Bellevue Bistro…

Right?

A prickle creeps up my spine, but I shake it off and quickly leave the kitchen. I don’t care how the food got here or where it came from. Nope. Not at all. I make my way to the other side of the living room, drawn to a closed door I’m eager to check out.

The moment I step inside, I gasp.

Towering shelves stretch from wall to wall, stacked with thick books. A home library.

The door clicks shut behind me as I walk in, and the sweet scent of books, mixed with something faintly Michael, surrounds me, filling me with bliss. My lips curl into a delighted grin as I twirl dramatically through the open space, careful not to stumble over the sofas and tables arranged strategically around the room.

This is the first place in the house that actually carries his scent, no matter how faint. Which means he must spend real time here.

That thought catches me off guard.

Maybe it's ignorant or prejudiced, but the handsome Michael with his tattoos and piercings didn’t exactly strike me as much of a reader.

I approach the first shelf, scanning the titles on the spines. My grin vanishes.

Oh, hell no.

I move to the next shelf. Then the next. And the next. By the time I’ve circled the whole library, my mouth is hanging open. The books? Pretty much all the same.

History Books. Self-help. Language learning guides—at least fifty different languages. Textbooks on topics like agriculture, physics, machine learning, and a bunch of technical mumbo-jumbo I don’t even want to attempt to decipher.

But one thing is painfully clear.

Not. A. Single. Fiction. Book.

What kind of psychopath builds a personal library without a single novel?

Shaking my head in disbelief, I pull out an astrology textbook written entirely in what looks like Russian. The pages are well-worn, the margins filled with notes, and most of the text is highlighted.

He can read Russian?

I grab another book. Same thing. More notes. More frayed edges. These books aren’t just for show—he actually reads them.

“What a weirdo,” I murmur, but something grows hot in my belly as I try to imagine him sitting here, flipping through the very book in my hands. Would he lounge on the couch? Perch on the armchair? Does he wear glasses when he reads? The cute, thin-framed kind?

I sigh, then on impulse, lift the book to my nose.

Nothing. Whatever scent it once held is gone by now.

The fact that he’s secretly a nerd, despite looking like he belongs on a motorcycle in a leather jacket, is messing with me in ways I don’t appreciate. I fan myself a little before returning the book to its spot on the shelf and fleeing the library.

What a conundrum Michael is turning out to be. My handsome, slightly unhinged savior—who, apparently, isn’t just crazy enough to kill a man to save a stranger, but also successful and an absolute knowledge junkie.

“If he’s not careful, I just might do something stupid like fall in love with him.”

I laugh at my silly joke—then pause, suddenly aware of the cameras.

Oh god. If he’s watching, he’s seeing me talk to myself and crack up like a lunatic.

That thought only makes me laugh harder.

Great. Now I must look completely unhinged.

Still grinning, I wipe at the tears in my eyes as I make my way out of the living room, back to the staircase. The lights flicker on automatically as I climb, guiding my path. Show-off.

At the top of the stairs, I turn left, but there’s only one thick door—and it’s locked. I glare at the electric pad where the keyhole should be. Seriously? Why does he need such a high-tech house anyway?

This place is stuck in the middle of nowhere, Seattle—if the endless weed, wild grass, and stuff surrounding it is anything to go by. And according to him, it doesn’t even technically exist on the map.

So how the hell did he manage to get all this state-of-the-art security installed out here?

I huff and spin around, walking past the stairs and down the hall, past the guest bedroom where my stuff is. The next door is locked as well. Shocker.

There are only two doors left. I try the first—and to my surprise, it opens. But to my disappointment, it’s just a laundry room with a big, automatic washing machine and some washing supplies on a shelf.

I sigh and head back to my room. My backpack is still damp, but I fish out the ziplock bags with my money, shove them under the mattress, and take everything else with me to the laundry room.

Figuring out how to use the damn smart washing machine is a nightmare. I curse under my breath as I fumble with the unnecessary number of buttons, scowling at Michael’s obsession with making everything more complicated than it needs to be.

But after a few frustrating minutes, I finally get it. With a triumphant scoff, I toss my damp clothes and backpack into it, slam the door shut, and hit start.

The machine whirs to life, and I watch my stuff spin behind the glass. Crossing my arms, I lean against the counter, waiting for the timer to ring.

Once the washing is done, it drains the soapy water, fills with clean water, rinses, and then—right before my eyes—dries everything in one go. All within twenty-something minutes. Impressive. This is probably something my uncle could afford if he weren’t so stubborn about doing things the ‘old-fashioned’ way.

The timer pings, then the machine counts down ten seconds before turning off automatically, the door popping open. Warm, fresh-scented clothes greet me, and I quickly gather them up. After folding everything neatly into my backpack, I sling it over my shoulder and hurry back downstairs.

Straight to the kitchen.

I slip into the pantry, hoping there are no cameras, and start stuffing my bag with as many canned goods as it can hold. Just in case.

While I trust Michael—kind of—and maybe have the tiniest, most inconvenient crush on him, he’s still a stranger. A stranger who proved he has no morals by killing a man right in front of me without even so much as a flinch. I mean, if he really did it to help me, he could have just knocked the guy out and called the cops. But no. He went straight for the kill.

And since he was sent by my uncle, I have no illusions about the kind of man he is. He found me because my uncle told him to, and even though he’s hesitating now for some reason, that could change in a heartbeat. What if he suddenly changes his mind again and decides to drag me to NYC after all?

Nope. Not happening.

The time for fun is over.

I need to protect myself and not rely on any man.

Satisfied that I have enough supplies to last at least two days, I zip up my bag and walk out of the kitchen as casually as possible. I’ll stick around for the rest of the day, get some much-needed rest, and restrategize. But as soon as the sun sets, I’m gone.

Back in my room, I drop the bag on my bed, dig out my money from beneath the mattress, and shove it into the bottom of the backpack. Once everything is in place, I leave the room, ready to continue my exploration before he gets back home.

There’s only one door left to check. I don’t expect it to be unlocked, but to my shock, it opens easily enough when I press my palm against it.

The room is unmistakably masculine—dark walls, a big ass bed draped in silky black sheets. Michael’s bedroom.

I hesitate for half a second.

Then I cross the threshold.

He’s not home anyway. I’ll just take a quick look around and get out before he returns.

The space is massive, but the bed dominates it, pushed against the center of the far wall like some oversized beast. That monstrosity is big enough to fit at least five full-grown men. The headboard is tall, reaching up to the ceiling with weird little hooks. What the hell are those for?

My gaze drifts to the right, and I freeze.

The entire wall beside his bed is covered with a large life-like mural—tulips in full bloom against the backdrop of a stormy night. The contrast between the delicate flowers and the dark, moody sky is breathtaking.

I walk closer to it for a better view, drawn in despite myself.

This man is such a paradox. First, the books in his library. Now, flowery murals in his bedroom? He’s like an onion, the more layers I peel back, the more I find. And it’s sick that the more I learn about him, the more curious I get.

I trace my fingertips along the painted petals.

I never understood why my parents gave me Tulipa as my middle name, and honestly, I never liked it much. But seeing the beauty of the flowers in the mural, I get it. Just a little.

I lose myself in the art longer than I should, until I force myself to snap out of it. I need to leave before I get caught snooping.

But as I turn to go my gaze snags on the nightstand drawer beside his bed.

“Just one more thing,” I murmur the excuse under my breath as I walk towards it, heart thumping in anticipation.

I drag the drawer open and⁠—

Oh.

Oh hell no.

My entire body goes up in flames as I take in the contents. It’s filled with different flavors of extra, extra large condoms. My cheeks burn so hot I swear they could start a fire. But that’s not even the worst of it.

There’s a little silk gray blindfold. A set of serious-looking metal handcuffs…

My fingers tremble as I pick them up, turning them over, and—oh my God. The hooks on the headboard. They’re meant for this.

I drop the cuffs like they just electrocuted me and fan myself for a moment, desperately trying not to imagine myself shackled to that massive bed with Michael looming over me. “Jesus Christ, Gianna.”

Clearing my throat, I rummage further, because apparently, I have zero self-preservation instincts.

A pair of tiny keys—probably for the handcuffs.

A sleek black keycard—the kind you get in fancy hotels. Curiosity prickles at my skin. What does this unlock? One of the locked doors I found earlier?

“Looking for something?”

I jolt so hard the back of my knees knock against the foot of the bed, and the next thing I know, I’m falling—my back hitting the mattress with a soft thud. But I barely feel the impact as I scramble to my feet.

Because standing in the doorway of what I assume leads to the bathroom, steam curling around him, is Michael.

Stark. Naked.

I inhale sharply, my jaw dropping as I take in the beautiful work of art that’s his body. A mixture of dark and colorful ink forming a masterpiece over the hard ridges of his abs, his biceps, his thigh. Are there tattoos everywhere?

My breath catches as my gaze inevitably drops lower.

And—

Oh. Oh.

That’s… abnormally large.

And getting bigger.

Fuck.

8

MICHAEL

My chest swells with primal satisfaction as her gaze slowly drags over my bare flesh. The tips of her ears and her entire face flush red, embarrassment clear as day, but she can’t seem to stop herself from checking me out.

Her gaze drops to my cock—already hardening for her—and she jerks her head up so fast it’s a miracle she doesn’t snap her neck, mortification warring with curiosity in her expression.

“See something you like?” I smirk, executing a slow turn that’s meant to tease her but really gives me a moment to wrestle back some control. I thought I’d gotten a handle on my body’s reaction to her in my time alone disposing of that asshole’s corpse, but apparently not. One look from her and I’m ready to combust.

When I face her again, her golden eyes are as wide as saucers. “Your tattoos… They’re everywhere,” she breathes, taking an unconscious step towards me. Every muscle in my body screams to close the distance, but I force myself to remain still, even as my heart pounds a hard staccato in my chest.

“Not quite everywhere,” I remind her, and her gaze automatically drops right back to my cock. Then—realizing what she’s doing—quickly squeezes her eyes shut. When she finally pries them open again, she stubbornly fixes them on a spot just over my shoulder.

Oh, as if I’d let that slide.

“What are you doing? Why are you not wearing any clothes?” The scandalized tone would be amusing if I wasn’t drowning in need.

“Eyes. On. Me.” I command, and when those beauties lock onto mine, it’s like being punched in the chest. I should know—I’ve been hit there before. Some magnetic force pulls me towards her, my resolve crumbling with each step. I need her scent on my skin like I need oxygen, crave her touch like an addict needs their next fix.

“How can you just walk out… naked?” she huffs. Her eyes stay on mine, but I can see how hard she fights not to flick them lower as I close the distance between us.

I raise a brow. “I was showering, in my private bathroom, in my bedroom, and you walked in. Didn’t even knock.” When I finally reach her, my hand rises to her neck—not to harm, but to claim. My fingers barely graze her skin before she skitters back like a frightened bird, throat working beneath where my hand had almost touched.

A smile curves my lips. Bad move, little birdy. Now I want to chase.

I step towards her. She steps back.

I move again. So does she.

We do this dance, and I’m enjoying every second because I know soon—ha. The back of her knees knocks against the bedframe, and too caught up in me, she loses her balance, falling ass first on my bed.

Satisfaction thrums through me because this position puts her face-to-cock with me. Her color goes even deeper, and she slaps a hand over her face, eyes squeezing shut again like that’ll erase reality. Fuck. How far down does that blush go? Does it paint her tits? Trail down her belly? Stain the lips of her cunt?

“I–I’m sorry.” Her words snap my attention. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten home, and—woah—” She trails off, fingers parting just slightly to peek at me as I run my knuckles down her flushed cheek, memorizing the silk of her skin.

Yeah, I’m fucked.

“Your skin is so soft, so smooth.” The words roll out before I can think better of it. Christ, she’s so sweet I want to consume her whole.

“Uh…” She clears her throat and inches up the bed. My hand falls from her cheek, but I follow, walking in between her thighs. “M–Michael.”

The way she says my name—breathy, uncertain—ignites something inside me. I lean down, and with one firm push to her chest, she’s flat on her back. Right where I want her to be. Where she belongs.

“Wh–what are you doing?” Her question comes out breathless as I straddle her hips and slowly crawl over her on the bed, her pulse skittering wildly in her throat.

My cock drags up her shirt—my shirt—and a full-body shudder rips through me as pre-cum leaks out, my brain short circuiting as her sweet scent fills my nostrils. “You never answered my question.” It’s a miracle I don’t choke on my own tongue as I force the words past my teeth. “Why. Are you. In my room?”

“I wasn’t–I mean, I didn’t…” Her small hands push against my chest, and the contact nearly undoes me. “W–wait. Hold on. I can’t think when you’re this close. I can’t breathe.”

My head falls heavy to her neck as a groan tears from my throat. Neither can I.

Fuck, I haven’t been able to breathe or think straight since I saw her photo. Since I started a shrine to her, collecting every scrap of information, every preference, every detail of her life. “What if I don’t want you to do either of those things?” I rub the tip of my nose down the silky flesh of her neck, and she trembles beneath me, stoking my lust higher until my vision swims.

“W–what?” Her fingers dig into my damp chest, and the violent urge to rip away those pants and thrust into her blindsides me. I have a high libido, sure, but I’ve never been this fucking out of control with a woman before. It’s dangerous. I shouldn’t.

No.

I push myself away from her, spinning towards the bathroom without another word. Goddamn it. Yanking at my hair, I welcome the sharp pain—anything to cut through this lustful haze threatening to drown me.

Back in the bathroom, I snatch a towel off the bar and wrap it around my waist. I knew she was in my room—heard her come in—and deliberately walked out naked to startle her. But the plan backfired spectacularly.

Now I’m hard as fuck, and I can’t have her. Not yet.

When I return, Gianna is exactly where I left her, flat on her back and chest heaving as she blinks dazedly at the ceiling. A small smile tugs at my mouth, the sight sending fresh heat surging through me, but her obvious reaction soothes something in my ego. At least I’m not suffering alone.

“Better?” I ask.

She turns her head towards me, and I wave at my towel, but she just stares blankly, like she doesn’t understand me. My smile widens as I repeat my question.

Understanding finally dawns in her eyes. “I guess.” Reluctance drags at the words as she leverages herself upright, putting precious distance between us. I let her, fighting the urge to prowl closer. “I’ll, um, just…” She gestures vaguely at the door, already angling towards it. “…go back to my own room.”

“Mmmm.” I watch her fidget for a moment. Fuck, I could listen to that adorable little stammer all day. “You do that. But just so you know, Gianna, I don’t like people invading my privacy.” Truth. I harden my voice as I continue, “If it were anyone else, I’d snap their fucking neck. So, unless you want me to fuck you, stay out of my room.”

Her throat bobs. She nods way too fast, then ducks her head and flees, like a little bird finally realizing it’s been trapped with a predator. I watch her go, mesmerized by the way her ass jiggles in my borrowed shorts.

Wait.

Is she not wearing panties?

I squeeze my eyes shut as the door closes behind her. Fucking hell. I just wanted to come home and get some sleep. But now? Now my cock is throbbing, and sleep is a goddamn joke.

Dragging a hand down my face, I exhale sharply.

I could go back into my bathroom and jerk off, but I already know—I know—I won’t be able to orgasm without thoughts of her in my head.

And I’m not ready to have her invade my brain like that.

So I just suck it up, grab a pair of pants from my walk-in closet, and pull them on, wincing as the fabric scrapes against my sensitive cock.

After getting dressed, I leave my bedroom for my office. The path takes me past her room, and I hesitate at the doorway, my hand clenching at my side.

An immense need surges through me, a primal urge to knock on her door and continue where I stopped.

I'd give her so much pleasure.

My cock jerks against my thigh, and I yank my hair again. “Fuck me.” I turn away sharply, forcing myself to keep moving.

When I reach my office, I press my thumb on the panel, and the door unlocks, swinging open automatically. I shut myself inside and collapse into my chair.

Now. Focus.

Unlike my office back in Manhattan with its wall of screens, this space is minimal. A single computer sits on my desk, untouched most of the time since I prefer to spend my hours reading in the library when I’m here, escaping the noise of the city.

I power up the computer and the screen flares to life almost instantly. As I go to check my emails, my phone begins to ring—Rafael again. Christ.

“What the fuck, Rafael? It's been barely six hours since our last conversation.”

“I just find it hard to believe you haven’t really found her yet.”

“I deeply appreciate your unwavering faith in my tracking skills.” Not really. “But she’s a smart one, okay? There’s a reason she’s remained hidden for two months.”

“Hmm.” Pure skepticism in that sound.

I rub my temple. “Just give me some fucking space, okay? Don’t call me like you’re my goddamn wife, checking if I’m cheating on her.”

Rafael chuckles. “You have a reputation for finding people who don’t want to be found. And finding them quickly. So pardon my disbelief.”

My fingers drum the desk as I search for a way to get him off my back without mentioning Emilia. But Rafael is a stubborn fucker and like a bloodhound with lies—he smells them from miles away, and once he catches the scent, he doesn’t let go. So no choice but to play this card.

But I enjoy it nonetheless. “If you were so confident in my skills, why have you been trying to stop me from finding Emily?” Although truthfully, he hasn’t been the one stopping me.

I’ve hunted for her relentlessly since the incident with Maximo and Elira a couple of months ago. But she’s proving impossible to find. Whoever she’s working for—whatever government organization is protecting her—they’re pulling out all the stops to keep her hidden.

The call cuts off abruptly, just like it did during our last call a few hours ago, and I chuckle. That’s what he gets for trying to rush me.

I’m not nearly ready to be away from Gianna yet, damn it, and I refuse to be rushed.

9

GIANNA

The door catches my weight with a dull thud, but I barely feel it over the violent pounding of my heart. My hands tremble as I press them to my chest, trying to contain the wild thing rattling beneath my ribs. Every muscle in my body turns to liquid, and as I slide down the length of the door, the sticky wetness between my thighs creates a sweet friction against my sensitized clit that makes me moan. I bite my lip.

What is this?

He didn’t even kiss me—didn’t do anything overtly sexual—and yet here I am falling apart like some bumbling virgin. My head falls forward, fingers sinking into my hair. What the hell is wrong with me?

I force myself up on watery legs. What I need is an ice-cold shower and a solid eight hours of sleep to reset my brain. That’s it. That’s all this is—exhaustion. Not to mention the lingering adrenaline dump from almost getting kidnapped. My circuits are fried, synapses misfiring left and right, making me react to him like he’s oxygen and I’m drowning.

Yes. That’s the explanation.

I nod to myself, stripping off my clothes and tossing them onto the bed as I make my way to the ensuite. But the second I step into the bathroom, my gaze locks onto the shower, and a crystal-clear image slams into my head⁠—

Michael.

Walking out of his bathroom.

Steam rolling off his ink-decorated skin.

His cock bobbing with each purposeful step towards me, that wicked silver barbell glistening at the tip, stretching across his thick, swollen head.

My thighs clench.

“No,” I moan, squeezing my eyes shut as more wetness leaks from my already-drenched core.

The way he turned slowly, gave me a perfect view of his tight butt before facing me again. All while his cock grew harder right in front of me.

The sheer want in his gaze as he hovered over me.

He should have fucking kissed me.

I gasp, snapping my eyes open and shaking my head furiously like that will somehow rattle the thoughts loose. What the hell am I thinking? “That image is going to haunt me for the rest of my life, isn’t it?” My sigh echoes off the bathroom walls as I get into the shower.

I crank the tap as cold as it goes and yelp the second the punishing spray hits me. The shock knocks the air from my lungs, but it does little to douse the fever licking at my nerve endings. If anything, the icy deluge only sharpens the hypersensitivity buzzing beneath my skin. Makes every inch of me feel raw. New.

Gritting my teeth, I turn my face into the frigid torrent, breathing through the full-body shudder as the cold sinks barbed hooks into my flesh.

Let it ground you, I coach myself, even as my nipples pucker painfully and goosebumps rise down my arms. Remind you of what’s real. Of what matters.

Survival. Freedom. Staying one step ahead of the monsters snapping at my heels. That’s what matters. Not the traitorous clench between my thighs. Not the hollow ache in my chest. Wash him away.

By the time I step out, my teeth are chattering, and I can’t feel my toes. But hey, my clit has retreated back into my body, so I’m counting it as a win.

I’m not thinking of him anymore.

I should have licked a line down the fiery burst of colors of that phoenix on his chest when I had the chance.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I smack my forehead, trying to physically dislodge the thought. This isn’t helping. Nothing’s helping.

Grabbing a towel, I scrub my skin roughly, skin pinking under the harsh treatment. Then I make my way back to the bedroom and pause, debating whether to grab fresh clothes from my backpack.

I decide against it.

If I’m running away from Michael tonight, I need to keep my clothes as clean as possible. No telling when I’ll next find a laundromat.

Or you just want to spend more time in his clothes.

“Shut up,” I whisper to my brain as I get under the covers.

It sure would be nice to have a hot, muscular body to cuddle.

My nipples harden.

“Shut the hell up,” I repeat, fiercely. I can’t afford to get aroused again.

I try to empty my mind, but the rogue organ between my ears keeps shoving Michael back in. So I force it elsewhere, to something darker. Something painful—the life I left behind.

Uncle Aldo. Aunt Marie. Dario.

That does the trick. But instead of the more recent horrors, my brain takes a detour, dragging me further back—years back.

The day I arrived at their home.

The day after the incident that cost my parents their lives.

“This is going to be your new home, Gigi. What do you think?” My uncle Aldo’s voice is soft, his smile small as he waves towards the huge mansion looming before us.

My heart aches as I watch the beautiful, shiny house. I don’t want a new home. I want my home. I want my mom and dad.

Tears spill down my cheeks, my trembling lips barely able to form words. I clutch my teddy bear tighter, my fingers curling around my mom’s necklace like a lifeline.

Uncle Aldo crouches in front of me when I don’t answer. “I know how heartbroken you must be right now, Gigi. Cesare and I lost our parents when we were just a little older than you, and it was like someone suddenly turned off the sun. Everything was dark.”

I lift my gaze to his blurry face. That’s exactly how I feel. Like the sun, the moon, the stars—the whole universe—have just been taken from me.

More tears spill down my cheeks, and he raises a hand to gently wipe them away.

“I’m not going to tell you not to cry. But I want you to know you’re not alone. You have me, your aunt Marie, and Dario. We’re your family now.”

I don’t want a new family.

Fresh tears fall, and I sob as I follow his pointing finger to a boy, who looks to be a little older than me, stands watching with quiet curiosity. When our eyes meet, he offers me a small, hesitant smile that I try to return, but I know I fail because his smile dims. Then I look at the woman standing behind him, and I flinch. Her eyes aren’t curious. They’re cold. Hostile.

I turn away, just in time to see Uncle Aldo shaking his head at her, his eyes dark with what seems like anger.

“Now, come on, Gigi. Let’s go inside. You’re going to love it here. It’ll be as if we’re your original family.”

“No.” A strangled whimper slips from my lips as my hand flies up to clutch my necklace protectively—but it’s not there.

I gasp awake, my lashes heavy with tears, my breath coming in shallow, uneven pants. Blinking against the disorientation, I slowly push myself up on the soft bed, hot tears stinging my cheeks as they keep falling.

Then it all comes rushing back. Uncle Aldo said they’d be like my original family—what a big fat lie that was.

Aunt Marie never warmed up to me. And a year later, Uncle Aldo and Dario became even crueler than she ever was. It was like losing my parents all over again. And yet, I still clung to hope, foolishly thinking that if I did everything they asked—if I were a good niece—they might finally accept me, start treating me like family again.

Stupid.

With shaky fingers, I wipe my face and glance at the nightstand. Mom’s necklace glints in the dim light. Relieved, I pick it up, wrap the chain around my wrist, and tie it securely so it won’t slip off. Then I slide off the bed.

I can’t believe I actually fell asleep.

Padding over to the window, I peel the curtain back and peek outside. The sky is pitch black. I must have slept for hours, but I don’t feel rested at all. In fact, I feel the opposite—my limbs heavy, my head pounding like I’ve been hit with a brick. With a sigh, I let go of the curtain.

Rested or not, it’s time to go.

If anything, that dream just solidified my decision. I can’t overstay my welcome with Michael. What if he wakes up and decides to take me back to Uncle Aldo? The thought makes me shudder.

I don’t wait for my brain to spiral further. Jaw tight, I hurry back to the bed where my backpack is waiting.

I take off Michael’s clothes and hesitate. No, I can’t take them with me. I fold them neatly, placing them on the nightstand before slipping into my own clothes—a pair of thermal leggings and a sweatshirt. Seattle can get really chilly at night.

Slinging my backpack over my shoulders, I grunt at the weight. The canned meals inside feel heavier than before, but I don’t dare leave them behind.

Moving carefully, I open my door just a crack and peek into the hallway.

It’s empty.

Still, I tiptoe down it, just in case Michael is a light sleeper. As I descend the stairs, I wince at the motion-activated lights flicking on with each step. My breath catches, and I glance behind me, half-expecting to see Michael standing there, frowning at me.

But he’s not there.

Good.

…Then why do I feel a little disappointed? What the hell, Gianna?

The front door opens easily enough, making my stomach twist. Is this too easy? I shrug it off and slip outside, hurrying down the front steps and around the driveway, towards the stretch of road leading to the gates. But something stops me.

I turn around to stare at the pretty house one last time. It felt more like home than Uncle Aldo’s ever did.

My throat tightens. “Thank you,” I murmur, even though he can’t hear me.

Michael might have ulterior motives, but he’s still the first person to show me kindness in as long as I can remember. He rescued me. Gave me a place to stay. Let me sleep in a warm bed, eat a real meal…

I linger a little longer than I should, letting the feeling settle deep in my gut before I shake it off and force myself onward.

Enough.

“You need to pull yourself together, Gianna Cabello. You can’t go crushing on the first hot guy who’s nice to you.”

I’ve barely made it a few feet from the house when something cold and wet lands on my nose. I frown, tilting my head up⁠—

And the sky opens up.

Heavy, icy rain drenches me in seconds.

“Of course. It has to fucking rain again tonight.”

Fuck Seattle.

As if the universe itself wants to rub salt in the wound, a flash of lightning slashes across the sky⁠—

And strikes the ground right in front of me.

I let out a choked scream, my body jolting backwards as thunder roars, swallowing the sound.

My heart skitters, and for one brief, humiliating second, I consider just turning around and running back inside like a coward. Maybe Michael hasn’t noticed I’m gone. I could just slip back in, pretend this never happened.

The thought tempts me.

Hard.

But I banish it and press on through the downpour, the rain soaking into my clothes, my fingers already numb. I swipe at the water dripping into my eyes, blinking furiously to keep my vision clear.

One foot in front of the other. I don’t stop.

I won’t stop.

Then, finally—the gates. I pick up my pace, hope swelling now that I can taste freedom—only for it to crash right back down when I get a good look at them. These aren’t like the more traditional ones at my uncle’s compound. No keypad. No manual lock. Just an impenetrable metal with a built-in scanner. No getting through unless I’ve got a registered face or fingerprints.

“Fucking Michael,” I grumble under my breath. Who the hell needs this much protection? It’s a house, not a goddamn government facility.

Fuck, what do I do now?

I bite my lip, glancing at the ridiculously tall fence that stretches endlessly in either direction. Can I scale it? I doubt it. But I start walking towards it anyway, determined to at least try.

“Don’t even think about it.”

I scream. Not a little yelp—a full-body, heart-in-my-throat scream. I spin around so fast I nearly slip on the wet ground.

Michael is standing there in a black trench coat that billows in the wind, water streaming off his frame. He looks like an avenging angel.

Even in the dark night, and heavy rain, he’s still handsome as sin, damn him. I glare at him to hide how he affects me. “Must you always sneak up on me? Do you get off on startling people?”

He ignores my indignation, his gaze flicking to the fence. “It’s electrified. You touch it, and you’ll get the shock of your life. Literally.” His lips quirk, arms crossing over his chest. “But if you don’t believe me, go ahead and try. It’d be entertaining to watch.”

I believe him.

“I knew it was too easy,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my soaked face. I start towards him, frustration burning hot in my chest. But somewhere inside me—not quite as deep as I’d like—there’s a stupid little thrill.

He came to find me. He cared enough to stop me before I fried myself on his fence.

Shit. Stop it. I shouldn’t give a fuck about him or what he thinks about me.

When I reach him, I slam my shoulder angrily into his chest—not that it does anything. He doesn’t even budge. I glare up at him just as lightning splits the sky, the flash illuminating his electric blue eyes. My heart jumps for a completely different reason this time as I now stare, mesmerized.

My lips part, and his gaze drops to them, sending my heart into overdrive when those blue eyes darken, vivid with desire. He licks his lips, his head tilting the slightest bit towards me.

I stop breathing. My eyes flutter shut as I tilt my face up, anticipation buzzing under my skin. I wait.

And wait.

And—

Nothing.

I crack one eye open, only to find him already walking away. That fucking⁠—

Heat rushes to my face, and I stomp after him, equal parts fury and humiliation warring in my chest. I feel his gaze flick to me as I push past him, but I ignore him, yanking the door open and storming up the stairs to my room where I make sure to slam the door shut. The sound echoes through the room while I glare at it, breathing hard, fingers twitching at my sides. And then it hits me.

I just threw the biggest bratty tantrum of my life.

Damn it.

Sighing, I drag myself to the bathroom. My clothes are soaked through, clinging to my skin like a second, colder layer, and the chill is starting to seep into my bones.

I strip out of them, towel off quickly, then pull on Michael’s clothes—the same ones still waiting for me on the bed. After that, I gather the cans of food from my backpack and stash them in the bedside drawer along with the ziplock bag of money. Finally, I take my backpack and wet clothes to the laundry room where I toss both into the dryer.

And then I wait. Again.

Once everything is dry, I fold my clothes back into the bag and return to my room. But instead of lying down, I pace.

I should probably go talk to Michael.

But embarrassment keeps my feet glued to the floor. Not just because I tried sneaking away without telling him—but because I was so painfully, stupidly eager for his kiss.

A kiss he purposely withheld from me.

I groan and sink onto the bed, dropping my head into my hands. How the hell do I face him after that?

A soft knock on the door makes me freeze. My head snaps up, my heart stuttering, but he doesn’t try to open it.

“You must be cold, I made some hot chocolate for you, and I heated up your dinner. Come downstairs.”

My heart melts even as my lips turn down in confusion. There he goes again. Toying with my emotions. Why does he keep doing this—acting like he cares, like he knows me? I run a hand through my damp hair and pull it back into a ponytail so it doesn’t look like a complete disaster.

When I open the door, he’s already gone. I sigh as I close it behind me and trudge down the stairs through the living room to the dining area—where a steaming mug is waiting for me.

Hot chocolate.

With mini marshmallows and pirouette cookies floating on top. And what looks like chocolate syrup drizzled over them.

What’s left of my heart practically plops into his hands as I sink into the chair, my gaze locked on the mug, deliberately avoiding his.

Something about him making hot chocolate for me exactly the way I like it does things to me. But what really gets me is the plate of food next to the mug. I swallow hard. “How do you know exactly how I like my hot chocolate? And the foods I eat?”

What is he, a stalker? Was he stalking me even before I ran away? Or did he dig into my past, study every little thing I did, every meal I ever ordered? That second thought makes more sense than the first. And yet… it doesn’t weird me out like it should.

If anything, it makes me feel closer to him. Safe. Cared for.

My aunt, uncle, cousin—my so-called family—never bothered to learn the things I liked, let alone provide them for me. And I never let myself make friends, too afraid they’d get hurt by my family. So maybe that’s why his kindness affects me so deeply.

“It was just a lucky guess.” He shrugs carelessly, but deep down, I know it wasn’t. And I think he realizes that I know, because he shifts on his feet, the slightest bit uncomfortable.

“Just who are you?” I ask, finally meeting those electric eyes.

10

GIANNA

Silence stretches between us, long enough to make me think he won’t answer. But then he slides into the seat across from me, pinning me with those vivid blue eyes that have my heart fluttering. “I’m Michael Hart. Who are you?”

I drop my gaze to my hot chocolate again, needing a moment to breathe. Why is it that every time he looks at me like that, my brain turns to mush? His stares are too damn intense. I take a sip, hoping the warmth will help me pull myself together.

“I think you know exactly who I am,” I tell him, cradling the warm mug between my hands. The drink tastes exactly the way it would if I had made it myself. And that realization shifts something in my perception of him. Why would he put such effort into making it just right? Why me?

He smirks in response, and just like that, my moment of contemplation turns into suspicion. I narrow my eyes on him. “Why are you doing all this?” I blurt out, fingers tightening around the mug. “If my uncle sent you to find me, won’t you be in trouble for helping me?” Not only helping me but making sure I’m comfortable and fed.

He tilts his head, that devastating almost-smile playing at his lips. “If you’re trying to imply I should be scared of Aldo, don’t. There’s nothing he can do to me.”

The casual confidence in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. Is he serious? Most men tremble at my uncle’s name. But Michael doesn’t even blink or seem remotely concerned about the consequences. He’s either fearless or reckless—or both.

I frown, opening my mouth to pry a little deeper, but he beats me to it.

“Tell me, Gianna, why did you run away from home? And why were you working at that bar? You have a degree.”

I scoff, successfully distracted—damn him. “A degree without the experience recruiters want. Besides, that’s where Uncle Aldo would look for me first. He knows how much I wanted to be a practicing nurse.”

For a long moment, he simply studies me, and I brace myself, worried he’ll push for an answer to the first question. Why did I run? I’m not ready to talk about that. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to discuss the way I was treated in that house with a man as sure and confident in himself as Michael.

Thankfully, he lets it go.

“So, nursing, huh?” He smiles. “Why go down that route? Why not medical school?”

My hackles rise instantly. “And what’s wrong with being a nurse?”

His hands go up in surrender, though his grin only widens, the ring in his brow piercing glistening under the overhead lights as he tilts his head. “Easy there, Nightingale. It was an honest question, not a dig. I’ve got nothing but respect for nurses. They keep the hospital running, in my opinion.”

Oh. Well. That’s… not what I was expecting. At all.

I clear my throat and stare into my mug, watching a marshmallow slowly sink into the rich, swirling chocolate. Another sip buys time, helps me escape the keen intelligence gleaming in those baby blues. He’s too perceptive, and I hate that I just gave myself away like that.

“I take it nursing wasn’t your first choice?” The quiet observation hits too close, yanking my gaze back up. Why the hell does he have to be so discerning?

I shrug in response, hoping that will be the end of it.

It’s not.

One of his brows arches. “You were going to go into medicine, weren’t you?”

I tense.

“Why?” he presses. “And what changed your mind?”

“What’s with all the darned questions anyway?” I snap.

He only leans back, studying me like I’m some bug he has under a microscope.

I should get up. Walk away. Retreat to my room where those scrutinizing eyes can’t dissect me and my intentions. But I don’t. For some reason I stay seated, oddly reluctant to leave his presence. The man has me wrapped around his ringed pinkie without even trying.

His first question is as difficult to answer as the second, but I choose it as the lesser evil. Better than admitting why I let my dream get derailed. “I was in the car with my parents during the accident.” I pause, dropping my gaze to my hands, tracing the rim of my mug as I search for words. I’ve never talked to anyone about this before. How do I voice it without crumbling?

When I glance back up at Michael, he’s staring at me blankly—but not in a careless way. He knows. The cold police report version. That helps a little. I don’t have to explain every gruesome detail, just… the rest of it. “I must have blacked out when our driver lost control of the car. When I came to, all I heard was gunfire.” I let out a small, humorless laugh. “At first, I thought it was just thunder. But then I–”

I blinked my eyes open to see receding footsteps. Blood. Skull fragments where my dad’s head should have been. He had chosen to sit in the front with the driver—his secretary—so they could discuss business.

Beside me, my mom had a bullet hole in her chest. She was still alive… for a few seconds longer, at least. I stared at her in horror, and she smiled at me. Opened her mouth to say something.

But she never got the words out.

Shock sealed my throat. I couldn’t even scream, could only watch through tears of disbelief, praying it was just a nightmare.

I discreetly rub a finger under my eye, making sure no tears escape. The pain still feels as fresh as that night.

“Anyways, I wanted to become a doctor to help save people the way I couldn’t save my own family,” I finish wryly.

“You were just a child,” Michael points out gently. “There was nothing you could do.” Then, as if unsure what else to do, he reaches across the table and pats my hand—so awkwardly it gets a little giggle out of me, dispelling the last of the ache in my chest. He’s so shit at comforting someone.

“So,” he says after a moment, “what made you choose nursing instead?”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” His answering shrug makes me shake my head. “Has anyone ever told you you’re nosy?”

“Once or twice.” He runs a hand through the blonde strands falling into his face, looking completely unbothered.

I toss the rest of my drink back like a shot of alcohol, taking a few moments to chew my marshmallows and cookies before I give him my practiced answer. “Medical school takes six years. Too long for Uncle Aldo. And a medical doctor—too ambitious. What man would want to marry one?”

His brows pinch together as he watches me, and I hold my breath, bracing myself for what he might say. Maybe something like: Is your goal in life really about the man you’ll marry? That was my question to Uncle Aldo, and I got a slap in response.

“A strong, self-confident man who doesn’t need to put his wife down to feel masculine,” Michael says instead. “Besides, whose stupid idea is it that being a nurse isn’t an ambitious career?”

My heart does a little pitter-patter. Is he… angry? “Uncle Aldo,” I answer.

“Fool,” he retorts, pushing back from the table.

I blink. He is angry. On my behalf.

No one has ever done that for me before.

I stare up at him, heart thudding in my throat. “Who are you, Michael Hart?” Awe creeps into my voice despite my best efforts, and he freezes mid-turn. “Why are you helping me?” Why are you on my side?

His face goes blank, eyes becoming as cold as a glacier. “And who says I’m helping you?”

But he can’t fool me with those tactics. I know defense mechanisms when I see them—I know because I have my own. I wave at the empty mug and the plate of food next to it. “That’s exactly what you’re doing, Michael.”

Rising slowly, I press on. “If you weren’t helping me, I’d be back in Manhattan right now. Back in my uncle’s clutches.”

He scoffs. “I’m no hero, Gianna, so don’t stare at me like that. I don’t do things unless I’m gaining something from them.”

Then he spins around and walks out.

I sink back into my chair and pull my plate closer, suddenly starving. As I eat, I try to decode him, to understand what he could possibly gain from all this.

But for the life of me, I can’t figure it out.

He claims he’s not a hero, insists he’s not helping me. And yet—he’s stocked his kitchen with me in mind. Filled his fridge with my favorite food. Made me hot chocolate just the way I like it...

Maybe I’m reading too much into his actions because nobody has ever been nice to me before. Maybe he really does have an ulterior motive.

But as I savor another bite of perfectly prepared food, I realize… I don’t care what that is anymore.

He can have his motives—as long as he keeps being nice to me and being on my side.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned in this life, it’s that human emotions are as fickle as candlelight on a windy night. They can flicker out or burn steady—their fate uncertain unless helped along.

What if I helped Michael along into falling for me?

After all, if this is him not helping me, him not being on my side, then how would he be when he’s actually in love with me and wants the best for me?

A slow smile curls my lips as I scoop up another bite of rice. For the first time since I ran from Uncle Aldo’s house, I feel something dangerous and warm unfurl in my chest.

Hope.

11

MICHAEL

I need to be colder towards her. Pretend to not give a shit. Fake it till I make it and all that until it becomes reality. But those whiskey eyes and lush, tempting lips keep invading my thoughts, making it impossible to think straight.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I catch myself glancing back repeatedly to check if she’s following me.

Not because I’m running away. I’m definitely not running.

It’s almost time for my weekly meeting with my brothers, and I hate being late. That’s all. She has no hold on me. None at all. I was just a little fascinated by her, and now that I’ve spent some time with her, I’m over it.

Mostly.

I still need to know what makes her tick.

I shove the thought out of my head as I unlock my office door. It’s none of my business what makes her tick. In three days, we’re going back to Manhattan. I sink into my chair, nodding decisively. Three days is more than enough.

My laptop powers on while I scroll through emails on my tablet. Several messages from Lorenzo catch my attention, and I frown. I’ll need to hop on a call with him after this meeting.

The familiar conference chime sounds just as my screen lights up. Barely made it—exactly why I left Gianna downstairs. I hope she’s eating her meal. My eyes drift to the door as I join, and I have to fight the urge to check on her through the cameras.

“Something interesting behind your screen? Share with the class.” Maximo’s teasing pulls my attention to the meeting.

I raise an unamused brow at him. Ever since he settled into his marital bliss a couple of months ago, he fancies himself a damn comedian, and I’m not in the mood right now.

“I have a lot on my plate, ” I say, making a show of checking my wrist despite not wearing a watch. “So can we cut the comedy routine and get this show on the road?”

“Yes, Michael. We’re all businessmen here, and I believe we all have two or ten things to handle.” Romero, ever the pragmatist, intercedes before Maximo can retort. Then, after a beat, he adds, “Though I understand why you’ve got a fire under your ass. Heard a twenty-three-year-old girl is eluding you.”

Fucker. Classic lawyer move—trying to bait information out of me through taunts. But I know his game.

“You motherfu–”

“Men, that’s enough.” Rafael cuts in before I can cuss Romero out. The asshole grins at me cheekily, and I narrow my eyes at him. But Rafael keeps talking. “The Albanian factions have begun their merging process.”

“I thought we saw this coming,” I say, leaning back, arms crossing.

My brothers and I control three of New York’s five boroughs, with the fourth and fifth divided amongst two other Italian families—who still have to answer to us—and our old rivals, the Albanians and their allies, the Russians.

But a few months ago, the Albanians got greedy, slowly setting up little offshoots in our boroughs, which ramped up tensions. Then Maximo went and kidnapped an Albanian princess, turning us into grudging allies by marrying the chit.

So yeah, it was kind of expected that they’d all move to Queens—Maximo’s territory—to coexist peacefully.

“Yes, but it’s happening faster than anticipated, and it’s messing up the ecosystem.” Maximo sighs. “There’s no way they can all stay in Queens because…”

My eyes slide to my tablet, and before I can stop myself, I pick it up. A few taps and swipes, and I’m in the security system, scanning the live feeds until I find the dining area—where, surprisingly, Gianna is eating her meal with a look of pure satisfaction.

Like the cat that got the canary.

My eyes narrow. What is she plotting now?

“... don’t you think so, Michael?”

“Huh?” My head snaps up.

Four pairs of eyes glare at me from the screen.

“Where the hell are you?” Romero demands.

“Sorry, sorry,” I clear my throat. “Just received an email from Lorenzo. Got distracted.” The lie comes easy, but they don’t buy it. Their skeptical silence says it all, so I throw them a bone—something I actually did read earlier. “He thinks Jack and Damien aren’t the end of our little problem.”

“Who?” Maximo asks with a little frown.

“Jack Lister and Damien Washington. The two thieves who were diluting our drug supply to resell it on the street,” Rafael explains. “What did Lorenzo find?”

I shrug. “We don’t discuss sensitive matters over text.” I have the utmost belief in the security of my devices, but some of my employees know enough of the code used in their manufacturing—and I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them. And Lorenzo’s other news about a potential patent thief has me on edge.

“Fucking hell, who the hell are the crooks then?” Romero scowls. “We need to shut this shit down before other fools think they can mess with us.”

“I’m on top of it,” I assure them, and they nod, trusting me to handle it.

I let out a little breath and drop my tablet. No more distractions. Not from Gianna. Not when each one of my brothers is sharp as hell and will pick up on the smallest slip.

“Like I was saying earlier,” Maximo starts. “I think we should let the Albanians remain spread out in our regions rather than cramming them all into one borough.”

I smirk. “Trying to deny your in-laws entry into your borough?”

Romero chuckle. Maximo doesn’t.

We continue the meeting for another hour, finally concluding that since Brooklyn—Romero’s territory—is closer to Queens, the Albanians can get some space to settle in both cities.

When we’re done, I move to disconnect, but Rafael stops me. “Michael, a word, please.”

Maximo snickers and exits before I can snap at him. Romero exits quietly, but I don’t miss the amusement glistening in his eyes. I half suspect he has already figured out that I have Gianna.

Of my three brothers, Romero probably has the best idea of how my tracking process works. Since we’ve had to collaborate on some of his criminal cases before, he’s well aware of just how quick and efficient my software is.

“What is it, Rafael? We talked last night. When I find her, I’ll let you know.”

There’s something in his gaze—a quiet certainty—that makes me think he might have already put the pieces together too. “I trust you with my life, Michael. You know that, right?”

He definitely knows. Still, I hold his stare, refusing to back down. “Good. I trust you with my life as well.”

A pause. Then, quietly, “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

His screen goes dark.

I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. But I don’t even have time to think about the ramifications of Rafael’s words before my phone pings with an incoming call from Lorenzo.

“Michael, I hope I’m not interrupting your meeting?” he asks the moment I answer.

As my personal assistant—both at my company, HartSphere, and on the shadier side of ruling lower Manhattan—he knows my schedule better than anyone.

“No, we just wrapped up. Talk to me.”

“I just found out about a warehouse where tons of our Ozempic and nicotine lozenges are being rerouted. The Ozempic is dried, mixed with the nicotine, and sold on the black market.”

My spine straightens. “Your source?”

“Dead.”

Fucking hell. “Did you kill him?”

“Nope. I found him and a few others selling their drugs on 125th Street. The others ran, but I caught him. He got a bullet to the head mid-interrogation, right there on the streets.”

“Fuck, this is all more organized than we thought. I’m going to do some follow-ups here. Send me as many details as you have.”

“Of course. And about the patent thief—I have a name.”

“Good. Get him and throw him in the basement. I’ll deal with him when I’m back in the city.”

I end the call and lean back, rolling my stiff neck. There’s a mountain of shit waiting for me in Manhattan, things that really shouldn’t be left for another day. But the thought of taking Gianna back to the city…

I hate it.

I sigh. I need to get a hold of myself. What the hell has she done to me?

Three more days, I promise myself. Just three more days with her, and I’ll take her back to the city.

I get to my feet, running a palm over my scalp as I make my way towards the door. I’m fucking starving. Hopefully, she’s still in the dining room.

My heart stirs at the thought of those fiery eyes flashing at me, and I shove that shit down.

But the second I open the door, I freeze.

Chest to hair, I nearly collide with the very thing that’s been unraveling me from the inside out.

She jumps back, a quick breath hitching, but recovers fast. Her chin tilts up—and just like that, those fiery eyes I was just trying to ignore burn right into mine. But…

My brain goes blank, mouth slackening as I stare at her. I’ve already accepted that she’s gorgeous—hell, the secret pictures I have stashed are more than enough evidence—but fuck me, right fucking now, she looks like a slice of heaven come down to tempt me.

She’s done something to her face. Her lids shimmer, making her whiskey eyes glow like firelight dancing on water. Her lips—full, glossy—look almost sinful.

“Gianna.”

Her name is barely a breath as I step closer, fingers reaching, brushing over the silky strands framing her beautiful face.

Soft. Like liquid slipping through my fingers. Her long lashes flutter, and that tiny movement ruins me.

Before I can even process it, I’m backing her up. Step by step, until she’s pinned against the wall, my body caging hers in. My head drops heavily towards her, my nose dragging through her hair, down to the delicate skin of her face.

She smells—Jesus Christ. I don’t even have words for it.

I groan, dipping lower, settling into the crook of her neck. My mouth waters, my head swims like I’ve downed the strongest whiskey in the world, and I don’t want to sober up. No woman has ever affected me like this before.

Then my tongue flicks out—just a taste, just a single swipe over the soft hollow of her throat where her pulse is pounding frantically. It’s heaven. With a sharp, underlying bite of something hotter, something that burns. She jerks, a breathy sound spilling from her lips, and the last of my rationality shatters, giving way to the primitive desire of my hardening cock.

I sink my teeth into her flesh and she moans, arching her neck for me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. My mouth drags up her neck, messy, desperate. No finesse. Just the raw, clawing urge to consume her whole.

Her lips part before I even reach them, like she’s been waiting for me, and when I finally, finally crash into her⁠—

It’s over.

I dive in.

And I drown.

12

GIANNA

I moan in surprise as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, the rough sensation of the soft muscle dragging up the roof so hot it sends goosebumps all over my body. My core clenches, liquid warmth pooling between my thighs.

I don’t hold back.

Twining my arms around his neck, I return his kiss with equal fervor. It’s hot, wet, and erotic. His fingers tighten in my hair before one hand slides down, searing a path down my neck to mold around my tit.

My nipples perk up, hardening instantly, and he groans into the kiss like he feels it too. Then he finds one, catching the sensitive peak between his thumb and index finger, and—oh, fuck—a white-hot jolt of pleasure zips through my veins. My head knocks back against the wall so hard, our kiss breaks with an audible smack.

We pant, foreheads nearly touching, breaths mingling as we stare at each other.

His lips are glistening, stained a little red from my lipstick, and his eyes—a very vivid blue now—are so intense. This close, I can see tiny green flecks circling his pupils, making them even more mesmerizing.

“You’re so beautiful,” I breathe, slowly raising my right hand.

His eyes flicker to it, his expression shifting to something wary, cautious. Then, just as my fingers are about to brush his cheek⁠—

He steps back.

And just like that, the warmth, the fire, the dizzying effect of him—all of it is ripped away. I swallow hard when he takes even more steps away from me, his brows furrowing in adorable confusion. “What was that?”

I lick my lips, still feeling aftershocks of pleasure pulsing through my core and clit from just that one kiss. My thighs press together involuntarily. I’ve read about this kind of insane chemistry before, in all the smutty books I’ve devoured over the years. But I never really believed it. Now, though? Now I understand.

And God help me—I want more, and more, and more.

“We kissed.” My voice is so husky, it drags his gaze to my lips, and I make a show of wetting them sexily, enjoying the way his throat bobs. His eyes fly to mine, and I add, “Or more accurately, you kissed me.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, looking so lost it almost has me grinning. For a second, I think he might say something, acknowledge whatever the hell just happened between us….

Then he turns away from me.

Running. Again.

Oh, no, you don’t.

I didn’t think my little seduction plan would work, not really—not this soon, anyway.

After eating earlier, I remembered the little waterproof makeup kit in my backpack and went up to check if it was still intact. Then I swiped on some eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. That’s literally all I did, and he mauled me like a starving wolf catching his first meal.

A satisfied smile curves my lips as I smooth my hair back. This is going to be so much easier than I thought.

Honestly, I should have changed out of his clothes first, but I was in a bit of a hurry—the makeup took longer than I expected. I glance down at the drab shirt swallowing me whole and his baggy boxer shorts underneath hanging loose on my hips. Not exactly seductive attire.

That didn’t stop him from kissing the hell out of me, though.

Still, I can do better.

Gathering the hem of the shirt, I tug it up just below my boobs and knot it, exposing my belly button. There. That should do the trick, I nod to myself, then slide the hair tie from my wrist and quickly pull my hair up into a calculated messy ponytail before hurrying after him.

I catch up to him just as he goes into the living room. He suddenly stops, and I slow, following his gaze to the dining area where he’s staring at the food with an almost comical look of confusion.

I bite my lip, holding back a giggle. My initial plan was to invite him down for dinner, then seduce him slowly while he ate.

Guess that plan’s out the window.

I step forward, my voice sweet but purposeful. “You didn’t eat when I did earlier, and you spent so long locked up in that room, I figured you might be hungry.”

“I’m not hungry,” he snaps, but his stomach growls, immediately calling out his lie. He glares at me, daring me to say something. Instead, I take his hand, shuddering at the sparks of fire that travel through me.

He goes rigid, but I don’t let it deter me. “Come on,” I coax, giving his hand a little tug. “I went through the effort of heating the food up and plating it. Even if you’re not hungry, you should at least take a few bites to appreciate my hard work.”

His head turns towards me slowly, almost like he’s afraid to look. I smile up at him prettily and take a strategic step back, just enough to draw his attention to my shirt. His gaze drops to my bare midriff, and he inhales sharply.

Gotcha.

I use his distraction to guide him to the table. He follows without resistance.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I heated up a little of everything in the freezer. They’re all my favorites, and I have excellent taste, so I’m confident you’ll like them too.” I urge him to sit with a gentle push, then slide a plate towards him. As I round the table to take my own seat across from him, I move with an easy sway, making sure he catches every movement.

Minutes pass in charged silence as he stares at me, like I’m some sort of world wonder he’s just seeing for the first time. The heat in the room becomes suffocating, my cheeks burning under his intense scrutiny.

What is he thinking? Is he onto my tricks?

To break the tension, I lean forward to pick up the fork in front of him and gather some lasagna onto it. His unwavering attention makes my nipples—still sensitive from his touch earlier—tighten almost painfully as I lift the food to his mouth.

He grabs my wrist, and my heart slams into my throat. But his voice is soft when he asks, “What the hell are you doing, dove?”

“You need to eat.” I try to sound confident, but my voice comes out weak and my wrist trembles slightly under his grip. Not because I’m scared of him, no. But because for some reason, I’m getting worked up.

I shift on my chair, trying to distract myself from my dampening panties.

He narrows his gaze on me. “You’re playing with fire, Gianna, and if you’re not careful, you’re going to get burned.” His words are cold, but his eyes—they’re like the fiery pits of hell. And I want to get burned by that fire. Badly.

He takes the fork from me and starts eating through the food I set on the table for him, one plate after another. But I don’t let up. Through it all, I try to move seductively across from him. Taking my hair out of the ponytail in that sexy, cinematic way I’ve seen women do in the movies, tilting my neck this way and that to highlight the curve of my skin.

The pendant of my mom’s necklace sways gently from my wrist as I shift, catching the light.

Outwardly, he remains stoic, focused on the food, but I notice the slight darkening of his eyes, the subtle drop of his lashes as they hood over his gaze. I’m getting to him.

Power surges through my veins, making me lightheaded at the thought that I can seduce this strong, powerful man—reduce him to putty—just with a little skin and a few teasing touches. I’ve never been more aware of my own feminine wiles, and damn, it feels good.

I trail my fingertips down my neck, stopping at the first button of the shirt. Michael’s eyes become dangerous slits, and I can almost read the dare in them. He thinks I won’t do it.

I smirk. Watch me.

I flick the first button open. Then the second.

Michael grabs a glass of water and gulps it—just as I undo the third, exposing the swell of my breasts. He chokes mid-swallow, immediately dropping the glass as he dissolves into a coughing fit.

I jump up from my chair, startled. Holy shit, I didn’t mean to actually kill him. That would be a hell of a mood killer.

I rush around the table, ready to slap his back. “It’s okay, you’re–” My words die in my throat when he suddenly grabs me by the waist and yanks me into his lap—right onto the thick, unrelenting length of his cock.

A sharp gasp rips from me, my eyes widening as my fingers clutch his shoulder for balance. The bastard tricked me.

And fuck me, my body loves it. More wetness leaks out of me, and my thighs press together on instinct. The way he maneuvered me so easily was so hot.

“Why are you surprised, dove?” His voice is a deep rasp, his breath warm against my cheek. “Isn’t this the result you were hoping to achieve?”

Heat rushes to my face. I squirm in his lap, dropping my forehead against his neck to hide my blush. “N–no. I was just trying to thank you for saving me by feeding you.”

“Little liar.” His palm wraps around my neck, tilting my face up so I have no choice but to meet his gaze. Those blue eyes—piercing, unwavering—holding me captive. “You wanted this.”

His other hand skims up my bare thigh, rough calluses leaving streaks of fire in their wake as his fingers climb higher and higher.

My lips part in a soft moan, head lolling back weightlessly, his grip on the back of my neck the only thing holding me up. He leans in, his hot breath fanning the top of my lip, teasing me, taunting me. I tilt towards him, aching for the drugging pleasure of his kiss, my body trembling with anticipation.

And then, just as his lips brush mine, my eyes slam shut, pulse thundering so loudly in my ears, it deafens me as he drags his tongue across my bottom lip, tasting me without truly kissing me. My lips part even wider, and he chuckles. The asshole.

“You’re so hungry for me.”

I would argue, but before I can, he moves. His lips trail from my cheek to my neck, and I whimper, adjusting myself in his lap—twisting in a way I didn’t realize I could until I’m straddling him, my needy cunt settling right over the wide tip of his cock through our clothes.

We groan at the same time as I grind down on him, my hips shifting, chasing friction. But his hold on my neck tightens, and the hand on my thigh flies up, fingers digging into my waist in an attempt to keep me still. His grip is so unyielding, so possessive, that the bite of pain only stokes the fire of my lust.

“Shh, careful, little phoenix, or you might burn yourself to ashes.” His voice is so guttural, his accent so thick, I almost don’t recognize what he’s saying. But I don’t care. My body is burning up, my brain hazy with lust, more arousal coating my thighs as my clit pulses. All I know is that I want—no, I need to cum.

I press down against his cock again, trying to find my own pleasure if he’s not going to give it to me. But then his second hand leaves my neck, both gripping my waist now, effectively locking me in place.

“Michael,” I whine.

He chuckles, that deep, rumbling sound driving me crazy as he kisses up the shell of my ear, slow, teasing, dragging out the moment. And then—without any warning—he bites down on the sensitive flesh. Hard.

A jolt of shock runs through me, and I can’t help but gasp, my eyes flying open, startled. Our gazes collide, and it’s like looking into the sky right before a heavy storm—charged, violent, crackling with a tension I can feel deep in my bones.

For a moment, we just stare at each other, caught in this electrifying silence. My pulse is erratic, my breathing shallow. God, this man. I didn’t think it was possible to feel this much heat, this hunger, just from a look. But wow, here it is, wrapping around my senses, making it impossible to focus on anything but him.

And I know, without a doubt, that whatever comes next, I won’t be able to resist it.

“Unless you want me to fuck you right here and now, Gianna... Get off my lap,” he says, slowly releasing his grip on my waist, one finger at a time, his expression pained.

But that’s exactly what I want.

I grab him on both sides of his skull, my fingertips tracing the smooth skin of his scalp. He shudders beneath me, the tremor running through his body as I pull him closer. And without hesitation, I lower my head and crash my lips into his, our teeth clashing from the force.

He groans, his hands coming back up to my waist, and I slowly, deliberately roll my hip over him, seeking the pressure of the tip of his cock against my clit. “Fucking hell, Gianna!” He rips his lips from mine as his head falls back against the chair.

“Do you get it now?” I ask, my voice husky, barely able to keep control.

His head lifts lazily, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. “Yes,” he purrs, his chest rumbling with satisfaction as his hands slide from my waist to firmly cup my ass. “I do.”

I squeal as he rises fluidly to his feet. My hands instinctively wrap around the back of his head to steady myself, but there’s no need for that. He simply bends over, swipes the plates off the dining table, and places me on it.

My back barely touches the surface before his palm presses against my sternum, pushing me flat. “It’s time for my dessert,” he growls, getting back to his seat. Then his hands hook into the waistband of my shorts and start to pull them down⁠—

A shrill alarm splits the air moments before water rains from the ceiling, drenching us.

“Fuck!” Michael curses, quickly pushing his seat back away from me and jumping to his feet. Shaking water from his hair, he rushes towards the kitchen.

The fucking dessert—the actual dessert—I forgot in the oven must have gotten burned.

The alarm stops but I stay where I am, worked up as fuck, barely resisting the urge to rub my thighs together, hoping he’ll come back and continue where we stopped.

But when he returns, he says, “I need to go turn off the water.” And he does not look amused.

A frustrated groan catches in my throat. And as he walks away, tiny tears of regret leak from the corners of my eyes, mixing with the water dripping from the faucets in the ceiling.

Because I know that’s the end of this little interlude.

13

MICHAEL

I promised myself three more days with her before taking her back to the city. Today is the fourth. And I’ve barely spent four fucking hours with her.

Not for lack of trying—oh no. After that day I lost control a week ago, Gianna became a menace, pure and simple. She’s teasing, testing, practically pleading for me to fuck her.

And I want to. More than I want my next breath.

Which is why, despite myself, I’ve resorted to jerking one off in the bathroom like a damn teenager after every meal with her. It’s pathetic, but it’s the only thing keeping me from doing what I really want—bending her over the nearest surface and fucking her so thoroughly she won’t be able to walk straight for a month.

I need to take her back to the city before I break.

Because if I do break and fuck her, I might not have any control over her.

She’s teasing me, but she doesn’t fully understand the fire she’s playing with. As much as she’s seducing me, she’s also seducing herself. I don’t know why she’s doing this, but I know whatever spell she’s cast over me, she’s caught in it just as deeply. And if I break first, I’ll shatter the illusion, and she’ll wake up from the haze she’s lost herself in.

I can’t have that.

I’m playing the long game here. Nothing short-term.

When I take her back to Manhattan, I’m taking her home. My home. Where she’ll be for the rest of her life. But to convince her to come with me, I need her to stay exactly as she is now—dazed, desperate, and aching for me.

“The stock has been doing really well, showing a steady rise for the past eighteen months. This is the best time to get an IPO, Michael.”

I drag my gaze from my tablet, where I’m watching Gianna—she’s in the library, rearranging my collection of books for some unfathomable reason—towards Rachel, the woman with the absurd suggestion.

Steepling my fingers, I slowly glare down at the other men and women seated around the large table in one of my conference rooms in my office back in Manhattan. They carefully avoid my gaze. Cowards.

This isn’t the first time this topic has been brought up, and I’ve shut it down every single time.

My stare settles on Rachel. “This is only your third time in the board meeting with us, Rebecca, so I’m going to⁠—”

“Rachel, I–” She cuts off the moment my eyes go cold.

“You don’t interrupt me, Candace. Understood?” I deliberately call her by the wrong name again and wait for her firm nod before continuing. “HartSphere is privately owned and will remain so until I lose my last breath. We’re never going public. Never.”

My gaze sweeps over the other culprits again—Nathaniel, especially. I have no doubt they pushed Rachel forward to bring this up, hoping I’d go easy on her since she’s still a relatively new board member, having inherited her dead grandmother’s shares.

“Under no circumstances will this be discussed again,” I say flatly. “If you’re unhappy with the way I run my company, you’re welcome to sell off your shares to me and walk the fuck out.”

As I finish speaking, my office door opens.

I frown, my body already tightening as Gianna walks in, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes.

Fuck. I’m about to regret putting her prints on the system, aren’t I?

“I didn’t realize this topic had already been discussed—several times apparently,” Rachel says apologetically, directing a glare at Nathaniel. “I won’t⁠—”

Movement at the edges of my vision has me looking up again, and my breath lodges in my throat. It takes all of my self-control for my jaw not to drop.

Gianna is dancing.

Terribly.

She’s got my AirPods in, probably listening to one of the ridiculous playlists she’s made over the past few days. Swaying, twisting, looking utterly carefree as she loses herself to whatever song is playing, completely oblivious—or worse, entirely aware—that she has my full, undivided attention.

“Michael? Are you there?”

I barely register the voices on the call as I wave a hand absently, signaling them to move on to the next topic.

And then⁠—

Right in front of me, in the middle of my office, Gianna whips off her tank top. She folds it neatly, places it on the desk, and pushes it towards me.

I keep my facial muscles firmly in place, perusing her body coolly, even as every drop in my brain rushes south with brutal force, hardening my cock. My jaw tightens as she spins, reaching back to… unhook her bra?

The straps slide down her shoulders, and⁠—

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Full, creamy tits spill free.

My mouth floods, and my cock goes iron-hard, my fingers twitching with the urge to grab, to devour.

Instead, I mute my call, lean towards her, and grind out, “Get the fuck out of here.” Before I lose every shred of control I have left.

But my hard tone doesn’t faze her. Hell, I doubt she even heard me over the music blasting in her ears. She gives me a naughty smile and raises her index finger to her lips. “Shhh.” Then she bends over, giving me an eyeful of tits as she shimmies her shorts down her long, tanned legs, her hair whipping around as she bounces back up.

The shorts come flying towards me, and I quickly snatch them midair before they can appear on my screen. Discreetly, I move my chair to the side so my face is no longer visible, then lift the crotch of her shorts to my nose, taking a deep, greedy sniff.

Fuckkk.

She smells of honey and heaven, and I’m dying to drink up her nectar. When I drop the shorts from my face, she’s gone. I frown, glancing around my office—only to spot her crawling around my desk.

Yes, crawling.

Right towards me.

“Fucking hell, you’ll be the death of me.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but her answering smirk tells me she’s extremely pleased with herself for pulling me apart thread by thread. She kneels in front of me, placing her small hands on my knees.

Her smirk grows as she pushes against them. I raise a brow at her, refusing to budge, curious to see what she’ll do next.

My blood roars in my ears as she leans back on the balls of her feet, curling her back as she cups one beautiful tit.

I lick my lips hungrily and swat her hand away. “That’s mine. Don’t touch it.” It’s a crazy demand, but I don’t care. And to make sure she hears it, I reach forward, pluck an AirPod from her ear, and repeat myself.

She narrows her eyes, challenge flashing in those clear, golden irises. Then, without breaking eye contact, she pushes at my knees again. This time, I let them part, and she immediately moves in, crowding into me, walking her hands up my thighs sexily, her destination clear from the teasing path she follows.

“Michael, we seem to have lost you. Did you get the last few minutes of this meeting?”

My gaze flicks to my laptop—bad move.

Because in that split second, Gianna wraps her fingers around me. I jolt in my chair with a strangled sound, a mix of a groan and a curse, and when I look down at her in disbelief, she just winks. I didn’t expect her to be that bold.

I hold her gaze as I unmute my mic, letting only half of my face show on the screen. “You guys continue the meeting without me and send me the minutes. Something very, very important just came up here.”

Gianna’s face turns scarlet red, and I smirk as I exit the call before anyone can object.

Now.

Reaching down, I tilt her chin up so I can collar her throat, brushing the pad of my thumb over her pink, glistening, bottom lip. “Now that you have my full attention, what are you going to do to keep it?”

My thumb digs into her mouth, and she takes it like an offering, immediately sucking it between her lips and swirling her tongue around it. My cock jerks violently, and my spine tingles as precum leaks out.

I’ve never been this aroused in my life.

I let go of her face and sit back in my chair, legs apart. Waving a hand, I say, “Go on. Continue.”

For a moment, she just stares at me blankly, chest heaving, those pretty tits and strawberry-pink nipples distracting as hell. I roll my tongue along my teeth. Patience.

Then she moves.

Her hands glide up my thighs again, more certain now as she works the button on my pants free before drawing the zipper down—so slowly I swear I can feel every tooth against my aching cock. I wince at the pressure, the sensitivity, and she pauses, shooting me a concerned glance.

I wave her on impatiently.

Taking the cue, she slips her hand inside my boxer shorts and dances her fingertips down the length of my cock, gasping when the muscle bops her.

My eyes hood, and I’m barely able to hold her stare when she looks at me questioningly. “Take me out,” I rasp.

Something shutters in her gaze, and she nods as she complies. I shudder, the silk material of my underwear rubbing against my sensitive nerves, and she seems to realize that I enjoy it, prolonging the sensation. Dangerous girl.

“Don’t tease me,” I growl, and she gives me the tiniest smile before finally freeing me. The cool air kisses the head of my cock, making me hiss through my teeth.

Her eyes pop open as she studies me up close and personal.

“Why do you look so surprised? This isn’t your first time seeing me.”

“I didn’t know…” She hesitates, cheeks going impossibly pink. “…penises could be so pretty.”

I blink.

Then chuckle. “Penis? Did you just call my cock pretty? You know I haven’t heard that one before, you should—” I choke on air as she tugs experimentally on the barbell on either edge of the head, my vision whiting out for a solid two seconds.

Fuck me.

I’m still trying to untangle my crossed brain wirings when she tries to wrap her hands around me—but they’re too small. And I’m way too fucking sensitive. Each attempt has my precum leaking dangerously close to spilling over.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing slow breaths through my mouth, hoping—praying—that not seeing that adorable look of concentration on her face as she tries to get me off will help me cool down.

No such luck.

The lash of her tongue around my tip has my eyes snapping open, and I gape at her as she slowly licks me like a lollipop, the rough texture of her tongue making precum gush out of me. When she sees the liquid, she inhales sharply before she completely swallows the head and sucks.

“Gianna!” I yell her name, jerking so violently in the chair she almost falls on her ass. “Goddamnit.”

I don’t give her the chance to do anything else—I hook my arms under her armpits and haul her up into my lap, stealing her surprised gasp in a kiss that’s more teeth than finesse. But she just moans throatily into my mouth, shifting to get comfortable—and the slide of her bare ass over my cock damn near wrecks me.

I wheeze, breaking the kiss as I sag back in my chair, eyes squeezing shut for just a second. Trying to breathe, to calm the hell down.

When I open them again, she’s staring at me curiously.

I tighten my grip on her waist and push to my feet, depositing her neatly on my desk. Her legs part instinctively to make space for me, and I step between them, hugging her tight and burying my face in the crook of her neck, greedily drinking in her sweet scent.

God, she smells so fucking good.

“Michael.” She breathes my name, trembling in my arms when I skate the pad of my fingers down her spine.

I press a kiss to the tendon of her neck, then slowly drag my wet kiss lower—across her collarbone, down to her sternum. Her hands drop from my back to slap onto the desk behind her, steadying herself.

I keep going, trailing my kisses lower until I reach the spot right between her lush tits. I purse my lips and press them there, loving the way her heart thuds against my mouth. Mine.

Tilting my head, I lap at the soft swell of her tit, kissing and sucking it. She arches her back, trying to shift her nipple into my mouth. But I avoid it, wanting to drive her as crazy as she drove me, and move to her second tit, lavishing the same attention everywhere but where she so clearly wants me.

“Michael!” she snaps, lifting up to grab her right tit and shove the hard nipple towards my mouth.

My amused chuckle tapers off as I take in the hot sight of her offering me her tit—head thrown back, eyes narrowed to golden slits as she watches me, waiting, demanding.

Jesus… fuck.

My cock bounces against my belly, more liquid spilling from the tip as I lower my head to her tit and blow a cool breath on it. She goes wild, screaming my name as she squirms on the desk, her left hand slipping.

I catch her waist before she can tip back. I wonder if she can come from this.

Only one way to find out.

I blow on her nipple again, and the moment she lets out a desperate groan, I trap the red berry between my teeth, gently biting down just enough to make her feel it. She bucks on the desk, her flailing arms sending my laptop crashing to the floor as she falls back onto my waiting arm, taking me with her.

I latch onto her, sucking hard, rolling my tongue around the sensitive flesh. And as I do, my hand slides from behind her, slowly tracing down her goosebumped thigh to the space between her legs, where I desperately want to be.

Hooking my fingers into the side of her thong, I tug it aside—and the back of my finger barely grazes her swollen clit.

She shatters.

Her spine arches cleanly off the desk, shoving her tit deeper into my mouth as she yells to the roof, cumming.

It takes a couple of hours to make the arrangements for my private jet to be flown down to the rainy city—and even more hours to get it fueled for the ride back to Manhattan. I spend the time in between making phone calls, handling business…

And scrolling through my video feeds, watching Gianna sleep.

She looks so peaceful. So fucking perfect.

By the time I get the confirmation that the jet is ready, I hesitate. I loathe the idea of waking her.

Still, I’m eager to get back to Manhattan.

Because the second we land, I’m declaring her mine.

And Rafael is going to know she’s off–limits.

14

GIANNA

Walking down the hallway back to my room without stumbling takes every ounce of strength I possess. My legs feel boneless, my joints all liquid from that powerful orgasm.

I press a hand over my still-racing heart as I open the door and slip inside. Without Michael. But honestly, despite craving more, I’m secretly grateful for the space. As much as I wanted him to follow me here—to pin me to the mattress and pick up right where we left off—I needed some distance from him.

I’ve had sex before—twice, with the same man—and both times I thought I knew what satisfaction felt like. But those experiences pale in comparison to what just happened with Michael. And we didn’t even have actual sex. Yet.

My pulse kicks up just thinking about it as I collapse face-first on the bed.

If I hadn’t stopped him, we would have had explosive sex right there on his desk. But I’m not on birth control, and no matter how much pleasure he gave me—and will give me—I’m not about to risk getting pregnant. Not now when my entire life is up in the air, and I have literally no idea what will happen tomorrow.

I groan into the pillow, turning to my side—then suck in a breath when a sharp pulse of pleasure shoots through me. My clit throbs, overly sensitive from being pressed into the mattress.

Holy shit.

The wet, sticky mess coated between my thighs is all the proof I need of how hard I came. But now that I’ve had a taste of him, literally, I’m left wanting more.

Needing more.

God, and Michael… he got nothing. No relief at all. And his erection looked painful as hell. A twinge of guilt hits me. I thought for sure he’d take me to his room and finish the both of us off, but that call he got seemed to make him realize what he was about to do. It was like something clicked in his head.

I sigh and roll onto my back, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Who was that on the other end of that call?

Not that it matters anyway. He stopped. Which means I need to keep seducing him. Keep teasing him, keep pushing him, until we actually have sex. That’s when he can truly become mine and be too invested to take me back to Uncle Aldo.

At least, that’s the plan. But the more I push, the more he gets under my skin.

He’s just so much. So handsome, so expressive when he wants to be, and so explosively powerful.

I sigh longingly—then immediately shake myself. The seductress has become seduced. And if I’m not careful…

What if, in my mission to make sure Michael falls for me… I end up falling for him instead?

No. No way. That can’t happen. It must not.

But…

I turn to my side, absently tracing my swollen lips with my fingertips, my mind spiraling into dangerous fantasies—scenarios of when I finally get Michael to fall in love with me.

“You’re the sun that orbits around me, Gianna. Without your presence, my life is a bleak, meaningless existence. I love you with all my being, and I promise not to ever betray you. I love you,” Michael declares, grabbing my hand earnestly to drop kisses over the back and inside my palm, his blue eyes guileless as he waits for my response.

I beam, my heart soaring. “Michael, I–”

A sharp knocking cuts me off.

My brows knit. I glance around the doorless room, wondering where the sound is coming from, then turn back to my suitor. “Michael, I lo–”

But he’s gone.

And suddenly the lights go out, leaving me alone in the darkness.

My heart drops to my belly, my happiness twisting into cold dread in seconds. “Michael! Where are you?”

Knock-knock–knock-knock.

The persistent sound won’t stop. It’s everywhere. Loud. Relentless. Amplifying my fear because I can’t see the door. Where is the fucking door!?

I jerk upright, gasping, my skin clammy with sweat. Confusion clouds my mind as I glance around. The room is dimly lit, quiet—except for the sharp rap of someone knocking.

“Gianna, baby, you need to wake up.”

Michael’s voice.

I blink, disoriented, then realize the door handle is jiggling. Shit. I must have locked it when I came in earlier. And… fallen asleep?

Rubbing sleep from my eyes between yawns, I shuffle towards the door, unlocking it and cracking it open. And—wow.

He’s fully dressed in a three-piece suit, looking like he just stepped out of a goddamn magazine. His cufflinks gleam under the dim light, his rings sparkling on his thumbs, ears, and brow.

“Someone is looking dapper. Are we going somewhere?” I ask, my heart skipping as I check him out again. Holy hell, this man is gorgeous. Would I ever get used to this?

His blue eyes flick over me, unreadable. “Yes. We have an important occasion to attend. Get dressed and take your things. We might not be back for a while.”

And just like that, he turns and walks away, leaving me with a million questions burning at the back of my throat.

An important occasion?

My mind flashes back to his phone call—what, an hour ago? Two? I have no clue how long I was out. But whatever that call was about, it changed something in him. Is that related to us leaving?

Where the hell are we going?

A knot forms in my stomach, my heart thudding heavily as I throw on some clothes, my mind racing through every possible scenario. I was just starting to feel settled in this house—like it could be home—and now we’re leaving?

A new wave of anxiety rolls through me. Once we’re out of here, we’re vulnerable. What if we run into Uncle Aldo’s men? What will we do then?

My heart thuds faster. Crap. I almost forgot I was on the run. I got complacent, which is really bad.

I sigh, glancing around the bedroom I’ve come to think of as mine for what feels like the last time, and my heart aches painfully. “Don’t be so dramatic, Gia,” I murmur to myself, shrugging my backpack on. He did say it was just for a while, so I’ll certainly be back here soon.

…Right?

Steeling myself, I leave my room. The hallway is empty, so I drag my feet towards the staircase and slowly descend, my heart growing heavier and heavier with each step, my anxiety tightening like a vice around my chest.

How the hell did I survive two months alone on the streets? I’ve only been with Michael for one week, but already, I’ve come to depend on him entirely for my safety. I trust him, I realize. And it’s scary as hell.

At the foot of the stairs, I spot him waiting in the foyer, back against the wall, ankles crossed, fingers flying over his phone screen. A sexy little furrow of concentration creases his brows, making his brow ring a little more prominent.

God, even in a suit, he still looks like the ultimate bad-boy playboy.

Did I really try to seduce this man? And it… kinda worked? Me?

He glances up, those blue eyes arresting me, and—oh. Fuck. My core clenches as memories of his dark, hooded gaze flash through my mind. Of my lips wrapped around his cock, of the way he yelled my name…

Heat floods my face, and I quickly look down. “I’m ready.”

“Why are your cheeks turning so red?” He sounds amused. “What are you thinking about, dove?”

“Nothing. Just wondering where we’re going, and if I’m dressed appropriately.” I wave a hand down at my jeans and top, desperate to change the subject.

“Hmm.” He pockets his phone and uncrosses his ankles, pushing away from the wall. “You’re stunning as always.” His knuckles skim down my cheek, and the heat in my face spreads.

But thankfully, he’s already moving to get the front door for me, giving me a moment to breathe. I keep my head down as I walk past him into the late evening air. The sun is setting, casting a burnt-orange glow over the lush green foliage surrounding Michael’s house. Beautiful.

“Come on.” His palm presses flat against the small of my back, sending jolts of electricity racing through me. I tense, willing myself not to shiver, but my breath still escapes in a shaky exhale.

Michael opens the passenger door of his sports car for me and waits until I’m seated comfortably, the seat belt draped across my chest, before he closes it. Then he jogs around the hood, twisting his wrist to check his watch.

“Are we running late or something?” I ask him as he gets in.

“They’ll wait for us,” is his quiet answer. He turns the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life with a soft, powerful purr that sends vibrations rolling through my body.

Nice. I trail my fingers along the side of the leather seat, around the polished door handle, and over the upholstery. Very nice. Probably cost an arm, a leg, and both kidneys.

With a sigh, I relax into my seat, letting my head loll to the side as I watch the city blur past. Seattle is really pretty in the evenings—when it’s not raining. It’s a pity I never got to enjoy it or any of the sight-seeing stuff here. But then again, I never did in any of the other cities I passed through either, and I’m a little regretful now.

The engine’s soft rumble and gentle vibrations must loll me back to sleep because the next thing I know, I’m being lifted. I blink groggily, and the first thing I see is Michael’s gorgeous face and the soft bristles of his emerging five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. Before I can stop myself, I raise my hand, tracing the rough edges.

He glances down at me and gives me the softest smile imaginable. “Go back to sleep, love.”

His voice is gentle, like a lullaby. And it takes a second for my sleep-addled brain to register that he’s walking… Oh⁠—

Wait. Did he just⁠—?

“Love? I’m your love now?” The words come out drowsy but teasing as I take in our surroundings, realizing we’re at some sort of tarmac, what seems like a private airport, and heading towards a small jet.

“What?”

His question pulls my gaze back to him. He looks at me in confusion, so I elaborate, “You just called me love.” A thrill rolls down my spine languidly as it really sinks in. My toes curl in my shoes, and I lazily raise my hands to the back of his neck.

“No, I said dove,” he argues, frowning a little as he climbs the jet’s stairs.

I roll my eyes. “I heard what you said clearly, and you said love, l–o–v–e, not dove.”

“You just woke up, maybe some parts of your eardrums are still asleep, making you mishear.” But the twitch at the corner of his lips gives him away.

Oh, he’s teasing me.

I pinch the back of his neck in retaliation before nuzzling my head against his chest, and he chuckles, adjusting his grip on me to maneuver through the jet’s entrance.

He totally called me love.

And I totally liked it.

Inside, the wealth is staggering. The chairs aren’t arranged like standard airplane seating but like a cozy living room—like this isn’t just a mode of transportation, but a home in the sky.

Michael places me in one of the big chairs, the soft material embracing me like a cloud, and I sigh contently, reaching up to ruffle the small tuft of hair he keeps at the top of his head just as he bends over to fasten my seatbelt.

His brow raises, but he can’t hide his twinkling eyes. Before I can stop myself, I lean forward to give him a quick peck on the lips. His eyes widen in pleased surprise, and he starts to lean in for more⁠—

“Are you ready to go, Mr. Hart?”

Michael straightens, and I glance behind him to see a man dressed in full pilot’s gear who studiously avoids looking at me. Michael gives him a nod, and the man quickly makes his way back to what I realize must be the cockpit.

With a quiet sigh, Michael takes the seat across from mine, buckling himself in as the plane roars to life.

To my surprise, a flight attendant walks towards us with a huge smile. I had no idea we’d have a flight attendant on this trip. Her gaze falls on Michael first, and that smile softens—turning just a bit more interested.

Then, she sees me. Her expression barely falters, but I notice the subtle dimming of enthusiasm. Oh? I try to raise a brow in that arrogant way Michael does but end up raising both my brows instead.

“Would you like anything, ma’am?” she asks politely.

I smile sweetly. “No, thank you.” Then I turn to Michael before she gets the chance. “What about you, honey? Do you need anything?”

Michael smirks at me. “No, love, I’m good as well.” He practically purrs the endearment, dragging it out.

The flight attendant’s smile flickers, then vanishes entirely. With a quick nod, she turns and retreats to her station just as the plane starts taxing down the runway.

“You called me love,” I gloat as soon as she’s out of earshot.

“Yes, because you were so clearly trying to stake your claim on me, I figured I’d help you along,” he says, eyes dancing with pleasure.

My heart trips over itself. “N–no, of course not. That’s not what I was trying to do. What a ridiculous thing to say.” I laugh nervously, but—crap. That’s exactly what I was doing. I wanted her to know he was off-limits to her.

“It’s fine, Gianna. I like it.” He winks, and I blush, my heart rate tripling.

“Whatever,” I murmur, tugging at a loose thread on my shirt—when I suddenly realize something is missing.

I jolt up in my seat, eyes darting around wildly, heart pumping. My mom’s necklace is still secure on my wrist, like it’s been since I snatched it off that man’s dead body, but my backpack…

My stomach plummets.

It’s gone.

Shit. Shit. My clothes, my money, the canned meals I stole not so long ago—those are all my worldly possessions. I can’t lose it.

“Hey, Gianna, look at me.” Michael’s voice cuts through my panic. “What is it?”

I drag my gaze to his because I know—I know—he’ll fix it. “My backpack. I think we left it in your car. Stop the plane, Michael.”

He watches me quietly for a second, then unbuckles his seatbelt and gets to his feet. Relief floods me.

He’s going to stop the pilot. He’s going to get it.

Michael disappears from view, but then…

Minutes pass.

He doesn’t come back.

And the plane… starts leaving the ground, slowly levitating.

My breathing turns shallow, my fingers fumbling at my seatbelt. But just as I’m about to go into full panic mode, Michael reappears—holding the bag. My heart stutters in my chest. I didn’t really realize just how ratchet the thing looked until now that he’s holding it up in his diamond-ringed fingers.

“This is it, right? I saw it when I carried you out of the car and had my man bring it in for you.” He gives it a little shake, his brows raising at the clunking sounds from the cans inside. “What the hell do you even have in here?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly, snatching it from his grip the second he’s close enough. Hugging it to my chest, I mumble, “Thank you.”

He just shrugs as he drops back into his seat. A few minutes later, the flight attendant comes back, this time carrying a laptop. She hands it to Michael without a word before walking away. He presses a button on the side of his seat, and a table extends from the armrest, unfolding smoothly across his lap.

He sets the laptop down, opening it. “I hope you don’t mind? I have some work to catch up on before we land.”

“It’s fine.” I glance out the window at the now dark night. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” His fingers fly across the keyboard, already lost in whatever he’s doing.

“That’s not an answer, Michael. Where the hell are we going?”

That gets me his full attention. His fingers pause, and he looks up. “Are you worried? Don’t be. You’re safe with me.”

I wasn’t worried—even though, logically, I should be. I mean, what do I really I know about this man other than his full name? How good he is at kissing? And… other things? I shake the thought off my head. “I just need to know.”

He exhales, finally giving in. “My home. We’re going to my primary residence. But first, we’re making a stop at my friend’s place. I need to set some records straight.”

His primary residence? That tells me nothing. But I know he’s not going to say more than that, so I let it go. For now. I’ll figure it out when we land anyway.

Michael dives back into his work, typing furiously, completely absorbed. Meanwhile, I entertain myself by exploring the plane.

There’s the cockpit, where the pilot is doing… pilot things. The flight attendant’s station, where the woman from earlier barely spares me a glance. And a small restroom tucked to the side.

Further back, I come across a cabin with seats that look more like a regular plane—boring. But at the very end, double doors lead to an ensuite bedroom with a walk-in closet.

Of course he has a bedroom on his jet.

I snoop through the drawers beside the bed and find a thick tech book. Great. Just what I didn’t want. But it’s better than staring at the wall, so I take it and head back to my seat.

Michael glances at me curiously, raising a brow when he notices the book in my hand, but I ignore him. Opening the book, I attempt to read through the boring, straight to the point text.

Yada-yada-yada, Java, Yada-yada-yada, API. Some weird gibberish that looks like a spell from a fantasy novel—return B; true or false.

I yawn, flipping to the next page. How the hell does Michael even read these things? And I know he has at least once because when I skip to the third chapter, I see a few lines are highlighted.

I force myself to slog through that chapter—just to prove I can—but halfway through, my brain is fried, my head aches, and I’m this close to throwing the book across the cabin. Instead, I drop it beside me and lean back in my seat, pretending to sleep.

Except… I don’t actually sleep.

I watch him work.

The way his brows furrow in focus. The slight press of his lips. The sharp, confident movements of his fingers on the keys.

He’s so gorgeous like this. And if I didn’t know him, I might even find him a little intimidating. But I enjoy watching him. This is way more entertaining than whatever was in that Java book.

I lose track of time as we travel, staring the entire way without getting bored at all.

When the plane begins its descent, I sit up with an exaggerated yawn, stretching dramatically as I fully open my eyes. “Are we about to land?”

He chuckles, fingers finally going still on his keyboard to look at me. “You’re a terrible actress. Did you enjoy the show?” He waves at his face, calling me out completely.

Busted.

I try to pull off a careless shrug like I’ve seen him do, but my stupid, burning cheeks betray me. “Fine,” I admit. “I was just curious. What were you working on that had you so absorbed for so long?”

“You must have noticed that I love tech.” He nods towards the book I abandoned.

“Oh. Yes. I definitely noticed,” I say dryly. Between that book, his fully-automated Seattle house, his library, the ridiculously overcomplicated security systems? Yeah. It’s hard not to notice. “Do you work in tech or something?”

“Or something.” He smiles faintly, snapping his laptop shut.

“So, you were doing tech-y things on your computer?” I question when he annoyingly doesn’t say anything again. Can’t he see I’m curious?

“You could say that,” he answers mysteriously—the asshole.

I groan. The most frustrating man alive. “It’s unfair that you probably know all there is to know about me, but getting to know you is like pulling teeth.”

“What do you mean? I’m an open book.” He flashes me a perfect, arrogant grin, all teeth, which earns him a dramatic eye roll.

“Yeah, sure.”

The plane touches down, and I go quiet as we taxi down the runway, my anxiety from earlier coming back in full force. I glance out the window, my brows knitting at the early lights of dawn. Wherever we are, it’s far from Seattle.

Once we come to a full stop, Michael pushes his desk-thingy away and stands, stretching his arms. Then, he looks down at me. “Ready?”

I gulp. Not really. “I guess.” I undo my seatbelt with trembling fingers and get to my feet.

Michael frowns at me, holding my hand. His frown deepens. “Your hands are as cold as ice. Are you nervous?”

I shrug. What am I supposed to say? I literally have no idea where we are, no safety net, no backup plan. Just him. And even though I trust him, right now, something deep in my gut prickles with unease.

He watches me for a second longer, then sighs. I half-expect some kind of reassurance, but instead, his face goes blank, and he lets go of my hand.

A strange, hollow feeling creeps into my chest, but I shove it down and try not to read into his actions as we get off the plane.

It’s not his job to try to comfort me. We’re not dating.

We’re in another private airstrip, where a sleek, beige Cullinan is parked a couple of feet away. The moment we approach, a tall, Italian man gets out from the passenger side and meets us halfway. “Michael, welcome back.” Then he glances at me, giving me a polite nod. “Miss Cabello.”

He knows who I am.

Panic slithers down my spine, and I stop walking. My eyes dart around the airstrip and catch sight of another car parked near what looks like the entrance. Instinct takes over, and I edge behind Michael, using him as a shield. But he seems oblivious to my fear—or worse, doesn’t care.

“Lorenzo. Did you put everything into place?” Michael asks cryptically, and the man nods.

Put what into place?

Michael finally turns to face me, waving towards the waiting car. “Come on.”

I inhale sharply, flinching back. His face is set into granite, eyes cold as ice. This is not the Michael I’ve come to know—the one who called me love just a few hours ago.

This is the Michael who killed that man in cold blood, the one who looks like he has no heart.

My lips tremble, and I take a small step away from him. I should have stayed in Seattle.

His gaze thaws just the slightest bit when he finally registers my fear. “Come on, dove. The sooner we get on the road, the sooner we can get home.” He stretches a hand out to me, and despite every warning bell blaring in my head, I place mine in his. Like a sucker.

Lorenzo hops back into the passenger seat while Michael opens the back door for me. I hesitate for half a second before getting in, scooting towards the other side to make room. The man in the driver’s seat gives me a curt nod.

Michael joins me, sitting close—too close, considering all the space available—but the solid warmth of his thigh pressing against mine calms my anxiety a little.

We pull out of the airstrip, and I sigh, pressing my cheek against the cool window, gaze flying around for landmarks I can use to identify the city we’re in. The sooner I know where we are, the sooner I’d feel grounded.

I could just ask Michael, but I already tried—twice—and he gave me nothing but non–answers. That was when he was still somewhat open and a little warm towards me. Now that he’s closed off completely, with two extra sets of ears in the car, I don’t want to risk it.

I’ll wait. When we get to his home and we’re in the privacy of my room, I’ll rip into him and let him know—what the hell?

I jerk back from the window, my jaw dropping.

Isn’t that the Empire State Building? No. No way.

My head snaps around frantically, and as we drive deeper into the city, more and more familiar sites punch me in the gut. The Brooklyn Bridge, the East River. And far off in the distance, standing like a cruel joke against the horizon—the Statue of Liberty.

My heart flies to my throat as I turn to Michael. “Are we–are we in New York?” It can’t be… right? No, no, no.

His voice is as cool and disinterested as the glance he flicks at me. “Yes.”

Dread pools in my stomach, and I stare at him in dumbfounded silence for several seconds. “You brought me back to Manhattan?” My voice breaks on the question, and I blink rapidly to hold back the hot tears stinging my eyes.

Michael doesn’t even flinch. “I told you I’m taking you to my primary residence. I live in Manhattan,” he answers robotically.

I spin towards Lorenzo, searching his face for something—anything—but he just watches me with vague interest.

No.

“No. I can’t be here. I can’t be here.” I lunge for the door, yanking at the handle, but it doesn’t budge. My heart splits open, and the tears I’m holding back spill down my face unbidden as I fight with the handle.

I can’t be here.

I give up on the handle and whirl back to Michael, whose stiff frame is swimming in and out of my tear-filled vision. “Michael.” I grab his hand, gripping it like a lifeline. “I can’t be here. You know that. Take me back. Please.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Gianna.”

What?

I stare at him in stunned silence, my fingers slowly slipping from his hand. My heart aches awfully, my throat tightening like it’s been strangled from the inside. Breathing hurts. Existing hurts.

I shift away from him and wipe my tears to clear my vision, but the more I wipe off, the more take their place, blinding me. It’s endless. A vicious, unrelenting cycle.

Then the car descends into an underground parking lot, and my body goes rigid. I sniff, swallowing back the rest of my tears painfully. I need to get it together. I need to have my wits about me.

The car goes past several fancy vehicles before pulling into a spot in front of an elevator guarded by scary-looking men—armed men. Holding long assault rifles.

The doors unlock with a sharp click, but I don’t move. I don't even breathe.

Run.

I should run. I want to run.

But where? If I move wrong, will they shoot me?

From my peripheral, I notice Michael getting out of the car, but my focus stays on the two men standing on either side of the elevator and the other two pacing around. Then, suddenly, my door swings open, and Michael bends towards me, filling my vision. And it sinks in—I’m completely at his mercy right now.

“Come on, Gianna. We need to go. Rafael’s waiting for us.”

I blink up at him. “Rafael? Who’s that?” Though I don’t really care. The only thing that matters is that the person we’re about to meet here isn’t my uncle.

“A friend. I told you we’re making a stop at his place before going to mine.” He sounds slightly irritated, and I gulp.

Heart beating frantically, I get out of the car. He places a firm hand on my back and guides me towards the elevator, Lorenzo by his side.

The men bow their heads respectively at Michael, and as we approach, the elevator doors part for us. The three of us get in, and when Michael drops his hand from my back, I instantly move as far away from him as I can, pressing myself against the farthest corner. He notices, his brows drawing together in a frown, but he says nothing.

The elevator hums with charged silence as it climbs, the tension pressing in on my ribs. The higher we go, the heavier my stomach feels, like it’s dropping out of me completely.

Then—ding.

The doors slide open.

And standing right there on the other side, waiting for me, is my biggest nightmare.

Uncle Aldo.

Beside me, Michael stiffens, like he’s surprised. But it’s an act. I know it’s all an act. He brought me here. He did this.

My feet remain firmly planted on the elevator floor, refusing to budge.

“Michael, welcome. We’ve been expecting you.” The voice comes from behind Uncle Aldo, but I can’t tear my eyes away from my uncle—from the pure, blistering wrath in his stare. My breath shudders, tears stinging my eyes. But I blink them back rapidly. I really can’t afford to cry right now.

“Rafael, what is this?” Michael snaps. “Why is he here?”

Aldo steps forward with a slimy smile directed at Michael. “Thank you very much for your services, Michael. But I’ll take over from here. My niece and I have a lot to catch up on.”

A broad chest suddenly covers my vision, and I realize it’s Lorenzo planting himself in front of me like a shield.

Lorenzo, who I just met and don’t even know.

Not Michael. Never Michael.

Because he betrayed me. He played me.

How could he?

Someone speaks in rapid-fire Italian that I’m too lost in my head to follow. I only catch bits and pieces here and there. Your job is done, Michael. You’ll be well compensated.

And that’s when I completely dissociate. Tears spill freely down my cheeks as I stare blankly at the broad shoulder in front of me.

And then someone, Rafael, I believe, growls, “Step away from the girl, Lorenzo.”

It’s obviously a command, and the tone demands to be followed. Lorenzo obeys without hesitation, moving aside, and I finally get my first clear look at this Rafael. A tall, handsome man, with steel eyes colder than Antarctica. The way he stands alone radiates absolute power, and I know he’s the one in charge here.

“You need to understand, Gigi, it’s just business,” the man tells me slowly, almost sounding sympathetic. But his tone doesn’t match his demeanor, so I don’t trust it. I don’t trust him.

I don’t trust any of them.

“Don’t fucking speak to her,” Michael’s voice lashes through the space, rough and edged with something close to fury.

But Uncle Aldo is already stepping into the elevator. With me. And that’s when I realize Lorenzo and Michael—the traitor—had already stepped off.

The walls of the elevator seem to close in. My heart cracks open, and I can barely hear through the roaring in my ears.

Michael betrayed me. Michael, who kissed me. Who called me dove. Who held my hand just hours ago.

“Gianna.” His voice is low. Almost pleading. Almost piercing through my fog of numbness.

That motherfucker. I trusted him!

I tilt my head towards the general direction of his voice but refuse to meet his eyes, fixing my gaze on his tattooed scalp.

“Look at me, baby,” he murmurs, and I don’t miss Uncle Aldo’s scoff next to me.

I grit my teeth. “Don’t call me that,” I say to Michael’s tattoo just as my uncle’s hand slams against the elevator button and the doors begin sliding shut.

And I—like a goddamn masochist—can’t stop myself. At the last second, I look into Michael’s eyes, needing to see the glee in his eyes.

But there’s no glee.

His eyes are anguished and pained.

My brows furrow in confusion—just as the doors snap shut between us.

Uncle Aldo’s hand clamps onto my arm, roughly dragging me away from my corner. “You little bitch⁠—”

His words are drowned out by a deep, furious roar.

15

MICHAEL

I bellow as the elevator doors slam shut, that blank look in her eyes searing itself into my goddamn soul.

Then I snap.

I whirl, fingers locking around Rafael’s collar, yanking him forward.

“Michael!”

Lorenzo jolts at my outburst, grabbing my shoulder, but I shake him off and tighten my grip, choking Rafael. But the fucker remains unruffled, staring at me through empty grey eyes.

“How could you do that?” My voice comes out guttural, barely human. “I fucking told you I needed to talk to you first before we involved Aldo.”

His hands come up to mine, irritation finally flickering into his eyes when I don’t release him immediately. He shoves at my grip, and I let him go. “I didn’t realize you had grown so attached to her,” he says, straightening his shirt like I didn’t just have him by the throat. Then he turns and walks into his living room, already done with the conversation.

The elevator catches my eye, my gut twisting, but I tear my gaze away and stalk after him. “You should have fucking told me that asshole would be here,” I snap at him. If I had known, I would have warned Gianna. Hell, I wouldn’t have even brought her here. I would’ve taken her home first, where nobody could take her from me.

I should’ve held her.

She was panicking in the car earlier, and I just sat there, pretending I didn’t ache to pull her into my lap, to run my hands through her hair and tell her it was fine. But no. I had a reputation to uphold in front of my men. I couldn’t appear weak.

Now I’d give anything to go back and do it right.

The way she went so pale—the betrayal on her face when she saw Aldo. Fuck.

Why the hell am I still here?

I spin around, marching back towards the elevator. I’m getting her back right the fuck now and setting the record straight like I intended.

“Michael.”

I stop dead, leveling Rafael with a glare.

“Let her go, fratello. She’s not for you.” He shakes his head slowly.

Like hell she’s not. “She’s mine.”

“No, she’s fucking not. She’s engaged to Carlo Mancini. You think he’ll just let her go after he’s spent months and a fortune trying to find her these past few months?”

What?

That wasn’t in the background check I ran on Gianna. How the fuck didn’t that come up? “Carlo is sixty years old,” I say uselessly.

“And? You know how it works in our world, Michael. Carlo and Aldo signed a contract—a marriage contract signed in blood to be precise. Gianna is his for all intents and purposes.”

Not if I have anything to say about it–and I do. “Don’t you fucking say her name.” My finger jabs the air between us.

Rafael sighs like I’m being unreasonable. “You can have anyone else, Michael. There are plenty of women in the city. Forget about her. Don’t muddy the waters. We cannot afford to have an internal war right now or our enemies will pounce.”

“Then let them fucking pounce, Rafael.” I take a step towards him and Lorenzo grabs my arm again. I let him stop me. “Out of respect for you and the position you hold as king of this city, I didn’t protest when that asshole walked out of here with my woman. But I’m going to fucking get her back. I don’t give a shit if you don’t approve.”

Then I turn around again, making my way straight to the elevator, Lorenzo on my heels.

I will get her back. No matter the cost.

“You need to calm down, Michael,” Lorenzo murmurs as we get into the elevator, raising his hands in surrender when I glower at him. “You know I’m on your side. I’m always on your side. But you can’t just storm into Aldo’s place now.”

He’s right, of course. Not only would it look bad for my brothers and me, but it would also give Aldo and Carlo the right to call us out for perceived injustice. And if they took it to the commissione?

That would be a disaster.

My brothers and I have total control over New York City; we worked hard for it. But the commissione is a council of the ruling families across the entire country, and let’s just say… I’m not exactly a favorite amongst any of them.

I could lose her forever.

I need a strategy, not blind rage.

“We’ll go in the morning,” I declare as the elevator doors open to the basement.

My thumb rolls over the ring on my thumb as we walk towards the car, my mind already spinning with plans.

I should have fucked her. Raw. No condom. No protection. At least then I could claim her—say she might be pregnant with my child. But now I have no hold on her. No rights. Nothing.

That’s going to fucking change the second I have her back in my clutches.

Lorenzo is silent on the ride back home, but as soon as we pull up to my gates and they start winding open, he speaks up. “Oliver Williams is in the basement of the shed, like you ordered. Want to pay him a visit? Might help relieve some of your anger.”

I frown at him, not in the mood for games. “Who?”

“Our patent thief.”

Ah.

My lips curl into something that might be a smile. “Of course. Take me to him.”

Lorenzo nods at Marco, who veers past the driveway to what we call the shed house, which is strategically built a few blocks away from the main house near the water.

The car rolls to a stop in front of the small A-roof structure, and I step out, already itching to spill some blood. Shrugging off my jacket, I toss it onto my seat and work at my cufflinks, slipping them into my pockets as I head for the door. Lorenzo moves ahead, quickly pushing it open for me.

Inside, the air is thick with dust and age. To anyone who might accidentally stumble in, it looks just like any normal shed cluttered with various tools—old lawnmowers, a shovel, a ladder, and a shelf stacked with potted plants taken care of by my ‘gardener’.

Lorenzo presses his thumb on the side of the shelf, and a soft buzz fills the air as the furniture slowly shifts from its position, exposing what looks like an ordinary wall. This time, he places his whole palm against it, and the structure rearranges itself, pushing back to reveal an inner room.

We go in, the door sealing shut behind us. Overhead, red motion lights flicker on, illuminating a pair of stairs going downwards towards the basement. I roll my sleeves up to my elbow as we descend, Lorenzo leading the way.

At the foot of the stairs, a long hallway stretches ahead, ending at a lone, metal door. Lorenzo types in the passcode, and with a quiet hiss, the door swings inward.

We walk into the interrogation room.

The room is divided into two sections. The side we’re on is a medium-sized space with comfortable chairs, all facing a large window. From here, we have a clear view of the adjoining room, where the window appears as a mirror to anyone inside. They might suspect they’re being watched, but the soundproofing ensures they can’t hear a thing.

I step towards the glass, taking in the man strapped to the restraining chair, struggling against his bonds. “So this is our thief.”

“He worked in the IT department as a web developer. Used his company ID to hack into a cloud he wasn’t authorized to see. Got the intel he wanted and tried to sell off the patent for the tablet we’re currently working on, passing it off as his own.”

I already know all this, but I nod, following Lorenzo to the door that will take us to where our thief is waiting. The fact that he even managed to hack into the cloud at all pisses me off. I’m going to have to dismantle the code and rebuild it back—after firing the incompetent engineers who let this shit happen in the first place.

Lorenzo opens the door and steps aside, allowing me to go in first.

The second I enter, the man’s head jerks up. His mouth falls open, eyes widening in raw, unfiltered terror as he recognizes me. “The Mad Hatter,” he murmurs under his breath, trying to push his chair away from me by kicking at the floor. A futile effort since the chair is high off the ground, leaving his legs dangling uselessly in the air.

I raise a brow in surprise. Only people who know who my brothers and I really are use that nickname. The people who refer to us as the Nightshades.

Until now, those two worlds had never crossed.

Interesting.

“So you know who I am and still thought it would be fun to try to steal from me?” I ask conversationally as I walk past him to the shelf lining the back wall. Tugging it open, I let my gaze roam over the various torture devices. Each tool has its purpose, its own way of extracting the truth.

“I’m so sorry. It was an accident, I didn’t–”

“Quiet,” I order, and he swallows the rest of his excuses with a sniveling whimper. Finally, I decide on the black stun belt and hand it to Lorenzo, who immediately moves to wrap it around Oliver’s upper arm.

“W–what is this?” he stammers, but neither Lorenzo nor I give him an answer.

“We’re the ones who’ll be asking the questions,” Lorenzo informs him coolly.

Once the belt is secured, I raise the remote control. “Who sent you to my company?”

Oliver gulps. “I don’t–I don’t know what you’re talking abo–agghhh!” His head slams back, body writhing as the electric current rips through his body.

I lift my thumb off the button, watching as he sags against the chair, gasping for air. “Don’t fucking test me, Oliver. I’ll fill your body with so much electricity, you’ll taste the currents on your tongue.” I pause, then smile. “And then I’ll filet the skin off your fingers—one by one. And feed them to you. Until you choke.”

“No, no, please don’t—” His breath hitches as he breaks into ugly, shuddering sobs. Tears roll down his cheeks the same time a large, wet stain spreads across his lap, liquid dripping to the floor.

Disgust curls my lips as the sharp stench of urine fills the air.

Pathetic.

“I’ll tell you everything I know.”

16

GIANNA

The slap lands as soon as the elevator doors seal my fate, the force hard enough to snap my head sideways. Pain explodes in my cheek, but I inhale sharply, blinking back the tears that immediately sting my eyes.

I stare blankly at the wall, refusing to look at him or touch my burning cheek.

The first time he ever hit me, I made the mistake of reacting—raising my hand to my face in shock—and it only earned me another slap. Now I know better. Lock down all reactions. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

The slap held no real shock anyway. I knew this was coming. What I truly dread is what’s waiting for me at home. Dario. I wrecked his favorite car, and I know he won’t let me off the hook. My cousin isn’t that type at all. He finds too much pleasure in causing me pain.

Surprisingly, Uncle Aldo keeps his hands to himself the rest of the elevator ride, grumbling under his breath instead. When the doors open, I follow him meekly towards his car, only briefly considering making a run for it.

No, that would be stupid.

If one of those guys standing around with guns thinks I’m a threat, they’ll shoot me without hesitation. No. I just need to bide my time and wait for the right moment.

As we pass Michael’s Cullinan, my throat closes up, and my chest aches with the weight of his betrayal. I trusted him so much, so completely. What a fool I was. How fucking naïve.

The driver inside catches my gaze, his eyes widening in surprise as he watches me leave with my uncle.

I look away from him. I can’t bear any reminders of that betrayal.

At Aldo’s limo, his driver, Jacob, sneers as he yanks the door open for me. I avoid his gaze as I scurry in, the door closing behind me feeling like a coffin lid sealing me in.

I squeeze my eyes shut, resting my head against the window and making myself as small as possible when Aldo gets in from the other side.

“You fucking whore,” he spits, venom lacing every syllable. “I fixed a marriage between you and a billionaire, and you chose to run away and spread your legs instead?”

I open my eyes slowly. But I keep my mouth shut.

There’s no point in defending myself. He’ll believe what he wants, and if I so much as try to argue, it will only make things worse. My cheek still burns from the slap earlier—I’m not inviting another one. Or something worse.

His steel gaze demands a response, but I give him nothing. “What was that back there? Did you fuck him? Is that why he looked ready to murder me? What the hell did you say to him, huh? Fucking ungrateful bitch.”

Thankfully, his cheap insults are all I have to endure for now. Uncle Aldo is careful not to hit me in front of witnesses—he’s too concerned with how it might make him look.

Of course, his men see my bruises and probably know exactly what’s happening behind closed doors, but they’ve always turned a blind eye to it.

I breathe through my nose, my numb state slowly dissociating as I think back to the cold look in Michael’s eyes at the airstrip earlier. I should’ve fucking made a run for it then, consequences be damned.

No—scratch that. I should never have gotten into his car that night. I should never have gone home with him at all.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

Hindsight is a bitch.

A hot tear slips down my cheek, stinging the bruise no doubt already forming on my face. I discreetly wipe it off and ruthlessly shut down my emotions. Again.

We drive to Uncle Aldo’s mansion in silence, the air thick with his anger.

As we pull into his compound and round the circular driveway, my body locks up. The mansion looms into view—too big, too familiar. My heart beats feverishly, cold dread filling my being as it really sinks in.

I’m back.

Back in his house. Back under his control.

And this time, I don’t think I’m getting out.

Because I know that no matter how much time I buy for myself, escaping again will be damn near impossible now that I’ve done it once and was able to stay hidden for so long.

Lightheaded panic grips me as my throat suddenly seizes up.

I wheeze, struggling for air—then I realize it’s not just panic.

It’s Uncle Aldo’s hand.

His thick fingers crush my throat, cutting off my air supply. My hands fly to his meaty wrist, clawing desperately as I choke, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. But his grip only tightens. Too tight. Too strong. I can’t…

Black spots swarm my vision. My lungs burn. My limbs go weak⁠—

Then, just when I think I’m about to pass out, he lets go.

I crumple forward, hands bracing against my knees as I gasp, coughing violently, sucking in greedy lungfuls of air.

“That’s for thinking you could make a fool of me,” he says coldly before shoving the door open and stepping out.

My own door swings open, and Jacob stands there, his face blank—as if he didn’t just witness an attempted murder.

So, just like I’ve changed, it seems my uncle has changed too. He no longer gives a shit about appearances. This is a bad development. For me, anyway.

Fucking Michael. I think fiercely as I stumble out of the car, still gasping—though I try to keep it quiet. Uncle Aldo walks ahead, and I have no choice but to follow him into the house. The lights from the golden chandelier in the living room are too bright, stabbing into my eyes like needles.

“You have a visitor waiting for you in your study, honey.”

I squint towards the familiar voice of my aunt Marie, who’s acting like I’m not even here.

Uncle Aldo scoffs. “Damn it, I told Carlo to stay in his house until the wedding.”

The wedding?

My pulse jumps as I watch my uncle go towards the direction of his study. Is he still planning to marry me off to Carlo?

I gape at Aunt Marie, and this time, she meets my gaze with a smirk. “You can never get away from us, Gigi. Shouldn’t you know that by now?”

Anger rises like bile in my throat. “If you had a daughter, would you let your husband marry her off to a man like Carlo?”

She chuckles. “Well, I don’t have one, so the comparison you’re trying to make is pointless.”

“You hate me,” I realize. I always thought it was just irritation, annoyance, or maybe even jealousy, but no—it’s hate. “Why?”

She just shrugs, turning away. “Go to your room and wait there for your punishment, Gianna.”

Fuck that.

I watch her go, and when the door shuts behind her, I spin around, making my way to Uncle Aldo’s office. I need to hear what he and Carlo are discussing. If it’s really about me and my doomed wedding.

I press myself against the door just in time to hear my uncle say, “I’ve got our girl back, Carlo.”

“She’ll need to be suitably punished, so she knows running away is never an option… and so she won’t ever try it again.” An unexpectedly nasally voice replies—so that’s what Carlo sounds like? I swallow hard at his words, even though his cruelty isn’t really surprising. I mean, the man killed his own wives.

“Of course, my friend. I’ll see to it. And I’ve already informed the priest to arrive tomorrow afternoon. To avoid further delays and mishaps in your matrimony, I think it’s best to get it done immediately.”

What?

Blood roars in my ears. Without thinking it through, I burst through the door. Three pairs of eyes snap to me. Dario—who I didn’t even realize was also in here—gets to his feet.

Oh, shit.

But I’m already in too deep to back down. So chin high, I forge ahead. “No, Uncle. I’m not marrying anybody. I’m my own person—you can’t just decide to throw me at some man old enough to be my grandfather.”

Carlo’s face darkens to an ugly, blotchy red. He shoves back his chair, ready to lunge. “You little⁠—”

“We’ll take care of this, Carlo. Rest assured,” Uncle Adlo interrupts, nodding at Dario, who starts approaching me, his face a thunderstorm.

My stomach clenches.

Shit, shit. Me and my big fucking mouth. I never learn, do I? I should have just quietly gone to my room or tried another escape, no matter how hopeless it was.

I turn to run, but where the hell would I even go? There’s nowhere in this house he won’t find me. I barely make it three steps before Dario’s fingers clamp around my upper arm. His grip is bruising, his nails biting into my skin as he yanks me out of the office. He moves fast, dragging me down the hall with long punishing strides, forcing me to stumble-jog just to keep up.

We reach my old bedroom, and before I can even brace myself, he wrenches the door open and hurls me inside so violently I go flying onto the floor, my palms slapping painfully against the cold, hard tiles.

“You think because you ran away you can say whatever the fuck you want and act out in a way that shames us? I won’t stand for it.” His foot swings out, kicking me hard in the ribs.

A sharp, searing pain explodes through my side, knocking the breath from my lungs. I choke on a gasp, instinctively curling in on myself, arms wrapping around my chest in a feeble attempt at protection.

“That’s for wrecking my car,” he pronounces arrogantly.

Fabric rustles, faint over the pounding in my ears. I force myself to blink past the throbbing ache in time to see him shrug off his jacket and toss it aside before hunching down in front of me.

His hand fists in my hair and yanks so hard, my head snaps back. I bite back a cry of pain, my eyes smarting with the sting of tears as he twists the strands tighter. “That’s for causing embarrassment to a family that took you in when you had no one,” he spits, pulling harder. “That fed you, clothed you, and gave you a home.”

I want to laugh. What a fucking joke. But the way he’s holding my hair, forcing me to look him dead in the eyes, drains the fight right out of me. There’s something sick in how he’s looking at me as tears drip down my face. Then, he smiles, the coldness in his eyes thawing just the slightest bit.

He’s enjoying this, like I knew he would.

He tugs my head back even further, and then, with no warning, lashes out with his hand, slapping me so hard that my face snaps to the side, despite his tight grip on my hair. My scalp burns as the flesh stretches, a couple of hair strands violently ripping out in the process.

I can’t hold it in. A pained scream bursts out of me, and he slaps me again.

“Shut the fuck up.”

I whimper, and he gives me another slap, and another, until they all blur together, my face stinging and radiating heat with each strike. The last one drives the corner of my lip into my teeth, and I feel the flesh tear, the metallic, coppery taste of blood filling my mouth.

Finally, he lets go of my hair with a satisfied grunt and gets to his feet. I hold my breath, praying he’s had enough. Praying he’ll just leave.

But then—his voice, low and lethal:

“Father thinks of you as his precious brother’s only child and feels protective and responsible for you.” He scoffs like the idea disgusts him. “But trust me, if it were left up to me, you’d be done for after the stunts you’ve pulled.” He punctuates his words with a brutal kick to my stomach just as my bedroom door opens.

My uncle freezes, his gaze falling on me in the fetal position, gasping through my tears—and the color drains from his face.

“You bastard!” He cuffs Dario at the back of his head, making him lurch forward, hands flying out to keep himself upright.

My cousin’s eyes widen in disbelief, and his mouth drops open as he stares at his father. “What?”

If I could, I would mirror his shock, because truly—what? Is he… defending me right now?

“Do you know who found her? You should have left her face alone, punished her where the bruises won’t be so obvious.”

I close my eyes, feeling the sting of his words more deeply than my physical pain.

When will I learn he doesn’t really care about me? If he ever did, that part of him died a long time ago.

“We solicited the Nightshades for their help in finding her, and as it stands, we’re not completely free from their scrutiny yet. Rafael had to release the Mad Hatter to track her down. And from the look on his face, he wasn’t expecting to see me—and didn’t seem happy to let her go. What if he comes looking for her again and finds this!” He waves at me with a snarl, like it’s somehow my fault his son chose to use me as a punching bag.

And—hold on. Who the hell is the Mad Hatter?

I’ve heard of the Nightshades a few times when I eavesdropped on Dario and Carlo’s conversations. They’re a group of men—brothers, I think—who rule the entire underground crime scene in New York City. But this name is new.

Dario sneers down at me. “Oh, so you managed to get the Mad Hatter wrapped around your little finger, huh?”

I blink at him cluelessly, because I have no idea who the hell he’s talking about, and that only seems to piss him off more. He kicks my chest, sending me coughing, spitting out blood from the cut in my lip onto the floor. “Speak!” he yells.

“W–who?” I manage, my voice scratchy.

“The monster who came to find you. Did you fuck him?” His lips twist in disgust, and he presses his foot onto my hair, making me go still, heart pounding in fear.

Uncle Aldo steps forward with a long, exasperated sigh. “That’s enough, Dario. Go to your room.” He nods towards the door.

“I’m–I’m in my room.”

“Not you.” My uncle rolls his eyes, grabs his son, and walks him out the door, locking it behind them. I stay curled on the floor, waiting. Just in case they change their minds and come back.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

When I’m sure they’re not returning, I slowly, carefully sit up, wincing at the pain that spreads through my body. My head pounds with a million concentrated migraines that sends the room spinning like I’m drunk.

I sit there for a while longer, groaning and struggling to breathe, tears spilling down my cheeks.

Once the worst of the pain passes—or maybe my body just gets used to it—I push myself to my feet and stumble into my bathroom, wiping my face with shaking hands.

I refuse to give them—or any man—another tear.

The lights flicker on, and I avoid looking at my reflection as I pull off my clothes, wincing with every movement. I make my way to the shower, cranking the heat until the water is scalding, then step under the stream.

The second the water hits my sensitive scalp, I hiss, fresh tears welling in my eyes as pain fires off from almost every single part of my body. I glance down at the drain, my stomach twisting when I see the water running slightly pink. My hand instinctively lifts the back of my head, fingers brushing over the raw wound where a small chunk of hair is missing.

I close my eyes in defeat, shoulders slumping weakly as I let the hot water beat down on my body, streaming down my face and stinging my tired eyes. I stay under the spray until my skin starts to prune and my body feels overheated; only then do I hesitantly turn off the shower and get out, carefully wrapping a towel around my body as I make my way to the cabinet under the sink.

I take out the over-the-counter pain meds I’ve hidden here, and even though the recommended dosage is two, I take four. I’ll need that much if I hope to not luxuriate in pain all night.

Then I turn to check out my scalp and clumsily place a bandage over the wound.

Afterwards, I finally look at my reflection, turning my face this way and that. My lip is split and red, finger-shaped splotches mar my skin—marks that will no doubt darken into purplish bruises by tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

When Uncle Aldo plans to marry me off to Carlo, who I strongly believe will be worse than my cousin and uncle combined.

I let out a shaky sigh as I glance down at the rest of my body before giving the mirror my back and leaving the bathroom. Pulling a nightshirt from my drawer, I ease it on carefully, biting the inside of my cheek when the fabric brushes over a tender spot. Then I lower myself onto the bed with another weary exhale, my body screaming in discomfort even as exhaustion tugs at me.

My backpack is still in Michael’s car. Which means all the money I worked so hard for is gone. Not that my uncle would have let me keep it if he discovered it anyway.

What a long fucking day…

Was it really only this morning I seduced Michael and we almost had sex? Thank God I insisted on him using a condom no matter how tempted I was to forgo it. Because if we had actually gone through with it, I’d have to worry about being pregnant on top of everything else. Uncle Aldo would kill me.

I shudder.

I can’t believe I thought Michael was different from the other men in my life. I can’t believe I almost fell for him.

My eyes start to sting, and I sniff aggressively. No. No, I’m not going to cry, goddamn it. But the ache in my chest is ten thousand times worse than any pain Dario or my uncle could inflict on my body.

I was so stupid, so stupid.

I should have known he was in the mafia, with all his stupid tattoos and piercings and the fact that he could kill a man so nonchalantly—how did I not see it?

His words come back to me hauntingly, ‘There’s nothing he can do to me.’

I should have realized then. No ordinary man can be so fearless in the face of my uncle’s wrath.

So he possibly has a high rank in the syndicate. Maybe something to do with the Nightshades? Now that I think about it, the de-facto head of the Nightshades is someone named Rafael.

Is that the same Rafael we went to meet today?

Michael said it’s his friend, but… could he be his boss?

The pain in Michael’s eyes as the elevators closed flashes in my mind. Could he have had no choice?

I roll onto my side, wincing but embracing the physical pain over the emotional one. “No, Gianna. What you’re not going to do is create excuses for a man who’s already proven with his actions that he doesn’t give a shit about you.”

The monster who found you.

Why did Uncle Aldo call him that? Is Michael the one they referred to as the Mad Hatter? His last name is Hart, so that would check out, I guess.

He should have brought me back to Manhattan that very first night he saved me. Why did he have to give me hope? What is he, a sadist?

Is he really a monster?

“Get the fuck out of my head, Michael,” I grit out, flipping onto my back with another sharp wince.

Staring up at the ceiling, I start counting sheep aloud, forcing his face, his voice, his goddamn everything out of my head.

He can go to hell.

I’m sure he’ll feel right at home there, with all the other demons.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, I’m being shaken awake. My whole body screams in protest, and I groan, slapping away the intrusive hand. “That hurts, Michael.”

“Miss! You must wake up now, miss.”

My eyes snap open to see Pauline, one of the maids who’ve been… not exactly kind, but never outright cruel either in the past, hovering over me, her face tight with urgency. I sit up too fast, trying to ignore the pain that slices through me, but my breath catches in my throat, and something shifts from my chest, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

I peek over the edge of the bed.

An ice pack.

“Did you put that on me?” I ask her, genuinely surprised. She could get in serious trouble for that.

She bites her lip and nods hesitantly. “I thought you might need it, but you were already asleep when I came in last night, and I didn’t want to wake you. So… I just placed it there.”

A small, reluctant warmth spreads in my chest. “Thank you.” I try to smile, to show her I mean it, but my lips pull, making me wince.

“You need to get dressed right away.” She glances over her shoulder like she expects someone to barge in at any moment. Someone like Dario. My stomach knots, and I eye the door warily.

“The master wants you in his office,” she continues. “He says it’s important—that I should bring you right away.”

What fresh hell awaits now?

I sigh heavily as I carefully swing my legs over the edge of the bed. “Alright, thank you, Pauline. I’ll be right there.”

Once she’s gone, I drag myself to the bathroom, where I quickly swish some mouthwash around my sore mouth. Uncle Aldo doesn’t like waiting, and I can’t risk getting hit again today.

The pain meds must have kicked in because, despite the mirror’s evidence—bruises on my face, scab at the corner of my lips, dark splotches on my chest—I don’t feel as much pain as I did last night.

I spit out the mouthwash, rinse my face, and head to the closet. The bra goes on first, followed by a loose sweatshirt—not because I’m cold, but because I need something that won’t press against my bruises—along with a pair of slacks. My fingers work fast, twisting my hair into a bun while carefully avoiding the wounded spot on my scalp. The skin there is oversensitive, still smarting a little.

For a second, I consider putting on concealer to hide the bruises on my face, but there’s no time. And really, I don’t give a shit about covering them up. What’s the point, anyway?

I leave my room, making my way to Uncle Aldo’s office, his men studiously avoiding my gaze as I pass them—which is nothing new. Outside the office door, I pause, trying to hear what’s going on in there.

Is Carlo here this early for our supposed wedding? I’d rather die.

But it’s silent in there, so I exhale and knock to announce my presence.

“Come in.”

Huh. There’s something off about Uncle Aldo’s voice this morning. It’s thin, almost like he’s scared shitless.

That’s… weird.

I open the door and walk in, coming to a sudden halt when I see him—the tall, restless figure pacing the office floor. Michael.

My heart does a long, hopeful thud that I immediately try to squash.

He turns sharply at the sound of the door, his electric blue eyes locking onto mine, and goes still. His gaze sweeps over me, widening in surprise as he takes me in. Then, in three long strides, he’s in front of me, raising a hand towards my face.

I flinch back reflexively.

His jaw clenches, eyes hardening into murderous ice. “Who did this to you?” he growls.

17

GIANNA

Who did this to me?

Who the hell does he think did this to me?

Rage propels me forward. My hand slams into his chest, but he doesn’t even flinch. So I hit him again, and again, and again, my lips trembling as I spit out, “What business is it of yours who did this to me?”

“Gianna, love, I–”

“Why are you here?” Another hit, but this time his hand catches mine, his fingers snagging on the necklace wrapped around my wrist as he presses my palm flat against the heat of his chest.

I don’t know why, but my gaze drifts behind him—to Uncle Aldo, whose mouth hangs open, face ghostly pale as he glances between Michael and me like a frantic little rodent.

“Who did this to you, Gianna?” Michael asks again, his voice carrying a dangerous edge.

Uncle Aldo slowly shakes his head at me, his eyes flicking to the corner of the room. I follow his gaze and—oh.

For the first time, I see Dario. Cowering.

Not so brave now, are you, cousin?

“Funny story actually,” my uncle laughs unconvincingly. “My niece fell down the stairs. Hit her face on the railing. So clumsy, aren’t you, Gigi?”

Michael places his index finger and thumb under my chin and gently tilts my face until I’m looking only at him. Then, without breaking my gaze, he throws back coldly, “I wasn’t asking you, Aldo.”

I search those vivid blue depths, and despite myself, hope blooms in my heart. Could he be here for me? Does he have the power to take me away? Is that why Dario and Aldo seem so scared? Could this be my chance to get away from them?

I don’t trust Michael. Not anymore.

But maybe… maybe I can use him.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I hold his gaze while pointing straight at Dario. “He did.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing the scabbed bruise at the corner of my lips with impossible gentleness—soothing for just a moment. Then, just like that, his touch is gone.

And so is his patience, apparently.

He rolls his neck as he stalks towards Dario, and I watch with morbid fascination as my cousin’s eyes go wide with growing terror. A pathetic little whimper slips out the closer Michael gets to him, and my fascination deepens. So he’s capable of fear, huh? Good to know.

Michael doesn’t hesitate. His fist connects with brutal force, sending Dario’s head snapping back against the wall before he slithers to the floor like the spineless coward he is. But Michael doesn’t let up—he hunches over him, landing blow after blow, the sick crack of bone filling the room until blood bursts from his face, splattering across Michael’s shirt.

He broke his nose.

And it is glorious.

Dario’s terrified gaze finds mine—a reflection of the fear I must have worn last night while he beat me. The sight of it sends a thrill through me, and a dark smile spreads across my face, making him flinch. Or maybe that’s just Michael’s next punch landing on his throat. He doubles over, choking, and my uncle jolts in his chair.

“Micha—Mr. Hart, please,” Uncle Aldo calls out weakly, standing up, though he remains safely behind his desk.

He should’ve stayed quiet.

Michael whirls around to face him, and he recoils so violently he loses balance, collapsing back into his seat with a pitiful thud.

“You let your worthless son hurt her. You have no say here.” He takes out his phone, typing furiously before tucking it back into his pocket. Then he makes his way towards me.

My gaze catches on his inked knuckles, a little bruised from smashing into Dario’s ugly face, the diamond on his thumb stained with blood. He forgot to take it off. Something tender stirs in my chest, and I ruthlessly crush it.

No. I won’t let him in again just because he defended me.

The door bursts open behind me, and I whip my head around in surprise to see a flood of armed men pour into the study, Lorenzo leading them. My brows knit together as they line up like soldiers awaiting orders.

“Take him,” Michael commands, nodding at the whimpering mess that is Dario, who’s still on the floor, clutching his broken nose with one hand and his throat with the other.

“What are you going to do to him?” My uncle gets up from his seat again, watching helplessly as two men haul his bloodied son up by his arms and drag him out of his study.

“I’m going to give him a punishment befitting his crime,” Michael answers, accepting some wipes from Lorenzo—who offers me a small, almost reassuring smile—to clean the blood from his hands and ring.

“What crime?” Aldo bites out. “Having an altercation with his cousin—my niece? That’s beyond the Nightshades’ jurisdiction. It’s a family affair.”

Michael smirks, tossing the bloodied wipes onto the study floor. “Not if the cousin in question is my bride-to-be.”

“What?” Aldo and I snap together, making my uncle immediately turn his glare at me like I had anything to do with this.

Michael doesn’t answer either of us. Instead, he pulls out a gun from the small of his back, cocks it, and points it straight at Uncle Aldo who stumbles back fearfully.

“Michael don’t—” shoot him. But the rest of my words are swallowed by the deafening crack of the gunshot, the tip of the barrel smoking. I glance at my uncle, now on the floor, clutching his leg.

He shot him in the knee.

Relief floods me—then shame for feeling relieved. I really shouldn’t care if he dies or lives. The man put me on the butchering block himself by engaging me to Carlo. And for as long as I can remember, he’s treated me like trash, a human punching bag for him and his son.

“That’s for not stopping your son from hitting your niece you should’ve protected, and for betrothing her to a man like Carlo.” Michael tucks his gun back into the small of his back and turns to me. “Let’s get out of here.”

I hesitate, years of failed escape attempts making me wary. Could it really be this easy?

“Gianna.” The way he growls my name sends a shiver down my spine. His hand closes around mine, linking our fingers together, and tugs me with him, leaving no room for second-guessing.

I glance back once—at Uncle Aldo, still writhing on the floor, his face twisted in pain. Then I follow Michael out the door. Behind us, Lorenzo and the rest of the men march out with us.

Outside the office, Aunt Marie is pacing the length of the hallway, looking nervous as hell. The second she sees Michael, she stiffens and stumbles back, giving him—and me—a wide berth, refusing to meet my gaze. Funny how power changes things.

Michael leads me through the big house, to the front door and the familiar Cullinan parked right in front, amidst a trail of four other expensive-looking SUVs, where the men who took Dario earlier are waiting. He helps me into the backseat, then slides in next to me.

The familiar leather interior embraces me, but I stay rigid, half expecting any second for my uncle to come limping out of the house, blood splattering everywhere as he yells at his men to stop us. But instead, the engines roar to life almost in perfect sync, and we pull out of the house in a slow procession.

We drive past the gate without a hitch and head northeast towards 6th Avenue. I stare out the window, a little dazed, as the city blurs by. But it isn’t until we’re on the highway, passing signs for Interstate 95 N, that it sinks in: I’m free.

Really free from Uncle Aldo this time.

“Are you okay?”

Michael’s concerned gaze draws my attention. I study him for a moment, then decide to ignore his question. He can stew in worry for all I care—not that I’m deluded enough to think he might actually be worried about me. I turn back to the window, and his sigh tells me he gets the hint that I don’t want to talk.

There’s too much going on in my head right now. And at the forefront is anger, so much anger at him. Because how dare he?

How dare he play with me like this?

First, dragging me to that Rafael’s place where Aldo was waiting, dashing every ounce of hope I had for freedom. And us—not that there was any us beyond my own delusions. And now, what? He thinks he can swoop in like some goddamn hero, save the day, and I’ll just fall gratefully into his arms and forget everything?

Fuck. That.

I remain stubbornly silent as we turn onto a street with the sign ‘North Avenue’. Here the cityscape changes, going from the glistening skyscrapers to sprawling mansions tucked back behind thriving greenery.

We’re in the suburbs.

I shift in my seat, eyeing the tasteful, expensive houses as we cruise through the quiet neighborhood. Michael Hart lives in the suburbs? I never pictured him—or any person linked with the mafia, really—living somewhere so… serene.

I wonder what the people living in these houses would think if they happened to glance out the window and see this convoy of heavily tinted luxury cars rolling past.

Our cars finally slow as we approach an ominous-looking pair of gates that part for us automatically as we get closer. I steal a peek at Michael, who looks for all intents and purposes, cold.

He’s different from how he was in Seattle when it was just the two of us. Could it be the company?

My gaze drifts to Lorenzo in the passenger seat. Who is he to Michael? A relative? Colleague? Employee? They seem close, but I can’t tell in what way.

As if sensing my stare, the man glances back at me. I don’t bother looking away. Instead, I raise both brows at him. The corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a smirk before he turns to face forward again.

I sigh, slumping against the window as the car follows the winding driveway, which seems to go on forever, before finally revealing the house. It’s not exactly a huge mansion like my uncle’s, but it’s big. Too big for one person. A three-story brick house, strikingly similar to the one in Seattle—white stone, slanted dark roof, floor-to-ceiling glass windows that glisten under the sun. And behind it, the shimmer of water.

I sit up slightly, and from the corner of my eye, I catch Michael glancing at me, but I ignore him.

There’s plenty I want to unload on him, but something tells me to hold off until we have some privacy. Somehow, I know his response will be different if I call him out in front of his men.

These mafia guys have a thing about their reputations.

The driver gets out and opens my door. Michael exits on the other side, so I give the driver a stiff nod as I climb out. Behind us, the other car doors open one by one, the men spilling out in a synchronized wave.

Dario is yanked out last, and his hateful gaze finds mine. I flinch back at the sheer vitriol in his bloodied eyes. Then suddenly, a broad shoulder blocks my view as Michael steps in front of me, his stance solid, protective.

Frowning, I peek around him just in time to see Dario’s glare waver before he quickly looks away—coward that he is. The men drag him towards the side of the house, but I don’t bother watching where they take him.

“Come on.”

Michael’s palm presses against the small of my back, guiding me towards the front doors, which open as we approach. I half-expect them to be motion sensors, like the sliding ones back in Seattle. But instead, an older woman with a warm smile steps out.

“Is this her?” she asks Michael, her voice brimming with excitement as she reaches for my hand. Instinctively, I let her take it.

“Yes.” Michael’s hand slips from my back, and he glances down at me strangely. “This is her.” Then, to me, in that damn smooth voice, “I’m going to leave you in Mrs. Monti’s capable hands, love, while I go take care of some business.”

Love.

I narrow my eyes on him, hating that my heart skips at how easily the endearment seems to slip out of his mouth. “We need to talk.”

“Later.” He steps back before I can argue, heading towards the side of the house with Lorenzo.

I don’t have to ask what business he has to take care of. It’s Dario. And quite frankly, I couldn’t give a flying fuck.

What he did to me last night doesn’t even scratch the surface of the hell he’s put me through over the years. Michael can do whatever he wants with him.

A gentle squeeze pulls my attention from Michael’s retreating form. I look down at my hand, still clasped in the woman’s, then up at her warm but assessing gaze. “Hello, ma’am,” I murmur, suddenly feeling shy under her scrutiny. Michael introduced her as Mrs. Monti. Who is she to him?

And why the hell do I even care how Michael is related to the people around him? I’m leaving soon anyway, so it shouldn’t matter.

She shakes her head. “None of this ‘ma’am’ business, miss. I’m Gracie to you.”

Her smile is so genuine, so effortlessly kind, that I just… stare. It’s a warmth that surpasses anything I’ve known in years, leaving me speechless, unsure how to respond appropriately.

Sensing my hesitation, she gives my hand a gentle pat. “Come on in. Let me show you your new home.”

I nearly trip over my own feet. “My new home?”

Surprised, I follow her through the doors into a breathtaking anteroom, and I barely register the vaulted ceilings because my attention is stolen by the walls. Or rather, what’s on them. Large, gold-framed paintings—nearly human-sized—stretch across both sides of the room, taking up most of the space. My eyes immediately catch on the tulips, and before I realize it, I’m drawn towards it, hand lifting hesitantly.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? You can touch it. This is a home, not a museum,” Mrs. Monti says encouragingly.

Home.

I close my hand into a fist, dropping it. Her expression dims slightly, and the disappointment there reminds me of my earlier question. “This is Michael’s house, isn’t it? Why would you call it my new home?”

She frowns a little. “Well, you’re to get married, aren’t you? So I assumed you’d be living here since this is Michael’s primary residence, and⁠—”

“We’re to be what?”

Her frown deepens. “Did I mishear? It did come as a surprise, I admit. You see, I never thought that boy would let his guard down enough to enter into a serious relationship, but he did say he’s bringing his fiancée home.”

A host of curse words jam up in my throat, and I swallow them down viciously.

“Was I mistaken?”

I shake my head slowly, unsure how to answer the question. “It’s just… a surprise that he told you.” Since I wasn’t even aware of the fact myself—him calling me his bride-to-be in front of my uncle doesn’t count.

Mrs. Monti smiles again. “He usually doesn’t share personal information with me, but this is important news.”

Indeed it is.

I’m going to kill that asshole when I see him. Because there’s no way in hell I’m marrying Michael Hart.

18

MICHAEL

I press a finger against the fucker’s head, and it lolls to the side, lifeless. He’s dead.

Damn it. I was too angry—came in on him too strong. I wanted to draw it out, make him feel every second of his miserable end. But I let the rage take over. Now that opportunity is gone.

Lorenzo hands me a wipe, and I scrub the blood off my hands as best as I can. It’ll have to do until I can take a proper shower.

“What do we do about his body?” he asks.

“Decapitate him,” I say, tossing the soiled wipe aside. “Wrap his head up for me and send the rest of his body to Aldo.”

Lorenzo shakes his head like I’m crazy. I narrow my eyes, and he quickly raises his hands.

“Can I know what you want to do with his head?”

“No, you cannot.” I walk past him, leaving the interrogation room and my order in his hands. Up the stairs, through the shed, and out into the late afternoon sun—its harsh glare hits me square in the face, momentarily blinding me. I was in there longer than I thought.

I slip through the back entrance into the main house, avoiding the main areas. I don’t know where Gianna is, and I sure as hell don’t want to risk running into her covered in her cousin’s blood. Not that I think she’d care about his death—she hates him. But still, I’d rather not shove the evidence in her face right now.

Taking the back stairs two at a time, I head for the left wing, reserved mainly for guests—but she won’t be there. I made sure of that. She should be in the right wing, my wing, where she rightfully belongs.

Gracie better have followed my instructions.

I go into one of the several guest bedrooms and fire off a quick text to one of my men for a fresh set of clothes before stripping down and stepping into the shower. Anticipation fills my being as I scrub my body clean, tilting my neck back so the water can spray into my face.

She’s here.

In my house.

Where no one can ever dare take her from me.

And soon, she’ll be mine completely—in name and truth.

My cock hardens at the thought, and I drag my hand down my length to the barbell piercing at the head, giving it a sharp tug to keep myself in check.

There’s no time to rub one out right now. I need to talk to her first. See her face and her reaction to my proposition.

I cut the water and grab a towel, drying off quickly. When I get to the bedroom, a fresh pair of clothes are already waiting for me on the bed, so I toss my towel aside and get dressed.

Rolling my neck to ease the lingering tension, I leave the guest bedroom and make my way the right wing. This time, I hope—expect—to cross paths with my little birdie, but I don’t, and I have to taper down my disappointment as I go into my office. Soon.

I sink into my chair and boot on my computer, fingers drumming against the desk as I pull up the security feed. If I can’t see her in person yet, I’ll settle for watching her.

A grin pulls at my lips when I spot her—in my bedroom.

She’s pacing, practically wearing a hole in the floor, her lips moving as she waves her hands aggressively. I lean back, amused.

I suppose Gracie already mentioned something to her, hence the pure frustration vibrating off her.

I let her fume. Let her pace. Let her work herself up.

But soon, just watching her isn’t enough. I need to smell her sweet scent, hear her tinkling voice, see the fire in her golden eyes.

With a single tap on my computer, the screens all go dark, and I rise from my chair. Then, adjusting my jacket, I make my way to her.

The moment I open my bedroom door, she whirls towards me, eyes blazing. “What the hell, Michael? Why am I here?”

Her fury rolls off her in waves, but as I take in her bruised face up close, my excitement dims, and any joy I’d felt seconds before snuffs out completely.

And just like that, my own rage reignites like a goddamn wildfire.

I should have made that trash suffer for longer.

Jaw tight, I pull out my phone and shoot a text to Morgan, our consultant doctor, to get his ass here. I should have called him as soon as we got home. Should have made sure she was taken care of first. But I let my anger take the reins. Dealing with Dario took priority.

Morgan replies immediately.

On my way. Give me five.

I drop my phone back into my pocket and approach her slowly, eyes cataloging every dark mark marring her face. My pretty girl. Beaten, broken. Because of me. I lift a hand towards her hesitantly, but she jerks back.

The look she gives me—disgust curling her lips, pure loathing in her eyes—twists something deep inside me. “Don’t even dare.”

My hand falls, fisting at my side. “Gianna, I–” The words clog in my throat. I’ve never apologized in my life. I don’t know how to start.

Her arms cross over her chest. “Why the hell am I in your house, Michael? Why am I in what I know is your bedroom?”

Her voice is ice. I’ve lost her trust, her good will towards me. And I know I deserve it. I deserve everything she throws at me.

But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to take it.

I narrow my eyes on her. “You want to know why you’re here? You’re here because we’re getting married tomorrow.”

She stares at me with so much vitriol that if I were a lesser man, I’d probably take a couple of steps back. But I’m not, so I smirk and take two steps forward instead.

Her arms drop from her chest, and then, to my complete confusion, she throws her head back and laughs. The sound is sharp, maniacal, like something inside her just snapped.

I frown at her in worry. Is she having a meltdown?

“Oh my God,” she gasps out when she finally stops. “I’ve had it up to here–” she raises a hand, “–with men thinking they can tell me what to do. First Aldo telling me I’m getting married to Carlo today, and now you’re saying we’re getting married tomorrow?”

Another round of laughter bursts from her, but this time, tears start slipping down her cheeks. Halfway through, her body sags, and she crumples to the floor with a pained groan.

My heart swells painfully as I watch her. For the first time in years, I have no fucking clue what to do. Should I try to comfort her? How do I do that? I take a hesitant step forward, reaching⁠—

“Don’t–” Her voice is raw, shaking. She lifts a trembling hand. “Don’t even think about it, Michael.”

Before I can say anything, there’s a sharp knock on the door. “Morgan is here, Michael,” Gracie calls from the door.

I glance down at Gianna. “That’s my doctor. He’s going to check on your bruises. Make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m not okay, Michael. I’m not,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

Her words knock something loose in my chest.

“Tell him to hold on for a minute,” I call back, then go on my haunches in front of her.

“You’re strong, Gianna. But even the strongest soldiers have their weak moments. And that’s fine. You might feel like you’ve hit rock bottom, and I’m not going to argue with you about that. But want to know a sweet secret?”

Silence.

Then, finally, she glances up at me through liquid whiskey eyes, luminous with tears, and my heart squeezes so painfully it’s damn near unbearable. I hate this. I hate seeing her hurt. That realization hits me in the gut—I’m in way deeper than I initially thought. Fuck.

“Well?” she asks, wiping her tears with a little sniff. “Don’t keep me hanging. What’s the sweet secret?”

I blink at her, thrown for a moment. Then I clear my throat. “The only way to go from the bottom is up. And I’m going to be here with you every step of the way.”

“No, you won’t. Because I won’t be here for longer than a day.”

The ache in my chest eases at the return of her sass, and I let out a low chuckle. “Huh. We’ll see about that.” I push to my feet and head towards the door, swinging it open to find Morgan waiting outside. Tilting my head, I motion for him to come in.

Gianna stands the second he walks in. “If you want me to submit myself to be fully checked by this doctor of yours, then you need to get out.”

Next to me, Morgan inhales sharply. He’s never seen anyone defy me and have their head remain attached to their bodies.

I narrow my eyes at her, and she meets my gaze head-on, chin lifted in pure, stubborn defiance. I fucking know that look.

Without a word, I nod at Morgan, whose lips part slightly as I turn to leave. Whatever. He knows to keep his fucking mouth shut, so I trust no one will find out about this little interlude. And if Gianna thinks to solicit his help to get out of here, she’s in for a rude awakening.

I don’t keep as many men around me as my brothers do—I detest having to interact with other humans for longer than necessary—but the few people I do keep are loyal to the bone. Not a single one would ever go against me.

Morgan is in there with her for over thirty minutes, and I spend the duration glued to my phone screen, pacing the hallway as I watch their interaction through the live feed. Surprisingly, Gianna doesn’t speak unless spoken to first, and even though my video doesn’t have audio, I can tell Morgan’s just asking her questions about her bruises.

My fingers clench around my phone as I watch her wince and flinch away when he prods at a sore spot. The sight sends another wave of fury crashing through me, and with Dario dead, there’s only one direction left for it to go. Aldo. The man who should have fucking protected his niece. And if Dario had the audacity to hit her enough to bruise her like this, what the hell has Aldo done to her?

My blood boils as I exit the camera feed to fire off a text to Lorenzo.

Put one of our men on Aldo’s tail. Now. I want eyes on him at all times. I’ll start digging into him myself too.

As I finish sending the text, my bedroom door opens, and Morgan steps out, expression grim. “She took a bad beating, but apart from that, she’s perfectly healthy and well on the road of healing.”

I nod. At least there’s that.

“She took some painkillers last night—more than she should have—so I told her to hold off for now. I left her something to take later, though. She’ll be right as rain soon.”

“Alright.” I exhale slowly. “I appreciate you coming so quickly.”

“Anytime man.” He smirks. “You seem to have your hands full with that one, so you have my sympathies.”

I take a threatening step towards him, and he quickly spins around, walking away like the hounds of hell are nipping at his ankles.

Shaking my head, I hesitate briefly, then head back to my room, where Gianna is now lying on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Hey, you good?”

“I’m not marrying you, Michael. I’m not,” she says quietly.

I sigh, hating that I have to resort to my last options. I had hoped she’d agree to the wedding on her own terms, but she seems pretty resolute. Not that I blame her. If I were her, I wouldn’t trust me either.

“You do realize Aldo and Carlo will never let you go, don’t you?”

She turns her head, questioning me with her eyes, so I continue, “I killed his son. Who do you think he’s going to blame? Dario? Me?” I shake my head. “No, the blame is going to fall squarely on you, because to him, you’re the easiest target.”

She flinches, her skin paling, and I almost stop—but I continue ruthlessly, needing her to see the full picture. “Carlo is going to keep sending his own men after you because he’s already upheld his end of the deal with Aldo. The only thing left is your marriage with him. You think he’s just going to give up?”

I don’t tell her about the rumors circulating that Carlo is having marriage troubles, which I know he won’t take too lightly; he might resort to trying to hurt her—or worse. Everyone knows the unfortunate fate of his previous wives.

“I’m not going to marry him,” she says, stubborn as ever.

“I won’t let you,” I agree readily. “Because you’re going to be married to me.” That’s the only way she gets out of this unscathed. And the only way I have complete control over her—and can fully protect her.

“No, I will not marry you either, Michael.” She glares at me. “Not after what you’ve done. You betrayed me.” Her voice breaks, and fuck, that kills me. “I will never trust you again.”

My throat closes up as I stare at her. I clear it quickly. “I didn’t betray you, Gianna. I would never. It was just a little misunderstanding.”

She sits up, seething. “A little misunderstanding? The ‘little’ misunderstanding got me flayed by my cousin.”

“And he played dearly for it,” I say fiercely. “Just like your uncle will also pay for his role in it.”

“And you? Will you also pay for it?”

I’m already paying for it. Every time she looks at me like that. With so much distrust and animosity—like I’m no better than them. Every time I look at her and see those bruises.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I say, “Either marry me and be safe—safe from all dangers, safe to pursue all your dreams—or walk out that door and spend the rest of your life running. Always looking over your shoulder, always wondering if today’s the day they finally catch you.” I pause, letting my words sink in. “Think about the last two months you were on the run. Now double whatever hell you went through. Because trust me, neither Carlo nor Aldo will ever stop hunting you.”

She lets out a shuddering breath.

I watch her think through her options, waiting for the moment she realizes there’s only one real choice—hoping she makes the right one. Because truth is, even though I gave her the option of running away, I have no intention of letting her go. So if she chooses that path, well… we’ll have a bit of a problem.

But I know this—giving her the illusion of having a choice is the right step in repairing the trust I broke. The right step forward if we’re going to get married and stay married.

Finally, those whiskey eyes meet mine. “Alright.”

19

GIANNA

It’s a strange feeling, waking up on a strange bed, in a strange house, knowing it’s your wedding day to a stranger—no matter how devastatingly attractive he is. Not that looks matter in the grand scheme of things when he basically delivered me to my uncle on a silver platter.

I roll onto my side, blinking at the framed painting of flowers on the wall. Tulips. A huge, delicate arrangement of them. Weirdly enough, it comforts me.

After my conversation with Michael yesterday—after agreeing to marry him—I told him I needed my own space. That I would not be sleeping in his room. He argued, of course, but in the end, he grudgingly brought me here.

Did he do so knowing the painting is in here and that seeing something that reminds me of my parents—since my middle name literally means tulips—would give me some comfort?

Or am I just reaching?

What the hell am I even doing trying to see Michael in a good light?

He’s forcing me to marry him, security or not. And for what? Why the hell does he want this marriage? No matter how hard I think about it, I can’t seem to come up with a good reason.

I sigh and roll off the bed just as a gentle knock sounds on the door.

“Who is it?” I call, frowning. I know we’re getting married today, but I’m not nearly ready to see Michael yet.

“It’s Gracie. Can I come in?”

I let out a breath of relief. During dinner last night, I learned that Mrs. Monti—Gracie—is Michael’s housekeeper and was his father’s housekeeper too, back when Michael was a teenager. So she’s been with him for years.

I glance down at my wrinkled clothes—the same slacks and top I wore to meet Uncle Aldo in his office yesterday, before my entire world flipped upside down—and just shrug. “Of course, Mrs. Monti. It’s unlocked.”

The door opens, and the friendly woman peeks in before fully walking inside. “Hi.” She gives me a warm smile, holding up a black dress bag in one hand and a box in the other. “Are you excited?”

Excited? There’s nothing to be excited about. It’s just a random Wednesday that I happen to be getting married on. No big deal. I keep my face carefully blank as I say, “Sure.”

What the hell did Michael tell her anyway? That we’re madly in love?

Her smile dims a little, but she quickly recovers, wiggling the dress bag. “This came in for you this morning.” She hands it over, and I hesitantly accept it. Did Michael actually order a wedding dress for me?

I unzip the bag, and sure enough, a fluffy cloud of white fabric spills out. My heart sinks as reality hits. This is really happening. I’m getting married. And I’ve never felt more alone and scared in my life.

A warm hand covers mine, and I glance up to see Mrs. Monti watching me with a concerned frown. “I understand this isn’t a love match, darling, but you could do so much worse than Michael. I’ve known that boy since he was an unruly teenager. He’s weathered tremendous hardship, and he’s none the worse for it. He’s not cruel like many of the men in our mafia, and trust me, he had plenty of horrible examples he could’ve followed.”

What does that mean? That his dad was a cruel man? The men around him?

She continues, “I know there are rumors about him, and I can’t say they’re not true. But one thing I know for sure: he’s a fair master and fiercely protective. You’ll be safe with him.”

She’s trying to comfort me. I don’t know if it works, exactly, but some of my anxiety fades as I realize one thing—I’m not completely alone. I give her a small smile. “Thank you.”

She is right. It could be worse. It could be Carlo.

Michael did betray me, and it will take a long time—if ever—for me to trust him the way I did before. But before everything fell apart, I did try to seduce him into falling for me because I knew he was a fair man.

Even though he hasn’t actually said the words, I know he’s sorry for the way things turned out with my uncle. Maybe this marriage is his way of trying to make it up to me.

What if it doesn’t end up being horrible? He did say I’d be free to pursue my dreams. And with him, I wouldn’t have to be on the run anymore. This doesn’t have to be a death sentence.

Mrs. Monti takes the dress bag from my hand. “Why don’t you take a long bath while I make arrangements for you here?”

“Arrangements?”

She just winks and steers me towards the ensuite. “Go on.”

I surrender to her gentle nudging and close the door behind me.

Even though I’ve let go of my fears—mostly—I still find myself lingering in the bath, stretching out the last moments of being Gianna Cabello. But at the same time, I’m anxious to get this over with. The faster we get through the ceremony, the sooner I can talk with Michael about what comes next. When do I get to start pursuing my dreams? What does he expect from me? What do I expect from him?

I have no clue what the ceremony will be like, but I hope it’s short and to the point. This is no fairytale romance, after all. I certainly know there won’t be anyone on my side of the aisle. But what about Michael’s?

Mrs. Monti hinted that he had a rough childhood. Does that mean he isn’t close with his parents? Now that I think about it, I really don’t know anything about my husband-to-be. I need to change that. Later.

When I finally drain the tub and step out, I wrap a towel around myself and return to the bedroom. Mrs. Monti is waiting for me, holding up a soft robe.

As I slip into it, she gestures to a covered tray on the side table. “I brought you some breakfast.”

My stomach growls shamelessly, and I place a hand over it, a little embarrassed, but the housekeeper just smiles and waves me towards the food. “Eat up. It’s only right for a bride to be well-fed before making one of the biggest decisions of her life.”

Her words tug at something in my chest, but she simply turns away, fussing over something on the dresser, giving me space.

Perching on the edge of the bed, I lift the tray onto my lap. A full plate of bacon, eggs, sausages, and pancakes stare back at me. And they smell divine.

“Mrs. Monti, this is⁠—”

“Not too much,” she cuts in “And please, child, call me Gracie. ‘Mrs. Monti’ makes me feel ancient.”

I smile a little as I dig in. One might think such a life-altering day would kill my appetite. But apparently, my stomach didn’t get the memo.

When I finish my food, she waves me over to the chair in front of the dresser. “I don’t know how you youngins like your makeup done these days, but I can style your hair for you. I always wanted a daughter, but the good Lord called my husband home before blessing us with children.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that, and she doesn’t seem to expect me to. So I just wordlessly take the seat she offers.

She pulls my hair out of its bun, and as the strands fall past my waist, she lets out a pleased hum. “You have such pretty hair. Healthy too.”

“Thank you,” I murmur.

We lapse into silence as she works, the whir of the curling wand the only sound in the room. I try not to overthink what comes after this. No use in spiraling when it’s happening no matter what.

The minutes pass quickly, and she’s just about done running the hot wand through the last section of my hair when there’s a short knock on the door.

“Don’t come in!” Mrs. Monti immediately calls out. She sets the wand down and walks over, cracking it open just enough so I can’t see outside. Michael’s deep voice rumbles something to her, but I can't make out his words.

They exchange a few short sentences before she greets someone new. Then, steps back from the door, allowing a woman to slip inside.

I tense.

She’s around my age—maybe even a little younger. Her flaming red hair is pulled up into a ponytail, though tiny curls frame her sharp chin. Cute freckles dust her nose and cheeks, and she has the prettiest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s stunning.

A spike of unease shoots through me as I glance past her towards the now-closed door, where Mrs. Monti still hovers. Who the hell is she? How does Michael know her? And what the hell is she doing here?

My gaze snaps back to the woman, who’s scanning the room like she’s taking everything in. Then, her eyes land on me, our gazes clashing. She flashes a bright smile, one that has her eyes twinkling, the green shining more prominently. It’s a genuine smile.

I don’t smile back. I just frown, watching her carefully. What’s her deal? Does she know the truth? That Michael and I aren’t really together? That this wedding is happening for reasons that have nothing to do with love? That’s the only reason she wouldn’t see me as a threat, right? The pressure in my chest builds, my stomach twisting uncomfortably.

I want her out of here.

Like she can read my thoughts, her smile slowly dims. But her gaze stays locked on me. Her eyes trace over my face, emotions flickering in her look like an open book. Anxiety. Anger. Worry. She’s so… guileless.

But then I realize—she’s noticed the bruises. That’s why she’s looking at me like that. A prickle of heat crawls up my neck, but I force myself to stay still. My hands clench into fists on my lap so I don’t fidget with the hair Mrs. Monti just spent several minutes on.

“Hi, you must be Gianna.” Her voice is soft, almost musical. “I’m Elira.”

She tucks a stray curl behind her ear, and I catch the glint of a large rock on her finger. My breath catches. She’s married. And Michael can’t marry me if he’s already married to her, which means⁠—

She’s married to someone else.

The tightness in my belly unfurls a little. “Hello,” I greet cautiously.

She glances back at Mrs. Monti. “I’m sorry, can I have a moment alone with the bride?”

Mrs. Monti raises a questioning brow at me, and I nod. “Give us thirty minutes, please.” I’m curious about what the redhead has to say—I get the feeling she has something important to discuss.

As soon as the door closes behind Mrs. Monti, the rest of Elira’s smile vanishes, and unexpected steel appears in her eyes. “Do you need me to help you escape?” She asks, matter-of-factly.

My jaw practically unhinges. “W–what?” Didn’t Michael bring her here?

She drops to her knees in front of me, bringing us eye to eye, and grips my hands like we’re old friends. “I mean it, Gianna. I know we’re strangers and you have no reason to trust me, but if you want out, I’ll do anything in my power to help you.”

I blink at her, thrown completely off balance. Is this a test? A trap Michael set up? But no—she looks genuinely concerned. “Shouldn’t you be on Michael’s side? He brought you in here, didn’t he?” I finally manage.

“Maybe. But I know how these Nightshade men are. Did he kidnap you? Is he threatening you? What does he have over you?” Her eyes go all over my face again, and she frowns.

My heart kicks up a notch.

She thinks Michael did this to me.

This really isn’t some kind of twisted loyalty test Michael came up with. She actually cares. About me.

I shake my head slowly. “No, he’s not threatening me. He’s helping me actually. This—” I wave my hand over my face. “—is not from him. He rescued me from my… cousin.”

Her frown deepens, and she slowly lets go of my hands. “Are you sure?” She lowers her voice to a whisper, glancing around. “Is this room bugged? Are we being watched? Is that why you’re saying that?”

I didn’t realize anything could amuse me today, but a genuine laugh escapes me as I glance around as well. “I have no idea if there’s a bug here, but I swear, Michael didn’t do this to me. He wouldn’t.”

I don’t know why I’m so sure about that, but I am. He might be ruthless, cold, and dangerous, but no matter how angry he gets, he would never lay a hand on me. “Who are you?" I ask, studying her. Is she Michael’s sister or something? She’s pretty ballsy. I like her.

“I’m Elira Leonotti, Maximo’s wife. You could say I’m Michael’s sister-in-law? My husband considers him a brother and trusts him with his life.” She glances up at me through pretty eyes that shift from brown to green as the light reflects in them. “I trust him, too—to a certain extent—but… I think I might have been in your shoes before; that’s why I reacted that way. Did I misjudge the situation?”

“What did you think was happening? That Michael hurt me and is threatening me to marry him?” She’s not far from the truth. I am marrying Michael because my existence is being threatened. But he isn’t the one doing the threatening.

She gives a sheepish shrug. “I mean, the guys have a code—no hurting women or kids—but one can never be completely sure with Michael. You have to understand, he’s a bit… unstable.”

She isn’t the first person to say that about him, but I frown because, to me, he seems pretty stable. “You said you’ve been in my shoes before. Did your husband hurt you?”

Her eyes widen like I just suggested the sun rises in the west. “No, Maximo would never,” she says emphatically. “He’d rather chop off his own fingers, one by one, before he lays a hand on me.”

Maximo. That’s her husband, I think. So then… what? “He threatened you to marry him?”

She chuckles, nodding. “Oh, yeah. The motherfucker had a gun trained on my brother and father and threatened to kill them if I didn’t marry him.”

My lips part slightly. And she’s laughing about it? Maybe she’s the unstable one, and she might need help. “Do–do you need help?” I ask carefully.

She laughs harder. “No, darling, it’s fine. He wouldn’t have killed them, but I didn’t know that at the time. We’re fine—we’re in love.”

Right. Because nothing screams romance like a forced marriage at gunpoint.

She sighs, waving a hand like this is all just a funny little misunderstanding. “Anyways, sorry about my assumption. I just couldn’t bear it if you were being threatened and I could have helped but didn’t. You know how awful that would feel? Like, imagine finding out later that someone was suffering, and you just went about your day, totally oblivious? I’d never forgive myself.”

She keeps talking, but I barely hear her. They’re in love. She’s in love with a man who kidnapped her and threatened to kill her family? She says he wouldn’t have killed them, but how sure is she really? I wonder if I should introduce her to the word ‘Stockholm syndrome’.

“…but hey, congratulations!” Elira’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I blink back to the present just in time to see her clapping her hands together, as if that somehow erases the absolute insanity she just confessed. “And I’m not just here to toss around accusations, you know. Michael brought me here to give you some moral support—that’s why I was suspicious. I mean, I’ve never seen that man look worried about someone before. It’s kind of impressive, honestly.”

She reaches for the bag slung over her shoulder and starts rummaging through it, still chatting like we’re discussing wedding plans instead of literal hostage situations. I should probably say something, but my brain is still catching up. Not that she’s giving me a chance, though…

“But now that I know you’re doing this of your own free will—for whatever reason,” she grins, finally pulling something out, “congratulations. And here, this is for you. Gifts.”

I accept the bag with a small frown, getting a bit overwhelmed. She’s like a little tornado. I unzip it and take out a small box. Inside, a pair of diamond earrings glisten under the light.

“I got them last night after Michael called Maximo and told me about you. I figured if you made the decision to go through with this marriage yourself, you should at least get to do some of the traditional things I never got to do for my own wedding. It can be your ‘something new’.”

My lips part in surprise. “This–this must have cost quite a fortune, I can’t accept it.” I close the box and toss it back into the bag, suddenly afraid to check what else is in there. She did say gifts, plural.

“Of course you can,” she says easily, her tone both reasonable and sweet. “I just told you, I’m like a sister to Michael, which means you’re going to be my sister-in-law. And friend, I hope. So you could even say I’m trying to bribe you. Hell, I’m turning into Maximo.” She mutters the last part under her breath like she’s only just realizing.

I let out a breathy laugh despite myself.

“Look, I don’t really know the situation between you and Michael,” she continues, “but I do know what it’s like to have a wedding ceremony that feels more like a transaction than a celebration. And I remember how overwhelmed and alone I felt. So yeah, I admit, I’m trying to buy your friendship—but not for some nefarious reason, I swear. I genuinely want to be your friend. And this—” she waves at the bag in my hand, “—isn’t much. You’re getting married to Michael, so you’ll see what I mean. Money isn’t a problem for us.”

Before I can reply, the door opens and Mrs. Monti pops her head in. She glances at Elira—who’s still on her knees before me—and raises a curious brow. Elira gets to her feet swiftly. “Come on, check the other contents of the bag.”

I sigh and do as she says. Reaching inside, I pull out a long, silky bridal veil with pearls beaded across the delicate fabric.

“It’s from my second wedding a few weeks ago.” Elira grins. “It can be your ‘something borrowed’ and ‘old’.”

Mrs. Monti steps fully into the room, nodding approvingly. “Perfect. I have something blue for you here, Gia.” She takes two light blue dove-shaped hair clips out of her apron, each bird surrounded by tiny pearls, and holds them up. “Michael asked me to give these to you.”

I inhale sharply as I study the pretty clips. Dove. I can almost hear him calling me that. My fingers curl possessively around them, a little tenderness welling in my chest. Is this his way of showing he’s thinking about me?

A lump rises in my throat, and I blink rapidly to push back the tears. This isn’t a real wedding. It isn’t.

“It’s beautiful,” Elira murmurs, breaking the silence. “And the pearls go perfectly with your veil.”

I give her a small, grateful smile as Mrs. Monti gets behind me and carefully pins the clips into my hair, pulling part of it back into an elegant half-up, half-down style.

“Thank you. Both of you,” I manage in a whisper.

Mrs. Monti steps back, studying her work with satisfied little tut noises, while Elira pats my hand with a warm smile.

“I need to go check on my husband before he storms in here, but I’ll see you out there.” She winks. “I know you’ll make a beautiful bride. Good luck!”

After she leaves, Mrs. Monti picks up the garment bag from the bed and takes my dress out. And for the first time, I see the full thing.

It’s a short, white dress that will fall right below my knees. The bodice is corseted, with thick shoulder straps and a delicate, sparkly belt around the waist—gorgeous. And even though I didn’t choose it and this isn't a real wedding, I love it. Since the ceremony is taking place at the back of Michael’s house for reasons only he knows, he’s included a pair of white strappy sandals to match.

With Mrs. Monti’s help, I slip into the dress, then put on my new diamond earrings. She carefully fixes the veil Elira lent me into my hair, and just like that, we’re done.

It’s a casual look but at the same time elegant. Perfect.

“Michael will swallow his tongue when he sees you,” she murmurs. And shit, my heart flutters at the thought. No. No fluttering, heart.

I clear my throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Monti.”

She hesitates briefly, then, “Are you sure you don’t want me to do some makeup for you? Even something light to cover up those bruises?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s fine.” I want them visible. A reminder of what Dario did to me.

She sighs but lets it go, and together, we walk out of my room and down the hallway.

As we descend the stairs, I thank her again. I don’t know what I would have done yesterday and today without her kindness.

“No, thank you. There’s a new light in Michael’s eyes, and I know it’s because of you. So thank you.” Then she wags a finger at me. “And for the love of God, call me Gracie.”

I don’t believe a damn word about any light in Michael’s eyes, but I smile softly anyway. “Thank you... Gracie.”

Outside, a golf-cart-style car is waiting for us. The man in the driver’s seat nods as we get in, then drives us around the back of the house, past a small garden shed, and the moment I see where we’re heading, my breath catches.

So this is why he chose this spot.

Just beyond the house, a row of towering palm trees lines the white shores of a pretty beach. And there beneath them stands Michael in a tux, looking effortlessly dashing as he waits for me.

His gaze arrests mine, and my heart starts pounding as the car pulls to a stop. I can’t look away. Not as I step out. Not as I whisper to Mrs. Mon–Gracie to walk with me.

Not as I get closer and closer.

Sweat trickles down my spine. My heart pounds harder. Then, just before we get under the broad leaves of the palm tree, he moves forward and gently takes my hand from Gracie’s.

“You look stunning as always, Gianna.” His smile is slow, warm, and for a brief moment, I forget how to breathe. Damn him for being so hot. He tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow and leads me the rest of the way under the trees.

That’s when I finally notice the other people waiting there.

Elira stands next to a tall man who has his arm slung possessively around her waist—Maximo, I assume. Another man, dressed in crisp black, stands beside them. Michael introduces him as the clergyman officiating the ceremony, but my nerves drown out most of his words.

My throat goes dry as the man goes straight to the point.

“Are you here of your own free will?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I answer with a nod.

“Good.” He picks up a briefcase I hadn’t even realized was there, takes out a pair of documents, and then right there in the windy morning, we sign the marriage licenses.

Maximo and Elira sign as our witnesses. Then the man folds the documents neatly, clears his throat, and declares, “With the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Oh shit.

I swallow hard as Michael's arms drape around my back, and with the slightest pressure, turns me to face him. Those electric blue eyes search mine as his head slowly lowers.

And then… A kiss. Closed-mouthed. Chaste. Nothing like the fiery, consuming one we’ve shared before. But it doesn’t stop my heart from going into overdrive and my core from clenching.

Everything after that becomes a blur.

We return to the main house, where a long table overflowing with food awaits. But I’m still too stuffed from the breakfast Gracie gave to eat anything. So instead, I reach for the sweet, bubbly drink in front of me, sipping quietly as the conversation flows around me.

One glass. Then another.

Someone refills it. Then again. And again.

At some point, I lose track of how many glasses I’ve had. And—inevitably—I get drunk.

Michael notices, of course, and gets to his feet. “Thank you for witnessing our wedding, but it’s time for my bride and me to retire,” he says, addressing Maximo and Elira—who instructed me to call her Lira since we’re basically sisters now.

I snort. “Retire.” The word rolls off my tongue, then gets tangled somewhere. “Such an arctic–arcrum–achric word.”

“You mean archaic?” Michael asks, blue eyes gleaming with amusement.

I nod solemnly, then puff out my chest and deepen my voice to mimic him. “My bride and I are going to retire now.” I reach for my glass again⁠—

But Michael beats me to it, plucking it right out of my grasp.

“I think you’ve had enough, love.”

Something about the way he says it—soft, amused, maybe even fond—has me melting into his side, my head resting on his shoulder.

My fingers drift lazily up his chest. “Now that we’re married, will you get a tattoo for me on your body?” I pause, frowning dramatically. “Wait, never mind. You don’t have any space left on your skin. That’s so unfair.” I pout up at him, and he chuckles.

“I’ll make space for you.” There’s a double meaning in his promise, but I can’t grasp it right now—too distracted by Lira and her husband getting up. They say their goodbyes, and suddenly, it’s just me and my husband.

My husband. A thrill zips through me.

“Why did you marry me, Michael?” I ask him as he gets to his feet. He offers me a hand, and the second I take it, the room tilts sweetly around me, sending me crashing straight into his chest. “Oops,” I giggle, clinging to him like that was totally intentional.

“What do you mean, why did I marry you?” His hands slide under my knees, lifting me effortlessly into his arms.

“I mean…” I loop my arms around his neck. “I know what I’m getting from marrying you—protection. But what about you? What are you getting?”

He meets my eyes with a quiet certainty, like the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. “You.”

My head spins, but it has nothing to do with the alcohol, and my heart stutters, pounding in slow, heavy beats. Before I can stop myself, I lift my chin and kiss him.

He stumbles.

I tighten my grip around his neck, steadying us both. “Are you okay?” I ask, my lips brushing his as I pull back.

“I’m fine.” He clears his throat. “You just… surprised me, is all.”

I smirk, toying with the lapels of his shirt before resting my head on his chest with a satisfied sigh. He adjusts me in his arms, carrying me up the stairs and down the hallway.

Then I notice.

“You passed my bedroom,” It’s not a complaint—just an observation. Because truthfully, I want to go to his room.

“Yeah,” he says, shifting me slightly so he can punch in a door code. “I have something for you.”

Curiosity sparks through my drunken haze as he shoulders the door open and carries me straight to his bed, carefully lowering me onto the plush mattress. Then, he opens his bedside drawer and takes out a small box.

“Ohh, is it jewelry?” I perk up instantly. “I love jewelry. Can you see my earring?” I turn my neck to show off my ear. “It’s all bling-y and sparkly and pretty.”

Michael smiles as he hands me the box and gently tugs on my earlobe. “It’s not as bling-y and sparkly and pretty as you are.”

That’s funny, so I laugh. But as I open the box, the laughter catches in my throat.

Inside, lying neatly on a cushion of black velvet, is my mom’s necklace. The broken clasp—fixed.

Michael’s voice drops to a soft murmur. “Gracie mentioned wedding traditions, so I got you the blue doves. Is it too late to give you something old?”

The haze fades as I look up at him, my heart suddenly so full and tight it hurts a little to breathe, words choking the back of my throat. “This…” I swallow. “I put it in my bedside drawer last night so I wouldn’t lose it today.”

“I know. I, uh… borrowed it. Had it fixed for you.”

I stare at him, speechless.

He scratches the back of his neck. “I wanted to get you something new, too, but I wasn’t sure what you’d like.” Then, with a teasing smirk, he adds. “But now I do—jewelry. Noted.”

A wobbly laugh escapes me as I trace the shield pendant. Slowly, I lift it from the box. “Thank you so much, Michael.”

His expression softens. Taking the necklace from my trembling fingers, he leans over me, carefully fastening it around my neck. “I’m going to take care of you,” he murmurs. “And spoil you. You won’t regret marrying me.”

Something inside me melts at the promise in his voice, and before I can think better of it, I throw my arms around him, hugging him fiercely.

I don’t know if I’ll regret marrying him or not.

But right now, I don’t think I will.

20

MICHAEL

I wake up to a mouthful of hair. It’s everywhere—my face, my nose, tickling my throat. I smile and tighten my arms around the warm feminine body nestled against me, breathing her in deeply.

My wife.

The thought sends a deep, satisfied thrill rolling down my spine, grounding me in a way I didn’t know I needed. I shift slightly, tucking my head back just enough to escape the ambush of hair, and finally get a good look at her. She’s still fast asleep, lips parted as she snores softly like she doesn’t have a single care in the world.

I swallow my amused chuckle, not wanting to wake her just yet.

Then the alarm clock catches my eye, and I stiffen. 9 AM already? I’ve never spent this long in bed. Even with the blinds drawn, I’m wired to wake up at sunrise. A mountain of calls and emails must be piling up in my office.

Reluctantly, I untangle myself from her warmth. She doesn’t stir as I roll out of the bed, so I tiptoe to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. A quick brush of my teeth, a splash of cold water to my face, and I feel a little more like myself.

Walking back out, I glance at Gianna. She’s rolled onto my side of the bed, face buried into my pillow. My heart expands as I indulge the fantasy that she’s seeking my warmth, my scent now that I’m gone. But I push it aside as I quietly close the bedroom door behind me.

Padding down the hallway towards my office, I nearly collide with Gracie.

She stops short, wide eyes. “Are you just getting up from bed?”

I roll my shoulders, annoyed at the blatant amazement in her tone. This is the issue with long-term employees. Gracie has been with me for so damn long, she’s grown bold and doesn’t fear me nearly as much as she should.

Case in point: the impertinent question she just asked.

I level a look at her. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, but she’s wise enough not to let it bloom as she shakes her head. My narrowed eyes follow her anyway before I brush past her into the sanctuary of my office.

Sliding into my chair, I power on my computers and grab my phone. Two missed calls from Rafael.

So, he heard the news then.

No surprise there. Word travels fast in the underground, no matter how hard you try to keep it under wraps. Nobody gossips like made men on a mission together.

I sigh and drop the phone back on the desk. He won’t be pleased with me. I’ll deal with his tantrum later.

For now, work.

I sift through my emails first, firing off responses before turning my focus to a much bigger problem—cracking the code on the search for Emilia.

Now that I’m settled back at home with Gianna by my side, I can finally give my full attention to other matters and questions that I’ve left pending. Like how the hell she’s kept herself so well hidden. It’s like she doesn’t exist. Like she never existed.

I’ve hacked the fucking NASA, DEA, FBI, and CIA databases several times over the course of the past few weeks, but she’s not on there. Which leave me with three possibilities:

Rafael was wrong—she isn’t working for a government entity at all.

She was taken into a witness protection program.

She was detained for a war crime, and her existence was erased to cover it up.

The latter is a wild scenario I doubt is even an option at all. The Emily I knew was hellbent on being on the straight and narrow, just like her father—even though he lost his life doing the same.

And from what Elira gathered in their brief encounter a few months ago, she was certain of one thing: Emily wants us to leave the criminal organization behind.

An impossible dream.

I leave the search running in the background and switch gears, diving into the coding for Grimmare—the new video game my team and I are developing. It’s in its beta testing stage, and our early players have found a shit ton of bugs that need fixing.

I’m deep in the work when my phone buzzes again.

I sigh, pushing back from my desk as I answer the call. This should be fun. “Rafael.”

“You don’t fucking listen,” he snaps. No greeting. No buildup. Straight to the rage. “Do you have to be so hotheaded and contrary all the time? You cannot have the girl, Michael.”

“And you can’t tell me what to do,” I counter coolly. “I can, and I already have the girl. She’s my wife—legally—and the marriage has been consummated.”

Lie.

But that will be rectified soon. I couldn’t just fuck her when she was so drunk last night.

Rolling, my neck, I walk out of my office and head towards the balcony. I need fresh air for this conversation.

He exhales sharply, like he’s restraining himself. “What is with you guys and women you can’t have? Do you have any idea how messy you’ve turned this entire situation?”

“Don’t lump me in the same category as Maximo. He fraternized with the enemy’s daughter. I didn’t,” I remind him. Our situations are as different as night and day.

His scoff carries through the line. “There’s hardly any difference between you two. You killed our ally’s son unprovoked, sent his body back to his father, and now you’ve married his niece—who he’s already betrothed to another ally of ours. How exactly do you plan to fix this?”

“Dario deserved his death, and I’m not fixing shit. Gianna is mine now, and anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me. Take your nose out of my business, Rafael, I don’t stick mine in yours.”

There’s a long silence.

Then, he mutters, almost like he’s just realizing it, “You’re crazy about her.”

“Now you’re catching on?”

“I want to meet this girl. Bring her to dinner tomorrow.”

I snort. “Yeah, that’s not happening. Given what happened last time I brought my wife to your apartment, I’m afraid I must decline.”

“What?” Rafael asks incredulously.

I still have to deal with the fallout from that little ambush he pulled with Aldo. No way in hell I’m taking her there again. I’m trying to rebuild her trust in me, not wreck it further.

“If you want to congratulate us on our marriage, you can come to our home for dinner. Hell, we’ll even extend the invitation to the other guys if you want. But I’m not bringing my wife to your house. You betrayed my trust and hers by ambushing us with Aldo. I already have enough work cut out for me trying to repair the damage. I’m not making it worse, Rafael.”

“Don’t tell me you think you’re in love with her. Michael.”

“And what if I am?” I challenge, sick of this conversation. So what if I fucking am?

Silence.

Then, finally, “I’ll be there tomorrow evening for dinner. Make sure the others get the invitation.” He ends the call before I can tell him tomorrow night is too soon.

I rub my temple. I suppose coming here is the only concession he’s going to give us.

How the hell am I going to tell Gianna we’re hosting a dinner party tomorrow night?

Sighing, I pull up the group chat with my brothers and shoot them a text.

Dinner at my place tomorrow night.

Be nice to my wife or get kicked out of my house.

I drop my phone into my pocket, ignoring the immediate vibrations from new notifications. Probably some snarky responses to my very real threat.

Walking back inside, I head towards the bedroom to check on Gianna.

Maybe if I catch her right as she’s waking up, she won’t immediately remember she’s pissed at me and won’t be too angry at the idea of hosting dinner tomorrow night.

Fuck, I can’t believe I’m scared of the reaction of a slip of a woman.

Is this what Maximo has been going through? Hell.

I run a hand through my hair as I open the bedroom door—only to find the bed is empty.

Frowning, I go inside. “Gianna?”

No answer.

I make my way to the ensuite, but it’s empty as well.

Where the fuck is she?

Pulling out my phone, I swipe past the six notifications from the group chat and tap into the house’s security feed. A quick scan of the footage, and… nothing.

A muscle ticks in my jaw as I return to the office. It’s about time I link the tracker I added on her necklace to my phone so I can see her whereabouts at all times.

But when I open the office door⁠—

There she is.

Sitting at my desk, frowning cutely at my computer screen.

“What the hell are you doing?” The words come out harsher than I mean them, but I don’t know how else to react seeing her all up in my stuff.

She leans back in the chair, slowly dragging her gaze over me from head to toe before tilting her head. “You’re Michael Hart, CEO of HartSphere?”

I watch her for a moment. “Yes.”

“You started your company when you were just eighteen with the launch of that video game.” Her tone is unreadable as she studies me. Then, after a beat, she mutters, “Impressive.”

Something in my chest tightens at the acknowledgment, and my shoulders pull back instinctively, a flicker of pride settling there.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as she gets to her feet and walks towards me. But instead of answering, she only shrugs and moves past me like I don’t exist. I catch her elbow. “How are you? Are you feeling hungover?”

She slides her gaze to me. “Hungover? No. Did I say or do anything I shouldn’t have last night?” Her face is appropriately contrite, and I might have believed her bluff if not for the telltale flush at the tips of her ears.

She remembers. She’s just pretending she doesn’t.

I smile. “We’re married now, so what you did doesn’t really matter.” My eyes catch on her bare ring finger. I need to rectify that.

“What did I do?” Gianna asks, and when I look up at her face again, she’s watching me suspiciously, fingers idly playing with the pendant of her necklace.

“You really don’t remember?” I close the distance between us and grasp her by the chin. “You confessed your love to me last night, amore.”

Her eyes widen dramatically. “You bloody liar. I did no such thing, I—” She cuts herself off with a low curse, jerking her face out of my grip when she realizes she just took my bait. “Fucking asshole.”

“I’m your asshole now,” I remind her.

She huffs and spins on her heel, clearly done with me.

But I’m not done with her.

“We’re having dinner guests tomorrow,” I call, stopping her in her tracks. “You don’t have to worry about the logistics or cooking—Gracie will take care of all that. Just show up looking like your pretty self.”

She turns slowly, eyes narrowed. “Dinner guests? Who?”

“My brothers. You met one of them yesterday. The other two want to meet you.”

Her expression hardens. “Is that–that man going to be there?”

I don’t need to ask who she’s talking about. “You mean Rafael? Yes. But he’s not going to do anything to bother you. I’ll protect you.”

She studies me, lips pressed together, like she’s weighing whether to believe me.

So I say it again, slower this time. “I’ll protect you.”

A beat passes. Then she nods shortly and walks out. But I catch the flash of trust in her eyes.

It’s a start.

21

GIANNA

I smooth my hands down my dress, trying to steady my nerves. It’s one thing to get married to a perfect stranger—I’ve already made my peace with that. Stranger or not, I can handle Michael.

But meeting his brothers? That’s a whole different nightmare.

Though I’ve gleaned from conversations I’ve had with Gracie that they aren’t blood-related, I believe the brothers you choose often have a stronger bond than those you’re stuck with by birth. That means loyalty. That means protection. That means… they’re probably going to tear me apart tonight.

Do they know the true circumstances of our marriage? Probably—since Maximo was our witness, and his wife, Elira, straight-up asked if I was here under duress. What if they decide to interrogate me?

I already know Rafael—the head of the Nightshades—will be there. And now that I’ve connected Michael to the founder of HartSphere, I realize just how naive I’ve been all this while. He’s the man people call the ‘Mad Hatter’ in hushed tones, one of the most unhinged members of the Nightshades.

Although, not the cruelest.

That title belongs squarely to fucking Rafael.

I met Maximo the other day, but I didn’t get a real read on his personality—I was too preoccupied with Michael during the ceremony, then too busy drowning myself in alcohol afterwards. Not my finest moment.

I sigh, pulling my hair up into a ponytail just as my bedroom door swings open.

Michael strolls in like he owns the room—which, technically, he does—but still. I frown at him. “You can’t just walk in without knocking. What if I was indecent?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he reminds me insolently, and my core clenches at the vivid reminder of just how intimately familiar he is with my body.

I cross my arms over my chest to cover my suddenly hard nipples. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes the space between us and lifts my left hand, turning it this way and that. Then, he takes out a box from his pocket, pops it open one-handed, and⁠—

Oh.

My jaw drops.

The ring inside gleams, looking like something straight out of a fantasy movie.

“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice laced with smug satisfaction.

I clear my throat, pretending my heart isn’t currently trying to punch its way out of my chest. “It’s–it’s okay, I guess.”

As he lifts it from the box, the gems catch the overhead lights, sparkling like they’re winking at me—shiny, expensive, and way too pretty for my fingers.

“I wanted a dove at first,” he muses, “to match your hair clip. A reminder to you that you’re my little dove, even though you try to put yourself out of reach.” He pauses, tilting his head. “But then I remembered—you’re bound to me now. Just like a flying kite is bound to its owner, no matter how hard the wind tries to carry it away. So I settled on the kite design.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you trying to imply you own me?”

Michael hesitates, brows furrowing like he’s actually considering his own words. Then his lips quirk up, and I swear he’s about to say something that will make me want to smack him.

But instead, he carefully places the ring back into the box, then pushes it into my face. And damn him, I get distracted all over again.

The band itself is a uniquely shaped yellow gold beauty. Instead of the typical round band, it’s half a circle, the top forming a downhill curve with diamond stones trailing along it. The engagement ring matches, set on the same yellow gold band, and features a solitaire-cut gem in the shape of a kite, with little diamonds outlining the edges.

Together, they emphasize the kite motif, the rings sparkling prettily like they were made for me.

Because they were.

He custom-made them for me.

The realization thaws my heart a little towards him, and I frown to cover it up, refusing to let him see how much his gesture affects me. Damn him. He said he’d remember that I love jewelry, and then he went and did this. I run the tips of my fingers over the rings, tracing the delicate details.

He adjusts the box in his hand, and I let my fingers go slack as he takes out the band first. Slowly, with surprising sensuality, he slips it onto my ring finger. My pulse hammers wildly in my throat as he follows with the engagement ring, pressing it into place beside the band.

I’m still trying to process how strangely intimate this feels—just the two of us alone in this quiet room—when he lowers his head and presses a lingering kiss to my ringed finger.

My breath catches.

When he looks up at me, those electric eyes are gleaming with dark, masculine satisfaction.

Oh, hell.

“And what about you?” I ask, clearing my throat as I nod at his bare ring finger—even though a ring already glitters on his thumb.

He smirks, tucking the empty box into his pocket, then takes out another, smaller one from inside his jacket.

Inside is a simple, plain black band. I raise a brow at it. The rings on his thumb and ear are diamond, so I guess I was expecting something a little grander for his wedding ring.

“Well?” he prompts, wiggling his fingers at me.

I pluck the band from the box and take hold of his strong, masculine hand. Unconsciously, I rub the pad of my thumb over his rough ring finger, and he jerks slightly. I glance up—and immediately wish I hadn’t.

His eyes have darkened to a stormy blue, glistening with something raw, something hungry. And it calls to something equally restless in me.

Swallowing hard, I push the ring onto his finger. But no matter how nonchalant I try to be about it, a strange, primitive satisfaction surges through me, like I’m staking my claim on him. And as I turn his hand in mine to admire my work, I realize… I actually love the black band. The glossy finish stands out next to his diamond thumb ring, drawing attention without being gaudy.

“Can I kiss my bride?” he asks. When my gaze lifts again, his is solely on my lips.

I lick them nervously. “I–I don’t know, I–”

His mouth captures mine, soft at first, like he’s giving me a chance to pull away.

I don’t.

So he tilts his head and really kisses me, his tongue parting my lips with effortless dominance.

A moan slips out, my hands flying to his lapels as the room spins sweetly around me. I kiss him back with all the pent-up frustration, desire, and anger I’ve been trying to suppress, and he groans, the vibration traveling through my body, unzipping my spine.

His left hand curls up from my face to my hair, tugging at the band holding it up until the strands are free and spilling down my back. “I prefer your hair down,” he murmurs against my lips before stepping back and offering me his hand.

“Are you ready for dinner, Mrs. Hart?”

The name sends a dangerous flutter through my chest. Damn him for always knowing exactly how to slip under my skin, for making my walls shake when I swore they’d never crack again.

But no, I can’t open up to him. Not after what happened the last time.

I force a smirk. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Placing my hand into his, we walk out the room and down the stairs—where to my surprise, our guests are already waiting. I shoot Michael a sharp side-eye. Seriously? He should have fucking told me they were here instead of distracting me for an extra few minutes upstairs.

What if they think we’re rude hosts? Worse—what if they think I’m the rude one?

Before my thoughts can spiral, Michael gently nudges me forward and announces, “Everyone, this is my wife.”

I brace myself for a long, awkward silence, but Elira comes up to me almost immediately with a warm smile, grasping my left hand.

“Your rings are stunning,” she coos, then pulls me into a quick hug, her voice dropping to a whisper against my ear. “You’re going to be fine.”

I didn’t think I could smile tonight with how nervous I’ve been, but I give her a genuine one as I squeeze her hands. “Thank you. Yours is very pretty too. Very… big.” The damn thing is so huge, it almost feels like it could cut me if I’m not careful. The diamond snags a little as our fingers part, drawing her twinkling laugh.

I really like her.

Maximo steps forward next, nodding at me gruffly before shaking Michael’s hand and leading his wife back to their seats.

The next contender is a stranger.

A very tall one.

He stands a few inches above the other men, his muscular build matching his height. His dark, inky hair is slicked back with gel, and his eyes—brilliant green, as vivid as moss—are almost unnerving in their intensity.

Not exactly cold, but calculating.

And though there’s a charming smile on his lips, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hello, beauty. I’m Romero.”

I eye him warily. Romero Lombardi. The famed criminal lawyer. I’ve never met him, but I know of him.

Aldo used to curse his name on a regular basis, and back when I was still in school, I’d overhear people talking about him—about how ridiculously good he is at his profession. Which is getting criminals who deserve to rot in jail off the hook.

Fitting that he’s a Nightshade member.

His smile becomes genuine, eyes glistening with amusement—like he can read my thoughts—as he lifts my hand to his lips for a lingering kiss. Michael shifts beside me. A second later, his arm snakes possessively around my waist, dragging me into him, and I can feel the tension radiating off him. Romero chuckles.

“Oh, I see how it is, Romero,” Elira teases. “Now that there's another female in the group, I’m no longer your beauty? You’re trying to slither your way into her heart now?”

Maximo’s eyes darken as he murmurs something into his wife’s ear, and whatever he says makes her giggle. But the lightness in the air dims when Romero takes a step back, revealing the last man. He’s still seated in his chair, not bothering to get up to greet us like the others.

Rafael.

I can’t keep the glare off my face as Michael leads us towards him. Even though he’s sitting with us towering over him, he somehow manages to look down his nose at us.

This is a man who’s used to being the most powerful presence in the room. Even here—amongst men I know are arguably the most dangerous in the States—he commands attention.

His silver eyes study me with glacial coldness. “Do you know the trouble you’ve caused Michael? And, subsequently… us?” His voice is low, but it carries. Holds a quiet power that’s quite frankly, terrifying.

“Rafael, don’t,” Michael grits out.

He turns his gaze to Michael, and the coldness thaws, just a little. His eyes aren’t exactly warm—that would be asking for too much—but there’s something there. An unmistakable care for my husband. And in that moment, I realize something else: outside this group, no one could dare defy him without fear of losing a limb, or hell, their lives.

“Welcome to the family, I suppose,” he finally says, and the room seems to let out a collective breath of relief.

Is that him giving his approval then? Not that we need it, considering we're already married, but still… it doesn’t suck to have it.

My glare eases as we take our seats.

Moments later, Gracie walks in with a few guys I haven’t seen before, all carrying steaming platters of food. Her eyes seek mine, and I can almost see the question in them. I give her a subtle nod. She exhales softly, offering me a small smile before directing the guys to set the food down.

Dinner isn’t as bad as I feared it might be.

Romero and Elira lead the conversation, occasionally drawing me in, but it’s hard for me to focus. Because Rafael’s words won’t stop rattling around in my head.

What trouble have I caused Michael and his brothers? While it is true that I’m still pissed and hurt from his betrayal a few days ago, I can’t deny he’s been trying to make up for it in his own way.

He killed Dario, which must’ve stirred up shit in the syndicate since they were allies. He brought me to his home, married me. All that for what?

When I asked him what he’s getting from this marriage, he simply said ‘you’. What the hell does that mean?

And what the hell is the trouble they’re facing because of me?

Michael’s fingers slip around mine, pulling me from my thoughts. When I glance up, his brows are drawn together in quiet concern. That’s when I realize the plates are empty. Dinner is over.

Michael gets up, and I watch him as he gives a short speech. He thanks everyone for coming. Thanks them for celebrating our marriage. And then, in the same breath, he tells them it’s time to leave. Basically kicking them out.

I gape at him as he holds a hand out to me. Still in disbelief, I take it, rising to my feet—and to keep up appearances, I sink into his chest, nuzzling him just enough to make it look like a gesture of affection. Then I murmur into his ear, “That was incredibly rude, Michael.”

He raises a brow at me and shrugs.

One by one, the men come forward to shake Michael’s hand again, giving me polite nods. Romero is last in the line, and judging by the tiny smirk on his lips, I know he’s about to do more than just nod.

Sure enough, he leans in, pressing a kiss to both my cheeks. “Welcome to the family, sorellina. Even though it’s a little… dysfunctional.” His eyes twinkle mischievously as he pulls back.

I huff a small laugh. “Thank you.”

Before I can take a breath, Elira swoops in, wrapping me in a warm hug, “You’ll be fine, Gia. And if you need anything, you have my number.” She discreetly presses something into my palm, and when I glance down, I see a blank card with a phone number scrawled across it.

Quickly, I close my fingers over it before anyone notices, slipping it into my dress pocket.

Michael and I see the guests off at the front door, watching them pile into their cars one after the other. Their convoy slowly pulls out of our driveway, and only when the last car vanishes from sight does the tension in my shoulders finally ease a little.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Michael asks, draping an arm lazily across my shoulder.

My head suddenly feels heavy, and without thinking, I lean against him, pressing my temple into his chest. He stiffens—just for a second—then his arm tighten around me.

“You made Rafael come here, didn’t you?” The offhand comments from the guys gave it away—the surprise in their voices when they mentioned him coming to dinner over here in New Rochelle instead of hosting in Manhattan. The vibe I got is that he rarely ever goes to any of the other guys’ houses.

Michael is quiet for a beat. Then:

“He wanted to officially meet you, and I couldn’t make you go to his place for dinner. Not while the… trauma of the last time you were there is still so fresh.”

I inhale his now-familiar scent and raise a hesitant hand to his chest. “What really happened that evening?”

Maybe it’s because of the wedding yesterday, Gracie’s soft words of reassurance about Michael. Or hell, maybe it’s a mix of everything—the dinner tonight, Rafael’s presence, the fact that I’m still standing here, alive—but suddenly, I’m curious about the events that led to him throwing me under the bus.

His chest expands with his deep breath, and I can feel his gaze drifting down to me. Half expecting some bullshit excuse to dodge the question, I brace myself. But it doesn’t come.

“I had decided you were mine, and I knew we couldn’t hide in Seattle forever, no matter how much I wanted to,” he starts matter-of-factly. “So, I was going to tell Rafael to have Aldo back off. To let him know I had found you, and there was no way in hell I was letting you go.”

“Does that mean you weren’t expecting Aldo to be at Rafael’s?” I hold my breath.

“No.” His hand drops to my chin, tilting my face up so I’m looking into his blue eyes. My breath hitches. “If I had known Aldo would be there, I wouldn’t have taken you there at all.”

Fuck me, I believe him. I believe him so hard the rest of my grudge against him melts away. “You should have warned me that we were coming into the city. I wasn’t expecting it and got blindsided. And then, when we got to Rafael’s and Aldo was waiting…”

“I know, love, I–I’m sorry.”

The quiet apology leaves his mouth easily enough, but I know it must have been a struggle for him to say. Made men hardly ever apologize—at least, not the ones I’ve seen.

I nod, acknowledging it as I move away from him, letting my chin slip from his fingers. “Thank you for telling me.” With that, I turn towards the house.

This marriage doesn’t have to be a death sentence. Michael is different from Uncle Aldo. He already promised to let me pursue my dream. Maybe… maybe this could be the fresh start I gave up on ever getting.

My steps are light, my burdens lifted for now, as I walk into the warmth of the house, Michael close behind me. I retrace my way towards the dining room, a little worried I might get lost—I should ask Michael for a tour of the place. Later.

When I get there, a robotic cleaner—much like the one in the Seattle house—is buzzing across the floor, scooping up spilled food and other debris while Gracie clears up the table.

Not wanting her to do it all alone, I move to the other side of the table to help. She looks up, startled when she realizes what I’m doing, “No, Gia, leave them, I’ll–”

Her words cut off just as I’m grabbed by the elbow so hard, the plate in my hand jostles—slips—then crashes to the floor, shattering into pieces. I jerk my gaze up at Michael’s angry face.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What? I’m just–I’m just trying to clear the plates,” I stammer, taken aback by his sudden anger. I thought we had just made progress outside. What now?

“No.” His grip tightens around my arm. “No wife of mine will do any kind of labor in my home. Or attempt to.”

22

GIANNA

My jaw drops.

I glance at Gracie, expecting some reaction, but she just keeps clearing the plates like she can’t see or hear what’s going on right in front of her. Frustration flares as I glare back at Michael and start walking away.

He follows, his grip on my arm not slacking one bit.

I storm up the stairs, fury bubbling hotter when I try to shake him off—once, twice—but he doesn’t budge. We climb the stairs together, go down the hallway and into his room. The second we’re inside, I try to wrench my arm free again, and he finally lets go.

I slam the door shut and turn the key, locking it.

Then I whirl on him. “What the hell is your problem? How do you expect Gracie to feel hearing you say stuff like that?” I snap, crossing my arms across my chest, rage boiling over.

“Nothing. It’s her job, and I’m paying her well for it. She wouldn’t feel anything.” His voice is flat. Unapologetic. Then it turns razor-sharp. “And don’t ever try that again, Gianna. Your role as my wife is to be by my side when we have company, warm my bed when we’re alone—” His gaze drops to my stomach, lingering. “And carry my child.”

Something hot settles in my belly, my veins sizzling at the possession in his stare. Fuck, I must be going crazy from spending so much time with him. Insanity by close proximity.

I toss my head back and let out a maniacal laugh. “Oh, that’s funny. Now I get why they call you the Mad Hatter. I see no difference between you and the character in the movie. You’re certifiable!”

Michael’s face becomes hard as granite, his eyes darkening dangerously.

Then—Jesus Christ—in a blink, he’s in my space, pressing me against the door, his hot palm curling around my throat.

My body betrays me instantly.

I can practically feel my blood sizzle in my veins as he surrounds my senses, and I shiver, going lightheaded and dizzy from how close he is.

“I might be crazy, but I’m your crazy husband. What does that say about you?”

“That I’d do anything to get out of my uncle’s clutches and escape marrying Carlo,” I gasp breathlessly. “I’d go round and round any circus to escape their clutches and get to the top.” At this point, I’m not even sure what I’m saying.

I’m babbling, desperate to cling onto my diminishing anger—anything to distract myself from my growing desire, the slickness between my thighs, my relentless pounding heart. Focus!

His jaw ticks—the only warning before his grip tightens, cutting off my air supply. But I’m not scared of him. I don’t think I ever was. I lean into his grip, challenging him even as my lungs burn with the need for air.

“Fucking hell,” he growls.

Then his lips crash onto mine.

It’s not a kiss. It’s something more feral than that. A claim, a punishment, maybe both. Then he lets up on my throat just enough for air to slip in, and I suck in a desperate breath, nearly swallowing his tongue in the process. His groan vibrates through my body as he uses his hold to tilt my head back, deepening the kiss.

I melt into him, matching his intensity, my hands wrapping around his inked skull, fingertips slipping into the hair at the top of his head.

“Fuckk.” The curse ghosts across my lips as he breaks the kiss.

Dazed, I blink up at him, but he’s already grabbing my wrists, spinning me around until my cheek slams against the door. “You need to be taught a lesson on how to keep your tart tongue in your mouth,” he says huskily as he shifts his stance behind me and captures both my wrists in one hand. “And I’m just the teacher you need.”

When he moves again, I feel it.

His hardness grazing against my ass.

Oh God. A soft, broken moan slips from my lips before I can stop it. He chuckles behind me and taps my ass lightly, then—smack—his palm comes down hard on my cheeks.

This time, the noise that tears out of me is something between a squeal, a scream, and a whimper as I jolt forward, shuddering when my nipples and clit press harder against the unyielding wood.

“What does it say about you, love, that you’re getting aroused by this crazy bastard spanking you?” Another slap punctuates the question, and all I can do is moan like some sex-crazed freak as sensations rail through me.

He gathers the skirt of my dress, grunting as he tries to bunch it up in one hand, but the fabric is too full, slipping through his fingers. Growling in frustration, he abandons the effort and simply lifts me instead, carrying me in powerful strides to his massive bed like I weigh less than nothing.

I barely register the feeling of the plush mattress before he’s rolling to the side and I hear the telltale sound of a drawer sliding open. When I glance over, I catch a glimpse of what’s inside—almost the exact same contents as the nightstand in his Seattle house.

Handcuffs, a pair of keys, a silky blindfold, and a fancy keycard.

What is he, a sexual deviant?

But then he takes the handcuffs, tosses them onto the bed, and turns to face me. I inhale sharply at the intense look on his face.

“Now, where were we?” he asks darkly as he crawls towards me.

I scramble backwards, crawling up the bed until my head thunks against the headboard. He smirks at me. The kind that screams satisfaction. Wetness drips out of my core, and my mouth waters as I watch him. God, this is so hot.

He’s so smoking hot, it’s almost unreal that he’s my husband. Mine.

I’m still caught in that dazed thought when he takes my left hand and lifts it up. I don’t realize what he’s doing until⁠—

Click.

I glance up in shock. He cuffed my hand to his bed. “Michael—” I start, but he’s already lifting my right hand.

“Shhh,” he murmurs sexily, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of my wrist as he clicks the cuff into place. “Now, I’ve got you exactly where I want you.”

A shiver runs through me. I should be resisting or something—but all I can do is watch him, waiting, wanting…

Then his fingers are gripping my chin, his thumb pressing into my jaw. “Give me your tongue.” The words are barely out of his mouth before I’m parting my lips, poking my tongue out for him.

My brain cells have officially departed the room. I’m a complete goner for him. He could order me to waltz through hellfire, and I’d probably thank him for the privilege.

But he doesn’t ask me to do that. No, his ideas are far more deliciously wicked. He leans down and sucks the sensitive organ into his mouth, and I swear I short-circuit right there on the spot. I jerk against the cuffs like I’ve been hit with a live wire as acute pleasure slings through me and his grip tightens even more on my chin.

The exquisite cocktail of pain and pleasure is so intense my eyes roll back, my body writhing beneath him, entirely at his mercy.

He lets go of my face, and my head drops back to the pillow with a soft thud. Then his mouth is everywhere—nipping at my brows, my nose, my chin—trailing lower, down to my throat. I groan his name, my head digging into the pillow with the force of my pleasure.

He’s mastered the art of my body.

His hands find my tits through my dress, squeezing just enough to make me whimper. Not enough. More. I arch higher, silently begging.

He curses and adjusts my body to the left. The position tugs at my arms, making my wrists sting a little, but I barely register it when he grabs the zipper and finally drags it down.

Then he turns me onto my back again—and stills.

A beat passes. Then another.

He lets out another curse, a deep, frustrated sound, and I realize what the issue is at the same time he does.

He can’t take the dress off. Not with my hands cuffed to the damn headboard.

His jaw tenses, but instead of unlocking the cuffs, he presses a lingering kiss to my throat, and I don’t miss how he inhales deeply before pulling back from me.

I watch, chest heaving, as he gets off the bed, crosses to the other nightstand, and takes out⁠—

A knife. A wickedly curved knife.

My breath hitches when he walks back to me, knife in hand, the blade glinting.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, arresting my gaze with those pale blue eyes.

I’m nodding before I even process the question. And I realize I do. At least with this—my body and the sexual things.

“Good.” Then, he presses the knife against my throat.

I go completely still.

The steel barely tickles my skin, but my heart slams against my ribs, wild and frantic. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip as he watches me, studying every flicker of my reaction, before he carefully lifts the knife away. “Good wife. You do trust me.”

Then he turns the blade to the neckline of my dress, and with a loud, crinkling tear, he slices it open from neck to hem, the fabric splitting like a shirt to reveal my lace bra and panties.

He smirks as he drinks me in. “Pretty,” he hums, before getting to work tearing through the armholes until every bit of the ragged material is peeled away from my body.

Satisfaction darkens his features as he takes in his handiwork. Without ever breaking eye contact, he tosses the knife to the floor behind him, the metallic clatter barely registering through the thundering of my heartbeat.

Leaning down, he wraps his hot mouth around my nipple through the lace, drawing a sharp cry from my lips as his teeth clamp down mercilessly on the sensitive bundle of nerves. Once, twice he scrapes against the tender flesh before sucking my hardened nipple back into the hot, wet heat of his mouth.

“Fuck, Michael!” I scream to the ceiling, my neck hurting from how hard I push it back into the pillow, my head hitting the headboard with a distinct crack. But I don’t feel the pain right now.

I’m too busy being lost in pleasure.

Michael switches to my other nipple, alternating between them—sucking, biting, tormenting me until the fabric of my bra is soaked through with his saliva.

Then he slowly drags his mouth down my body.

A warm breath fans over my belly, making me shudder, goosebumps erupting all over my skin.

He goes lower, dipping his tongue into my belly button. Another shudder rips through me, and I moan, yanking at my restraints like I’ll magically break free. But the cold steel bites into my wrists, a sharp reminder of just how trapped I am. Groaning in frustration, I close my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms.

His fingers graze my hips, then curl into the waistband of my panties. With agonizing slowness, he drags them down my legs, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter until I’m practically vibrating beneath him.

“Michael,” I whine, and the bastard has the nerve to wink up at me before lifting the crotch of my panties to his nostrils.

His eyes go dark, heavy-lidded. Then they flutter shut entirely, his shoulders shaking as a deep, satisfied rumble leaves him.

Holy shit.

I stare, spellbound, my lips parting. Heat flares between my legs, and I instinctively press my thighs together, rubbing against my needy clit for some relief.

His eyes snap open. “Oh no, you don’t,” he warns as he pockets my panties like some kind of filthy prize. Crawling up my body, he spreads open my legs and skims a hand over my cunt. “So pretty.” He parts my slick folds. “So mine.” A single finger teases at my entrance.

I buck against him, aching to have him inside me.

But he doesn’t give me what I want.

Instead, he drags that finger up to my clit, and I stiffen with anticipation—only for him to circle around the bud without any real pressure, taunting me cruelly. “Michael.” Frustrated tears leak out of my eyes, and he frowns at them, leaning forward to lick them off my face. It’s so intimate, so unexpected, my heart stutters at how close he is.

I want to run my thumb over his piercings. God, I need to. “Let me out of these handcuffs,” I groan, voice deep and guttural.

“Not yet,” he answers and crawls back down my body.

“Fucking hell, Michael. Are you trying to punish me for some—aghhhh!” I buck so hard, my back leaves the bed, my wrists digging into my cuffs as he suddenly French kisses my cunt, tongue swirling around my hole, teeth grazing my clit.

And then he goes in, devouring me with a hunger that sets my nerves on fire. My breath stutters and a long string of incoherent words leave my mouth as my entire being is filled with pleasure, so much pleasure I can barely stand it.

Then—fuck—he eases back a bit, just enough to wrap his lips around my clit, right as two fingers plunge into me.

My brain short-circuits, my vision darkening, while my throat grows hoarse from how loud and long I scream.

Sweat dribbles down my back, cum dripping from me as I ride out the waves of my orgasm. But Michael doesn’t let a single drop go to waste. He laps it all up, drawing out my climax, making me feel every pulse, every exquisite second of it.

I think I pass out for a moment because when I come to, he’s kneeling between my legs, his pants magically gone as he plays with his cock, the metal of his piercing glistening temptingly.

I lick my lips.

Even after coming so hard, it’s not enough. It’s never enough with him. I want more. I want him.

I part my thighs invitingly, and his breath hitches. He inches closer, the hot flesh of his cock grazing my thighs sending me into a spiral.

Then he presses it against my clit, slapping the tip against the sensitive nub, once, twice.

“Michael, Michael, Michael,” I chant his name, shifting my hips, rotating them as I try to get his cock right where I want it.

But then he stills.

“No condom, love. Are you going to deny me again?” His eyes are dark and daring as he stares at me.

Condom?

Somewhere in the haze of my lust-clouded brain, I know what he just mentioned is something important and the reason we didn’t have sex last time. But right now, I can’t figure out why it matters, and honestly, I don’t give a single fuck.

So what if he comes inside me? I want it. I want to feel it so bad. Consequences be damned.

I yank against the handcuffs so harshly, Michael has to lean forward to grab my wrists. “Careful. You’ll hurt yourself,” he says, but his cock drags over my belly, leaving a trail of hot precum, and any remaining logical thought disintegrates.

“Release me, release me. Now!”

Michael doesn’t hesitate this time. He moves towards the nightstand, takes out the keys, and quickly unlocks both cuffs. He tries to massage my wrists, but I slap his hands away⁠—

And grab his cock.

He stiffens instantly. A guttural groan rips from his throat as he shudders under my touch, but he doesn't stop me as I guide him exactly where I want him. I drag his cock through my slick folds, notch it right at my entrance, and spread my legs wide.

He gnashes his teeth as he watches me, muscles cording in his neck as he grips my hand around his cock. “You want me to fuck you? Beg for it.”

“What?” I blink at him uncomprehendingly. Is he seriously going to tease me again? Now?! When I’m this desperate? I’m so hungry for him, so needy, I can almost feel his hard cock inside me already, my core contracting helplessly around the emptiness.

This is not the time to play with me!

“Beg, Gianna. Beg your husband for his cock. Beg me for my cum.”

“Fucking hell, Michael!” My frustration erupts. “Please, just give it to me already! Give me your fucking cock and your cum and your—yessssss!!”

My entire body curls up as he thrusts into me, the metal of his piercing rolling over my walls so sweetly, so pleasingly, as he sinks in, deep, all in one powerful stroke.

Drool pools at the corner of my mouth as he pulls back slowly, only to slam back in again, forcing a raw, helpless scream from my throat.

He groans my name, his hands clamping onto my hips like he owns me. Then he shifts inside me—and holy fuck, I see stars. I swear, his cock hits so deep, I feel the tip kiss my womb, the cold metal piercing grazing my most sensitive spot.

My hands fly to my hair, clutching mindlessly at the strands, my head thrashing left and right against the pillow as I come again.

His name is the only thing I can say, so I chant it as my brain fucking seems to reset.

And then he’s there with me, yelling my name as he spills inside me—hot, thick ropes of cum filling me up, claiming me completely.

23

MICHAEL

I collapse over her, my spine and thighs tingling from the sheer force of my orgasm. Jesus. That was insane. I haven’t cum that fast since I was a randy teenager. Completely lost my fucking grip on my control.

I lift myself off her, suddenly worried my weight might be crushing her delicate frame. Her eyes are closed, those pink lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling in ragged pants, a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead.

Mine. All mine.

“Are you okay?” I ask, brushing my knuckles over her cheek.

Her golden eyes flutter open in thin, hazy slits. She stares up at me blankly for a moment, like she’s confused how we got here, and my chest swells with pride, cock twitching inside her. I did that to her.

And then—fuck—her core clenches around me, and I feel myself stir again.

She groans, pressing her hand to my chest. “Are you getting hard again? You’re insatiable.”

I smirk, then lean down to sweep a few damp strands of hair off her forehead. “Insatiable for you,” I murmur, rolling my hips slowly, just enough for her to feel it, and her fingers dig into the flesh of my chest, a breathy moan spilling from her lips.

“Michael.”

“I know, love.” I pull out of her with reluctance, and my gaze locks onto our mixed pleasure slowly leaking out of her pink sheath. My brain stalls at the sight. Wrong. That shouldn’t be wasted. That belongs inside her.

Without thinking about it, I place three fingers against the inside of her thigh and drag them up, gathering our cum—then push it right back into her. She gasps, her hands slapping against the sheets, her core trapping my fingers in its tight heat.

I grab one of the pillows and pat her hip. “Up.” When she lifts herself, I slide it beneath her, tilting her pelvis upward. “There.”

“What are you doing?” Her eyes narrow, flicking down to where my fingers are still buried inside her.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. But as I watch the last of her pleasure-haze dissolve from her gaze, I sigh with regret and pull my fingers out.

“You came inside me,” she says slowly, like she’s processing in real time, her brows furrowing as a look of disbelief washes over her face. Then her golden eyes snap to mine, flashing with something that looks a hell of a lot like betrayal, and my shoulders rise defensively.

“You wanted it too. Begged me for it,” I remind her.

Her lips part.

For several heartbeats, she just stares at me, her mouth working soundlessly as the betrayal on her face morphs into white-hot fury. “You motherfucker,” she finally spits, grasping at the bedcover and yanking it violently off the bed, nearly dragging me to the floor in her flurry.

She wraps the black sheet around her body like armor and jabs a shaking finger at me. “You know I’m not on birth control!”

“Why does it matter now?” I counter, genuinely confused by her reaction. “I’m clean; I assume you’re clean, and we’re married. So what if you get pregnant?” The words sound perfectly reasonable to my ears.

But her whole body jerks, like I just slapped her.

“Crazy bastard,” she snaps, her finger now aiming at the door. “Get the fuck out.”

I don’t move.

Her voice rises to a shout. “Out!”

What the fuck? I shake my head, starting to get worked up myself. What the hell is her problem? I get off the bed calmy—controlled, even as frustration knots tight in my gut. My pants are on in seconds. When I glance back, she’s still glaring, finger still pointing at the door like she’s ready to exorcise me from the room.

For a second, I want to remind her that this is our room, but the way she’s vibrating makes me hold my tongue. “We’ll pick this up later,” I mutter, stalking out.

In the hallway, I run a hand through my hair, my mind still running circles. Is it because she begged me for it in the heat of the moment? Is that why she’s so angry?

We’re married, for fuck’s sake, so it can’t be that she’s scared she’d have to raise our child alone—she’d have every luxury, every advantage I could provide.

The whole thing makes no damn sense.

I head straight for my office, eager for something to distract my seething thoughts. A short message from Lorenzo is waiting for me, requesting I call him, so I do.

“Michael,” he answers on the first ring.

“Talk to me,” I say, moving my mouse to wake my computer. The screen brightens, and I navigate through the open tabs until I land on the house security feed. When I pull up the bedroom camera, I frown.

Gianna is pacing like a caged tigress, mouth working furiously, hands flailing like she’s in a heated argument—with herself.

Women. Such bizarre, baffling creatures.

“I think I’ve discovered the chain of the drug dilution in the city,” Lorenzo reports. “And there’s been some rumors flying around about us being the suppliers of the drugs. I believe the culprits are the same—they’re aware we’re onto them and are trying to divert attention towards us.”

“Fucking hell. I also got some intel yesterday that our culprit might show up tonight at The Pulse.” A fact I’d almost forgotten, distracted by the dinner and my tempestuous wife. “Where are you?”

“At The Pulse,” he replies.

“Good. I’ll meet you there soon.” We end the call, but I linger, watching Gianna on the monitor for a few more moments. Still pacing. Still talking to no one.

Despite my annoyance, something uncomfortable twists inside me at the thought of leaving her alone when she’s this upset. But I don’t have time to deal with it now. Business first.

With a sigh, I finally get up from my seat, grabbing the jacket off the desk and shrugging it on as I leave the office.

I take the stairs two at a time and walk into the cold night where my McLaren is waiting for me in the driveway.

It takes mere minutes to leave New Rochelle behind and race into Manhattan. The late hour means empty streets, so soon I’m pulling up outside The Pulse, one of Rafael’s numerous nightclubs in the city.

The valet is at my elbow as soon as I get out of the car. “Don’t take it too far,” I tell him, handing over my keys. “I’m not staying long.”

As I turn towards the entrance, the bouncer catches my eye and pulls the rope back. But I wave him off, opting for the side door instead—no need to announce my presence and potentially spook my prey.

I step into the deafening club and wince as the wall of sound hits me. The place bursts with bodies—dancing, smoking, drinking, grinding. I scan the packed room with distaste. Christ. Hard to believe this used to be my scene. Ever since I saw Gianna’s picture, my whole fucking world shifted so drastically it’s like looking at a stranger’s former life.

Despite choosing the side entrance, heads turn the moment the door closes behind me. Several familiar faces wave, beckoning me to their tables with promises of drinks and companionship I no longer crave. I decline each invite with a curt head shake as I make a beeline straight to the VIP lounge where Lorenzo is waiting for me.

As I close the lounge door, the loud music fades to a muffled throb, and I blow out a breath of relief. Finally. This area is mercifully less crowded since only a select few are allowed in here, so it’s easy to spot Lorenzo.

I make my way to his booth and slide in across from him. As soon as I’m sitting down, he pushes a clear package containing a white substance towards me. I don’t need to ask him what it is.

Frowning, I unseal it and rub a small pinch between my fingers. Powdery smooth. I let it slip back into the package and dust off my fingers with disgust. “How did this get in here? This is Rafael’s territory.” With how tightly he clamps down on things like this, it should be impossible.

“It was smuggled in by one of ours,” Lorenzo answers, reclaiming the package and pocketing it carefully. That’s our evidence.

I tap my index finger against the tabletop, a rhythm matching my rising irritation. “Who?”

“Don’t know yet. But if your intel is correct, they should be here right now.”

“My intel is always correct.” I’m not even bragging—it’s just a fact. My sources have learned through painful lessons not to feed me half-baked bullshit. Most who’ve sent me on wild goose chases typically end up losing their tongues—or worse—for wasting my valuable time. “Do we know what’s mixed in there?”

“I had it tested at a lab,” he says, leaning forward. “It’s a mixture of our opioids—morphine, codeine, oxycodone—with Kali Kush. Dangerous stuff. A few dead bodies surfaced last night, and I suspect they’re linked to these drugs. They all OD’d.”

My hands form fists on the table. This isn’t going to slide. Not on our turf. We need to catch these motherfuckers, and soon.

“Let’s go check the security cameras. I’m suddenly very eager to see whose neck I’ll be snapping for releasing this shit into the streets.” I get to my feet, my blood already pumping with anticipation.

We leave the lounge and make our way to the security room at the back. The men stationed there step back for us and bring up the feeds I ask for.

As my eyes scan through the security feeds, my veins are flooded by an adrenaline surge. He’s somewhere here. I just need to be able to recognize him.

“There!” Lorenzo points at one corner of the screen.

I follow his direction and spot a group of four men huddled by the bar, heads close together, whispering urgently. Then, as if sensing the heat on them, they stiffen, glancing around with obvious fear.

They know.

They’re going to run. “Stop them from leaving. Get the bouncers on them now!” One of the security men grabs his walkie-talkie and barks rapid orders to the floor team, but my gut tells me it’s already too late.

I watch with burning frustration as the men quickly push through the crowds and disappear through the back door, seconds before the bouncers can reach them. “Goddamn it!” I slam my fist against the desk, the equipment rattling under the impact. I came all the way here, left my furious wife alone at home for this bullshit?

“Do you know who they are?” I demand of everyone present. No one answers, and I don’t need to look back to know they’re all shaking their heads.

“I’ve never seen any of them before. They’re not ours,” Lorenzo confirms.

“Rewind the feed.” My command sends one of the security men scrambling forward to obey. I pause the playback at the moment all four men glance around the bar. Only two faces are clear, but that’s more than enough to work with. I take out my phone and snap photos of their faces to run through my identification software later.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, dropping my phone back into my pocket. My patience is gone. I have an angry wife waiting for me at home—a different kind of explosive situation requiring my attention.

24

GIANNA

I pace the room, heart hammering, as several wild scenarios of me pregnant and giving birth flash through my mind. The room spins. My lungs contract. I’m not ready. I swallow hard against the rising panic that threatens to push me into a full-blown meltdown.

“Breathe, just breathe,” I whisper to myself, but my lungs refuse to cooperate.

I can’t believe that bastard actually got me to beg for him to fuck me, to give me his cum like some sex-crazed lunatic. An electric tingle rolls down my spine as I recall that moment. God, I was so far gone, so completely enslaved by pleasure that the thought of getting pregnant with his child had felt hot as hell.

Even now, in the middle of my panicked spiral, a small part of me wonders… Would it really be so bad? After all, like he mentioned, we’re legally married. Any child we have would have two parents. A filthy-rich dad.

My hand drifts to my belly, and the image of a small boy with bright blue eyes—Michael’s eyes—materializes in my thoughts. My breath catches. No, what the hell am I thinking?

I shake my head violently, forcing the image away. “Get it together, Gianna.”

Even if I ever consider having children, now is not the time. Not so soon after our so-called marriage. I still barely know Michael. Hell, a week ago I hated him with every fiber of my being, convinced he had betrayed me. If I truly knew him, I would have been able to read his expression that night and realize he was just as blindsided as I was.

I spin around and march straight towards the ensuite, letting the bulky sheet wrapped around me fall to the floor as I reach the door. Plopping onto the toilet, I brace my hands on my thighs and start pushing like I’m taking the most determined shit of my life. Come on, come on. Maybe if I force it out now, it won’t stick. Maybe I can undo what just happened.

Long, agonizing minutes pass as I grunt with effort, my knuckles white against my thighs, but the only thing that comes out is a hot stream of pee. If anything was leaking out before, it’s all gone now, absorbed into my body where his swimmers are probably already racing towards their target. My foot taps anxiously against the floor as I chew my nails.

Fuck. It seems whether I like it or not, I could really end up pregnant.

Unless I can get my hands on the plan B pill.

But how the hell am I supposed to do that? I can’t leave Michael’s house. Not because I’m a prisoner here—I’m not—but because I’m terrified of what might be waiting for me outside.

Dario is dead. Carlo’s plan to marry me is thwarted.

Uncle Aldo must be unraveling right now, and there’s no telling what he’ll do next.

I chew harder on my already ragged nails. Then, like a beacon in darkness, Elira’s face flashes in my mind—her warm smile, the phone number she pressed into my palm with a whispered ‘if you need anything’.

I go still.

Could I? Would she help? I mean she was willing to somehow get me out of marrying Michael when she thought he was the one who hurt me. This seems infinitely simpler by comparison.

My stomach twists. It’s worth a shot.

I wipe hastily and leap off the toilet, absently flushing as I rush back to the bedroom with renewed purpose. I drop to my knees and frantically dig through the tattered remains of my dress scattered across the floor, searching for the pocket. Panic builds in my chest as seconds stretch into minutes. Where is it, where is it? When I finally locate the small card with Elira’s number scrawled across it, I’m practically hyperventilating.

Relief slams into me so hard I nearly sag to the floor—only to face my next obstacle: I don’t have a phone. I threw mine away while on the run to prevent being tracked.

Damn it.

I need to ask Michael for a new phone. But until then, I’ll have to borrow Gracie’s. I hope she’s still awake.

I throw on the nearest clothes I can find—Michael’s shirt and boxer shorts—because I’m too desperate to waste precious minutes going back to my own room for something proper. Taking the stairs two at a time, I burst into the sitting area, thanking every saint when I find Gracie reading a book, thick glasses perched on her nose.

She glances up at me as I enter, dropping her book. “Hi, I hope you didn’t rip into Michael too much earlier? It might seem insensitive to you, but I promise I wasn’t hurt by his reaction to you trying to help. I understand where he’s coming from.”

Where he’s coming from? Curiosity fills my being but gets instantly shoved aside by my more pressing concern. “Yeah, yeah—can I borrow your phone for a few minutes, please?”

Her brows furrow in concern. “Sure… is there a problem?” She reaches for the device resting on the coffee table and hands it to me.

“No, of course not.” I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears, fingers closing around the phone like a lifeline. “Thank you, I’ll be right back.”

I retreat quickly, feeling her worried gaze burning between my shoulder blades as I flee back to my room. Once safely behind closed doors, I punch in Elira’s number with trembling fingers, but have a moment of hesitation when I see the time. It’s past 9 PM.

Shit.

Then I dial anyway.

If she’s asleep, she’s about to not be.

The line rings. And rings. And rings.

Come on, pick up.

Panic flares. What if she doesn’t answer? Shit, shit, shit. Would I have to ask Gracie to get it for me instead? That would be so embarrassing, oh my God.

“Hello?”

“Oh, thank God. Hi, Lira, this is Gianna–” I pause, then add awkwardly, “Michael’s wife. We met a few days ago at our wedding and then again this evening for dinner and–”

“Gianna! I know who you are.” Her soft laugh spills through the line. “I’m so glad to get your call, and so soon too. Did you want to thank me for coming to dinner?”

“Yes, that and I–” I bite my lip hesitantly, suddenly worried that it might be TMI if I just blurt it out. “I hope I didn’t wake you?”

“No, no, of course not. I’m awake. What’s up?”

I gulp. “I need your help.”

Silence. Then some rustling, followed by muffled conversation on her end. My stomach knots. Shit. Is she telling her husband I’m on the phone and ridiculously demanding her help? Did I make the wrong decision?

“Hi, sorry about that. I was with Maximo, but I assume this is something sensitive, and you wouldn’t want him listening in. I’m in the bathroom now, so you can ask away. Did something happen?”

My heart is pounding erratically at this point, my fingers cold with nerves, but I decide to just rip off the bandage. What’s the worst that could happen? She says say no? Maybe tells her husband, who then tells Michael? He knows I wasn’t happy with him cumming in me, so he should be expecting me to do something like this.

“I need your help to get the plan B pill,” I blurt out.

“Oh,” she replies, and I can’t tell if it’s surprise or hesitation. “I–”

But I barrel on, stopping her before she can say no. “I’d go get it myself, but I have a situation with the people who hurt me a few days ago—if I leave, I might run into them, and I can’t risk getting hurt again. I don’t have any friends I can ask, and you did say to call you if I needed help, so–”

“Gia, Gianna, hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself. I happen to have some at home with me and some extra birth control pills as well if you want.”

A dizzying rush of relief makes my knees buckle, and I collapse on the edge of my bed. “That would be great, thank you. Thank you so much.”

“It’s really no problem. I get it. We’ve all been in your shoes once or twice. And don’t worry—Michael won’t know about this if you don’t want him to.”

“Really? You won’t tell your husband?” I ask, perking up.

“Well… no. We don’t keep secrets from each other. But Maximo is a big boy and doesn’t tell his friends everything. He knows when to keep his mouth shut. I’ll be sure to drum it into his ears.”

I deflate a little. “Oh. Alright. Thank you.”

“I’ll be over soon. Make sure to have an excuse ready for Michael,” she says, then hangs up before I can tell her Michael isn’t home.

I sigh and drop back on the bed, studying the ceiling for a moment. At least, she’s coming with the pills I need.

Once I take them and get on birth control, it won’t matter if Michael keeps insisting on not using protection. A fraction of the anxiety in my belly dissolves.

I push myself up and go return Gracie’s phone, finding her exactly where I left her, though her expression now holds undisguised concern.

“Is everything alright?” she asks again, watching me closely.

I hesitate. I don’t want to lie to her. She’s been really nice to me. But at the end of the day, her loyalties belong entirely to Michael, which I don’t blame her for—I just can’t risk her saying something.

“Elira forgot her stuff with me, and I called to let her know,” I say lightly.

She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. “Alright. She’ll be here soon, I assume? Do you want me to prepare anything for her?”

“No, it’s not necessary, I–” I pause, considering. Would it be rude to just collect the pills and rush Elira out before Michael gets back? “…Maybe something light,” I correct myself. “Thank you.”

I offer Gracie a small smile, which she returns with a nod as she gets up from the chair. She removes her glasses, tucks them into their case, and places it atop her book before making her way towards the kitchen. I follow her, watching her work so I don't succumb to the urge to hover anxiously by the window to check for Elira’s arrival.

Besides, I’ll need to approve her entrance through Synthia’s control panel since she can’t come inside the compound without me being aware—one of the few things I appreciate about Michael’s house. Unlike Uncle Aldo’s compound, there aren’t a dozen armed men loitering around with heavy weapons for protection.

Here, there’s only Synthia, the AI that controls almost everything in the house, and the layers of security software I’m discovering were all created by Michael himself. And so far, they all seem foolproof. My husband is a genius.

I mean, he single-handedly founded HartSphere, one of the top three tech companies in the States. Despite myself, a glimmer of pride settles in my chest.

Nobody is getting in or out of our compound without someone inside approving it. Synthia detects any presence near the gates or along the fenced perimeter and sends alerts through a subtle beeping alarm to keep us aware of potential threats.

As I watch Gracie putter around the kitchen, I absently tug at the hem of Michael’s shirt, suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look—messy hair, his oversized clothes hanging off me… Yeah, I need to freshen up.

Pushing to my feet, I say, “I’ll be right back, Gracie,” I’m not sure where Elira is traveling from, but I should use the chance to take a quick shower and change into something of my own.

Back in my room, I neatly fold Michael’s borrowed clothes—fighting the urge to inhale his scent as I do—before tucking them into my drawer. Then I step into the shower, tilting my face into the warm stream, careful not to let the water soak my hair.

The rest of my anxiety drains from my body with the water sluicing down my skin. Now that there’s a solution in sight, I can breathe again—enough to finally process what happened with Michael earlier.

I should be fucking terrified by how easily—and quickly—he got me under his spell.

He had me speaking in tongues and seeing God in a matter of minutes. Heck, he had me begging for a fucking child. Who does that? My husband is an absolute master of seduction.

And where the hell is he this late anyway?

Yes, I kicked him out—but only from the room, not the whole damn house. Is he angry with me? Is he out there sulking? I can’t picture that proud, composed man pouting in a corner, so I just shake my head, dismissing the thought.

I step out of the shower, wrap a towel around my body, and return to my room where I quickly pull on fresh clothes. I should probably do something about the shredded remains of my dress still scattered across his bedroom floor. If Gracie sees them and connects the dots, I might actually die.

Before I can decide, the little alarm starts ringing through the house.

Elira is here.

I bolt out of the room, practically flying down the stairs, reaching the Synthia panel by the front door at the same time as Gracie.

She side-eyes me with obvious suspicion, but I wave her away, tapping on the glass panel. A sleek, black SUV idles outside the gate. The back window rolls down, and Elira’s head pops out. She waves cheerfully, and I blow out a relieved breath as I unlock the gate for her.

Then I open the front door and go down the steps to wait for her there. It takes another couple of minutes—since the gate is far from the house—but soon enough, the SUV rolls up the driveway and eases to a stop in front of me.

The moment she climbs out, I rush towards her, grabbing her hand. “Thank you so much for coming all the way here.”

She gives me a warm smile. “It’s no trouble at all, Gia.”

I lead her into the house and up the stairs to my room. “Gracie is making some dessert if you’d like,” I offer as I close the door behind us.

She waves a hand. “I’m okay. I can’t stay that long. Here, have this first.” She takes out a pill from her pocket and hands it to me.

The sight of it makes my stomach knot with urgency. Without a second thought, I spin on my heel and hurry to the bathroom. Flipping the sink on, I cup my palm under the stream. It’s not much water, but it’s enough to swallow the pill.

No way in hell am I going downstairs for a glass—Gracie would ask questions.

As the pill slides down my throat, a wave of calm washes over me. Relief. Peace. And beneath it all, a bone-deep gratitude for Elira. She’s such a nice woman.

When I emerge from the bathroom, she’s absently twirling the tips of her red curls, studying the framed tulips on the wall. “Thank you so much, Elira,” I say, gaining her attention.

She smiles and hands me a complete package of additional pills. “I got these at a pharmacy on my way here. I’ve been on an implant for so long, I was worried the pills I had at home might have expired, so I got you fresh ones.”

“I could kiss you right now.” And I’m not even joking. I’m not usually a touchy person, but I’m so moved by her kindness that I step forward and wrap her in a tight hug. She returns the embrace, rubbing soothing circles on my back.

When we pull away, I stare at the floor, suddenly feeling shy. I’ve never had a girlfriend before. Did I overdo it?

But Elira just squeezes my arm. “I’m glad you called me, Gia, and if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”

I nod gratefully and thank her yet again.

She just waves it off like it’s nothing. “You can start the pills in the morning—give the plan B a chance to work. But you’ll need to abstain from unprotected sex for the next forty-eight hours so the drug has time to kick into your system.”

“Alright,” I murmur, closing my fist around the packet. How the hell am I going to fight Michael off for forty-eight hours? He can be a determined bastard when he wants to be.

Elira sighs, like she can read my thoughts. Then she says, “I’d love to spend some more time with you, just us girls, but it’s getting late. How about a brunch date later? I understand you can’t really go anywhere for now, but I don’t mind coming here.”

“I would love that so much,” I say enthusiastically as we leave my bedroom.

“Perfect.” She hugs me one last time before I walk with her to the door. As she gets into her car, I watch with a soft, affectionate smile and wave her off.

Then, as soon as she’s gone, I hurry back to my bedroom and slide the pills under my mattress. I don’t want Michael to find out about them yet. I’m not sure how he’d react, and I’m not in the mood for another argument tonight.

It’s already going to be a hassle trying to figure a way out how to avoid sex for the next two nights. And speaking of—where the hell is he? How could he just abandon the house because I told him to get out?

I roll my eyes as I leave my room to go tell Gracie that Elira couldn't stay for dessert after all. We’ll keep it in the freezer for tomorrow night.

I’m halfway to the kitchen when the Synthia alarm goes off again.

I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat. Then I rush to the panel just in time to see Michael’s car driving into the compound.

Fuck, there’s no way he didn’t pass Elira’s car on the way here.

I can only hope he didn’t recognize it.

Because if he did, I’m in for one hell of an interrogation when he walks through that door.

25

MICHAEL

As we turn onto the street that leads home, a black SUV speeds past my car. My brows pull together as I watch it go. “That looks familiar. Have you seen it before?” I ask Marco.

He shakes his head slowly. “Not that I recall.”

It went by so fast, I couldn’t even check its plate number. Was it coming from my house? Mine is the only property at the end of this lane—a fact that suddenly feels significant.

We take the turn towards home, and as my car approaches the gate, it swings open automatically, the system recognizing my vehicle and Marco’s face behind the wheel.

My gut tightens. I resist the primal urge to grab my phone and check the cameras. There’s only one reason someone would come to my place this late when I’m not home—to visit my wife.

And if that’s the case, I’d rather hear it from her directly. A convenient excuse to speak to her after what happened earlier.

To my surprise, she’s waiting right on the steps as my car pulls to a halt in front of the house, her body language screaming anxiety despite her attempt to mask it.

I don’t bother waiting for Marco to get my door. I open it myself and step out quickly, making my way towards her.

She knew I was coming, obviously—Synthia would’ve alerted her. But why is she waiting for me out here?

“What is this? A welcome home party?” I ask half-teasing, half–serious. Is she no longer mad at me then?

Her arms cross over her chest, her chin tilting up. “Where the hell have you been?” She’s trying to go on the offensive but her eyes betray her, shifting to the side, refusing to hold my gaze as she speaks.

Ah. She’s hiding something from me.

Interesting.

“Something urgent came up at work that I had to see to,” I answer, carefully studying her. “Why are you all dressed up? Did you have a guest?”

She blinks—too fast. “Yeah, one of our dinner guests forgot their stuff and came back to pick it up.” Another blink.

She’s lying. Badly too. “Is that so? Who was it?”

“Elira. What is this, twenty questions?” She rolls her eyes and turns away from me, walking back into the house.

A strange discomfort settles in my chest at the sight. I don’t like seeing her turn her back to me. I don’t like it at all.

I follow her into the house, trailing behind her up the stairs. Just as she reaches for her bedroom door, I catch up, pressing my hand over hers before she can turn the handle. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She lifts her gaze to mine, those golden eyes flecked with bits of brown—like amber with secrets trapped inside. “My room,” she says, drawing out each word as if she’s explaining it to a stubborn toddler.

“We’re married now, Gianna. We’ve fucked. I think it’s too late to be fighting for your own room. We have our room, down there.” I nod towards the general direction.

She gulps. “I–I don’t know the code to get in.”

I lean into her, letting my lips graze the shell of her ear as I whisper, “Zero–eight–one–zero.”

She shivers, her hand tightening under mine as she unconsciously pushes her frame back into me. “W-what was that?”

“The code to the room.” I place my free hand on her ribcage, right beneath her perfect tits, and draw her the rest of the way into my chest. My cock stirs with immediate, demanding interest, hardening against the small of her back, but I force myself to ignore it—for now.

Taking her hand off the door handle is too easy. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Wait—hold on.” She digs her heels into the floor as I guide her down the hallway. “I’m still mad at you for what you did earlier.” Her voice lacks conviction, though, and we both know it.

“I know. I’ll make it up to you,” I murmur, nuzzling into the sweet crook of her neck. She smells fucking divine. I inhale deeply, and my mouth waters.

I can’t resist—I run my tongue along the side of her throat, savoring the way her breath hitches, her tits pressing into my arms.

Fuck, I’m a lucky bastard. She may be a liar, but she’s my liar.

I tighten my grip around her ribs as I turn her towards our bedroom door. “Type in the code, love.” I bite the soft flesh of her lobe lightly.

“I don’t–I don’t know the code.”

Smirking, I lift my head from the back of her neck and whisper it into her ears again. She types it in as I speak, but as the lock clicks open, she freezes.

“Wait… Why do those numbers sound familiar?”

“What numbers?” I ask, acting clueless as I guide her inside, satisfaction filling me when the door locks behind us. But what really fuels me is the sight before me—the remnants of our earlier encounter. The torn pieces of her dress that still litter the floor, the sheets rumpled from how I had her. Evidence of what we did.

“The code numb–Ers!” Her voice jumps an octave, cutting off on a sharp moan as I craftily shift my hand on her ribs to cup her right tit. “Michael, behave. We need to talk,” she pants, trying to push away from my grip.

I don’t let her go. “I didn’t bring you in here to talk, sweetheart.”

I tilt her head towards me and dip my own down, my crotch tightening when her eyes dilate so sweetly that the black swallows the gold. But just as my lips are about to claim hers, she forcefully pushes me away.

My eyes narrow on her as I let her go. “What is it?”

“I–I–we can’t. My period.” She wrings her hands together, her gaze darting around the room, looking everywhere but at me.

“You mean to tell me you’ve started your period? So suddenly?”

She rolls her eyes. “What? Do you think my period sends me a memo three days in advance? It just happens.”

Admittedly, I’m clueless about that part of the woman's anatomy. Maybe I should learn more. I make a mental note to do some research regarding it because it might pose a problem. Later. “Fine, whatever. What does that have to do with this?” I wave an impatient hand between us.

“What do you mean, what does it have to do with this? I know you were trying to seduce me.”

Amusement spreads through me. “Good. If you didn’t know, it would mean I wasn’t doing such a stellar job. Now, come here.” I reach for her, but she jumps away with a squeal.

“Michael! No! I’m bleeding out of my vagina.” Her words end on a breathless giggle as she runs away from me.

It’s like she doesn't remember who I am. “Do I look like a little blood would make me squeamish?” I stalk towards her. “I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.” She yelps when my fingers graze her wrist and tries to jump back, but I’ve got her. “Michael…” she whines.

“Let’s make a compromise. We’ll try it once, and if you don’t like it, I’ll never bring it up again.”

“But I⁠—”

I shut up her protest with a kiss. A deep, filthy kiss that immediately has her moaning into my mouth, her arms wrapping around my neck. Victory lashes through me, and I grunt as all the blood left in my head rushes straight to my cock, leaving me dizzy and starving for more.

I feed her my tongue, and she takes it greedily, fingertips digging into my skin as the kiss becomes wetter, more intense. My hands slide to her waist, my thumbs rubbing slow, firm circles along her lower back, and she moans, shuddering against me at the pressure.

Fuck. She’s killing me.

Without breaking the kiss, I lift her into my arms. She locks her legs around my waist, kissing me back with equal amounts of fervor, as I walk us towards the bed.

I drop her onto the mattress, her dark hair fanning out over the silk sheets. She pushes some strands out of her eyes and blinks at me as I climb over her, undoing her pants.

“Wait.”

“Shhh.” I press a kiss to her hipbone as I slide the fabric down her legs. Tossing it aside, I push up her top to expose the pretty swell of her belly.

My mouth waters, and I lean down, thrusting my tongue into the inviting hole of her belly button, tasting her, savoring the way her fingers clench against my shoulders.

She moans, body shifting beneath me, but I don’t move on just yet. I give her belly button—and the skin surrounding it—undivided attention, my lips and tongue working her over until she’s too lost in pleasure to think about her fear of having bloody sex with me.

But the anticipation coils tight in my muscles.

Enough waiting.

Still keeping the pressure of my mouth on her belly, I hook my fingers into the hem of her panties and drag them down her legs in one long pull. Only then do I move back and drop my gaze to her sweet cunt.

No blood.

I frown uncomprehendingly. What the fuck?

When I glance up, Gianna’s hooded eyes clear, and she shifts uncomfortably before snapping her legs shut.

“I–I meant my period will come sometime tonight,” she stammers. “And, um, if I orgasm, the contractions will just make it come faster, so I was–I am–trying to delay it.”

She’s lying through her damn teeth. What the hell is she up to? My gut tells me it has something to do with the visitor from earlier. What the fuck did Elira tell her? If that woman’s conspiring with my wife to dupe me, there will be hell to pay—Maximo be damned.

I push her lies away and let it go for now. I’ll figure out what’s going on later.

Right now, my focus is on this.

I press another lingering kiss to her belly, and my crotch tightens at the thought that, right this second, there’s a possibility my child might be growing inside her.

It’s too soon to know, obviously. We only had sex a few hours ago. But just the idea alone arouses me beyond imagination.

Not only do I get an heir, but it will also tighten our bond, ensuring she never leaves me.

Her hands slowly cradle the back of my scalp as I linger on her belly, and I glance up to find her staring at me, some strange emotion swirling in those golden eyes.

I should fuck her again just to make sure my seed takes root.

My cock hardens immediately as the thought surfaces, and biting urges snap at me to tear her legs apart and rut between them until we both cum.

Keeping our gazes connected, I trail my right hand from her hip down to her inner thigh, then up to where she’s warm and wet. My fingertips graze her damp folds, circling her clit.

Her lips part on a gasp, her eyes fluttering shut, pure sin written across her face. I smirk against her belly and trap her swollen clit between my thumb and index finger, playing with the sensitive organ until it’s firm and throbbing in my grasp and she’s shifting restlessly on the bed.

Moving lower, I sling one leg over my shoulder, then the other, until her pretty pink cunt is right in my face. The sweet scent floods my nostrils, making my tongue tingle with anticipation.

I turn my face into her inner thigh, dragging my nose across the soft flesh and kissing the skin, teasing her—drawing out both mine and Gianna’s pleasure—before slowly inching forward until my lips are hovering over her pussy.

I blow out a warm breath over it, and she moans, her thighs clamping on my shoulders. Good girl. Now that her legs are balanced on me, I let go and reach up one hand to her tits, palming the warm weight of one, while the other finds her clit, teasing and working her up until she’s almost feverish with desire.

Only then do I thrust two fingers inside her, loving the way her tight little sheath grips me and the thready, light moan that escapes her throat. I curl my fingers up inside her, finding the bundle of nerves that’s her g-spot and slightly tickle it.

Her reaction is instant.

Her legs snap shut around my head so quickly and tightly that my ears ring, muffling my hearing.

Fuck, she’s squeezing me like a vice, but I love it.

I fondle her tit, making sure the ball of my palm grazes her stiff nipple as I suck her clit into my mouth.

Then, applying pressure to all three of her pleasure points—nipples, clit, and g-spot—I tug on them all at the same time.

She shatters.

Her body writhes beneath me, shuddering erratically, as she cums and cums and cums.

I lap it all up, enjoying the sweet nectar spilling from her pretty cunt and drinking it like a man dying of thirst. As her orgasm fades, I don’t stop.

I build her right back up again.

This time, I use my tongue and teeth on her clit, flicking and sucking, and her previously lax thighs tighten once more, clamping around my ears.

“Michael…” she moans, breathlessly. “What are you doing to me?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but I answer nonetheless, pulling back just enough to speak. “Making you completely and utterly mine.”

She groans in response, her fingers sinking into my hair—gently at first, but as her pleasure rises again, she yanks, sending delicious sparks of pain across my scalp.

I push her higher and higher, bringing her right to the cusp of another climax⁠—

Then I pull away, unclenching her fists from my hair and her thighs from my neck.

“Michael,” she whines, her voice cracking with need. “Are you going to be an asshole right now?”

“Of course not, love,” I promise, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her ankle. Once I’m fully off the bed, I undo my belt and tug my trousers down.

26

MICHAEL

Gianna sits up, reaching for the buttons of my shirt, her eyes dark with desire. But I’m teetering at the edge of my control and can’t risk losing it, so I slap her hand away and push her back on the bed. She falls without much resistance.

Twisting and turning her the way I want is as easy as manipulating a rag doll. Her limbs move fluidly under my direction. I position her on her knees, facing the headboard, and kneel behind her, raising her hands up until she’s holding onto the little hooks carved artistically into the wood. The sight of her—posed, waiting, vulnerable—sends a surge of possessive heat through my veins.

“Under no circumstances are you allowed to let go. Understand?” I ask, and she nods eagerly, her breathing already quickening.

Good girl.

I move away from behind her just long enough to take out the blindfold from the nightstand. The moment she realizes what I’m doing, she inhales sharply, her body sinking back into mine.

I tie the fabric over her eyes, making sure it’s snug but comfortable. “Okay?” I ask quietly and she nods again. “Good.”

My hand curves around her throat, tilting her head back. Then I devour her lips. I kiss her hard, deep—inhaling her like air. Keeping her distracted with my lips, I let my other hand roam, gliding over her hip, around the tempting curve of her ass.

I nudge her thighs apart, stretching them wide, and she breaks the kiss to glance down at my cock. The hard organ weeps precum as I take in the swollen, glistening lips of her pussy. I did that to her.

Spreading her thighs even wider, I move into the space between them, notching my cock at her tight hole from behind before slowly pushing in. Her pliant body welcomes me warmly, and in one smooth, hard thrust, I sink into her to the hilt.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. The word hammers through my skull as pleasure rockets up my spine, tingling, burning, searing through my veins like wildfire.

I grit my teeth, muscles locking as the urge to just thrust and thrust and thrust until I pour out my essence into her overwhelms me. But I breathe through my nose, forcing control, and snake my hand across her belly, up to her tits, squeezing the soft flesh as my cock goes even deeper inside her.

In this position, I’ve got her caged in, completely mine. I lift my hands to the headboard, framing hers, and drop my head to her neck, my breath hot against her skin as I slowly thrust in and out of her.

“Jesus Christ,” she moans, her head falling back to rest on my shoulders. A black cloud of soft hair spills over my face, stealing my vision for a moment.

“No. Michael,” I correct as I gently push her hair aside. “Say my name, love.”

She lets out a feverish groan and tries to shift back into me, trying to get me to move faster inside her, but I’ve got her well and truly pinned—at my complete mercy.

I withdraw until just the tip remains, then pump back into her with deliberate slowness, drawing a long, keening moan from her lips. I keep fucking her like that in shallow, teasing thrusts that feel incredible but aren’t enough to take either of us to our climax.

She loses herself completely.

“Michael, Michael, please, Michael,” she whimpers mindlessly, and my chest expands, blood roaring in my ears as my eyes half-close in ecstasy. When she chants my name in that gasping, needy tone—one I’ve discovered she only uses when I’m driving her mad with pleasure—it does unholy things to me.

She keeps calling for me, begging with my name, and the thin thread of control I’ve been clinging to snaps.

I forget why I wanted to go slow and steady.

I forget everything except the need to claim, to possess, to mark.

My hands drop from the headboard to her hips, holding her in place as I drive into her with all my strength. The force of it sends her head knocking against the headboard with an audible thud, but all she does is scream my name, her voice raw with pleasure.

Cursing under my breath, I quickly lift one hand and brace it against the headboard in front of her so her head hits my palm instead of the hard surface as I maintain the punishing pace. The ache in my knuckles from absorbing each impact barely registers—drowned out by the pleasure building at the base of my spine.

My vision blurs as the slow, inevitable trickle of my sperm winds its way up my cock, every relentless thrust forcing it higher.

Not yet. Not until she falls apart for me first.

I fuck Gianna even harder and snake my free hand around her hip, down to her soaked folds, then up to her clit. But I don’t touch yet. I hold my hand there, letting the thought of the pressure I might exert over the nerves at any time drive her crazy as I twist my hips, angling my thrusts upwards towards her g-spot.

Her body shudders violently, arching before curving down as her hands slip from the headboard to slap the bedsheets. And despite my hand cushioning her head, she still manages to knock the damn board again.

I stop fucking into her to ask a strained, “Are you okay?”

“Don’t you fucking stop you fucking bastard you—arrghh!” she yells, the words dissolving into a guttural cry as I thrust into her before she can finish her rant.

I drop my head to her curved spine, nipping at her sweet flesh before dragging my lips up, up, up to the side of her neck. My hand leaves the board to wrap around her throat, fingers pressing just enough to make her gasp.

And then⁠—

I lose control.

I fuck into her hard and fast, without finesse or restraint, the sharp slap of our bodies and our ragged moans filling the air like a symphony of sin. My grip tightens around her throat, and I press the pad of my palm to her clit, pinning her between two unbearable sensations just as my body goes white-hot with my orgasm.

My brain fizzles out as her hot cunt clenches around me, her throat convulsing beneath my palm as she gasps through her own climax, struggling for breath. I barely register letting go of her throat before my hand slaps down on the bed beside her head. And fuck—she squeezes even tighter, her orgasm wringing me dry as she lets out a muffled shriek, her head buried in the mattress.

Heat, tightness, her muffled cries—it all slams into me at once, seizing every nerve in my body.

My neck snaps back, and I yell to the ceiling as spurt after spurt of cum shoots into her hot cunt. I pound into her through it all, drawing out our shared pleasures, growling her name like an incantation that keeps me tethered to this moment, to her.

And then, finally, I slow—but I’m not done.

As the intensity begins to ebb, I press a soft kiss at the top of her spine and shift back, careful not to let my cock slip out of her as I crawl further up the bed. Her head lifts heavily, and she blinks back at me in confusion, her eyes glazed with satisfaction and exhaustion.

“Shhh.” I press my palm between her shoulder blades, easing her back down until her cheek rests on the sheets, then raise her ass slightly higher. Perfect.

I need my cum to go where it needs to go—to implant in her womb with my child and bind her to me in the most permanent way possible.

I keep her ass in the air as my cock softens inside her, my palm gliding over her warm, supple flesh in slow, soothing strokes.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t put up a fight, and my heart expands as I realize what it means. She wants my seed to take root inside her as well, whether subconsciously or not. That has to be why she didn’t ask me to go look for a condom before I fucked into her, and why she’s not complaining now about the risk.

She wants me. She wants us. She wants this.

Victory is an intoxicating drug.

I stare blankly at the headboard for a minute, my mind fracturing with flashes of a future—of a child with her dark hair and golden eyes. A perfect mini version of her—beautiful, fierce, ours.

I’m going to have that. Damn it, I will. Nothing and no one will stand in my way.

Leaning down, I nuzzle her cheek, and my heart softens as I take her in.

She’s fallen asleep, her luscious lips parted, dark hair spilling over her face. She’s so beautiful, so everything.

And she’s all mine.

I push the hair off her face and plant a gentle kiss on her lips. She murmurs my name in her sleep, shifting slightly, and her movement stirs my cock still nestled in her cunt, making me groan under my breath.

I stay like that, watching her for long moments, unwilling—unable—to draw my gaze away from her.

Then, softly, regretfully I pull out of her warmth and drag her into my chest, burying my face into her neck, inhaling the scent that’s uniquely hers. For a fleeting second, perfect contentment washes over me.

Until I remember her duplicitousness earlier this evening.

Why the fuck did she tell me she was on her period? Does it have anything to do with Elira’s unexpected visit?

The last traces of the sexual haze evaporate from my brain, replaced by a slow, creeping suspicion. I let go of her sleeping form and roll out of the bed, careful not to wake her.

Whatever game she’s playing, I’ll uncover it. I always do.

I pull on my pants without bothering with underwear and run a hand through my sex-mussed hair as I walk out of the bedroom. With each step, my still-sensitive cock rubs against the rough material, sending little aftershocks of pleasure through my body. I ignore it, focused on a more pressing need—the need for truth.

When I get into my office, I go straight to my computer, logging in and pulling up the camera feed. I replay the feed from earlier this evening, rewinding to the moment Elira walked into our house.

On the screen, Gianna leads her up the stairs and into her room. My jaw clenches as I switch cameras to see what happened inside.

The footage shows Elira sitting on the edge of the bed, rummaging through her bag before extracting what looks like a pill. She hands it to my wife, who takes it into her palm and walks into the ensuite.

What the fuck?

I don’t have a camera in there—even I have limits—so I can only wait, fingers drumming impatiently against the desk.

When she gets back, Elira hands her a whole blister pack of medication, and I narrow my eyes as Gianna replies, her lips moving in words I can’t hear. Damn it, I should’ve installed audio recording devices in the house. I would kill to hear what she’s saying.

What drugs is Elira giving to my wife? And why the hell is she taking them so diligently?

Maximo’s wife gets to her feet, and mine hugs her tightly—too tightly. Like she’s grateful for something. They talk a while longer, embrace again, then leave the room together. I follow the footage as Gianna walks Elira to the front door, sees her off, then quickly rushes back inside.

Up the stairs. Into her bedroom.

My eyes narrow to slits as I watch her strain to lift the mattress and hides the pills underneath.

I’m on my feet before the mattress even drops back onto the bedframe, rage propelling me towards Gianna’s bedroom to discover exactly what she’s hiding from me.

I swing the door open with such force that it slams against the wall. I wince momentarily but don’t pause to wonder if it woke Gianna or not.

Let her wake up. Let her try to explain herself.

I make my way straight to the mattress and lift it with one hand, revealing the blister pack exactly where she hid it. I snatch it up, my lips curling into a snarl as I read the label with growing disbelief.

Birth control pills.

Why the fuck would Elira give my wife this? And more importantly—why the hell would she accept them? Especially when she responded so eagerly to me earlier, when it was so obvious how much she wanted me inside her, how much she wanted my child?

No.

No.

She won’t use them. The thought comes with absolute certainty, my fury cooling slightly. She can’t possibly want this.

She probably only took the one pill earlier to placate Elira. I nod to myself. Yes, that’s it. That explains it all. I don’t know much about Maximo’s relationship with his wife, but I know for a fact they’re not ready for kids yet. Did Elira try to impose her own choices on my wife? Did she convince her that motherhood wasn’t in her best interest?

As if she has any right to interfere in our marriage, in our future.

For a moment, the urge to storm back to our bedroom and confront Gianna is overwhelming—to shake her awake and demand answers, to make her choose between her friend’s advice and my desires. But I fight against the impulse. We just barely made up; I’m not about to stir the pot over something I can fix quietly myself.

And besides, after tonight, she’s probably already pregnant.

It will be dangerous for our unborn child if I leave these pills here.

I pocket the blister pack and drop the mattress back into place, smoothing out the bedding to conceal any evidence of my discovery. I know deep in my bones that Gianna wants our baby as much as I do, but just in case she has a moment of doubt…

I’ll remove the temptation entirely.

Pulling out my phone, I call the pharmacist on my payroll. “Hey,” I say as soon as he picks up. “I have some medication I need you to swap for me,” I explain what I want, and he assures me he’ll have it ready in two hours.

Good.

Wasting no time, I pop out every last pill from the blister pack and flush them down the toilet, watching with grim satisfaction as they swirl and disappear down the drain.

Then, with the empty pack in hand and a lightness to my steps, I head out to meet him.

27

GIANNA

The first thing I do when I wake up in Michael’s empty bed is rush to my own room and check my pills. My shoulders, knotted with tension, finally relax when I see they’re right where I left them. I snatch them out with trembling fingers.

I’m only supposed to use one per day, but after last night’s unprotected sex—without waiting the advised forty-eight hours—I pop two into my mouth, desperate for the meds to flood my system faster and erase my recklessness.

Fingers crossed. Hell, toes crossed too.

Seriously, universe, if you ever plan on doing me a solid, now would be the time.

Shoving down my nerves, I make my way downstairs, already knowing Michael will be waiting for me. He’s made it his personal mission to sit with me for breakfast every morning since I got here—a gesture that feels both possessive and oddly considerate. Sure enough, he’s already positioned at his usual spot at the dining table when I walk in.

Heat floods my cheeks the second I see him, and I find myself unable to meet his gaze directly.

God. How can I look at him when all I can think about is how he masterfully played my body last night? And I can't believe I just fell asleep right after like some exhausted kitten. Embarrassing.

Lost in my mortification, I almost miss it when he stands. My brows knit together as he walks over and slides into the chair right next to me. “W–what are you doing?”

“You were too far away,” he answers, his blue eyes glistening playfully as they rake over me. Then his gaze drops to my neck and darkens with unmistakable male satisfaction.

Oh.

I fight the overwhelming urge to slap my hand over the hickey he so shamelessly branded on me.

I can’t believe the bastard left such an obvious mark. As if coming inside me again wasn’t enough! The audacity of this man knows no bounds.

I swallow my irritation. Whatever. I’m already on the pill. He says he’s clean, and I believe him. I’ve also done my part to prevent any unwanted surprises.

That's all that matters in the grand scheme of things. No point picking a fight with him this morning.

Gracie brings in our food, and I quickly flip my hair forward, letting the long strands cascade over the damning evidence on my neck—something I should have done before I left my room. Michael notices immediately, and his mouth flattens into a hard line.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Is he seriously pissed that I don’t want to flaunt his damn mark to the housekeeper? I roll my eyes at him. Deal with it, husband.

The moment Gracie leaves, tension thickens the air between us. I expect him to call me out, so I rush to speak first.

But he beats me to it.

“What did you say Elira forgot yesterday?”

My heart drops like a stone into my stomach, and I hold my breath, eyes widening before I can control my reaction. Shit. Shit. Shit. “What?” I force myself to laugh lightly. “I thought we’d gone over that already last night?”

“I thought we had too, but then I realized you never actually said what she forgot.” He points out as he picks up his spoon.

I grab my own and scoop up the steaming soup, using those precious seconds of blowing cool air on it and swallowing to frantically scramble for an excuse. But all I come up with is: “Her purse.”

Fuck, Gianna, really? Her purse? That’s the best you could do?

Michael raises a skeptical brow that screams bullshit. “She forgot her purse? And she had to come get it herself? None of Maximo’s men could’ve picked it up for her?”

Damn it. I keep my gaze firmly glued to my plate, knowing my eyes would betray me in an instant. The porcelain suddenly becomes the most fascinating thing in the world as I shrug with forced casualness. “How would I know?”

His “Hmm” drips with disbelief, but before he can continue his interrogation, I quickly flip the conversation on him.

“By the way, when can I start working? You promised to let me do the work I’m passionate about.” I inject just enough accusation into my tone to distract him.

His expression shifts, his head tilting slightly. “You still remember that?”

White-hot indignation flares inside me. I glare at him, any pretense of demure submission shattering on the spot. “What do you mean ‘still remember’? Of course I do. Why? Did you just lie to get me to marry you? Am I just going to rot here as a prisoner who warms your bed every night? Am I⁠—”

“Gianna.” He raises a hand, cutting me off with an exasperated chuckle. “I didn’t lie to you. Unlike some, I don’t lie. I find it a pointless task since, sooner or later, the truth always comes out.”

A cold sweat breaks out along my spine.

Is that a dig at me? No. No way. He can’t know about my lies about why Elira came here. He can’t. Right?

“I might’ve forgotten I said that,” he continues, oblivious to my internal panic, “but now that you’ve reminded me, I’ll start to work on it.”

My shoulders relax slightly. Okay. It wasn’t a dig—just my guilty conscience working overtime, injecting meaning into innocent words.

“Start work? You don’t have to do anything. Just let me register for the exam to get my license, and then I can apply to some hospitals here and–”

“No,” he says darkly, cutting me off.

“No?” I echo incredulously.

“You can take the license exam, whatever.” He waves an imperious hand in the air. “But what you’re not going to do is work at a hospital where I can’t control what’s happening. Give me some time to build a hospital or buy one—and secure it.”

I blink. “You want to build a hospital?”

“If I have to. I don’t know what your uncle or Carlo might try, and I refuse to leave your security to chance. I’m not risking you like that. Not ever.”

…Oh.

My heart does the craziest thing ever—it softens towards him. Maybe he isn’t such a terrible person.

I’ve never had anyone give a shit about me or my safety, let alone go to extraordinary lengths to ensure it. Maybe my parents did when they were alive, but I barely remember them or the time I had with them.

Maybe that’s why I find it… hot that he’s being this ridiculously protective.

“…Alright,” I murmur.

Then, after a brief hesitation, I drop my spoon into my plate and shift closer to him. His eyes widen slightly in surprise as I lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you… husband.” I was initially going for an actual term of endearment, but it got stuck in my throat, and ‘husband’ slipped out instead.

The tips of his ears flush red, and for several long moments, he just stares at me, his throat working. He likes it. He really likes it.

My heart goes light with satisfaction as I file that information away in my brain. That little word has power. I can use it to get my way with him sometime in the future.

Smirking to myself, I settle back in my seat, picking up my spoon again, already feeling victorious.

28

MICHAEL

Husband.

This morning was the first time Gianna called me that without derision, with something close to sincerity in her eyes.

And I want to hear it like that again. Over and over.

I want her to come up to me without hesitation next time, to press her sweet kiss on my lips instead, not just my cheek.

To make that happen, I push aside all my other work the moment I get to the office and start looking into failing hospitals near the house. It takes four grueling hours to find one that meets my exacting standards, and another hour to dig up the building’s blueprint online.

I study the layout carefully, nodding as I trace every corridor, every exit, every potential vulnerability. In my mind, I’m already installing security cameras in blind spots, positioning men at strategic entrances, and implementing biometric locks in restricted areas. Then I run through scenarios of potential threats—Aldo’s men, Carlo’s pathetic soldiers, unknown enemies…

Like I told Gianna earlier, her safety isn’t something I’m leaving to chance. I considered building her a hospital from the ground up, but that would take months. I don’t have months.

I want her gratitude again, and I want it now.

I thought getting her pregnant would be enough for me. Knowing I own her body and soul. But now I want more. I want her heart. I want everything she has to give. Every last piece of her.

And I’ll fucking get it.

Even if it means I have to wipe out the whole fucking world to get it.

For now, Loretto Hospital will do.

“You don’t really have to come with me, you know?” Lorenzo says, glancing back at me from the front seat of my car. “I’ve handled deals more important than this alone. You have other more urgent matters to deal with.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Lorenzo.” I adjust my jacket as we pull up to the crumbling excuse for a building. “Nothing can be more urgent and important than this.”

Marco kills the engine, and I don’t wait. I unlock the door and get out on my own. When we walk into the warm lobby, I’m met with something I wasn’t expecting. The entire staff—twenty exhausted, overworked people—stand there with their director, waiting.

I scan the room, taking in their weary, hopeful faces before leveling a look at the man in charge—Pete Langhorne, if I’m not mistaken. “I asked for a meeting with you, not your employees,” I remind him.

“Yes sir, I know. But we’re one big family here, and we all wanted to give you a warm welcome to your new home.”

Family. My jaw tightens in disgust. The last thing I’d ever do is mix business with sentiment. I flick a glance at Lorenzo and give him a subtle nod. He scribbles quickly into his tablet, understanding my unspoken command. As soon as the hospital is mine, I’m getting rid of the entire staff.

“Let’s go to your office for the meeting, Peter. We don’t have much time,” I say, already leading the way.

I don’t need a tour. After studying the blueprint and hacking into the pathetic excuse for a security system, I know every corner of this decrepit hospital better than he does.

“It’s Pete, sir,” he mumbles behind me, quickly dropping his gaze when I turn to glare at him. What the hell difference is there between Peter and Pete?

I push into his office and make my way straight to the wooden desk, claiming the leather chair behind it like I already own the place.

Peter hovers awkwardly, looking a little lost, so I wave at him to take the chair across from me. After a brief hesitation, he sits, while Lorenzo stands guard at the door behind him.

I get straight to the point. “Tell me, how did you manage to run this place into the ground? It seemed to be thriving just a few years ago.”

Peter’s mouth works uselessly for several infuriating seconds before he glances back at Lorenzo for help. A big mistake, since Lorenzo isn’t here to assist him—he’s here for me alone. The last thing he’s going to do is throw a lifeline to a man who’s already on his way out.

Though not just yet. I’ll keep Peter around long enough to guide my Gianna through the transition. Once she’s got a solid grip on running this place, he’ll be out the door faster than he can say run.

“Well, you see, the economy has been going downhill for a while, and most people are on insurance now, and you know how these insurance companies are—they never want to fork out money, and it’s been a battle that I⁠—”

His rambling dies when I raise a hand. “All I’m hearing is excuses. Excuses, excuses. And quite frankly, I don’t give a shit how you managed to run this place down, Peter. It was a rhetorical question.” What matters is that by the end of this week, the deed to this place is in Gianna’s name and in my hands.

He gulps audibly, and as he opens his mouth—no doubt to offer more pathetic justifications—an alert goes off on my phone.

I stiffen, instantly recognizing the tone as the one programmed into my search software.

Could it be Emilia?

I yank my phone out, heart pounding—only to feel an immediate, sharp stab of disappointment.

Not Emilia.

It’s about those four assholes from the club. The vermin who have been going on a rampage, destroying the medications my brothers and I brought into the city—twisting something meant to save lives into a tool for destruction.

I scan their location details, a cold smile forming on my lips. Club Harare. One of the clubs I used to frequent back in the day, and although it’s in Romero’s territory in Brooklyn, I still have some jurisdiction there. Enough to handle these bastards myself.

Time to go hunting.

I tuck my phone away and push up from my seat. “Listen, Peter, something has come up that I need to attend to right now. But I want this hospital of yours, and rest assured that by the end of the day, my lawyer will be in touch with you.”

Peter practically leaps up, nodding so fast it’s pathetic. “Of course, sir! Thank you! Thank you so much⁠—”

His thanks ring hollow in my ears as I walk out. I’m sure he won’t feel so grateful once he finds out my conditions for taking over this place.

I call Romero on the drive over to Harare.

“Michael.” Romero’s voice lacks its usual playful edge when he answers. “I’m a little busy right now.”

I check my watch with a frown. Past 4 PM. Is he still at court this late?

Regardless of his location, he’s clearly occupied, so I cut straight to business. “The men I’m after are in your territory. Let your guys know I’m coming over and to cooperate.”

“Of course, fratello. They already know to cooperate with all my brothers, but I’ll send out a message to them right away.”

We end the call, and I shoot out a text to my lawyer, laying out exactly what I want him to present to Peter—my non-negotiable conditions spelled out in explicit detail. His reply comes almost instantly, as it should. I don’t pay him an obscene amount for anything less than absolute availability.

Hank Templeton

The place isn’t worth that amount, Michael. We could cut the price in half and it still wouldn’t be worth it.

I don’t care. Close the deal.

Loretto is the only hospital close to my house with owners desperate enough to agree to my terms. If it speeds up the process, I don’t mind throwing in more money than it’s worth to sweeten the deal for them.

We reach the club in a little over thirty minutes, and this time, I don’t bother slipping through the backdoor. It didn’t quite work the last time anyway, so what’s the point?

Even though it’s still early evening, the club teems with bodies—mostly lowlifes drawn to this seedy part of Brooklyn. The air reeks of booze and sweat, the music blaring to the rafters. It’s not quite as beautiful and elegant as Rafael’s, but it suited my purposes a couple of years ago—and so I frequented it.

I’m not proud of everything I did back then. Some of it cemented my reputation as crazy. But I don’t regret the image it gave me. If it means people know to leave me the fuck alone, then good.

And judging by the way the crowd parts like the Red Sea as they see me and my men approach, that reputation is still very much alive. I keep my gaze locked on my phone, glancing up only occasionally as I track my prey.

Then a pair of red, strappy heels crosses my line of sight.

I’m frowning before I even look up at their owner. “Evie,” I say tonelessly.

One of the girls I used to fuck around with back in the day. I favored her more than the others because of her boldness and fearlessness. She was willing to try anything.

Tonight, that trait is nothing but an irritation.

“Michael Hart.” She flashes what she probably thinks is a seductive smile. “What are you doing on my turf? Finally missed me and came back for more of this?” She palms her tits and jiggles them.

I don’t take the bait. My gaze stays firmly on her eyes. “Get out of my way, Evie,” I say impatiently, raising my left hand so she can clearly see the wedding band I haven’t taken off since Gianna slid it onto my finger a few days ago.

She scoffs. “And so? You think that’s supposed to deter me? You know how many married men come in here, thirsty for pussy that isn’t their boring wife’s?” She takes a step closer, reaching for my chest.

Big mistake.

I grab her wrist before she can make contact, gripping tight enough to hurt. She lets out a small, startled cry, and I use my free hand to adjust my jacket—just enough for her to see the gun holstered on my hip. “You really don’t want to fuck with me right now.”

Her eyes widen, and I let her go. She stumbles back, cradling her wrist, muttering, “Crazy motherfucker,” before scurrying away.

Damn right.

Lorenzo growls, starting after her with murder in his eyes, but I place a restraining hand on his shoulder. “She’s not worth it.”

I glance down at my phone, my pulse kicking up for half a second. Did my prey run while I was distracted with that bullshit?

No. They’re still here. They haven’t moved.

We follow the tracker to a backroom, meeting no resistance from the bouncers or management. Inside, we find the bastards absorbed in an intense game of poker with some unknown fifth man. Their heads snap up as we enter, eyes going wide.

Then, like the cowards they are, they try to run, just like they did the last time.

But tonight, there’s nowhere to run. I’ve made sure of it.

I take my gun out of its holster and fire.

The unknown man drops. So do two of the original four. Blood splatters across the poker table, staining the cards mid-game.

The last two are frozen in place, scared shitless.

I point my gun directly at the head of the fourth man. “Tell me everything about the drugs you’re selling, or you’ll join your fallen comrades.”

He gulps. “I can’t, I’ll–”

I pull the trigger, and his body crumples to the floor.

The last man doesn’t even wait for me to speak. He drops to his knees, sobbing. “It’s Carlo! It was all Carlo’s idea.” The words tumble out between sobs. “Please don’t kill me, I was only following my don’s orders—I swear!”

“Tell me everything,” I command.

And he does. He spills it all. Every last detail pours out of him.

When he’s done, I look him straight in the eyes. “Thank you.” Then I shoot him point-blank.

“Get rid of the bodies,” I tell my men as I holster my weapon, already walking out with Lorenzo.

As we leave the club behind, I pull out my phone and shoot a text to the group I have with my brothers.

Emergency meeting. Finish up whatever the fuck you’re doing and join me at Harare in three hours.

“Carlo Armani,” Maximo mutters, shaking his head slowly. “Didn’t think the old man had the balls. Is this his way of retaliating for you marrying his fiancée?”

“They were already diluting our shit before Michael married Gianna,” Romero points out, rolling his tumbler of whiskey in his palm. “Michael had to get rid of some vermin a few weeks ago, remember?”

Those bastards had been working the corners, buying up our cheap meds under fake names and fake sob stories, depriving the people who actually needed them—only to dilute them and resell at ridiculous prices, using our name.

I inhale my Cohiba deeply, leaning back in my seat, trying to think through the red haze of my rage. “It’s not just Carlo,” I remind them, exhaling a perfect smoke ring that hovers in the air between us. “He’s working with Aldo.”

“Aldo’s been on our side for years,” Maximo starts, frowning. “He was one of the first older dons to swear fealty to us. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to risk that. He knows very well what we’re capable of.”

“The man lost his son. Maybe he’s lost his mind too,” Romero muses, taking a sip of his drink.

I watch him carefully. He’s taking this a hell of a lot better than I expected, considering he’s basically the one who got us all into this medication distribution in the first place. Why isn’t he pissed?

Rafael sighs, leaning back. “He’s been at it before he lost his son, so he doesn’t even have that as an excuse. What the hell is he thinking?”

“I don’t give a shit what Aldo is thinking, but I trust Michael will get to the bottom of it. As for me, I have my wife to get to.” Maximo gets to his feet, adjusting his cufflinks. “Good night, assholes.”

I blow a smoke ring at him in response, and he rolls his eyes as he walks away.

Romero downs the rest of his drink and gets up. “Well, I have to go too. No wife waiting for me at home, but I’ve got a pile of work on my desk… and a pretty thing at the bar who’s been eying me all night. Can’t deprive her of all this goodness.” He pats his chest before heading out.

That leaves just Rafael and me at the table now.

He studies me for a beat, then asks casually, “And how’s married life treating you?”

“I assume the same way engaged life was treating you,” I reply just as casually, and his steel eyes frost over. I smirk, enjoying his reaction. “I still have the search running for Emilia, but nothing’s coming up. You know which organization she’s working with and exactly where she is, don’t you?”

He stands abruptly. “Would you look at the time? I have to go… water my plant.” And with that pathetic excuse, he’s gone as well, leaving me alone at the booth, chuckling to myself.

“Well, I have a wife waiting for me at home too,” I say to myself, taking one last, deep drag from my cigar before stubbing it out in the ashtray.

But I’m not going to her.

Not yet.

Tonight’s discoveries have stirred up fresh suspicions about Gianna’s parents’ deaths. I’ve always thought something was off about how the case was handled, but now, with Aldo’s betrayal confirmed, those suspicions have sharpened into something more concrete.

I make my way back to the office and spend hours combing through every lead, every document, every buried report.

Whoever covered their tracks thought they were smart. But I’m smarter and a stubborn fucker. All I need is one loose thread.

And when I find it, the whole thing unravels in my hands.

And yet the truth doesn’t surprise me one bit.

It was Aldo. He murdered his brother and his sister-in-law. And tried to kill his little niece too.

But the hitman he sent was sloppy. Thought the girl was already dead and didn’t bother wasting his bullet on her.

That motherfucker.

29

MICHAEL

It’s late as fuck when I finally drag my exhausted ass home, and except for the front lights, the rest of the house is dark. I roll my neck, trying to work out the crick as I walk into the foyer.

I start towards the stairs, my body craving the oblivion of sleep—until my parched throat protests. Fuck it. I pivot towards the living room instead, navigating through the darkness with the muscle memory of a man who knows every inch of this house. But just as my hand closes over the kitchen door handle, a flood of light suddenly blasts through the room.

I squint, momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness, going from pitch black to what feels like a goddamn spotlight.

It takes a couple of seconds for my vision to adjust, but I immediately make out the silhouette by the light switch. My hand goes to the handle of my gun, instincts kicking in—but even though I can’t see all that well yet, I recognize those curves, that stance…

It’s my wife.

I let go of the weapon’s grip and blink the last of the blurriness away. And yep, it’s my wife alright. She’s standing by the wall, arms crossed, glowering at me.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” she demands.

I stare at her uncomprehendingly. What is this? “What do you mean, what time is it?” But I can’t even bring myself to work up a temper. Not after what I just found out. Her entire life, she believed she lost her parents in a tragic accident. When the truth is that her uncle—the man who took her in, who raised her—was the one who had them murdered.

What must she have gone through at his hands? How much had she suffered, living under the roof of the man who stole everything from her? Especially knowing he tried to have her killed as well?

The weight of it crushes something in my chest.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m crossing the room, my palm cradling the back of her head, drawing her into me. My other hand locks around her waist like an anchor. My poor love. She has me now, and I’m never letting her go.

Nobody will ever dare hurt her again.

“Michael?” Her voice is muffled against my chest. “Is something wrong?”

“Can’t I just hug my beautiful wife?” The emotion in my voice betrays me, something raw and unfamiliar scraping my throat. I clear it quickly, adjusting my stance to press my lips against her hair, inhaling the scent that’s become my own personal addiction.

But then she stiffens in my arms and steps back, shoving at my chest violently. I raise a brow at the sudden shift, but before I can say a word, she rips into me.

“Where the hell have you been, Michael? Why is another woman’s perfume clinging to you? Were you with some bitch?”

My second brow joins the first at the lividness on her face and the venom in her voice. Then—oh.

She’s jealous. Actually fucking jealous.

Finally.

The realization sends a heady rush of satisfaction through my veins. She has to give a shit about me to be this pissed.

“Are you even listening to me? Why the fuck are you smiling, you bastard?” Her palm connects with my chest again, the sting of it delicious. “You can’t keep having unprotected sex with me if you’re just going to go out and fuck some sluts out there.”

Whatever amusement I had evaporates. My grip closes around her wrist, keeping her palm pressed against my chest. “You think I have space in my head for other women when you’ve occupied it so completely? Yes, work took me to a club tonight. Yes, women were there. Yes, some of them tried throwing themselves at me. Maybe their perfumes rubbed off on me. But do you know what I felt?” My grip tightens. “Irritation.”

She blinks up at me, lips parting in surprise at my outburst. Hell, I’ve surprised even myself with the raw honesty pouring out. But I won’t let her use our sex life as a weapon against me when I’ve done nothing wrong. I tighten my hold on her wrist more, ignoring her wince—needing her to feel some pain. To make damn sure she’s paying attention.

“You’ve had me all tied up in knots ever since I saw your fucking picture. Then I met you, and suddenly I barely have space for myself in my own damn head. All I think about is you. When next I can be with you. What you’ll say. How to make you smile—because when you do, you look at me with that softness in your eyes, and I⁠—”

Fuck. I don’t even know how to finish that sentence.

“I fucking threatened a woman with my gun tonight for daring to come close to me—because I was so goddamn irritated she wasn’t you.”

Her breath hitches.

The words pour out, unstoppable now. “And the worst part? No matter what I do, you keep holding me at arm’s length. You refuse to let me in, really let me in.” My chest heaves as I stare down at her. At the emotions swirling in those amber eyes.

“Michael…” she breathes, digging her fingers into my chest. My name sounds different on her lips now—softer, heavier. Like it means something more. Then, slowly, her free hand comes up, cradling my face.

The anger eases out of me, but something just as intense takes its hold as I realize just how much I’ve revealed. I never—never—let my emotions get the best of me. Yet she’s got me unraveled in just a few short weeks. “Fuck.” I start to spin around, to retreat behind my walls, but she stops me.

“Do you realize how crazy you sound?” she asks, her voice impossibly gentle as her thumb traces my brow, playing with the ring there. “We just met. You can’t feel so much for me in so little time.”

I hold her gaze. “Then I guess I really am crazy. Crazy for you. And I’m going to do everything in my power to own you completely and make you half as insane for me as I am for you.”

“Michael, I–I–” Words fail her, eyes searching mine like she’s trying to find something. Then she rises onto her toes, tilting her head up towards me.

My heart slams against my ribs when I realize her intent. She’s going to kiss me. And this time, on the lips.

I could lean down, make it easier for her, but there’s something sacred in watching her reach for me of her own volition. This is the first time she’s initiating, and I want it to be all her.

When our lips finally connect, a sigh of relief escapes me like a prayer answered. Her lips move over mine, soft and uncertain at first.

I let her take the lead, my hand only coming up to rest at her waist, barely touching, as if she might spook and run.

But when she grins into the kiss and deepens it, her tongue stroking the depth of my mouth, that’s it. My restraint snaps like a live wire. I seize control, plunging my fingers into her hair as I devour greedily, tilting her head just so.

She moans into my mouth, and goddammit—just like that, my semi I’ve been fighting turns into a full-blown erection that grates on my nerves. My hands reluctantly abandon her luscious hair to trail down the elegant curve of her spine. She shudders into me, and I cup her ass, pulling her flush against my cock.

Feel what you do to me. Feel how much I want you.

“Michael,” she gasps, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. “The cameras. Who watches them?”

Fuck.

My men might not live in the compound with us, but they have access to the feeds and, in fact, work in shifts to monitor them, making sure everything is in order.

No way in hell I’m sharing this moment with any of those bastards.

I tear my mouth away from hers, chest heaving as I lift her up into my arms, wrists locked beneath her ass. She squeals in surprise, clutching onto my neck, her eyes twinkling with desire.

With her wrapped around me, I secure my grip and I carry her out of the living room, up the stairs, and into our room. Only when the door closes behind us do I let her go, making damn sure my cock drags across her body on the way down.

By the time her feet touch the floor, she’s trembling slightly, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pants. Her pupils have dilated so wide that only a thin ring of amber remains.

I watch her for several long moments as unfamiliar emotions crash over me in relentless waves. Is this what it feels like to have a wife, or is it just her that’s making me feel all these things?

She shifts nervously under my scrutiny. “What?”

I don’t answer. I can’t speak past the sweet ache in my chest and the lump in my throat. So I do the only thing I can—I dip my head and capture her lips hungrily, pouring every unspoken feeling into the kiss.

She kisses me back just as hard—if not harder—and I groan as pleasure lances through me, my fingers sinking into her hair. Keeping our lips fused, I walk her backward towards the bed. Her feet fumble, tangling together like a newborn fawn’s, and a breath of affectionate amusement bubbles up unexpectedly. Adorable.

I chuckle as I break the kiss and turn her around, pressing her back to my chest so she can see as I guide her. My hands can’t stay still, roaming all over her.

Caressing her neck, tangling in her hair, tracing her lips.

Finally, we reach the foot of the bed, and with a press of my palm to her lower spine, I push her forward. She lands face-first with a soft ‘oof’ before scrambling to flip onto her back, and then she’s staring up at me with eyes made of liquid gold.

Fuck me, she’s so hot. So goddamn gorgeous it physically hurts to look at her.

My breath catches, and I can only stare in entranced silence.

She sits up, impatience written in every line of her body, and scoots towards me. “What are you doing?” Her fingers hook into my belt, tugging me closer until I’m standing between her spread thighs.

I let her unbuckle me, my fingers diving into her hair as she unzips my pants and pushes them down. The material pools at my feet, and I shrug out of my jacket, my pulse hammering in anticipation.

I’m unbuttoning my shirt when she cups my erection through my underwear and presses her face against the bulge of my cock, inhaling deeply. Jesus fucking Christ. My spine liquefies, and I bow towards her with a guttural groan that doesn’t sound human even to my own ears.

Fuck, she’s becoming as unhinged as I am.

I love it.

Her hands slip into the waistband of my underwear and pull it down. I move back just long enough to kick them off before I’m between her thighs again, my cock standing proudly at attention.

She wraps her fingers around my thick girth, her touch firm, teasing. Then, with a slow, wicked grin, she flicks her index finger over the barbell piercing the head of my cock.

Shocks of pleasure-pain zap through my being, my body tingling from head to toe. Then, before I can react—before I can even fucking think—she leans in and swallows me whole. The sudden envelopment of my sensitive flesh has my head snapping back and a shout ripping from my lungs.

“Gianna—” Her name barely makes it past my lips before my control shatters.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I yank back before I explode in her mouth, but her suction is so intense there’s a wet ‘pop’ as my cock slips free.

“Michael,” she complains breathlessly, blinking up at me.

“Can’t waste my cum,” I rasp, my voice wrecked. “Need it inside you.”

I shove her onto her back without finesse, too desperate to care. She’s still trying to crawl back on the bed when I attack the buttons of her slacks, my fingers suddenly clumsy and frantic. “Fucking hell,” I growl, finally getting a grip on the damn thing and yanking the fabric down her legs, panties and all.

My mouth waters at the wet, pink sheath waiting for me. “Look at your pretty cunt, amore. All mine.” I’m barely done talking before I dive into her, kissing and sucking right over her hole.

She screams, bucking with such force I’m nearly thrown off. I slam a hand down on her abdomen, pinning her to the bed as I feast on her without mercy. No teasing, no slow buildup—just plain desperation to get her ready for my hard cock.

Her fingers twist in my hair, pain blooming across my scalp as gibberish spills from her lips in moaned-out, broken syllables. Her knees press up on either side of me, toes curling into the sheets. When she comes, it’s glorious, and I lap it all up greedily until I can’t hold off myself another second.

She’s still in the throes when I rise up to my knees and thrust into her, yelling at how tightly she grips me and how her muscles contract convulsively around me. My eyes fly open—when did I close them?—just in time to see hers flutter open too.

As I lose myself in those pretty eyes, a strange calm washes over me, and the biting desperation recedes a little. It’s like now that I’m inside her, all the maddening urges are muted, replaced by something deeper. I cup her face, brushing my thumb along her cheek. “Sei la ragazza più bella del mondo e sono contento di averti rapita e di averti sposato prima che chiunque altro possa. Ora sei mia, Gianna. Per sempre.”

You’re the most beautiful girl in the world, and I’m glad I snatched you up and married you before anyone else could. You’re mine now, Gianna. Forever.

“Michael…” She raises her own hand to my face, and I lean down to kiss her, languidly pulling out and thrusting back into her. A strangled moan tears from her throat as her head falls back against the bed, effectively breaking the kiss. Her hand slips from my face to grip the sheets on either side of her head like she needs something to hold on to.

Almost compulsively, I reach for her and link our fingers together, holding on to her tightly as, for the first time in my life, I’m not just fucking a woman.

I’m making love to her.

And it’s sweeter than anything I’ve ever felt.

I kiss all over her neck, sucking her earlobe into my mouth as my pleasure racks up, higher and higher. I twist my hips, grinding against that spot that makes her eyes roll back, squeezing her fingers harder as her cunt almost strangles my cock. She cums, moaning my name so sweetly it wrecks me.

I’m right behind her, teeth sinking into the fading mark on her neck as I paint her womb with my cum—and hopefully, my child.

30

GIANNA

The past few days have been blissful—the best days of my life—and today is extra, extra blissful. My toes tap against the foot of the car in glee, and I lift my head from the warm sanctuary of Michael’s shoulder to peer out the window, too restless to stay still.

“That excited?” Michael chuckles, rubbing his thumb over my fingers where my hand is still tucked possessively in the crook of his arm.

“Yes!” I practically squeal, twisting to face him. “I can’t believe you actually bought a hospital for me.” I glance down at the deed in my hand for the hundredth time, half-expecting it to vanish like some cruel mirage. How can this be real? How can everything change so drastically, so quickly?

Just two months ago, I was convinced my life was over—doomed to an existence of cleaning other people’s houses, serving drinks in seedy bars, and remaining on the run with no chance of ever settling down. And yet, here I am today, married to a billionaire who seems to love spending his money on me no matter how extravagant it is.

“Believe it, love, because it’s real.” Michael’s eyes glow down at me, burning with something so fierce, so intense, it makes my breath hitch.

Did I ever think his eyes were cold? God, I was wrong, so wrong.

They’re like twin infernos—blue flames that threaten to incinerate me with how bright and hot they glow.

I should be afraid, but I’m not. I’m drawn to that fire.

I grin at him before my gaze drops down to the deed again. Carefully, I untuck my hand from his and trace my fingertips over my name written neatly on the paper.

Gianna Tulipa Hart. That’s who I am now. Mrs. Hart. I love it.

The car dips slightly as it slows, the gentle pull of motion making me blink back to the present. My legs jiggle with barely contained excitement as we turn and pull up into a reserved parking spot in front of a four-story building.

“Maximo’s already talking with his men. They’ll start work on renovating the entire building tomorrow. By the time they’re done, it will be as good as new.”

Marco kills the engine, then steps out to give us privacy just as two cars pull up on either side of ours. But I don’t bother looking at the men inside—they’re Michael’s men, or as he likes to say now, ‘our’ men.

I’ve never been part of an ‘our’ before. And I really, really like it.

“It’s fine. It’s beautiful.” And I mean it. Not in the way new mothers insist their wrinkly, potato-skinned babies are beautiful, but in a real, genuine way. Yes, the building’s white paint is peeling and stained, some of the windows are broken, patched over with tarpaulin, and there’s no sign anywhere to indicate the name of the hospital.

But it’s mine. Mine.

Not just in thought, not just in dreams—but in name. He could have easily written his own name on the deed and simply asked me to run the place or just work there, but it’s in my name. That’s the part that’s really blowing my mind. Old building or not, it couldn’t have come cheap.

I fold the deed neatly into my purse, then turn to face my husband. “Have I thanked you?”

“You already did, but I wouldn’t mind you thanking me some more… like you did this morning,” he taunts, running a hand down my face. His fingers twitch like he wants to play with my hair, but he’s respecting my wishes to look professional today.

Although only the medical director knows the building is mine, I still want to project a polished and elegant persona to the rest of the staff. After all, I’ll be working alongside them soon as Michael’s wife, and I need their respect.

I tilt my head teasingly. “I would kiss you, but I’ll only end up smudging my lipstick all over your mouth, and cherry red isn’t quite your color.”

His eyes darken as they drop to my lips. He leans in, voice dipping into a growl. “Try me. Fucking kiss me, Gianna.”

I’m about to, already closing the distance, lids drooping—when a light knock sounds on the window. I glance out to see Lorenzo waiting, pointedly tapping his watch.

“I don’t care about keeping the schedule, kiss me,” Michael insists.

“Well, I care.” I sit up and unlock my door. “I want to make a good first impression.”

“And you will. Anyone who doesn’t think so—or looks at you the wrong way—will lose their eyes.” My husband’s voice turns savage.

“Michael!” I half-laugh, glancing at him in disbelief, expecting to see humor dancing in his eyes, but my laughter dies when I realize—holy hell—he isn’t joking. “Baby, you can’t go around plucking my staff’s eyes out, no matter how they look at me.”

“We’ll see.” His answer is maddeningly noncommittal, though the corners of his lips twitch ever so slightly. I roll my eyes and reach for the door handle, but his hand stops me. “You’re not opening your door yourself. Hold on.”

He gets out on his side, and I take a moment to admire the way his tall, lithe frame moves as he rounds the hood of the car. Damn. The man looks absolutely mouthwatering.

“What a gentleman,” I murmur softly as he helps me out. “Thank you.”

“Always.” He winks, placing a possessive hand on the small of my back.

His men form a protective formation behind us, and as we approach the hospital entrance, all trace of playfulness vanishes from Michael’s face, his eyes scanning the perimeter with a sharp, hawkish intensity.

Inside, Pete Langhorne, the hospital director, is already waiting for us in the lobby. Alone. I exhale quietly in relief. I had expected a full staff introduction today and had been battling nerves all morning.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hart, welcome to Loretto Hospital.” Pete’s smile starts strained, then suddenly stretches unnaturally wide. A sidelong glance confirms my suspicion: Michael is impaling the poor man with his stare.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“It’s our pleasure to be here. You have a charming building.” I step forward, deliberately drawing his attention away from my intimidating husband towards me instead.

His shoulders relax a fraction. “I know it’s worse for the wear, but it’s our hospital. I hope you like it.”

“Oh, I do,” I assure him earnestly.

Michael doesn’t waste time. After a few pleasantries, he orders the man to give us a full tour.

The moment Pete's back is to us, I pinch Michael’s arm lightly. “Stop being mean to him,” I whisper.

He looks at me with genuine surprise. “I’m not being mean. This is how I interact with people.”

Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “Seriously?”

He nods, completely unbothered.

I frown, searching my memory. Was he ever like that with me?

…If he was, I can’t recall it now. But the realization that I experience a different Michael than the rest of the world sends a secret thrill through me.

The tour begins, and it doesn’t take long for Pete to figure out that I’m the nicer one. He directs most of his explanations to me, looking at me every now and then for approval. I nod accordingly, giving him appropriate responses as we navigate all four floors.

Each of the floors is shared by two separate departments.

The ground floor houses the Emergency Wing (right) and the Pediatrics Center (left).

The first floor has General Medicine on the one side and the Pharmacy Department on the other.

The second floor is split between OB/GYN and the Maternity Ward.

The third floor is reserved for the ICU and Cancer Department.

The top floor serves as the executive level, where non-medical staff offices are located, including the director’s.

Once we reach Pete’s office, he sort of just hovers behind us as we walk in. “What do you think ma’am?”

I turn to him with a warm smile. “I think it’s all wonderful. I can’t wait to start working here. And please, call me Gia.” It would be weird to have the medical director addressing me formally when he’ll technically be my superior.

Before he can respond, Michael waves him off. “Leave us alone, Peter.”

Pete visibly gulps, and I jump in quickly to soften the blow. “My husband and I need to have a private discussion, and we’d appreciate using your office for a moment—if you don’t mind.”

The man nods—probably grateful to escape—and hurries out.

As soon as the door clicks shut, I whirl on Michael, crossing my arms. “I know you know his name is Pete, Michael.”

He shrugs with magnificent indifference, settling into the director’s chair like a king on his throne. “I don’t care enough to call him his correct name.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re pissed at me, but I didn’t send him away just to talk about him. I have more pressing matters at hand.”

I scoff. “And what pressing matters would those be, huh?”

He leans back and beckons me over with a single crooked finger.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, I’m unable to resist walking towards him, even though I mouth off at him the whole way. “When we see him again, you’re going to call him by his actual name. And for the love of God, stop scaring the poor man.”

Michael’s lips curve slightly. “It’s not my fault he’s a little coward.” Spinning the chair around, he parts his legs, waiting for me to step between them. The second I do, his arm snakes around my waist, pulling me in. “Now, I haven’t been feeling too well, nurse Gianna. I need you to take care of me.”

I stare at him, fighting hard to swallow my smile. “Oh, have you now? I don’t know, patient… I don’t have my license yet. Shouldn’t you call someone with more experience? I can get my boss if you’d like. He’s very good at his job.”

His eyes turn to little blue slits as he narrows his gaze on me. “That’s unnecessary. What I need treated falls well within your expertise.” He exerts pressure on my waist, and I tumble into his arms.

I pretend to consider. “Well, if you insist… I suppose there’s no harm in trying to help you. After all, you’ve been very good to me these past few days. What exactly did you say you have again?”

“An acute case of blue balls–” He breaks off when I burst out laughing. “Now, is that professional behavior? Laughing at your patient?”

“No, sorry,” I giggle, shaking my head. “It’s just… I’m afraid your condition can’t be that acute, as I happen to know firsthand your wife already helped you out with that particular problem just this morning. So unless something’s terribly wrong, I highly doubt you’re suffering from epididymal hypertension.”

“She did,” he agrees, his fingers tracing maddening patterns on my hip. “But she’s so devastatingly gorgeous that I never get enough. As soon as I come down from an orgasm, my cock goes semi-erect in anticipation of our next interaction. It’s a vicious, unending cycle.”

We’re playing, but his words get to my head, making me dizzy and hot. I lean down and kiss him lightly. “That sounds painful. I suppose I could put you out of your misery.”

“Yes, you certainly can.” Michael doesn’t wait for me to take charge—he deepens the kiss, taking my tongue into his mouth to suck, and I groan, clutching the back of his neck. His hand travels up my spine, and I shiver as he smoothly lowers the zipper of my dress.

I chose this dress for a reason. I wanted to project femininity and elegance today, sure, but I also liked the way the pretty navy blue color matched his eyes. And now, Michael is peeling it off me like it’s his personal gift to unwrap.

I shift back, breaking our kiss to yank his shirt open, desperate to feel the solid heat of his chest.

He suckles my neck as I work the buttons. I’ve done this so many times now, I could probably strip him blindfolded—I’ve got his shirt off in seconds, just as he tugs my dress over my head.

I lean into his bare chest, dragging my teeth across his nipple piercing, and he groans, low and guttural. His hands sink into my hair, his cock growing more insistent beneath me.

“You know,” I murmur against his skin, “I think I have the same condition as you. My husband is so insanely gorgeous, it drives me crazy every time he goes to work, knowing other women will see him.”

Impossibly, my words make his cock go even harder, the hard length twitching beneath me. He likes that. “Really? Tell me more.”

“Well… he has these breathtaking ocean-blue eyes that shift shades like mercury depending on his mood. I love every shade, but I especially love when they turn dark blue because it means he wants me and can’t wait to have me. Just like they’re turning now.”

“Gianna, love—” He cuts himself off with a kiss, palm covering my breast.

Then, suddenly, the room spins dizzily. Only when he’s pushing my back against the sturdy wooden desk do I realize he’s rotated the chair.

He leans over me, holding my gaze as he nibbles the underside of my breasts, expertly undoing my bra with one hand. The garment falls weightlessly from my chest, and then his mouth is closing over a nipple, his teeth grazing and teasing the hardened flesh until my panties are soaked and I’m moaning, writhing beneath him.

He sucks and licks, first one breast, then the other, over and over, while one hand toys with my clit through my panties.

Sweat beads on my forehead and trickles down my spine as I pant for air. “Michael, please.”

My hands slip between us to tug uncoordinatedly at his belt, but he pulls back, watching me struggle with a satisfied gleam in his eye.

“Needy little thing.”

I glare. “Shut up and help me.”

He chuckles, but obliges, helping me unbuckle his belt and undo his pants. He shifts just enough to drag them down his hips, and I wait in anticipation for him to take off his underwear too—but he makes no moves to do so.

“Michael,” I whine, frustration clawing at me.

“You want my cock? Then take it out with your own hands, Gianna,” he says coolly.

And so, with hands shaking from sheer need—like a junkie unwrapping her next hit—I slip my fingers into his underwear and free his massive erection. Christ. He’s turned me into a full-blown sex addict, and I no longer have the will or desire to deny it.

Biting my bottom lip, I stroke him, my thumb rolling over his beautiful piercing, and my core clenches at the memory of just how wickedly good that metal feels inside me. I try to tease him like he always teases me, but I’m nowhere near as patient and collected as he is. Within seconds, I’m shifting my panties to the side at the crotch and positioning him against my entrance.

I moan, drool pooling in my mouth as I glide his wide head through my folds, shivering when the cool metal barbell kisses my clit. I do it again. And again. And again. My core gushing wetness as it contracts each time.

Fuck. I could come like this.

“Get on my fucking cock already, Gia,” Michael growls, his composure finally cracking as he wraps his arm around my back, lifting me effortlessly until I’m straddling him.

Chest heaving, I lick my lips and brace one hand on his tattooed shoulder while guiding him inside me with the other.

It’s our first time in this position—face-to-face, with me on top—and he feels impossibly huge. I clench my teeth, gripping his shoulder harder as I slowly work him into my sex, trying to take him deeper, sweat dripping down my spine.

“Fuck, you’re so big… so biggg—” My head falls back on a low drawn-out moan as he keeps stretching me, filling me, pushing deeper than I thought possible.

“You’re doing good, baby girl. Taking me so well.” His voice is a husky drawl, thick with praise. “That’s it, love… yessss.” He grabs my hip tightly as I finally take him to the hilt, our pelvises kissing. He presses his forehead against mine, lips seeking mine.

And then he kisses me.

Deeply. Hungrily. Like he hasn’t kissed me in months. Like he didn’t fuck me senseless just this morning. Like he’s been starving for me for years.

And I drink it all in greedily, moaning against his lips, stuffed so full with him I can feel him everywhere.

When he breaks the kiss, I’m gasping for air, but he doesn’t even give me a second to recover before he begins moving me on his cock. My hands reach out blindly behind me, slapping against the edge of the desk for support as I ride him slowly, a tsunami of pleasure barreling through me.

His hands roam my body languidly, tracing every inch like he has all the time in the world. He cups my tits, using his thumb to play with my already oversensitive nipples, then slides down my belly, dipping into my navel seductively, thrusting in and out in the same rhythm as his cock.

Then he goes lower.

Oh.

I jolt, sucking in a sharp breath as his fingers circle over my clit, stoking my pleasure higher and higher with each precise stroke until I’m delirious, lost in sensation.

I grind down harder, trying to move faster on him—my climax is soooo close—but his hand clamps around my waist, holding me steady. I moan, long and desperate, pleasure mixing with frustration and a tiny bit of pain from how he’s drawing it out.

“Michael, please⁠—"

Then he presses down on my clit, and it’s like triggering a detonator. My head snaps back so violently, my neck protests as I explode, screaming his name while sweet tears stream down my cheeks.

Michael snarls against my skin, and his rhythm turns wild, his pace breaking from steady control into raw, erratic thrusts.

And somehow, knowing he’s about to climax sends another surge of pleasure soaring through me.

Then he’s cumming, his balls slapping against my ass as his cock pulses inside me.

His hot semen triggers aftershocks that ripple through me, and I convulse around him, our cries of pleasure mixing.

Finally spent, I collapse against his shoulder, my heart racing a mile a minute, body hot and slick with sweat.

With a blissful sigh, I place my palm on his chest, loving the way his heart matches the frantic staccato of mine.

31

GIANNA

Little by little, my breathing slows, and the fire beneath my skin dims to a warm, lazy glow. I stay like this for a while, nestled against him, tracing absent patterns over the inked flesh of Michael’s chest as the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulls me into contentment. “Do all your tattoos have some special meaning, or do you just like looking badass?”

His hand rubs up my spine, the other settling into my hair, idly playing with the strands. “Some do, others don’t.”

I shift slightly to glance up at him. His face is relaxed, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, and a mop of dirty blond hair falls over his brows. I brush it back, then let my fingers drift to the dark ink lining the side of his scalp. “What about these?”

“They’re lines and bits of code from StarQuest, the video game I created that went viral and made HartSphere global.”

“That’s so cool,” I murmur, examining the cursives and little numbers with fresh eyes. I know of the game, obviously—who doesn’t?—but I’m not really much of a gamer. I should download it sometime. See what all the fuss is about.

Lifting up a little, I press a kiss to either side of his smooth scalp. The movement makes his cock slip wetly inside me, and I feel it twitch, stirring back to life. Heat floods my core in response.

I cock my brows at him, and he raises his hands in surrender, chuckling. “You can’t blame me. You’re naked with my cock inside you, and you’re moving around, shaking your tits in my face. Of course I’m going to get hard.”

As if proving his point, he gets even harder inside me, stretching me deliciously, and I swallow my low moan, not wanting to encourage the rogue. I start to get up from him, dragging his cock out of me, but he grips my hips, holding me still. “No. Stay. I like this.”

“It’s distracting having a conversation like this,” I protest weakly, but I settle back down on him anyway, shivering as goosebumps erupt all over my body, because—who am I kidding—I like this too.

Clearing my throat, I let my gaze wander back to his tattoos. The ones on his scalp continue down his neck in the same intricate pattern. I run my fingers over them, gentle and curious. “It must have hurt to get tattooed here.”

“Like a motherfucker,” he agrees bluntly, and I feel a rush of tenderness. I lean down and press a kiss on his throat—a kiss of empathy, of admiration for the pain endured. The strong pulse beneath my lips reminds me that for all his power and danger, he’s human too. I move my attention to his sternum and chest where the tattoo of the phoenix is. “I got that because I think of myself like the bird. Rising from the ashes of my past to establish the Michael I am now.”

I hum thoughtfully, curiosity burning through me about his past, his parents. From Gracie, I’ve gleaned that his father was probably not a good man, but his mother remains a complete mystery. Gracie never mentions her, and Michael avoids any reference to his parents altogether. I wonder if I can ask now…

“I can hear your thoughts loud and clear, Gianna. Ask your questions. I’ll answer the ones I’m comfortable with and ignore the rest.”

“Alright,” I murmur, but at the last second of asking about his parents, I chicken out. Instead, my gaze drifts to his left arm where an elaborate garden of different flowers twines down from his biceps to his wrist and fingers in striking black and white—with one vivid exception. A burst of red, orange, white, pink, and yellow bulbs with green stems.

Tulips.

I trace my fingers over the flowers, lingering on the colored tulips. “Did you know that my middle name is Tulipa? You probably do. What a coincidence, right?”

“It’s no coincidence, it’s because you were born to be mine.” His voice brooks no argument, and warmth blooms in my chest.

I like that thought—the idea of cosmic forces creating me specifically for him, of some divine hand nudging my parents to name me Tulipa after flowers that clearly mean something to him.

“What do they mean? The tulips?” I ask, desperate to understand this piece of him.

His hand resumes its hypnotic stroking of my spine, and I shiver, instinctively snuggling into him as I wait for his answer.

“It’s complicated. A long story,” he says after a weighted silence, and I sense his withdrawal. I move to get up from his chest, but his arms tighten around me, keeping me captive. “The flowers are a symbol of the connection between the guys and me. My brothers.”

Oh.

Something about the way he says it makes my throat constrict. I press a hand over his heart, sensing there’s a sad story behind those simple words. Why else would a bunch of men with no blood ties become so fiercely loyal to one another—and not only refer to themselves as brothers but truly believe they are family?

“It’s so long, I’m not even sure where to start. And we sure as hell can’t talk about it here,” he finishes evasively.

Oh no you don’t, I think, pushing away from him with a determined shove. I will not let him retreat now, not when I’m finally getting a glimpse behind the curtain.

“Tell me, right here, right now. Pete is gone, and he’s going to stay gone until we leave this office.” And I have a disturbing feeling in my belly that if I let Michael dodge this now, I’ll never get him to tell me about it again.

His hips shift beneath me, stirring his cock inside me⁠—

I narrow my eyes on him.

Oh, you asshole. He’s trying to distract me with sex?

“This isn’t fair, you know?” Frustration leaks into my voice. “I’m an open book to you because you already know everything there is to know about me. Hell, you probably even know things I don’t know about my own life.” That last part is meant as a guilt trip, but something flickers in his eyes that makes me believe he might know something I don’t.

His gaze holds mine, then he sighs. “Fine. Come back here.” He frames my face between his palms, stroking his thumbs gently over my cheekbones. I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering shut with contentment. His hands slip into my hair, and I sink into his body, ear pressed against the warmth of his bare chest.

Michael stays quiet for a long moment, and I don’t push. Instinct tells me he needs the silence, space to gather his thoughts.

The anticipation builds within me like a crescendo.

Finally, he speaks.

“If I’m going to start from the very beginning, then I’ll say it all started with an incredible young woman.” He pauses, and I hear a different note enter his voice. “Yes, it started with a girl. Emilia.”

His tone softens with the name, and I tilt my head up to catch his expression, my stomach knotting at what I find. His face has changed—his features gentler, his eyes distant, filled with an unmistakable affection for this Emilia. A vicious sting of jealousy bites me, but I push it down, forcing myself to be rational. Because somehow, I know this story isn’t going to be a romantic one. At least, not his.

“She got transferred to the high school the guys and I were attending at just sixteen. Smart as hell—so much so that she skipped two grades and landed right in the middle of our senior year. The guys and I were intrigued. Maybe even a little jealous.”

He chuckles, the sound fond with memory.

“The day we met her, we were shittalking—loudly—about this ‘genius girl’. Didn’t realize she was right behind us. And let’s just say… she had a lot to say to us about that.”

I can picture it so clearly—a group of arrogant teenage boys taken down a peg by a brilliant girl two years their junior. The image makes me smile despite my lingering jealousy. “I like her already.”

“So did Rafael, apparently. I expected him to be pissed—he hated when people talked back to us—but for some reason, he was amused. Declared to the whole school that she was under his protection. No one dared to mess with her after that. Maybe he even started liking her right then, just because of her spunk.”

Of course Rafael would be drawn to someone like that.

He pauses again, and I rub my hand down his chest soothingly, waiting patiently for him to continue. He’s not just telling a story—he’s reliving it.

“That same day, she got assigned as Rafael’s tutor. He’s smart, but you see, back then, the last thing on our minds was school. Rafael’s father was the don, and my father—” He exhales sharply. “My father found him useful. Took me to their house a couple of times. So by then, the guys and I were friends already. We couldn't wait to officially join the outfit and be part of the feared Moretti family. We ran errands for the syndicate any chance we got.

Something dark flashes through his expression, but he doesn’t linger on it.

“Anyways, Emilia tutored Rafael and began to sit with us for that first week. She and Rafael constantly argued. Maybe because they were both similar in a lot of ways; demanding and controlling. But by the end of the second week, her father was brutally murdered…”

A chill runs down my spine.

“By Alfonso Moretti, don of the Moretti family… Rafael’s father.”

My jaw drops in shock, and I push away from Michael’s chest to gape up at him. No. Fucking. Way.

Rafael’s own father murdered his friend’s dad? The pieces of Rafael’s complex personality begin to click into place.

Michael smiles slightly at my reaction, and lifts his index finger under my chin, gently closing my mouth.

“Tomassi Rossi, Emilia’s father, was a detective who had been sniffing around Alfonso for months. Nobody really knows how he died, but it was clear as day who the killer was.”

I shake my head slowly. “Emilia must have been devastated. How did she and her mother even cope with such sudden loss?”

“She didn’t have a mother. Lost her at a young age. No relatives, either.”

My heart constricts painfully. Poor girl. I can imagine exactly what she went through. Suddenly losing your parent and being orphaned is a trauma that reshapes your entire existence. I know that pain intimately, though unlike her, I had somewhere to go, someone to take me in. No matter how horrible my uncle and his family were to me, I still had them. And despite how everything went to shit between us and Dario’s subsequent death, I’m still grateful to Uncle Aldo.

But she had no one. No one.

“She must have been out of her mind with grief because she took her father’s gun and stormed into one of Alfonso’s warehouses,” Michael continues, and my heart plummets into my stomach. Oh God. No. That couldn’t have ended well.

“The guys and I were out running some errands for the outfit, and when we got back, what we walked into was…” His jaw goes rigid. “It was horrible.”

I hold my breath.

“The men at the warehouse had overpowered Em. They had already roughed her up—payback for whatever fight she put up—and they were in the process of taking her clothes off and…” His throat works as he swallows hard, his voice trailing off, thick with barely controlled rage.

I don’t need him to complete the sentence to get what nightmarish scene they walked into that day. And although I’ve never met nor heard of the girl before, white-hot anger rushes through my veins on her behalf. She was just a grieving child, and those monsters tried to violate her in the worst way possible. I wish I had been there with a gun of my own⁠—

“We were all young, but that was our friend. And Rafael, who was usually the most level–headed amongst us, just… snapped. He took out his gun and started shooting.” Michael glances at me. “So we took out our guns as well and joined him. Wiped them all out.”

I let out a slow breath. Good. They fucking deserved it.

“We took Emilia to a hospital to get checked, and that was where Alfonso found us.”

My stomach twists. Oh, fuck. The man couldn't have been pleased about losing his men, but surely he understood they had to⁠—?

“Alfonso grabbed us all—Em included—and tortured us in his basement. Nearly killed us. And he made his son watch, tied to a chair, because this wasn’t just punishment. It was a lesson.”

“A lesson?”

“He wanted to make sure Rafael never disobeyed him again. Wanted to drill it into him that caring about people would only bring him pain.”

“Jesus. That’s—that’s not a father. That’s a fucking monster!” No wonder Rafael is the way he is.

“That’s why he got along so well with Bradley Hart.” Michael’s laugh is hollow, devoid of any humor, and I wince, wrapping my arms around him protectively. Bradley Hart—his father. Even though the man died long ago, and I never met him, I know he sure as hell wasn’t winning any father-of-the-year awards.

I make a mental note to ask Michael about him later.

“Alfonso wanted to draw out our deaths, so he locked us in that dark, cold basement and took Rafael upstairs, leaving us there to bleed out from our injuries.” He turns the inside of his elbow towards me and guides my fingers to the pit where a bright purple tulip bud unfurls prettily.

My lips part, brows furrowing as my fingers tug gently at the raised skin beneath the ink. “He—he pierced right over your vein?” I ask, horrified. “That bastard. That scum of the fucking earth. I swear to God, I’m going to find his grave and⁠—”

Michael covers my hand with his own, stilling my touch, and rests his brow against mine. “Easy tigress. He doesn’t have a grave. People he had wronged found his dead body and… well, let’s just say they tore him apart.”

A satisfied hum leaves me. “Good.” His lips tilt up in a small smile, and he leans forward to press a soft kiss on my lips. I let myself sink into it for a second before pulling back. “How the hell did you guys escape?”

“Well, unfortunately for Alfonso, his plans backfired. After making Rafael watch us suffer, he turned to his son, untied him, and beat him angrily. He shouldn’t have untied him.” Michael’s smile widens, wolfish now. “He expected him to be too weak to do anything after taking so many hits, but Rafael got up slowly, got his hand on a gun, and shot his father point-blank. He saved our lives.”

I’ve never been a fan of Rafael, and I doubt we’ll ever be friends, but hearing this, a little of my ice towards him thaws. Maybe I’ve judged him too harshly.

“After that, we left town,” Michael continues. “Went to Manhattan where we tried to survive by any means—stealing, petty crimes. Emilia did some waitressing. We all crammed into this shitty little studio apartment in lower Manhattan and just… figured it out.”

“How long?” I murmur.

“A year.”

He pauses.

I wait.

When he doesn’t say more, I nudge. “And then? After the first year?”

More importantly, where is Emilia now? The trauma they survived together forged an unbreakable bond between the guys. Surely it connected them to her just as deeply. So where the hell is she? Did she somehow… die? My heart clenches at the thought. God, I hope not.

Michael runs a hand through my hair, sighing. “After that first year, to celebrate coming out of it all alive, we decided to get a tattoo over our scars, wanting a similar design in solidarity and a way to declare our loyalty and commitment to each other. Emilia suggested we get flowers. Something pretty to cover up the ugly, and we agreed—though I made it very clear I wasn’t getting some pansy-ass flower like roses tattooed on my body.”

I laugh, because I can practically hear him saying that in my head.

“The other guys agreed with me, so we each did our research on what flower we’d proudly wear on our bodies. I was going to go for foxgloves, but I kept getting drawn back to tulips.” He looks at me, something softer in his gaze now. “Guess the universe was preparing me for you.”

I like that, so I kiss his chin to let him know that. “I’m glad. Even though you didn’t choose it with me in mind, it still feels like a part of me is on you.” Unable to resist, I take a gentle nibble at his jaw. “What happened after you got your tattoos?”

“Well, that same evening, Emilia disappeared—left a vague goodbye letter and was just… gone. Rafael wasn’t the same after that, and a few weeks later, he left as well. My father died around that time, and I inherited his money, so I used it to send myself to school and got out. We all lost touch after that.

His voice drops slightly. “But five years later, Rafael showed back up in the city and sent me a message. No matter how long had passed, he was still my brother, so I went to meet him—only to find Maximo and Romero there as well. It was like no time had passed.”

“That must’ve been really nice,” I murmur, imagining the reunion.

“It was.” He gives me a small smile. “Not too long after that, Emilia came back to the city as well, and for a little while, she and Rafael dated. The man was obsessed with her and called a meeting to announce he was going to marry her.”

I arch a brow. “And?”

He exhales sharply, his jaw tightening. “Then a lot of shit went down. It turned out Emilia’s dead father wasn’t so dead after all—and worse, he was trafficking little girls. It was a whole lot. The man ended up getting killed by some law enforcers—FBI, if I’m not mistaken—and after that, Emilia disappeared again. We lost touch with her.” His face closes off, his whole energy shifting, and I recognize the emotion instantly—anger.

I want to press him for more details about Emilia’s dad. How could someone who was previously dead miraculously be alive? Did he fake his death? And how the hell did a man go from being a detective fighting for justice to trafficking kids?

But when I glance out the window, I realize it’s getting really late. Pete must be getting so angsty waiting for us. “You guys never saw Emilia again after that?” I ask Michael as I slowly get up from his lap, wincing as his cock slips out of me. My core clenches wantonly at the loss, and little aftershocks of pleasure send tingles down my spine.

He licks his lips, eyeing my body lasciviously. “Not until last year when she suddenly showed up again—tried to kill Maximo and kidnapped Elira.”

“What?” I frown at him, sure I must have misheard, as I step into my panties and shrug on my bra.

“Yeah…” He stands up as well and tugs his pants up over his hips. “Thankfully, no one got hurt. She disappeared again, and I’ve been looking for her ever since. This time, I’m determined she won’t remain hidden for as long as she did the last time.”

I shake my head as I pull my dress on, giving Michael my back so he can zip me up. Could the trauma she went through have messed with her head? I can’t even imagine suddenly discovering my parents weren’t dead after all—only to find out on the same day that they weren’t the heroes I believed them to be. And then to lose them again all over again?

Like Michael said, it’s a whole lot.

“Don’t look so gloomy. We didn’t turn out so bad, did we?” Michael frowns slightly when I turn to face him. “And if you’re worried about Emilia, don’t. She’s fine.”

“How can you know that?”

“I just do. Trust me,” he insists and presses a deep, distracting kiss to my lips. I barely have time to process before I’m melting into him, and when he finally pulls back, I’m panting for air, my brain foggy. It takes a second to remember what we were even talking about.

Michael picks his shirt up from the floor, the muscles in his arms and chest flexing with the movement, his tattoos shifting like they’re alive.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to get a tattoo. Something to remember my family by. But I’ve always been scared to get one.” My hand goes to my necklace, glad I at least have that.

It wasn’t just the pain that kept me from getting inked, though that was part of it. It was also Aldo—how he would have reacted to me ‘tainting’ my skin. He was always very vocal about how much he hated tattoos and even flat-out forbade his men from ever getting one.

“You’d look very pretty with ink on you.” Michael’s eyes darken as his gaze sweeps over me, like he’s already imagining it. “What do you think you’d want to get?”

I frown, trying to think. It’s been so long since I considered the idea that nothing comes to mind. My eyes flick to the ink on his skin, then I say slowly, “I think for my first tattoo—to thank you for my new job—I’d get anything you want, wherever you want it.”

But it’s not only to thank him but because I also trust his judgment.

His gaze turns predatory, and he leans into me until I think he might kiss me again. “Anything I want? Wherever I want? You sure you want to make that offer to a man like me?”

We literally just had sex, but my heart starts pounding like I’m brand new to his touch, my tongue gluing to the roof of my mouth so all I can do is nod wordlessly.

“Look forward to it, baby.” He smirks, then presses a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of my lips.

32

GIANNA

I take a deep sip of my hot chocolate, savoring the rich sweetness as I flip the page of my prep book. My eyes jump over the text, but I’ve been at it for so long the words are starting to blur together, my head throbbing with each attempted paragraph.

With a sigh, I set my half-empty mug down on my brand new desk and push myself up from my brand new chair. As I stretch my back—hearing the satisfying pop of my spine—I admire the study area, taking a much-needed break to walk around my old bedroom.

When we got home from my hospital last week, I asked Michael for a laptop and immediately registered for the NCLEX-RN test. My ATT (authorization to test) finally came in last night, and I scheduled my exam for three months from now.

It’s been a year since I graduated from school, and I haven’t touched a textbook since, so I need all the time I can get to prepare properly. And beneath that practical concern lies something deeper—an intense, almost desperate need to impress Michael with my test scores and subsequent work ethics. The thought of disappointing him makes my stomach knot.

I’m heading back to my desk when there’s a soft knock on my bedroom door. Before I can answer, it swings open, and in walks my husband, carrying a tray.

At first, I assume he has brought me snacks, but when I look closer, my stomach flips. That’s not food. Those are… instruments.

My pulse quickens as I recognize the sleek, black machine I know to be a tattoo gun nestled among several other mysterious things I don’t know the names of but suddenly seem very, very ominous.

“Well? How’s studying coming along?” he asks, setting the tray on the bed as he approaches me. But I barely hear him. My eyes stay locked on the equipment, drawn by morbid fascination and growing dread.

When Michael stops in front of me, he places his thumb and index finger beneath my chin and lifts my gaze to his. Amusement dances in his blue eyes. “You didn’t answer my question, love.”

I blink, shaking off my daze. “Oh. It’s… going okay, I guess. First day, so nothing’s really sticking yet.” Still, I’m getting a kick out of remembering everything we were taught back in school again. “What are those?” I nod towards the bed as much as I can with his grip on my chin.

“Oh, those?” He barely spares a glance back. “Just the tools I’ll need for your tattoo. Would you like to take a break from studying to get it done now? I promise it will be quick.”

I had already suspected as much, but hearing him confirm it sends a dull thud through my chest, and a sliver of panic crawls down my spine. “Oh, so soon?”

He reads my fear with unnerving accuracy and runs his thumb across my cheek. “Can’t risk you changing your mind—like I can see you considering right now. Besides, it's been a week.”

A week since I foolishly offered to let him mark me permanently. What the hell was I thinking?

I bite my lip nervously. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get it over with,” I concede, knowing there’s no escape. “What design did you decide on?”

His hand slips from my chin and he presses a soft, chaste kiss on my lips as he steps back. “You’ll see. Now, come.” Then he picks up the tray and heads for the door.

After a moment of paralyzed indecision—during which I consider locking myself in the bathroom—I follow him. “Shouldn’t I change out of this outfit?” I ask, partly because I don’t look all that good in my pajama shorts and his oversized shirt, but mostly because, well… I really wouldn’t mind delaying the inevitable pain for a few more precious minutes.

He glances back at me briefly. “You’re fine.”

Once we’re at the foot of the stairs, I expect him to lead me to the front door, to the car, and for us to drive to some upscale tattoo parlor where professionals will handle this delicate procedure. Instead, he takes a sharp turn towards the back of the stairs—towards the rooms there that I haven’t had time to explore. I had assumed they might be security rooms or something.

But then he opens one of the doors, and my lips part in surprise.

The room itself is pretty spartan; there’s only a black, oversized leather chair with cushioned armrests and a footrest pushed against one side of the wall, with two wheeled stools beside it. On the other side, a neat workspace is set up with clean tools laid out on the desk—but what really catches my eye are the designs fixed to the wall above it.

Some of them I recognize.

Because they’re inked on his body.

It’s his private tattoo room.

The realization is kind of wild. But then again, he has so many tattoos on his body that, when I really think about it, it would be weirder if he didn’t have such a room in his house. I mean, imagine having to haul himself to a shop every single time he wanted new ink. That would be a pain in the ass.

Michael heads straight for the workspace, sets the tray down, then gestures towards the leather chair. “Have a seat.”

I make my way over and perch daintily at the very edge, like the thing might bite.

He starts unloading everything from the tray before covering the surface with a paper towel and arranging the items back on it. Then carries the prepared tray over, placing it on one stool while he takes a seat on the other.

“You need to sit all the way back,” he instructs distractedly as he moves things around on his tray, and I awkwardly do as he says. In his current position, he’s close to my left hand, which he lifts gently, pressing a tender kiss against my knuckles. “You ready?”

No. Absolutely not. “I guess.”

Another kiss, this time to my ring finger, before he carefully slides off my ring. I watch him in silent fascination as he takes out a disinfectant wipe and thoroughly cleans the skin. So that’s where he wants the tattoo.

My heart rate skyrockets. “Aren’t finger tattoos extremely painful?”

He glances up at me, looking completely unbothered. “I don’t know about extremely, but yeah, it’s probably more painful than tattooing other parts of the body.”

His honest answer doesn’t help a bit. Would it have killed him to lie? Said, ‘Nah, it’s just a little tickle.’ Something?

As if reading my thoughts, he adds, “But you’ll be fine. You can handle it.” He lifts an unlabeled ointment dispenser. “I got this from a pharmacist I have on retainer. It’s a topical numbing cream he crafted specifically for tattooing parts of the skin close to the bone. It’s still in its early stages and hasn't received any official approval, but he swears by it.”

Untested pharmaceuticals. Wonderful… I feel so reassured.

He squeezes a generous amount into his palm and slowly works it into the skin of my finger. I try—really try—to swallow back my panic, but I have absolutely zero faith in this unofficial, unapproved numbing cream, no matter who swears by it. This is going to hurt like hell.

“Do you still want to know what design I came up with?” Michael asks as he caps the ointment and returns it back to the tray, then places my hand palm-down on the armrest, spreading my fingers apart.

“I thought you wanted it to be a surprise?” My voice is thready from my nervousness.

“I did, I do, but you’re getting it right now anyway, so I suppose it doesn't matter anymore.” He stands and heads to his desk where he retrieves a drawing pad, flipping through it as he walks back.

When he reaches the last page, he hands it to me. My breath catches in my throat. It’s a stunning design—a ring with tiny rows of diamonds circling the finger, topped with a burst of pink tulips, surrounded at the bottom by a black and white mixture of azaleas, lily of the valley, and iris, all connected by the tiniest, most delicate stems.

“You drew this?” I ask in amazement.

“I draw all my tattoo designs,” he answers nonchalantly, as if creating such beauty is nothing remarkable when I can barely draw a straight line, let alone a stick figure.

“You’re really good. If the whole CEO-of-a-multi-billionaire-company-and-mafia-don thing doesn’t work out, you could always be an artist,” I joke, and he chuckles.

With a disposable towel, he pats my ring finger dry, then carefully picks up what appears to be a ring-shaped piece of paper—stencil paper, I realize—bearing a bold image of the design from his drawing pad. He gently drapes it over my finger, smoothing it in place.

Then he picks up the tattoo gun, and I swallow, my stomach gurgling so loudly my cheeks go hot with embarrassment.

“You’ll be fine,” Michael assures me again.

Nope. Nope. I don’t trust that. Not one bit.

I stiffen reflexively as I squeeze my eyes shut. If I don’t see the moment the needle touches my skin, maybe I won’t react. Maybe I won’t yank my hand back or scream or do something equally embarrassing.

I brace for the pain.

One second.

Five.

Ten.

Nothing.

Is he teasing me right now?

I crack one eye open. Then the other—and my mouth drops.

Michael is already moving the machine across my finger, but I feel absolutely nothing.

“It worked,” I breathe in disbelief. “The numbing cream actually worked!”

“Guess Connor will be getting his research grant then.” He winks at me before returning his focus back to my finger.

Now that he’s already working on the tattoo and I don’t feel any pain, my fear dissolves, replaced by the first flickers of excitement.

I’m getting my first tattoo!

I can’t wait to see that pretty design wrapped around my finger. I glance down at the drawing pad clenched in my right hand and carefully study it again, tracing every tiny detail with my gaze. And that’s when I realize…

It’s a miniature replica of the tattoo on his arm. The one that symbolizes his brotherhood with Rafael, Maximo, and Romero.

My heart melts into a pathetic little puddle at the significance of him choosing this design for me. I’m surprised he can’t physically see just how utterly gone I am for him in this moment.

He’s drawing something that means so much to him on my ring finger.

He’s laying his claim to me for the entire world to see.

Anybody who recognizes the design—who knows him and his brothers—will instantly associate me with them. With him. I love it.

I move my gaze from the drawing pad to Michael, watching as he works diligently, head bowed in concentration. His furrowed brows make his piercing stand out even more, and the sight is so stupidly beautiful that my fingers twitch.

I can’t stop myself.

I reach out, running a hand over the soft mop of blonde hair at the top of his head, needing to touch him, to connect.

He glances up, and—fuck—those vivid blue eyes gut me.

A thick lump forms in my throat, my heart suddenly pounding for entirely different reasons as three ridiculous, dangerous words bubble up from somewhere deep inside me. I love you.

Oh God, I love him.

I swallow the words back desperately, but he must see something in my expression because his eyes go impossibly soft, and he gives me a smile so warm it threatens to melt the last of my defenses. “Almost done.”

I nod wordlessly and just watch him as he works while inwardly spiraling into full-blown panic. Shit, shit, shit. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him. That wasn’t part of the plan.

What the hell is wrong with me and my stupid, traitorous heart? Why can’t I just be a cool and collected person instead of falling in love with the first dangerous man to pay me any attention?

Because he’s not just dangerous, a small voice whispers. He’s brilliant, talented, protective. He sees you—really sees you.

“There. Now you can never escape from my hold.” There’s a dark satisfaction in his voice that somehow, impossibly, arouses me.

“You’re done already?” I ask in surprise as he switches off the tattoo gun and sets it on the tray.

When I finally look down at my ring finger, I suck in a breath.

The skin is angry red and swollen, but even through that, the tattoo is exquisite.

And then I see it.

A detail that wasn’t in the original design he drew.

At the top of the flowers, right below my middle knuckle, are two italicized letters—M.H. His initials.

“Michael,” I scold, but fuck, I just discovered I’m in love with him and can’t nearly work up the same anger I should feel. In fact, my traitorous heart secretly thrills at having his name permanently etched into my skin.

I’m getting as crazy as he is.

“You’re mine, Gianna. Forever. And now anyone who sees you will know this fact as well,” he says unrepentant, and my cunt clenches with arousal at the quiet confidence in his voice.

Michael leans forward to kiss the freshly tattooed skin. Then he cleans the area with gentle care and wraps a bandage around it.

33

GIANNA

I jolt awake, blinking groggily as I glance around the room. My brain lags, stuck somewhere between sleep and reality. A couple of textbooks are flipped open on the desk in front of me, one page smeared with a suspicious wet patch that screams drool.

Ugh.

I quickly swipe at my mouth and the dampened page.

Under the soft glow of the desk lamp, my wedding ring twinkles, catching my eye. But it’s not just the jewelry that holds my attention—it’s the lines of ink peeking from beneath it. I shift the ring slightly, and my heart gives a stupid little pitter at the sight of Michael’s claim on me.

The tattoo.

It’s only been a few days since he inked my finger, and it’s already healed quite nicely. Michael removed the bandage just this morning, so seeing it bare still feels a little surreal. But I love it. I suppose I’ll get used to it with time—just like I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that I’ve fallen in love with my husband. Although I’m too much of a coward to tell him.

I stretch as I push up from the chair, only to wince when a sharp cramp ripples through my lower back and stomach. Could it be menstrual cramps? The thought makes my heart trip over itself, and suddenly I’m too awake.

Menstrual cramps.

When was my last period?

I try to remember. I try really hard. And I… I can’t.

The last time was probably while I was still in Seattle, right before I met Michael.

No. No, no, no, no.

That’s impossible. I used the morning-after pill, and I’ve been taking my birth control religiously ever since.

I can’t be pregnant. I can’t.

I’m about to go into a full-blown panic attack when someone knocks on the door. “Sorry to interrupt your study session, Gia,” Gracie calls from the other side. “But there's someone at the gate asking for you.”

Someone wants to see me? My brow furrows as I cross the room and open the door. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know her,” the housekeeper answers, her expression pinched with uncertainty. “I’ve never seen her before.”

Not Elira, then. She’s been here twice since the pill incident. Gracie would recognize her.

So who the hell could it be?

An unfamiliar visitor sets off warning bells in my head, but curiosity wins out. I follow Gracie down the stairs to the security panel near the front door, and the camera feed displays a face that punches the air from my lungs—Marie Cabello.

Aldo’s wife. My aunt.

I’d almost forgotten I even had extended family, but here she stands, a living reminder that they still exist. “What the hell are you doing here?” I snap, hating the horrible memories her presence drags back to the surface.

On the screen, Aunt Marie looks right into the camera, hunching dramatically into the thin jacket around her shoulders as she shivers. “I–I ran away from Aldo, and I couldn’t think of where to go that he can’t reach except here. Please, let me in, Gigi.”

I go rigid.

The use of that nickname sends cold chills through me. Nothing good has ever followed that name. But then, it’s what everyone from that side of the family has always called me, so she probably doesn’t mean to tug on my trauma by using it. Probably…

“Gianna, please,” Aunt Marie sniffs and throws a quick, fearful glance over her shoulder. “I’m not sure, but I think I’m being followed, and if he catches up to me… I’m as good as dead.”

I don’t owe her anything.

No love lost between us.

But I remember what it’s like to be in her shoes—the gnawing fear, the suffocating paranoia, always looking over your shoulder for shadows.

It’s that memory that makes me do it.

Against every screaming instinct, I approve her entry into the house, letting her in.

I wait by the front door, watching the empty driveway for several endless minutes until her slim figure finally materializes on the long road. A small, stupid part of me itches to meet her halfway, but I crush it ruthlessly.

She can walk her own damn way here.

By giving her sanctuary at all, I’m already showing her way more kindness than she ever showed me. Not once did she lift a finger when I was suffering under her husband’s and son’s cruelty. She happily turned an ignorant ear to my plights—hell, and sometimes even seemed to derive pleasure from them.

So why now?

What made her run away from home?

“Thank you so much, Gigi,” she says as she finally reaches me, extending her hands like we’re long-lost relatives reuniting. I keep my arms firmly at my sides, meeting her gaze with ice in mine.

“Do not ever call me that again,” I snap, and she flinches like I slapped her. But something shifts in her eyes—something dark and cunning—but it’s so brief I gaslight myself into thinking I imagined it.

“Alright, I won’t,” she says meekly, trembling. Then she forces a weak smile. “I’m just so glad you let me in. I know I’ve done nothing to deserve your kindness, but you’re just so soft-hearted… just like your father was.”

Suspicion narrows my eyes. This is the first time she’s ever mentioned my dad to my face. But before I can ask what she means by that, she shivers again, and I reluctantly step aside. “Come on in.”

Gracie is waiting for us in the foyer. A subtle nod from me sends her melting into the background, though I can tell from the set of her shoulders she’s not completely at ease.

That makes two of us.

“Where is everybody?” Marie asks as I lead her into the living room and wait for her to sit down.

“Everybody?” I ask as I take a seat across from her.

“The Mad Hat–I-” She clears her throat abashedly when I skewer her with my glare. “Sorry, I meant Michael’s security. The people who are meant to protect us–you.”

My lips press together. I regret letting her in already. I hope this impulsive generosity doesn’t come back to bite me—or worse, Michael.

“Don’t worry about that,” I say flatly. “We’re well secured. What happened with Uncle Aldo? Why did you run away?”

She places trembling hands on her knees and bursts into tears. “Oh, don’t mention that monster. He blamed me for Dario’s death. Said our son died because I didn’t raise him well. And he’s been very… physical with his anger towards me.” Her voice wobbles as she sniffles. “Tonight, he started drinking with his friends in the house, and I overheard him telling them that he’ll s–send me to meet my son since I’m too old to give him another heir. He wants to marry a younger woman, Gia.” Her sobs intensify. “Oh, Gia, he’s so horrible.”

She continues sobbing, shoulders shaking emphatically, and I just watch her, detached. What does she expect? That I’ll rush to comfort her? Offer her my shoulder to cry on? After everything she allowed to happen to me under her roof?

Not fucking likely.

Besides, I doubt she’d appreciate that. The only reason she came here at all is because she had nowhere else to go.

I get up from my chair, clearing my throat awkwardly. “It’s okay. Let me just get us some tea.”

She glances up at me, teary-eyed, and I give her a stiff nod before turning towards the door.

But just as my hand closes around the handle, pain explodes through my neck, lightning-striking straight into my skull. I cry out, slapping my hand to the source as icy liquid floods my bloodstream, chilling me to the bones.

My heart stutters.

A thick syringe juts from my neck and I turn, movements already sluggish, to see Marie standing behind me, her face twisted with savage glee. Confusion swamps me as my vision swirls. “W–what arrr yew do-ing?” The words slur out. My limbs feel like lead. My heartbeat slows to a crawl.

Aunt Maria smirks, all traces of the cowering victim evaporated. “Don’t worry, Gigi. It’s not deadly—you don’t get to die yet. Not this easily anyway. It’s just something to knock you out. Makes transporting you out of here easier.”

She yanks the syringe from my neck with unnecessary violence, and my legs finally betray me. I collapse against the door, body crumpling into a useless heap. My arms won’t move. My legs won’t respond. My lungs struggle to keep up.

The ceiling sways—spinning, twisting.

Once.

Twice.

Then darkness devours me.

The voices drag me back to consciousness.

They’re loud. Annoying.

I try to raise my hands to cover my ears, to drown out their words, but my arms won’t respond. Neither will my legs when I try to stretch them.

What the…?

My mind claws through the haze, scrambling for awareness. I wake up the rest of the way, wincing from the bright lights in the room. My vision swims at first, eyes watering from the strain. But as clarity slowly returns, a pounding ache makes itself known from the back of my skull, radiating outwards until my skull feels like it might shatter.

I groan and squeeze my eyes shut, welcoming the temporary relief that comes with the darkness.

Then—silence.

The sharp bang of a door slamming makes me flinch.

I force my eyes open to see three figures walking in.

Aunt Marie.

Uncle Aldo.

Carlo.

Fuck.

Fear rips through me at the malevolence twisting their faces and the smug victory plastered across Aunt Marie’s features. I glance around, my vision finally adjusting. The familiarity of the room makes bile rise in my throat.

This is Uncle Aldo’s office, and I’m tied to one of the chairs.

The violent urge to thrash, to fight, is instant, and it takes everything in me to shove it down. Struggling won’t do shit except amuse them. I need to be level-headed.

I inhale through my nose, letting my glare settle on Aunt Marie. “What did you do? My husband will find out you took me. And when he does, he’ll kill you.” My voice is eerily calm, but it’s threaded with lethal promise. She flinches slightly, some of her bravado faltering.

“What? Like he killed poor Dario?” Uncle Aldo’s gaze darkens. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you. I just need you here for a few hours, and you’ll be free to go back home.”

“What?” I frown. Why orchestrate this elaborate kidnapping only to release me? What’s he playing at? Is he trying to taunt me?

“Oh no, not the home you shared with Michael,” Carlo says with a smarmy smile. “Your new home. With me.” He nods at Aunt Maria, who scurries to the door and ushers in an older man dressed in judge's robes, complete with a ridiculous white wig.

Oh my God. They can’t be serious.

“The honorable justice will expedite your divorce with Michael and wed us,” Carlo finishes, and the man shifts uncomfortably.

I shake my head, my pulse hammering. “That’s impossible. Michael would need to sign the divorce papers for it to be legal and binding.”

“That’s where this comes in.” Uncle Aldo gestures to Aunt Marie, who takes out a flash drive from her pocket and waves it in the air like a trophy. “You see, Marie was able to procure Michael’s digital signature, and that’s more than enough, isn’t it?” He directs the question to the judge, who mumbles something under his breath.

My mouth falls open as my gaze ricochets between them—Uncle Aldo’s smug confidence, Aunt Marie’s vindictive glee, Carlo’s lecherous anticipation, and the judge’s shameful avoidance.

This can’t be happening.

It’s just a fever dream, right?

“All this,” I force out,” “just to get me married to Carlo? Michael and the rest of the Nightshades won’t take this lightly. If you wanted a connection that badly, all you had to do was apologize to me and Michael.”

Uncle Aldo throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, getting you married to Carlo is just a bonus—to clip your wings, not because I’m hungry for more power. And to silence any voice of resistance to the power I currently wield.”

Confusion churns in my gut. What the hell is he talking about? What resistance?

“But,” he continues, “that’s just the icing on the cake. The main deal today is the other information on that flash.”

Somehow, instinctively, I know this is all Aunt Marie’s doing. I face the older woman who now radiates pure malice—utterly transformed from the sobbing, frightened creature in my living room earlier this afternoon. Hell, was that even today? “What the hell did you do?” I ask again, but my voice isn’t as strong this time. Because deep down, I’m starting to realize—this might be one battle I won’t win.

She smirks, twirling the flash drive between her fingers. “Interesting, isn’t it? That Michael would keep such sensitive information on his computer. I wasn’t expecting to hit such a goldmine, but then again, his arrogance will be his downfall.”

A fresh wave of panic slams into me.

“What’s on that flash?” I demand angrily as I realize that no, this isn’t Aunt Marie’s fault at all, but mine for being such a fool and letting her into our home. Fucking dumbass.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Aldo cuts in impatiently, “Now come on, let's get this ceremony over with.” He beckons at Carlo and the priest.

“Wrong, Aldo. She does have to worry about it.” Aunt Marie slithers towards me, her smile widening. “We’ve planted evidence that you stole this information from Michael’s laptop to share it with the man you’re cheating on Michael with, and in turn the man, who in this fictional story is our mole, handed the flash over to us.”

Cold sweat slicks down my spine and forehead as understanding dawns. “What are you talking about?” The question is pointless. I already know. I just need to hear it, need to understand exactly what I’m up against.

Uncle Aldo is only too happy to elaborate. “You see, the flash drive I gave my wife contained a little surprise—viruses that overrode Michael’s security on his devices and gave us access to a treasure trove of information on your husband. Damning information that you’re going to leak. And you’re going to take the fall for.”

No.

No, no, no.

“No.” I shake my head. “It’s not going to work. Michael knows I would never do anything to betray him. He knows I love him.” Except… I never told him, did I? A lump swells in my throat. Michael is too smart to be fooled like I was, right? He has to be.

“Does he now?” Uncle Aldo smirks and nods at Aunt Marie.

Before I can react, she grabs my right hand and rubs the flash all over my fingers. Horror floods me when I realize what she’s doing, and I start to thrash against my bonds, but it’s useless. I’m well and truly trapped.

Once she’s satisfied that my fingerprints are thoroughly imprinted on the drive, she retreats, and I watch, chest heaving as Uncle Aldo nods at the judge, who clears his throat and steps forward.

“We’re gathered here today to⁠—”

“None of that nonsense now,” my uncle cuts the man off sharply. “We all know why we’re here and that one of the parties isn’t willing. Skip the formalities.”

The judge's eyes flick to mine before quickly darting away. He opens his robe, revealing a suit underneath, and pulls out a stack of documents from his pocket. “I have with me here the lady’s divorce papers from her first husband and the marriage contract to her new husband.”

Oh God.

Dread suffocates me as sweat streams down my body.

This nightmare is real.

The judge hands what I assume must be the marriage contract to Carlo and Uncle Aldo. “I’ll need her signature on this.” He waves two papers up and starts walking towards me. “Her fingerprints will do just fine in this case since I doubt she’ll willingly sign anything.”

I curl my fingers into fists, shaking my head at him frantically. “No, please don’t. Please.”

The man doesn’t even look at my face as he kneels before me and tries to force my right hand open. I keep it clenched tight, so he switches to my left hand. That’s when, for the first time I notice—my ring is missing. Aunt Marie or someone else must have taken it off.

Then, suddenly, everything shifts.

The judge lets out a horrified gasp and stumbles back, falling on his ass, his face paling as if he’s just seen a ghost. I frown at him. What the hell is wrong with him?

His gaze is glued to my left hand—more specifically, to the tattoo on my ring finger.

He shakes his head violently. “I… I didn’t know she was married to the Mad Hatter.” His voice is barely a whisper. Then he scrambles to his feet like a man who’s just realized he’s standing on a landmine. “She’s Nightshade property. No. This—this is suicide, Carlo, and I won’t go down with you. I won’t do it.” With that, he spins on his heel and bolts out of the office.

I stay quiet, stunned by this unexpected turn.

Did that just⁠—?

What does this mean for me?

Is the cursed wedding… off? Are they going to let me go now?

Carlo curses viciously and runs after the judge, leaving me alone with my aunt and uncle. The latter walks forward and glares down at my finger. His face blanches. “You’re part of the Nightshades now?”

“Well… I married one,” I say slowly, confusion mingling with a flicker of hope. Who would have thought getting tattooed is the thing that would ultimately save me?

Uncle Aldo doesn’t like my answer. Not one damn bit. He draws his hand back and hits my face so hard my head whips to the side. My ears ring, my lip splits against my teeth, and the metallic tang of blood fills my mouth.

While my face is still turned, his phone pings with a notification.

He glances at the screen⁠—

And grins.

“Well, well, well, this is even better than I anticipated.” He lifts his gaze to mine, smug as hell. “Guess who’s about to see and condemn you in front of your husband now, Gigi?”

Before I can spit out a retort, pain lances through my neck.

The same sting as earlier.

Aunt Marie, damn her, has thrust the syringe into me again.

My vision winks out.

34

MICHAEL

I found it.

The proof I’ve spent days endlessly searching for.

I scoured the entire city, tore through every possible lead, combed the darkest corners of the internet. And now, finally, it’s in my hands.

I hit play on the audio note again.

The decades-old audio crackles with age, but one of the voices commanding the conversation unmistakably belongs to Aldo Cabello—orchestrating the death of his then don’s family. His own brother.

Alongside the recording, a trail of receipts tells the rest of the story—money flowing to offshore accounts, then directly to the assassin who killed Gianna’s parents. Payments to corrupt cops to stage their deaths as a freak accident and to muddy the details of the case, ensuring the culprit was never found.

Until now.

After scrutinizing every document meticulously to verify nothing’s fabricated, I send the payment I bargained for the evidence to an obscure offshore account. Then I download it all onto my phone.

It’s time.

I walk out of my office, and Lorenzo is on his feet immediately, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “Where to?” he asks, falling in step beside me.

“Downtown Manhattan. Rafael’s home.”

With the number of businesses he has scattered across the city, he’s impossible to pin down on any given day. Which he likes. So I text him.

Heading to your apartment now, very urgent. Meet me there.

We’re already halfway there when he finally replies with a short ‘ok’.

As we pull into his underground parking lot, I tell Lorenzo and Marco to wait in the car. This is to be a private conversation between Rafael and me.

The men stationed around the elevator bow their heads briefly as I enter, and I respond with the barest nod of acknowledgment.

When the doors slide open at the penthouse, I’m surprised to find Rafael waiting for me right there in his great room. I glance briefly at the tall, framed flowers on his wall—the silent reminder of our brotherhood pact—before walking forward and stopping in front of him.

“Fratello, what brings you here? What’s so urgent that it can't wait till our weekly meeting tomorrow?” he asks.

Something’s off.

I pause, studying him carefully.

He’s the same composed, unshakable Rafael, but his chrome eyes shift around distractedly. He’s physically in the room with me but mentally checked out—a rarity for a man whose attention is typically razor-sharp.

“You okay?”

“I’m good, Michael. What brings you here?” he repeats, crossing his arms.

My gaze drops to his bare feet, and I frown as I take in the details I missed at first glance.

The rumpled jacket he’s wearing, his disheveled hair, and even though he's standing perfectly still, the effort it costs him is obvious.

He’s definitely not good.

Are the wheels finally coming off? Why? I know only one force on earth—one person—capable of dismantling his legendary control this way. Emilia. Did he find something out about her?

Any other time, I’d be thrilled to witness this slow-motion collapse, to see what happens when the great Rafael Moretti finally breaks the way he did the night he killed his father.

But right now, I’m also distracted with my own woman problems to enjoy the show.

I take my phone out, navigate straight to my media gallery, and wordlessly hand over the damning evidence to Rafael, my blood boiling as I recall the reason I’m here in the first place.

Fucking Aldo.

Rafael stiffens, his gaze finally coming into focus as he listens to the tape and scrolls through the receipts. He carries himself in the same aloof way he always does—no outward change in his expression—but I’ve known him long enough to read his microscopic reactions. And this… this doesn’t seem like news to him.

My shoulders tighten with realization. Motherfucker. “You knew all along, didn’t you?”

Rafael glances up, then calmly hands my phone back. “He was on our side, so I saw no reason to stir the pot. It didn’t matter to me what the dons did amongst themselves. They were brothers, and at the time, it made no sense to meddle in a family affair.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded, as molten anger courses through me. “He broke the very first rule of the syndicate, Rafael! Loyalty to family. If he could betray his own flesh and blood, then any loyalty he’s shown us is conditional at best. How the fuck could you just look away?”

“Because this happened when we first took over the city. Whatever power we had was still unstable—we needed all the men we could get on our side. You know that. And if it isn’t because you’ve gone and fallen for your little wife, you’d be able to think critically and realize you would’ve done the exact same thing I did.”

I stare at him speechlessly, chest heaving. He’s right. Goddammit, I hate that he’s right.

Back then, in our ruthless quest for power, nobody mattered except us. If I had been the one to stumble on it at the time… would I have just looked away like Rafael did?

Gianna’s golden eyes flash through my mind, and something in my chest constricts painfully.

No.

Not for her. Never for her.

I always took pride in how ruthless and emotionless my brothers and I were, but in our ambition, we turned a blind eye when an innocent was hurt. “Did you know that after Aldo took her in, he started abusing her? Not just him but his son too?”

Rafael doesn’t answer, but his lips press into a tight line, and that’s confirmation enough. I shake my head in disbelief. “You knew that and fucking handed her over to Aldo when I found her. How could you?” My hands form fists at my sides. If he were anyone else, I’d already be on him, beating his face into the floor. How the fuck could he?

“You have no right to stand on a pedestal and fucking judge me, Michael. You’ve done worse in this line of business.”

I don’t deny it. But that doesn’t make this right.

“And now? What will you do now? She’s not just any random girl now, Rafael. She’s my wife. My family. One of us.”

Rafael’s gaze sharpens. A beat of silence. Then, “I know. Now, I’ll summon Aldo to the high table of the commissione and lay his crimes at his feet. He’ll pay for everything.”

The fierce promise takes some edge off my anger, but it’s not good enough.

“I want it done now, tonight. Call the meeting, Rafael.” I need to witness Aldo’s suffering before this day ends. I need him to understand, in exquisite detail, exactly what happens to men who touch what belongs to me.

Wordlessly, Rafael takes out his phone and types rapidly. Seconds later, my own phone pings with the notification as his message appears on the commissione platform—a group that includes me and my brothers.

Don Moretti: EMERGENCY JUDGEMENT MEETING. Thirty minutes. My place.

Not everybody will attend physically because members of the commissione include high-ranking mafia officials from all over the country: Chicago, Texas, Boston, and beyond. But those near the city—my brothers and I—will confront the accused face-to-face.

Rafael’s phone begins to buzz continuously as acknowledgments flood in, and I pace impatiently. If it were up to me, I’d have called the meeting for right the fuck now, damn whatever else the others might be doing. Nothing can be more important than this.

Thirty minutes feels like thirty hours. Even when the members of the commissione start arriving one after the other, time refuses to accelerate.

My brothers arrive first—Romero, then Maximo—both visibly surprised to see me already present; I’m never early to these gatherings. Then comes the fifth most powerful don of NYC, the man who controls the Bronx—Luca Marino, head of the Marino family.

And last, the accused himself.

Aldo fucking Cabello.

The bastard struts in, oozing confidence and arrogance, probably hasn’t the slightest clue why he’s been summoned. He even winks at me, grinning jovially, and suspicion narrows my eyes. He’s up to something.

Gianna.

My heart hammers with an unrecognizable emotion that unsettles my being. I turn away discreetly and reach for my phone, desperate to check the cameras, to reassure myself that my wife is safe and secure at home where nobody can get to her. But before I can, Rafael calls the meeting to start.

I turn back with a suppressed sigh of frustration, following the others into the large conference room next to Rafael’s living room. The knot in my gut tightens with each step. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.

“Aldo Cabello,” Rafael begins once everyone is seated and the video conference connecting the out-of-state members flickers to life. “You might be wondering why you were summoned to a meeting with the commissione. I’ll spare you the suspense. It’s because a crime you committed has come to the limelight, and we cannot keep it hidden anymore as it affects the syndicate as a whole. We–”

“Wait.” Aldo rises to his feet, that insufferable smugness still plastered across his face. “I think I know what crime you’re referring to.” He pauses, dragging it out. Then, his grin widens. “And I’d like to cut a deal with you. Because I have something you’ll be very, very pleased to see.”

35

GIANNA

I jolt upright on the bed, heart jackknifing as my eyes dart around the room. My brows pull together in confusion when I realize where I am—I’m back in my bedroom at Michael’s house.

What the actual hell? Was all that just some sick, fever dream, after all?

I turn my head towards the door too quickly, and a sharp, searing pain shoots through my neck. Wincing, I reach up, my fingertips grazing the telltale pinprick marks on my flesh where Aunt Marie had jabbed the needle and pumped me full of God knows what.

It’s not a dream.

A second wave of pain crashes through my skull, a migraine already making itself at home. I groan, pressing my palm against my temple, trying to quell the hammering pain while swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. But as I do, my gaze collides with cold, unblinking eyes, and my heart launches itself into my throat.

“Michael!” I blow out a breath, relief rushing through me—until I take in his body language.

He’s sitting in the shadows by my study desk at the far end of the room, his silhouette rigid and menacing. No lights are on, but those blue eyes glitter with something lethal in the darkness. I’ve seen Michael angry, I’ve seen him cold, but this… this is something else entirely. “I–I didn’t see you there,” I stammer, my mouth suddenly bone dry.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled together. “How did it happen, Gianna?” His voice is soft, terrifyingly soft, like the whisper of a blade before it cuts.

My heart gallops wildly, sinking straight down to my asshole, and I battle the crazy diarrhea trying to push itself through as ice-cold fear grips me. Did Uncle Aldo go through with his psychotic schemes while I was passed out? “How did what happen?” I ask, biting my lip nervously and wrapping my hands together to hide the trembling.

He gets to his feet, and only then do I notice what looks like photos in his hands. When he’s close enough, he flings them at me, and they all scatter at my feet, face up.

My lips part in silent horror as every drop of blood drain from my face in a dizzying rush.

They’re photos of me. Damning photos.

Photos of me sprawled across a bed in nothing but my underwear—the same pair of underwear I’m wearing right now. A strange man is beside me, arm draped over my waist in an intimate hold. Nausea surges up my throat, and I slap my hand over my mouth to keep from vomiting.

Michael’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, his voice cool and controlled. “You should have told me you had a man when I proposed marriage. Hell, you should have told me the moment I rescued you.”

He’s too calm. Unnervingly calm for how hot-tempered he can be, and if I weren’t so completely engulfed in my own horror, I might think perhaps this is all an act for someone. I shake my head numbly. “No, I didn’t have a man. I don’t have a man. I don’t even know who that is. I’m being set up, Michael. I swear!”

“Not only did you cheat, but you also went through my computer and shared classified files with this man. I trusted you, Gia.” His blue eyes rake over my crumbling expression, and something flickers in them—worry? Regret? Pain?—but it’s ruthlessly extinguished before I can identify it.

“No, please, listen to me, Michael! I’m being framed.” Hot tears spill down my cheeks as I lunge forward and grab his wrists. “This is all Aldo’s twisted plan. I’m innocent!”

“Aldo,” he says slowly. “You can’t pin this on him. He was the one who brought all this forward and exposed you.” A pause. “Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to save him from the gallows. Stall it, perhaps. But he’ll be dealt with. Eventually.”

“W–what?” My voice breaks, heart and head throbbing fiercely as I try to follow this new train of conversation. “What gallows?”

Michael studies me, then sighs. “Ah, that’s right. You still don’t know, do you?” He pries my hands off him and gently places them on my lap.

“Know what?” I sniff pathetically, trying to pull myself together enough to understand what the hell is happening.

“That it was Aldo who ordered your parents’ deaths. And yours,” he says, and my ears pop ominously. His lips keep moving, but I can only stare at him helplessly, unable to understand what he’s saying.

The room swims druggily around me, and I realize I might still be under the influence of whatever Aunt Marie has been pumping into my veins. “No, no way.” I shake my head in an attempt to dispel my wooziness. “It–it was an accident.”

And I’m alive, aren’t I? If he really killed my parents and wanted me dead too, why am I still breathing?

“No,” Michael replies, and I might be reading into things, but his jaw clenches like he’s not too happy about the facts. “It was made to look like an accident.” His lips press into a thin line, like he’s swallowing something bitter. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter to you. After all, you’re just like your uncle when it comes to loyalty. You’re only loyal to your self-interests and⁠—”

He cuts himself off when I let out a small, broken sound, and without another word to me, he spins around and walks away. No hesitation. Not even a glance back.

“Take her away,” he says to someone outside the door, and my heart shatters into a thousand jagged pieces.

He’s throwing me away. After everything we’ve been through, he’s choosing to believe a lie.

A shadow shifts in the doorway. Then Lorenzo steps in.

He gives me a sympathetic look, grimacing as he takes my arm with unexpected gentleness. “I’m sorry about this,” he murmurs as he guides me out of my room.

We descend the stairs and head towards the back, past the room where I received my tattoo, and a single locked door with sophisticated control panels—the kind that requires a keycard for entry.

My brain immediately stutters to attention through the haze of drugs and despair. A key card. Like the one hidden in Michael’s nightstand drawer. But I’m jolted out of my musings when Lorenzo types in a code for wherever it is we’re going. The same code Michael whispered in my ears that night so far away when we were trying to get into his bedroom.

Zero–eight–one–zero.

And suddenly the realization hits me with staggering force. My birthday. Eighth of October. Wild, desperate hope floods my veins. He cares about me, right? He has to. Why else would the codes to some places in his house be my birthday?

The door unlocks with a quiet beep, and Lorenzo pushes it open, leading me into some sort of hallway. As we walk down the length, we pass two rooms with see-through glass doors before finally stopping at the third one. The last one. Only then do I realize these aren’t rooms at all—they’re cells. Mini prisons.

Each room contains a single thin mattress tossed on the floor, a washing basin off to one side, a toilet without privacy, and a single flickering light. Lorenzo places his palm against a scanner, and the glass door slides open.

We walk inside together, and my fragile hope sinks like the Titanic.

If Michael cared about me before, he doesn’t seem to anymore. Uncle Aldo won. He actually got to him. Tears prick the corner of my eyes as Lorenzo lets go of my arm.

He gestures halfheartedly around the small space, studiously avoiding my gaze. “It’s warm. You have a bed and light. Amenities. Nobody who’s broken the omertà has gotten treatments this good. He cares about you, but he also has his image to protect. If he kept you in the main house, it would make him look weak,” Lorenzo explains slowly, like he knows he shouldn’t be telling me this, but he can’t stop himself.

“B–but I didn’t break the omertà,” I tell him. I didn’t betray Michael at all. Not once. Not ever.

Lorenzo just backs out of the room wordlessly, the glass door sliding shut with a final-sounding click. He tosses me one last pitying glance, then walks away, leaving me alone.

36

MICHAEL

“I don’t think she did it, Michael,” Lorenzo says, voice dripping with disapproval. But he doesn’t know a damn thing.

“Shut up,” I growl as my fingers fly over my keyboard, working furiously to unscramble the security feeds that got messed with this afternoon. I need to find out what the hell went wrong.

“She couldn't have dismantled the cameras that cleanly,” Lorenzo presses. “And I doubt you ever told her the password to your laptop, so how could she have accessed it and stolen that information? Something else is at play here.”

“I said, shut the fuck up!” I explode to my feet, sweeping everything off my desk in a burst of white-hot rage. My computer, hard drives, stacks of files—all of it crash to the floor in a cacophony of destruction that does nothing to quiet the storm inside me. “Get out of here, Lorenzo.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just levels me with that infuriatingly calm look. “You need to pull yourself together.” Judgment laces every word as he turns and walks out, leaving me standing in the wreckage of my temper.

Once the door clicks shut behind him, I sink back into my chair, pressing my palms hard against my skull as if I could physically extract the chaos of my thoughts. The pressure builds behind my eyes, threatening to split my head in two.

What the fuck am I supposed to believe?

I know what the facts are. I know what my gut is screaming at me. And I know what the evidence that fucking snake Aldo presented during the commissione’s meeting tonight suggests.

The problem: All three things fucking contradict each other, tearing me apart from the inside out.

Deep down, I know she could never cheat on me. But a tiny voice in my head whispers—how sure can you be? What loyalty does she owe you, after all? No matter how I feel, ours is just a marriage of convenience. Hell, I lied to her that she was in danger to get her to marry me.

There’s absolutely no guarantee she’s grown to develop feelings for me the way I⁠—

I cut that thought off, slamming my fist onto my desk. It doesn’t fucking matter.

What does matter is the truth. Nothing but the raw, unadulterated truth.

I don’t trust Aldo one bit, but the fact that he tossed those photos in front of the commissione and waved a flash drive with sensitive mafia business that only my brothers and I should know—all while laying the blame at my wife’s beautiful feet—means I can’t just sit back and do nothing.

Because of the security breach, my men are swarming the premises, and they’ll know if Gianna gets punished or not. If I leave her comfortably in her room while I try to find out the truth, word will spread that I’m weak for her. And that won’t do at all. I worked too goddamn hard building my reputation to let it all crumble over this.

With a heavy sigh, I take out my phone and swipe through the camera feed to the room where she’s being held. She’s pacing mindlessly, her legs jittering with nervous energy. I zoom in on the feed, my eyes narrowing at the little bruise forming at the corner of her mouth. I was so out of it earlier, I didn’t even notice it.

Where the fuck did she get that?

A feeling of foreboding settles at the base of my spine, but I try to shake it off as I take out the spare laptop in my desk drawer and turn it on. Since all my devices are synced, it’s easy to pick up where I left off on my destroyed computer.

Time blurs as I work, the lines of code swimming before my eyes. After what feels like hours, I finally locate the beginning of the scrambled thread. Just as I start deciphering the code to unravel this mess, a sharp knock interrupts my concentration.

“Fuck off, Lorenzo.”

But the door creaks open anyway, and he pokes his head in. “Someone is here to see you.”

I glare, about to rip into him, when he steps aside—revealing a dirtied, disheveled, and shivering Gracie.

I’m on my feet before I fully register it, already moving towards the old housekeeper who’s been with me since I was a teenager. “Gracie, where the hell have you been?”

When I couldn’t find her earlier, I told myself I didn’t care. That I had bigger things to worry about. But as I take in her appearance, I finally admit to myself what I’ve been too stubborn to acknowledge—I was worried sick about her disappearance.

“You have to find Gianna,” she says urgently, her weathered hands gripping mine with surprising strength. “I think she’s in grave danger.”

My frown deepens at her incoherent rumble, but there’s no denying the raw fear blazing in her eyes. “What are you talking about? Gianna is fine,” I say gently, but she shakes her head so hysterically I worry she might hurt herself.

“No, she’s not! A woman came in here this afternoon to see her, and I left them alone to talk. Next thing I know, she’s in my kitchen thrusting a needle in my neck, and I’m waking up in the middle of nowhere as the sun was setting. It took me hours to get back here. We need to look for Gianna!” She ends in a desperate wail, tears streaming down her wrinkled face.

My lips part as the wheels turn rapidly in my mind. What woman? No. No, that doesn’t make sense. “Gianna is here, Gracie,” I say slowly, I found her fast asleep on her bed when I got home.” From the meeting that went so horribly wrong.

“That’s impossible,” Gracie insists. “I was taken out of the house—she must have been too. How is she here? Can I speak to her? Please? Maybe we can make sense of all this together.” Gracie rubs her palm over her temple tiredly.

I glance at Lorenzo, who’s still hovering by the door, and give him a subtle nod. He walks in swiftly and gently takes her by the shoulders. “Alright, Gracie. Let’s get you to your room. You need to get some rest; Michael will figure everything out.” His reassurances fade as the office door closes behind them.

Christ. What the fuck is going on?

I grab my phone and open the tracking app—something I should have fucking done the moment I got home. I go to the little picture of Gianna and tap on it. When I fixed the clasp of her necklace, I added a little extra treat for myself: a tracker. And thankfully, she hasn’t taken the damn thing off since.

I check her current location—in my house, exactly where she should be. I scroll up to the history, going as far as this morning when I left for work. She stayed in her bedroom for hours. Then, around mid-afternoon, she went outside the house, then to the living room for only a few short minutes before leaving the house again—leaving the compound entirely.

My jaw clenches as I follow the tracker’s path straight to Aldo’s place, where she spent three damn hours before returning home—at almost the same time Aldo showed up at the commissione meeting with this ‘evidence’.

Something doesn’t fucking add up.

I’m being set up. This is all Aldo’s twisted plan. Gianna’s desperate words come back to haunt me, and I fist my hands. I’m being framed. I’m innocent.

Lead fills my stomach as I storm out of my office, taking the stairs two at a time towards the back where I’ve imprisoned my own wife. My wife, who was telling the truth all along.

I slap my palm against the security panel impatiently and rush through the door the instant it slides open, down the hallway to the last room, where I find her curled up into herself on the thin mattress, shivering violently.

My heart lurches painfully as I yank the door open, cursing as a gust of freezing air hits me. What the fuck? “Why is it so cold in here? Didn’t Lorenzo turn on the heater?”

Gianna looks up at me wordlessly, her face pale as death, teeth chattering audibly. Fuck. I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over her trembling shoulders. Then I wrap my arms around her and scoop her up, carrying her out of the freezing hellhole.

Lorenzo’s fucking dead as soon as I see him.

“Wh–what’s going on?” Gianna asks, her voice small and uncertain as I carry her out of the hallway and towards the stairs.

I don’t say anything—I can’t push the words past the thick lump in my throat and the agonizing ache in my chest, and she doesn’t ask me again. I take her to the bedroom—not her room, but ours—where I gently place her on the bed and cocoon her in thick blankets. Then I watch her intently, waiting for her shivering to subside.

Finally, she meets my gaze, those golden eyes still holding that heartbreaking confusion. “What is it, Michael?”

How could I have punished her for something I knew deep within me she didn’t do? Just for the sake of my reputation? Fuck that.

I run an agitated hand through my hair and, instead of answering her question, I counter with my own. “Who’s the man in that picture with you? Where do you know him from? When did you meet him?”

She sighs, her gaze dropping from mine, and I hate losing that connection with her more than I’ve hated anything. “I already told you—I don’t know him. But you’re not going to believe me, are you?” Her voice is hollow, resigned.

I silently will her to look back up at me, and only when she does do I say, “Try me.”

“Well, Michael, I’ve never seen that man before. I have never and would never cheat on you. I don’t even remember being on that bed at all—much less naked,” she says emphatically, but then her eyes go distant, unfocused, and whatever memory surfaces makes her whole body shudder. She goes even paler, her eyes haunted by ghosts I can’t see.

What happened this afternoon? What did that bastard Aldo do to her?

“What is it?” I demand, even though I have no right to. “Tell me everything.” I need to understand how it all went so catastrophically wrong.

“Aunt Marie came here today. I was stupid enough to let her in. Thought I was being the better person—showing her kindness she never once showed me.” Her mouth twists in self-loathing. “Well, turns out she didn’t need it. She drugged me, stuck a needle in my neck. Next thing I knew, I woke up at Uncle Aldo’s place somehow. I suspect she had help.”

My heart shrivels as she speaks, while simultaneously, a deadly rage builds inside me. The fucking audacity of that family—after everything they’ve done to plot against us, they still dare to pull this shit?

As she finishes her story, her lips tremble and hot tears spill down her ashen cheeks. The sight of those tears—tears I caused—breaks something fundamental inside me.

I go down on my knees in front of her and reach beneath the blankets to find her hands, clutching them tightly in mine. “I’m sorry.”

Gianna stares at me, lips parting in surprise, so I force myself to repeat the words. “I’m sorry.” I bow my head and press my face against our joint hands over the blanket. This is only the second time in my life I’ve apologized to anyone, and the first time was to her as well. She’s the only one I’ll ever go on my knees for, the only one I’ll ever humble myself to apologize to.

And while I know it’s not nearly enough, I’ll apologize a thousand times and spend the rest of my life making it up to her.

“I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions,” I continue, my voice rough with guilt. “When I saw that picture… I just—my mind snapped back to the past. I saw nothing but red. Stopped thinking logically. Even though I knew deep down you couldn’t have done what you were being accused of.”

She hesitates before asking gently, “What happened in the past?”

I stiffen, the old hurt clawing its way up my throat. I’ve never talked about this to another living soul, and I expect it to be excruciating to articulate these memories. But to my surprise, the words flow easily. I shouldn’t be surprised, really. It’s always been easy to talk to her. She makes it easy just by being herself.

So I tell her about Senator Bradley Hart—a serial cheater—and how his wife coped by wearing sexy clothes while cleaning the entirety of the old mausoleum we lived in, practically inviting the lascivious gazes of her husband's security guards.

I tell her about going to my mother’s room one evening and finding her fucking one of the guards. About running into my father and, in my horror and confusion, spilling it all to him. About him dismissively saying it didn’t matter since he cheated too—but I could still overhear their argument later that night.

And the following morning, my mother and her bodyguard were just… gone. Father said they’d run away to be together, and I acted out for weeks, consumed by guilt, convinced it was all my fault. But the year my father died, I found out the truth—he actually had my mother and her lover killed, disposed of like garbage.

I tell her how it all messed me up mentally. And how when I saw those pictures of her with another man, it made me sick to even think about. When I finally calmed down enough to think rationally, of course, I realized it couldn’t be real. But that one moment of gut-deep fear made me react like a damn idiot. Made me choose my reputation over her and imprison her in that cell, just in case it turned out to be true.

I’m not telling her this just to get her sympathy—but I get it anyway. And I find I don’t hate it. A small smile tugs at my lips when she wraps her arms around my neck and draws me into her embrace, my face pressed against the soft warmth of her chest. “You were just a child,” she murmurs. “That must have been horrific for you.”

I sink into her and allow her to comfort me, surrendering completely to the only person who’s ever made me feel safe enough to be vulnerable.

37

MICHAEL

“Find me Marie Cabello and bring her to the dungeon,” I tell Lorenzo as I walk down the hallway, casting one last glance back at the bedroom where I left Gianna sleeping, her face finally peaceful after everything she’s endured.

Lorenzo’s brows shoot up in surprise. “Marie? Isn’t she Aldo’s wife? Was she a part of this all as well?” A short nod is all I can manage, too pissed to even speak.

I leave Lorenzo to his task and motion for Marco and two of my men to accompany me to what my brothers and I fondly call the dungeon—an abandoned storage warehouse not far from Rafael’s penthouse that he uses to hold and torture traitors and enemies.

It takes almost an hour to get there, and just as Marco pulls up in the parking lot, my phone buzzes with a text.

Lorenzo

Got her. She was at the airport trying to sneak out of the country. On my way.

Primal satisfaction surges through me. I wait in the parking lot for him since the airport is only a short twenty-minute drive away, and distract myself with the live footage of Gianna still sleeping peacefully in our bed. The sight of her calms the savage beast inside me, if only temporarily.

She’s safe at home, surrounded by the most trusted men in my army, with my security system locked down tighter than ever—no one authorized to let anyone in, not even her.

After the meeting that was disrupted by Aldo accusing my wife of being a cheat and traitor in an attempt to buy himself immunity from whatever punishment we might levy on him for his crimes, the commissione decided on a unanimous vote that both matters were separate issues to be judged independently.

Aldo was sentenced to be punished however I deem fit, since the crime was committed against my wife, and Gianna’s alleged ‘crimes’ were left to me and my brothers to judge, since they supposedly happened in our territory. My brothers immediately bowed out after the meeting, leaving me to deal with her judgment alone.

So nothing turned out for Aldo like he had hoped.

And he’s about to learn just how big of a mistake that was.

Lorenzo arrives, his truck pulling up next to my Cullinan, and I take off my cufflinks, rolling my sleeves up to my elbows as I get out at the same time he does.

He moves to his trunk and pops it open, revealing a bound and struggling Marie. She glares at me as Lorenzo drags her out.

“I don’t know what it is about Gianna and Agnes that have powerful men bewitched, but she’ll pay for it!” she screams.

I frown, not getting her twisted logic. I never could understand vindictive witches. “Why do you hate your niece so much?”

“That child is no niece of mine,” she spits with vitriol. “Agnes stole Cesare from me. I was betrothed to him, but that slut went and got pregnant with his child, leading Cesare to break off our engagement to marry her.”

Ahh, it all makes sense now.

She was jealous that Gianna's father married someone else instead of her, and she let that bitterness eat into her so deep, she’d hurt an innocent girl because of what her parents did decades ago.

I thought maybe Aldo had misled her, but no—she knew exactly what she was doing. She’s every bit as evil as her husband and son.

My brothers and I swore never to physically harm women and children, but there are several ways to make her regret her actions and existence on earth without laying a finger on her.

I nod at Lorenzo, and we go into the warehouse, down to the basement twenty feet underground where her husband is waiting—stripped naked and strung up like a piece of meat at a butcher’s shop.

She inhales sharply as soon as she sees him and starts thrashing wildly, but she’s no match for Lorenzo, who makes tying her to the restraint chair look as effortless as subduing a toddler. Once she’s immobilized, I pick up the bucket of cold water and splash it over the unconscious Aldo.

He jolts awake with a violent gasp, body swinging like a pendulum from the horizontal pole his arms are tied up to. His gaze finds mine first and fills with such intense hatred that I can’t help but smile, savoring it. Then his gaze shifts to his wife, and naked fear replaces the hatred. “What is she doing here?”

“Have no fear, Aldo. Unlike you, I don’t hit women,” I say conversationally as I pick up a thin leather crop and stretch it between my hands. “She’s just here to watch your torture.”

The momentary relief in both their eyes is almost comical. Aldo gapes at me, comprehension slowly dawning. “What–what does that mean?”

I circle him slowly, crop in hand, watching him track my movements with growing panic. Then I come to a halt in front of him and, without warning, lash the crop right across his chest. He and his wife let out simultaneous screams as he thrashes like a worm on a hook—but he’s going nowhere. The restraints hold firm.

“Who scrambled the cameras in my house and gave you the virus to override my laptop’s security?” I demand of Aldo, who only groans in anguish.

I whip him again in the exact same spot, and this time his scream echoes off the walls. Again and again, I strike, my rage building with each crack of the leather against his skin, but he stubbornly refuses to give up his partner in crime.

I start alternating hits—chest, neck, face, even his dick—but the bastard still won’t reveal anything.

Whoever this partner is, it makes me wonder who the hell they are and why he’s so damn scared to talk.

“You’re going to kill me anyway,” he groans, his body shuddering as blood seeps from the shredded flesh left by the crop. “I’m not going to give her up when she had no reason to help me but did anyway.”

Her? “So it’s a she? Who is it? Someone I know?”

“Just know there’s someone out there who’s after you and your brothers,” he answers cryptically, then clamps his mouth shut with finality.

Hit with frustration from the dead end, I drop the whip and approach the wall of tools, selecting a chainsaw. “Since you’re so determined to keep your mouth shut, I’ll make sure to draw your death out,” I threaten, raising the chainsaw to eye level.

He flinches as I power the machine on, and a stream of piss suddenly rushes out of his limp dick, puddling on the floor.

I step back in disgust before the liquid can splash my shoes.

Behind me, Marie sobs hysterically. “Please… don’t make me watch anymore. Take me out of here!”

I barely spare her a glance as I wait for Aldo to finish emptying his bladder. When the puddle stops growing, I take a step towards him, position the tool just below his knee, and start sawing through his right leg. Blood sprays the air, splattering my shirt and face as his anguished screams mingle with Marie’s crazed wails and the chainsaw’s mechanical roar.

My ears ring from the hellish symphony as sweat pours down my back from how taxing sawing through his bone is, even with the powerful machine in my grip.

Finally, the flesh cleaves completely, and his severed leg hits the floor with a wet thump. Blood gushes from his mangled stump in rhythmic pulses, quickly pooling around my feet. Aldo’s screams rise to an impossible pitch, only to abruptly cut off as consciousness abandons him.

“That’s for attempting to break my relationship with Gianna,” I tell his unconscious body. Then I wipe the sweat off my face, inadvertently smearing some blood across my skin as I move on to his second leg. “And this is for trying to frame my wife.”

Aldo regains consciousness midway through the second amputation, his mouth stretching open in a soundless scream, head thrown back as he stares at the ceiling with a crazed expression.

With both legs detached from his body, I methodically move to his wrists, then his arms.

I’m sawing through his left elbow when a foul stench suddenly fills the air.

I look up to see his eyes wide open but lifeless, his face frozen in shock, while steamy shit falls to the ground from his ass. He’s dead but still shitting himself. My nose wrinkles in disgust, and I glance back at Marie.

Lorenzo is standing behind her, fingers forcing her eyelids open so she has no choice but to watch what I’ve been doing to her husband. Her gaze flickers to mine, and she whimpers pathetically, her whole body shaking like a leaf against the restraints.

I turn away from her and continue the process of dismembering Aldo, limb by limb. It’s a long, tedious process, but I don’t rush.

Once I’m done, I have his mutilated body released from the pole and toss his pieces into a thick sack, tying it securely.

Only then do I face Lorenzo again. “Take her to an asylum. She’s to be locked in solitary isolation, never to be let out to see the sun until she dies.” My judgment falls on the woman like an executioner’s axe, and she begins struggling with renewed desperation.

“Just kill me!” she screams. “Please, kill me. Kill me!”

I don’t spare her another glance, just pick up the sack of her husband’s remains and haul it out of the room, her hysterical pleas following me.

One of my men steps forward to take the burden from me, but I wave him off. This is my responsibility to carry, and I bear it with grim determination as we ascend in the elevator, cross the warehouse floor, and return to my car.

During the drive, I hold the sack between my legs, not giving a damn about the blood stains. They’ll wash out.

The sun is just coming up when we pull up in front of my house.

My men avert their gazes as I throw the sack over my shoulder and carry it inside, up the stairs and into the bedroom I share with Gianna.

She’s pacing the room when I enter, and the second she sees me, her face twists with worry.

“Where have you been? I woke up and you weren’t there, and I’ve been—” Her words die in her throat as she takes in my appearance—the blood on my face, my stained clothes, and the dripping sack slung over my shoulder.

I drop it and spill the gruesome contents across the floor before her. Aldo’s severed head rolls to a stop right at her feet. She recoils in horror, her face draining of all color as she spins away, bolting for the bathroom with her hand clamped over her mouth.

I frown and follow her, my heart pounding as I find her on her knees, hurling into the toilet. Shit. That wasn’t the reaction I expected.

Quickly, I gather the dismembered limbs back into the sack and place it outside the bedroom door. Then I join her in the bathroom, kneeling beside her hunched form.

“I didn’t realize you’d react like that,” I admit softly, rubbing circles on her back as she heaves. “I just wanted you to know that I’ll deliver the limbs and pieces of anybody who dares to hurt you—no matter who they are.”

She gags over the toilet bowl for several more seconds before slowly raising her head to look at me. What I see in her eyes isn’t gratitude or even relief—it’s fear. “I think–I think I might be pregnant, Michael,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

For a second, I’m stunned, just staring at her, my brain struggling to process her words. Then a wild, uncontainable joy rushes through me. Holy shit. I didn’t realize this night could get any better, but apparently it could, it could.

She must mistake my silence for anger, because she rushes to explain, “I don’t know how this could have happened,” she sobs, hitting the side of the toilet bowl in frustration. “I took my pills religiously, I–”

“What pills?” I interrupt her sharply, though I know exactly what pills she’s talking about. The placebo I substituted for her real birth control, a decision I’d almost forgotten in the chaos of the recent events.

She actually took them?

She hesitates, biting her lip. “Just… pills. And I know you meant well, Michael, but you can’t just bring people’s bloodied head and body parts into our bedroom—no matter what they’ve done. Promise me you’ll never do that again.”

She’s changing the subject. But I let her, giving her a short nod. “I’m never letting anybody get close enough to hurt you or our baby,” I promise fiercely as my gaze drops to her still-flat belly. I’m going to be a father.

38

GIANNA

I’m still not sure how I could get pregnant while on the birth control pill, so I keep telling myself I’m just overreacting. I mean, I know no means of birth control is foolproof—the damn pamphlet even says 99.9% effective, not 100%—but still.

Just because I missed my period for a few months doesn’t mean anything, right? And sure, I’ve been feeling nauseous since last night, but that could just be from seeing my uncle’s limbs scattered across the floor. Pretty sure that would make anyone sick. It’s not like it’s automatically a pregnancy symptom. Oh, and stress can make you feel sick too. And God knows I’ve been through a whole lot of that lately.

After Michael gets over his initial shock, he’s downright giddy and insists we go to the hospital right away to confirm it. While he rushes through a shower and gets dressed, my heart thumps nervously, and I chew my nails as I pace.

When he exits the walk-in closet, he looks every inch the billionaire businessman again—sharp, put-together, not a trace of the psychopathic mafia killer who barged in here earlier, face and clothes stained with blood as he spilled my uncle’s limbs in front of me like some sort of exotic present.

Good riddance to him. I’ve gone through enough grief and heartache because of him.

“Ready?” Michael asks as he walks towards me, taking me in with a frown. “Are you not getting dressed?”

“I’m comfortable this way,” I mumble, tugging at the hem of my shirt. The truth is I’m too paralyzed with fear to bother changing. Plus, if I’m honest, there’s a little bit of hope creeping in too. I do want children, but I didn’t think either Michael or I were ready for that responsibility, which is why I took those pills so religiously.

But now that there’s a possibility of there being a child—our child—I realize a tiny part of me underneath all my fear wants it.

Heart pounding like crazy, I follow him out of the bedroom, quickly averting my gaze from the sack leaking blood by the door. Michael notices my reaction immediately. “It won’t be here when we get back,” he assures me, his fingers already dancing across his phone screen, undoubtedly ordering some poor soul to dispose of my uncle’s remains.

We head out to the car, and three more cars fall in line behind us as we pull out of his compound. I’m not sure where he's taking me, and quite frankly, I don’t care and can barely make out the landmarks on the road, too lost in my swirling thoughts. So I’m a little surprised when he pulls up in front of a hospital with the name Gianna’s Hospital emblazoned across the front in elegant lettering.

Even though the building seems newer and modern, I can recognize the bones of the structure as the hospital he got for me. The one we visited—was it only a week ago? Time always seems to fly when I’m with Michael. He had it renamed after me?

“What do you think? We’re still working on some renovations inside, but it’s coming along quite quickly and should be ready by the end of next month.” He grins at me, excitement radiating from him, but I can barely muster up a wan smile, too overwhelmed by the emotional tsunami of my potential pregnancy.

“It looks good, thanks,” I manage to croak out, my voice thin and distant.

Michael’s smile dims, the light in his eyes fading, but he doesn’t say anything more as we get out of the car. His men fall into step behind us as we make our way through the hospital lobby, past the waiting room, and up the stairs to the OB/GYN department. Nobody stops us or asks questions. They know better.

When we reach the department, Michael knocks on a door with the name Dr. Lana Murdoch etched on a glossy plaque.

A beautiful bronze-skinned woman in her mid-thirties steps out with a polite smile, but there’s unmistakable fear lurking in the depths of her eyes. “Mr. and Mrs. Hart, welcome.” She waves us into her office where one of those hospital beds with stirrups and some weird machines are set up in a corner.

Michael’s men station themselves outside as we go inside, and the doctor, Lana, leads us towards the equipment. Somehow, her nervousness settles some of my own nerves.

I settle onto the examination chair, and she carefully asks for permission to take my blood sample. Her hands are steady now, professional instinct overriding her fear as she works.

“This will just pinch a bit,” she murmurs, and I almost laugh at the absurdity. After getting jabbed in the neck with God knows what, this tiny needle is a damn joke.

I fix my gaze on the ceiling, counting the tiny dots in the acoustic tiles as she draws my blood, barely feeling the sting of the needle as she prods it into my vein.

She’s done quickly and goes to a corner to the machine where she’ll test the blood for pregnancy hormones. Normally, she isn’t supposed to do this in front of the patient, but I guess ours is a special case. When you’re married to Michael Hart, normal rules dissolve like sugar in hot coffee.

The room fills with suffocating tension as we wait for Lana to tell us the result. I bite my lip and bounce my knees nervously. Michael taps his expensive shoes against the floor. Click, click, click. A metronome marking the seconds until our fate is revealed.

Finally, Lana takes off her gloves and approaches us with a hesitant smile. “Congratulations, you’re pregnant.”

Michael’s reaction is instantaneous and explosive. He leaps from his chair with a happy whoop that makes the doctor jump, clapping his hands enthusiastically. “Did you hear that, Gianna? We’re going to be parents.” He rushes towards me to grab my hands, and his excitement is so contagious, I find myself smiling back, the tiny seed of hope blooming into something more.

“Would you like to see your baby?” Lana asks, and Michael’s head snaps towards her, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“We can do that so early?” he asks, genuine surprise coloring his voice. She nods, and Michael looks at me, waiting for my answer.

“I suppose that wouldn’t be too bad,” I answer, and Lana starts setting up the ultrasound equipment. I already know about the process from my nursing education, but she walks me through it anyway, her voice soothing and reassuring.

Since the pregnancy is still in its early stages—just the fourth week—we can only see the baby through the transvaginal ultrasound. I take off my pants and lie back, my heart thundering as she carefully inserts the transducer into my vagina.

The monitor next to my bed flickers to life with grainy images of a tiny blob of tissues, barely distinguishable from the surrounding darkness. But it’s there. It’s real. My baby. A tsunami of emotions surges through my veins as I watch the black and white image, my eyes pricking with tears.

Holy crap, I’m going to be a mother.

The next couple of weeks pass in a surreal blur, with Michael doting on me like it’s his full-time job. He leaves home for work much later than usual and returns shockingly early, never leaving my side except when absolutely necessary. Even though he never comes right out to say he loves me, his constant presence in my day-to-day life makes me feel cherished and loved in ways I never imagined possible.

When the second month rolls around, I realize I’m nowhere near ready for my license test, so I push it back another month. Half of that is Michael’s fault, distracting me with sex when I’m supposed to be studying. So I end up finally booting him out the house one morning, telling him to go back to his usual routine instead of hovering over me like a horny shadow. He sulks but agrees—though his absence doesn’t do a damn thing to ease my distraction.

And God, to make it worse, hitting the middle of my second trimester brings on a wave of horniness. It’s ridiculous. I always want to have sex, and seemingly mundane things—the way sunlight hits the kitchen counter, the smell of fresh coffee, even the damn weather report—make me think of Michael, and I waste precious time daydreaming about him and us together.

Finally, it’s D-day. The day of my test.

Michael drives me to the exam center with a few of his men, fully intent on waiting for me outside.

“No way,” I protest, shaking my head firmly. “I won’t be able to focus if I know all I have to do is submit my test to see you again.”

His eyes kindle with amusement, his lips curling up in a pleased smile that makes my knees weak. He does that a lot now—smiling, laughing, playing around with me. God, I love that I’m able to draw that side of him out.

“Call me as soon as you’re done, and I’ll come right over,” he grudgingly concedes, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to my lips, his hand curling down to my belly to palm the little bump there.

“Nuh, huh. That’s too much pressure, baby. I’ll start to panic that I’m taking too long to call you. How about I call you as soon as I’m at home?”

His eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to argue, but I quickly continue. “I need to pass this test, Michael. You know that.” My hospital’s renovation was completed a few weeks ago, but I haven’t been able to go to work because of my lack of license.

“Fine. I’ll take it as a compliment that I distract you so much,” he teases and rubs my belly. “Our little one will be good for you today as well; she can sense today’s an important day.”

I smile, warmth spreading through me. Michael keeps referring to our baby as a ‘she’, insisting with absolute certainty, but deep in my bones, I know it’s a boy. He says I’m wrong, but a mother knows these things. The connection is primal, beyond explanation. “Yeah, no nausea since I woke up. Miracle, really,” I agree, touching my stomach gratefully. I was hoping that crap would vanish after my first trimester, but nope—it just got worse.

Michael gives me one last lingering kiss, this time with a hunger that makes my toes curl in my shoes, before reluctantly letting me go. And then I’m off to the exam center, forcing myself to walk away from him.

Inside, the exam room is sterile and quiet, the only sound the soft hum of computers and the nervous rustling of other candidates. I take a deep breath as I find my seat, pushing aside the churning anxiety in my gut.

I glance out the window at the roiling dark clouds gathering on the horizon and try not to take it as a sign. Not an omen, I tell myself firmly. Just weather.

“Hello, Gianna,” the organizer says as she approaches my seat. “Are you ready?”

I turn away from the gloomy window to give her a small, nervous smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“You’ll have up to five hours to complete the exam,” she explains as she boots the computer in front of me. “You can take two breaks if needed, but they’re optional. The test will automatically stop when you get more than half of the questions correctly. Your time starts as soon as you begin the test.”

I nod, knowing all this already, but appreciate the reminder. My brain feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.

The computerized exam simply tests my knowledge of the field, critical thinking, and decision-making related to patient safety, clinical practice, and care management. It brings up selective questions based on how I answered the previous ones. Adaptive testing. Sink or swim.

I glance out the window one last time, then turn back to my computer and click start. I can do this!

I squint at the computer screen and dim the bright light a bit to read the first question. I smile as I answer it, confidence slowly building with each correct response.

Over four hours later, the test automatically stops, the screen transitioning from the question section to inform me I’m done. My fingers and neck are cramped from how I hunched over the computer, and my eyes sting a little from how long I stared at the screen non-stop. My back aches. My brain feels wrung out.

But it’s over. I actually finished.

Now all that’s left is to wait the dreaded six weeks for the results, though knowing Michael, he’d most likely pressure me into purchasing the quick results—an unofficial result available two business days after the exam. But I can worry about that later. For now, I just want to breathe.

When I get out of the exam center, Lorenzo and three of Michael’s men leap to their feet and start clapping, grabbing people’s attention. Seriously? My face heats up, and I raise my hands to my flaming cheeks as I hurry towards them. “You’re embarrassing me,” I hiss to Lorenzo, who only gives me an unrepentant grin.

“Only following the boss’s orders, ma’am,” he says, presenting me with an enormous bouquet of tulips wrapped in pretty pink paper. Then, to my astonishment, he takes out a gold medal from his pocket and hangs it around my neck with ceremonial flourish.

It’s so over the top, it’s ridiculous. I love it.

I shift my flowers to one hand and lift the gold medal to read the engraving. “World’s best RN, Wife, and Mother.” I blink back the stinging tears and clutch my medal tightly. It doesn’t matter that I’m only a wife right now; I’ll be a mother and RN soon. So soon I can taste it.

“Ready to go home?” Lorenzo asks, watching me with a mixture of amusement and concern.

“Of course.” I’m more than ready. I told Michael I’d call him when I get home, but the second we’re in the car, I’m already dialing his number. I need to hear his voice.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hi, love. Done with your test?” There’s a low hum of voices in the background, and I bite my lip, remembering he mentioned having a meeting with his shareholders.

Damn it. I should have waited.

“You’re still in your meeting? Let’s talk later.”

“No, stay on the line. They can wait. Tell me how your test went.”

“It was… exhilarating,” I admit, the word tumbling out. “It started off really easy, and the difficulty level rapidly climbed up, but I think I might have aced it.” My confidence isn’t false bravado; I genuinely feel good about my performance. “Thank you for the flowers and the medal. I love them.” I love you, I almost say, but swallow the words.

He chuckles. “I’ll kick these assholes out as soon as possible and meet you at home, okay?”

“I can’t wait,” I say, and we end the call.

When I get home, Gracie and Elira are waiting for me outside the house, and they clap their hands, cheering dramatically as if I’ve returned from conquering Mount Everest. And to my utter embarrassment, I burst out crying.

“It’s–it’s the hormones,” I choke out as they rush over and wrap me up in warm hugs. I’ve never had this before—this overwhelming support and blatant show of love. When I agreed to marry Michael, I didn’t see this in my future at all.

Gracie and Elira murmur soothing words as we head inside, both of them gushing over my flowers and medal like they’re the most impressive things they’ve ever seen.

Elira can’t stay long, but before leaving, she grins and says, “I can’t wait to brag to people that my best friend is a licensed nurse with her own hospital.”

Best friend.

My throat tightens as I pull her into an extra-tight hug before she goes. Then I head up to Michael’s and my bedroom where I drop my flowers and medal on the bed before taking a long shower, letting the hot water wash away the stress of the day.

When I’m back in the room, I open my nightstand drawer to grab my underwear, but my gaze shifts to Michael’s drawer. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pull it open, checking out the contents that scandalized me months ago when I first saw them.

My eyes land on the key card, and I pick it up, my mind flashing back to that evening months ago when I was tossed into the prison. There was a door there, right next to the tattoo room. The memory crystalizes with sudden clarity. That door. That has to be where this key belongs.

I dress quickly, heart racing with anticipation, and leave the bedroom, making my way there. When I reach the door, I tap the card against the electronic reader, holding my breath. The light blinks green, and the latch clicks with a soft sound. Bingo.

I push the door open, not sure what I’ll find on the other side. A treasure room? Weapons? More secrets from Michael’s bloody past?

As I walk into the dark room, warm red lights turn on automatically, bathing the space with a crimson glow. My jaw drops. There are pictures everywhere—hundreds of them, maybe more. And they’re all of me.

I stare, speechless, heart hammering against my ribs as I take in the sight. There are photos from years back, right after I lost my parents—God, I look so young, so broken. My high school graduation picture, college graduation, even a grainy shot of me standing in front of a burning car.

Dario’s Jaguar—the one I stole that night I ran away from home.

I move closer. There’s me bartending in Vince’s bar. Exploring Michael’s house in Seattle. Sleeping on the plane. Eating. Laughing. Glaring.

Every version of me imaginable is here. It’s like a shrine dedicated to me, and frankly, I’m completely flabbergasted.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I whip around to see Michael standing there, watching me with that careful, assessing look.

“So, you’ve discovered my secret,” he starts, his voice low, gaze roaming my face for any hint of emotion, any clue to what I’m thinking.

I watch him stoically, but after a couple of seconds, I can’t swallow back my smile any longer. “You’re obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

“Totally. More than you could ever imagine.” He agrees without hesitation and closes the distance between us to grab my arms with gentle intensity. “You’re everything to me, Gianna. My whole world has narrowed to me and you and our child. When I’m not with you, I’m impatient to come back home. I’m irritated that I have to be away from you at all. I love you, Gianna. Ti amo da morire.”

The Italian flows from his lips like music—I love you to death.

The words ripple through me, breaking something loose that’s been stuck for too long.

“Anch’io ti amo, cuore mio,” I say, my voice trembling with the weight of emotion, and I let out a watery laugh. “Damn hormones.”

He grins, leaning down to kiss me softly. “I love you, hormones and all.”

39

GIANNA

The next couple of weeks fly by, and before I know it, I’m entering my third trimester and working at my hospital. My hospital. With my name on it. The words still taste unreal on my tongue.

On paper, my life has transformed into the kind of fairytale that would make Disney princesses seethe with jealousy. I have a husband who worships the ground I walk on—a man who would and has killed for me. I’m blessed with a friendship with Elira that fills a void I never acknowledged existed. I’m building a career that fulfills me, and inside my womb, a tiny life thrives, growing stronger each day. I never even imagined I could ever be this happy. Never dared to hope for this much.

I should be drowning in contentment, suffocating from happiness.

Instead, a shadow creeps across my perfect life—formless and insidious.

It starts small. One morning, I just wake up with a heavy heart, and no amount of pep talk or cheering up from Michael can snap me out of it.

You don’t deserve this, a vicious little voice whispers in my head. You’ve done nothing to earn this happiness. And everything you haven’t earned can be taken away.

And that thought—that gnawing, creeping fear—refuses to leave me alone. What if it all gets snatched away from me in the blink of an eye? I try to squash it every time it rears up its ugly head, but it’s stubborn as hell. Self-doubt always is.

It spreads like a cancer, from hours into days. One day, then two.

On the third day, I open my eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling, my limbs feeling weighted with invisible chains. Or maybe gravity has decided to double overnight. Moving feels impossible, but my bladder is screaming to be emptied. So eventually, I drag myself off the bed and shuffle to the bathroom to take care of it. Then I splash some cold water on my face and trudge out of the bedroom.

I have a shift at the hospital this evening, but I think I might cancel it and— “Michael? What are you doing? Aren’t you going to work?” I frown at my husband, who’s standing shirtless at the stove, stirring something bubbling in a pot.

It smells delicious.

“No. I sent everyone away so it would be just us two having breakfast alone. It will be fun.” He grins, strolling over to grab my hand and drag me deeper into the kitchen. His eyes sparkle with excitement, like this is the best idea he’s ever had.

I reluctantly go with him, taking my seat in front of the island. As he turns back to the stove, I study him, my eyes traveling across his bare torso, admiring the way his muscles ripple, the stunning artwork on his body shifting with his movements. What exactly did I do to deserve him?

Nothing, whispers that insidious voice. This isn’t meant for you.

Michael chooses that exact moment to glance back at me. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

The question is casual, but there’s nothing casual about Michael. He catalogs every expression that crosses my face, files away every shift in my mood like a detective gathering evidence.

I hesitate, then go for honesty. “I’m thinking I don’t deserve this… that I don’t deserve you.”

“What?” He immediately abandons whatever he’s cooking, then closes the distance between us in two strides. “You need to get that shit out of your head. Right the fuck now.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the authoritative note in his voice. “I wish it worked like that. That I could just command it to go away and it would. Just snap my fingers and poof, it’s gone.” I snap my fingers for emphasis, giving him a helpless shrug.

He narrows his eyes. “Alright. How about this then? I don’t give a damn whether you deserve me or not. I know I don’t deserve you. But I saw you, I wanted you, and by God, I got you. I wanted a baby to tie us together, and I got it too—along with something even better. A true love in you.”

My heart pretty much melts at his words, the ice that’s been forming around it these past few days cracking under the heat of his declaration. I tilt my head up, and he doesn’t waste a second leaning down to take my lips, tongue invading my mouth aggressively like he’s mad I’m second-guessing myself. Like he can kiss the doubt right out of me.

I’m breathless when he breaks the kiss and turns back to the pot that’s bubbling ominously on the stove. “Breakfast will be ready soon,” he assures me, and I nod automatically, my lips still tingling from his kiss.

But something about his words begins to niggle in my brain. I chase the thought, trying to identify what about his declaration is setting off alarm bells in the back of my skull.

My smile fades as I keep trying to make sense of it, but nothing clicks.

Before I can pin it down, he places a bowl of thick, steaming chicken stew in front of me, alongside a hunk of bread so soft it looks like a cloud. Drool pools at the corner of my lips as I stare at the mouthwatering meal. It might be too heavy for breakfast, but my pregnant body doesn’t give a damn. “You made this?” I ask in amazement, breathing in the rich aroma.

He smiles proudly as he takes the seat across from me. “Gracie made the bread and prepped the chicken, but the stew is all me.”

I tear off a piece of bread, dip it into the stew, and take a bite. Holy shit. It’s amazing. I moan, savoring the explosion of flavors. “This is insanely good.”

“You like it?” He watches me take another bite, ignoring his own food.

“I love it!” I exclaim around a mouthful of bread and stew. He blows out a breath, and only then does he start eating his own food.

We make light conversation throughout the meal, and bit by bit, my dark thoughts start to ease up. Who cares if I deserve him or not? I have him, and that’s all that matters.

After breakfast, I get up to clear the dishes, but Michael shoos me away and loads them into the dishwasher himself. I sit by the island, watching him when it hits me—what’s been bothering me since his declaration.

“Michael?”

“Hmm?” He turns back to face me, running a hand through his hair, his expression lazy and content.

“What did you mean earlier—when you said you wanted a baby to tie us together and you got it?” I frown, replaying his words in my head. There’s no way he could have planned it. I was on birth control, for crying out loud. It was just dumb luck I got pregnant, a one-in-a-hundred chance... Right?

His eyes focus on mine, suddenly sharp and assessing. “Does it matter anymore?” he asks after a while.

Does it matter? Logically, it doesn’t. I’m already pregnant, already in love with the child growing inside me, so how it happened shouldn’t matter. But something pushes me to nod. “Yes, I’d like to know what you meant. Please.”

He sighs, a sound that carries a resignation that makes my skin crawl with foreboding. “Remember that night you lied and said you were on your period?”

I have to think back—our life together has been such a whirlwind of violence and passion that individual moments blur together. Then it clicks: the night Elira brought me the birth control pills. A cold, clammy feeling spreads through me as the uneasy feeling from the past few days rushes back full force. “Yeah…” I manage.

“Well, I checked the footage and saw you and Elira. She didn’t come back for her purse at all—she gave you birth control pills.”

My heart stutters. So he knew about them all along? I wipe my sweaty palms down my pants, trying to maintain a façade of calm. “Yes,” I admit. “I called her and asked for them.”

“I saw where you hid the pills, so I took them, flushed the originals down the toilet, and replaced them with placebos. You weren’t going to use them anyway, I thought. But… you did, didn’t you?”

I can tell from his tone that he asked a question, but my hearing fizzled out at the point he said he flushed my birth control pills down the toilet and replaced them with placebos.

A high-pitched ringing fills my ears, and my vision blurs, the room spinning around me as the earth seems to tilt beneath my feet For a moment, I think I might faint.

“You–you what?” I ask in a horrified whisper. He flushed my pills? I’ve been taking the placebo all along? He forced this pregnancy on me! As if feeling my distress, my baby turns in my belly and kicks gently, grounding me just enough to keep from blacking out.

Michael’s lips press into a thin line as he takes in my expression. “Gianna, you need to calm down,” he says, his tone maddeningly reasonable. “It was in the past. It all worked out perfectly.”

I stare at him in complete disbelief, my chest beginning to heave with my breaths. “Calm down? It all worked out perfectly?” I repeat, my voice shaking. I’m not even sure who I’m looking at right now. Have I ever really known him at all? “How could you do this to me? You trapped me!”

“I loved you. I love you,” he corrects, taking a step towards me. “I did what I thought would keep you by my side.”

“And it didn’t matter that I told you I wasn’t ready for a child?” My fingers grip the edge of the island so hard my knuckles turn white. I slide off my chair, desperate to put space between us. When he takes another step forward, I raise my hand like a shield. “No, stay there.”

He doesn’t even look sorry. There’s no guilt on his face—nothing. Maybe I could feel differently if he at least looked remorseful, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t see what he did that was so completely, unforgivably wrong.

He really is a fucking psychopath.

“I–I need to be alone,” I choke out and turn away from him, walking as fast as my six-month belly allows to my old bedroom. I slam the door shut behind me.

I haven’t been in here in months, and it feels foreign to me now. But I can’t bear going to the room we’ve been sharing.

He betrayed me. Again.

God, I’m such an idiot. How naïve was I to think everything was just… perfect? The more I think about how stupid and gullible I was, the hotter my face burns with humiliation. He has a camera in here—hell, there are cameras everywhere. Has he been watching me all along? I saw the evidence in that shrine of a photography room, but I only looked at it through love-tinted glasses.

I fucking took those pills every single day, choking them down even when the bitter medicine stuck in my throat, because I didn’t want to get pregnant before I was ready. And he knew that. He knew, and he made sure it happened anyway.

An invisible vise clamps around my chest, squeezing until I can’t breathe. Nausea pushes at the back of my throat, and I start to hyperventilate.

I can’t get enough air.

I slap my hands over my chest, then freeze when a horrifying thought hits me—even now he might be watching. Where else does he have cameras? The walk-in closet? The bathroom?

My skin crawls at the thought, and I shudder violently. Is this how an animal in a zoo feels? A bug under a microscope? Have I ever had a private moment at all in this house?

I need to get out of here.

I can’t stay here in this room, this house, with him. The baby kicks me hard, and I gasp, doubling over, gripping my belly. Shit, shit, shit.

My eyes dart around the room and snag on an empty paper bag on my study desk. I lunge for it, pressing it to my mouth and breathing rapidly—in, out, in, out—until my heart rate slows and oxygen returns to my starved lungs.

When my panic subsides to a manageable level, my brain kicks back into gear. If I want to leave without raising suspicion, I can’t take anything with me. If he sees me packing, he’ll know something’s up. And the last thing I need is him suspecting anything. There’s no telling what he might do.

What if he throws me in that prison again?

There’s a soft knock on the door, and I just know it’s him—I can sense his presence through the wood. Fury boils through me, but I force myself to keep breathing in and out.

The door handle turns—I forgot to lock it, stupid, stupid—and Michael steps into the room. “Gianna, I–” He stops short when he sees me by the desk, breathing with the aid of a paper bag. “Are you okay?”

I try to relax my posture, but my entire being is quaking with suppressed rage and fear. I manage a stiff nod, not trusting myself to speak without screaming or sobbing.

He hesitates, eyes darting over me, then sighs. “I just got a call from work. The site we launched last night just crashed, and I need to go fix it with my engineers. We’ll continue this conversation when I get back, okay?”

As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing more to say. He wanted me pregnant, and he got his wish by deceiving me. I’d be a fool to stay here. But I give him another stiff nod.

He studies me like he can read my thoughts, then sighs again. “I did the right thing for us. Once you get past your anger, you’ll see it.”

This motherfucker.

I take an aggressive breath in, clenching my teeth so I don’t curse him out. He doesn’t deserve to see my reactions. He lingers a moment longer, like he’s hoping I’ll say something, then finally nods. “I’ve called Gracie and the guards back. They’ll be here in a couple of minutes.” And with that he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Right. He sent them away because he wanted us to have some time alone. If I want to leave this place, I only have the few minutes it will take them to arrive. The window is impossibly narrow.

Ever since the incident with Aunt Marie, there are always two or more guards around the house, making sure nothing like that happens again. It used to make me feel safe, but now just thinking about it feels suffocating.

He has me trapped.

I drop the paper bag on the desk and calmly make my way to the bathroom. For a brief, desperate moment, I consider calling Elira, but I shut that down fast. She’s my friend, sure, but she’s Maximo’s wife—and his loyalty belongs first and foremost to Michael.

If I’m going to run away, I’ll have to do it myself. I did it once and stayed hidden for months. I can do it again.

I take a quick shower, then calmly exit the bathroom and head to the walk-in closet where I dress like I normally would—in a pair of stretchy maternity leggings and a baggy shirt. I pull my hair up into a tight bun, then dig through my jewelry box, my mind racing.

This time, I need to have a better plan—something sustainable. I can’t wash floors or bartend with my baby. Our baby. No, my baby now.

Not caring anymore how it might look to Michael if he’s watching me, I dump all the jewelry he’s given me the past few months into my purse. I’ll need to sell them to survive the coming weeks.

With my purse on my shoulder, I walk out of the closet. Out of my room.

Out of his house and out of his life.

40

MICHAEL

Two months later…

My fists clench until my knuckles turn bloodless white as I watch my wife struggle with the obscenely large vase bursting with flowers she’s trying to transport. She drops it on the floor, and even though she’s several feet away from me, I can almost hear her grunt. Almost.

This is the pathetic existence I’m relegated to now. Watching her from the shadows like some goddamn stalker, devouring glimpses of her from a distance without daring to bridge the chasm between us. All while my body aches with a primal need to cross that threshold, to feel her skin beneath my fingertips again. To claim what’s mine.

When I got back from work that evening to talk to her, to make her see how what I did was the right thing for us, she was…gone. And her mother’s necklace—the one she never takes off, the one with my tracker in it—was lying on our bed.

I nearly ran mad. No—I did run mad.

I ran her face through every piece of software in my arsenal, but she’s too damn smart, my wife. Brilliant, actually. She’s grown to know me, to know how my tracking software works, and avoided anything that might trigger the technology and help me find her.

It took me two weeks to find her the first time—two whole weeks of sleepless nights and rage-filled days where I was a fucking menace to anyone unfortunate enough to dare cross my path. When I finally tracked her down, I walked straight up to her and told her I was taking her home. She agreed easily enough.

And then she slipped out of my grip like a slippery eel, and it took me another week to find her. Seven more days of hell. Seven more days of imagining every worst-case scenario.

The second time, I was smarter. I didn’t approach her outright. I observed from afar, noticed the way the house she was staying in was practically crumbling on its legs, so I reached out to her landlord and gave him an envelope thick with cash to upgrade her apartment.

Gianna knew it had to be me—my fingerprints were all over the sudden generosity. So she ran again. And again. And again.

Every time I try to make her life even marginally more bearable when I find her, she runs from me. All that running, the constant stress and fear… it can’t be good for the baby.

So when I found her this time, I decided on a different approach. I settled for watching from afar and doing little mundane things that she couldn’t possibly suspect were engineered by me. Things that seemed natural, coincidental. Like opening a small flower shop as soon as I confirmed she was here in Boston.

Creating flyers searching for an office assistant and strategically sticking them in front of her room, on the stairway of her apartment, even on a thick tree across the street—until she finally took the bait and went in for an interview.

Janet, her ‘boss’—an elderly grandma being extra nice to her—must not have seemed suspicious, because aren’t all grandmas inherently supposed to be nice to young people? Especially one who is so obviously pregnant.

So why the hell is an office assistant hauling heavy flower vases around in this October chill?

I slip my phone out of my pocket and call Larson—Janet’s son and my reluctant accomplice in this elaborate charade.

“What now?” he grumbles as he answers the call.

“Why the hell is my wife struggling with flowers out here in the cold? That’s not the role of an office assistant.” The whole point of manufacturing that damn position was so she could remain seated in a temperature-controlled environment all day.

“I don’t know, man. Maybe because the business is actually thriving, and my mother is too old to carry those damn things herself?” he asks sarcastically.

I grind my teeth. I’d shoot the fucker if he weren’t an underboss here in Boston with one of the most powerful families. Instead, I snarl into the phone, “I don’t want the business to thrive, I already have more than enough thriving businesses. I just want her to fucking rest.”

“Then go scare the customers away yourself or fucking kill them. Settle your differences with your wife, man, and stop putting me in the middle of your domestic drama.” The dial tone beeps in my ear as he hangs up on me. On me.

I slam my palms against the steering wheel of my car in frustration. I hate this. I fucking hate this powerlessness. How long is she going to do this for? She’s nearing the end of her pregnancy. She can’t have our baby in this condition.

Is this her punishment for me? Denying me the chance to witness the birth of the child I wanted so badly?

I smack the wheel again and again, preferring the physical sting on my palm to the constant fucking ache in my chest that’s been my unwelcome companion since I realized she fucking ran away from me. From me. The man who would burn the world to ash for her.

My phone rings, and I answer without taking my eyes off the door of the flower shop. “Hey, how is she?” Elira’s soft voice comes through the line.

Surprisingly, Maximo’s wife and I have been talking a lot since this happened. She’s the one who suggested perhaps I shouldn’t be so obvious with my help this time, to give her some space instead. And it seems to be working so far—Gianna has been here for the past three weeks, showing no signs of fleeing yet.

“Seems fine to me,” I say shortly. “When can I initiate contact?” I wonder, not for the first time, if she’s been in touch with Gia all along. They were so close, it’s strange to believe they don’t speak anymore. But Elira swears up and down that she hasn’t heard from her since she vanished from home.

“Patience. You don’t want to spook her.” Elira pauses. “Does she seem like she’s settling in okay? Does she need a friend? Maybe I could swing by and try to⁠—”

“No.” I shut her down immediately. I’ve put in too much work to let Elira scare her away. “If you suddenly show up, she’ll know I’m nearby. There’s no telling what she might do, and she’s too close to her due date.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” she sighs. “Have you eaten today?”

“I’m not hungry, I–” I abruptly fall silent when Gianna and Janet emerge from the flower shop, locking the door behind them. Are they closing already? It’s barely 2 PM. Did something happen?

I watch as Gianna waddles next to the older woman and gets into her car. I fire up my engine. “Listen, Elira, I have to go.” I hang up before she can say anything and ease into traffic, maintaining a calculated distance behind Janet’s car.

41

GIANNA

I wave goodbye to my boss, Janet, and trudge up the steps of the small townhouse. It’s owned by her son, but he’s no longer in the city, and she insists I stay here—or move in with her. Sweet old lady. Too damn sweet.

As I reach the door, my gaze catches on the black car with the tinted windows slowly driving down the road. My stomach tightens. I don’t need to see the plate number to know it’s the same one that always seems to be around when I get home—no matter the time.

I swallow down the unease and push into the house, unable to suppress the small sigh of relief as the warmth from the overworked heater envelops me. The contrast between the biting October chill and the cocoon of heat makes my skin prickle pleasantly. I waddle to the kitchen and prepare my latest bizarre concoction: a steaming mug of onion, garlic, and mustard tea.

I’ve been having weird cravings the past couple of weeks, but this unholy tea mixture tops them all. I’d normally be disgusted by just the idea, but here I am, gulping it up like it’s some golden nectar. Pregnancy cravings are wild.

When my mug is empty, I rinse it in the sink, then shuffle to the oversized couch. Letting out a breath, I sink down slowly, grateful to finally take all the weight off my back and legs. My gaze snags on the snowman teddy bear on the table, and I find myself contemplating it for a moment.

Janet gave it to me on the first day I met her, right after our so-called ‘interview’—which was less an assessment of my qualifications and more an interrogation about my baby and baby daddy. Then she hired me on the spot despite my obvious lack of experience with flowers or retail. The teddy was a parting gift as I was leaving.

Deep down, I knew it wasn’t really from her. I still remember a conversation I once had with Michael, where I told him I don’t have memories of building a snowman, and he said he’d make me the biggest snowman in the world when it starts snowing. That was a week before I left him.

Michael got me that job.

I know it like I know that no matter how much I pee before bed, I’ll wake up with a full bladder. I should’ve run away the moment I suspected it, but I was tired. So tired. And he’s been so good this time—no direct contact, no attempts to bully me into coming back to Manhattan with him.

Why not give the man a cracker then?

I push the sarcastic thought out of my head. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect over the past few weeks, and I realize running away might not have been the most mature thing to do. But I needed the space and semblance of freedom.

Needed to be on my own for a while.

But dare I trust him again? What if he pulls the same crap later? What happens the next time he decides what’s best for me without my consent? He said he loves me, and I believed him. I still believe him. Because no matter how far and fast I run, his presence is always with me. Always following me.

Hell, you don’t chase someone for two months straight without being hopelessly in love, all while the weather’s been slowly turning to shit. He’s even left his work—both the mafia side and the legal one—unattended for weeks, just to track me down. Yeah, he loves me, alright.

The problem is his overbearing ways. Making decisions on my behalf.

Three weeks ago, I snuck into a hospital for a checkup and got blindsided with the news—my baby is actually two babies. Twins. And no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, I know I don’t want to give birth to them alone. I don’t want them to grow up without their dad either.

What should I do? Dare I give him another chance? Just one last chance?

Because despite it all, I do still love him, damn it. I’ve never been able to shake him from my heart, even when I was furious as hell with him. He’s the love of my life.

Our relationship isn’t exactly perfect, but it’s ours. If we’re both willing to put in the work, I know we can make it through. We can do anything.

I study the snowman again. Knowing my husband, there’s probably something hidden inside. A camera? Audio bug? I raise my hand in front of the teddy’s blank stare and crook my fingers in a deliberate ‘come-hither’ gesture.

“Alright, Michael. I’m ready to talk to you now. So… come out—or not, I guess.” Talking to a teddy feels ridiculous, and when a few minutes pass and nothing happens, doubt creeps in. Maybe I’m going crazy. Have I just been deluding myself all this while that he’s always with me?

Then my doorbell rings.

My lips curl as I drop the teddy on the table, then struggle to heave myself up from the couch. Stupid big belly. It takes a full minute of ungraceful maneuvering before I’m upright.

I brush a few stray hairs out of my face as I waddle towards the door, not hesitating before I pull it open.

And there he is. Michael Hart. My estranged husband. He’s cradling a vaguely familiar tip jar in his hand. I frown at it.

“Hi, love,” he murmurs, and Christ, his voice is like a balm soothing all my hurts. I didn’t realize just how much I missed him until he’s standing right there, staring at me with the softest expression I’ve ever seen on his face.

“Why are you stalking me?” That’s not what I mean to ask, but it’s what slips out.

“Because I love you, and I can’t bear the thought of you being out there somewhere and having no idea what’s happening with you, having no idea if you need me, need help, and being unable to provide it.”

The raw honesty in his voice catches me off guard. I didn’t expect him to just throw it all out there so openly. “You hurt me, Michael. You lied to me, tricked me.” My eyes sting as an overwhelming wave of love for him crashes into me, dragging all the hurt his betrayal gave me right along with it. “You not only broke my trust, you broke my heart.”

His brows draw together, his face scrunching up with his own hurt. “I know, love. I know. I realize I shouldn't have switched your pills—no matter how much I wanted to keep you with me. It was fucked up. I’m sorry.” He swallows hard. “You have no idea how sorry I am, and how much I wish I could redo the past. The past couple of weeks have been absolute hell without you.”

“You regret our baby?” I ask, just to be mean, and I ruthlessly shove down the smile that wants to work its way to my face when he struggles to reply.

“I–I regret the dishonest way the pregnancy happened. But not the pregnancy itself. I love you and the baby growing inside you.” He hesitates. “Can I come inside?”

“No.” I fold my arms across my chest as much as my stomach will allow. “I know you arranged this apartment for me, but that doesn’t mean you get to come inside.”

He grimaces. “How do you know that?”

“You think I don’t know you’ve been pulling strings for me since I got to Boston? Meeting Janet, the job, this house...”

He swallows, then pushes the tip jar towards me, and I reluctantly accept it. “I just wanted to make sure you and the baby were well taken care of, while giving you space to heal.” His voice drops. “I didn’t expect you’d actually call for me.”

I jiggle the jar in my hand, listening to the coins clinking inside. “What’s in that teddy bear? A camera?” He hesitates. “Tell me.”

“An audio bug… I just wanted to be able to hear if you needed help,” he rushes to add.

“You’re constantly outside my house, constantly following me—I’m sure you would’ve known if I needed help.” I tilt the jar, and something clicks in my brain. “Wait… this is the tip jar from that first night we met, isn’t it?”

He nods to confirm it. He kept it?

“Open it,” he says softly, so I do.

I tip it over, letting the coins spill into my palm, but there’s a whole lot, and some hit the floor. Then something heavier plops into my hand—a huge ring. I gasp, and the jar slips from my hand. But Michael is quick, catching it before it hits the floor.

“What is this?” I ask, studying the ring that looks so similar to my tattoo, except the stone is two intertwined pink tulips. It’s… beautiful.

“Will you marry me?” Michael asks, and I gasp again when I look at him—he’s on one knee, right there on the porch. I quickly glance around the quiet street, hoping there’s no nosy neighbor peeking out a window.

“What are you doing? We’re married already.” I grab his arm and try to pull him up, but he resists.

“For real this time, Gianna. Two people marrying each other because they’re in love, and not for any other reason.”

My answer—yes, yes, a thousand times yes—crowds the back of my throat, desperate to break free, but I hesitate. He smiles sadly, taking my silence as a no, and gets to his feet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out some sort of black and gold card and hands it to me.

It’s a wedding invitation. Our wedding invitation. Slated for next week. I frown as I study it. How long has he been carrying this around?

“I hope you’ll be able to make it.”

Then he takes a step back. Then another.

I watch him dazedly as he walks towards the black car parked at the end of the street. He gets in, but he doesn’t start the engine, nor does he drive off.

He just sits there.

Staring. Waiting.

I stand frozen on the porch for what feels like an eternity before finally turning back inside, locking the door behind me.

42

GIANNA

I take a deep breath and thank the driver as I ease my swollen body out of the cab, one protective hand cradling my belly. The twins shift restlessly inside me, as if sensing the gravity of this moment, this choice. My eyes flick to the invitation in my hand, making sure I’m at the right place.

The address is correct, but I hesitate, glancing around.

The venue before me is breathtaking—an enormous, stunning garden—but it’s also eerily quiet.

I’m not second-guessing myself. I love Michael, and I’m ready to marry him again—properly this time. But this quiet… it makes me nervous.

A woman walks up to me with a warm smile. “Mrs. Hart? We’re waiting for you inside.”

My stomach clenches. How did she recognize me?

The question flashes through my mind even as I know the answer—Michael would have made sure everyone involved could identify his precious runaway wife.

I swallow down my nerves and follow her inside. She leads me past rows of beautiful flowers towards a big, arched glass building, its windows blacked out to conceal whatever waits within.

The woman stops at the double doors and gestures. “You may go in, ma’am.”

I murmur a soft thank you and push the door open, stepping inside into… another world entirely—and I’m instantly mind-blown.

The glass ceiling must have a wallpaper or some kind of fancy tech-y illusion because instead of showing the bright day outside, it displays the infinite expanse of a midnight sky, complete with soft, twinkling stars.

Beneath this fabricated cosmos are huge, sparkling tree canopies crafted from bright flowers intertwined with cheerful lights. The isle stretches before me adorned with more of the lights, framed by stunning floral archways and lush greenery.

The soft, romantic lighting and elegant florals weave together to create an atmosphere so enchanting it feels like a dream.

If I ever allowed myself to imagine a magical wedding—which I never did, having learned early that dreams were dangerous luxuries—this would surpass even those forbidden fantasies.

It’s breathtaking. It’s perfect.

And it’s empty—except for Michael standing at the end of the aisle.

“You made it,” he says, sounding a little surprised, as if he’d prepared himself for disappointment, for me to reject this gesture. He stretches his hand out towards me.

I glance around the surreal venue in awe as I walk towards him. “Where is everyone?”

“You think I wouldn’t give you time to properly prepare?” His smile lights his face when I slip my hand into his. “Everything has to be perfect for you. The wedding is actually in three hours. I have a tailor and a seamstress here with the most perfect wedding dresses—all curated with you in mind. But if you don’t care for any of them, we can move the wedding until you have the best dress. That is… if you’ll marry me.”

I squeeze his hand tightly. “Why the hell do you think I’m here?”

“Gianna.” He tugs me into him, his voice thick with emotion. “I promise I won’t make you regret this.”

“You better not, or your kids and I will make you suffer so much, you’ll wish you never married me,” I threaten as I slowly wrap my arms around his neck.

“Never,” he repeats emphatically, lifting my hand to kiss the back gently. “And did I hear you mention kids, as in plural? Does that mean you’ll have more children for me in the future?” A complex swirl of emotions darkens his beautiful blue eyes—hope, desire, vulnerability—as he slowly lowers his head towards mine.

“Maybe,” I murmur against his lips. “But right now, I’m actually carrying two babies.”

He frowns at me, obviously confused. “You’re carrying two babies? Two–twins?” His eyes go wide, and he stumbles backward, his gaze dropping to my huge belly.

And then he just crumbles to the floor.

“Michael!” It takes me an embarrassingly long time to maneuver my pregnant body down beside him, and I’m panting with exertion as I slap at his chest. He blinks his eyes open. “Did you just faint?”

He stares at me blankly for a moment, then he grins. “Of course not. I don’t faint.” Before I can argue, he tugs at my hands until I’m unceremoniously sprawled on the floor beside him, his powerful arms enveloping me in a cocoon of warmth and security I’ve missed more than I care to admit. “We’re having twins,” he says dazedly.

The hall’s door opens before I can remind him that he absolutely, undeniably just fainted at my feet and can’t rewrite history that quickly, and a familiar soft voice says, “Are we interrupting?”

I turn to the sound, joy surging through me at the sight of my friend. “Elira!” I exclaim, struggling ineffectually to regain my dignity and vertical position. With a triumphant whoop, Michael jumps up, carrying me up with him.

“We’re having twins!” he announces to the room in general. Behind Elira, Romero drops the drink in his hand, and it shatters to the floor.

“What?!” Elira’s shriek of surprise cuts through the moment of stunned silence, and then the room descends into joyful chaos, every single one of Michael’s brothers circling us and hesitantly placing their hands on my belly in excitement while I field about a million questions.

Then the rest of the guests start arriving, and it’s finally time for the wedding.

I fall in love with the first dress the seamstress shows me—a fairytale ball gown that somehow manages to float around me while perfectly concealing my burgeoning belly and accentuating my figure in all the right places. I couldn’t imagine sealing this new beginning in anything else.

And the wedding itself is enchanting, filled with lots of love and laughter. And best of all, bright hope for the future.

EPILOGUE

GIANNA

“One of these days, I’m going to be the one putting a tattoo on you,” I tease Michael, watching intently as he drags the tattoo gun over the delicate skin of my wrist.

He glances up, eyes glittering. “I’d love that. Pretty sure I still have some space on my inner thigh. I can paint your lips with my precum while you work on tattooing my flesh.”

“Michael,” I whisper, scandalized, my cheeks flushing hot. But damn it if my nipples don’t bead inside my bra, my core clenching so hard I actually worry I’ll destroy my panties and have to change them again before we have to leave.

He just winks at me and continues his work like he didn’t just flood my brain with hot-as-hell images that I know I won’t rest until we recreate. Well, it’s his skin that will end up with a sloppy tattoo when my hands shake from wanting him too much.

Our babies kick my belly, and inhale deeply, feeling the pressure on my lungs.

Michael’s gaze darts up, artist’s focus instantly replaced by husband’s concern. “You good?”

“Just your spawns deciding it’s a good idea to stampede Mommy’s lungs,” I wheeze faintly. The panic in his eyes would be sweet if I weren’t so busy trying to breathe around what feels like football practice happening inside me.

He adjusts the tattoo gun so he’s holding it with one hand and places his free hand on my belly. Like magic—or perhaps like the tiny traitors they’re proving to be—the kids immediately calm down, and I blow out a shaky breath of relief.

“Thank you, amore.” I cover his hand with mine, and we sit quietly while he finishes up my tattoo with a flourish. “Wow, you’ve outdone yourself this time, Michael.”

The design mirrors my new ring but with a twist. Two intertwined tulips form a perfect heart, and nestled in the center is the first ultrasound we ever got, when we still thought the glob of tissues would develop into one baby. Beneath the black and white image is the date Michael and I got married the second time. My due date is Monday, and I hope to add my babies’ birth dates next to the first date very soon, completing our bloody, beautiful love story in permanent ink.

“I want this too,” Michael murmurs as he studies the tattoo that winds up my wrist to just below my pulse point. He kisses the skin, then carefully covers it with a bandage.

“In your inner thigh?” I wince. “How are we going to explain it to the kids when they grow up? ‘Sorry, darlings, Daddy has your birth dates tattooed where only Mommy can see them’?”

“No, smartass.” He presses the bandage on my skin harder than necessary, but the numbing cream is yet to wear off, so I don’t feel any pain. I poke my tongue out at him, and he leans forward quickly to try catch it with his mouth.

I squeal, pushing at his chest. “Michael!”

His expression shifts from playful to devastatingly serious in an instant. “I’m going to have a tattoo lasered right here.” He places a hand over the space between the swell of my breast. Making my breath hitch. “Your name and our children’s names—carved right over my heart where you all belong.”

“Michael…” I say softly, leaning forward to kiss him, but my eyes snag on the digital clock on his worktable, and I pull back with a gasp.

“Oh God, we’re late!” I nearly topple as I struggle to heave myself off the leather chair, inelegantly pulling my dress down and shimmying my hips to force the fabric over my enormous belly. I glance at Michael to see him still on the stool with his eyes closed like he’s mourning the interruption. “Come on, we can continue this later. We have to go.”

“Promise?” he asks unrepentantly, eyes now open and burning with heat.

“Yes, yes, I promise. Now come!”

Finally, he drags himself up, tugging on his shirt sleeves and snapping on his cufflinks. I snatch his tux jacket in one hand and my gold heels in the other, then practically waddle-run through the house. It’s more like rolling, honestly, with this baby bump weighing me down. Michael’s deep laughter chases behind me the whole way.

“Elira is going to have a conniption,” I tell him as we get into the back of the limo we’re taking to Rafael’s tonight.

“It’s Thanksgiving. She should be thankful we’re coming at all with how far along you are,” he replies in a bored tone, but I know he has a soft spot for Elira now. They got quite close while I was away, and sometimes I like to tease them both about being besties now—which Maximo absolutely hates to hear.

“Just think—next Thanksgiving, we’ll have our kids running underfoot.” I sigh wistfully, sliding to his side and resting my head on his chest.

“I can’t wait.” He wraps his arms around me, pulling me even closer just as his phone starts ringing in his pocket. He fishes it out and sighs, silencing the call.

“Who was that?” I glance up at him, and he gazes down at me with the softest blue eyes. Sometimes, I think he’s gone soft and then I hear him discussing with Lorenzo and his men and I realize he’s only this soft with me.

“Romero. Probably wants to rip into me for being late,” Michael huffs, leaning forward to tell Marco to hit the gas. The whole ride to Rafael’s penthouse, Michael’s phone keeps blowing up. His brothers take turns calling, one after the other, like it’s some unspoken competition to see who can yell at him first.

“Don’t you think you should pick up?” I ask when Rafael’s name flashes on the screen for the second time in a row.

“We’re almost there,” he dismisses as we turn onto Rafael’s street, the imposing penthouse looming ahead. “They can say whatever they want to my face.” His jaw sets stubbornly, and I know there’s no persuading him. Stubborn, beautiful man.

I shake my head with a slight tsk, still convinced he should have answered when Romero first called as we were leaving. What if something truly urgent has come up? He insisted they had all agreed to take tonight off from work, but their line of business isn’t exactly one you can just turn off. Danger doesn’t take holidays, and neither do enemies.

We drive down into Rafael’s underground parking lot, and I shift away from Michael’s chest, running a hand up to my hair to make sure the bun I had painstakingly done is still intact.

Lorenzo slips out of the front seat and opens Michael’s door. After my husband climbs out, he leans down to offer me his hand. I hold it tightly as I sort of just roll to the end of the seat and struggle to get down, heels still in hand.

My belly is so big now I can’t even see my feet anymore, so Michael usually puts my shoes on for me. We were too rushed to do it before we left home, but he can help me once we get to Rafael’s.

Michael’s brows draw together in concern as he watches me struggle, then he moves his hands beneath my armpits and lifts me out. I grunt, hands slapping to his chest to grip his shirt for support. “Maybe, we should have stayed back home tonight. You need all the rest you can get.”

“No fucking way. I would’ve fought you tooth and nail if you had even suggested that,” I inform him, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm. He doesn’t smile like I wanted, so I roll my eyes dramatically. “Oh, cheer up. You put me in this condition, Michael, so suck it up.”

Behind us Lorenzo snickers, earning a glacial glare from Michael. We proceed towards the elevators at a maddeningly slow pace, entirely because of my new penguin-like gait⁠—

It would be utterly humiliating with all the stone-faced guards outside watching us approach, but I’m in a shimmery, silver ball dress. So I guess I’m a sparkly, waddling penguin. Still beats the pajama-clad version I’ve been rocking for the past month.

I barely leave the house anymore, so I was quick to nag Michael into accepting Rafael’s invite to spend Thanksgiving at his place.

We get into the elevator, and I tighten my grip on Michael as it shoots up, the babies shifting around in my belly like they’re wondering what the hell is happening.

When the doors slide open right onto the penthouse floor, I’m surprised to find the Nightshades men, Elira, and their collective security detail all gathered in the great hall, their expressions tight with tension. They weren’t waiting for us. Something’s wrong.

“Why weren’t you answering your calls?” Maximo snaps, waving for the men to pile into the elevator. Elira walks towards me, and I let go of Michael to lean in and hug her as much as my protruding belly allows.

“Because we were almost here. Did something happen?”

“There’s a hot raid going on in our respective places of business right now,” Rafael states with unnatural calm. “Didn’t you get a call from your men at the office?”

As if summoned by his words, Michael’s phone begins to ring, and my husband’s handsome face transforms into impenetrable stone.

I lean closer to check the caller ID and see Lorenzo’s name flashing. Michael answers, and because I’m pressed against him and his secretary is yelling, I can hear every word blasting through the speaker.

“Fuck, Michael, I didn’t realize my phone was on silent. We’ve run into some trouble back at the office—we need to go, now.”

“Give me a moment.” Michael hangs up and faces his brothers. “Do we know who it is?”

“FBI, and the person leading the raid is Emilia,” Romero answers, shaking his head slowly like he still can’t believe it.

Emilia? Almost instinctively, my eyes snap to Rafael, searching his face for a reaction. But he remains outwardly calm, his expression bland like he couldn’t be bothered by all this. Yeah, right. There’s no way he isn’t bothered.

“We need to leave. Now,” Rafael says calmly, adjusting his jacket as he walks towards the elevator and presses the button. The doors slide open almost immediately, and he goes in, turning to face the others with a single raised brow.

Romero joins him, and Michael drops a hard kiss on my forehead. “You’ll be safe here,” he murmurs before pulling away to join his brothers. Maximo also whispers a quick goodbye to his wife before following them.

Then the doors slide shut, and they’re gone.

“Emilia is an FBI agent?” Elira’s wide eyes meet mine. “I’m not sure what Michael’s told you about her, but to Rafael, I think she might be the one. The one who got away.”

I shake my head slowly. Rafael and an FBI agent?

BONUS EPILOGUE

RAFAEL

Five years ago…

“Well, well, well… What brings the great Rafael Moretti to my humble abode?” Neil Gallagher’s smirk crawls across his face while he rolls his unlit cigar between his fingers.

I pick up the lighter on the table and flick it on. “Business, Gallagher. Purely business.”

He raises a single brow as he leans forward, touching the cigar’s tip to the flame. The tobacco catches, glowing ember-red, and the sharp scent of burning leaves fills my nostrils. I snap the lighter shut, watching him take a deep pull before blowing the smoke directly into my face—a cheap power play that almost makes me laugh. I don’t even blink.

“Is that so?” He finally drawls after two more long drags. “And might this business concern a certain feisty little lass I currently have in my… care?” His voice drips with insinuation and it takes every ounce of my considerable control not to lunge across the table and shake the information out of him.

He’s a smart one, I’ll give him that.

But then he had to be—to successfully claw his way up from a lowly foot solder to the boss of his own mafia outfit, with no familial or royal ties to smooth his climb. “Funny you should mention that, Neil. Yes, it was brought to my attention that you have in your possession something that belongs to me.”

“Ah, but you see, the lass got a wee bit too curious, started stickin’ her pretty little nose where it don’t belong. I can’t just be handin’ her over all willy-nilly like and—” He cuts off abruptly when one of his men appears at his side, bending to whisper urgently into his ear.

Neil stiffens. His eyes, previously heavy-lidded with false ease, now burn with rage as he glares at me. “Ye wouldn’t have anything to do with her sudden disappearance now, would ye boyo?” His Irish brogue thickens, his temper rising with it.

Fuck. “She’s gone? You mean you lost her?” I launch myself from the booth, cursing viciously. My phone is already in my hand as I sprint through the club, dialing my investigator—the one who I tasked with watching her here in Boston.

He was supposed to make sure nothing happened to her—well, nothing more. Because the last I’d heard, my little trouble maker had gone and gotten herself kidnapped.

“Bryan–”

“I was just about to call you, Mr. Moretti. It seems Miss Rossi has managed to pull a Houdini on her captors. Slipped right out of that little brownstone they were keeping her in. I’m following her trail now, but  I’m afraid she’s got at least a dozen seriously pissed-off Irishmen on her heels.”

“Where are you right now?” I demand as I get into my car, connecting my device to the Bluetooth so I can talk to him as I drive.

“I’m on the move. I’ll share my location—just follow me.” A pause. “Come with backup.”

I end the call without telling him there’s no backup.

It’s just me and Lorenzo, who gives me a flat, unimpressed look. “Are you sure about this? You risk turning Neil into an enemy. And for what? Some woman who betrayed you years ago and seems to have an unending vendetta against us all? Rafael, this isn’t you, I⁠—”

“Shut the fuck up or get out of my fucking car.” The words rip from my throat as I tear out of the parking lot. Lorenzo grunts as he grabs hold of the handlebar, but he wisely keeps quiet.

The engine roars as I push it well past any legal limit, weaving through traffic like a man possessed. And maybe I am—possessed by the ghost of what Emilia and I once were, by the demons of what we’ve become.

Bryan’s text flashes on my phone.

SHE’S SURROUNDED. THEY’RE HERDING HER WEST

Lorenzo sees it too, and I feel his stare burning into the side of my face before he speaks. “She’s being herded that way for a reason, Rafael. It’s a trap. We can’t just waltz in there.”

He’s right. Of course, he’s right. I know it’s a trap.

If I were in Neil’s shoes and discovered an FBI agent investigating my business, I wouldn’t let her escape. I’d make damn sure she never left my city alive to tell her bosses what she learned.

“Fuck!” My fist slams into the steering wheel, and the car jerks into the opposite lane with a squeal. An oncoming truck’s horn blares, but I barely flinch as I yank us back on course.

“Mother of God,” my asshole second-in-command mutters, gripping the handlebar tighter.

I should forget about her. Turn this car around, go back to New York, and let Gallagher deal with her however he damn well pleases. She fucking betrayed me. Ripped my heart out and stomped on it with her dainty little feet—then had the nerve to act like I’m the villain in our story, like she was the one wronged. She’s fucking tripping. I need to find a way to cut myself loose from this twisted, toxic, love-hate mess before it drags me under.

But I can’t.

I just need to fucking understand—once and for all—what her issue is. What changed? What made her turn on me like a rabid dog after everything we shared? That question has haunted me the past five years, ever since I kicked her out of my penthouse. I should never have let her go. I should have fucking locked her away, somewhere safe, until my wounded rage subsided enough for me to get my answers.

Maybe then I wouldn’t be stuck in this endless cycle—hunting for answers, sending investigators after her, chasing her around the fucking country like some lovesick dog. Which I most definitely am not.

“Please tell me you have some kind of plan beyond storming in and getting us both killed.” Lorenzo breaks the tense silence.

I glance down at my phone, slowing the car as I realize Bryan’s stopped moving—we’re right behind him. His latest text makes my stomach drop.

HER CAR BROKE DOWN. SHE’S NOW ON FOOT.

I’m out of the car before it comes to a complete stop, scanning the area with narrowed eyes. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and figure something out, genius?”

EMILIA

“Fucking piece of shit junk car,” I grumble viciously under my breath, glancing over my shoulder briefly as I weave through the crowd at the park. I earn a few weird looks, so I slow my sprint down into a light jog.

Did I lose them? Somehow, I doubt it. I can still feel eyes on me. Those Irish thugs are persistent motherfuckers.

Up ahead, I spot a thick line of trees—perfect. Less populated. A good place to lose my tail. One last glance behind me, and I nearly choke on my tongue. Damn it! There they are, faces I’ve memorized during my captivity, now twisted with murderous intent. To hell with appearances.

I break into a run again and rush through the thick foliage, ignoring the stinging pain of the branches scraping against my skin and snagging at my clothes.

Once I’m safely past the worst of it, I drop into a crouch, moving silent as death towards a massive oak tree. The sound of pursuit closes in—low curses and snapping twigs. I press my back against the rough bark, hardly daring to breathe, as the men chasing me burst through the foliage like a herd of enraged buffalo. They barrel right past my impromptu hiding spot without so much as a sideways glance, and it takes all I have not to let out a victorious laugh.

I’m about to blow out a relieved sigh when a hand suddenly clamps over my mouth from behind. Panic surges through my veins with the force of a tsunami, and I thrash wildly, kicking back at my captor’s shin. But it’s useless—I barely manage more than a weak tap, nowhere near enough to do any real damage. Every self-defense technique I know rendered useless by the iron grip around my waist.

“Shhh, it’s okay, piccola. It’s me.” The deep, masculine voice washes over me, and despite everything, my body betrays me—I go slack, melting into his familiar heat. But the moment I realize what I’m doing, I jolt upright, stiffening as I wrench myself away from him with a muffled curse.

“What the hell are you doing here, Rafael?” I whisper-yell, whirling to face him, and my heart nearly stops when I spot a man behind him—gun raised, aimed right at us.

Neil Gallagher.

“Hands up, the both of ye,” the Irish mobster commands, his expression all fury.

“Great, you brought a tail with you,” I grumble, slowly raising my hands to shoulder height.

“Is that the thank you I get for trying to rescue your ass?” Rafael’s tone is light, playful even, but I know better. Behind those silver eyes, the gears are already turning. He raises his hands as well, but it’s not surrender. He’s planning something. He’s always planning something.

“Oh please. I’m not some damsel in distress.” I roll my eyes, exasperated. This isn’t the first fucking time he’s pulled this shit. “You need to stop, Rafael. As you can see, I did just fine rescuing myself until you interfered.”

“I–”

“Jesus Christ, will the pair of ye shut up and step forward?” Neil snaps, cutting off Rafael’s words. 

I share a glance with Rafael, an entire conversation passing between us in the space of a heartbeat. And as one, we move, lunging at Gallagher in a chaotic tangle of limbs and curses. The gun goes off with a deafening crack, and I flinch reflexively, expecting the sharp, tearing pain of a bullet—but thankfully it never comes.

Still, the sound alone is enough to screw us. Gallagher’s men are nearby, and they most likely heard the shot. We don’t have much time.

Rafael grapples for the gun, slamming Gallagher’s wrist against the ground until the man’s fingers spasm and the weapon tumbles free. Just then another man bursts into the clearing. I scramble to my feet, fists up and ready to fight, but I recognize him as one of Rafael’s most trusted men and allow a tiny bit of tension to drain from my shoulders.

“Damn it, Rafael,” he grumbles as he moves to cuff the struggling Neil Gallagher.

“I hope you don’t take this too personally, Neil,” Rafael says, patting the man’s shoulder as he stands up. “But you have to understand, she’s mine.”

Excuse me? “Yours? I don’t belong to you, you arrogant–” The rest of my tirade is lost in a grunt as Rafael grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine in an unbreakable grip.

“Run.” At the same moment, I hear the footsteps closing in.

On autopilot, my legs start moving with his, and we fly through the park, leaping over picnicking families and dodging baffled dog walkers. Past the river where a group of awestruck children are tossing bits of bread at the ducks, Across the grass and into the parking lot, skidding to a stop beside a black SUV with windows tinted so dark they’re nearly opaque.

Rafael opens the backdoor, “Get in.” And like some sheep, I fucking do. It isn’t until we’re cruising down the road at 30 miles per hour that I finally snap out of it.

What the fuck am I doing?

My training kicks in. I slide closer to the driver’s seat and wrap my elbow around it until my arm locks around Rafael’s throat. “Stop the car. Right now.”

The metallic click of a gun being cocked splits the air.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you, sweetheart,” comes the soft, almost bored drawl from the passenger seat. “I’ll blow your brains out faster than you can choke him to death.”

I believe him. My heart pounds fiercely, hot sweat slicking down my back despite the AC blasting in the car.

“You’ve become so ungrateful, piccola.” Rafael’s voice rumbles against my arm, his stubble scratching my skin in a way that sends unwanted shivers down my spine. “A man comes to your rescue, and this is the thanks he gets? This is how you repay me for looking out for you these past few years? For⁠—”  

“What the hell are you talking about?” I stammer, trying to ignore the part of my brain whispering that I know exactly what he’s talking about. He’s been a fucking albatross around my neck for the last three years. I’d be on missions and catch glimpses of him.

Critical moments where I’d almost lose my life or freedom—someone dies, and then I’m free. And in the distance, I’d see someone watching me. Watching over me like some guardian angel. More like guardian demon.

Someone who looked suspiciously like him.

At first, I thought I was going crazy—torn between guilt for betraying him and anger at what he did. But then six months ago, I knew for sure.

I got pushed off that yacht into the frigid, churning ocean. The currents were relentless and kept dragging me under. I was so sure I’d really die that time. But then strong arms wrapped around my waist, towing me up, up, up until I broke the surface, coughing and sputtering.

I don’t know when I passed out, but by the time I came to on the shore, my rescuer was long gone. All that was left was a single petal from an azalea flower, half-buried in the sand beside me.

He’s the only one who teases me with azaleas.

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” I grit out before he can respond. It doesn’t. It doesn’t. It doesn’t. I won’t let it matter. “Just unlock the doors and stop the fucking car.”

He takes one hand off the steering wheel, moving slowly—not towards the controls, but as if to reach for something.

I tighten my grip on his throat.

He grunts, “Easy now, kitten.”

Fuck me. He’s not going to stop or unlock the doors just because I asked nicely. And I know I’m not going to kill him. We both know that. Which means we’re at a standstill, tension thick as hell. The gun his man has trained on me doesn’t waver either.

But then Rafael produces a square box, about the size of his head, and waves it up. “Take this, and I’ll let you go.” A pause. Then, because he’s an asshole, “For now.”

The addition makes me want to scream. He’ll never truly let me go—we’re caught in each other’s orbits like binary stars, destined to circle each other until we finally collide and destroy everything in our wake.

“Lorenzo.” He flicks a glance at his man, who thins his lips in disapproval but lowers his gun.

I relax slightly, but I don’t let my guard down. With my free hand, I snatch the box, then slowly—so fucking slowly—loosen my grip around his throat. Rafael clears his throat dramatically, fingers brushing where I squeezed, and finally hits the unlock button.

I don’t wait for him to slow down. The second the locks click, I’m launching myself onto the street before rational thought can intervene.

Horns blare. Tires screech. Pain explodes in my leg as a car clips me, but I roll with the impact, already pushing myself up. In front of me, Rafael’s car skids to a halt.

“Are you fucking crazy?!” His roar carries over the chaos of traffic, genuine fear threading through his anger.

Maybe. Probably. But I don’t stop. I wince but push forward, limping away from him as fast as my throbbing leg allows, out of the traffic and blending into the sidewalk.

At the corner, I can’t resist one final look back. He’s standing in the street, his usual composed mask cracked to reveal something raw and desperate that makes my chest ache.

I wrench my gaze away, clutching the box tighter as I turn the corner. I couldn’t risk him going back on his word, because if he decided not to let me go, there’d be nothing I could do about it—not without one of us getting seriously hurt.

And a part of me—just a tiny part—wanted him to keep me.

But I’m not giving into that weak side of me.

Not today. Not ever.

It isn’t until hours later, when I’m safely tucked into the small private plane my colleague—and closest thing I have to a best friend—Katie chartered for me, and headed back to Quantico, that I find the courage to finally open the box.

The stench hits me first. I gag, but my eyes stay locked on the box.

Because inside, staring up at me, is a severed head. The head of Jackson Delaware. The FBI agent who was partnered with me on this mission. His mouth is wide open, like he was screaming when he was killed, eyes squeezed shut, and face twisted in terror.

My stomach churns, but not with grief.

Jackson fucked up.

His cover got blown by the slut he was fucking, and when Neil Gallagher got his hands on him, he sang like a fucking canary, throwing me under the bus in exchange for his freedom.

I watched him walk out of the Gallagher’s nest in disbelief, knowing damn well there was no way he’d go back to headquarters to report what happened. Because he’d gone rogue. And for that, he’d be punished.

I figure he must have gone into hiding to protect himself from both the agency and the Irish mafia. And if there’s one thing rats like him are good at, it’s finding the deepest, darkest holes on earth to hide in.

So how the hell did Rafael find him? No—how the hell did he even know what Jackson did in the first place? And why kill him? Revenge for me? Some fucked-up attempt to impress me?

Whatever his reason, I am indeed impressed.

Despite myself, I smile as I shut the box and hug it to my chest. It makes me feel safe. Like no matter what’s going on between us, he’s always watching. Always looking out for me.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever let my guard down. I can’t let this gesture, however grand and bloody, deter me from my path.

No matter what, I won’t be denied my revenge.

NEXT IN THE SERIES

The next book in the series is Devil’s Azalea!

Devil’s Azalea Amazon Page - click here.

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