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 Beautiful Sinner
Copyright © 2023 Sarah Sofiane

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical
methods.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the
author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely
coincidental.

Cover Designer: Lavande Art & Design

Interior Designer: Champagne Book Design
Editor: Bryony Leah

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE
PLAYLIST
DEDICATION
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
PART THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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 Listen Here

The Arctic Monkeys—“Do I Wanna Know?”

Gwen Stefani—“Serious”
Justine Skye—“Collide”
Nina Simone—“Take Care of Business”
Michael Jackson—“Smooth Criminal”
Nicky Jam—“X”
Glass Animals—“Heat Waves”
The Arctic Monkeys—“R U Mine?”
Nine Inch Nails—“Closer”
Ariana Grande—“Quit”
Sade—“Smooth Operator”
Rihanna—“Love on the Brain”
Selena Gomez—“Bad Liar”
Sevyn Streeter—“Taboo”
Kelsey Lu—“I’m Not in Love”
Warrant—“Cherry Pie”
Kali Uchis—“Moonlight”
Santana—“Smooth”
Solomon Burke—“Cry to Me”

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For all the girls who thought they wanted Prince Charming but instead have
an unexplainable pull to chaos—the type with rough hands, commanding
words, and a destructive smile.

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“He’d always been a man who followed his head and not his heart. The
heart was just a bloody motor. The head was meant to drive.”
—Mario Puzo

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The night ended as predicted with Graziano Costa’s body plugged with
bullets. Dollar bills exploded in the air along with shrapnel. Green and red
intermingled with the cacophony of bullets and screams. The club was
completely mirrored like a funhouse—not a good omen for Graziano as I
could see him running into his office using the strippers as cover.
Cazzone.
The hinges snapped in surrender as I kicked the door open. Graziano
cowered behind the desk, his phone in hand, face splotchy with sweat, and
his expensive silk suit now engulfed by blood and perspiration. His bottom
lip trembled. Graziano, like most assholes, had no spine. He thought
because his father was a Made Man I would simply back down and forget
he’d tried to cheat me.
He was wrong.
This wasn’t the first time some fuck had tried to underestimate me. I
enjoyed the realization on their faces when it dawned on them it wasn’t a
smart idea.
He tried to reach for his gun, but the knuckleduster on my left hand saw
to him before he could even get it out of safety. When he woke up a half
hour later, tied to his desk with a gun to his head, he fainted again.
My least favorite part of these things was the bartering. When they
begged for their lives. Jesus Christ, this motherfucker even started crying.
It was undignified.
My lip curled in amusement as he promised he’d give me his girlfriend
if I let him live. “Why do you think I’m here, Graziano?” I asked crisply.
“I don’t know,” Graziano mumbled.
 “Graziano.” I stretched my neck from side to side, irritated.
“The cocaine,” he whispered dejectedly.
“What about the cocaine?” I smiled coldly.
“It wasn’t pure.”
My expression hardened as a bolt of anger flashed through me.
“I swear I didn’t know! I will call my suppliers—”
“You knew because when I called you up you started laughing and told
me to speak to your father if I had a problem.”
Graziano’s eyes widened as he realized I’d called his bluff. “I was just
messing around . . . I respect you,” he pleaded.
“Because I have a gun to your head,” I sneered.
“Rocco, please, I’m begging you, man.” Graziano shook. Tears started
to slip down his face.
My finger pressed the trigger and the crying stopped as he fell to one
side. I fired two more bullets: another in the head and one in the chest.
This was a message, sent in the crudest way. An execution.
“You ready?” Gianni, my cousin, walked in with one of my other men,
Nicolò.
“Just finishing up.” I wiped the gun.
“What do you need those for?” Nicolò frowned as I picked up the folder
titled “Accounts” on the desk.
“Homework.” I smirked.
“He pissed himself.” Gianni swore loudly as a pool of urine started to
puddle under Graziano’s body.
“Well, that just adds insult to injury. Take this and make sure it’s
disposed of.” I handed the gun to Nicolò, who nodded, steering clear of
Graziano’s bodily fluids as he took it.
“You know this whole thing is gonna be a dumpster fire,” Gianni
chuckled.
“I’m looking forward to it.” I smiled coldly.
I tended to thrive on the threat of conflict. If things were going too well
I felt lethargic, and that didn’t sit well with me.
“The Bible says God only looks after children and fools, Rocco. Which one
are you?” Papá had asked me one night, either drunk or high. He had on a
shirt and tie but no pants and was using an empty bottle of Jim Bean as a
microphone.
The only friends he seemed to have left were Jim Bean, Johnnie Walker,
and Jack Daniels.
Did it even say that in the Bible?
He used one he’d snagged from a hotel as a flat surface on which to cut
cocaine lines, but I didn’t think that counted. He wasn’t exactly known as a
man of God either; the other families had politely asked us not to come to
church anymore. Public intoxication on the Lord’s Day was apparently
more blasphemous than all the members of the church being Made Men.
“Well, Rocco, which one are you? Answer me, boy,” Papá asked again,
hitting me hard on the back of my head.
At fourteen I was a kid, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. Although he
was often inebriated, that didn’t mean he couldn’t pack a punch. My old
man always had the proclivity to hit the sensitive areas—ribs, spine, and
stomach.
“Well?” he repeated angrily. His face was bloated, showing the typical
alcoholic flush on his cheeks.
“Neither,” I said stoically.
“Good. I’m molding you now so that when you’re the boss none of
these cocksuckers can play you,” he slurred.
“Thanks, Papá,” I said grimly.
“You’re welcome. One day this is all going to be yours.”
We were standing in our dingy apartment in East New York, Brooklyn,
the walls so thin I could feel the heavy bass of music from two apartments
across and the familiar sound of gunfire from down the block.
Ricardo De Luca had barely a cent to his name. The gambling addiction
had morphed into a drug addiction, everything seeming to slope viciously in
a dangerous domino effect. His underboss Joseph Costa had overthrown
him in a short amount of time, the territories, clubs, and businesses all
changing hands before his very eyes. Papá, meanwhile, was too high to
realize he’d been subjected to a coup under his own nose.
The one memory that silenced any doubts I’d be anything other than a
Made Man was when Joseph Costa threw us out of our home in the Bronx.
I’d watched as enforcers dragged Papá out and put him on the curb before
tossing all our belongings out with us. Joseph had given me a benign smile
and taken a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his bulging pocket, which he’d
put in my clammy hand.
“It’s not personal, kid.” He’d clapped my shoulder in a fatherly way as
he’d taken the last place I could call home.
When my father died two years later, I felt nothing but relief. I
sometimes wondered if I could have gone away, but I was too rooted in
darkness to pick another path. “Chi nasce tondo non può morir quadrato,”
Papá used to say about being a Made Man.
Those who are born round can’t die square.
It was the one trait of Ricardo De Luca’s I was happy to inherit.

“What now?” Domenico, my other cousin, asked as I got into the blacked-
out SUV in the dingy alleyway at the back of the club.
I could hear sirens whirring faintly—Graziano’s death was about to
become very public. I had planned out every eventuality of this. Every
fuckup my father made was a bloody reminder for me not to do the same.
“Now we wait for the call.” I lit a cigarette, the cherry-red flame the
only light among the darkness.
Sure enough, it came.
Two nights later I was with one of my regular fucks, Deena. She had a
nice apartment right across from the park. Heavy plumes of snow
plummeted down, turning the city white.
Deena leaned up, her brown eyes flickering open earnestly, and I could
anticipate what she was going to say before it even left her pink lips.
“Rocco . . .” she said warily.
I didn’t answer. However, she wasn’t so easy to shake off.
“Rocco,” Deena said louder.
“What?” I hissed.
“You can’t just call here when you want to fuck.”
“I don’t remember having to kick the door down,” I said silkily.
 “I want to know what’s happening between us. Am I your girlfriend?”
Deena paused, stroking her dark hair.
I’d always had a thing for brunettes.
“No,” I said without hesitation.
“Do you want me to be?” she asked quietly.
“No.”
She propped herself up on my chest with her elbows and stared down at
me. Her expression hardened. “Why don’t you ever kiss me? You just want
to fuck me and leave.”
I didn’t object to kissing, but it made it a whole lot easier not to. I didn’t
want eye contact and drawn-out intimacy; I wanted to fuck, and when I was
done, leave.
My phone rang and I reached for it, but she held it behind her back.
“Give me that phone or, so help me God, I will kill you,” I growled.
She handed it over sulkily before stalking into the bathroom and
slamming the door shut.
“Croccifixio, I assume you were expecting this call,” Joseph Costa’s
voice fumed down the line.
“Can’t say I was,” I said dryly.
“Your presence is required with the other families tonight. You may
think you’re not answerable to anybody, but you are.”
“Cut the bullshit, Joseph. Where?” I said, bored.
“Dolce Far Niente, forty minutes.”
The line went dead.
I stood up quickly, pulling on my clothes and firing off a quick text to
Franco, my underboss, to let him know.
“Are you leaving?” Deena muttered indignantly as she walked back into
the bedroom.
“Yes.”
I buttoned up my white shirt and put my gun firmly into the waistband
of my pants.
“If you leave now, don’t come back,” Deena hissed.
I was never one for ultimatums; I’d forgotten her name before I’d even
left the building.
“Dolce Far Niente,” roughly translated from Italian, meant “the sweet
life of doing nothing.”
My idea of hell.
 It was a gentleman’s club located in Brooklyn, quiet and discreet. On a
good night you might see a senator or judge in there, and on a bad night
you’d see men getting shaken down or hustled.
When I appeared at the door, I was escorted through the crowd into the
main club, which was decorated in red and gold. One of Joseph’s men led
me to a door and I pushed it open. Either I’d be greeted by five angry men
or plugged with bullets. I’d already been shot twice already at twenty-one—
would I be third-time lucky?
The only destiny I knew to be certain in my life was death.
“Croccifixio,” Joseph deadpanned, “so nice of you to join us.” His
expression darkened menacingly.
The other four men looked at me disdainfully. They were all part of the
families who ran New York City. Giovanni Zanetti, Vincenzo Rossi, Enrico
Cannavaro, and Salvatore Giuliano.
Joseph sat in the middle of them as if he were their God.
The sick fuck in me loved the challenge, but I’d researched this too
thoroughly to fall through now.
“Walk us through what happened two nights ago,” Joseph demanded.
“Be more specific, Joseph.” I smiled coldly.
“Joe,” he hissed.
My refusal to use his preferred name added further insult to injury.
“Answer the man’s question, Croccifixio,” Giovanni demanded.
Giovanni Zanetti . . . He had the appearance of a gentleman, but I’d
watched him kill in cold blood without breaking a sweat.
“More specific?” Joseph said before jumping to his feet. “You killed my
son, cocksucker! Is that specific enough?” He banged his fist on the desk.
“Joe . . .” Salvatore warned.
I sighed. “Deeply regrettable, but I did try to warn him.”
“Warn him of what?” Enrico frowned.
“About selling a dangerous strand of coke. Politicians want tougher
laws for dealers and suppliers because it’s getting too much press.”
Pure silence hit the room—my desired effect.
“Graziano was a liability. He was setting a trail leading back to all of us,
especially with that little coke habit of his,” I sneered.
There were murmurs of agreement, and I could see Joseph’s neck
starting to redden. His son was a stunad and everybody knew it.
 “What is your solution?” Giovanni asked haughtily. “You can’t kill
people because you feel like it,” he hissed.
“Says who?” I deadpanned.
Giovanni gave me a dark stare and I cleared my throat.
“I have contacts who can ship pure cocaine from Colombia to Canada
then to New York.”
“Impossible. Nothing can cross state lines undetected,” Joseph snorted.
“You prefer the Mexicans then—Raul Ruiz’s cartel?” I said coldly.
“Mexicans?” Giovanni raised an eyebrow.
“Never,” Salvatore said adamantly.
“Joseph, are you sure about that?” I was careful to keep my tone light
and impassive.
“Of course I am sure.” Joseph said sharply.
“New York doesn’t deal with the Mexicans after what happened in
Miami,” Vincenzo said angrily. His son had been shot to death by Raul
Ruiz, the leader of the Mexican cartel.
I rubbed a thumb across my jaw thoughtfully. “Joseph has been working
with the Mexicans for years. Ruiz even put Joseph here onto his human
trafficking gig. It’s not just cocaine he’s been moving.”
The air in the room stilled as all eyes turned to Joseph. I’d played my
part speaking monotonously. Anything angrier would have caused
suspicion.
“Lies,” Joseph spit out, his neck flushing a deep purple.
“Didn’t you just spend the weekend with Ruiz’s family? You’re fucking
his sister, Rachael.”
The temperature plummeted to subzero as the four men rounded on
Joseph.
“It sounds like you are playing both sides. Did Simone work it out? Is
that why you gave Raul the instruction to kill him?” I asked innocently.
“Absolutely not. This is a clear fabrication,” Joseph said stiffly, but a
thin sheen of sweat became visible on his forehead.
“I actually spoke to Raul today and he was a little upset when I pointed
out you’d been skimming off the profits. When I was at Graziano’s club I
had a little look through the books, and being good at math I worked out he
wasn’t getting what he should be. Call him.” I offered out my phone, but he
didn’t take it.
 Tension rolled off Joseph and his eyes darted toward the door, but
Vincenzo stood up and bolted it shut, giving him a menacing look and
cracking his knuckles.
“Anything to say, Joe?” Salvatore’s gravelly voice cut through the air.
“He’s lying,” Joseph said unconvincingly.
Giovanni’s dark gaze settled on Joseph.
“Call Ruiz then and prove your innocence, or have you really been
plotting against us, old friend?”
“You son of a bitch!” Joseph pulled his gun out on me.
My draw was quicker.
He froze as he realized his final seconds had arrived.
“It’s not personal, Joseph.” I smiled, pulling the trigger.
I caught him in the middle of his eyes, the shock still evident on his face
as his skull matter decorated the desk.
Everything was personal when a man tried to take what was yours,
offended you, or slighted you in some way. If anyone tried to tell you less,
they were a fucking pussy.
Watching the light go out in Joseph Costa’s eyes was personal.
Very personal.
“Why did you do that?” Giovanni eyed me angrily.
“Because I wanted to,” I said acerbically.
He glared at me, and I ignored him.
“Back to business. I want what’s rightfully mine,” I announced.
“Joseph’s territories belong to me.”
“Why do you think we would grant that?” Giovanni said coldly.
“Gratitude.”
“And what else?” Enrico asked greedily.
“I have offered you my proposal to ship product. I can make us richer
men if you take a chance.”
Giovanni’s eyes narrowed on me, his stare cold enough to turn men to
ice. I could tell his immediate instinct was to say no. However, Vincenzo
gave him a slight nod, and the two other men followed.
“It’s done, but you will restrain your hotheaded impulsivity in the
future,” he said disdainfully.
“I want one more thing.”
“What?” Salvatore asked cuttingly.
 “Reinstate my church membership. I need to maintain my upstanding
public image.” I smiled as I left the room.
From the ashes of vengeance, the King of the Cosa Nostra had risen.

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SEVEN YEARS LATER

My eyes shot open.

I’d been dreaming I was free-falling again and awoke in a stupor. Sweat
beaded on my back uncomfortably as I took a deep breath as though I’d
been submerged underwater, not sleeping under a comforter.
The date of the almost wedding had arrived. A cold shiver ran through
me although we were approaching summer.
I pulled myself out of bed and sat in front of the old Hollywood-style
vanity. In front of me, in the corner of the mirror, was a set of red lipstick
kisses—a memory of easier times when I wasn’t carrying a heavy feeling or
this tight knot within me.
My reflection didn’t betray my inner turmoil as it stared back at me
benevolently, my green eyes unblinking and my oval face framed with dark
brown hair that stopped just above my shoulders. Green eyes supposedly
signified an unpredictable character—something I’d found out about myself
the hard way. To the left was an old sketchbook I hadn’t drawn in for
months and a Paris snow globe sitting above it, the small white flakes lying
stagnant in the glass around the miniature silver Eiffel Tower.
The snow globe was a gift from one of Papá’s trips abroad, igniting a
childhood dream to visit Paris—a dream which didn’t seem likely anymore.
The door handle rattled, and Gennaro, my twin brother, walked in. We
weren’t fraternal twins, but we shared some of the same characteristics.
Although he didn’t share my penchant for trouble.
 I heard pans clanking downstairs and my stomach churned. “What time
is it?” I asked.
“Almost five.”
I’d slept almost all day without being disturbed. Mamma was definitely
giving me the arctic shoulder.
“Are you going out?” I asked.
“Well, this ain’t a fashion statement.” Gennaro pointed to the leather
jacket over his arm.
“Let me come with you,” I pleaded. I needed to get out of the house—
especially today of all days.
He shook his head. “I have a few errands to run for Pop. You can’t.”
The chances of those errands being legal were low. Papá’s business was
organized crime in every shape and form. He was one of the key members
of the New York City crime outfit. The Zanetti family held the most strings,
controlling every hand and transaction in the murky New York criminal
underbelly, and that was how he wanted to keep it.
“I’ll just wait in the car,” I whined.
“I’m not leaving you in my baby.” He rolled his eyes.
“Please?” I pouted.
Gennaro huffed, but I could see his resilience fading.
“Gennaro . . .” I whined.
He groaned before giving me a swift nod. I had always been able to get
around him.
I took a long shower, scrubbing, exfoliating, and washing until I felt
cleansed. I reached for my long ponytail, but it wasn’t there. Like a
phantom I still felt it swishing across my back at times, even felt the weight
of it although I’d cut it clean off, watching the inches drop in the salon
mirror.
Long, dark hair was a signature feature of the perfect la principessa
image that no longer existed. It was a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit the
jigsaw anymore despite how many times I tried to force it. Mamma had
shrieked the house down when she saw what I’d done as if my hair would
magically reattach itself if she continued to shout loud enough.
I selected a simple white tank top and ripped black jeans from the large
closet. My chest clenched painfully to know tucked at the back was a silk
engagement dress.
I closed the closet quickly, blinking away the memory.
 When I walked downstairs, Mamma and Gennaro were arguing by the
door.
“Let her go,” Mamma’s zia interjected.
“You’re going to deal with your papá if he has a problem with it.”
Mamma bustled out through the doorway, slamming the kitchen door.
“Thanks, Zia,” I said, relieved.
Zia gave us a conciliatory wave, the strong smell of gin emitting from
her as she ambled to the terrace.

The sky was a bleak gray as we walked out of the huge white mansion. I
could feel Mamma’s gaze on me through the large French windows as
Gennaro signaled for the security men to open the gates.
It had been six long months, and every day seemed like the first since I
had been brought home in shame.
Relief ran through me as we drove out through the high iron gates onto
the main street. The large house was still visible in the rearview mirror.
Mamma had even nicknamed it “the Pantheon” because of its grandiosity—
a name that still stuck. Everything about our home was perfect. It was a
three-story mansion located on a private street in Staten Island. Even the
oak front door had been perfectly lacquered so it reflected the sunlight
slickly. The only people who resided in the neighborhood apart from us
were the men who worked in Papá’s regime.
“What errands are you taking me on?”
“Have to drop a few packages off.”
“What kind of packages?” I raised an eyebrow, knowing anything that
went on was rarely legitimate.
“Are you working with the fucking FBI?” he chided.
“No, the DEA.” I smirked.
“It’s lucky I’m an upstanding citizen of society then.” Gennaro ran his
hand through his dark hair, switching on the radio. He tapped the steering
wheel impatiently as we entered the city. “Do you still think about him?”
“No.” I swallowed hard.
 Legend said that if you told a lie for long enough your tongue would
turn black. Mine was surely charcoal by now.
I could almost taste the ash.

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We crossed the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge and drove straight into
downtown Brooklyn, parking opposite the restaurant on the corner. It was
an old-style pizzeria that had outstayed the Brooklyn Dodgers. The bell
dinged as we walked inside, and the smell of fresh pizza dough wafted into
my nostrils. A portly older man with horn-rimmed glasses came out to greet
Gennaro warmly.
Federico Maldini—or “Fede” as he was known—worked in Papá’s
business. Although the restaurant might have Fede’s name on the door, it
was no more than a front for what really went on. He wasn’t named la
capocuoco for his culinary skills.
“Nonno!” Gennaro said loudly, hugging the man.
Fede’s stare fell on me, and although he gave me a brief smile, I could
almost feel the disapproval radiating through him.
“Grab us a booth, Sophia,” Gennaro said quickly.
I retreated to the back of the restaurant. It was a cross between an old
Italian restaurant and a sixties diner, with harsh lighting, red Formica
booths, and tabletop jukeboxes.
As much as Gennaro played the doting nipote, I was quick to notice him
putting a large manila envelope discreetly in the front of Fede’s apron
before retreating to the booth.
“I didn’t realize marinara sauce fit in envelopes.” I smiled innocently.
“You’re too fucking perceptive, that’s your problem,” Gennaro
muttered.
After three more clandestine drop-offs, we pulled up outside a nightclub
in Brooklyn. I paused in trepidation, looking at Gennaro, but he shrugged.
 “We’ll be in and out.”
I looked at the gold sign above the door: “Dolce Far Niente.” It had the
silhouette of a naked lady next to it.
“What kind of club is this?” I frowned.
“You’ll see.” He walked ahead of me, chuckling.
Gennaro flashed the inside of his jacket, the silver of his gun gleaming
in the darkness, before he muttered something to the doorman about being
expected and we were nodded through.
A steep staircase led us downstairs as we walked into the main entrance
of the club. Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” rattled through the speakers, making
my bones vibrate. Brightly colored lasers were projected through the dark
club as dancers grinded on the tall podiums above us. The smell of sex and
alcohol lingered in the air as the male audience stared up at them,
trancelike.
I turned my head to Gennaro, who looked distracted by the amount of
flesh on show. I rolled my eyes, giving him a nudge.
“I’m going into the office upstairs. Wait here.”
“You can’t leave me here,” I huffed.
“Trust me, you don’t want to meet this guy,” he muttered.
“Don’t be long.”
Gennaro disappeared into the night with a swift nod.
There was a huge birdcage above the podium. A topless woman
wearing a bejeweled thong and clear plastic heels danced dramatically
inside it while holding the bars. She was an allegory for my own life:
trapped inside a glass cage and only pretty to look at.
Although it was dark, I felt somebody’s eyes on me.
He sat on a plush leather sofa in between the podiums like a king
surrounded by a horde of naked women. Lasers bounced off his face, but
his eyes stayed focused on me, unwavering. Instead of looking away, I met
his gaze head-on even though the intensity of the lights was starting to
irritate me.
My heart sank when he stood up and started to walk toward me. I could
only make out the dark silhouette of him as he came closer. All that was
visible was the amber tinge of his cigarette.
His presence, for some reason, was oppressive. He didn’t say anything,
but the way his gray eyes glared through me seemed on the verge of
improper. He licked his bottom lip as he held my gaze, as if he were
stripping me with just his eyes.
Steely eyes that held me without saying a word.
“It’s rude to stare,” he rasped.
Even through the din of the music, I could still hear the velvety staccato
of his voice.
“Then look away,” I said dryly.
The corners of his mouth twitched. “You’re not the usual demographic.
What are you doing here?” he drawled.
“I might learn a trick or two,” I said coyly.
“What kind of tricks might they be?” His eyes glittered seductively.
“That’s a personal question.” I smiled.
“One I’m still waiting for an answer to.”
I stared at him defiantly, not answering.
His eyes narrowed dangerously. There was a hunger in them—one that
caused a tugging feeling somewhere in my abdomen.
“You look a little young to be in here. How old are you?” His eyes
swept me up and down as his lip curled.
“I’m old enough for most things.” I kept my smile plastered on.
His forehead creased, and I could see him trying to read me. “You work
here then?” he whispered in my ear, looking amused.
My head only came to the middle of his chest, and when he spoke I felt
his hot breath against my neck. Whiskey, nicotine, and sandalwood
hummed through my senses.
“Sure.” I nodded, playing along to this alter ego.
“A little overdressed . . .” He paused.
“I’m on break. I cover the day shift normally.” The lie bounced
effortlessly off my tongue.
“Is that so? I guess I’ll have to spend more time here in the day.” His
eyes examined me curiously. “What’s your name?”
I paused to think of a name, my mind blank until I tasted the flavor of
my lip gloss.
“Cherry.”
“Cherry?” His lip curled.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Gunfire ricocheted around the club. I felt firm arms push me down,
covering my body, his arm wrapped around my neck as he buried his neck
in mine.
“Giù! Giù!” voices shouted out.
“Stay down,” he said roughly in my ear.
I tensed as bullets zipped through the air, the sound of shattering glass
and screams rolling a great shudder through me.
My memory flickered to six months ago, and the same echo of gunfire
surrounded my head as what was around me now. I felt my breath hitch in
my chest as a wave of panic threatened to overcome me.
“Are we going to die?” I turned my neck slowly toward him.
“Not today,” he muttered, pushing me down further as he produced a
gun from his waistband.
Strangely I felt reassured by his rough words of reassurance and the
restrictive way he held me down as the ebb of panic started to fade.
“Who are you?” My eyes widened in shock.
“That’s personal.” He smiled.

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His body tensed in concentration as he fired off round after round without
breaking a sweat. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying it. He emitted a rumble
of satisfaction every time he hit a target and an earsplitting scream escaped
them.
Gennaro.
My heart thudded in a panic as I tried to move to check for him, but the
man kept me in place, his bicep wrapped around my shoulders.
“I said stay down,” he growled roughly in my ear as I tried to wrestle
against him.
I sighed, annoyed, and he let out a chuckle. Who could enjoy this
chaos? His left forearm held me in place, blank ink discernible: a tattoo on
his arm of Jesus being crucified.
It didn’t exactly fill me with comfort.
He definitely didn’t look religious.
There was an inscription underneath the tattoo: “Born sinner.” Although
that made more sense than Jesus, it wasn’t any more reassuring.
High-pitched screams tore out as bullets bounced off surfaces. I
shuddered as tension rolled through me, the tugging feeling in my abdomen
amplified as he held me tighter.
I tried to ignore the sensation of the man’s body against mine, but it was
difficult, especially when I was stationed between his bulky biceps. Faint
stubble scratched my cheek when he let out a long exhale, which sparked a
thrill through my body.
Keeping me down, slowly he jumped up and shot four times. I knew
he’d hit his remaining targets as I heard anguished screams, and then there
was deadly silence.
“Stai bene? You okay?” He pulled me up, searching for any injuries.
“I think so.” I wilted timidly under his intense stare. My mask of
confidence had vanished.
I sucked in a deep breath at the carnage all around us. Blood covered the
walls, and there were a couple of the doormen sprawled out on the floor,
clearly hit. One of the assailants was trying to crawl to the exit, and the man
I stood with pulled his gun out lazily, shooting him twice.
“I’m not normally so sympathetic,” he said dryly.
“Sympathetic?” I paused, looking at the large pool of blood spilling
from the dead man.
“I would have started from the joints and worked my way up,” he
chuckled.
He was definitely a psychopath.
The lights came on, and I could finally see his full features. Jet-black
hair, pensive gray eyes that melded blueish in the light, his smirk still
visible. He towered over me, his body lean but muscular, and in the dim
lighting I could see the material of his shirt strained against his biceps.
“NYPD! Put your weapons down!” a voice boomed, but the man next to
me remained unaffected.
In fact, nobody remaining in the club seemed particularly worried that
the police had arrived.
The police officer was an older man and no taller than me, balding with
only a thin wisp of blond hair remaining on his head. He put his gun back in
his holster and walked toward us. “Any fatalities?” he asked.
“Only the shooters, Anderson.”
“Is she one of your girls?”
Your girls?
I froze, watching a dark smile build on his face.
“Yeah, she is.” His lip curled and amusement glittered in his eyes.
Anderson nodded. “I’ll make sure nobody comes in here. I take it you’ll
do your own cleanup, Cross?”
“Yeah.”
The man—Cross—took out a large wad of cash wrapped in a rubber
band and stuffed it in the officer’s pocket. “For your trouble.” He gave him
a curt nod.
 “Just doing my duties.” Anderson gave a wry smile before walking off
patting his pocket.
“You knew I didn’t work here,” I said, irritated.
“Of course I did, Sophia.”
My eyebrows shot up, and he smirked, bemused. “Perhaps you should
have introduced yourself,” I said icily.
“Where would the fun be in that, Cherry?” he drawled.
“Sophia!” Gennaro’s voice broke through my indignation.
“You’re hit!” I gasped, staring at his bloody shirt.
“Just a flesh wound. I thought you were in the office, Cross.” Gennaro
sounded annoyed.
“I was, but I had some business to take care off.” Cross smirked. His
eyes flicked to me momentarily, and I knew he was enjoying my
discomfort. “Normally I’m at the other club. I guess tonight I was lucky,”
he drawled.
“You and I have different ideas about lucky.” Gennaro winced, patting
his arm.
“All you need is a bottle of whiskey and some tweezers, and you’ll be
as good as new,” Cross said, unbothered.
I didn’t know if he was serious or not. His expression never moved.
“I think I’ll stick to a practiced professional, are you okay?” Gennaro
eyed me for any obvious damage.
I nodded.
“How did you avoid the shooters?” Gennaro’s eyes narrowed. He
looked between us, but Cross didn’t say a word, his stare holding mine
lazily as if he’d suddenly gone mute.
“He protected me from being hit,” I muttered.
Gennaro raised an eyebrow questioningly but didn’t say anything
further. “I’ve left the package with Franco. Papá said he’ll catch up with
you at the next meeting. You know how he feels about using telephones
unless absolutely necessary.”
I paused as Gennaro walked ahead of me, then I turned to Cross.
“Thank you.”
“Anytime, Cherry,” he said, but not loud enough for Gennaro to hear.
Although I got the impression he wouldn’t have cared if he did.
“Don’t call me that.” I crossed my arms in annoyance.
 His lip twitched in amusement, and I felt his eyes burn into my back as I
left.

I’d met Luuk Virgil once and decided I couldn’t fucking stand him. Luuk
was a European drug runner with a penchant for diamond smuggling. I’d
only agreed to this meeting as Giovanni had asked me to. Of course, Luuk
had impressed Giovanni with his godlike posturing, silk suits, and yacht in
Monaco.
I wasn’t so easily swayed.
“The famous Croccifixio, King of New York.” Luuk chuckled before
flashing his wrist intentionally. His bejeweled watch glinted across the dark
celling. Haughty arrogance poured from him like slime, from his greasy,
slicked-back hair to the gold rings on his fingers.
People rarely called me Croccifixio; it was either Rocco or Cross on the
streets. I recognized the slight.
“You wanted to talk to me, so speak.” Whiskey shot through my system
as I drank from the tumbler, the sweet taste coating my throat.
“Giovanni said you were a blunt man,” he drawled. His amber-yellow
eyes narrowed, and I noticed sickeningly they matched his pocket square
and tie.
“I didn’t know you and Giovanni were so friendly.” I smiled coldly.
“He recognizes what I can bring to the outfit. I have the best
connections in Europe.”
“I have suppliers,” I drawled.
“The Colombians?” He raised a brow.
Giovanni either had a big fucking mouth or Luuk had really been doing
his homework.
“It’s a no from me.”
“You’re loyal to the Colombians?” he asked haughtily.
“I just don’t fucking like you.”
His expression hardened as the gentleman façade faded quickly. “The
offer is open if you change your mind,” he said, getting up to leave.
Twenty-four hours later, men were sent to kill me.

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Everybody in New York knew who la principessa was.
I had seen her once, a long time ago, hanging from Giovanni’s arm like
untouchable royalty, but that didn’t seem to deter the other cocksuckers
around me whose jaws almost touched the floor.
I hadn’t thought about her since. The sweetheart tag she wore like a
crown held little interest to me. Of course, the men still rallied on about her,
but I paid little to no attention.
She was a nice piece of ass. That was it.
Until tonight.
Despite being in a club full of half-naked women, most men seemed to
gravitate toward her, including me. I doubted she’d ever been in this kind of
place before. Once her papá found out, Gennaro would be taking more than
a flesh wound.
She looked different, and it wasn’t just the hair. As if her saintly wings
had been clipped, a touch of darkness was now visible that hadn’t been
there before, only noticeable once you peeled back the surface layers. The
way she lied about her identity was amusing. As if there was a man in the
city who didn’t know who she was.
Her vanilla scent still lingered. When I lit a cigarette, it was almost like
inhaling her. It was lucky I was a good shot, or that tight body could have
been a real fucking distraction.
Giovanni never mentioned his precious peach, and now I knew why.
“Rocco!” my underboss, Franco, called out, jerking me from my trance.
He loosened his navy tie, pissed off.
“Yeah?”
 “You think it was that Virgil prick?”
“Yep. Do I shoot him now or wait for a sense of security to set in so he
doesn’t expect it?”
Franco’s expression crinkled. “You just want to shoot him, don’t you?”
“Yep.”
“We’re going to have to close up for a couple of days to repair the
damage,” he sighed.
“Fine. Pay everyone a bonus.”
Franco whistled. “Generous.”
“I reward loyalty,” I snorted.
“Where’s my fucking reward then?”
“I don’t stand too close to you, so that enables you to at least get some
pussy,” I chuckled throatily.
The door slammed and footsteps approached.
“What I wish is that I was the one with Sophia Zanetti under me.
Marone! Pretty please with me on top. . .” Fabio, one of my captains,
interjected as he walked into the club with my other captain, Daniele, who
wolf-whistled in agreement.
“News travels fast.” I rolled my eyes.
“She’s the hottest piece of ass on the East Coast—admit it,” Fabio
snickered.
“She’s all right,” I drawled.
“Only all right?” Daniele looked at me like I was crazy.
“I wonder if Giovanni knew where she was tonight, because he sure as
fuck wouldn’t like it,” Franco chuckled.
“Maybe since she fell from grace he don’t give a damn anymore,” Fabio
said slyly.
“What do you mean?” I asked sharply.
“Papá’s little principessa ain’t so innocent anymore, if you get me.”
Daniele winked.
“Ain’t that a goddamn shame.” Fabio lamented.
“Or is it?” Franco smirked, and they all descended into laughter like
cazzones.
Good girls went to heaven. The bad ones apparently ended up in
Brooklyn.
The car ride home was silent. Papá had evidently found out already and
decided this phone call was worth making.
It wasn’t a pleasant conversation. I could hear his voice loud and clear
even though it wasn’t on loudspeaker.
Gennaro’s jaw ticked all the way back to Staten Island. The bleeding
had worsened. I pulled out a Kleenex from my purse and tucked it up his
sleeve. He gave a slight nod. He was playing tough, but he was as tender-
hearted as me deep down. It was Claudio, my older brother, who was the
hard-ass—and Papá’s successor.
I’d made Gennaro call Dr. Romano as soon as we left the club. I didn’t
think he could stomach Cross’s idea.
Cross.
Even the name fizzled through my body unexpectedly, reminding me of
the tattoo of Jesus on his taut arm. Arms that had almost crushed me as
bullets went over my head.
“Who was he—the man you delivered the envelope to?”
“Just a business associate.”
“Does he work for Papá?”
“Rocco doesn’t work for anyone. He’s a Made Man.”
“I thought his name was Cross.”
“That’s his nickname. I don’t know the details. He’s not the kind of guy
you ask questions to.”
“Why not?”
Gennaro sighed in exasperation. “He’s a piece of work. Papá said his
temper rivals the devil himself.”
“Oh,” I said simply.
Gennaro’s gaze burned into me questioningly as if he were doing twin
telepathy, but I ignored it.
When we pulled up outside our house, almost every light was on, which
was a bad sign.
“Sophia,” Mamma wailed as I walked in.
“You’re crushing me,” I squeaked as she pulled me in for a hug.
 “I knew you shouldn’t have gone. What were you thinking, Genny?”
Mamma scolded, using his childhood nickname.
“It was my fault—I insisted. Where is Dr. Romano?” I said urgently.
“He’s in the kitchen. Your papá will be home soon. He isn’t happy,” she
sighed.
What’s new?
I walked up the marble staircase slowly to the second floor. The small
white door on the left belonged to me.
The room had hardly changed since I was a girl. The pink heart-shaped
alarm clock I’d had since forever still sat on my nightstand, the porcelain
ballet statues still decorated my shelves, and the walls were still a girlish
lavender.
All reminiscent of a girl who was long gone.
My college textbooks looked up at me mournfully from the bookcase. I
was a second-year dropout. I’d had no choice. My grades had dropped
dramatically and there seemed little point in trying after a while. My heart
wasn’t in it.
Rain slithered down the windows, first slow and silent before it pelted
down harder and nosier, accompanied by a rumble of thunder. The New
York City skyline became obscured by thick gray clouds.
Tires screeched across the gravel, and then my papá got out of the
black-tinted Escalade. His shadow—sharp and angular—reflected the man
himself. Papá, dressed in a sleek black suit, walked toward the house
barking orders at one of the many men who flanked him. He cast his eyes
up to the window and gave me a glacial look before walking inside.
Papá had a long memory.

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Sunshine streamed through the large windows, the smell of nicotine rising
up from the men standing guard below. Gray eyes clouded my vivid
dreams, and I awoke as if I would see them in front of me.
“Sophia?” Mamma’s voice grated through the door.
“What?” I said blearily.
“Your papá wants to see you.”
I groaned internally. “I’m coming,” I muttered.
I thought if I kept a low profile for a couple of days, the other night may
have been side swept—I should have known better. I braced myself for a
tense meeting.
After a long shower, I prepared myself, gloom descending on me as I
walked up one flight of stairs before climbing another winding staircase
ahead. It was a little too steep, with a trick step if you didn’t know it well.
Just like with Papá, I never knew what to expect.
Papá’s office was the only room in the house Mamma hadn’t gotten her
hands on, darkly decorated with stern mahogany furniture. Papá sat behind
the desk with his arms crossed, dressed in a pristine suit and crisp white
shirt. He circled the glass tumbler on his desk, the atmosphere brooding and
tense. My eyes swiveled to that very hand with the gold signet ring that
dealt me a sharp, resounding slap before gunfire reverberated in my head.
“I’m glad Gennaro is feeling better,” I said to break the ice.
“He shouldn’t have taken you there.” His face hardened with
displeasure—a look I had been made familiar with more often than not.
“It was my fault—I asked him to take me,” I said simply.
 “You’ve disappointed me,” he sighed, looking to his left at the old photo
frame on his desk, then toward me as if I were an imposter.
“I know. I’m sorry, Papá,” I said hollowly.
“Reece Davenport would have been a good choice for you. He’s
following in his father’s footsteps as state senator.”
No, Papá, he would have been a good choice for you.
“He’s getting married to somebody else,” he grunted.
“Oh.” Relief shot through me.
His gaze burned through me like fire, as angry as the night he found me
with Damien.
“I’m sorry, Papá,” I said slowly.
“Was he worth it?” His expression hardened.
I’d wondered how long it would be until Damien was brought up.
Damien Lockwood was the son of one of Papá’s business associates and the
reason why I was being subjected to Giovanni Zanetti’s famous glare.
“No,” I muttered.
Crumpled bedsheets. Forbidden kisses. Writhing bodies.
I blinked away the images quickly as if Papá could read my mind.
“You like the movies too much, Sophia. Maybe you forgot Romeo and
Juliet both died,” he said sharply.
My life had been spared; Damien hadn’t been so lucky. Papá had
Damien’s father killed to make a point.
“It was a mistake.” The word seemed inadequate for the action, like I’d
left an appliance running.
“Mistake,” he snorted.
“Yes, Papá.”
“You remember Pietro, Don Philippe’s son?”
My stomach twisted uncomfortably.
“He asked if you would accompany him to an event.”
I frowned, anxiety starting to creep up on me. “I don’t think I would be
good company, Papá. I’m sure he can find somebody else,” I said brightly.
Papá stared back, unblinking. His eyes matched my own green,
contrasting against his deep olive skin. He was still handsome in a
menacing way, although gray had started to cover his head more than the
remaining black.
“It wasn’t a request, Sophia. Your mamma will chaperone you.”
“But—” I started to argue.
 “Close the door on your way out,” he said firmly, turning back to his
computer screen.
It felt like an anchor had settled in my chest as I walked to the door.
Gennaro was waiting outside, and I gave him a throat-slitting sign to show
him how badly it had gone.
“Genny, get in here,” Papá barked.
Gennaro flinched. Once Papá was in a bad mood it rarely improved.

Humidity ran through every pore in my body. It was going to be a long, hot
summer. I grabbed a pair of pants and a short-sleeve T-shirt from the closet.
I had a meeting in Long Island, and if I was going to be stuck in New York
City traffic for the next hour I at least wanted to be comfortable.
I heard a terse rap at the door, followed by a long knock.
“Aren’t you a little too old for secret knocks?” I said sarcastically to
Franco and Fabio, who stood either side of the door.
“Security measures.” Fabio tapped the side of his nose like the stunad
he was. “I missed breakfast. What have you got to offer?” he asked nosily,
walking inside and opening the bare cupboards.
“A knuckle fucking sandwich if you don’t stop looking through my
shit,” I grunted.
“You need to get woman in here—someone to cook, clean, and all that
shit,” Fabio mused, running his hand over his bristly head.
I had a maid before, but I made the mistake of fucking her. The novelty
of seeing her every day soon wore off, and it ended as quickly as it had
started. She managed to throw a handful of plates at my head before I put
her over my shoulder and put her ass out on the curb.
“I know a girl. I can fix you up.” Fabio scrolled through his phone.
“Have you fucked her?” I drawled.
It was like playing Russian Roulette every time I said a name and
waited for their reaction. Gloving up was a prerequisite if you ran in our
circles.
 He shrugged in reminiscence. “A little bit. She’s a good cook though,
with a thick ass.”
Franco smirked. “You talking about Vicky?” His strong Bronx accent
twanged with every syllable.
“Yeah, you know her?” Fabio grinned.
“Biblically.” Franco winked. “He’s right—she is a good cook.”
“I don’t want your hand-me-down fucks,” I said, disgusted.
“I said she could cook and clean; I never said nothing about fucking her,
Cross. Your mind is in the gutter,” Fabio argued.
“I don’t want someone cooking for me who fucked you. I can think of
better ways to die. I’m surprised your dick hasn’t fallen off yet,” I
deadpanned.
“He got a penicillin shot last month, so he should be fine for now,”
Franco chuckled.
“I’m clean as a whistle. Fucking slanderous accusations here,” Fabio
thundered.
“Spell slanderous.” I smirked.
Franco and I waited in anticipation, and Fabio paused before flipping us
off and going to wait in the car.
“Have you thought about Vincenzo’s offer?” Franco raised an eyebrow.
A few days after the shooting, I’d had an interesting proposition from
Vincenzo .

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Vincenzo had offered me a marriage contract for his eldest daughter. I’d
never considered marriage seriously, but the contract was a little too sweet
to pass up. Vincenzo had no male heir, which meant I would succeed him
one day, taking all his territories and businesses.
What the fuck did I have to lose anyway?
I was gonna have to bite the marriage bullet sooner or later; at twenty-
eight I was hardly a kid. Vincenzo showed me the picture of her he kept in
his wallet.
She would do.
Like most Made Men, I knew I had to take a wife eventually. Although
I knew for fucking sure I didn’t want someone monitoring my every move.
But marrying Angelina Rossi would be a shrewd power move. If I didn’t
take him up on his offer, someone else would.
I was a bad man, but I definitely wasn’t a bad businessman.

The men at Vincenzo’s gates gave us a nod as we drove through. The large
Spanish-style mansion came into focus, complete with a lion pillar on each
side. I could even make out a basketball court in the distance of the
sprawling estate. As we got out of the car, the portly Vincenzo walked out
with his consigliere, Paolo, to welcome us.
 “On the hour exactly, Rocco.” Vincenzo smiled benevolently.
“I hate being late.” My eyes swiveled to Fabio, who ran so late so often
the cazzone would be moving backward in time soon.
“You figure out who was behind the hit yet?” Vincenzo’s forehead
creased.
“Just waiting on a hunch, but I have it under control.”
“An understatement. Your actions were almost heroic preventing Sophia
from getting caught in the crossfire.”
Word had clearly gotten around.
“You know me, Vincenzo, a gentleman to the end.”
Franco caught my eye and his lip curled as we walked through to the
large study.
“Have you had a chance to consider my offer?” Vincenzo asked
thoughtfully.
It was now or never.
“Yes. I’m ready to sign the contract.”
“Good, good. My daughter will be thrilled.”
His consigliere pulled out two sheets of paper from an envelope, and I
looped my signature on them.
“Does she know already?”
“No, but what isn’t there to be happy about? Once I know she is married
I can rest. I don’t want her getting herself into trouble.” He frowned
uncomfortably.
He was referring to Sophia.
Vincenzo continued talking about honor for the next ten minutes, but
my mind kept flickering to thoughts of Sophia involuntarily—something
that had been happening often the past couple of days.
“What do you think, Rocco?” he said eagerly.
“Yeah.” I nodded, not knowing what the fuck he was talking about.
“Good, so you’ll come by tonight for a small pre-engagement
celebration. It will be a chance for you and Angelina to meet.”
“Okay.”
I cursed myself for zoning out. The last thing I wanted was to spend the
night back here exchanging bullshit pleasantries.
Vincenzo waved us off cheerily, and I could almost see the dollar signs
in his eyes.
 Unlike Giovanni Zanetti, who hated my guts, Vincenzo wasn’t
threatened that a man half his age was making significant moves. He was
just happy his daughter would be a part of the money train.
“She’s blonde, Cross. Not your usual type,” Fabio snickered.
“At least I have a type. You fuck anything with a pulse,” I drawled.
“All my women are tens,” Fabio countered.
“Yeah, out of a hundred,” I scoffed.
“Tatiana came by the club last night looking for you. Marone! Talk
about an ass you can bounce a nickel off.” Fabio whistled.
Tatiana was a regular fuck out of habit more than anything else.
“Is she the one who keyed your car?” Franco asked.
The bitch had dragged two vertical lines across the racer-red paintwork
of my Lamborghini.
“I already like her.” Fabio smiled slyly.
“Are you gonna see her, or what?” Franco interjected.
“No. Put the fucking radio on—I’m sick of listening to your bullshit.” I
leaned back in the seat.
Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” came blasting through the speakers, almost
making me choke on the cigarette I was lighting. Dark hair and cherry-red
lips flooded lazily through my mind, leaving Tatiana out in the cold.

I walked with a heavy heart out of Papá’s office. I couldn’t think of any
occasion where I’d left his office without being scolded. I tried to remember
when my view of him had been truly skewered.
When I peeked through the door as he pistol-whipped one of his men
for not collecting his debt?
Or when he gave the command to execute Damien in front of my very
eyes?
Papá was too important to pull the trigger himself.
I could hear hoots of laughter as I walked down the staircase from the
den. My brothers Massimo and Claudio were looking at something on
Claudio’s screen, but he turned it off hastily when he saw me in the
doorway.
“Bible studies?” I asked mockingly.
“Looked pretty biblical from where I was standing,” Massimo chuckled
as Claudio elbowed him in the ribs.
“Papá was not pleased about the other night.” Claudio raised an
eyebrow haughtily.
Claudio was shaping up to be Papá’s doppelgänger. He already acted
like he had God-given autocracy over us, and there was a severe frown line
already embedded in his forehead at only twenty-six.
“Does it hurt?” Massimo paused.
“What?” Claudio frowned.
“The huge stick up your ass.” Massimo burst into laughter.
“I’m just looking out for you, Sophia. Anything involving that cazzo
Croccifixio De Luca isn’t going to improve your reputation.”
So that was his proper name. Cross De Luca.
The name blossomed in my mind like an exotic flower.
“He didn’t seem that bad,” I said indifferently.
They both exchanged smug looks.

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I begrudgingly showered and dressed. The engagement dress was still at the
back of my closet, hanging there ominously on its Chanel hanger. I
unzipped it slightly, coveting the luxurious beading detail before pushing it
to the back again.
Papá had strong political ties, and the Carter family were one of them.
Reece’s papá, Senator Carter Davenport, was old money. His family had
acres of land and a vineyard in South Carolina. I’d met him a handful of
times, and although he may have had Southern money, he didn’t have any
charm. He’d called me “darlin’,” slipping a hand up my thigh when he got
close enough. I’d watched him flirt with other women gladly because I
hoped one of them would capture his attention, until Papá brought up that a
marriage contract had been signed and a wedding date was set.
Panic had rained through me as I wondered what Reece would be like in
private. I knew I could never marry a man like him.
I’d run away before the formal engagement, and Reece’s papá had
called off the whole thing. My reputation was in tatters, but I was free for
now.
“Sophia?” Mamma called.
“Yeah?”
“I take it Papá told you about tonight.”
She couldn’t look happier. Pietro’s family attended our church, and I
could see the future she was already paving for us in her head.
“Yes,” I said wearily.
“What are you wearing?” She asked apprehensively.
 I scanned the rail. I didn’t want to wear a dress or a skirt. I could
already anticipate the hushed tones and whispers as soon as I walked in.
I pulled out a strapless white-and-cream jumpsuit.
“It’s white.” She crinkled her nose.
“Well, it’s not like I get to wear white in any other circumstances,” I
said acerbically.
“You wonder why your mouth gets you into trouble with your papá,”
she muttered under her breath.
“Do I have—?”
“Yes, you do. Besides, it will be a nice evening. I need something to
keep me busy—your papá has other commitments tonight.”
It always amused me how coy Mamma was about what Papá did. She
acted blasé to his lifestyle and constantly employed the “no questions
asked” policy the women in our circles followed so rigorously. I sometimes
wondered if she had any doubts about her own wedding and the man she’d
married. She never made any mention of being the wife of a Don. Perhaps
she honestly believed her prayers at Sunday mass would be enough to rid
herself of her husband’s sins.
There was no romance or sentiment in the Cosa Nostra. Marriages were
executed for business purposes, and affairs were acceptable only for men.
The last woman to have an affair had found out the hard way it wasn’t
tolerated. Her lover had been duly tossed from Brooklyn Bridge, deluged
with bullets, weights tied to his arms and legs. I’d seen her around a few
times since then, but Mamma always pulled me away from her as if her fate
were infectious.

Two hours later, we rolled up to the large luxury estate on Long Island.
Discomfort seemed to be itching me already.
“Don’t you think that color is a little bold, cara mia?” Mamma raised an
eyebrow as I applied a thick coat of cherry-red lip gloss.
“Nope.” I smacked my lips loudly.
She huffed and turned toward the window, shaking her head.
 Two men opened the doors for us on either side of the car—definitely
not a valet service, judging by their severe looks and the gleaming silver of
the guns in their waistbands. Mamma walked on ahead, greeting everyone
enthusiastically, while I lagged behind. I could already feel stares burning
into me, although I was used to them by now.
“Sophia,” Mamma clucked impatiently as I trudged onward to catch up
with her.
“At Last” played softly on the piano in the foyer as we were escorted
through the large house into the back garden. Lanterns illuminated the inky
sky, and a long table had been set in the middle of the garden. In the
distance I could make out a large swimming pool, as well as a large koi
pond, next to a tiki-themed bar. Mamma frowned next to me. I could tell
she hated being outshone.
“A bar in the garden. Explains why Carmela is never without a drink in
her hand,” she muttered.
At that point, Mamma’s friend Carmela did in fact appear with a
wineglass tightly clasped in her hand.
“Carmela! It’s been too long,” Mamma said jovially.
“Hasn’t it just?” Carmela replied enthusiastically.
Both of them smiled so hard at each other I was surprised it didn’t hurt.
Somebody cleared their throat opposite me, and Mamma grabbed my
leg tightly under the table.
“Pietro, come stai?” she cooed.
“Molto bene now I am in good company.” He smiled at us.
“Carmela, you must give me a tour of this beautiful house.” Mamma
raised her eyebrows conspiratorially at her.
I turned my full attention to Pietro and gave him a quick smile. He was
perfectly debonair with high, angular cheekbones and a pearly-white smile.
His suit was meticulously tailored, the crisp white shirt without one
wrinkle, and even his tie matched the exact shade of his eyes. He pushed his
hair back, the blond strands falling effortlessly in place on each side of his
face.
“You look amazing, tesoro.” He smiled as his icy blue eyes flickered
momentarily down my body.
“I woke up like this,” I joked.
“Well, I bet you look good in the morning,” he said softly.
I could feel the intent rolling off him.
 He lifted my hand up and looked into my palm with interest. “You
wanna know what your fortune is?”
“Enlighten me,” I scoffed, watching him look curiously at my hand.
“You’re going to fall madly for the guy opposite you right now,” he
said, softly tracing the outline of my hand.

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I gazed up, expecting to find Pietro’s blue gaze, but instead I was met with
stormy gray eyes. Rocco was standing behind Pietro at the bar with two
men flanked on either side of him. His eyes flicked with indifference to
mine for a second before he looked away.
The sound of tapping against glass made me look up as one of Papá’s
friends, Don Vincenzo, walked out with his daughter Angelina, his arm
wrapped around her as she smiled up benignly. “Benvenuto!” his crisp voice
boomed.
I turned around fully to focus my attention on his portly stance and
jovial red cheeks.
“Tonight is just the beginning of our celebrations, and I am happy to
announce my Angelina is now engaged to a very important man: Rocco De
Luca.” Don Vincenzo beamed as applause rang out.
A cold sensation flooded through me as I swung my head back to see
Rocco’s reaction, along with everyone else’s. He made no attempt to
respond to Don Vincenzo, only giving a slow nod of acknowledgment.
“My lovely wife is in the midst of organizing an engagement party, but
in the meantime, I want you to hold your glasses up for Rocco and
Angelina.”
“Rocco and Angelina,” everyone repeated back.
“Sophia, put your glass up,” Mamma hissed from Carmela’s side.
I raised my glass, ignoring Rocco, who glared in my direction. Pietro’s
glass remained down and he ignored the toast, scrolling through his phone
instead.
“You’re quiet,” I said, noting the frostiness.
 “It’s men’s business, sweetheart. It doesn’t affect you,” Pietro said
haughtily.
“Good to know. I need to get back to Mamma.” I excused myself
politely.
Nevertheless, he caught my arm and gave it a soft, meaningful squeeze
as I moved past him.
“Angelina has a bodyguard. Maybe we need to consider one for you,”
Mamma said out of earshot of Carmela.
“Absolutely not,” I said sharply.
I already felt like I was in a glass cage; I didn’t need one more member
of the audience.

I shook the pack of Marlboro Red, annoyed. How the fuck had I managed
to get through two packs already today? I wasn’t any more of a target than I
usually was.
Men had been trying to kill me since I was a kid—I was used to it.
“That is your second carton.” Franco smirked as I tossed the cigarette
box out the car window.
“Didn’t realize you were a fucking doctor,” I drawled.
“You’re a mean son of a bitch when you haven’t been laid,” Fabio
chuckled from the back seat.
We clearly spent too much fucking time together.
“I’m fine,” I said, putting my foot down as I turned off onto the
Northern State Parkway. “What did you find out on Virgil?”
“He was on a plane to Miami when it happened—probably a well-
planned alibi to avoid suspicion of his involvement.”
“I could just assume he’s guilty and put a bullet in his head.” I slapped
the steering wheel impatiently.
“You’d only be proving what Giovanni said about you being
hotheaded.”
“You forgot the thug part,” I drawled. He disliked me, and the feeling
was very mutual. “Fuck him. In fact, I want to meet with him. The
envelopes are a little thinner than usual this month.”
We shared territories across the city. Sports betting and gambling were
one of our top earners alongside our profitable narcotics operation.
“You got it,” Franco grunted.
I followed Fabio and Franco through the throng of guests in Vincenzo’s
labyrinth of a garden, soft laughter piercing through my ears like whiplash,
and I noticed Sophia sitting in front of Pietro Mancini, holding his hand as
he whispered something to her. I ignored her, and a small flicker of
satisfaction funneled through me as her smile faltered and a blush bloomed
under her cheeks.
Sophia was probably used to men bowing down to her every move,
tripping over themselves like cazzones to even speak to her.
Not this one.
I observed her with apathy as Pietro did everything to hold her
attention. Pietro, the son of Philippe “The Pimp” Mancini who ran escorting
rings all over the East Coast. Philippe also owned a few clubs in Upstate
New York that Pietro was now “managing.” I was surprised the pretty boy
could manage to find his way out of a fucking paper bag.
“Whiskey, neat.” I turned to the bartender as Vincenzo walked over to
me with Angelina.
Angelina bowed her head politely. She was indistinguishable from the
photograph Vincenzo had shown me. Long, wavy blonde hair, blue eyes,
and strawberry-pink lips that matched her party dress. I was six foot two
next to her willowy, petite figure. She gazed up, observing me.
“Don Rocco.” She offered out her hand hesitantly.
“Just Rocco is fine.” I shook her small hand.
“I guess we’ll be getting to know each other a lot more . . .” She paused
hesitantly.
“Yeah,” I said dryly.
“Very well, Rocco, I’ll be in touch with the engagement party details.”
Vincenzo steered Angelina off anxiously as if I were about to fuck her on
top of the bar.
I guess my reputation preceded me.
“I wouldn’t say no.” Franco gave me an appraising nod after Angelina.
“That isn’t saying much,” I drawled.
Franco shrugged with a smile. Pussy was pussy to him. He barely knew
the names of half the girls he fucked.
 Fabio swore loudly, and I turned to see what he was looking at.
Claudio Zanetti walked in with a girl tucked under his arm. Claudio—
another name on my shitlist and turning out to be just as much of a jackass
as his papá. He even had the familiar haughty look Giovanni wore.
“Let me guess: you know her,” I muttered under my breath.
New York City was apparently a smaller place than I’d thought if the
guys were swapping women around like baseball trading cards.
“That’s Vicky, the one I told you about earlier.” Fabio jerked his head in
Claudio’s direction. Although he feigned nonchalance, I could see the
annoyance creeping up on his face.
Getting attached to a girl you were casually fucking was never a good
thing. If a girl was with you on Friday, then it was likely she might be
fucking your cousin or one of your friends next Tuesday—or, in Fabio’s
case, Claudio Zanetti.
I looked over at Vicky, mousy blonde in a short dress, beside Claudio.
“Looks like she’s with Claudio now.” Fabio frowned.
“She’s not his girl—it’s just his turn,” Franco snickered.
Vicky looked up and exchanged a coy smile with Fabio, which didn’t go
unnoticed by Claudio. He grabbed her firmly and walked off in the opposite
direction.
“If hitting that was wrong, I don’t want to be right,” Fabio mused
loudly.
A little too loudly, as Claudio’s body tensed, sending a lightning rod of
awareness through me.

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Claudio turned around slowly, locking eyes with me as he reached for his
gun, ready to draw. I could almost anticipate shooting the smug prick until
he seemingly changed his mind and walked off.
I smirked and lit up a cigarette. “Pussy.”
Fabio snickered, but Franco was already talking to a girl beside him,
seemingly unaware we’d narrowly avoided a shootout.
“Cross?” Pietro’s saccharine voice interjected.
I turned my stare lazily from Fabio to him. “Pietro,” I deadpanned.
“Congratulations on Angelina. Impressive.” He pushed his blond hair
back, giving me a cold look of superiority.
“That is the difference between you and me, Pietro: pussy doesn’t
impress me because I don’t have to work for it.”
It wasn’t a lie. I didn’t have to seduce, charm or even respect any
woman I had ever met.
They knew the score.
“If I were you, Cross, I’d be careful who I was talking to,” he snapped.
“If I were you, Pietro, I wouldn’t be living under my father’s thumb,” I
snorted.
“Talking of fathers, what happened to your papá again?” Pietro’s eyes
glittered.
“Your friend Graziano made the mistake of crossing me. I would hope
you’d want to avoid that fate,” I warned.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he spat.
“Try me.”
 He rolled his eyes while checking himself out in the reflection behind
me. “I have better things to do than entertain your bullshit. Namely, la
principessa,” he trilled.
“Out of your league.” I smirked.
“Not by a long shot. The seal might have been broken, but I’m sure the
product is far from defective.” He turned away from me smugly, not
noticing I’d extended my leg. Pietro tripped straight over, heading face-first
into the koi pond beside the bar with a large splash.
He flailed around comically for a couple of seconds, wildly cursing.
“Didn’t realize you were that thirsty, Pietro.” I smirked.
Heavy laughter and heckling sounded from the rest of the party. Pietro’s
men rushed over to help him out of the pond, and he sent me a murderous
glare as he emptied the water from his shoe.
He wouldn’t do shit to me. Pietro may run his mouth a lot, but he knew
he wasn’t capable of winning outright combat.
I turned from him to find Sophia staring at me. She narrowed her eyes
before stalking off to the other side of the bar.
“Gotta takes a piss,” I muttered as Fabio and Franco attempted to
contain their laughter.

Although Cross De Luca had Jesus tattooed into his skin, the devil sat
proudly on his shoulder. I knew the gentleman persona was just an act;
darkness radiated from him like a beacon. Darkness as clear as the black ink
I could see through the white sleeve of his dress shirt. I peeked at Angelina
out of the corner of my eye, trying to ignore the irrational feeling building
in my gut.
She smiled up benevolently as her papá patted her like a hound that had
won top prize. She wore her blonde hair in loose waves that framed her
heart-shaped face and baby-blue eyes—a real-life Barbie doll with a closet
of pink to match.
I glared at Rocco as I approached the bar where he sat on the opposite
side. He held my gaze for a second before slowly walking around to my
side.
“I don’t like the way you looked at me just now.” Rocco’s rough voice
rubbed me like sandpaper against my skin.
“I saw what you did,” I said firmly.
“What did I do?” he asked, all innocence, his expression impassive as
he signaled for another drink.
“You tripped him, you cheat.”
I paused for a moment, thinking I’d gone too far. He didn’t respond, but
I felt an iciness radiate from him for a second as he sipped on his drink, not
breaking his gaze.
“I think you need to chill, Sophia.” He walked past me and dropped two
ice cubes down my back, amusement on his lips as coldness penetrated my
skin.
It must have caught Claudio’s attention because he looked between
Rocco and me stormily before he walked over. I dodged him and instead
walked toward Angelina, but a man came over to talk to her before I could
reach her, and they exchanged laughter for a few minutes. Angelina blushed
when she saw me.
I had only wanted to pretend to speak to Angelina, and now I had to.
“This is Lorenzo, my bodyguard,” she said quickly.
I gave him a small smile, and he frowned.
“You’re wet.” He pointed to my shoulder. He was more muscular than
tall, with bristly blond hair and almond-brown eyes. He handed me two
paper towels, and I nodded in gratitude.
Rocco gave me a dark smirk from the bar, but I ignored him, focusing
on his fiancée.
“I just was coming over to say congratulations,” I said, flustered.
“Thanks,” she muttered faintly.
“Are you enjoying your party?” I asked, struggling for something to talk
about.
“I guess so. I just didn’t expect everything to happen so fast.” Angelina
paused. “But Papá said it would be a good match. He knows best.” She
paused again before giving me a megawatt smile.
I excused myself and walked into the bathroom. The women of our
circle were all huddled in deep conversation. I spotted the dark bob of my
cousin, Alessia, in the center. We looked similar to each other, though her
eyes were an inky brown to my green.
 “Sophia!” Alessia gave me a friendly wave.
There was an awkward pause of silence from the other women, who
didn’t meet my gaze.
I had likely been the subject of conversation in this circle many times.
Most of the women consisted of an exclusive clique of wives and other
family members of Made Men, but there were a few other women I didn’t
recognize.
Veronica Gattuso, one of the wives, curled her lip disdainfully. She was
my least favorite, and I could see her bad dye job and harsh penciled
eyebrows under the unflattering fluorescent lighting.
“How’s tricks, Sophia?”
“Define tricks?”
“La principessa still trying to keep up the act, huh?” She smiled nastily.
“Shut up, Veronica,” Alessia snapped.
“We were just talking about Angelina’s fiancé. He has quite the
reputation,” she snickered nastily.

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My chest clenched uncomfortably as I looked around at the huddle of
women. Alessia nudged Veronica, and they burst into a mini fit of giggles.
“Carla, tell them.” Alessia nodded to a girl with pin-straight black hair
and piercing lapis lazuli eyes.
My eyes flicked to Carla.
“Alessia,” she hissed, although there was a faint smile on her mouth.
“Carla knows Rocco on an intimate level.” Alessia smirked.
“Sure, she does,” one of the other women snorted.
Carla gave her a scathing look and pulled out her phone. “If you don’t
believe me, call him.”
The other woman flushed and shook her head.
“He seems so intense and quiet,” Alessia remarked.
“He’s definitely not quiet.” Carla smiled in a knowing way.
“And?” Alessia said, almost salivating.
“He’s the best I’ve ever had. Although . . .” Carla paused for dramatic
effect, looking around at the rest of the circle. “He doesn’t kiss,” she said
uncomfortably.
“At all?” Alessia’s eyes widened.
“Maybe he just wasn’t into you.” Veronica smiled haughtily.
“Of course he was. He just has commitment issues,” Carla replied
indignantly.
“He just stated very publicly he’s taken. That doesn’t sound like he has
commitment issues,” Aurelia, one of the other wives, said crisply.
“Marriage doesn’t mean anything to men like Rocco De Luca. They
take whatever they want when they want it. A piece of paper isn’t going to
stop him,” Carla announced. She gave us a victorious look before flicking
her jet-black hair over her shoulder and walking out.
A groan came out from one of the stalls, breaking the awkward tension
in the room. Veronica opened the door with the tip of her Jimmy Choo to
find a girl leaning over the toilet bowl, her pink hair matted and damp.
“Mia, what a fucking surprise,” Veronica said, annoyed.
“Veronica, how fantastic to see you again,” the drunk girl slurred.
“We can add ‘drunk’ as well as ‘slut’ to your qualities,” Veronica
sneered.
“Your husband didn’t seem to mind,” Mia cackled.
“You come anywhere near Romeo again and I’m going to ruin your
fucking life,” Veronica snapped.
“I’m doing a good job of that already, sweetheart. You can’t touch me,
and we all know why.” Mia laughed throatily before puking into the bowl.
“Nobody likes a loosey-goosey.” Veronica’s eyes swiveled spitefully
between Mia and me before she stormed out, the door slamming noisily
against the wall. The other women followed, including Alessia.
“Alessia,” I hissed.
She held back for a second, irritated. “She’ll be fine.” She waved her
hand before leaving.
“Alessia,” I said again, sharply, but she’d left.
“I’m fine,” a muffled voice said from the stall.
“Is there anyone I can call for you?” I asked awkwardly.
“Veronica’s husband,” Mia chuckled weakly before I heard a retching
sound.
I grabbed one of the towels by the basin and passed it to her. She wiped
her mouth unashamedly before looking up at me.
“You’re not as bad as they say you are, Sophia Zanetti.”
Mia got to her feet steadily and made her way over to the basin before
pulling her tight sequin dress down. She pulled out a plastic bag of white
powder from her purse and dipped her pinky finger inside before she
rubbed it against her gums.
“You can leave now,” she dismissed me.
The rest of the evening finished uneventfully, but a tight knot remained
in my stomach for several hours afterward. My mind flicked back to
Damien. I’d known that was wrong, but that hadn’t stopped me from
crossing the line and doing the unthinkable. My cheeks flushed as I
remembered his slick body and hot mouth against mine, but it wasn’t
Damien’s hazel eyes that penetrated through me.
It was gray eyes.
I had been innocent before Damien. He’d given me a taste of the dark
side that I couldn’t rub off. He’d touched me in all the places I knew he
shouldn’t and made me crave the things I knew were forbidden. He’d left
and taken the shattered image of la principessa with him. I hadn’t thought
of another but him for so long, but now there was a rope of darkness pulling
me to the one person I shouldn’t want and couldn’t have.

Sunlight beamed in through the large French windows, the appetizing smell
of freshly baked dough wafting through the large rustic-style kitchen.
Mamma stood next to me and gave me a reluctant nod of approval as I
lifted the cookie tray out of the oven. Every year Fede hosted a homeless
drive on behalf of the city to “give back,” or perhaps it was just another
decoy for the real business that was going on.
“Her cookies are better, Livia. Yours are all hard in the middle.” Zia bit
down with a nod.
“They are not,” Mamma replied tersely.
Zia ignored her and pointed at the tray. “Can I take a couple of these?”
“No, you can’t. These are going to Fede’s,” she snapped.
Zia lit a cigarette before walking out of the room.
“Don’t you dare give her any of those cookies,” Mamma said, annoyed.
“I wish she wouldn’t smoke in here—it smells like a tobacco factory.” She
huffed, using a tea towel to fan the cigarette smoke away, and she started
spraying Febreze after Zia.
I didn’t remind her that every man in our family smoked like a chimney.
The doorbell rang. Once. Twice. Impatient rings.
Selita, one of the maids, hurried off to answer as Mamma’s shrill voice
called her from the other side of the house.
I put the tray of cookies aside for Zia and reached into the cupboard for
a new mixing bowl. It wasn’t like we didn’t have enough ingredients for
another batch.
Hearing faint footsteps in the background, I braced myself for
Mamma’s voice, but it remained silent. I reached up on my tiptoes, feeling
the edges of the cool glass mixing bowl along my fingertips.
“Cazzo,” I huffed. I wasn’t that short, but I still couldn’t get a grip.
I propelled myself forward, tiptoeing and cursing Mamma for storing
things so high. I was inches away from the glass bowl when I felt a shadow
over me reaching for the bowl too. Their sleeve rode up and the familiar
tattoo of Jesus stretched out in front of me.
He flexed his forearm, the words “born sinner” flaring in front of me
like a warning.
I shuddered as I felt his body against me, the dark material brushing my
sweats as he moved closer. Awareness ran through me as if every inch of
my body were alight with flame. He pushed the bowl toward me, his rough
palms against my soft skin making me imagine them on the rest of my
body.
The thought sent a thunderbolt of desire through me. Without thinking, I
leaned back slowly, letting my ass grind against his groin, feeling him tense
and enjoying the sensation of jagged breath against the back of my neck.

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The tension amplified as my heart hammered against my rib cage. I knew it
was wrong, so why had I started this if I couldn’t finish it?
He pushed even closer against me, putting his hand over mine to bring
the mixing bowl forward while his other arm rested on the counter. He
exhaled once again in my ear, the sound so hypnotizing that my hand
jerked, causing the bowl to slip off and smash.
I turned my head, slowly being released from my daze. His eyes trailed
over me insolently as his tongue traced his bottom lip. A wave of heat
seemed to overcome me, but I didn’t drop my gaze. I could tell he was
freshly showered as his hair was still wet with moisture, the piney notes of
his cologne pulsing through my senses.
Footsteps approached, and I tried to change my expression to impassive.
“Sophia,” Mamma said, coming in. Her demeanor changed when she
saw Rocco. “Buongiorno, Rocco.” She smiled.
“I was just telling Sophia what a beautiful home you have,” he said
slickly.
Mamma beamed. She was a proud Sicilian woman and her home was
her greatest pride. She frowned as her gaze settled on the bowl shattered
between us.
“I dropped the bowl,” I said quickly.
“Butterfingers,” she said, rolling her eyes at Rocco. “Can I tempt you
with fresh cookies, Rocco?”
“I’m easily tempted on most occasions,” he chuckled throatily. His eyes
darted to me slyly before he took a cookie off the plate.
 Selita walked into the kitchen and temporarily became speechless upon
seeing Rocco. He shot her a smirk that caused her to flush deeply before she
backtracked out of the room again searching for the broom.
“They’re good, aren’t they?” Mamma nodded.
“Deliciously moist.” He gave a deep murmur of approval that
reverberated through my bones and tugged on something inside me that
made me want to run from this man, and he knew it.
I pulled my gaze away from him despite feeling the intensity of his stare
settling on me. When I looked at him again, his lip was tipped in
amusement. My teeth clenched in frustration trying to ignore the heat
pulsing through my body.
“As much as I would love to spend time talking to you, Livia, I have a
meeting with Giovanni.”
“Sophia will take you. Have you offered him a drink?” she hissed,
raising her eyebrows.
“Would you like a drink, Don Croccifixio?” I said pointedly,
deliberately using his full name.
“Rocco,” he corrected sharply. “Espresso, no sugar. I’m sweet enough.”
He smirked.
I narrowed my eyes at him while Selita re-entered the kitchen and
Mamma instructed her on how to sweep up as if she hadn’t been working
here for two years. “Noted. Follow me,” I said tonelessly.
I walked in front of him in silence, feeling his gaze burning into my
back. I led him across the perfectly trimmed lawn to Papá trying to avoid
the deafening sound of my heart thumping in my chest, he was trouble.
Hell, he had even reduced Selita into a melting puddle, and she could flirt
on command.
When I got back into the kitchen, Selita was sweeping up the remnants
of the shattered glass.
“Sorry about that,” I muttered.
“It’s fine. He’s dreamy.” She smiled.
“If you like that kinda thing,” I said awkwardly.
“I do. He’s hotter than hell,” she breathed.
Hell indeed.
News of Pietro’s little swim had made the rounds. He’d stuck to the story of
tripping rather than me getting the better of him. Pietro was a smug, rich
prick who deserved it. Pietro thought my upbringing would shame me, but
it made me hungrier instead. Hate was too easy; the acid ate away at you
mercilessly. Success was the best cure for all the cocksuckers who envied
me.
I had grown up on the wrong side of town—the grittiness of Brooklyn
ran through my blood. Somewhere in between hustling men twice my age
and picking up my papá off the floor every night I had become my own
man early in life.
I knew what I wanted, and I was rarely denied.
Giovanni had refused to meet me in Brooklyn because he was “too
busy,” so I’d been summoned to meet him instead in his fortress on Staten
Island. What I wasn’t expecting was to be greeted by the view of Sophia’s
ass in tight sweatpants that read “juicy” on the back.
Juicy. My exact fucking sentiments.
Anytime I had to think twice about something it normally meant it
wasn’t a good idea, and the idea of having Sophia Zanetti had crept through
my mind a lot more than twice. I’d seen what a hot-blooded temperament
and belligerence had done to my father and tried to walk the line, but the
sound of her making those gasping noises while trying to reach the top shelf
was enough for me to cash in on my hot-blooded genetic proclivity.
She brushed against me a little too long for the touch to be innocent.
The little principessa knew exactly what the fuck she was doing as her ass,
encased in soft velour, grinded gently on me, and there wasn’t a goddamn
thing I could do about it. Not even Jesus himself could remove the sinful
thoughts that plagued my head as said ass escorted me to meet Giovanni.
Even the gardener turned around appreciatively as she walked across the
lawn.
Temptation wasn’t an apple in a garden; it was Sophia Zanetti dangled
appetizingly in front of me when I wasn’t able to touch her.
I wanted her all in the worst ways.
 Tied up to my bed, bent over my desk, and on her knees begging for my
cock. It was reckless that she seemed to cloud my fucking perception so
effortlessly with just one grind of her hips.
It didn’t help that she was a good cook either. Cazzo.
Giovanni was sitting under a large canopy, scrolling through his phone.
Too busy, my ass.
He smiled as if reading my thoughts. “I thought you’d appreciate the
change of scenery,” he replied dryly.
“I don’t.”
Footsteps approached. The maid placed two espressos in front of
Giovanni and me, and when I thanked her, she blushed a deep scarlet before
bowing and leaving.
The espresso tasted as though several spoons of sugar were in it. I’d
hazard a guess the Zanetti prima donna thought I wasn’t sweet enough. My
thoughts flickered back to her soft ass against my cock, and I had to blink
the image away as Giovanni’s stare burned into me. He lit a cigar before
offering me one, the thick gray ash billowing from the flame as I exhaled.
“Your friend Luuk shot up my club.”
“I spoke to him this morning,” Giovanni said. “He gave me assurance
he didn’t touch it.”
“Well, that’s okay then,” I sneered.
“He has no reason to harm you that can’t be said about the rest of New
York. You know, you seem to make enemies easily.” He smirked.
“I wonder if you would be so smug if it were your daughter who was
shot.” The cigar burned sweetly on my tongue.
“Sophia shouldn’t have been there in the first place.” He tossed me a
thick envelope. “For your trouble.”
I stared at it for a second, considering not taking it. Giovanni held my
stare, probably thinking the same, but I pocketed it and his lip curled.
“If I find out Luuk Virgil had anything to do with my club being shot
up, I’m going to kill him slowly, Giovanni.”
He didn’t respond for a second but gave a lazy nod.
“Vincenzo told me brokering the marriage contract for Angelina was
your idea.”
He shrugged apathetically, unmoved. Was Giovanni cunning enough to
ensure I was tied up with Angelina to prevent my curiosity for his
principessa.
 “You wanted to discuss envelopes.” Giovanni’s eyes narrowed shrewdly
as he killed the subject.
“They are a little thin this month. Any reason why?”
“The Irish Kings have been trying to muscle in on the Bronx and
Brooklyn. I’m sending Gennaro to New Jersey, but those fucks aren’t easily
deterred,” he said, annoyed.
“I’ll handle it. You don’t need to see me out.”

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I could hear talking as I entered the main house. Gennaro gave me a stiff
nod of acknowledgment. He was slightly less of a dick than his older
brother.
“Sophia, where is the Baileys?” the older woman asked.
“It’s eleven in the morning. You drink like a fish,” Livia cursed.
“To cope with living with you,” the older woman snapped.
Sophia caught my eye and cleared her throat, embarrassed as the two
older women turned around and noticed I was there.
“Rocco, I’m sorry you had to see any of this. You must think we are
molto pazzo,” Livia apologized.
“Of course not,” I said politely.
If Livia thought this was a scene, it was lucky she’d never met my
father when he was on one of his coke rages.
“Are you sure you have to leave right now?” Livia frowned at Genarro,
annoyed.
“Yes. I have something to deal with in Jersey.” Gennaro caught my eye
and gave me a meaningful look.
“Can’t you drop your sister off to Fede’s on the way?” Livia asked.
“No, Ma, I have to leave right now. And I’m being picked up.”
“I’ll find a way to get there. Just drop it.” Sophia raised her eyebrow a
fraction in annoyance.
“You can’t go on your own—you might be kidnapped,” Livia said in a
high-pitched voice.
“It’s on my way. I’ll take you,” I drawled.
 Gennaro frowned slightly as if trying to read my intentions, but I didn’t
blink. “That sounds like a better idea. Brooklyn is your turf after all. I can
meet you there when I’m done,” he said reluctantly.
“I don’t want to inconvenience you.” Sophia folded her arms.
“You’re not,” I said crisply.
“It’s settled then.” Livia clapped her hands.
Sophia made an indistinguishable noise before leaving the room.

I leaned against the hood of the car smoking my third cigarette of the hour.
It was excessively hot today, but it wasn’t the weather running my blood
hot. I put on my dark shades to shield my eyes from the fierce midday sun.
What had actually fucking possessed me to do this?
Before I even had the chance to contemplate it, la principessa herself
emerged in a knee-length nude dress and matching heels. I got in the
driver’s side, turning on the engine as she made her way to the car.
“I was waiting for you to open the door,” she said.
“Well, you’d have been waiting a fucking long time. I’m not going to
kiss your ass like everyone else,” I snapped.
“Chivalry is dead then.” She smirked, crossing her legs, momentarily
distracting me as her dress rid up her bronze thighs.
“Nice trick with the espresso.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She smiled.
I rubbed a thumb across my bottom lip. “You’re lucky I’m a
gentleman.”
“Whatever.” She went to switch on the stereo, but I slapped her hand
away.
“Say please.”
“Seriously?” She scowled.
“Yes.”
“Please.”
Fuck, I could envisage her on her knees begging me with those same
words. Her green eyes glared at me for an answer.
 “No distractions while driving.” I smirked.
She gave me an affronted look before pulling down the vanity mirror
and applying her lipgloss. Two of the men at the gate waved to her, and she
smiled back graciously, causing an inkling of possession to creep over me
before I dismissed it. She gave me an icy stare before gazing out of the
window.
There wasn’t enough fucking air-conditioning in the world to dial down
the heat in here.

I sat almost on the edge of the leather car seat. If I moved an inch further I
would probably be on the sidewalk. My self-awareness at being in such a
confined space flickered through me like an oil-soaked rag thrown to a
naked flame. I tried to focus on the open road ahead of me, but it was
difficult to ignore the man beside me. The car seemed to shrink smaller and
smaller by the second. The words “born sinner” flashed on his forearm
every time he moved the steering wheel. The silence between us was
suffocating.
My heart beat to the sound of the raring engine.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared of me,” he deadpanned.
I remembered him laughing as he shot men dead at his club, but I
swallowed it. “Men like you don’t scare me.” I cocked my eyebrow.
“How many men like me have you met?” he asked dryly.
“That’s personal.” I smiled sweetly, enjoying the annoyance that flashed
across his face.
Something glimmered in the side compartment, highlighted by the
bright sunlight. I picked it up. A hoop earring.
“Angelina’s?”
“Probably not,” he said, unmoved. Then he drawled, “Toss it.”
I ignored him and dropped it back in the compartment. Rocco’s glare
burned into the side of my face like the midday sun.
“Congratulations on your engagement.” I turned to smile brightly at
him.
 Maybe a little too brightly, as a frown creased his forehead.
He ignored me, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head, his stormy
gray eyes glaring insolently at me. “Pass me the cigarettes from the glove
compartment,” he said roughly.
Gennaro’s glove compartment was stacked full of condoms. I paused
momentarily, but when I opened the clasp, I found Rocco’s was empty apart
from a pack of Marlboro Reds and a gun.
“Expecting something else?” He smirked, reading me.
I shook my head, but I knew he could tell I was lying.
I opened the cigarette packet and took one before tossing the pack onto
his lap. He looked down at it before staring at me.
“You don’t smoke,” he rasped.
“Says who?”
He narrowed his eyes at me as if trying to catch me out.
“Do you have a lighter?” I ignored him.
He idled for a second before lifting up the compartment in between our
seats. The gold of his Rolex reflected off the windshield. His hand almost
skimmed my thigh, and I jerked involuntarily but played it off as a twitch.
We slowed, approaching a red light, the traffic congested as we headed
into the city. He pulled out a gold lighter with Latin engraved on the side of
it and moved closer to me. Close enough that he could feel the drum of my
heart against my rib cage and I could taste the musk of his cologne. With
his face just inches away from mine, the jet-black of his lashes was visible
as he put the lighter to the cigarette.
He didn’t break eye contact with me as the cherry-red flame ignited. A
heady sensation overcame me as I fell into stormy gray eyes.
I inhaled deeply. Maybe a little too deeply, as I spluttered. Smoke was
expelled from my nose and my eyes started to burn.
“I knew you were an amateur.” A devilish smirk pulled on his mouth as
he chuckled throatily, the velvety staccato of his voice pulsing through me.

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He pulled the cigarette from my mouth and put it to his own. Then he took
a deep drag, a smile playing on his face.
“Toss it—it’s got my lipgloss on there.” I reached up to his mouth, but
he pushed my wrist away firmly, placing it back on my leg, where his hand
rested for a second.
I was almost disappointed when he removed it.
Relief swept over me when we pulled into Brooklyn and parked up. I
couldn’t take another second of pulsating silence and tense looks in the
rearview mirror. I could see Fede behind the counter polishing a framed
black-and-white Joe DiMaggio photo. A few of his friends lingered outside
playing dominos.
“Are you going to get out of the car, or what?” Rocco asked roughly.
I opened my mouth to respond but thought better of it.
He unlocked the car and watched me as I took the trays out of the trunk.
“Stay close,” he rasped. His eyes scanned around as if we were at risk of
mortal combat.
“Somebody’s paranoid.” I mused.
“If you’d gotten shot four times, so would you be,” he deadpanned.
I looked at him in surprise as he pulled the trays out of my hand and
carried them himself.
“Move. I haven’t got all day.”
We walked silently, crossing the street. Fede saw us approaching and
gave me a wave replaced by consternation when he saw Rocco.
“Rocco.” He frowned deeply as Rocco stared back, unmoving.
“Problem?” he drawled.
 “No, no,” Fede said quickly as he took the trays and invited us to sit
down.
“Not exactly a people person, are you?” I raised an eyebrow as we sat in
a booth by the window.
He gave me a reluctant smile somewhere in between a smirk and a
scowl, and the word “handsome” rattled through me before a feeling of
trepidation settled.
“Why did you trip Pietro up?”
“Personal,” he snickered. His phone vibrated and he picked up quickly,
speaking in rapid Italian. The faster he talked indicated how irritated he was
getting.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Cherry.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I have never let people tell me what to do, and I won’t start now,” he
said acidly.
I reached out for the tabletop jukebox, but he pushed my hand away,
and I gave him an annoyed look.
“When is Gennaro coming?”
“He isn’t. Something came up.”
I knew what that expression meant and gave him a raised eyebrow, but
his face remained impassive.
“I’ll drive you back home, but I need to see one of my men first.” He
placed his phone back on the table and it flashed again. A topless woman
appeared on his screen before several subsequent, even racier, nudes
followed.
I looked at the phone for a couple of seconds before staring back at him.
His expression was unaffected. Photos kept funneling through until the
phone rang again.
Rocco said one word—“Later”—and hung up.
The faint cherry tang of the cigarette I’d smoked earlier stuck around on my
tongue. Tatiana was persistent. I should have known any woman who keyed
your car wouldn’t be easy to shake off. Those kinds of nudes would have
any man presenting their cock with a bow, but I was more preoccupied with
what was in front of me.
Sophia gave no reaction to the photos, but her cold stare was enough to
remind me Giovanni’s blood ran through her veins.
Cherry was proving to be more of a handful than I’d ever imagined.
Even the old men smoking and playing dominos outside gave her an
appreciative glance, her body more powerful than any blue pill man could
produce.
Fabio had called to say the Irish had hit two more bookies after I spoke
to Giovanni. Gennaro’s trip to Jersey wouldn’t be the short trip he’d
envisioned.
I rolled up to the curb outside a small house on the corner as we entered
the Bronx. Kids were playing baseball in the street, a few of them trying to
open up a fire hydrant. Fabio was sitting on the porch smoking a cigarette
with his gun next to him.
The cops were on my payroll in this city; they wouldn’t bother him.
“Smooth” by Santana rolled out of the boombox on his porch, so loud I
could feel a slight rattle in my bones. Fabio gave me a nod when he saw me
pull up. His eyes lit up when he saw Sophia in the passenger seat, making
me want to punch him in the ribs.
“Wait here,” I instructed her, but she gave me a dark look.
“I’m not some pet you can crack a window and leave in here,” she
snapped.
“We’re going to talk business.”
She ignored me and got out of the car. Her dress rode up as she exited,
leaving me temporarily confused as to why I didn’t want her to enter the
house. Fabio jumped up from the porch as if he’d been electrocuted. The
stronzo was even blushing as she walked up to him. He gave me a roguish
smirk when he saw my glare and even opened the fucking door for her and
introduced himself.
“Drink?” He offered her a Corona from the fridge.
“I’m fine,” she said softly.
“I’m going next door with Fabio. Try not to get yourself into any
trouble.”
 She glowered before picking up the television remote.
Fabio sat in his office with a wry smile on his face. “Your meeting with
Giovanni went better than expected then?”
“Gennaro asked me to give her a ride.”
“Lucky you,” he chuckled loudly.
“Fuck off,” I said through gritted teeth.
“She’s one of the hottest pieces of ass I’ve seen.”
“I’ve seen the women you’ve dated—that isn’t a compliment,” I
deadpanned.
“You don’t think she’s hot?” He smiled obnoxiously.
“Whatever,” I said, irritated.
“What do you want to do about the Irish?”
“Next time they turn up for collections, take a couple of AKs and give
them a Sicilian welcome.”

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The Bronx was like walking into technicolor after the sterile white of the
Zanetti fortress. Fabio’s house was located on a block, neatly placed on the
corner between two other homes with matching plastic screens over the
doors and white fences.
Rocco’s low voice vibrated through the thin walls as I flipped through
the channels on Fabio’s wide-screen television. My concentration was
rattled. The characters on the TV seemed to talk, but I wasn’t paying
attention. The girl with the butterfly on her hip was burned into my
consciousness. Was it her hoop in the car? Something odd coursed through
me.
Jade-green jealousy.
I had never been jealous before. I had no reason to be, but an irrational
part of me was annoyed. I pinched my skin hard to shock myself out of my
illogical reasoning, but all it did was leave a painful red blotch on my skin.
I walked out of the cramped lounge and through to the white kitchen,
the stone island littered with pizza boxes and beer bottles. If a woman lived
here, she definitely wasn’t doing any cleaning.
I opened the screen door and walked down the small set of stairs that
led to the house. Rocco’s black car gleamed like a gem in the bright
sunshine. I considered sitting outside on the porch but instead walked over
to his car to sit on the hood. Judging by how Gennaro freaked out if I so
much as touched his car, I was sure Rocco would do the same.
I had an itch to poke the bear. I wanted a reaction.
I leaned back, waiting for his car alarm to go off, but nothing. Was
Rocco De Luca so confident in himself that he didn’t need a car alarm? A
motorcycle revved loudly as it went past before I heard the sound of it
halting to a stop completely.
I tensed as footsteps approached. My eyes opened and I sat upright.
The rider got off his motorcycle slowly before walking toward me.
“You don’t see a body like that every day,” he whistled in a low voice.
I didn’t say anything, but his eyes continued to sweep over me.
He had sandy-brown hair with dark eyes, and when he looked at me, he
stared with a hunger that made my stomach churn uncomfortably.
“I meant the car. Nice bodywork,” his accent trilled. He definitely
wasn’t from around here.
He came even closer, his body almost within touching distance of mine.
“You ever ridden a bike?”
“No.”
“Maybe that might change,” he whispered softly, leaning closer until he
was an inch away from my face. “You have an eyelash right here.” He
swiped my cheek with his finger and let it linger.
I felt my body freeze. I wanted to pull back, but the flash of silver in his
waistband told me I shouldn’t. In the distance I heard the door slam, and
when I looked to the left, Rocco was standing there with an unreadable look
on his face.

“Take Gianni and Domenico with you. Giovanni seems to think there might
be more trouble. It seems they’re hiding out in Jersey.”
“What else did Giovanni say to you?”
“Nothing interesting. Why?”
I frowned as Fabio’s eyes swiveled away from mine and he started
spinning the cap of his Corona bottle. Everybody had a tell when they were
hiding something. Fabio’s was pretty simple: he couldn’t meet my eye. And
right now he was staring intently into my left ear.
“Start talking, or I start shooting,” I said firmly.
“Vicky came over last night,” he said quietly before a crooked smile lit
up his face.
 “The girl Claudio was with?” I groaned.
“Yeah.”
“After she fucked Claudio she crawled back into your bed? She sounds
like a catch.” I rolled my eyes.
“She’s a nice girl,” he said defensively. He definitely didn’t meet my
eye this time, instead concentrating on the white accented wallpaper.
“Sure, she is,” I said acerbically.
“You’re just bent out of shape because you want to fuck that pretty
young thing next door and it goes against every inch of your nature to not
be able to.”
It seemed I wasn’t the only one adept at reading body language.
Fabio gave me a smug look before peering out his window. Then a look
of alarm flooded his face as the atmosphere shifted.
“Porca puttana,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth before
pulling his gun out. “Ronan Kavanagh has his hands all over la principessa.
The fuck? I think they’re kissing.”
I knew I had a temper that didn’t take much to spark, but even when I
lost my temper I was in control. Right now I felt as if a red mist had
descended over my head; I couldn’t seem to fucking think clearly.
I almost tore down the white screen door as I yanked it open. Sophia
was on the hood of my car with Ronan Kavanagh leaning over her. My first
cohesive thought should have been focused on why the fuck the Irish were
here, but that didn’t matter—his mouth was inches away from hers.
I wanted to blow his head off.
I reached automatically for my gun—a reflex I’d had since I was fifteen.
The cold metal of the gun burned hot against my hands when I shot him
twice in the back of each leg.
I wanted him to suffer.
Painfully.
Sophia jumped back but didn’t make any other sound. Her eyes
automatically shifted to me, but her expression was unreadable. Ronan
slumped down in agony, blood pooling around him as his tortured screams
echoed through the neighborhood.
“Clean this mess up,” I muttered to Fabio as people started to open their
doors to find out where the noise was coming from.
Fabio nodded and yelled at his neighbor, who was peering over the
fence, to get the fuck back inside. The large man clutching a plastic Burger
King cup took one look at both of us and ran in. The double bolt of his door
clicked. As if that would keep us out if we really wanted to do damage.
“Get in the fucking car,” I barked at Sophia.
She paused for a second before stepping over a now unconscious
Ronan, her nude heels covered in blood and leaving red footprints as she
walked to the passenger side. She took them off and left them daintily by
the door before getting in.
Did she really think a little blood on the leather upholstery was my
biggest problem?
We drove for about fifteen minutes before I turned and parked on a side
street.
“I told you to stay in the fucking house. Explain to me what happened
there.” The last words come out like a flurry of bullets.
“I felt hot inside the house, so I went out for some air.” She swallowed,
clasping her hands together tightly. “I sat on the hood for a couple of
minutes, and he just showed up and started saying stuff.” She bent her head
forward and her hair covered her face like a dark waterfall.
“What kind of stuff?” I asked roughly.
“‘You don’t see a body like that every day.’ He stroked my cheek . . .”
She paused, looking at my reaction.
I slapped the steering wheel hard, and Sophia flinched. I should have
shot him in the fucking balls first.
Her eyebrows knitted together. “Who is he?”
“His name was Ronan Kavanagh. Why did you let him touch you?” I
swallowed the rumble of distaste in my throat.
“He said I had an eyelash,” she mumbled.
“A what?”
Her own eyelashes flickered up as sadness filled her eyes. “An eyelash,
and that I should make a wish. He had a gun. I didn’t want to set him off, so
I figured if I played nice, he would leave.”
“You figured wrong. Fabio said you were kissing,” I snapped.
“That didn’t happen.” She scowled.
“Show me what he did.”
“What?” She looked at me as if I’d asked her to get on her knees and
suck me off.
“I said show me what he did—now.”
 I needed to know she wasn’t kissing him, that his mouth hadn’t been
anywhere fucking near hers.
“It doesn’t matter now.” She tried to shrug me off, her arms folding in
anger.
“It matters now. Fucking show me, unless you want to walk home.”
She swallowed. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“Maybe you can explain what happened to your papá then.”
My little threat worked. Her face flooded with panic.
“You win,” she sighed.
The words I liked to hear from her cherry lips.
She leaned forward, our faces inches apart as she tilted my head back
slightly. Her thumb swept softly against my cheek. “Just like that,” she
murmured.

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Tension grazed the air.
I hadn’t thought this through.
I wanted to fuck with her, but in turn I’d put myself in an impossible
situation. Her mouth was so close to mine I could almost taste the sticky
cherry of her lip gloss. An amber sunset cascaded across the fading blue sky
and a welcome breeze filtered in through the open window of my jet-black
Maserati, but I didn’t feel a fucking thing.
If she were an inch closer, I’d be fucked.
One taste wouldn’t be enough; I would want it all.
Her hand was on my knee to leverage her forward. She had such small
hands. Both of them could fit in the center of my own, her soft touch
against my much rougher one.
I grabbed her hair, wrapping it around my wrist and bringing her closer.
I thought how much of a sucker I was for thick, dark hair. If I pulled a little
harder, she would tumble onto my lap. Suddenly my mind was plagued with
images of pulling her dress up as she rode my cock in this car. I could
almost taste her sweat, how her nails would rake against my neck and the
way she’d wrap her silky legs around my waist as I fucked her harder.
“Satisfied?” she whispered.
My hands ran up the naked juncture between her neck and throat,
making her breathing become harsher. “No. What else did he say?” I
tightened my grip, my thumb running down her throat.
“He told me to make a wish.”
“What kind of bullshit is that?”
 “It’s how it works—an eyelash is a wish,” she giggled softly, her throat
vibrating.
“What did you wish for?”
“If I tell you, it won’t work.”
“That important to you, huh?” I gripped her tightly, enjoying how
breakable she felt in my arms.
“Personal.” She smiled. “What would you wish for?”
“There isn’t anything out of my reach to wish for,” I said firmly.
“Lucky you,” she said coolly.
I released her neck and hair from my hands, and she sat back down,
crossing her legs. Her white-tipped pedicure stood out against the black
upholstery.
“I’m taking you back to Staten Island.”
She nodded and stared out the window. I turned on the stereo and she
turned around, annoyed.
“I thought you didn’t like it on.”
“Changed my mind,” I drawled.
She held my gaze for a few seconds before turning away again.
Fabio had driven the car last, and the forlorn sound of the Spanish radio
station rumbled on in the background as I drove. I couldn’t understand the
words to the song, but whoever it was had it bad.
Fucking Fabio and his taste in music.

Cigarette smoke filled the dimly lit office in my club, the familiar beat of
Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal” seeping upward. The club wasn’t
open yet, but I could imagine Domenico moonwalking across the floor like
a stronzo flirting with the bottle girls.
Fabio groaned as Gianni produced a straight flush and reluctantly threw
a roll of hundreds at him. He was never a good loser.
Fuck, none of us were. Maybe that was what made us so effective.
Gianni chuckled darkly. Fabio almost squared up to him until Franco
pointed his gun from across the room and told them to shut the fuck up
while he counted the plethora of thick manila envelopes on the desk.
It was just a regular day for me. There could be no other outcome for
the son of Ricardo De Luca. The darkness of the Cosa Nostra that had bled
in his veins bloomed in mine. I wasn’t a man who could be shackled by
laws, regulations, or propriety. My destiny lay in the heart of the Cosa
Nostra, and I couldn’t see myself anywhere else.
I was in too deep to be anything other than what I was.
Two weeks had passed since that night. The Irish had taken the loss of
Ronan Kavanagh badly.
Unfortunately, it had resulted in ramped-up tension between the two
families. Two of Giovanni’s men, including one of his captains, had been
killed.
I hadn’t mentioned the circumstances of how Ronan Kavanagh died,
simply that he’d turned up in the Bronx and I’d dealt with it. There was no
doubt Ronan had come to kill Fabio. It was lucky for us he got distracted by
a pretty face.
As far as Gennaro knew, I’d dropped Sophia to Brooklyn and back
without a hitch.
He didn’t need to know what had really happened and that I tasted
cherry lips every time I lit a cigarette in my car.
I couldn’t make sense of it myself.

The scorching sun beamed down on me. It was mid-July and the weather
had peaked into the early forties.
I dipped one of my hands into the turquoise pool, the normally ice-cold
water pleasantly warm. I could hear only the faint sounds of the lawn being
mowed and Zia singing along to Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” from a sun
lounger. Mamma was in the kitchen cooking for around five-hundred
people from the amount of crockery that was laid out.
When a Sicilian died, we didn’t present flowers; we cooked a lot. One
of Papá’s captains had died, and Mamma had appointed herself chief
mourner.
 When I’d arrived home shoeless from my escapade with Rocco, I’d told
her I’d given them to a homeless person, and she’d walked out of the room
tutting incomprehensibly. The lie had satisfied her enough not to mention it
to Papá. He was shrewder than her and had the inherent ability to know
when you were lying. His glacial cat’s eyes could melt even the most
proficient cheat.
Restless energy seemed to grow within me. I’d wanted to provoke
Rocco, but I hadn’t realized that would result in a man losing his life.
Maybe he wasn’t a good man, but was Papá? Was Rocco? I never believed
in the world being strictly black-and-white when there were so many shades
of gray between right and wrong. After all, I’d known falling for Damien
was the worst thing la principessa could do, and I’d still done it.
Memories of Papá’s face filtered through my mind from when he’d
burst through the door with his men, the resounding slap that stung my face
followed by the sound of gunshots.
I should have figured not even another state would be far enough to
shield me from his reach.
I didn’t think anywhere in the world would be.

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La principessa belonged to the Cosa Nostra; there was no alternative life
choice for her. When Papá dragged me home, he’d said Damien had played
on my naivety, that it was all a trap I’d gullibly fallen into. Was he right? I
knew Damien’s father had links to the West Coast—could I believe he
wasn’t Papá’s ally but a decoy? Was he just getting closer to me as a
subterfuge for the real target he wanted to draw out?
Damien had died, but if he was trying to hurt me first, which one of us
was wrong?
Black-and-white blended into gray, and I didn’t know anymore which
side of the fence I belonged. It all whipped around in my head
uncomfortably. I’d always thought I was a separate entity from my papá,
my brothers, and all the deeds they carried out, but maybe I wasn’t so
different. Damien was simply an infatuation, an escape rope from the
hamster wheel I was on. If he was using me, then maybe I’d been doing the
same. Perhaps I was just as tainted as they all were in my own way.
“Sophia?”
“Yeah?” I opened my eyes, putting my hand on my forehead to shield
my eyes from the sun.
Claudio’s large shadow was looming over me. “Papá wants to see you.”
Claudio was extra grouchy these days. Massimo had muttered to me
that he’d been dumped, making him even more unbearable than usual.
“Fine.”
“Anytime today, Sophia, would be good.” He scowled.
I was more surprised Claudio could get a girlfriend; he was insufferable
at the best of times.
 I climbed out of the pool and toweled off, pulling on a pair of denim
shorts and a tank top and taking a few deep breaths before I ascended the
familiar spiral staircase. I knocked on the door nervously, and Papá
beckoned me in. He was dressed in his standard uniform of a dark suit and a
crisp white shirt. I couldn’t recall him having any casual days; his entire
wardrobe consisted of Armani only, with his signature red pocket square.
“You wanted to see me,” I said nervously, clasping my hands together
on my knees.
“I had a talk with Pietro’s father.”
My heart thumped heavily in my chest as I knew what was coming. I
was about to speak when the door was pushed open, and I swiveled my
head to meet Rocco De Luca’s insolent stare.
“We’ll carry this on later, Sophia.” Papá dismissed me.
Relief swept over me. I stood up weakly. Rocco moved to allow me
space to leave without looking at me.
A crash downstairs followed by Mamma’s scream led me down the
marble staircase in curiosity. Claudio and Fabio—the man whose house I’d
gone to in the Bronx—were in a brawl in the lounge area. Claudio had
Fabio in a headlock and had smashed Mamma’s precious Baccarat crystal
over his head.
Mamma stood in the corner almost hyperventilating, and Zia sat on the
couch with a tumbler of scotch in her hand, looking mildly amused, her
eyes flicking between the fight in front of her and her soaps. I paused at the
bottom of the stairs, mesmerized and not knowing whether to stay or move.
Mamma let out another squeal as Fabio went headfirst into her ornate
bone chinaware cabinet.
Rocco and Papá ran down the stairs two at a time. Papá stopped midway
in annoyance and motioned for Rocco to collect his man. I thought Claudio
would have backed down when he saw Rocco, but that seemed to incense
him even more. He walked toward the top of the stairs and aimed a punch
that missed. Rocco took advantage and hit him hard in the face. I heard the
crack of his knuckles as they connected with the side of Claudio’s face.
Papá’s mouth formed a thin line. “Claudio!” he barked. “Enough!” His
voice felt like arctic wind on a winter’s day.
Claudio gave Rocco a hard shove before storming outside, and Papá
motioned to Rocco to follow him back upstairs. He wiped his bleeding
mouth before giving Fabio an annoyed look.
 Cazzo.
He looked even more devilishly rugged, bruised and bloodied.
“Dio mio!” Mamma cried, looking at the sea of glass littering her prior
perfect lounge.
I raised an eyebrow. “Mamma, there are people dying and you’re crying
over a little glass.”
“It’s not just glass—it’s my Baccarat crystal!” She clutched her chest
dramatically.
Zia poured Mamma a generous tumbler of scotch, which to my surprise
she drank almost instantly. She refilled it and topped up her own already
full glass. “Keep drinking, Livia. You’re on the verge of being mildly
entertaining. Don’t spoil it now.”
“Selita!” Mamma yelled for the maid, ignoring Zia’s comment.

An hour later, I had showered off the pungent smell of chlorine and Ambre
Solaire and was sitting on my bed, my fingers following the floral pattern of
the comforter. Trepidation picked away at me like a never-ending thread. I
knew Papá was going to give me to Pietro. I should have known the first
meeting would be the litmus test. I couldn’t decipher whether he was any
worse or better than Reece. Rocco seemed to have an intense disdain for
Pietro, but I didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing. Rocco’s moral
compass wasn’t exactly pointing north either.
Not by a long shot.

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I could see everything planned out for me, and it was terrifying, but this
time was different.
There was nowhere to run.
I groaned, pulling a pillow over my face as the door opened, causing the
ballet dancers on the wind chimes above my bed to pirouette wildly. I
expected Mamma, but it was another voice that greeted me. A rougher one.
I pulled the pillow off my face, my cheeks heating under his glare.
If Rocco wanted to know why I was lying with a pillow over my head,
he never asked. His shirt was caked in blood and a faint bruise was
developing under his eye, but Claudio had come off a lot worse.
“I’ve been looking for the bathroom for twenty minutes. It’s like a
goddamn museum in here.”
“Past the bowling alley on the left.”
“The bowling alley,” he deadpanned.
I gave him a small smile, which he ignored.
“Not big on humor, are you?”
“Not today,” he said, wiping his lip, which had just started bleeding
again.
“I’m sorry about Claudio,” I offered.
He didn’t acknowledge me, but his stare continued to pierce through me
as he looked around. “This is a lot of fucking purple,” he grunted.
“Lavender,” I corrected him.
He looked up at the ballet dancer wind chimes, a smirk pulling on his
lip.
 “I’d like to see what your bedroom looks like,” I quipped. It was meant
to be a joke, but it came out like a proposition. I blushed, feeling heat
overcome me.
He raised an eyebrow, and I blanched further under his gaze.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said quickly.
“I live in Brooklyn. I don’t think it’s up to your standards.” He picked
up the snow globe on my desk.
“You don’t know anything about me or my standards.”
“Paris?” he asked, shaking the globe so thick flurries of snow fell down
on the mini-Eiffel Tower. He put the globe down and opened the
sketchbook underneath it. “You draw?” he glanced down impassively,
thumbing through the pages and stopping at a drawing of a lavender rose.
“Not in a long time . . .” I trailed off.
“Why?”
“It’s easier not to feed an impossible dream.” I swallowed thickly,
looking away from his laser focus.
Rocco didn’t deride me but instead stared pensively as if he could see
through every part of me.
Tires crunched outside, and I turned my head to the window as Papá
walked out to greet someone. An older man got out of the car, followed by
another younger one.
Pietro.
Papá shook his hand warmly and a hollow feeling engulfed me. When I
turned back, Rocco had already left the room.

“Sophia!” Mamma’s voice shrilled the next day from over my bed.
“I’m sleeping.” I dove under the comforter to get away from the bright
sunlight bathing me.
“Get up and get showered. Angelina is here with her mamma.”
“I hardly know her,” I groaned.
“Whose fault is that? Maybe this is a chance for a friendship to
blossom.”
 I thought of Rocco standing here less than twelve hours ago and the
searing tension between us.
I think not.
“Or did you want to show off our new sunroom to her mother?” I
muttered.
“Sophia,” she said primly, but she didn’t correct me.
An hour later, Angelina and I sat outside on the patio with her younger
sister, Gigi, who was engrossed in a book. Angelina and I smiled
awkwardly at each other. She was wearing a summery pink dress and heels
with matching strawberry-pink lips. She picked up a cookie from the tray
Mamma had laid out with three glasses of lemonade.
“You must be excited about your wedding,” I said awkwardly.
“Mamma is more so than me,” she said grimly.
There was a deep, uncomfortable silence in which I could only hear
Ramón mowing the already impeccable lawn.
Lorenzo walked into the garden in deep conversation with Claudio and
Gennaro. Selita and the other maid Irina walked past them giggling, and
Angelina’s face soured at the flirtatious display. I knew she’d had a crush
on Claudio years ago. Clearly, it hadn’t faded.
She sighed before running her hands through her hair dramatically.
“What do you think of Rocco?” she asked, and my insides froze.
“What do you mean?” I smiled diplomatically.
“He looks so . . . rough-and-ready.” Angelina wrinkled her nose.
“I think he’s hot!” Gigi piped up.
We both looked at Gigi tucked behind her book before bursting into
peals of laughter. She flushed deeply and wiped the steam off her glasses.
Maybe Angelina wasn’t as bad as I assumed her to be, but that didn’t
help the niggling guilt to ease.
“What do you know? You haven’t even kissed a boy,” she teased her
sister.
“I’d like to hear more about your type, Angelina,” Gigi said innocently.
Angelina blushed pink, matching her outfit.
“Claudio?” I smiled.
“I wasn’t even that into him.” She dismissed me with her hand,
although her eyes stayed laser-focused on the corner he, Lorenzo, and
Gennaro were in for the rest of the afternoon.
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I knew what I was going to do even before it happened. Just a casual smirk
was all it took for Claudio to turn his anger from Fabio to me. I needed to
exorcize my demons somehow, and that smug cazzone Claudio seemed the
right outlet.
Maybe I enjoyed beating the hell out of Claudio Zanetti because I
couldn’t shoot his papá or take his sister for myself.
Since the night Claudio and I almost exchanged gunfire at Vincenzo’s
party, it had been on the cards to happen sooner or later. There was too
much bad blood between the Zanettis for it not to boil over eventually.
Fabio stealing Claudio’s woman was a personal insult. It wasn’t even
about the girl. Even if she could fuck like a pornstar, she was merely
collateral in a war of men.
Although I wish he hadn’t socked me in the mouth like a bitch. It hadn’t
stopped bleeding all night.
I gave Fabio a dark look on the way home.
“I never said anything to him.” Fabio shrugged innocently.
“You didn’t think taking his woman would cause some tension?” I
scowled.
“She told me it wasn’t anything serious.”
“Claudio smashing your head into a cabinet looked pretty serious to me.
When she runs back to Claudio, you won’t be so smug,” I drawled.
“There’s always her sister.”
If only it were that fucking simple.
I knew where the bathroom was. I’d been to Giovanni’s house more
than once. I just hadn’t been through the small white door on the second
floor, the room that was purple with Sophia inside it.
Every time I saw her, she seemed to burrow a little deeper inside my
head. I’d finally found a flaw I couldn’t buy, shoot, or fuck my way out of
—the latter being the best option, but I had a feeling once I crossed that line
I’d never go back.
I tried to reason to myself it was because I couldn’t have her that she
seemed to play on my damn mind so much. She could draw and judging the
wishful look on her face when she spoke—she had dreams that branched
further than being her papá’s little principessa. Things I shouldn’t care
about but found myself wanting to know more about. If she and I were
playing tug-of-war she would definitely be winning, dragging me to the
threshold of acquiescence.
A violent jerk caught me somewhere in my chest when I saw Pietro pull
up outside and witnessed the way that fuck Giovanni greeted him.
What was worse: Pietro having her, or someone else?
Either one left an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

My phone vibrated and I reached along the nightstand to find it.

“Cross?” came a faraway voice on the other end of the line.
“Hmm?”
I looked at the clock. 4:03 a.m. I had just barely gone to sleep. Inky
darkness swept through a crack in the blinds and my head pounded like a
fucking drill.
“You need to get to the club. It’s Mia.”
Franco’s voice came into focus in my head, and annoyance swept up my
spine. Mia-Bella, my sister. Half-sister. The byproduct of my father and one
of his many women. His doppelgänger in every sense of the word with
every single one of his vices.
“What happened this time?” I said through gritted teeth.
“Driving under the influence. Anderson got to her before she was
booked, but he’s left her here as she can barely walk in a straight fucking
line.”
 “I’ll be there in ten,” I grunted.

The stench of alcohol and bad decisions greeted me as I walked into the
club. The last of the patrons had left and the lights were fully on. The music
had faded out to a dull bass in the background.
“What happened?” I asked, irritated.
“Mia was pulled over in Manhattan for driving down the street the
wrong way. Anderson heard the name on the radio when they asked for a
license check and rushed over to intercept. He tried to take the keys from
her, but she put them down her underwear, so he brought her here instead.”
Franco paused, and I could tell he was biting his tongue to keep from
laughing.
“Jesus Christ, like I need this right now with the Irish breathing down
our necks. Did you speak to Carlo?”
Carlo was my contact in the New Jersey mob. If anyone knew what the
Irish were up to, it would be him.
“Yeah, we’re meeting later in Jersey. Somewhere neutral. I think he got
spooked.”
“If I wanted Carlo dead, I wouldn’t need to go to fucking Jersey to do
it,” I said through gritted teeth.
“I heard you kicked Claudio Zanetti’s ass,” Franco chuckled.
“He had it coming. Where is Mia?” I yawned.
“In your office. Jenna’s been keeping her hydrated until she comes
down.”
“What’s she on?” I asked, annoyed. I’d spent years babysitting my idiot
father, and I wasn’t about to repeat it again.
“It’s Mia—who knows? Probably coke or molly.”
“Fuck’s sake,” I grunted, turning toward the short staircase leading up
to my office.
Jenna herself walked out, her soft brown eyes looking up at me
coquettishly. “Rocco,” she murmured softly, wrapping her arms around my
neck.
 I’d scolded my men about sleeping with the club employees enough to
know not to do it myself. Maybe I was just a fucking hypocrite.
Jenna moved her dark head inches from mine and leaned in to kiss me,
but I pushed her aside.
“Where is she?”
“She’s asleep,” she said sheepishly.
“She isn’t. I know she told you to say that,” I drawled, raising my
eyebrow a fraction when she didn’t deny it.
“She’s coming down and she feels really awful about everything. Just
be gentle,” she implored.
“Gentle?” I snickered. Mia should be nominated for an Oscar for the
performance she was putting on.
“I finish soon. We could get a drink,” Jenna hinted.
My cock and my head were having an argument, and my head seemed
to be winning.
“I don’t think so.”
She shrugged, disappointed, and walked off.
My answer could have been a yes and I would have gotten rid of the
frustration that had been clawing at me for weeks. But as much as I might
have enjoyed Jenna writhing on top of me while I wrapped her long, dark
hair around my fist, it was green eyes not soft brown ones that burned
mercilessly into me.
I walked into the office to find Mia huddled on the couch, shoeless, her
soles black and her short dress stained and creased. I saw her eyes
flickering open slightly then closing again.
“You are not fucking asleep, so don’t even try it,” I snapped.
I sat opposite her. She was now breathing suspiciously harshly on the
leather couch.

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I stood there for a second before uncapping a bottle of water from my desk
and pouring it over her.
“Rocco!” she yelped, standing up.
“Good, you’re awake.” I sat back down and tossed my pocket square at
her.
“What is wrong with you?” She frowned, wiping her face with the
pocket square, her lipstick now completely smeared over her chin.
“I could ask you the same fucking question!” I shouted.
Mia bit her lip before leaning back on the sofa like a scolded child.
I knew I should have shut the door in her face when she came looking
for my papá years ago, but she had nobody left. Her own mamma had died
of an overdose. I’d paid for an apartment far away from my own, and her
college tuition—though she dropped out in the second semester. Mia was
too much of a party girl to take it seriously, and she was becoming too
much of a fucking liability to put up with.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
“Sorry? You think that will do it?” I thundered.
“I won’t touch it again, I swear,” she pleaded. Her lip wobbled, and I
anticipated the waterworks.
“I’m taking your car keys, and if this ever happens again I’m sending
you to rehab. Not one of the nice bullshit ones—somewhere in the Deep
South where they don’t give a fuck what your last name is. Give me your
fucking keys.”
She reached into her Prada bag and handed over the Mercedes key fob.
“Why didn’t you give them to Anderson?”
 “He was annoying me,” she said petulantly.
“Franco is going to take you home. I don’t want to hear a peep out of
you, Mia. I’m sick of dealing with your shit.” I stood up, agitated.
“I’m sorry, Rocco.” Mia got up slowly and hugged me tight, the stench
of alcohol and sweet perfume invading my senses.
“Get off,” I said, annoyed.
“I forgot you don’t like affection,” she snickered.
“One more fucking word and you’re going to Utah.”
Mia mimed zipping her mouth shut, but a small smile was still etched
on her face. She was definitely a De Luca. Nothing stuck to her; even
cornered against the tightest dead end she could comfortably evade capture.

Hours later, Fabio and I crossed over George Washington Bridge into New
Jersey. We drove for another twenty minutes before pulling up outside a
rundown diner in Paterson. We got out of the car to check if we were being
followed.
“Why did he want to meet here?” I muttered to Fabio, whose hand
rested over his waistband.
“Probably keeping a low profile.” He swore as a piece of gum stuck to
his Italian loafers.
We walked into the diner and not one person acknowledged us. It
seemed like we weren’t the only patrons who wanted to be incognito. Two
hookers sat in the corner counting their earnings next to their watchful
pimp, while a few stoned teens were giggling loudly by the window, eating
pizza. A small radio was playing out the MLB scores. Fabio cursed when
realized the Mets were losing.
Carlo Tucci gave us a lopsided smile from the back and beckoned us
over. He was small and skinny in stature, his nickname “The Rat” for those
reasons, alongside how dirty and cunning he could be.
“Rocco,” he said in a low tone.
I gave him a swift nod, sitting opposite him. He lit a cigarette and
beckoned the waitress over.
 “Pancakes are good here.” Carlo nodded, ordering a short stack.
“I’m good.” I waved my hand impatiently.
“I prefer mine without the side of E. coli.” Fabio smirked out of earshot
of the waitress and opened a newspaper on the table.
Carlo gave Fabio a dark look, which he ignored and continued reading
the sports section.
“Let’s get straight to the point. What’s going on with the Irish, Carlo?”
“How do you know I know anything?” he said smugly.
“Cut the shit, Carlo. You’re more connected than anyone I know on
both sides.”
He took a drag of his cigarette, seemingly pacified. “They have some
kind of beef with the Russians. They’re leaving Chicago like rats off a
sinking ship.”
“What do they want here?”
“Trying to make a living, I guess.”
“Why are they hiding out in New Jersey?”
“Protection money and the Jersey bosses don’t like New York either.
Killing the Kavanagh boy wasn’t exactly good business, was it?” he said
sarcastically.
“He was in my streets. I can do what the hell I want. They killed Renz
Barone, so I guess we’re square.”
“Not to them,” Carlo chuckled.
“Giovanni wants a sit-down because he’s worried all this gunfire will
start spooking his politician friends. Can you get that done?”
“Giovanni sending you to do his dirty work, Rocco?” He smirked.
“I’m nobody’s errand boy, but keep testing me, Carlo, and I will not
hesitate to shoot you.”
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t threaten me.” Carlo sniffed
disapprovingly.
“Can you bring them to the table or not?”
“What’s in it for me?” he said deviously.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I want to open one of my clubs in New York. Classy, like the ones I
have in New Jersey.”
Fabio’s eyes lifted from the paper and a small smirk tugged at the side
of his lips.
 Carlo ran several strip joints in Jersey that were business fronts for
prostitution and trafficking. “Classy” was not the term used to describe
them.
“Philippe Mancini would probably have a problem with that.”
“Mancini.” Carlo stubbed his cigarette out angrily.
“What about him?”
“Not him—his fucking son. That animale, Pietro.”
I was distracted looking at the framed picture of Elvis Presley hanging
on the grimy wall, Carlo’s voice merely poking through my mind like
waves crashing on the shore. But now he had my full attention.
“What about him?” I repeated.
“It’s nothing,” he said, a coy smile playing on his face.
“Nobody likes a tease, Carlo,” I said acerbically.
“Put in a good word for me to open my club and I may be partial to
talk,” he said slyly.
Fabio’s hand rolled to his waistband. “If you’re trying to get shot in the
alleyway behind this dump, you’re going the right way about it.”
“Tell me what you know, Carlo, and I’ll see what I can do,” I said
slowly. I felt as if fire had been injected into my veins.
“How do I know you won’t change your mind?” He sniffed
distrustfully.
“Just start talking, Carlo,” I said, agitated.
“Joey Rizzola has a club not far from mine. Pietro’s ass is always in
there.”
I rolled my eyes, irritated at the anticlimactic information.
“Get to the point.” Fabio snapped.
“I want assurances about my club.”
“If this story checks out, I’ll pull the right strings,” I said impatiently.
Carlo’s eyes studied me for a couple of seconds as if trying to assess
how genuine my offer was. “He was seeing one of Joey’s girls, real pretty
and young. She got pregnant, and the next thing you know, she doesn’t turn
up for a shift. When Joey goes to her place she’s found at the bottom of the
stairs with a broken neck. Roommate swore Pietro was the last person she
saw there.”
“Could be a coincidence,” Fabio countered.
“Could be, aside from the fact it happened again. Another one of Joey’s
girls gets knocked up by him and she’s found strangled in the club after she
threatened to keep the kid. Joey banned him after that, and he’s started
showing his face at my club. He’s seeing one of my girls, a redhead, a top
earner. If he get this one pregnant, I’ll fucking kill him.” Carlo exhaled
angrily.
Fabio and I exchanged a look, and a small feeling of visceral, vindictive
pleasure flooded through me.
“Pretty coincidental you have this dark secret about Pietro when you
want to run your own club under his father’s nose.”
“All that is done in darkness shall come to light.” Carlo smiled.
“Is this legit, Carlo?” I asked impatiently.
“Call Joey Rizzola—he’s expecting your call,” he said, handing me his
phone.
After twenty minutes I hung up and gave the phone back to Carlo, who
looked like it was his fucking birthday.
“Who else knows about this?” I asked.
“Nobody.”
“Keep it that way.”
Fabio turned to me as soon as Carlo drove off. “When are you going to
out the little prince?”
“The exact moment he isn’t expecting it, and I won’t be saying a word.”

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A large gold invitation arrived from the Rossi family with their lion
emblem embossed in red dye on the front.

Vincenzo and Carmela Rossi would like to invite you to celebrate the
engagement of their daughter Angelina Rossi to Croccifixio De Luca.

Mamma examined the invitation like a forensic scientist while I stood

next to her, my heart plummeting several depths.
“Do I have to go to this engagement? It’s Angelina’s night. I don’t even
know her that well,” I wheedled.
“Nonsense.” Mamma’s nostrils flared wildly.
“But Ma—”
“You’re going, and that’s final,” she snapped before walking off and
slamming the door.
Mamma often treated me as if I were twelve not twenty-one and this
was one of those times that I was going to be overruled no matter what.

Despite Mamma’s request for me to wear something cheerful, I decided on

black. I wanted a dark color to blend in seamlessly. I’d bought the dress a
while ago and had never worn it. It had two lace mesh panels on either side.
 “Sophia Azzura Zanetti, we are on the verge of being late. Vito is
waiting by the car. I will not live this down if I am late to Angelina’s
engagement!” Mamma barked from downstairs.
I opened the door and Massimo emerged from the spiral stairs to his
room at the same time. He wore a simple black leather jacket that matched
his own dark hair.
“Where are you going?” we said simultaneously.
“Sophia!” Mamma’s voice echoed loudly.
“Ah, the Rossi engagement.” Massimo rolled his eyes.
“Basta, how long does it take you to get dressed?” Mamma cursed,
walking up the winding stairs, her Gucci sandals clipping hard against the
marble staircase.
“I’m ready,” I said.
“Are you coming too?” Mamma asked, turning her head to Massimo.
“I have plans,” Massimo said firmly.
“Plans.” Mamma snorted as if she could read his thoughts.
Massimo’s girlfriend Leanne was one of the hostesses at Papá’s club.
She was non-Sicilian, non-Italian, and non-anything my mamma stood for.
An hour later, Mamma took my arm firmly as we entered the large
skyscraper in the city, the view at the top so steep the people below
appeared as mere moving ants. Lamé silver adorned the large banqueting
suite with white balloons and matching floral centerpieces. Mamma peered
around the room in a hawklike manner, and I could tell she was trying to
find fault with something so she could tear it apart later with her friends.
I spotted Angelina across the room. She was dressed in a pale pink dress
and she and Lorenzo were in deep conversation. She waved me over when
she saw me, and Lorenzo gave me a reluctant nod.
“I’m going for a smoke, Ange,” Lorenzo muttered before walking past
me.
“How’s the wedding planning?” I strained for conversation.
“As if I know. Mamma is doing it all. Everything has to be better than
everyone.” She sighed deeply.
“I share your pain.”
We both exchanged secret smiles that only daughters of the Mafia could
understand.
Angelina’s mamma peered over at us in consternation as if we were
strategizing how to run away and join “Girls Gone Wild” in her absence.
 Angelina pulled out a pink lip gloss from her matching Dior purse and
offered me some before applying a thick glaze over her lips.
“Tesoro.” Pietro’s nasal voice ran through me.
Angelina gave me a smile as he put his arm around my neck and
brought me closer. “How sweet.” She smiled.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he breathed into my neck.
“You found me.” I forced a smile.
“Let’s dance.” He pulled me onto the dance floor before I could even
respond.
Nina Simone’s “Take Care of Business” played as he pulled me closer
until I could feel his head resting on my neck. I looked up at him, willing to
feel an inkling of chemistry or lust, but instead I only felt the hunger of his
stare.
“Bathroom break,” I whispered in his ear as the song came to a
prolonged end.
I took the elevator up and pushed open the doors of the restroom. Two
women ignored me as they cut lines of cocaine in front of the mirror.
“I don’t know what Cross sees in her. Why her?” the first woman
chastised angrily as she rolled up a twenty-dollar bill.
“Like it matters, a ring isn’t going to stop him.”
They broke into raucous laughter before leaving.
I reapplied my lipgloss before I left the restroom, carefully steering
away from the white residue on the sink. There was a bar situated at the
center of the rooftop. I sat myself down, wondering how long I could hide
up here before I was noticed.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender asked.
“Whiskey, neat. Make it a double.”
I’d never tasted whiskey before, but there was always a first time for
everything.
I felt a clammy hand on my back running dangerously south quickly
and jumped up, repulsed, reacting to his touch.
“How about you let me buy you a drink, and maybe I’ll put those lips to
good work later?” a drunken voice said in my ear.
Before I could even open my mouth Rocco appeared out of the
shadows. The drunk man’s eyes widened in terror when he noticed Rocco
behind him.
“Mi dispiace!” he cried out before staggering away.
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I’d mentally reneged on the marriage contract so many times it was giving
me a fucking headache. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d backed out of
something, but I couldn’t lose out on the biggest deal of my life because of
an irrational thought.
An irrational want.
The engagement party venue was a flashy skyscraper in the heart of the
city. I’d left the details to the bride and her mamma to pick out, but maybe I
should have been more involved because I wouldn’t have picked the most
ostentatious, tacky shit I’d ever seen. The room was wall to wall silver.
Even the ornate crystal chandeliers twinkled over my head. I gripped the
tumbler of whiskey in my fingers willing myself to not smash the goddamn
thing.
“Didn’t know you had such good taste.” Franco smirked.
“Shoot me now.” I gritted my teeth as Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna
Dance with Somebody” echoed loudly.
I knew I should have let Franco stand in for me tonight.
I watched over the balcony as Angelina and Sophia conversed, trying to
understand what made one more appealing than the other. Angelina was
easily a ten with her pouty pink lips and lithe legs, but when she stood next
to Sophia, her light dulled like a dimmed star.
Sophia was the eclipse that overshadowed Angelina’s sunshine.
A sultry fucking prima donna of an eclipse.
Pietro sauntered over and put his arm around Sophia’s neck, taking her
hand to lead her onto the dance floor. Their bodies danced closely, and I
would have paid the DJ everything in my bank account to change the song
to something up-tempo that didn’t require his hands to be anywhere near
her. I watched them with the sort of fascination one might get from
watching a car crash; it was horrible to look at, but I couldn’t pull my eyes
away.
“You’re looking at the wrong one,” Franco snorted.
I gave him a dark look as he chuckled before indicating to the left.
An elegant Carmela Rossi walked across the room with her
doppelgänger eldest daughter holding her hand. Angelina looked down
nervously until her mother told her to greet me.
“Don Croccifixio.” Angelina tilted her head towards me.
“Rocco,” I corrected her irritably.
Carmela gave a bow before walking off.
“You look good,” I said blankly, searching for something to say.
She craned her neck upward and gave me a wry smile, her pink lip gloss
shimmering under the bright lights.
I checked her out properly. Nice legs, but no ass or tits. “Do you plan on
keeping him after we get married?” I indicated to Lorenzo, who was
skulking at the back of the room.
“Yes. Papá said you have a lot of enemies.”
“True, but I doubt Lorenzo’s presence would stop them if they wanted
to kidnap you,” I deadpanned.
“Kidnap?” She raised an eyebrow.
“You’re going to be my wife—they’d try to get to me through you.”
“What would they do when they’re finished—throw me off the
Brooklyn Bridge?” she said sarcastically.
I brought the tumbler to my lips slowly. “That would be way, way at the
end, after all the torture.”
Her eyebrows knitted together. “Torture?”
“The Mexican cartels might carve you up a little, take a hand or finger
off you, the Calabrian ‘Ndrangheta on the other hand. They might even take
off something a little bigger as a souvenir.” My eyes settled on her small
tits, and two pink spots appeared on her cheeks.
Franco gave me a startled look before his lips tugged upward in
amusement.
“You can keep Lorenzo though. Be my guest.”
She gave me an icy glare and put her hand on her hip. “I didn’t realize
marrying you would be such a hazard.”
 “No risk, no reward.” I smirked.
“I don’t see the latter.” She smiled sweetly.
Fiery. Perhaps this would be marginally more interesting than I’d
envisioned.
“Papá told me you live in Brooklyn.” Disappointment flooded
Angelina’s voice.
“You have a problem with that?”
“Will I be tortured or kidnapped there?” Her tone was clipped.
“Can’t make any promises,” I drawled.
“I’m sure you have other properties.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Yep, but I’m not leaving Brooklyn,” I said firmly.
She blinked rapidly at me. “No” was not a word she was used to
hearing. “Will you be joining me for the rest of the night? We’re supposed
to be getting to know each other.” She sighed, unimpressed.
“I have some business to take care of, so probably not.”
“I guess I’ll see you for Sunday lunch.”
Fuck, I could see my whole life planned out already.
“Vincenzo said you’re a singer,” I fired off. He’d said tons of other shit
too, but this was what had stuck.
“I specialize in opera mostly,” she muttered.
That explained why she was so much of a diva.
“Thanks for the ring.” She nodded to her left hand distractedly.
I looked down at the glittering diamond. Vincenzo must have purchased
it because I sure as fuck hadn’t.
“What are you interests then?”
“I have my vices.” I smirked, but she frowned coldly.
Clearly, she couldn’t take a fucking joke either.
I flicked my wrist to check how long the conversation had been going
on. Seven minutes and twenty-four seconds. “We have a meeting to get to.”
I indicated to Franco, who gave a distracted, “Yeah,” while checking out a
redhead walking by.
Angelina gave me a haughty nod before walking back to Lorenzo. She
took a glass of champagne from a server and drank the whole thing straight.
“‘The Calabrian ‘Ndrangheta’?” Franco snorted.
“Well, they might be after me one day. Got to be prepared.”
“Here was me thinking you were trying to scare her out of the
marriage.” Franco smiled obnoxiously.
 “Franco,” I said dryly.
“What?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
He gave me a smug look before he went to talk to the redhead he’d been
checking out.
I spotted Vincenzo coming toward me and hit the elevator button. I
didn’t have time for any father-of-the bride bullshit.

Rocco lit a cigarette wordlessly, the small flame from his solid gold lighter
illuminating his face, and when he looked up his gaze caught mine.
I paused for a second, not knowing whether to look away or hold his
gaze insolently. I picked the second option, and the air turned static with
friction. The spark of chemistry I’d asked for with Pietro ignited in my
chest like a firework being lit.
He licked his lips slowly as he held my gaze. It was part-disturbing,
part-erotic, as if he were stripping me with just his eyes.
I pursed my lips at the man fleeing. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You shouldn’t be up here alone,” he drawled.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I smiled benignly.
“Curiosity killed the cat.” He exhaled thick ropes of smoke.
The bartender handed me my drink. It was so strong I almost wanted to
spit it out, but I swallowed, letting the amber liquid burn through my throat.
“Pietro is downstairs if I need anything.” I smiled sweetly.
His lip curled in amusement as his eyes settled on me, a sparkle of
mischief present in them. “You should stay away from Pietro if you know
what’s good for you.”

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The first thing I saw when I entered the rooftop was dark hair billowing in
the wind.
I was a conflicted man, one half recklessly impulsive and the other
painfully controlled and flawlessly meticulous.
I knew which side would win tonight.
I could have walked away, ignored the burning curiosity inside of me,
but in that moment, I succumbed to pure animal instinct. My father had a
terrible track record against temptation, and now it looked like his son
wasn’t much better. The De Luca’s always took what they wanted—no
matter the consequences. Fiery impulse ran through our bloodline like an
oil-soaked rag exposed to a naked flame. I had curbed most of my impulses,
but Sophia was tipping me towards embracing familial traits.
“I never want to see anything silver or spangly again.” I loosened my tie
as Franco and I got the elevator down to the underground parking space.
“I think you traumatized that girl.” He smirked before putting his hand
through his thick, dark hair, his pride and joy.
“What I think is you’re starting to recede,” I said darkly.
“I’ll still be better-looking than you,” he drawled.
“Even Stevie fucking Wonder knows that’s a lie.”
“I saw you at the bar talking to Sophia,” he said with a glint in his eye.
“So what? She’s pretty overrated if you ask me.”
Franco’s lip curled, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. We
both knew I was lying.
“There you are. Pietro was waiting for you.” Mamma eyed me
questioningly when I returned downstairs.
“Bathroom. Queue was crazy.”
The room had more or less broken up, and the two seats on the top table
were empty. Vito motioned to us from the door.
“Basta, I left my purse upstairs. I’ll be two minutes. Wait in the car,” I
said hurriedly and heard her exhale deeply.
The top floor was emptier than the main one now, the bartender
cleaning glasses.
“Excuse me, did anyone happen to . . .?” I tailed off as he produced my
small black purse.
“Thank you so much.” I smiled.
“You’re welcome. I doubt anyone would steal it after seeing the guy
you were with tonight,” he chuckled.
I didn’t correct him—it seemed pointless. I couldn’t explain something I
didn’t quite understand either.
I walked toward the edge of the bar. I could distinctly see the car parked
downstairs ready to go. As I looked up, my eyes caught the shadow of a
silhouette—Angelina’s—behind the pillar of the bar.
She wasn’t alone.
I could see her body intertwined with another man, and I twisted
uncomfortably, but it wasn’t Rocco.
It was Lorenzo.
I stumbled back, shock reeling through me.
Angelina must have sensed a presence because her eyes finally opened
and she pulled away from Lorenzo, her face pale. “S-Sophia . . .” she
stuttered.
Lorenzo looked annoyed she’d pulled away, and, if I wasn’t mistaken,
he also looked slightly pleased to have been caught.
“I just forgot my purse,” I mumbled, holding it up as evidence.
“Sophia, wait!” she called out urgently.
“It’s none of my business.” I walked off.
 “Lo, can you give us some time alone?” She looked over her shoulder at
him.
“Sure, but I meant what I said, Ange,” he said crisply before walking
off.
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone,” she said, grabbing my arms so
tightly it almost hurt.
I opened my mouth to speak, but she squeezed me harder.
“Promise me!” Her eyes widened.
“I promise. I really need to go.”
She finally let go, and I left the rooftop with her secret running
uncomfortably through my head.

I pulled at my collar in frustration. Whatever goddamn air-conditioning was

on in here wasn’t enough. I unbuttoned my shirt, rolling the sleeves up to
my elbow. Jesus looked up at me, probably confirming I was beyond
redemption—something I already knew.
“Rocco?” Javier’s voice pierced through me.
Javier Castillo ran the cocaine operation in Colombia. I had sat in a
meeting with the man for almost an hour and I could barely comprehend
anything he’d said. Cherry red lips and green eyes had stolen my focus.
Franco, Domenico, and Gianni were also in the room, all waiting for me to
answer.
Javier tapped on the table. A gold signet ring encased his pinkie finger.
Javier hardly wanted to achieve an incognito look with his white suit,
matching fedora, and a large scar across his face.
“I’m listening,” I lied.
“What do you suggest? The ports in Miami are being watched—what
about Chicago? Their officials are more open to bribery.” Javier lit a cigar.
“Risky. We don’t want to provoke the Russians, and we’re on a touchy
basis with the Irish,” I said, my tone clipped.
“What about through Tijuana?”
 “How many fucking times have I told you about Mexico, Javier?” I
snapped.
“I forgot about Vincenzo’s son,” he muttered as his tanned skin flushed.
“Maybe if you did a little more research you wouldn’t call me in for a
conference every time you need to take a piss,” I snapped.
“I don’t work for you, ese. I would watch your fucking tongue,” Javier
snapped back. He narrowed his dark eyes at me for a second, and like
clockwork I could hear every man in the room reaching for their gun.
My mind whirred into action as I tried to salvage an all-out brawl.
“What about Las Vegas? I have a contact there, which might make things
easier.”
“Las Vegas could work,” Javier said stiffly.
The tension lifted from the room immediately as hands moved away
from waistbands.
“I’ll come back to you when I work out the details. Will you still be in
the States?”
“Yes, my girlfriend lives here.”
“I thought she was in Colombia.”
“No, that is my wife. Two different things.” He smiled coldly as if it
were obvious.
Laughter broke out as soon as the ding of the elevator confirmed Javier
and his men had left the basement.
“You need to let all that frustration out, and preferably not on our
Colombian friend who makes us a shit ton of money.” Domenico smirked.
“He’ll get over it,” I said impatiently.
“Did you break Frankie Barretta’s arm last night? The cazzone can’t
even bathe properly now,” Gianni mused.
“He can walk through a car wash,” I snarled.
“Fuck, he must have really pissed you off,” Domenico snickered.
“He was making a fool of himself at the engagement party. Maybe now
it will teach him not to touch,” I said acidly.
“Who was he touching?” Gianni frowned.
“Sophia Zanetti.” I said through gritted teeth.

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A montage of Sophia flickered through my mind like the kaleidoscope toys
I played with as a kid. I’d tried to think of a cohesive solution to dampen
my thoughts of her, but so far I was coming up with nothing.
Franco gave me a knowing glance, and a smirk widened on his face.
Goddamn, that cazzone knew me too well.
Sophia was getting under my skin, and even when I was at my busiest at
work she’d seeped into my subconscious and clouded every sinew of my
body.
“Well, I don’t think Pietro will thank you for it,” Gianni snorted.
“Couldn’t Giovanni pick someone who wasn’t a complete moron for
such a sweet piece of ass?” Domenico grumbled.
Although it was true, the wishful look on his face made me want to
break his jaw.
“Perhaps Giovanni thinks Pietro can keep her in check. She ain’t
exactly innocent.”
“Pietro couldn’t control a woman with a fucking remote,” I drawled.
“Well she was shacked up with one guy we knew about—who knows
how many other men she’s had? I couldn’t handle that type of shit. I’m a
jealous man, and it would drive me crazy.” Gianni lit a cigarette, and
Domenico nodded in agreement.
Franco’s eyes swiveled toward me, and I gave him a dark glare.
“You’re adding oil to the fire, Rocco, playing these games with Pietro.”
Domenico shook his head.
“Maybe I like playing with fire.” I flicked my lighter on and off,
watching the flame ignite.
Angelina and Lorenzo.
The image circled around in my head like water spinning down the
drain, shock buzzing through me like static. The secret looks and whispered
words between them all made sense now. It brought back memories that cut
a little too deep like a sharp knife across a jagged scar.
Angelina wanted Lorenzo—not Rocco. A strange thrill coursed through
me that I couldn’t switch off.
“It’s almost midday and you’re still asleep. What kind of behavior is
this?” Mamma scolded, brilliant sunshine flooding the room as she opened
the blinds.
“I’m tired,” I mumbled from under the blankets.
“Are you sick?” Mamma asked as she yanked the blanket off me and
placed a cold hand on my forehead.
“Yes,” I lied to make her leave.
“You feel fine. Get up and shower. Pietro will be coming over later.”
I groaned, pulling my head back under the covers.

The crescent moon illuminated the deep velvet sky as the crooning tones of
Julio Iglesias played in the background. A long, elaborately decorated table
had been put on our patio, the darkness broken by hanging lanterns.
Mamma’s finest silver and bone china had been laid out as if we were
dining with royalty. Servants stalked the table, rigorously refilling drinks
every time so much as a sip was taken.
Pietro sat close to me, dressed in a sharp black suit, the pocket square
matching the icy blue of his eyes. Papá sat at the head of the table, Philippe
Mancini to his immediate right, and Claudio to his left. I could tell they
were talking business by the way Papá’s eyes were fixed in concentration.
Unlike Pietro’s icy blond hair, Philippe had a jet-black mane with leathery
tanned skin.
“His hair is as fake as his teeth,” Zia muttered next to me.
“Zia.” I stifled a laugh when I noticed Don Philippe’s teeth were whiter
than the porcelain plates.
“That isn’t even hair dye. It’s probably shoe polish. It’s too black.” She
drained her third glass of wine, and Mamma frowned when she beckoned
the servants for a fourth.
I hadn’t even finished my glass of champagne when Pietro put a fresh
one in front of me, giving me a small smile. Maybe he thought I would be
more interesting drunk.
Zia was. I could hear her exchanging dirty jokes with Gennaro and
Massimo to Mamma’s chagrin. I felt a hand appear on mine and looked up
to find Pietro’s mouth inches from the side of my face. I could smell the
harsh, zesty tones of his cologne.
“Tesoro, you smell amazing,” Pietro muttered.
I gave him a stilted smile, and to my surprise he brought my hand up to
his mouth and kissed it. I willed myself to feel any kind of passion—even
just a spark, a flicker, anything—but there wasn’t a jolt.
“If all goes well tonight”—he indicated to his papá talking to mine
—“we could be married before the fall.” he ran a hand through his blond
hair and gave me a megawatt smile.
“That fast?” I took a large sip of champagne.
“No sense in waiting. It’s not like you’re a virgin.” He gave me a wink
before I felt a hot hand squeeze my knee.
I stared at him in annoyance until he removed his hand and stood,
causing my stomach to twist.
“Although nothing is official, I just want to toast to my future wife. I
can’t wait.” He raised his glass.
Those three last words felt like ice-cold water dousing me.
The table exploded with applause, and Mamma made a cooing sound
that made me want to retch. But when I looked back at Pietro his jubilant
demeanor had changed. His jaw had clenched in displeasure, and when I
turned around, I realized why.
 Rocco was standing behind us with a briefcase under his arm. He was
dressed casually in black jeans and a white T-shirt. Butterflies nested in me,
ready to take flight at the sight of his tanned muscular arms and wet hair.
His eyes lingered on me for a second in displeasure, like I was a piece of
gum on the sidewalk, causing my stomach to dip dramatically.
My stare stayed on him, but he looked ahead.
“Buona serata, Rocco. Can I get you a plate?” Mamma snapped her
fingers and one of the serving girls set a plate down opposite me.
“I’m fine, Livia. I just have something for Giovanni,” he said stiffly.
“Sit down, Rocco.” Papá motioned.
Rocco reluctantly sat down opposite me. I circled my finger around the
base of the champagne glass in distraction, not looking up. He spoke with
Gennaro. I didn’t listen to the subject, just the smoky timbre of his voice.
“I hear two of your bookies got turned over in the Bronx,” Pietro
interjected, twirling a cigarette in his fingers, a small smile building on his
face.
It was a slight, and hardly a subtle one. When I stared up, Rocco’s eyes
had melded into a dark gray although his face remained impassive. “Chi si
fa i fatti suoi campa cento anni,” Rocco drawled.
Who wants to live longer should mind his own business.
Pietro’s eyes wandered over to his papá, and a wry smile appeared on
Rocco’s face.
“The Bronx used to be your papá’s old patch too. I guess it isn’t a lucky
spot for your family,” Pietro said casually.
Rocco paused for a second before smiling. It wasn’t his usual smirk;
this smile turned the air cold.
A smile that didn’t threaten violence.
It promised it.
“There’s no koi pond here, Pietro. I know you like to swim with the
little fish like yourself.” Rocco laughed cruelly, and even some of the other
men further down the table snickered.
“You’ll be drowning in your own blood by the end of the night,” Pietro
hissed.
Rocco rolled a cigarette in between his fingers. “Can che abbaia non
morde.”
The dog that barks doesn’t bite.
 Pietro’s face flooded an ugly red and I felt him vibrate with anger. The
table quietened, sensing a fight.
“Figlio di puttana,” Pietro hissed.

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Pietro stood quickly, his blue eyes stormy and filled with rage. The
servants dishing up plates around the table all scurried inside, detecting
trouble.
Papá’s expression turned from impassive to stoic. He didn’t intervene
despite the whitening of his knuckles from holding his glass tightly as
Pietro moved to his waistband to get his gun out—which he did clumsily,
rocking the table and sending a bottle of red wine flying into my lap before
it rolled over and smashed.
“Sit down, Pietro,” Don Philippe demanded.
Rocco gave him a patronizing look as Pietro sat down slowly, white
anger radiating off his face.
“Boys will be boys,” Don Philippe said, unmoved, lighting up a Cuban
cigar and returning back to conversation with Papá.
“I need to get changed,” I murmured, exiting the table.
“Make it quick.” Mamma gave me an exasperated look before calling
the servants back and beckoning for them to top up the glasses.
Pietro didn’t acknowledge me, but he stared right ahead through Rocco.
I pulled off the soaking-wet dress as soon as I entered my room and
threw it in the laundry hamper, putting on a fresh dress. After ten minutes I
heard the sound of Mamma calling my name downstairs.
I panicked. I couldn’t go back to the table.
I went up the spiral stairs and headed to Papá’s office instead. The door
was unlocked, and the room was dimly lit. I closed the door gently behind
me, the musky smell of Papá’s Old Spice clogging my senses. My panic
heightened as footsteps approached. I ducked under the desk, fitting
underneath the vast space. The door slammed shut, and I heard two voices:
Papá and Rocco.
Pure terror encapsulated me. Papá’s office was off-limits to all of us,
and being found in here by him would not be a good thing. I’d only come
up here because I thought everyone would be downstairs for a while.
“My share of the cash for Las Vegas.” Rocco put something on the desk
above my head. Probably the briefcase that was underneath his arm, judging
by the clicking sound it made as he opened the contents before closing it
again.
“Has Tysen made the arrangements?” Papá asked.
“Yeah, he greased a few wheels in the right area. I think his ten-percent
cut will be worth it.”
“When will he be in New York?”
“In a couple of weeks. I’ll set up a meeting and you can go through it
with him.”
“Good.”
“Have you got a light? I left mine in the car.”
“Check the windowsill. Livia keeps throwing mine away in the hope I’ll
quit.”
Rocco walked around the desk and searched the windowsill directly in
front of me. I huddled back as far as I could, but when he turned back from
the window his gaze dropped toward me. A faint smirk appeared on his
face, and I put my finger over my mouth for him not to blow my cover.
“You and Pietro need to stop this nonsense,” Papá said, bored.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Rocco lit a cigarette, his
gaze dropping to me for a second before moving up.
“He’s marrying my daughter. I don’t want any bad blood. Philippe and I
just finalized the details.”
Rocco’s eyes lowered toward me again, and I felt waves of nausea crash
inside me.
It was definitely happening.
“Whatever. I have a personal call I need to make. Do you mind if I stay
in here?”
Clearly, Papá did mind, but he left reluctantly, the door clicking and his
footsteps moving down the stairs.
“What the hell are you doing?” Rocco said, amused.
“It’s a long story,” I muttered, climbing out.
 “Shorten it,” he said crisply, helping me up.
“I was avoiding Mamma. I didn’t want to go back outside.” I sat on the
desk.
A half-truth.
“You’re lying.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Of course not.”
“Liar. A convincing one.” He looked marginally impressed.
“What did you mean about Pietro?” I asked, referring back to his
comments at the engagement party. Why did I need to stay away from him?
“I meant what I said.” He pulled me forward to the edge of the desk,
using his free hand to pull my head back. “If I find out his lips have gotten
any closer to you than your hand, I’ll cut his goddamn head off,” he
growled, wrapping my ponytail around his wrist and pulling harder.
“A little hard seeing as I’m marrying him,” I said, trying to remove
myself from his grip, but he didn’t relent, a small crease of irritation visible
on his forehead.
The door handle rattled, and Rocco pushed me back down in front of
the desk before sitting on Papá’s plush leather chair.
“Still on the phone,” he said loudly.
“Spiacente, Rocco, I thought Giovanni was in here,” Mamma said from
the doorway.
“I had to make a call.” Rocco smiled apologetically.
“Have you seen Sophia? I’m not sure where she got to,” she said in a
strained voice.
“I saw her heading downstairs not so long ago.”
“These girls are enough to drive a saint to drink,” Mamma harrumphed
before leaving.
“Not so popular, are ya, Cherry?” He smirked down at me.
“Don’t call me that,” I said, annoyed. I tried to climb out, but he didn’t
budge, his thighs digging into my sides, trapping me. “Rocco!” I hissed.
“You look good on your knees,” he snickered, releasing me.
I used his own knees for leverage to push me up, and I towered over
him a few inches as he sat on Papá’s chair. His hand reached up my dress,
palming the backs of my thighs roughly. The sensation sent a shiver up my
spine.
“You want me to stop?” he said huskily.
 I shook my head and my hands reached around to the nape of his neck. I
had the urge to tighten my grip around a fistful of thick, dark hair. His
fingers traced the outside of my inner thighs before moving to hover just
outside the lacy underwear.
“Rocco,” I breathed, feeling a thrill of exhalation shiver through my
body, and all awareness of everything but Rocco’s touch evaded me.
His thumb continued to circle my inner thigh as he pulled me on top of
him, his other hand reaching for the back of my head and pulling me an
inch away from his mouth. But he didn’t kiss me.
I wanted him to.
I wanted to be different from the others, especially Carla with her lapis
lazuli eyes and long, pretty hair.
Instead, I captured his bottom lip with my own and sucked on it for a
few seconds.
A rumble of satisfaction escaped him as his eyes locked forcefully with
mine. The faint taste of nicotine coated my tongue.
Knowing Pietro was only downstairs should have made this feel wrong,
but it didn’t.
My fingers traced the black ink of the sleeve that covered his arm.
“Solus deus me iudicare potest” was wrapped around his elbow. I met his
gaze. “Only God can judge me.”
His lips brushed past the juncture between my neck and collarbone, and
I let out a low moan as his fingers continued to circle me, but nowhere near
where I wanted him most. I gasped as my own hand dropped to his lap and I
felt his hard erection underneath my hot touch.
“Who else touches you?” he demanded.
“Personal.” I stared back defiantly as his eyes faded to almost black.
The sound of guests coming back into the house broke the simmering
silence between us.
I don’t know what made me lie but my answer turned the air cold.
“I would find a better hiding place next time.” He pushed me off him
before walking out of the room, grabbing his briefcase on the way out.

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I sat in my car for an hour, just parked on the fucking street like an idiot,
after leaving Giovanni’s house. I’d had to leave his house through the back
with the briefcase strategically placed in front of me to disguise my hard-
on.
I was acting like a cazzone.
Worse, I was acting like my men, lusting after this girl as if she were the
only piece of ass in the world.
The cognizance that la principessa had another man, or other men, had
stopped me from crossing the line further than I already had. Sure, I wanted
to fuck her, but the thought of other men touching her opened a black hole
of rage inside me. Just because she allowed me to touch her didn’t make me
want to be one of her long list of admirers or worse—a substitute for who
she really wanted.
I was getting married in three weeks and knew another woman should
not be on my mind the way Sophia Zanetti was.

The sliding door connecting the outside of the house to the interior
slammed noisily, followed by the tapping of stilettos, until a pair of tanned
legs stretched out on the sun lounger beside me. I didn’t even have to look
around to see who it was. The quiet I’d been enjoying in front of the
turquoise-blue pool was now shot to pieces.
“Who do I have to blow around here to get a cocktail?” Mia chuckled.
She laid herself out beside me on a deck chair, tying her cotton-candy-pink
hair in a bun and helping herself to my pack of Marlboro Reds. She’d
clearly just rolled out of bed after last night’s bender.
I gave her a dark look. “Did you pass your drugs test?”
“Yes, with flying colors, so you can stop threatening to send me to Utah
or Kentucky or wherever the hell it is.”
“What about your drinking?”
“It’s under control,” she muttered.
She put her iPhone in the speaker dock. Rick Springsteen’s “Jessie’s
Girl” came blasting out, and I was subjected to listening to a song about
some fucker wanting a girl who wasn’t his—which didn’t exactly fucking
help my mood.
“Who lit a fire up your ass?” She surveyed me with narrowed eyes.
“I tolerate you because it wouldn’t look good if I clipped my sister, but
you keep shooting your mouth off and I might change my mind,” I drawled.
“How was the engagement party? Is my future sister-in-law looking
forward to joining the family?”
“Well, it’s happening either way.”
“You should at least make an effort,” Mia huffed.
“Sleeping with married men doesn’t give you autocracy on
relationships,” I retorted.
Mia flushed a deep crimson.
“If you keep embarrassing yourself like this then I won’t be held liable
for my actions,” I warned.
“You won’t hit me, Rocco. You don’t touch women,” Mia said smugly.
“I can hit you where it really hurts . . . your pockets.”
Despite my antipathy for Mia, I still paid her an allowance every month,
and I knew despite how much she pissed me off I wouldn’t cut her off.
Mia stood and gave me a pensive look. “I know what you’re worried
about,” she said as she stopped short of the door. “You’re nothing like him.”
She gave me a small smile before she walked out without saying another
word.
It was her way of trying to redeem herself by telling me I was nothing
like Ricardo De Luca. Considering both my parents were exceptional fuck-
ups, I was surprised I’d turned out marginally well. My mamma had left
when I was barely six and never came back, although I knew she’d gone
back to her native Sicily. Nicole De Luca had wanted to forget her cursed
existence with her adulterer of a husband and her mistake of a son.

Giovanni’s dark stare met mine as we sat in the basement office of the club
with the other bosses and captains.
“Pietro is here on behalf of Philippe,” Vincenzo said in his husky voice.
“Papá is in Florida setting up another club. Another legacy for me to
continue.”
Sharp disdain flavored my mouth as I looked at Pietro’s smug face.
“Talking of Rocco, what are you doing about the Irish? They’re running
wild in this fucking city.” Pietro rolled his eyes.
“We’re going to arrange a sit-down.”
“Sit-down? We should be flambéing their fucking asses.” Pietro flared
angrily.
“Amateur.” I shook my head. “We don’t go in half-cocked—first rule of
being a boss. If you make it, that is.” I smiled coldly.
Pietro opened his mouth, but Vincenzo shot him a warning look.
“Rocco is right.” A voice came from the back of the room.
“Carlo.”
He gave me an unnerving smile before sitting down next to Pietro,
whom I noted didn’t look happy about it.
“What are you doing here, Carlo? New Jersey wasn’t invited,” Pietro
asked sharply.
“I’m setting up the meeting with the Irish, so I believe I have reason to
be here like anybody else. Does anyone object?”
“No.” Giovanni waved his hand for Carlo to sit.
“Do you think this meeting will work, Rocco?” Vincenzo asked.
“It has to. We’re drawing too much of the wrong attention. The law can
only cover us for so long.”
 “Didn’t you shoot Ronan Kavanagh in broad daylight?” Pietro
chuckled.
“He turned up at my capo’s house. What else did you expect—a fucking
welcome wagon?”
“When are we meeting with the Irish?” Giovanni asked briskly.
“Carlo’s on it and will update us.”
“Good.” Vincenzo nodded.
“I hope you don’t think this means you’re in with New York. You’re
way out of your tax bracket,” Pietro sneered, giving Carlo a scathing look.
Anger flashed menacingly over Carlo’s face, and his eyes narrowed into
black slits.
“Carlo wants to open a club here,” I said casually.
“No fucking way. It would interfere with our business. Papá won’t be
happy at all,” Pietro said, outraged.
Carlo paused for a second, and I could see the venomous thoughts
pulsating their way to his mouth. “I hear congratulations may be in order,
Pietro. Lucky man,” he said innocuously.
“For what?” Pietro spat.
“I hear you’re marrying Giovanni’s daughter.”
“That isn’t your business,” Pietro replied haughtily.
“I was just concerned for Giovanni’s daughter, that’s all,” he said
genially.
“Concerned?” Giovanni asked sharply.
“I just want to make sure young Sophia doesn’t end up dead like the
other two whores you knocked up.” Carlo sighed.
Giovanni’s head jerked toward Carlo and ice radiated from his stormy
stare.
“Pietro, if you knock up the third one you’re fucking I’m going to need
a kickback. She’s my top earner,” Carlo continued, his face impassive.
Vincenzo’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water while
Carlo sat back with a terrible glint in his eye, and every gaze in the room
was firmly planted on Pietro.
“He’s lying,” Pietro finally said after several seconds of dead silence.
“Call Joey Rizzola—he has all the information.”
“This is unprecedented, godson,” Vincenzo fumed at Pietro before
looking at a staunch-faced Giovanni.
“It’s all a lie,” Pietro said quickly.
 “Joey Rizzola will be consulted, and we’ll see who’s lying,” Vincenzo
said coldly.
Pietro’s eyes darted to the door hopefully, but Giovanni’s underboss
Mario stood quickly and flashed the gun in his waistband menacingly,
causing Pietro to slink back in his seat, defeated.
“About my club,” Carlo interjected belligerently.
“We will get back to you,” I stated.
Giovanni gave me a look of displeasure as if trying to read my reaction.
“Fine. I want it in a nice territory, not some dump in Queens,” Carlo
sulked.
“I don’t think somebody from Jersey should be talking about dumps,”
Vincenzo retorted.
Tension fumed thick in the air, and things were on the verge of
becoming unpleasant. Several of the underbosses and captains had already
reached for their guns.
“I think we’ve heard enough for today. Pietro, you will wait outside,”
Giovanni said icily.
Pietro shrank under Giovanni’s venomous gaze before leaving the room
with his head bowed.
“Carlo will set up the meeting and I will be in touch.”
Giovanni gave a swift nod before leaving the room with Vincenzo and
the room started to empty out until there was only two of us remaining.
I stood up slowly, Carlo remained in his chair and gave me an
appraising look.
“If I were a cunning person, Rocco, I would say you planned that little
display.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Carlo,” I replied boredly.
“How far will you go to get what you want, Rocco?”
From the slant of shadow outside I could make out the figure of a gun
slapping hard against a skull before the noise of a body slumping to the
floor.
“I’m limitless.” I lit a cigarette as Carlo chuckled coldly.

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“I liked you the first time I laid eyes on you. I said, ‘She’s a tiger. She’ll
belong to me.’”
—Tony Montana

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Papá’s words rang in my ears. The contract had been signed. Everything
had been agreed without so much as a question directed at me.
Did Papá know best?
I knew the answer to that was an emphatic “no.”
He had sold me off to Reece Davenport without hesitation, and now
he’d done it again. The shock had worn off and all that was left was a cold
numbness that kept me awake in the hours before dawn.
I pulled the thin cotton sheet off my body and stood up. I felt restless.
The type of restless that made my body feel like it wanted to run a marathon
to match the five-thousand miles a minute my head was running.
The house was deadly silent as I walked down to the kitchen and out
through the large French doors. The only sounds to be heard were those of
crickets and the gentle swish of the pool water under the faint breeze. The
table had been cleared from last night, and I sat on one of the sun loungers,
my mind running into overdrive.
Rocco’s face trundled through my mind like a runaway train. When I
closed my eyes, heat flooded through my body, and I could almost feel his
fingers brushing against my thigh, the softness of his lips. Hot breath
against my neck.
The briefest of touches had left me wanting more but at the same time I
wanted to remain outside of his reach. The King of the Cosa Nostra held
many women in the palm of his hands, each one more disposable than the
last. It wasn’t only a trail of broken bodies he left in his wake; it was hearts
too.
“Cara Mia, what are you doing out here?” Zia said from behind me.
 “You scared the bejesus out of me!” I sighed, clutching my chest.
“You live in this family and scare easily—not a good combination.” She
laughed throatily.
“What are you doing here, Zia? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Couldn’t sleep. What’s keeping you up?” She eyed me warily.
“I’m marrying Pietro,” I said in a small voice.
She pulled a face.
“You were meant to tell me it wasn’t as bad as I thought.”
“I’ll offer you a cigarette if you don’t tell your mamma, but I’m not
going to lie to you.”
I placed the white stick between my lips and was immediately
transported back to my first cigarette with Rocco. My stomach plunged
further as I inhaled the sweet nicotine.
“Something tells me Pietro isn’t the only thing on your mind,” she said
intuitively.
I swallowed. “It’s a long story.”
“You can either let it go and move on,” she said, peering at me from the
bottom of her glasses.
I took another hit of the cigarette as a shiver ran through me.
“Or you can fight for it. That’s what I would do. You can make
everyone happy, but if you’re not, then what’s the point?” Zia put her arm
around me, and I nestled into the familiar smell of lavender and nicotine as
we watched the inky black sky bloom into the sunrise.

“I think Carlo should come out of the strip club business and go into acting.
That motherfucker nailed that goddamn meeting,” Fabio chuckled, opening
a bottle of whiskey.
It was a typical Saturday night at my club. The thump of house music
rattled from below. It hadn’t taken long for rumors to spread about Pietro
Mancini. Joey Rizzola had given testimony for Carlo’s allegations, which
were found to be true.
 Pietro had asked for mercy. Giovanni had given him two options: exile
or death.
Pietro had picked exile and was somewhere in rural Sicily hiding out.
Giovanni or one of his far-reaching hands in Sicily would end up killing
him eventually. Philippe’s club in Manhattan had been torched shortly after.
Giovanni wasn’t known for his subtlety.
Fabio checked his phone and gave a long sigh before putting it back.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Franco frowned as he shuffled a
pack of cards.
“Nothing,” Fabio muttered.
“You’re walking around like a miserable fuck,” Franco grunted.
“It’s Vicky.”
“You’re still seeing her?” Franco snorted.
“She said she wants to be exclusive. I’m considering it.” Fabio frowned.
“You’re what?” Franco scoffed.
“I can’t explain it, but she’s the only one I want to be with.” He
shrugged.
Franco looked at me and made a crazy motion with his finger next to his
head while I tried to ignore a gnawing feeling somewhere at the back of my
chest.
Pietro was out of the picture—out of the fucking continent but my own
marriage contract loomed in the distance like a dreaded event getting closer
and closer.

Papá hadn’t come home last night.

We’d eaten dinner with the chair at the head of the table ominously
empty. The four of us had eaten bistecca Fiorentina in silence, watching
Mamma’s eyes as they occasionally slid to the antique grandfather clock.
This morning, tires had screeched noisily on the gravel before 9 a.m. I’d
been sitting on the steel kitchen stool eating Lucky Charms while watching
an old rerun of “Friends” and arguing with Zia about whether or not Rachel
and Ross were on a break. Papá had walked in with a stormy look on his
face.
“The wedding is off,” he’d spat out before thundering up the stairs.
Zia had raised her eyebrow at me before taking two large bottles of gin
from underneath the counter and retiring to her quarters. Papá’s bad mood
had been known to carry on for days, and it wasn’t something anyone
wanted to be in the presence of.
Gennaro and Claudio had walked in not long after Papá without saying
a word.
Since then, Papá had been holed up in the drawing room all day with his
captains. I could hear the trays clinking as meals were brought in and out of
the room by the servants.
Although we were in the thick of summer, it had been an ill-tempered,
blustery day. The branches of the tree tremored against the window
violently, the gray sky threatening to erupt with thunder. I could hear the
men stationed directly underneath my room grumbling every time the flame
blew out on their lighters.
When I walked downstairs, I heard the voices of Papá’s underboss,
Mario, and his consigliere, Antonio.
“He left the city last night. Philippe acted quickly before anyone could
get to him.”
“He won’t last long anyway. A rich kid like Pietro exiled without a chef
or a butler . . .” Mario laughed unkindly. “He’ll be crying for his papá by
dawn.”

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I froze, moving out of the light so they wouldn’t see my shadow. The only
sound in between their talking was my own heartbeat pounding in my ears
so loudly my chest quivered.
“Philippe is probably hoping he can bring Pietro back when it blows
over.”
“There is no coming back, unless it’s in a fucking box,” Antonio said
sharply.
“If Cross hadn’t brought Carlo to the meeting we probably wouldn’t
have found out.”
“You think Giovanni will thank Cross?” Mario snickered.
“Thank him? I’m surprised he hasn’t given that motherfucker another
bullet wound to boast about. He can’t stand that figlio di puttana.”
They continued on before disappearing out the door.
My heart thumped like a drum under my shirt. Pietro was gone and
never coming back. After Rocco’s warning in Papá’s office, I knew it
wasn’t a coincidence that he was the architect behind it.

Thoughts of Rocco and Pietro crashed through my mind like stormy waves,
momentarily interrupted by loud chatter and the sound of glasses clinking
loudly downstairs. Papá was throwing a party for my cousin Alberto,
indicating that his dark mood was starting to thaw—something the whole
house was thankful for. He had already made Selita cry twice this week by
yelling at her for something insignificant. Everybody else had taken the hint
and stayed far out of his way. Even Claudio, the favorite, had felt his wrath
—an unheard-of occurrence.
I peeked down the long staircase. A mix of criminal and political
elements seemed to be housed in the Zanetti fortress tonight. If these walls
could talk, they’d be oozing with secrets, lies, and confessions, enough to
make anyone’s ears bleed. There was a moral code everybody obeyed, a
silent law each family followed religiously. You didn’t talk, you didn’t
answer questions, and you most certainly did not confess.
I zipped up the back of my emerald-green dress. It was one-shouldered
and a little shorter than I’d anticipated in the dressing room. My hair wasn’t
long enough to put up yet, so I tried a half-up, half-down combination.
Guests were strewn throughout the house, from the foyer all the way to
the white-and-gold lounge and through to the large gardens. Servants
walked around with trays of champagne and canapes. Papá was on the other
side of the room in deep conversation, and he gave me a slight nod before
turning back to the mousy-haired man he was talking to.
I wandered outside to the patio and headed down the set of stairs that
led to the sunroom. There was supposedly a drought on the East Coast, but
our grass was green and cut to precision. Mamma’s roses stood on
ceremony, stretching out among the greenery.
“Nickel for your thoughts?” a husky voice said from behind me.
I swerved around to see a stranger observing me. He was at least six
feet tall, caramel-skinned with mousy brown hair. I recognized him as he’d
just been talking to Papá a moment ago. I turned my head toward the house
and Mario’s silhouette appeared at the window. He gave me a slow nod
before disappearing. It seemed Papá approved of this conversation.
“A nickel? Seems like you’re trying to stiff me,” I joked.
“Name your price?”
“I’ll have to talk to my banker and come back to you.”
“José Ramos,” he said, putting out his hand. I reciprocated, and he
kissed mine delicately.
“Sophia Zanetti. I take it you’re definitely not Italian.”
“I have an extreme fondness for pizza. Does that count?” he said,
flashing me a smile.
 “No,” another voice interrupted from the darkness, and my chest
constricted as Rocco emerged from the shadows, his jaw ticking in
annoyance.
“Rocco.” José put out his hand, but Rocco ignored him.
“I wasn’t aware you merited an invite tonight, José,” Rocco said icily.
José’s eyes narrowed at the slight. “You’d be surprised by the circles I
run in, Rocco.”
Rocco lit a cigarette. “If you’re trying to impress me, you’re failing.”
José lifted something from his pocket and put it in the palm of my hand.
“My card, Sophia, if you want to talk without an audience,” he said frostily
before walking up the stairs.
“Give me it.” Rocco held out his hand. He reached for the card when I
put my hands behind my back. “I said give it to me,” he demanded, his eyes
dark and stormy.
I shook my head and his jaw ticked, annoyed.
“He’s a roughneck. Stay away from him,” he said through gritted teeth.
He tried to snatch the card again, but I tucked it down the front of my dress.
I could feel it nestled in my bra, scratching against my skin. His eyes settled
there, and I could tell he was considering taking it by the way his fists
balled in resistance.
“Maybe I like roughnecks.” I reached up to him and pulled the cigarette
out of his mouth, placing it in my own before taking a long hit.
“You’re becoming a real problem,” he drawled, taking the cigarette
back and throwing it to the floor.
Claudio’s voice echoed from somewhere nearby, and Rocco pulled me
to the other side of the wall behind the sunroom.
“If that figlio di puttana Cross even looks at me the wrong way, I’m
going to put a fucking hole in him,” Claudio cursed.
A low growl emitted from Rocco’s throat as his hand slid down to his
waistband, his body tense.
“What was that noise?” Claudio asked from a few feet away, starting to
walk toward us.
I put my hand up to Rocco’s mouth to silence him. His hot breath
brushed my fingers as he looked down at me, confused. He probably wasn’t
used to women silencing him. Maybe he was the one who did that. He
probably tied them up and blindfolded them too.
A jagged thrill ran through me at the thought I couldn’t shake off.
 My eyes dropped to his hand hovering over his gun before I slowly took
it in mine and dragged it away from his waistband. I didn’t think there
would be any explanation for Claudio getting shot while I was in a dark
corner with the man who shot him.
“You’re being paranoid. Let’s go inside before you pick a fight with the
fucking hedge,” Gennaro snapped before walking up the steps.
A few seconds later, Claudio’s heavy footsteps followed him, and then
there was only silence.
I moved my hand away from Rocco’s mouth, but my other hand was
still intertwined with his.
“Who were you more concerned about—Claudio or me?”
“Hard to say,” I murmured.
“I’ve never been popular with the Zanettis,” he said, unbothered.
A ray of light from the adjacent pool house rested on Rocco, and when I
looked down, I could see his bloodied knuckles. They were rough, as if
they’d been run across brickwork, or more likely used as a weapon against
somebody.
“Is this from Claudio?”
“Nah, more recent.”
“I thought you were a gentleman,” I whispered.
“I thought you liked roughnecks.” He stared down at me, a mix of
annoyance and amusement sparking in his gray eyes.
“I do,” I breathed.
I wasn’t sure why I said it.
La principessa wouldn’t blurt out what was on her mind; she would
have smiled demurely. In fact, she wouldn’t be intertwined with a man she
couldn’t quite decide whether she liked or hated. For all my attempted
redemption, Rocco seemed to bring out the worst version of me.
His eyes narrowed slightly as I stroked his knuckles with my thumb
before lifting his hand to my mouth and running my lips against them. I
held my own hand against his for a second, the contrast of rough and
smooth startlingly clear. A rumble of satisfaction emitted from his throat,
and he pulled my hand out of his before moving it around my neck and
squeezing tightly. I took a sharp intake of breath as his thumb stroked my
lips and he leaned his head closer toward me. I wasn’t threatened by his
hands wrapped around my throat; instead it was the searing feeling of want
that flooded through me like fire that scared me most.
 He was darkness, and my tainted heart craved every inch of him.
Silence dawned between us, only the noise of the party and the sound of
crickets drowning out the sound of my heartbeat. His hand cascaded down
to my décolletage slowly before he extracted José’s card by its corner and
tugged it out, crumpling it in his fist before he dropped it to the floor.
“You can’t do that,” I said, annoyed.
He let out a low, throaty chuckle—the type that sent a cold shiver down
my spine. “I think I just did.”
“Too bad you’re not the boss of me.” I picked up José’s crumpled card
and walked back inside.

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I watched as Giovanni put his arm warmly around his sniveling nephew
Alberto, another subservient duck in his row. I caught Franco’s eye as he
whispered something to the blonde next to him, and he gave me a wink as
they disappeared into the crowd.
Cazzone.
I walked outside and leaned on the concrete balcony overlooking
Giovanni’s property. Each hedge had been meticulously cut so I could see
the large pool stationed at the back of the garden. A few hushed
conversations were ongoing on the winding staircase underneath me, but I
ignored them, sending a quick text. I paused when I heard the soft velvet of
Sophia’s voice speaking with another man, whom I recognized as José
Ramos, one of Enrico’s captains in Queens.
He wasn’t even important enough to be here.
My impulsive streak conquered as I walked down the staircase, a thick
veil of anger building inside of me, clouding every rule of self-restraint I
had. Sophia was dressed in a barely-there green dress. No wonder José
looked like it was his fucking birthday—I could see almost every inch of
her body through the skintight material.
I wanted to decorate José with bullets from my .45.
I didn’t want anyone even looking in her direction. If another man so
much as touched her, I might fucking lose it worse than I already had.
Afterward I could still feel the touch of her soft lips, and when I looked
closely, I could see traces of cherry gloss on my knuckles.
I wanted her.
 It wasn’t even about fucking her; I wanted her to be mine. The irrational
side of me wanted to put her over my shoulder and take her back to
Brooklyn with me.
Scratch that—I wanted to take her somewhere nobody could find us.
Kiss her, touch her, fuck her, until I’d gotten my fill. Though I suspected
I would never be fulfilled with her and the obsession would long continue.
It was like a fever I couldn’t control.
I smoked two cigarettes in a row before walking back inside and
pretending Sophia Zanetti wasn’t invading every part of my consciousness.
“You must be Rocco,” a voice cut in next to me.
“Depends on who’s asking.” I raised an eyebrow.
She was petite and brunette, and from the way she stared at me, I could
tell she wasn’t exactly shy. She returned my smile, her tongue sitting behind
her teeth as if she wanted to devour me.
“Alessia Zanetti. Alberto is my brother.” She slyly licked her lips, her
almond eyes looking up at me flirtatiously.
Zanetti . . . I could see the similarities with Sophia if I looked closely
enough.
“Well, Alessia.” I spoke a little louder as Sophia frowned at the sight of
me talking to her cousin. “It’s very nice to meet you.” I smiled at her, my
eyes swiveling over to where Sophia was standing for her reaction.
“Angelina is a very lucky girl,” Alessia said in a low voice.
“You have no idea.” I smiled slowly, my meaning clearly tangible.
Her eyebrows shot up, and she blushed deeply.
“What else have you heard about me?”
Alessia gulped as her eyes moved down to my cock before she flushed
an even deeper shade of pink and ran back over to her friends to relay the
conversation. They all gave me deeply revered looks before Livia Zanetti
ushered them into the kitchen.
“Party’s here!” A loud voice broke up the quiet chatter.
Mia walked in on the arm of Bernardo Zaza, one of Salvatore’s
captains. She waved to Sophia, and I watched them converse for a few
minutes, unaware they even knew each other.
Summer in the city was relentless.
The weather crept up to forty degrees, and Brooklyn felt like a
tinderbox of heat. I pulled my cap over my face in an attempt to still my
thoughts, which was hard enough without Mia singing “Last Night a DJ
Saved My Life” every other minute while she tanned on a lip-shaped
inflatable in the pool.
“If you don’t stop singing, I’m going to shoot that fucking float,” I
grunted.
“Something is up with you.” She narrowed her eyes.
I was hot and irritated. I didn’t want to hit the treadmill, drive—fuck, all
the things I normally did—when I needed to clear my head.
“You don’t know shit,” I snapped.
“I know you’re a typical prideful Leo with a stubborn streak.”
Her phone buzzed, and I saw the name “Bernardo” flash across her
caller screen, but she ignored it.
“He didn’t last long,” I drawled.
“I’m not seeing him again. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Sophia,
although I do like her.” She paused, conflicted.
“I didn’t realize you knew her,” I said casually.
“Not as well as you want to, judging by the other night,” she smiled
wryly.
I gave her an icy look, but she stared back, unblinking.
“I know what day it is on Friday,” Mia snickered.
“Don’t even fucking think about it.”
“Sure, sure.”
“I mean it,” I muttered, but she’d already turned onto her back.

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An unsettling feeling overcame me as I watched Alessia flirt with Rocco.
If she flicked her hair any harder, I was sure she’d sustain a neck injury.
A blur of pink and silver caught my attention as Mia came into focus.
She was more put together now than she had been in the toilets where I’d
met her, her lips matching her messy cotton-candy hair.
“Sophia!”
“Mia.” I smiled.
She gave Rocco a friendly wave, which he didn’t return, before turning
back to me.
“You know him?” I paused.
“Sure, he’s my brother.”
“Your what?” When I looked closer, her irises were the same charcoal
gray as Rocco’s.
“Uh-huh. He doesn’t like people knowing. Not sure why.” She
shrugged, raising her hand for a flute of champagne. She caught my eye as I
looked at him and narrowed her gaze at me. “I didn’t realize you knew him
too,” she said innocently.
“Hardly,” I said quickly.
“Sure, sure.” She smiled.
Later on, Alessia bounded up to my room to tell me about her
interaction with Rocco. She got a huge telling-off from my mamma and
hers, but she didn’t care.
“He’s just . . .” She paused.
A complete enigma that has me in a tailspin.
“Valentina Caruso said he’s very gifted. I bet it’s true.” She giggled.
 An odd feeling of resentment seemed to latch onto me, and I bit down
hard to ignore it, accidentally causing my lip to bleed. The taste of metal
filled my mouth.
“When I told him Angelina was a lucky girl, he said ‘you have no
idea.’” Alessia nodded happily as if Rocco’s words were the law.
“Maybe he’s just arrogant.” I gritted my teeth.
“He’s never kissed her either,” Alessia mused.
“What?”
“Valentina said Cross De Luca doesn’t kiss; he fucks.” Alessia’s eyes lit
up mischievously before she left the room.
I slept uneasily that night. Rocco’s face unraveled in my mind like a
stack of cards, his touch almost tattooed into my subconscious, making me
realize I was every bit as tainted by the Cosa Nostra as my family. Darkness
had touched me, polluted me like a chemical exploding in the water. Maybe
that explained my inexplicable draw toward him. He was chaos in the form
of stormy eyes, rough hands around my neck, and a destructive smile.
Carmela Rossi had called around a day later, inviting us all to Rocco’s
“surprise birthday party.”
Considering he’d been shot four times, I didn’t think he’d be partial to
any more surprises.

My birthday had arrived. Gianni and Domenico stood beside me as I gave

them both a dark look before entering the room heavily decorated with
balloons and a huge birthday banner.
“Mia insisted.” Gianni shrugged.
I smoothed down my black Dolce & Gabbana suit, I hated surprises
almost as much as I hated my birthday. I couldn’t think of one year when
I’d actually fucking enjoyed the thing.
Inside the room, there was a flurry of applause and a standing ovation
among a sea of familiar faces—Mia at the front, dressed in bright pink and
already bombed by the looks of it, surrounded by my other captains.
Friday rolled by, and I found myself in the red-and-gold-decorated banquet
room in the heart of New York City. Claudio had been roped into attending
on Papá’s behalf as he was “too busy.” Claudio gave me a disapproving
look as we left the house, focusing on the short, glittery, backless red dress I
wore with only a thin chain dangling across it.
One of the other New York captains, Romeo, greeted us. I recognized
him as Veronica’s husband. He gave me a subtle wink out of Claudio’s
sight, which I ignored. When I peered up again, my eyes locked onto steely
gray ones.
My head barely came up to Rocco’s broad chest. His mouth was set in a
hard line, and his gaze ran down my body before his lip curled with
displeasure.
“Tanti Auguri.” Romeo clapped Rocco on the back before giving me
another wink and walking off.
The room clapped to the “Tarantella,” and I made a break for the
restroom. When I returned, they were singing “Tanti Auguri A Te.”
Angelina, dressed in a sparkly pink dress, stood benevolently beside Rocco
as he blew out the candles.
“Cent’anni!” the room echoed as a hundred different glasses clinked in
approval.
“Ah, the infamous Sophia Zanetti. I’ve heard stories about you,” a voice
said from behind me.
My heart plummeted several feet.
“I had a brother around your age. Do you know what happened to him?”
“What?” I asked, meeting the man’s ominous stare.
“Your brother took him from me.” There was a flash of silver as he
pulled out a gun and a menacing smile appeared on his face.
My heartbeat raced as I froze to the spot.

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Before I could react, a gun was pointed at my chest as a collective hush fell
over the room, followed by the sound of metal as a hundred other guns were
pulled.
“Drop the weapon, Luca. We had an agreement cousin.” Rocco’s voice
was filled with venom.
“I changed my mind,” the man replied, his eyes widening madly.
Before I could even open my mouth to scream, a gunshot echoed, and
then silence.
The man beside me dropped to the floor, his eyes wide with shock as
blood pooled. All eyes were on me for a second until Rocco made a motion
and the music restarted.
Conversations resumed all around me as everybody went back to the
party. Two men came to collect the dead man’s body, and within seconds a
cleaning team had appeared with supplies and a mop.
Witnessing a murder was just part of a normal day in the Cosa Nostra. I
knew there would be no imminent arrival of the law, and if they did arrive,
it would be the same motto Papá had drilled into my head since the age of
six: “I did not see or hear anything, Officer.”
I made a beeline for the fire exit, my knees weak. Cold air whipped at
me as I pulled the heavy door open and sat on one of the steps below the
door. I closed my eyes, trying to control my breathing. The gunshot
reverberated in my head, and I jumped as I heard another loud bang, but it
was only the door behind me slamming.
“I’m fine,” I said stiffly, not wanting the company.
 “I just came out for a smoke—I didn’t come to see you.” Rocco’s
gravelly voice poured through my ears as he sat beside me.
“How gallant of you,” I muttered, and his mouth pulled upward into a
smirk.
“I’m a gentleman,” he drawled.
Not by a long shot.
“Not much of a birthday,” I muttered.
“I’m not much of a birthday guy.” He smirked, lighting a cigarette.
“So, you killed your own cousin for me?” I asked slowly after a
moment.
A strange feeling was starting to engulf me, and I couldn’t escape it.
He stared at me for a second before running a hand through his dark
hair, “I couldn’t let Luca kill you. Revenge under the wrong circumstances
is bad for business.”
“You weren’t being sentimental then?” I joked.
He rolled the cigarette in between his fingers, “sentimentality will get
you clipped.”
“Even on your birthday.”
“Even on your birthday,” he repeated.
His eyes gazed down at my body slowly, a flicker of irritation lighting
up his face.
“What?” I asked.
“How many of them have you got hanging on a string?”
“Them?” I asked confused.
“All these cazzones who are obsessed with you, and the one you were
shacked up with. I guess that one must have meant something to you.”
“Maybe he still does. What is it to you?” The realization that he saw me
as a slut flooded through me like arctic water.
“Who was he?” The cigarette butt lit brightly.
“Personal,” I said sharply. “Were you behind Pietro getting exiled?”
He stared at me, unmoved.
“Why?” The words came out as a mere whisper.
“You know why.” His eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Because he did something bad?”
“We’re all bad men, Cherry. Didn’t you get the memo? If Pietro would
have even so much as laid a finger on you, I would have cut off his hands
and FedExed them to you.”
 I swallowed hard feeling the heat of his gaze.
Tension radiated between us as if we were two magnets being drawn to
each other. I could feel myself teetering on the edge, willing myself not to
get caught in the storm but there was a part of me that wanted to run
headfirst into it.
“Cherry?”
“I told you not to call me that,” I breathed.
He blew out a cloud of smoke. “Stay away from José. I don’t like him
either.”
“What makes you think I care what you like?”
He stared at me for a moment, a twitch of annoyance fanning his face.
“I guess I don’t like the thought of anyone having access to you. Maybe I’m
just a greedy motherfucker,” he said, leaning into me slowly.
I looked down to avoid his gaze, but he tilted my chin up, and my eyes
met his.
I could almost taste him.
Whiskey, nicotine, and recklessness.
The worst kind.
His lips brushed mine slowly and he ran his hands roughly through my
hair, tightening his grip. “Throw this fucking dress in the trash. I don’t like
it.”
Suddenly, the door slammed, and we sprang apart. When I glanced
behind me, Mia had appeared, and she gave us a smug look.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Rocco said sharply before she opened her
mouth.
She nodded and walked back in as he stood up and smoothed out his
suit.
His phone lit up in his pocket, and he checked it briefly before putting it
back.
“More topless pictures?” I teased.
“Green doesn’t suit you, baby,” he snickered.
“I’m not jealous. I know how things work. Made Men always have a
side piece.”
“You don’t know the first thing about me. Remind me, what are you
going to do with that dress?”
“Get in every color?” I smiled.
 He laughed throatily, the sound igniting a fire somewhere in my chest.
A dangerous glint appeared in his eye before he pulled me closer to him.
“Rocco . . .” I warned, but he squeezed me tighter.
“Get inside. I’m not leaving you out here to be shot by some other
cazzone I’m related to.”

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Sophia walked out ahead of me when we entered the party, and every time
she moved the dress slid up a fraction. Only the thin chain across her bare
back kept it together.
I never wanted to see that dress again unless it was being ripped off by
me.
I still couldn’t figure Sophia out and that pissed me off. From the age of
fourteen I could pretty much figure out what a girl was thinking. It wasn’t
hard—even before I was Made with the adage of wealth and power, I still
had a raw pull of charisma that rarely denied me what I wanted—until now.
I ignored Mia’s smug face as she caught my eye from the dance floor.
She was dancing a little too close to Romeo Gattuso.
As for the stronzo that was winking at Sophia like he had fucking
glaucoma, I’d deal with him later, Maybe he wouldn’t be so flirtatious with
just the one eye.
Gianni beckoned me over to the other side of the room and Rafael stood
beside us. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Angelina at the top table
in deep conversation with Lorenzo. If she’d thought I was dangerous
before, this skirmish hadn’t reassured her.
“I can see why you don’t like family gatherings.” Gianni smirked.
“There’s always one jerk-off who spoils it for the rest. Make sure his
wife and kid are taken care of,” I instructed Rafael.
Jerk-off or not, I always took care of my own.
Angelina gave me a small smile as I sat beside her at the table. She
looked less haughty than she did at the engagement party.
“One of your kidnappers?”
 I raised an eyebrow. “Worse—a family member.”
“Do you regularly kill people you’re related to?”
I rubbed a thumb across my jaw thoughtfully. “Only if they piss me
off.”
“Often then?” She let out a low giggle and her head rolled back. I
looked at her, amused. I wasn’t sure if I preferred her sober or drunk.
Her Mamma gave her a stiff look from the dance floor.
“I’ve found you somewhere in the city, not Brooklyn-adjacent,” I said in
a clipped tone.
“Papá spoke to you then,” she said smugly.
Vincenzo had told me his daughter had suddenly developed an irrational
fear of being kidnapped and asked if I would consider finding her
somewhere a little more secure. I thought of the upside: I wouldn’t have to
live with her. She could stay in the city and I’d drop round a couple of times
a week.
“I’ll be in touch.”
She shrugged and gave me a weathered look, and we sat in silence for
the rest of the night.
I might like her after all, especially with her mouth firmly shut.

I’d walked in ahead of Rocco, feeling his eyes burning into my bare back.
The party had barely been disrupted by me almost getting shot. It was as if
it had never happened. The music had even gotten louder. Zia had
positioned herself at the bar overlooking the dance floor and was doing the
occasional shimmy.
“Your mamma was looking for you,” Zia said quietly. Her bejeweled
glasses fell on the crook of her nose.
“I was getting some air. I felt faint,” I said truthfully.
“I didn’t know that young De Luca man was a doctor.” She raised her
eyebrow.
I felt my cheeks flush deeply. “Zia . . .” I opened my mouth for a
plethora of excuses, but she held out her hand to stop me.
 “Nothing happened,” I muttered, feeling like a child caught with their
hand in the cookie jar.
“Is that so?” Zia mused, lighting a cigarette.
“He’s marrying Angelina,” I muttered.
She snorted before giving the top table a withering look.

“Rocco, the others are here.” Nina, my assistant, poked her blonde head
through the office doorway.
“Boss.” I raised my eyebrow at her.
“You weren’t so formal when you were fucking me on that desk.”
“Nina,” I said impatiently.
Nina sashayed into my office as if she were walking the Victoria’s
Secret runway. “Boss,” she trilled, sitting on the edge of my desk and lifting
her skirt a fraction to reveal her taut thighs.
“Nina, you are on the verge of pissing me off.” I snapped.
“Do something about it then.” She leaned in to kiss me, but I moved so
she’d latch onto my neck instead, her tongue tracing the juncture between
my throat and jaw.
For a split second I considered fucking her, but it felt unsatisfactory.
The blonde willing to get on her knees and beg for my cock wasn’t who I
wanted submitting to me.
“Stop.” I pulled her hands off my belt.
She gave me a scathing look before reluctantly lowering her gaze.
I walked out of the office, slamming the door.
“Giovanni,” I deadpanned as I walked into the basement office, which
was filled with the other heads of New York City.
“Rocco.” Giovanni nodded in acknowledgement.
“The Irish have agreed to a sit-down, no doubt fueled by their fear of
the Russians taking over Chicago.” I lit a cigarette, watching for their
reactions closely.
“What makes you think the Russians are taking over?” Giovanni raised
his eyebrow.
 “I don’t reveal my sources, but my intel suggests the Russians are
stocking up on ammo. AK-47s seem to be their weapon of choice.”
“Then we need to let the Irish take care of them. It’s not our problem or
city,” Vincenzo said, annoyed.
“They will consider it but first they want a guarantee of their safety
before we meet, which I have agreed.”
Giovanni glared at me, clearly unhappy with my response, but didn’t
challenge it.
“Rocco is right.” A voice came from the back of the room.
“Stefan.” I nodded at the dark-haired man as he approached the table.
Stefan Pirlo, one of Vincenzo’s captains, gave me a cool look of
acknowledgment as he entered. He was dressed in all-black with matching
beetle eyes that were a little too close together for me to take this cazzone
seriously.
“Stefan is my top earner, much better stock than that degenerate Pietro.”
Vincenzo clapped him on the back.
“What of your daughter now, Giovanni?”
Stefan’s saccharine gaze settled on Giovanni.

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Giovanni remained silent as Vincenzo’s greedy eyes lit up. Vincenzo was
Stefan’s godfather, and I was sure he’d get a cut of the contract if it went
through.
“I would like to put my name in for consideration for your daughter’s
hand.” He smiled.
“This is a business meeting, not a fucking raffle,” I snapped.
“Of course, Stefan knows there are protocols,” Vincenzo interjected.
“I’m very interested.” Stefan smiled earnestly.
The comment was innocent enough, but the way he said it made me
want to cap his knees.
“Whether or not you’re interested isn’t the point,” Giovanni retorted.
“She’s a pretty girl and I would take good care of her.” Stefan’s smile
widened lecherously.
Take good care of her. He meant fuck her.
Giovanni rolled his eyes. He was used to men making fools of
themselves about his precious principessa.
“What did you say?” I turned to meet Stefan’s half-lidded gaze.
“It’s a compliment.” He smiled benevolently.
I punched him in the jaw, almost taking his head off. Every part of me
was seeing red as fury poured out of me.
“Fuck, I think you broke a tooth,” Stefan groaned. “Tell me one reason I
shouldn’t take your fucking head off.” He hissed as he struggled to stand
up.
I tried not to show emotion when something pissed me off. I usually
went away to walk it off until I could come to a less violent conclusion—
although most times that wasn’t the case. However, seeing Stefan’s smug
face seemed to tip me off the edge.
“What’s stopping you?” I held my hand up to Domenico and Rafael,
who were approaching from behind me and reaching for their guns.
“It was just a casual enquiry.” Stefan flushed and sat down.
“Now that we’ve straightened that out, can we get on with this fucking
meeting?”
The tension eased as the meeting went on, but when everybody left,
Giovanni stayed behind.
“What do you think you are doing, Rocco?” Giovanni stared coldly.
“Protecting your daughter—something you clearly weren’t intent on
doing,” I fired back.
“Sophia isn’t yours to worry about,” Giovanni said slickly before
leaving.

Mia sang “Mustang Sally” horribly out of tune while leaning on my

workstation, to my chagrin.
“I will set fire to this fucking car if it means you’ll stop singing that
song,” I said angrily, rolling out from under the engine.
“If you’re going to drive this piece of junk, you might as well give me
the Ferrari.” Mia sounded hopeful.
“It’s not an old thing—this is a 1969 Mustang, pure American muscle.”
I smiled, patting the hood.
“It looks like it’s on its last legs if you ask me.” Mia chuckled.
“Nobody did, and nobody invited you around here either,” I said
sarcastically.
“Did you enjoy your party?”
“I told you I didn’t want one.”
“How come you’re working on your car?” Mia hummed thoughtfully.
“What?”
“You haven’t touched this thing in years, and suddenly you’re taking it
apart like you’re Domenico Torretto.”
 “What do you want Mia?” I snapped.
“Touchy, wouldn’t have anything to do with your party? Rocco De Luca
almost kissing a woman . . . imagine that.” Mia said slyly.
“How long have you been waiting to say that?” I picked up a wrench.
“A while. She’s gotten to you. Sophia Zanetti can have any man she
wants, which drives you crazy because you can’t have her,” Mia announced
smugly.
I didn’t want to think about the fact she was right.

Heady smoke from the subway station across the way pinched my nose,
along with the pungent aroma of a nearby hot dog stand. A white BMW
rolled up on the curb and the driver got out to the side, opening the back
passenger door to reveal Angelina. She smiled as she exited the car. Her
hair was pulled up into a high bun and she was dressed in a pink maxi dress
and white stilettos.
“Angelina,” I said politely, masking my annoyance.
“I’m a little late, but you’ll learn to get used to it,” she giggled.
No, I will fucking not.
“Where is your bodyguard?” I asked, frowning at the lack of presence
that normally surrounded her.
“He’s busy.” She frowned.
“That’s a shame,” I sighed.
We walked into the huge building, only a trickle of apathetic
conversation between us—questions neither of us cared to know the answer
to.
“What do you think?” I asked, swiping the card and opening the doors.
The penthouse was located on the top floor of a West Chelsea apartment
complex overlooking the Hudson River. A large swimming pool sparkled
under the Manhattan sun on the balcony. The interior was decorated with
white marble flooring and high chandeliers.
“A little more appealing than Brooklyn?” I said dryly.
“Are my chances of kidnap a little less likely here?” she retorted.
 “Depends on who you piss off,” I deadpanned.
She walked around for a few minutes, seemingly mollified by what she
found.
“Your mamma said she’ll send your clothes over. You can decorate it
how you want,” I said when she returned.
“You’re not going to be living with me?” Angelina frowned.
“Not all the time. I’m a very busy man.”
“Why do I have a feeling you’re not going to be here all that often?”
Jesus, she was perceptive.
She moved closer to me, wrapping her arms around me before she
leaned up and kissed me. I could taste the sticky strawberry of her lip gloss.
She looked dazed.
“What are you doing, Angelina?” I pulled her arms down.
“I just wanted to see . . .” She faltered.
“Wanted to see what?” I raised an eyebrow at her.
“A kiss can tell you everything,” she said.
“Such as . . .?” I deadpanned.
She didn’t answer.
“Angelina,” I said impatiently.
“Do you think we can make each other happy?”
I held her gaze but didn’t say a word, and she gave me a sad smile
before walking out.

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As the wedding hovered closer, discontentment settled over me like a
heavy cloud on a sunny day. I was going to have to swallow all of it
whether I liked Angelina or not. As much as I’d debated the marriage
contract, it was all irrelevant now, because soon enough she would have my
name.
I hadn’t expected her to kiss me so unexpectedly, and judging by her
reaction, neither had she. Her question reverberated in my head, and still I
didn’t have an answer to it.
Our conversations were clunky with stilted silences, but maybe that was
a good thing. My father had told me there were women you fucked and
women you married. Despite most of the advice he’d given under the
influence, what he’d said was right. Angelina would be my wife and the
mother of my kids. It was a business transaction.
I didn’t want to break another man’s jaw if they so much as said her
name.
I hadn’t even thought about fucking her.
Everything was cut-and-dried as it should be.
Sophia, however, was a red, flashing danger sign. Nobody understood
my true reasons for nearly taking Stefan’s head off, apart from maybe
Giovanni. The thought that other men wanted her, that she’d already had a
boyfriend—or boyfriends—ate me up, and that wasn’t healthy. A woman
like her would be a death sentence, and I already had enough enemies
without killing anyone who’d ever fucked her or wanted to.
I lived by the wisdom that every problem had a solution, but Sophia
Zanetti was the one problem I couldn’t find an answer to. In fact, Sophia
only seemed to inspire a hundred million different questions that flared up
in my head.

“This will be coming off soon,” Angelina’s cousin, Benedetta, giggled,

pinning a red learner driver’s plate on Angelina’s chest.
Angelina gave me a sideways glance. She was no more of a virgin than
I was. I’d tried to speak to her about Lorenzo, but she’d shaken her head
vehemently and only made me promise to keep her secret.
I was hardly a role model for the perfect daughter.
Despite doing everything I could to get out of Angelina’s bachelorette
party, I’d been practically marshalled by Mamma into attending. Angelina’s
sister and a few of her girl cousins had clustered in the Rossi’s
summerhouse in Cape Cod. Benedetta played with her phone, connecting
the speakers, and Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” blasted through them, eliciting
screams from the other women. Gigi rolled her eyes in embarrassment,
choosing to return to the book she was reading.
“Gianelle, put that goddamn book down!” her mamma barked.
“Leave her alone, Mamma,” Angelina said, irritated.
“She needs to be present in the moment.” She fixed Angelina’s bride-to-
be sash into place.
“I’m in the moment, Mamma. Are you sober?” Gigi huffed under her
breath.
“This song takes me back. ’89 and I was marrying your father . . .
Didn’t even know what he looked like until I saw him at the church.” She
waved her glass in the air.
“That doesn’t sound very romantic,” Angelina muttered.
“Romance is for books Angie. I’m sure Rocco is a little more proficient
in that department than your papá was,” she teased.
“Well, he isn’t saving himself for Angelina, that’s for sure,” Benedetta’s
sister, Annalise, snickered nastily.
“It’s good for a man to get all that energy out of him before he settles
down.” Angelina’s mamma brushed them off.
 “Probably after too,” Benedetta uttered in a low voice, and Annalise
giggled.
“Shut it,” Gigi growled.
Benedetta frowned, affronted. “I’m going to change the music.
Annalise, come with me.” She motioned to her sister, and they disappeared
into the corner gossiping.
“Crazy in Love” started playing, and the rest of the party emulated the
Beyoncé booty-shaking dance in the lounge.
“Mamma, I think you’ve had enough.” Gigi exhaled deeply, wrestling
the wine bottle from her grip.
“I need some air,” Angelina muttered, leaving the table.
“Angelina?” I got up and followed her.
“I just want to be alone.” She looked down at me from the stairs, thick
tears in her eyes, before her bedroom door slammed shut.

I poured cereal into the bowl alongside a quart of milk as I flicked through
the TV channels. I could hear faint giggling and laughter from outside,
Selita and Gennaro talking—well, flirting. I gave him a smug look as he
walked back into the house.
“Genny, you’re so funny!” I mimicked Selita’s voice.
“You missed the part where she called me cute.” He smirked.
“What are you doing this morning?” I asked innocently.
“Nothing. Why?”
“Maybe you could let me drive around the block . . .” I smiled.
Papá would never let me get my driving license or a car, but I still
wanted to learn how to drive.
“No way.” Gennaro tutted.
“It would be a shame if Selita found out you’re also screwing Irina.” I
sighed heavily.
“You wouldn’t. You’re no snitch.” He smirked.
I paused. He had me there.
 “I’ll do it on one condition.” A glint appeared in his eye. He walked
back into the kitchen with a bucket and a sponge. “Wash baby, and I’ll let
you drive her once.”
I put my hand on my hip. “Take it to a car wash.”
“It’s not an it; it’s a she. She likes to be handwashed,” he said, affronted.
“It’s a car, Gennaro, not your firstborn.” I rolled my eyes.
“Guess you don’t want to drive her then.”
I gave him a dark look before taking the bucket and sponge.

Gennaro drove the Porsche onto the driveway and got out of the car slowly.
“You want to kiss her goodbye?” I said dryly.
I’d changed into denim shorts and a white tank top while Gennaro
decided if I was worthy of washing his precious car.
He handed me the hose before taking a deep breath. “Soft motions
anticlockwise. Don’t scratch the paintwork, and don’t forget to wax her
either.” He gave me a swift wink before he and Selita disappeared upstairs.
I doubted it was for spring cleaning.
I flicked through my phone to find an appropriate song before
connecting it to the speaker. Jessica Simpson’s “These Boots Are Made for
Walkin’” played loudly as I began to wash the car, albeit without the red
bikini.
“Is that so?” Rocco’s voice drawled over the music.
I turned around slowly. I doubted Rocco De Luca would let anyone
walk over him, whether or not they were wearing boots. He stood there in
black pants and a white V-neck T-shirt, the sunlight reflecting off him as his
eyes twinkled to an almost blue shade. An involuntary shiver rolled through
me as I looked at his tanned, muscular arms, one a deep bronze and the
other covered in dark ink. His gaze swept over me coldly before the man
next to him spoke. I turned off the hose at the faucet, watching the two men
stare.
“Shoulda brought my car,” the other man laughed softly. His voice had
a hypnotizingly low and deep timbre.
 I blinked slowly, trying to drink in his appearance. He was handsome—
the type that made me want to look twice to take in every detail. His face
was angular and sharp as if he’d been carved out of stone from Mount
Olympus. A horizontal scar ran across his neck, accompanied by a dice
tattoo underneath it. Instead of blighting his looks—it gave him a rugged
edge that stopped him from being too clean cut. He wore all-black to match
his dark eyes.
“Anytime.” I gave him a shy nod.
“Service with a smile.” He flashed his pearly-whites at me.
His eyes flickered to Rocco momentarily and Rocco returned his gaze
stoically. I wondered how well they knew each other.
“You have to pay extra for anything else,” I teased.
Merda.
It was something that had sounded cool in my head but made me sound
like an escort. My cheeks heated at his words, and I felt Rocco’s cold stare
penetrating through the hot sunlight.
Gennaro came out from the house looking a little disheveled and gave
Rocco and his friend a nod of acknowledgment.
“Your pants are undone,” I muttered as Papá’s car entered through the
gates.
Gennaro gave me a look of embarrassment coupled with smugness
before discreetly doing up his pants.
Papá exited the car with Mario and gave Gennaro a scathing look.
“What did I tell you about letting your sister drive?”
“He wasn’t. I helped him wash his car.”
Papá frowned as if trying to catch my lie before seemingly deciding it
wasn’t important enough to pursue. “Tysen, this is my daughter, Sophia,” he
said before walking into the house.
Tysen took my hand, giving me a bone-crushing handshake. His palms
were rough like he’d been involved in a dozen fistfights.
“Nice to meet you,” I said politely, trying to rescind my earlier faux pas.
“The pleasure is all mine.” He smiled.
I flushed even harder, sure he could tell from the dark spark of pleasure
that lit up his brown eyes.
“Enough talking—let’s start,” Papá said impatiently from inside the
house.
Gennaro walked inside while Tysen held back a few feet away.
 Rocco gave me a cold look that almost froze me to the spot.
“What?” I frowned.
“You know what,” he hissed.
“I don’t, actually,” I said coolly.
He walked toward me before flicking the hose on. “Stop being such a
fucking tease,” he said icily as the cold water blasted me.

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Tysen flew in from Las Vegas to finalize the details of the Las Vegas
shipments, his booming voice merely a pinprick in my ear as we
approached Giovanni’s pristine driveway. I stopped short when Sophia
came into view in ripped denim shorts and a tight tank top.
Soaking wet.
Dancing around the car, shaking her ass.
Even the way she fucking wrung the sponge caused my cock to twitch.
The Las Vegas shipments were now the last goddamn thing on my
mind. Watching Sophia dripping with moisture and arching her back
seemed to have ingrained the image into every inch of my head. I had a
proclivity for reading body language. It was easier to preempt being shot
when you could tell what the asshole was about to do next. On this
occasion, I anticipated the way Tysen tensed with interest when he saw
Sophia.
Tysen and I went way back. He’d had some problems with Chechens in
Las Vegas that I’d been able to quash for him, and we’d been tight since
then. Unfortunately, the drawback was that he knew me a little better than I
wanted him to.
He watched my interaction with Sophia wordlessly, an obnoxious smile
lighting up his eyes, making me want to strangle him with the fucking hose.
My hands trembled as I turned off the hose and a chill vibrated through my
body. It wasn’t just the icy water dousing me; it was the words he’d pushed
through me like bullets scraping skin. I squeezed out the water from my
hair and tank top before I finished washing the car.
A deal was a deal.
“I could barely hear myself think,” Mamma chastised dramatically,
switching the music off.
I hadn’t even heard her approach.
“What a shame that would be,” I muttered under my breath.
“Less of the attitude, Sophia.” She sniffed. “I don’t know what those
men with your papá must’ve thought, watching you parade yourself half-
naked, dancing around like a—”
“Like a what, Mamma? Like a slut?” I raised my eyebrow.
Her cheeks flushed deeply, but she didn’t correct me. “You could have
been married to Reece, a respectable man. You could have had it all,” she
said pointedly.
“Maybe you and I have different perspectives of what ‘having it all’ is,”
I said sharply.
“Dio mio! Three boys are not as hard work as one girl.” She threw her
hands up in annoyance before storming off.

When I walked into the house, Tysen was sitting outside on the terracotta
deck with Giovanni. He gave me a knowing look before pretending to look
immersed in whatever he was saying.
“What do you think, Rocco?” Giovanni said, leaning back in the wicker
chair.
“Javier is happy to go through Las Vegas.”
“When I last spoke to him, he said you blew up like a petulant child.”
Giovanni lit up a cigar, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I would hate to think you’re spying on me, Giovanni,” I said coldly.
 “It came up in conversation. It’s not a secret that you’re hotheaded.” He
smiled condescendingly.
“I don’t need you to advise me on how to talk to people, Giovanni, but
to alleviate any issues, I’ll increase Javier’s percentage.”
“Good.”
“From your side, of course, as you’re so interested in his pockets.”
He gave me an ice-cold look before leaving the table to answer his
phone.
“Franco was right—you’re all worked up over this girl.” Tysen
chuckled throatily, giving me a victorious look that made me want to punch
him.
“I didn’t realize Franco had so much time to gossip,” I said through
gritted teeth.
“It came up when he picked me up from the airport. Did you also forget
to mention you were engaged?” Tysen took a deep drag of his cigarette,
looking mildly amused.
“It’s a long story.”
“Shorten it.”
“Vincenzo’s daughter. That is who the contract is for.”
“Does she look like that?” He pointed his thumb in the direction of
Sophia in the driveway.
“Say one more word about her and it will be your last fucking one,” I
said sharply.
He gave me a piercing look, and for a second the vein in his neck
twitched angrily under his scarred skin, the scar a reminder of the Chechen
Bratva boss trying to kill him for sleeping with his wife. Tysen was a
gambling man, and I could see he was calculating the odds of the fight we
were about to have in his head, figuring out if it was worth it before
seemingly deciding it wasn’t.
He sat back, mollified. “Most women don’t like being sprayed with a
hose. Just giving you a little advice,” he rolled his eyes.
“I knew you were listening to my conversation, besides what you know
about women could fill a fucking stamp,” I snapped.
“I’m sure she’ll forgive you for calling her a slut. I overheard that part
too,” he snickered.
“I didn’t,” I said, annoyed.
“You might as well have,” he hummed irritatingly.
 “I never said anything that wasn’t true,” I grunted.
Sophia caught my eye as she walked into the house before giving me a
cold stare and heading for the spiral staircase.
“Maybe not.” He smirked.

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Tysen left that very night, but not before he and Franco made a wager on
how long it would take me to back out of the wedding. The joke was on
them as the wedding was only a night away and I still hadn’t acted on the
impulse to offer every financial resource I had to Vincenzo to get out of it.
War I could deal with. I would take them all on with no fucking
hesitation. But war for a woman I wasn’t sure even liked me back would be
more painful than being shot a fifth time.
I straightened my cufflinks, looking straight ahead at the long table. The
banquet hall was decorated in cream and rose pink. I’d told Carmela to dial
down the sparkly silver shit. At least I could look at this without wanting to
claw my eyes out.
Carmela had insisted on a wedding rehearsal to make sure everything
went to plan. I heard a low cough and looked up at Angelina, whose face
had gone pink.
“What?” I mouthed.
She shook her head and stood up suddenly.
What the fuck is this about?
“Thank you all for coming.” Angelina’s voice shook.
“Angelina, sit down,” her mother, Carmela, hissed, embarrassed, from
her other side.
“Although, I regret to inform you that this has been a waste of time. I
can’t marry you because I have taken my vows with another man.”
Angelina mouthed, “I’m so sorry,” at me before getting up and leaving the
table.
 I paused as though I had been winded, I didn’t know what emotion I felt
more—relief or anger. The whole room turned deadly silent in a state of
shock. Angelina’s mamma and sister ran after her while Vincenzo
whispered into the ear of his underboss, Marco, seemingly irate, before
disappearing off after his wife. My eyes swiveled to Sophia, who, unlike
her wide-eyed mamma, didn’t look surprised at all.
She knew.
The feeling twisted inside of me like a rope tightening.
Vincenzo’s underboss stood firm as his men started ushering people out
of their seats.
Sure, we’d had fistfights, shootings, and violence breaking out at
weddings before, but nothing like this had happened.
Ever.
Half an hour later, all the guests had been shooed out. I was in the
library with Vincenzo trying to get a straight answer as to what the fuck
happened. I sat on the wooden desk looking out the window. The scent of
old books hung in the air as I tried to piece it all together. The blue sky that
had been present this morning had now turned a dark gray. Vincenzo
scowled, pacing up and down the room, occasionally muttering under his
breath.
I didn’t want to marry Angelina, but the fact another man had dared to
marry my fiancée hadn’t exactly put me in a sympathetic state of mind.
“Who is she married to, Vincenzo?” I narrowed my eyes.
“She isn’t married to anybody,” he snapped.
“You really expect me to believe that?”
He faltered.
Carmela walked in looking just as pale as her husband and beckoned
him outside.
Thunder rumbled ominously as rain began to spit before falling down
thick and hard. I could see the guests outside moving quickly to their
chauffeured cars as the air crackled. I heard the door slam, but it wasn’t
Vincenzo; it was Franco.
“It’s true. She got married yesterday in Connecticut with two randoms
as her witnesses.”
I ran a thumb across my lip thoughtfully. “Who did she marry?”
“Lorenzo Michael Fontana Jr.”
“Lorenzo?”
 Franco nodded. “Yep, the bodyguard. He’ll need his own fucking
bodyguard soon—or an undertaker,” Franco cursed.
“Did Vincenzo know?”
“No, I don’t think he’s acting,” Franco said as Vincenzo walked back in
looking bewildered.
“Angelina isn’t in a fit state to talk. I think she needs some time at home
before we reschedule a wedding date.” Vincenzo frowned deeply.
“Reschedule?” I glared at him. Did he really think I was fucking stupid
enough to go through with this after being embarrassed in front of the
whole city? That he could delay me and quietly annul her marriage and not
mention a fucking thing to me about it.
“Don’t fuck with me, Vincenzo. I’m not some fucking stronzo you can
walk all over. I know about Lorenzo.”
Vincenzo sighed deeply before making a cross on his chest. Giovanni
walked in looking more irritated than usual.
“What about Angelina’s sister, Gianelle? She’ll be eighteen next year.”
Vincenzo bartered desperately.
“It’s not happening.” I said firmly to Vincenzo.
“Tell us what you’re offering to make this right,” Franco interjected
sternly.
“What do you want, Rocco?” Giovanni said icily.
I knew exactly what he expected me to say. His mouth had even pursed
in an “n” shape to shoot me down.
“For starters, that piece of territory in Little Italy—the one you said you
would give to me over your dead body, Giovanni.” I smiled.
“Done,” Giovanni said through gritted teeth, giving Vincenzo an
annoyed look.
“I haven’t thought about what else you have that I want, but I will.” I
gave him an icy smile before leaving the room.

I sat in my beautiful silk gown on an equally beautifully decorated table

willing myself to be happy for Angelina and Rocco. I’d never seriously
considered leaking Angelina’s secret.
Turned out I didn’t need to because Angelina outed herself.
My stomach plummeted to the very depths of the mansion’s foundations
as she made her speech.
Rocco’s eye caught mine the precise moment Angelina left the table,
and his glare radiated through me.
Could he tell?

It had been two weeks since the wedding rehearsal. Papá had been in an
abysmal mood since that day, his face permanently pulled into a scowl.
Mamma, on the other hand, had been chipper. Maybe in her eyes Angelina’s
slip had canceled out my own. Although she didn’t voice her pleasure to
“poor Carmela,” as she now referred to her.
She put a boiling plate of pasta in front of me and sighed. “You girls
don’t appreciate all of this. Selita and Irina would probably kill to be in
your position.”
I didn’t mention to her that Selita’s current position was on her knees in
Gennaro’s room. My lips pressed together as if I were swallowing another
secret whole under her watchful gaze.

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I walked out of the mansion feeling like a stack of bricks had been lifted off
my chest. Franco walked beside me looking equally pleased.
“What?” I asked him roughly.
“Tysen owes me forty grand. I betted you’d back out before the actual
wedding,” he said gleefully.
“I didn’t back out,” I said, annoyed.
“Technically you did. Vincenzo would have annulled her wedding to
Lorenzo if you really wanted to go through with it,” he chuckled.
“Fuck you, Franco.”
“Tell Tysen I like my money in crisp fifties.” He lit a cigarette,
unlocking the car doors with the key fob.
“You like your money in one-dollar bills for all the strippers you fuck,
cazzone,” I sneered.
“The way I look at it, they should be paying me.”
I snorted. “You might wanna restock on the Regaine—it clearly ain’t
working.”
His hand flew to his dark hair before he gave me a scowl.
I sat in the passenger seat, feeling relief settle through me as we drove
off.
“What did you want to do about the bodyguard?” Franco shouted over
the radio as we headed towards the freeway.
“Where is he?”
“On the run for now. It won’t be that hard to find him. What should we
do to him?”
“No long-term damage. Vincenzo can deal with that.”
 “You sure?” Franco frowned.
“Yep. Not my fucking problem.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re holding back on what your next move
is?”
“Because you know me too fucking well.”
I turned up the radio as I threw my wedding tie out the window.

Indistinct chatter filled the long table at one of Papá’s restaurants in the city.
Gold candelabras were placed alongside the table, illuminating the large
cream accented walls. My eyes flicked over to the seats on the right of Papá
that the Rossis would have normally filled. They were now noticeably
vacant.
Every time I asked about Angelina, Mamma gave me a tight-lipped look
before changing the conversation. Angelina’s phone was disconnected. I
hoped she was safe, although I had much less faith in Lorenzo’s survival.
“You bitch!”
A loud scream came from the center of the restaurant. I could distinctly
see Veronica pulling the hair of another woman—one with bubblegum-pink
hair—before slapping her hard across the face.
“Well, really?” Mamma harrumphed from beside me as Mia twisted
around and headbutted Veronica.
“Ronnie, stop!” an embarrassed man beside Mia hissed. When I looked
closer, I realized it was Veronica’s husband.
“You’re sleeping with this tramp and I’m in the wrong!” she screamed
hysterically before trying to punch him, but she missed.
He took her roughly by the arm and escorted her out, leaving Mia on the
floor looking disheveled.
“Excuse me,” I muttered, getting up and ignoring Mamma’s pleas.
There was definitely a shortage of gentlemen in the room. Conversation
carried on as if two grown women hadn’t just fought over a man and one of
them wasn’t still on the floor.
“Mia,” I said tentatively.
 “Hey, Sophia,” she said nonchalantly from the floor.
“Do you need a hand?” I asked awkwardly.
“Nope, all good over here.” Her hand went to her lip, which was
bleeding.
“Okay then.” I turned to walk away.
“Wait! Thank you,” she said, giving me a sheepish nod before leaving.
“Sophia?” Papá’s voice boomed.
I turned around and he beckoned me over to the other side of the room,
where he stood next to another man.
“Luuk, this is my daughter, Sophia.”
“Hi,” I said awkwardly.
“Luuk is one of my European partners, very well-established,” Papá
said stoically.
Luuk gave Papá a small nod and turned to me, putting out his hand. His
were soft and cool. He towered over me, so I had to crane my neck to see
him. He had amber eyes, slicked-back hair, and heavy diamonds in each ear
that reflected the light heavily.
“Sophia. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” he murmured.
His cadence was pleasant, without smokiness or rough edges, and
perfectly leveled. It wasn’t the type of voice that rendered a shiver down my
spine; it was polite and clinical.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
“Luuk is spending a few weeks here before he goes back to Paris,” Papá
explained.
“Paris?” My eyes widened slightly.
A small smile appeared on Papá’s lips, but when I looked again it was
gone.
Papá walked off to speak to Mario, leaving us alone.
“Have you ever been?” Luuk asked softly.
I shook my head.
“Maybe I could tell you more next time I see you.”
“Next time?”
“I have some business with your papá, so I’ll be spending a little more
time in the city while we close on a deal.”
Papá gave me a slow nod behind Luuk’s back, and I knew the deal he
was talking about closing on was me. Another marriage contract. This little
meeting had been orchestrated down to the very fine detail of Paris.
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My phone vibrated on the nightstand. Through the slanted blinds I could
see the sky was an overcast dark gray. I’d always hated the in-between of
summer and autumn. One day you were dazzled with brilliant sunshine, and
the next was a shitshow of gray misery and rain.
An hour later I was dressed in a suit and dress shirt, my hair still damp
from the shower. I flicked on the large flat-screen TV and went through all
the channels, uninterested. Instead I watched the clock hands move from
1:00 to 1:30 p.m. feeling irritation flood me.
“Fabio, where the fuck are you?” I yelled down the phone.
“Outside. Got held up.” He tapped on the window.
“What did I tell you about being late?” I snapped, flinging the door
open.
“Relax. I brought something to shut you up.” He put several stuffed
manila envelopes on the kitchen table. “Giovanni hadn’t told his crew you’d
taken over collections for Little Italy, but I relayed the message in the end,”
he said, showing me his bloodied knuckles.
“Good to know you’re using your God-given talents.” I smirked.
“Also,”—he put down two cartons of food—“can’t visit Little Italy
without picking up veal parmigiana. I told them it was for the boss, so it’d
better taste good. I’m not dealing with hangry Rocco all fucking night.” He
smirked, tossing me a fork.
My phone flashed and Mia’s name came up. I rejected the call. I was
pissed off at the scene she’d made. It had been all over the fucking city that
she’d gotten socked by that asshole Romeo Gattuso’s wife. I’d sent Franco
to take care of Romeo. Clearly, he hadn’t learned from the last beating that
was doled out after my birthday party. Perhaps he needed a more lasting
reminder this time, and of course, it just had to be at Giovanni’s restaurant it
happened.
The aftershock of the wedding that never was had faded to a dull
vibration. The only good thing that came out of it was the coveted piece of
territory in Little Italy—and I knew I wanted that a lot more than I ever
wanted Angelina Rossi. I hadn’t spoken to Giovanni in weeks, and I knew
how much he’d hated giving me something he treasured. That wasn’t the
only thing of Giovanni’s I wanted, but my other request would take a little
more masterminding than taking a fucking territory he was already trying to
sabotage.
Taking Giovanni’s most coveted jewel would be difficult, but I rarely
backed down from a challenge.
Sophia ran through my mind so often I was sure she’d marked it as her
own territory. I thought out of sight would equal out of mind, but that
wasn’t the case. Confusion and annoyance rained down on me. She had me
whether I wanted to admit it or not, but I was nowhere even close to having
her.
It was dark and damp by the time we made the drive from Brooklyn to
Yonkers. Traffic was slow heading up to La Guardia, and most of the
journey was spent stuck at red lights.
“What is this song?” I frowned at the song playing.
“Nicky Jam, ‘X,’” Fabio replied.
My mind flicked back to the day I took Sophia to the Bronx and this
very song was playing in the car. “Since when do you know Spanish?”
“Wanted to impress some girl. You like the song?” Fabio’s lip curled.
“No, I just heard it somewhere.”
“Remind you of anyone?” He smiled obnoxiously.
“Your mother,” I said acidly.

My nostrils were greeted with the scent of stale sweat and beer as doped-up
women danced out of sync to synth club sounds, flashing lights beaming
over their heads.
“Gentlemen, you made it!” Carlo walked out of the back with two
topless women linked around his arms.
“Carlo.” I gave him a brief nod as one of the women laid her head on
his shoulder. “Get rid of them so we can get started,” I deadpanned, and he
seemed to immediately sense I wasn’t in the mood for fucking around.
“What do you think of the place? I wanted a nicer place than Yonkers.
In fact, I was expecting Manhattan, where Mancini’s old club was,” he said
sourly.
“I promised you a club in New York, nothing else. Don’t act like that
this can’t be taken away from you in one goddamn second.”
“If it were, I might be inclined to mention you sought me out to reveal
Pietro’s dirty secrets.”
Fabio sighed and pulled his gun out.
Carlo’s eyes widened. “Rocco, I wouldn’t do that. Let’s not be hasty.
We’re old friends after all,” he backtracked. His face was pale and sweaty
under the cheap lighting, but I didn’t know if that was down to Fabio
pulling his gun out or the cocaine residue on his nostrils.
“Threaten me again, and it will be the last thing you do,” I said icily.
“Of course not, Rocco,” Carlo said hastily.
“Where are we with the Irish? I hope you’re not trying to double-cross
me, Carlo.”
“Their boss is flying over from Ireland in the next couple of weeks.”
“Good.”
“Giovanni and Vincenzo are waiting for you in the back room.” He
bowed his head, and I walked past with Fabio.
“Before we start, Giovanni, do you want to tell me what the fuck was
going on with the Bronx collections today?” I thundered as I walked in.
“You never told me you wanted the territory straight away,” he replied
obstinately.
“When did you expect me to take it—next fucking year?” I snapped. “If
any of your men try to obstruct my collections, it won’t be the fucking Irish
you need to worry about,” I hissed.
Giovanni gave me a dark look. I would set fire to the world if he got in
my way.

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I didn’t break eye contact with Giovanni until he pulled his gaze away first.
Fabio relaxed and moved his hand from his waistband.
“You got what you wanted in the end, Rocco. No need for your
hotheaded theatrics,” he said mutinously.
“I always do,” I said, meeting his stare head-on.
“Let’s get down to business so we can get out of here,” Vincenzo
muttered, annoyed, and I could see the old Don looked gaunter than he did
when I last saw him.
“Family life keeping you busy, Vincenzo?”
I’d heard flickers of rumors about Angelina but wanted Vincenzo to
confirm them himself. I didn’t give a shit about the contract, but it wasn’t in
my nature to accept being wronged by any cazzone.
“Angelina’s in Florida for a while. She won’t be back in the city,” he
said slowly.
“What about the bodyguard?”
“Alive. He took the beating your men gave him without any complaint.”
“I’m surprised he’s still breathing, Vincenzo, after his fuckup. Your
compassion is unwavering.”
“Circumstances changed.”
“Meaning?”
“Angelina is pregnant,” he said in a strangled voice.
“Well, it isn’t mine.” I smirked.
“It would have been easier if it were.” He wrung his hands as if it were
his son-in-law’s neck. “She got married to spite me, so it would be almost
impossible to make her . . .” He waved his hands impatiently, the
implication clear.
“I’m sure they will be very happy,” I said acidly.
“Well, I am most fucking not,” he snapped.
“I want the Irish sit-down done quickly, Rocco. This is starting to drag
on,” Giovanni interjected impatiently.
“I can’t pistol-whip them into a sit-down, Giovanni. That is more your
style than mine.”
He gave me a satisfied smirk before lighting a cigar. “Luuk is in town. I
thought you should hear it from me before you get any ideas.” Billowing
white smoke left his mouth as his eyes burned into me.
I hadn’t forgotten about Luuk Virgil. This would be a perfect
opportunity to shoot that slick-mouthed cazzo, and Giovanni knew it.
“Why is he in town?”
“Just business,” Giovanni said cagily.
“What kind of business?” I asked again.
“A marriage contract.” His tone was cold.
A low rage spread through me like hot lava plumes. “Is that so?” I said
impassively.
“Yes, it is. If anything were to happen to him on this trip to New York I
would take it as a personal insult, Rocco,” he warned.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I said sharply.
He glared at me, and I knew with absolute certainty he would have shot
me if he could have. Hatred simmered between us like an out-of-control fire
doused with petrol.
I’d always disliked him, but now he was trying to marry Sophia off to
Luuk Virgil, that dislike had been propagated into something else.
Vehement hatred.
My father once told me in one of his rare sober states that I was an all-
or-nothing person, and that was probably one of the few times he’d been
correct about me. Once I wanted something, however out of my reach, I
would get it no matter what obstacle stood in my way, and this wasn’t any
different.
“I’ll be in touch when I have your cut from Las Vegas.”
“Good,” Giovanni grunted.
My hand hovered above my waistband as Fabio drove us back to
Brooklyn. The lights were on when we got back, and I could see a
silhouette moving through the house.
“Who the fuck is that?” Fabio narrowed his eyes.
“Unless it’s an early Christmas present, I don’t think they’re here on
friendly business.” I pulled out my gun and took it off safety.
As both of us exited the car, a pink-haired face appeared at the window
and gave me a wave.
“Mia,” I groaned, putting the gun away.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Fabio snorted, getting back in the car.
The mouthwatering smell of fresh cannelloni wafted through my senses
as I walked in the house. Mia was hovering over the oven, her pink hair in a
messy topknot.
At least I knew the oven worked.
“What did I tell you about entering my house without my express
permission?” I pulled a stool out from the marble countertop.
“It was supposed to be a nice surprise.” She smiled, wiping flour off her
face with the back of her wrist.
“We both know neither of us does anything unless something we want
comes from it. The famous De Luca trait,” I said, reaching for the soda she
took out of the fridge.
“You’re so cynical, Rocco,” she said, annoyed.
“Mia, what do you want?” I asked impatiently.
“Romeo is in a full-body cast. Did you have anything to do with that?”
she said sulkily.
“He won’t be coming anywhere near you in future, Mia, so you’d better
not go looking for him either.”
Her eyes lowered in defeat, and I took the cannelloni off the tray with
my bare hands, ignoring Mia’s tutting.
“You like Sophia, don’t you?” she announced to nobody in particular
with a smug smile on her face. She took out another tray from the oven—
gingerbread men—and started to add white icing to them. “You always did
like the chase.” She shook her head.
“Mia,” I said, annoyed, but she cut me off.
“After the thrill wears off, it hurts. There is nothing worse than loving
somebody who doesn’t love you back,” she said softly as a tear dropped
down her cheek.

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I looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was almost lunchtime.
Mamma had told me the night before that Luuk would be coming for
lunch before he flew back to Europe. Amsterdam, to be specific. He’d
shown me a few pictures on his shiny phone the last time he was at the
house. Papá had been strategically hosting parties and barbecues as a way to
make sure Luuk and I spent time together, like a puppeteer mastering all the
strings.
I didn’t dislike Luuk, but neither did I like him. Somewhere in the
middle was my acceptance of what was going to happen. When he talked
about the places he’d seen and where he’d lived it seemed like a vivid
adventure compared to my monotonous existence.
Papá had informed me the contract had been signed, and now, a few
days later, Luuk was presenting me with a Harry Winston box. A large
diamond solitaire ring beamed out.
“You like it?” he asked confidently as if “no” wouldn’t be part of my
answer.
I swallowed, and he took it as confirmation.
It was too large and too round, but I smiled anyway as he pushed the
ring down my finger before he kissed me.
A plummeting feeling engulfed me when I realized I didn’t feel a thing.
My eyes flicked open as I felt his tongue probing my mouth messily
before he pulled away and stroked my cheek, his diamond signet ring
scraping lightly across my face.
“You were worth it,” he chuckled. His amber eyes drank me in hungrily
as he pulled me close.
 “Worth it?” I frowned.
“Your papá almost cleaned out my bank account with what he wanted
for you. He said you were priceless,” he murmured.
He kissed me again, but this time I felt cold all over, as if I had a price
tag stuck to the top of my forehead. If I were so priceless, why was Papá so
intent on selling me to the highest bidder?
“Sophia?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“How do you feel about Barcelona for our honeymoon? Although you
won’t be leaving the room much.” His words vibrated against my chest as
his tongue traced my jawline.
The embers of excitement about living in Europe seemed to dampen as I
realized this man would have an invisible leash around me. I might be
leaving Papá’s autocracy, but I would be moving into another dictator’s—
one who expected sexual repayment for every cent I’d cost.

“That is your third piña colada.” Zia frowned at me from the deck chair at
the poolside.
I’d taken to drinking on the days Luuk visited. It made it more bearable.
I didn’t think he even noticed; he spent his visits here talking about himself
or speaking to my breasts. At the times I felt him going to kiss me I would
always call out Papá’s name, which would lead to him turning around
quickly as if the FBI had arrived, much to my amusement.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” I slurped loudly.
“Is he that bad?” She patted my arm, concerned.
I thought hard. Was he any worse than Pietro? I doubted it. Any man
that Papá was involved with wasn’t exactly going to be citizen of the year.
They all seemed to have a dark side.
Maybe I had one too.
“I don’t know yet,” I mumbled.
“Sophia, Luuk is here!” Mamma shouted from the kitchen.
“It’s going to be a long day,” I muttered, getting up from the deck chair.
The Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge was almost empty as I took the Staten
Island exit. Twenty minutes later I was at the gates of Giovanni’s fortress.
My eyes went to the familiar red McLaren 720S parked in the driveway.
That piece of shit Luuk was here.
I’d kept my side of the bargain by not laying a finger on that son of a
bitch, but it had crossed my mind.
Often.
“Buongiorno,” a husky voice called out to me as I walked into the
house.
It was the maid who had brought me the sugar-filled espresso a few
months ago. Gennaro stood next to her, annoyed I’d stolen the attention
away from him. She gave me a sultry smile before Livia pushed her way
through in between them.
“Rocco, what a surprise!” She smiled benignly.
“I’m here to see Giovanni.” I took my shades off and put them away in
my top pocket.
“He’s waiting for you outside. Selita, have you offered Signor Rocco a
drink?”
“Espresso would be fine, thanks.”
“Of course.” She gave me a wide smile.
Gennaro gave her an irritated look before sloping off.
“That will be all.” Livia dismissed her sharply, and the maid walked off
before giving me a small wink over her shoulder.
“Mi dispiace, Rocco. She’s a flirt. I have caught her trying to entice
Gennaro already.” Livia sniffed disdainfully.
Gennaro was definitely hitting that tight piece of ass despite the
saintlike image his mamma had of him.
I walked out onto the terracotta-tiled terrace, where Giovanni sat in my
line of view. My chest tightened when I saw Sophia in the pool a little
further on with Luuk next to her.
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I felt as if my insides had been doused with kerosene and flame. A large
fire was brewing—the type that could scorch this whole city if it burned
long enough.
“Rocco.” Giovanni smiled frostily at me.
“Giovanni.”
“Take a seat.” He indicated opposite him.
I imagined hitting Giovanni over the head with the briefcase in my
hand, but instead I placed it on the glass table despite my hands balling into
fists, knuckles white with tension.
He opened the briefcase, his eyes scanning the rows of money before he
closed it and gave me a swift nod.
Changing the shipments to go through Las Vegas had been more
profitable than I imagined.
“Did you ever doubt me?” I deadpanned.
He gave me a piercing stare as if he were about to say something cutting
but changed his mind. “I’m not going to argue with you today, Rocco.” He
shook his head as if I were an annoying fly.
My eyes settled on the pool in front of me. Unfortunately, I had the
perfect view of Luuk and Sophia in the pool. She was wearing a bathing
suit, which wasn’t much of a fucking suit. It had two huge cuts at the side of
her hips, showing off her small waist. Giovanni had his back to Luuk and
Sophia, so he couldn’t see Luuk’s hands moving down from her lower back
to her ass when he thought nobody was watching, or that she wriggled
uncomfortably when he pulled at the strap of her bathing suit. He dived
deep into the water, and I was disappointed when he came up for air.
 Maybe drowning would cool that cazzone down.
“Why change the habit of a lifetime?” I deadpanned.
“Claudio has agreed to wed Alyssa Giuliano. My two eldest children
marrying into honorable families,” he said smugly.
“If you count Luuk Virgil as honorable, the bar must be set in hell.
Anyone would be better than him,” I retorted.
His expression darkened dangerously. Despite the bright sunshine the
air seemed to turn icy.
The maid brought over the coffee and gave me a sultry smile, bending
down strategically so I could see the lace of her bra encasing her voluptuous
tits. Giovanni gave her a cold stare, and she scuttled off.
“You mean like you, Rocco?” he scoffed, and anger lathered inside me
like thick soap congealing.
“I’m starting to get the impression you don’t like me, Giovanni,” I said
dryly.
He gave me a cool look before settling his gaze over my shoulder.
“There are other women, Rocco—more suitable ones,” he said impatiently.
I was taking Giovanni’s machinating an engagement to Luuk Virgil to
keep the one thing I wanted out of my grasp very fucking personally. He
knew I wanted her, and he was doing everything in his power to keep her
out of my reach.
“Tempting as it sounds, I’ll pass.” I stood, towering over him.
He glared at me for a second before his face became impassive. “We’re
having an engagement party for Sophia and Luuk. I trust you will be there?
We’re friends after all.” He gave me a smile that made me want to snap his
neck.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I drawled.

I lit a cigarette. I felt edgy and irritated, and it wasn’t because we were
finally sitting down with the Irish. Red and purple strobe lights flashed
through the tinted windows behind my desk that gave me a bird’s-eye view
of the club downstairs and the adjacent casino.
 The door creaked, but instead of Franco, it was Nina.
“Franco said your guests are in the basement office.” Her brown eyes
met mine unblinkingly as she flicked her hair over her shoulder.
“Tell him I’ll be out in five.”
“Did I do something to upset you?” She pouted.
“Nina.” I smiled softly and her face perked up. “You weren’t that good
of a fuck to start with. Now take your ass back to Franco and make sure the
girls keep our guests hydrated through the whole meeting. Do you have a
problem with that?” I raised an eyebrow, boring my eyes right through hers,
and her petulance switched to fear.
“No, Rocco,” she muttered.
“No, Boss.” I reprimanded her.
She gave me an icy glare before walking out and closing the door.
This meeting wasn’t going to be pleasant, but at least it was on my
territory.
Getting the Irish and Italians to sit down in one room without gunfire
would’ve once upon a time seemed an impossible feat, but it had been
organized with the help of my slippery friend, Carlo.
The room was divided into two groups of men: the families of New
York on one side, and the Irish Kings on the other. Both completely ignored
each other as if they were in the room alone. Liam Kavanagh, who Carlo
informed me was the boss’s son, sat at the forefront, dressed in black and
looking sinister with one brilliantly blue eye and the other a deep amber
shade. Beside him sat his older brother, Shane, porcelain-skinned with fiery
red hair.
“Gentlemen.” I gave a cursory nod to the room before sitting down in
between both parties.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Shane Kavanagh laughed throatily, his red hair
looking almost aflame under the bright chandelier.
“Where is your father?” I looked around to see the men on the Irish side
were completely different from the last time we crossed paths.
“Semi-retired. I’ve taken over as the leader of the Irish Kings recently,”
Liam explained.
I noticed the subtle twitch of annoyance on Shane’s face.
Liam stretched his neck impatiently as he turned his head, and a large
scar in the shape of a devil’s pitchfork pulled across his face menacingly. “I
don’t want to spend any more time in this rat-infested shithole of a city than
I have to, so let’s get to the point,” he said sharply.
“Coming from Chicago that is almost a compliment. You’re on our
territory, and we don’t fucking like it. Is that blunt enough for you?” I
straightened up in the leather chair. I had little time for pleasantries.
“You killed my cousin—fuck your territories,” Shane spat, and there
were murmurings of agreement on the Irish side.
Liam started to speak but was interrupted by the door opening. The Irish
automatically put their hands to their waistbands, sensing an ambush.
Instead Mia’s pink head popped around the door, and her eyes widened at
the audience before she flushed the color of her hair.
“I didn’t realize you had, um, company,” she mumbled. “I’ll come back
later.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to Liam, but his gaze lingered on the
doorway, an unreadable expression on his face.
“I’d like to see what else of hers is pink,” Shane whistled.
Anger flashed through me like white-hot lightning. “Say one more word
and I will send you back to Chicago in pieces,” I spat, flashing the silver of
my waistband.
Liam’s eyes slid back into focus, and he gave Shane a dark look before
turning to me. He paused for a second as if reconsidering his original
response. “Ronan’s men will be pulled back from your territories by
nightfall, and they won’t be coming back.”
Shane shot Liam an irritated look but didn’t say anything to contradict
his younger brother.
Giovanni’s eyebrows pulled together. Tension rolled off him. “He
gunned down my captain. You need to answer for it.”
Liam narrowed his eyes darkly. “You spilled Irish blood. My blood.”
“He deserved it.” Giovanni glowered.
Liam’s jaw ticked, and I could almost sense icy rage steaming off him.
Giovanni was too arrogant to understand Liam wasn’t going to back down
any further. He’d made one concession and Giovanni had offered none. I
could foresee this dragging on and escalating—something all the parties
didn’t want or need.
“Renz’s family will get a five-percent cut of whatever Ronan brought in
this year. Agree to that and we’ll call it,” I interjected.
 Liam and Shane exchanged a quick look before Liam gave a reluctant
head tilt.
“I think we’re finished here.” Liam stood up, eyeing Giovanni for a
short second, his eyes narrowing with hatred.
Liam gave me a stoic nod before they left with the Irish entourage.
“Five percent wasn’t enough, Rocco,” Giovanni snapped.
“Well now it is,” I fired back.
His eyebrows knitted together in anger before he stormed out of the
room.

I smoothed down the pale pink silk dress every time Luuk tried to take my
hand. I didn’t want to feel his soft palms against mine, caressing, squeezing
or stroking.
Mamma had picked out the dress. I wasn’t sure if I liked it.
I wasn’t sure if I liked anything about this night.
She beamed at me from across the table. She was in her element
planning an engagement party and wedding to top anything New York City
had ever seen. The room was decorated in opulent gold and pink, her choice
of color scheme. Massive crystal chandeliers filled the room and expensive
bottles of champagne sat on each of the tables.
“Sophia?” Mamma frowned.
“Yes?” I croaked.
“Are you drunk? Your face has gone all flushed.”
I felt dizzy, as if a knot had tightened in my chest, making it hard to
breathe. “No, I just need some air,” I muttered, standing up. I walked across
the perfectly polished marble floor until I bumped into something solid.
“Where’s the fire?” Rocco’s deep, smoky voice penetrated me
mockingly as my heart gave a treacherous squeeze.
He looked devastatingly handsome in dark gray suit pants and a white
dress shirt. I could faintly see black ink bleeding through the white material,
the “born sinner” tattoo staring down ominously at me as he lit a cigarette.
“What did Mia want?” I asked, annoyed.
“She didn’t stick around to find out. She probably thought you’d be mad
at her for interrupting.”
“She would be right.” I rolled my eyes.
“I’m beating you, Rocco, and you’re not even noticing.”
Fabio threw down a royal flush and looked at me triumphantly. He was
right: I was hardly paying attention. Fabio was so shitty at poker that his
win was an insult in itself.
I should’ve been patting myself on the fucking back after avoiding an
all-out war with the Irish, but somehow it felt hollow.
“What do you want—a fucking standing ovation?” I drawled, reaching
for the cigarette box and finding it empty.
The phone rang, and Fabio raised his eyebrow a fraction before handing
it to me.
“What?” I asked roughly.
“That how you speak to your mother?” Liam Kavanagh’s voice trilled
from the other end of the line.
“Wouldn’t know. Haven’t spoken to her in twenty-three years. What do
you want, Liam?”
“Wanted to check if you got our transaction.”
“Giovanni would have lit up the city if we didn’t,” I deadpanned. His
tone had been stilted, but I could sense the question was a smokescreen for
something else. “Is that all?” I said bluntly.
“I’ll be in the city for an extra night. I wanted to see you before I left.”
“You said New York was a rat-infested shithole.”
“It is,” he chuckled.
“I’ll be at my club. You can find me there. If you’re thinking of trying
anything, I’ve got a .45 glock and I never miss.” I clicked off the phone to
meet Fabio’s piercing look.
“Looks like you made a new friend.” He smirked.
“Unchained Melody” played softly on the piano as I walked in. An event
clearly fit for royalty, there was even a champagne waterfall. Something
small bumped into me, and when I looked down it was Sophia. She looked
up at me, surprised, a deep flush erupting on her neck.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, her eyes wide.
I could feel static tension rolling off her in droves. Her body language
screamed panic.
“You drunk?” I asked her quizzically.
Mia sported the same wide-eyed look whenever she was under the
influence.
“I wish people would stop asking me that,” she huffed, tucking a
flyaway hair behind her ear.
“What’s wrong with you then, Cherry? Champagne waterfall not up to
your standards?” I smirked.
“Nothing,” she mumbled.
“That’s who you’re marrying, huh?” I indicated to Luuk. He was in the
ear of another female guest, and it didn’t look very fucking platonic.
“At least he doesn’t think I’m easy,” she said indignantly.
“It didn’t look that way when he was practically finger-fucking you in
the pool,” I said sharply.
Two pink spots appeared on her cheeks before she frowned, looking
reminiscent of her dear papá. A red mist of resentment unfurled itself from
all the weeks and months I’d been holding it in, and it was now coming out
of me like thick, billowing smoke from a simmering inferno.
“I didn’t realize you were there,” she mumbled.
“Would it have changed anything if you did?”
She paused for a second before looking up with an unreadable gaze.
“Papá wants to bring the wedding forward.” The words spilled out of her,
and her eyebrows knitted together.
“Does he?” I said impassively. My resentment was then replaced by a
glittering rage so all-consuming I almost felt winded.
 “Yes. Luuk wants us to leave earlier to Europe for the honeymoon,” she
said in a small voice.
She was settling for a measly continent when I would give her the entire
world.
“Rocco . . .” She paused, looking up at me with an unreadable
expression.
“What?”
She opened her mouth before shutting it again. “Nothing. I need to get
back. Enjoy your night,” she mumbled, disappearing into the crowd.

2 Chainz’s “Birthday Song” roared out as bottle girls sashayed into the VIP
area holding sparklers and expensive bottles of champagne. Two of them sat
on Daniele’s lap, and he gave me a thumbs-up before blowing out the
candles on his cake.
“Tempting,” Fabio muttered next to me.
“Better not let Vicky hear you say that.”
I smirked while he looked around wildly as if she might materialize
from thin air.
“Franco’s right—I should have just kept her as an option. You can never
go wrong with options,” Fabio muttered.
I swished the amber liquid around in the whiskey glass.
“You keep staring at that goddamn whiskey, it’ll evaporate.”
I sipped the drink slowly before putting it down. Fabio was right: it
tasted like piss.
“You’re unusually calm.” Fabio raised an eyebrow suspiciously.
“Sometimes you just gotta let the chips fall.” I searched for the gold
lighter in my pocket, my finger sweeping over the Latin inscription.
Veni, vidi, vici.
I came, I saw, I conquered.

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 “When you love someone, you’ve gotta trust them. There’s no other way.
You’ve got to give them the key to everything that’s yours. Otherwise, what’s
the point?”
—Ace Rothstein

OceanofPDF.com
The two hands on the gold Rolex on my wrist moved to midnight at exactly
the same moment as I heard heavy footsteps outside my office.
Liam Kavanagh walked in dressed in all-black. His eyes fell to the .45
on my desk and a smirk played on his face. The light cast on the shadow of
his scar, making him look menacing, extinguishing the façade that a
gentleman might exist within him.
“You weren’t lying about the gun,” Liam remarked in his thick Irish
accent.
“It wasn’t a threat. I just wanted to make it clear if you double-crossed
me, you wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.”
His mismatched eyes stared stoically into my gray ones, unblinking.
“So much for Sicilian hospitality. You going to offer me a drink, or what?”
He leaned back in the chair, bemused.
I opened the desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two
tumblers.
“I hope you didn’t poison it. I would hate to die in your company,” he
said dryly.
“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t pick poison. Takes too long. You
wanted to talk to me, so talk.”
“You lowballed Giovanni with the money for his captain. That didn’t go
unnoticed.” He lit up a cigarette without breaking his stare once.
“That wasn’t for your benefit.” I rolled my eyes.
“The Irish and Italians have always been on shaky ground. Maybe it’s
time to strengthen that.”
 I could tell he was wording everything precisely. He wanted something,
and he was going the long way about it.
“Keep talking.” I motioned with my hand.
“I need guns to take on the Russians in Chicago. They’re multiplying
like fucking whack-a-moles. You hit one and four pop back up. The
Chicago ports aren’t safe anymore for our guns from Dublin to get through.
I heard you have a contact in Las Vegas who may be able to make it happen
for a decent percentage.”
“If I said yes, what would be in it for me?” I asked shrewdly.
“I may be able to confirm your theory about who shot up your club,” he
replied slickly.
My gaze, which had wandered over his shoulder, swiveled back to his
brooding stare. “What theory would that be?”
“Luuk Virgil did it.”
I wiped my face clean of all expression, but adrenaline ricocheted
through my body. “That isn’t proof—it’s a rumor. Virgil always runs his
fucking mouth.”
Liam fished his phone out of his pocket and pressed play. Luuk’s voice
jeered through the little speaker as other men laughed. “It’s fucking crazy
that I could have gunned down my own future wife. I guess my pockets
might have been a little fuller if I did, although with that ass it’s worth it.”
Anger fluttered through me briefly until it was replaced by a dark
feeling of vindictive euphoria that washed over me entirely.
“This ain’t no fucking voice distortion either.” Liam raised an eyebrow.
“How did you get that?” I asked casually.
His finger circled the whiskey tumbler. “I’m a resourceful guy.”
“What is your beef with Luuk?” I narrowed my eyes at him. He had an
angle, and I wanted to know what it was.
“That greasy motherfucker has been selling guns to the Russians on the
low, promising to get them onside with New York.”
“Why are you telling me this instead of just offering me a cut of the
guns? I was the one who killed your cousin.” I said bluntly.
He rolled his eyes disdainfully. “Nobody liked Ronan.”
“I’ll talk to my contact in Las Vegas, but first, how much of a finder’s
fee are you offering me?”
“Five,” he offered.
“Fifteen, and don’t fucking take me for an idiot.”
 “Ten and we’ll cut you into any future action,” he countered, his eyes
sparkling darkly.
“Done.”
“I’m sensing you want something else.” I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m thinking of a longer-term partnership. Marriage.”
“You’re not my type,” I drawled.
He circled the whiskey around in the tumbler for a few seconds before
staring up, his eyes burning into me. “Your sister.”
I scowled at him as an icy beam of rage warmed me. Did he really think
he could walk in and propose a fucking marriage contract after we had
almost avoided a war?
“No.”
He chuckled but the laughter was devoid of any warmth. “You didn’t
even hesitate with that answer.”
“What makes you think it would have been anything else?” I said
acidly.
“I’m the leader of the Irish Kings isn’t that enough?” He raised an
eyebrow.
Annoyance radiated in his voice, but I didn’t give a shit. I wasn’t even
sure I liked him.
“You’re not Italian,” I said stoically.
“I’m Catholic. Same religion, right?”
“It’s a no,” I said firmly.
His gaze stayed planted on me, the blue of his left eye fading to a steely
ice.
“You’re hardheaded enough to refuse a permanent peace deal with the
Irish—one that you’d be getting the glory for securing?”
Fuck, he had me there. The thought started to bloom in my head, and it
made sense. The Irish wouldn’t be a threat and Mia would be looked after;
Liam didn’t seem the type to fold easily—a quality he would need with
Mia.
A wry smile appeared on Liam’s face when I looked up. “Think about
it.” He seemed to sense my resolve before leaving.
The club had been closed for a couple of hours, and it was just a few of the
men sitting with me at the bar. I could still smell the faint scent of kerosene
on my hands.
I’d crossed a line tonight and there was no coming back. I never did
anything by half-measures—not that I cared about consequences.
I rarely did.
“Turn it up.” I motioned to the television above us as Franco grabbed
the remote from the bar.
The familiar backdrop of the Bronx came into a focus and a thin blonde
reporter started talking. “A man was murdered in Hudson Hill earlier
tonight. Emergency teams were called to a gas station at the sound of
gunshots before the vehicle involved was doused with petrol and set alight.
Forensics teams are still investigating the crime scene for any materials
that could help with the investigation. Mr. Virgil was a Dutch national who
had ties to the diamond trade, as well as organized crime links. NYPD are
treating the death as suspicious and urge anybody with information to come
forward.” A square photo of Luuk flashed up onscreen before the next
news item came up. Franco muted it and gave a snort.
“As if any fucker who saw that is going to come forward.”
“There won’t be. All cameras were wiped, and the owner of the gas
station is taking early retirement in the Cayman Islands.” I smiled.
“You’re a sick bastard, Rocco, but I respect you,” Fabio chuckled.
“He shot up my club. He deserved it.”
Franco’s lip curled, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.
This wasn’t about the club.
This was about Sophia.
Giovanni’s name flashed on my caller screen and chilling amusement
rang through me.
I’d said I would let the chips fall—I just hadn’t mentioned I’d planned
where they’d be falling. I knew I would kill Luuk. The voicemail was
insignificant—a small grain of sand in an hourglass. Killing Luuk Virgil
was an itch burning deep inside me that I couldn’t escape. I’d followed him
from Giovanni’s house in Staten Island all the way to the Bronx. The stupid
fucker didn’t even realize until it was too late. I’d taken slow pleasure in
pulling up to him at the empty gas station, shooting him twice point-blank
before watching his car drown in orange flames. The slogan in the gas
station had been ominous in its message: “Add fuel to your fire.”
The car was ugly anyway.

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I could hear shouting and the crunch of gravel from downstairs as cars left
and others arrived.
Men had filtered in and out of the house chaotically over the past couple
of days, and Papá was hardly ever at any meals. Even Claudio and Gennaro
wore looks of nervousness, and I periodically saw them exchanging low
conversations.
There was hysterical shouting coming from downstairs. When I walked
down, Gennaro and Mamma both looked at me awkwardly. I yawned, still
in my sleepwear—a thin cotton tank top and matching shorts.
“What?” I asked, bewildered.
“Nothing.” Mamma shook her head.
They continued shooting looks between each other until Zia prized the
television remote from Mamma’s hand. Mamma tugged it back.
“What is going on?” I asked, confused.
“Tell her,” Zia demanded.
“Tell me what?”
I looked between them, waiting for an explanation, but Mamma shook
her head vigorously.
The doorbell rang once, then twice—impatient rings—before Mamma
barked at Selita to answer it.
“Wait in the den,” Papá demanded, walking down the stairs with
Antonio behind him.
I looked at him confused, but he didn’t acknowledge me as I walked up
the stairs.
The phone stopped only to ring again a couple of minutes later. I picked up
and said nothing, a smile creeping onto my face.
“You motherfucker,” Giovanni fumed before hanging up.
“This is going to get messy.” Fabio whistled.
Two hours later, the men who made my collections in Giovanni’s old
territory, Little Italy, were shot to death, prompting retaliation until all
moneymaking from both sides halted to a complete standstill. Both of us
were stuck in an icy stalemate.

A couple of days later, I received a call from Vincenzo imploring both sides
to agree to a temporary ceasefire in the city to halt fighting. Giovanni and I
would meet alone, with no interference, at the request of the other families
as they were getting sore about losing money.
I drove in through the familiar white iron gates and smirked as I parked
on the driveway. The shiny red McLaren that had been here the last time
was now burned to a crisp.
“You son of a bitch!” Giovanni roared with fury as I entered his office.
“My mother was a very nice woman, Giovanni. Unless you want me to
empty my gun into your head, I would advise you to shut the fuck up.”
His face pinched in anger, and he rose for a fraction before he sat back
down behind his desk. “What gave you the right to kill him?” he hissed.
“I don’t need your fucking permission, Giovanni,” I said icily.
“You don’t call the shots, Rocco,” he snarled. He balled his fists so hard
his knuckles went white.
“I want her,” I said firmly.
He shook his head vehemently.
 “I told you I would be back for what is owed to me, and here I am. I
don’t give a fuck whether you like it or not.”
“Over my dead body!” He slammed his fist on the table.
I rubbed a thumb across my jaw thoughtfully. “That can be arranged.”
“You think after your little stunt I’m going to give you my daughter?”
He glowered.
“I’m not asking. Even if you said no and found some other son of a
bitch to marry her off to, I’d kill him and the next one until you got my
point. You know I won’t stop until I get what I want.”
“Did I hit a nerve when I said you weren’t good enough for my
daughter, Rocco? Because you know it’s true.” He smiled coldly.
“Considering the men you picked out for her, I feel a lot more confident
in myself,” I said sarcastically.
“You can have your pick of New York. Sophia is off-limits,” he said
through gritted teeth.
“You keep playing games, Giovanni, and I’ll tell Tysen to cut the Las
Vegas shipments. I don’t give a fuck how much money we lose.”
The bluff clearly had its intended effect. His face darkened to a volatile
red. I could see him staring longingly at the gun on his desk, calculating if
he could draw it faster than me.
“Two years, and you can have her.”
He might as well have said a fucking eternity.
“Now you’re just insulting me.”
He lit a cigar, white smoke billowing out of the corner of his mouth.
“Six months,” he said coldly. His eyes narrowed cunningly. He wanted to
buy time so he could find some other cazzone to marry her.
“Two weeks, Giovanni, and this isn’t a bargaining table. Don’t test my
patience.”
He gave me a cold smile as if a thought were cascading through his
head.
“Of course, if she says no, I’ll have to consider it carefully. Wouldn’t
want to upset my daughter by making her marry a hotheaded thug.”
“Where is she?”
“One floor down,” he said, leaning back in his leather chair. He gave me
a look veering on hatred, and when the door closed behind me, I heard
distinctly the sound of glass being smashed against a wall.
I strained my ears, but I could only hear silence. There was something in
the way Papá had stared at me that had sent a ghost shiver down my spine.
The den was under his office and one of the colder rooms; I wished I’d
dressed in something better than sleepwear.
The room was dimly lit. An L-shaped sofa coiled around in front of a
huge home theater, and the faint scent of popcorn drifted into my nose. I
picked up a pool cue, leaning against the wall, and started to play, ruining
the neat triangle to pass the time.
A shadow moved across the room, but it wasn’t Papá.
It was Rocco.
He wore only a simple white dress shirt and dark pants, but his
appearance still managed to elicit a hitch in my breath when he appeared in
the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” I frowned.
He ran his hand through his dark hair. “Not the welcome I was
expecting.”
“Maybe I should hose you down instead.” I raised an eyebrow.
He ran his tongue over his teeth. “I can think of better ways to get you
wet.”
A jagged thrill ran through me, and my hands slackened around the pool
cue.
“Play,” he said roughly. He picked up the remaining pool cue and gave
me an impassive look before he shot, missing most of the balls.
There was one ball left. If I hit it, I won.
I leaned over in concentration while pulling the cue back slowly, until I
felt a visible pressure behind me as Rocco positioned himself close.
“Your position is all wrong,” he whispered into my ear.
“Is that so?” I muttered.
“You’ve got to grip it tighter.” He ran my hand over the pool cue with
his own hand on top, back and forth slowly, as he chuckled in my ear.
“I know what you’re doing,” I hissed.
 He pushed his groin further into me until I felt hot breath against my
neck. I missed the shot, the white ball going into the corner pocket, causing
a scratch.
“What am I doing?” he asked innocently.
“You did that on purpose.” I elbowed him, annoyed.
“Did you honestly think I was going to let you win?” he whispered into
my ear.
I turned around slowly so I was facing him. He leaned his hands on both
sides of the pool table, blocking me in.
“You cheated.”
“You never said there were rules, baby.” He stroked my jaw slowly.
“It was implied.”
I wanted to cross my arms, but I knew it would only amuse him.
“Talking of cheating, you knew about Angelina and Lorenzo.” His eyes
narrowed.
I met his gaze head-on, unblinking. “No.”
He cupped my chin in his hands. “You didn’t want to break her secret—
admit it. Your loyalty was with her, not me.” Disappointment mingled with
annoyance flooded his face.
“If you weren’t going to be faithful to her, then it really doesn’t matter,”
I replied crisply.
He shook his head before moving closer to me and lifting me up onto
the table. “If I’m a cheat, you must be a liar,” he murmured.
“I think you’re both,” I retorted.
“Very rarely are people right about me, Sophia. You’ll find that out in
time.” His mouth hovered over mine.
“What does that mean?”
Something felt off. There was a wicked glint in his eye, a satisfaction
that seemed to drip off him, and suddenly realization sank through me.
“Luuk is dead,” he said tonelessly, as if reporting the weather.
“You killed him,” I stuttered, pulling away from him, but he put his
hands firmly on my knees.
“I’m a possessive man, and he had something I wanted.” His hands
moved up slowly to my throat and he stroked my bottom lip, eliciting a
shudder from me.
“I’m not yours to own.” I tried to push myself off the edge of the pool
table, but he held my legs there firmly, not breaking eye contact.
He let out a low chuckle that sent a shiver down my spine.
“Let’s just say your papá is starting to understand my persistence.”

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His gaze fell to my left hand, and he inspected the ring closely before
pushing it off my finger slowly and tossing it across the room.
“You’re assuming I didn’t like it,” I said, annoyed.
“Did you?” he asked, bemused.
I stayed silent, and husky laughter rolled off him—laughter that vibrated
through me.
“What do you mean about Papá understanding your persistence?”
“He owes me, and I’m cashing in.”
I felt as if a balloon had deflated in my chest before a small glow of
relief set in.
“Cashing in? You make it sound so romantic,” I said sarcastically.
“Do you want it to be romantic?” His eyes fell down on me as his
thumb traced my mouth.
I shook my head imagining how many women had been treated to this
very seduction technique. His eyes twinkled as if trying to read me, but I
kept my stare impassive, not wanting my thoughts to leak into my
expression.
I could never give my heart to a man like Rocco De Luca.
I wouldn’t.
It was business, no more than a power struggle between Papá and
Rocco. A marriage of convenience would be easier; sentimentality could
only lead to making all the wrong choices all over again.
“Tell me about the guy you were shacked up with,” he said suddenly. A
dark shadow formed over his face, removing any previous signs of laughter.
“That’s—”
 “Don’t give me that ‘personal’ bullshit. Who was he?” His eyes
narrowed on me for a second as if he were scanning for a trace of
dishonesty.
I ignored the truth sitting on the tip of my tongue. “What about him?” I
bit my lip.
“Did you love him?”
“Does it matter?”
I could tell he wasn’t happy with my answer by the glare he gave me. I
looked away from him, but his gaze remained fixed on me.
“If I find out another man has touched you, I’ll kill him.” He squeezed
my face in the rough palm of his hand.
“Is that so?” I asked coolly, surveying his eyes as they darkened slowly.
“Yes.” He held his hands on either side of me, moving closer, his mouth
stopping just shy of mine.
“Rocco De Luca doesn’t kiss,” I said mockingly.
He paused for a second, his eyes turning to a stormy gray before his
mouth crashed down hard on mine. Liquid fire seemed to engulf me as his
thumb stroked my neck, and the kiss became deeper, leaving me almost
submerged.
He broke the kiss, and I looked up at him confused, my chest tight with
emotions I couldn’t start to decipher.
“I do whatever the fuck I want to,” he growled.
He brought me closer to him, positioning himself between my legs. His
hand ran up my thigh, sending a jolt of electricity surging through me
before he stopped.
“You’re so goddamn hot,” he said roughly before pulling away.
“You kissed me.” My thumb stroked my mouth involuntarily.
“So what?” he drawled.
“Why don’t you kiss?”
“Because I don’t like sharing,” he said firmly.
“How do you know you won’t be?”
I didn’t know why I said it, but perhaps I enjoyed the volatile look in his
eye when I provoked him.
He gave me a dark look before pulling me closer again. His hand
reached to my throat tightly as his mouth swooped down. I parted my lips in
anticipation of another whirlwind kiss, but instead he leaned down slowly,
his fiery gaze holding me to the spot, and slowly spat in my mouth. “You
and I both know that isn’t going to happen,” he whispered.
It was inappropriate. Dirty and possessive.
Everything that described Rocco.
But I liked it.
My thighs clenched together with tension as his saliva pooled in my
mouth. His eyes faded to almost black when I swallowed hard, a rumble of
satisfaction rolling through his chest.
He straightened his shirt and tie as if that had settled it. “Now we’re
going to see your papá.”
“Why?”
“To tell him your decision. You can say no—I’m not going to put a gun
to your head,” he said dryly. His gaze fell on me.
I didn’t have to say yes, but that didn’t feel right either. I didn’t want to
stay here and live in the shadow of la principessa forever. I couldn’t be that
girl anymore.
Papá was waiting at the bottom of the stairs and looked between us as
we approached, a grimace of realization settling on his face. “Go to your
room, Sophia. Enough of this nonsense,” he snapped.
“Stay.” Rocco joined me on the step I was on.
I looked between them both like I was stuck in quicksand. Rocco’s eyes
widened a fraction. He wanted me to choose him willingly in front of Papá.
“Sophia, tell him your decision,” Rocco said slowly.
I swallowed slowly, saliva collecting on my dry lips, a mix of mine and
Rocco’s.
“I’m giving you one last chance, Sophia,” Papá growled.
It was enough for me to understand there would be no graceful exit
involved in this; it was either Papá’s way or no way at all.
Rocco’s eyes found mine, and I envisaged the cage at his club, only this
time the door was wide open.
The key was laying in the palm of his hand.
“I said yes,” my voice squeaked, and Papá’s face reddened.
Rocco walked down a couple more steps until he was at the bottom of
the stairs. “It’s settled, Giovanni.” He spoke the words with stark finality.
His firm gaze settled on Papá, and his jaw clenched for a second as they
shared a tense standoff before Papá stormed past us on the stairs, the office
door giving a resounding slam.
 There was a hint of a smile on Rocco’s lips as he turned to me. “Two
weeks,” he muttered before leaving.

I could hear Mamma remonstrating from downstairs. We were always late

for everything, so why would today be any different?
Only a couple of days remained until the wedding. The time had gone
by so alarmingly quickly that I’d barely had the time to consecrate any
thoughts. I hadn’t fully processed what being Mrs. Rocco De Luca would
be despite everybody giving me deep looks of reverence every time I
stepped out of the house.
I had found out the details of how Luuk died afterwards, and a shiver
ran down my spine when I discovered Rocco had executed him before
setting his car alight. A tiny part of me wondered why he coveted me, when
he could have any woman he wanted. A blushing virgin or a socialite would
happily welcome him into their arms—once they got past his temperament.
Even the sales assistant at my dress fitting had given me a look of
indignation when realizing who my intended was, before wilting under
Mamma’s stare. Papá had barely looked at me since that day and I knew he
referred to Rocco as “that son of a bitch” when he thought I wasn’t within
earshot.
“We’re going to be late, Sophia, basta!” Mamma called up the stairs.
“At least try to look a little excited for your bachelorette party.”
“Party?” I snorted.
Alessia had planned an all-male review—something Mamma had
forbidden in a heartbeat.
“Alessia’s plan was filth, and your cousin should know better. This is
going to be a classy party before your wedding.”
Mamma, Zia, and my cousins sat in the plaza drinking fine tea and
eating sandwiches while Alessia cursed Mamma for nixing her bachelorette
party. There were only so many conversations about flowers I could take
before my head started to hurt.
 The conversation rolled around to sex, and Mamma pursed her lips,
annoyed her classy day was ruined.
“There are no sex tips in the world that can make a man stay faithful to
you, let alone a Made Man. You can do backflips on his cock with a golden
pussy and he’ll still cheat,” Allegra, my other cousin, chimed in. “Occhio
non vede, cuore non duole.”
The eye does not see, the heart does not hurt.
“That is the only way you’ll survive Rocco De Luca,” Allegra
announced.

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I rolled the cigarette in between my fingers slowly.
Although the matter of the engagement was settled, a knot was still
tightening somewhere in my subconscious. I didn’t know who I distrusted
more: her or her papá. Not to mention she had kept a secret from me
already. Was Sophia loyal, or did she just have so many secrets that one
more from Angelina to hold onto didn’t make a difference?
Sure, she’d chosen me, but what other fucking choice did she have? I
knew Giovanni had already reached out to Stefan, as well as a few other
high-ranking capos. It was either me or someone else, and maybe she’d
taken the easier option. The way her gaze had shifted when I asked about
the guy she was shacked up with didn’t exactly inspire confidence.
She loved him.
Didn’t she?
How the fuck could she be so unreadable? I thought women were meant
to be better at displaying emotion. At this point I was going to put her on
one of my blackjack tables for her poker face. I didn’t even know if the guy
she was with was alive or dead.
I had let my irrational side take hold of me and driven down to New
Jersey to look into the motel she was found in. The room had been paid for
in cash by a false name. I couldn’t even get a description of the guy because
the clerk who’d checked them in had moved to Hawaii.
Giovanni had paid him off.
I could dig further if I wanted, and if he still was alive when I found
him, he would wish he had died.
The church clock chimed eleven and my heart beat a little faster as hair
stylists and makeup artists fanned out around me, fluffing, pressing, and
spraying from every angle. This had become Mamma’s wedding, and at
times I’d felt like I was losing a battle to have any of my own influence.
I’d secured the dress I wanted despite Mamma fighting for one with a
six-foot train. It was a simple Dior strapless gown. My hair was put up in
soft curls, and I wore a small tiara on my head, not the huge diadem
Mamma had wanted.
“Have you eaten today? You look like oat milk,” Mamma chided while
trying to give me crackers.
“I don’t want anything.” I pushed her hand away.
Nerves were eating me alive, and my hands had become slick and
clammy.
The door opened and the room grew silent as Papá walked in. “Are you
ready?” he asked in a low voice, and I nodded.
“How do I look?” I murmured nervously. “Papá?” I said again, worried
he was displeased, but he only looked at me for a second before lifting my
veil and kissing me softly on the forehead.
“I always wanted the best for you, Sophia. A good match.” He sighed
deeply.
There wasn’t anything good about the men he wanted me to marry.
There were so many things I wanted to say, but I swallowed the thoughts
whole.
“Rocco isn’t a bad man,” I said softly.
He made a snort of disagreement but offered me his arm, and we
walked silently outside into the corridor leading to the church.
My heart raced furiously as “Wedding March” played softly on the
piano and violin. Familiar faces turned toward me as I glided down the
aisle: Claudio and his future fiancée, Gennaro, Massimo, and Mia, who
winked at me. My legs felt like jelly, but Papá’s firm grip held me in place.
The flower girls walking a distance in front of me left soft pink petals
on the aisle down to the altar. A soaring feeling engulfed me as Rocco’s
face came into focus. I couldn’t read his expression, but his eyes didn’t
leave my mine. He was dressed in charcoal gray with a silver tie to match
his own gray eyes and make them more pronounced. When I looked closer,
he had a rose inside of his suit pocket, a lavender one.
Identical to the lavender rose from my sketchbook when he had
thumbed through it.
My mouth opened and closed, and a small smile of satisfaction
appeared on his face that made my hands tremor.
It was romantic, sentimental even—and my heartbeat drummed out the
logic in my head.
My voice came out in an audible whisper as we exchanged rings and
vows. I took a deep breath as I slid the ring down his finger, and he steadied
me.
“You may kiss the bride,” the priest ordained with a smile, closing the
book.
With applause echoing around the church, Rocco pulled me to him and
kissed me softly on the lips.
He was a sinner—the worst kind and I belonged to him.

The wedding reception was heaving with guests. Giovanni had taken care
of the guest list, meaning most of them were his associates, friends, or
people on his payroll. I didn’t know if it was his way of showing me how
connected he was or if he was just an asshole, but all the built-up tension
had melted away when I lifted her veil. Something had gripped me in my
chest like a raw thunderbolt to see her standing in front of me dressed in
white.
I kept stealing looks at her from the top table like a lovestruck cazzone
staring at his first crush. I couldn’t help it.
“I hear Brooklyn is nice this time of year.” She smiled, and I squeezed
her knee slowly.
“Cross?” a familiar voice purred from my left side. “I almost thought
you forgot my invite.”
 My head snapped back to find Tatiana smiling back at me, her blue eyes
flashing with venom. Fuck, I hadn’t seen her in forever. What the hell was
she doing here?

The wedding was a circus. Rocco and I were simply acts in my parents’
extravagant display. I knew Rocco wanted to leave by the way his eyes kept
sliding to his watch.
“Am I boring you?” I whispered in his ear.
“I just want to get you out of here and out of that dress,” he muttered.
Papá had wanted Rocco to get a place in Staten Island, but I’d offered to
move to Brooklyn. I wanted to leave the stifled environment of Staten
Island, not to mention avoid another potential standoff between them.
Rocco was mollified that I’d picked him again over Papá.
“The rose?” I murmured.
He shrugged nonchalantly. “I have a good memory.”
I gave him a wry smile when he squeezed my knee slowly, but it was
soon extinguished when a fiery redhead planted a kiss on his cheek. I
glimpsed the blue butterfly on her hip and with a crushing sense of
realization knew it was her nudes I had seen before.
“If you think you’re the one who will tame him, then I’d think again,”
she said in a low whisper out of his earshot as she walked past. Her floral
scent burned my nostrils.
“Clearly, you weren’t either,” I said loudly.
She narrowed her eyes at me before stalking off, Rocco’s gaze burned
into my cheek but I ignored it.
“If you want me to beat her ass, I will,” Mia whispered to me from
beside the bar, where I’d stopped off on my way to change my dress. I
explained what happened and I was relieved I had someone to unburden
myself with.
“Was it serious?” My heart had started to thud a little too hard in my
chest. Although I acknowledged Rocco would likely have other women, I
hadn’t expected this on my wedding day.
 “Tatiana was just a name on the roster,” Mia muttered.
Tatiana had gone over to speak to Veronica. They gave me an icy look
before putting their heads together.

The rest of the night went by painstakingly slowly. If Sophia was affected
by Tatiana’s presence, she didn’t say anything.
Twenty minutes had gone past since I’d left the venue, and it was
another twenty before Sophia could extract herself from her family. I heard
the word “Brooklyn” mentioned several times by her mamma.
I waited for her reaction as we pulled into the driveway, but she gave
me a small smile.
“No bowling alley, huh?”
I walked into the living room and loosened my tie, sitting on the suede
couch. I watched her as she looked around, a thrill of exhilaration running
through me to know she was finally mine.
“Get over here,” I said roughly.
She turned toward me and paused for a second. “Say please.”
Cute, but I didn’t have time for playing games.
“Now,” I demanded.

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She walked toward me and stopped just before the sofa, pausing as if she
were shy.
“Take it all off.”
She peeled the dress off slowly until she was wearing only white
lingerie.
A low, guttural sound escaped me as I reached out and pulled her onto
my lap, leaning into her warm chest, my palms sliding up the backs of her
legs roughly. “You’re so beautiful,” I murmured. I folded the cup of her bra
and my tongue latched onto her tit, suctioning it in my mouth until I felt her
tremble underneath me.
“Rocco,” she murmured, her breaths becoming uneven.
I unclipped the bra impatiently, wanting more. My fingers pinched her
pink rosebud nipples roughly, and she twitched as my mouth and hands
licked, sucked, and caressed until I was lost with the noise of her soft
moans in my ear.
Sophia inhaled deeply, her fingernails running up the back of my neck
before she pushed them through my hair.
“I’ve thought about you,” she murmured.
Satisfaction rumbled inside of me at hearing those words. I laid her on
her back, pulling the white thong off and leaving her naked under my touch.
I could stare at her all fucking day.
My rough palm circled her soft body, my eyes hungrily taking in every
dip and curve.
“What’s wrong?” She frowned.
“You’re too fucking perfect,” I said through gritted teeth.
 The words felt reluctant, as up until this point I hadn’t wanted her to
know how much of a hold she had on me. It wasn’t something I wanted to
say out loud. Her face lit up, but I ignored the biting feeling somewhere in
my chest. I was determined that once I had her it would desensitize me from
the effect she seemed to have on me, but with each moment that passed I
was starting to doubt it.
“Take this off.” She fingered the hem of my dress shirt.
I shook my head impatiently, but she tugged at it wildly until I relented
and pulled it off carelessly, ripping off a few buttons on the way. Her hands
explored my bare chest hungrily. I could feel them softly tracing the
plethora of scars and bullet holes. My mouth lingered over hers before
crashing down hard. It was better than the first time I did it at her papá’s
house, and definitely better than our chaste kiss at the altar. I broke the kiss
and yanked her ankles toward me, pulling her legs over my shoulders and
eliciting a small shudder from her body as my tongue circled the inside of
her thigh. I continued on, feeling her nails dig into my biceps and hearing
her repeat my name. Wetness glistened on her thigh, and I felt my erection
stretch against my pants as I tasted her.
The sweetness of her moisture pooled on my tongue. A shudder escaped
her as my finger entered her slowly before my tongue worked in sync with
my digits.
“Rocco,” she sighed again.
Fuck, even the way she said my name was turning me on. If she kept
saying it like that I wouldn’t be able to hold back any longer, but there was
a part of me that liked it, as if it was the only name imprinted on her tongue.
I continued to lick and suck. The taste of her sweet pussy tingled on my
tongue and dripped into me like the most addictive substance as she
trembled under me, her nails digging into my biceps as she climaxed loudly.
“I think I’m going to like it here,” she whispered, her face flushed and
eyes half-lidded.
There was a dead silence for a couple of minutes before I got up to take
a piss. When I returned, she was looking out of one of the bedroom
windows upstairs, dressed in the shirt I’d just discarded.
It looked better on her than it did on me. It stopped just below her
peachy ass.
“There ain’t no sunroom or pool house either,” I drawled.
“Grounds for divorce,” she muttered.
 “Seven hours in and you’re ready to leave me. Your papá was right—I
am a thug.”
“Your neighbor is waving at me. You know him?”
I knew all of the men stationed around the neighborhood. Like
Giovanni, I kept all the properties full of my own crew. It was safer. I
watched in amusement as she waved back at that cazzone Gianni.
“I’m going to have to kill him for that now,” I said sarcastically.
“You could always set his car on fire?” She turned around from the
window, giving me a small smile.
“Cute. If you want to walk around naked, pull down the blinds, or there
might be a bloodbath in Brooklyn.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. Why is this bed so hard?” She frowned, sitting
on the large king-size bed.
I snickered, and she looked at me puzzled before I pulled the mattress
up, showing her the stacked cash underneath.
“You ever heard of a bank?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Loose change for emergencies.”
“What if someone steals it?”
“There wouldn’t be a man brave enough to steal from me, and if there
were, he wouldn’t live long.”
I took two rolls out from the mattress and handed them to her. “I’m sure
you want to add a few more shoes to the four crates that were sent over
already.” My tone was filled with heavy amusement.
“I have my own things,” she said pointedly.
“Take it. I don’t want your papá saying I’m not keeping his principessa
in the lifestyle she is accustomed to.”
“I didn’t think you cared what he thought,” she said dryly.
Fuck, she had me there. She reluctantly took the cash and gave me a
slow nod. I wish she had a speech bubble over her head so I could read
what she was thinking.
“It doesn’t mean you own me,” she said after a few seconds of silence.
Actually, that was exactly what the contract meant, but for some reason
I didn’t give her that response. I gave her a slow nod.
She cleared her throat. “That woman at the wedding . . .” She bit her lip
before saying, “I know there are going to be other women. Maybe we need
to draw some lines. Just don’t throw it in my face.”
 I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know where to fucking start. One pull of
the thread and everything would come loose.
“If you think I’m going to offer you the same deal, then you’re wrong,”
I drawled.
She gave me an annoyed look before slamming out of the room.
I retired to the office for the rest of the night. A good man would have
checked on her. Reassured her. But I wasn’t a good man.
Not by a long fucking shot.
If I started talking, maybe everything would pour out of me, and if she
didn’t feel the same I’d be fucked. I hadn’t thought about another woman
since I met Sophia, but hearing her say that to me made me wonder if my
initial curiosities had been true.
I wouldn’t be liable for my actions if I knew she was even thinking of
another man. It made me sick just considering it. I’d deliberately not looked
further into her history, apart from what I knew, because I didn’t want to go
down a rabbit hole. Didn’t want to consider her ever loving someone else.
Wanting someone else.
I made a few business calls, distracted myself with copious cigarettes,
and emptied the whiskey decanter. The amber liquid felt like liquid fire
ruminating in my chest.
The door creaked open slowly, a dark shadow forming across the room
as Sophia walked in wearing a silk robe, an impassive look on her face.
“What are you doing up?” I rubbed my eye with the back of my hand.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
There was a quiet pause between us, only disturbed by a distant rumble
of traffic.
“Come here.” I indicated to my lap.
She sat her small, warm body down on top of me, resting her hand
around my neck, her thumb stroking my nape slowly.
“What I said earlier . . .” She cleared her throat.
“Sophia,” I warned.
“All I was trying—”
I put my hand over her mouth.
“But . . .” she said, muffled.
“If I take my hand away, are you going to stop talking about it?”
She nodded, and I removed it slowly, putting my forehead against hers.
“The subject is closed.”
 “So bossy,” she murmured.
“One of my nicer qualities,” I chuckled.
She leaned up to me, half-amused, half-annoyed, before kissing me
hard. She pulled the tie to her robe, shrugging off her silk gown to reveal
lacy red underwear. Her hands moved slowly down my shirt before she
pulled it out from my pants, and a small shiver ran through me as she found
skin. Her hands delved further down, finding my hard-on, and she looked
up at me for permission before I gave her a swift nod.
I unbuttoned my belt buckle and let my pants drop to my knees without
leaving her eyes once. Sophia nestled herself between my thighs, and I felt
her heaving breasts pushing against them as her mouth reached over me. I
let out a small groan as her tongue touched the tip of my cock. She licked
the tip delicately each time, her hot breath leaving me frustrated.
“Sophia,” I groaned.
She looked up at me with a wry smile. She knew she was pushing me to
my limit.
“Put it in your mouth. Take every inch of it,” I commanded, gazing
down at her. I stroked her mouth slowly, my thumb rubbing her lip. “Is this
mine?”
She nodded, her cheeks hollowing slightly at my length.
I pulled her hair tighter as she deepthroated me. Her mouth suctioned
me in, and I let out a more resounding groan as I hit the back of her throat,
cursing wildly as she continued to take me deeper. Every swirl of her
tongue over my cock pushed me closer to the edge, and she knew it. Our
eyes met, and I pulled her hair, tightly wrapping it around my fist as I
directed her mouth, running a finger against her throat as she took me
deeper.
“Fuck, I’m going to come,” I groaned. I had to bite the inside of my
cheek to stop myself from coming on her pink pretty lips as her tongue
lashed against my cock. She looked up at me, confused, wanting to
continue, but I stopped her.
“I need to fuck you,” I muttered in a low voice as she detached herself
from me.
I sensed living with Rocco was going to be volatile.
My thoughts seemed to clamor together. I knew no Made Man would be
faithful, so why did the woman at the wedding reception bother me so
much? I knew the marriage was a business arrangement, yet when he put
money in my hands it didn’t sit comfortably with me either.
The only thing I did know was as soon as he touched me, everything
else seemed to fade into obscurity.
The earlier anger had now turned into a dangerous glint of desire as he
wrapped my hair around his fist. Every nerve ending in my body was static.
He opened my legs wide and climbed between them, his face looming over
me, his eyes darkening with lust. Our lips were only inches apart from each
other’s, and before I had a chance to say anything, his mouth came down on
me hard and he held my throat tightly as he dripped saliva in slowly from
his own mouth.
The same smile of satisfaction appeared on his face as I swallowed just
like the first time. His eyes faded to almost blackness.
His faint stubble provided friction against my skin, each kiss more
intense and intoxicating than the last. His fingers pushed into my already
wet pussy one by one, probing a little deeper each time as I writhed
powerless beneath him. Even just his fingers dominated me as they
explored every inch of me.
“Tell me you’re on the pill.” He looked up abruptly.
“No,” I said truthfully.
“I thought your Ma would have sorted all that shit out.”
His eyes had a wildness to them that made me wish I’d lied.
“Fuck it,” he sighed exasperatedly before reaching over to the drawer
and returning with a condom. He tore the Magnum wrapper impatiently
before sliding it on.
“Take it for me, baby. You’re doing so good,” he said hoarsely as he
entered me.
A stretching sensation filled me like an elastic being pulled too tight as
he continued to move within me, his elbows propped up either side of me.
 His charcoal eyes dimmed into molten darkness, his tongue tracing
around my nipple slowly before taking it wholly into his mouth without
breaking eye contact. Intensity coursed between us as my body surrendered
to him.
“This pussy is mine.” He pulled my arms over my head so he was
looking directly into my eyes. “Say it,” he demanded.
“It’s yours,” I whispered.
“Louder.” His voice pierced through me like a whip.
“It’s yours!” I yelled.
His body clenched as he grunted his climax. He kissed me roughly. I
could taste his sweat on my tongue.
“Now we’re going to do it all over again,” he rasped, leaning his
forehead against mine.

I stung.
An aching pain seared in the center of my thighs, causing a delicious
roar of fire to ignite every time I moved.
My hair was matted from the number of times Rocco had run his fingers
through it, wrapped it around his fist, and yanked it.
For the past two weeks we’d repeated the same pattern of eating,
sleeping, and fucking. I’d never liked that word—it was vulgar—but
hearing Rocco rasp the words in my ear had suddenly made it my most
favorite word of all.
“I love fucking you.”
“You’re the best fucking lay I have ever had.”
The words looped around in my mind until I was almost delirious. Lust
had turned into fever, and my skin shivered with the imprint of his touch,
his faint musk present each time I breathed.
He’d only worked one night since we’d been married, and he’d made
sure Gianni and Fabio were stationed here to watch over me. He still didn’t
trust Papá.
Maybe he didn’t trust me.
 When Rocco did return, instead of pretending I’d managed to sleep
without him, I followed him into the bathroom. His white dress shirt was
covered in blood on the floor, and through the glass screen door I could see
the shower water had turned pink.
Blood.
I pulled open the door violently, but he wasn’t hurt. A bemused
expression appeared on his face as my gaze fell to his bloody knuckles and
the blood that snaked up his arms.
Not his.
A strange flicker of relief pulsed through me as I retreated out of the
bathroom and back into the bed, mixed with another feeling that caused a
tightness within my heart.
“I missed you,” he breathed into my hair as he entered the bed. Heat
emitted through his skin, and I could feel his naked erection against me.
“I couldn’t tell,” I giggled into the pillow.
He pulled me onto him roughly as my legs wrapped around his large
torso, waves of trepidation and arousal flickering inside of me.
“I was wondering where all my boxers went,” he said, amused, flicking
the waistband before easing me out of them carelessly.
I had barely unpacked and I’d taken to wearing Rocco’s shirts and
underwear since they were more comfortable.
“Do you mind?” I leaned up to him.
“Nope. Prefer you naked anyway,” he muttered as he pushed a finger
inside me.
I let out a small gasp, and he wrapped my hair tightly around his wrist.
“You’re so wet for me already,” he muttered as his eyes narrowed to almost
half-lidded.
He found my mouth roughly, and I felt the familiar feeling of his hands
around my throat before he spat in my mouth. It still felt as erotic and
intoxicating as it did the first time. He kissed me messily as a second finger
pushed deep inside of me, causing me to shudder deeply.
“Say, ‘I’m wet for you.’”
“Rocco,” I whispered hoarsely.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“I’m wet for you,” I whispered as my clit ground against the slickness
of his erection. I reached out and stroked him, and he tensed against me, a
wild look in his eye.
 Without a word he pushed me flat on my stomach, slithering wet kisses
from my spine all the way down to my clit before repeating them again, this
time pushing his finger slowly into the entrance of my other hole, causing
me to twitch as he pushed his tongue in deeply.
“I can wait for that,” he muttered in my ear slowly.
It wasn’t anything I’d wanted to do ever, but I was becoming easily
tempted a little more every time he was inside me. It was almost like an
addiction ingraining itself into me.
I needed him.
Needed to feel the weight of his body on top of me, needed the taste of
his tongue penetrating every inch of me. I needed every inch of him.
He pinned my hands behind my back and started to fuck me at just the
right angle, touching the deepest spot within me until I could see stars. The
restraint of his arms holding mine back, skin on skin, and dominating words
in my ear provoked a heart-stopping climax. Whatever position we started
in, he would always make sure we ended up in missionary, with deep eye
contact and soft kisses. He buried his face in my neck as he sucked and
stroked until I was putty in his rough hands. There was a scarcity of words
between us, but more was translated with his touch and the way I would
always wake facing him, buried into his chest, his arm wrapped around me
and his eyes studying me somberly.

My eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the bright light coming through the
slanted blinds. A faint wince tore through me as I breathed. I still hadn’t
gotten used to his size.
Rocco walked in with a white towel wrapped around him. My heart
skipped a beat. An unexplainable feeling of affection rushed within me
when I saw him—a feeling I tried to push away, but which kept creeping
forward.
He ran his hand through his hair and frowned pensively as if something
were bothering him and looked out the window. “I have something to take
care of for a couple of hours. I’ll tell Fabio to stay with you.”
 “Why can’t I come with you?”
He turned around quickly as if appraising the option. “It’s not exactly
afternoon tea at the Ritz.” He smirked.
“I want to come,” I said slowly.
He narrowed his eyes at me and gave a slow nod. “Ten minutes.”
I took significantly more than ten minutes, and I was surprised to see
him waiting by the car patiently. His eyes took in my outfit, mollified. I’d
decided on a simple pair of jeans and a sweater.
“Are you not going to open the door for me?” I said sweetly.
He gave me a dead stare, but I could tell there was a hint of amusement
on his face as he got into the Maserati.
We drove in silence until I reached out for the stereo. My hand waited
there for him to pull it back, but when he didn’t, I connected my own phone
to the Bluetooth speakers. The Arctic Monkeys’ “Do I Wanna Know?”
played out softly.
“Bold move.” He raised an eyebrow but didn’t switch it off.
I opened the glove compartment and reached in for the familiar
Marlboro Red box before putting one in his mouth. He dipped into his
pocket for his lighter and lit it, soft white smoke billowing out.
Rocco’s hand reached out and stroked the underside of my cheek while
we were stopped in traffic. “I could get used to this.”
I pulled down the vanity mirror and put on lip gloss. When I was done,
instead of putting the lip gloss back in my purse, I put it in the glove
compartment. I was marking my territory. Maybe it was childish or
petulant, but I just wanted to show that among the other women, I was here
too.
Rocco didn’t say anything, but I felt his pensive stare through the
rearview mirror.
We drove for another half an hour until we pulled into a shabbier
neighborhood. The sign said East New York, a place I had never ventured
to. Many of the houses were derelict or half torn down, the shops all
boarded up. Rocco parked the car, it was the only one on the street that
hadn’t been burned out.
“Stay close to me,” he muttered as we left the car.
Rain had slowly started to patter down, the sky a murky gray, reflecting
our surroundings. A small tremor ran through me when he put his fingers
through mine as we walked. Butterflies fluttered despite me wanting them
to stay perfectly still.
We stopped after half a block until we got to a dilapidated building.
Then I looked at Rocco, but he didn’t say a word. His face was pulled tight
in consternation.
“This is where I grew up,” he said after a few minutes of silence.
I looked at him and then at the apartment. I had just assumed he was
born into money. He glanced at me as if he could read my exact thoughts
and lit a cigarette.
“Was it bad?” I swallowed.
He exhaled deeply, stroking his knuckles as if reminiscing on some past
fight. “No. It was because of this place I learned how to survive.”
“Why do you come here?” I paused. Against all odds, I wanted to know
everything about him. Every single drop of information I wanted to
swallow greedily.
“It’s a reminder that I never want to come back here. You’re only one
bad decision away from fucking up.”
“You won’t.” I squeezed his hand tightly, and something pulled deep
inside of me that I couldn’t control.
“Don’t get all emotional on me,” he drawled, but there was a hint of a
smile on his lips.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I said softly.
His eyes returned to the derelict building, and I stood with him in
silence as memories filled his face. I took a sidelong look at him. Maybe
that was what pulled me toward Rocco: his rawness. He never apologized
or shied away from who he was—something la principessa could never
have done, but Sophia De Luca was learning to.

I didn’t know what had persuaded me to take her here. Maybe it was the
way her soft eyes had implored me not to leave her behind, or was it the
fact she was the best fuck I’d ever had? I knew with every part of me I
exposed to her that I was getting in deeper than I should, but perhaps at this
point I was too fucking far gone.
Nobody knew about me coming here. It had become a ritual of sorts that
I did. Whenever I got in my head about something, this was a brutal
reminder of where I had come from—where I could still be if things hadn’t
turned out right that night at Dolce Far Niente.
The rest of the block had been bought off for regentrification, but this
little pocket of existence stayed as it was. I’d bought it as soon as I had the
cash. I couldn’t decide whether it was cathartic or sick.
“Let’s go,” I said after a few minutes.
Thick rain had started to fall, and I yanked Sophia on my back before
throwing her down on the hood of the car. We both exploded with laughter.
She pulled her wet hair out of her eyes. “Your definition of chivalry
may need a little work.”
“Fucking you on the hood isn’t an option then,” I laughed throatily.
“Maybe.” She breathed slowly, wrapping her legs around my waist and
pulling me to her.
Thunder rumbled in the air. There could have been a goddamn hurricane
and I would’ve only been focused on the woman lying drenched on the
hood of my car.
I called out of work the rest of the day. It was unprecedented.

Vanilla immersed me from the long shower we’d taken together. Sophia
was laid out on my chest. The only sound between us was the flicker of
embers from the fireplace.
“Hungry,” she muttered, swirling her finger up my abdomen.
“Kitchen’s over there with a pristine oven.” I smacked her ass playfully.
She looked up at me. “Should I expect divorce papers if I don’t cook
and clean like a good Sicilian wife should?”
I eyed her steadily. “Nah, I think I’ll keep you.”

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My eyes blinked open slowly as I could hear the faint sound of a phone
vibrating. I felt Rocco’s presence next to me. His rough hand skimmed my
thigh for a few seconds before he planted soft kisses on the back of my
neck. Warmth spread around my body at the feel of his hot and taut form
against mine.
When his phone vibrated again, he untangled himself from me before
checking it and sighing, annoyed.
I rubbed my eyes and stared up at him. He looked so handsome it
stunned me, his hair tousled, wearing nothing but the comforter wrapped
around him.
“What’s wrong?” I frowned at the brief look of irritation on his face.
“Nothing, I just need to go to the club.”
“The strip club?” A million scenarios flooded my mind, but I swallowed
them. I would have to get used to this and not let my intrusive thoughts get
to me.
“No, my other club in the city. I’ll call Gianni over to stay here with
you.”
I shook my head, and he gave me a dead stare.
“Take me with you—please.” I gave him a small smile.
Rocco raised his eyebrow a fraction as if considering the options before
jerking his head into a reluctant nod. His hand rested on my knee the whole
journey. Butterflies took flight somewhere inside of me at feeling his heavy
touch mark me.
The club was decorated in black-and-gold, loud house music
reverberating down the dark steps as we descended to the floor below.
Flirtatious faces turned to annoyance as his fingers tightened around mine
and he pulled me to the lit-up bar area. Purple-and-red strobe lights hit my
face as the music grew louder. Rocco eyed the silver bandeau dress I wore
with mild indignation and pulled me closer.
“I have something to take care of. Silvio will keep an eye on you until
I’m back. Stay out of trouble.” Rocco enunciated those last words as a
warning and indicated to the man next to him.
I excused myself from burly Silvio and made a restroom stop. I had to
navigate my way through dancing revelers to get in. When I opened the
heavy wooden door, the white marble interior made a change from the
darker colors in the main club. I reapplied my lipstick quickly before a
woman appeared behind me in a staff uniform. Her eyes didn’t leave mine
in the mirror’s reflection.
“You must be the boss’s wife,” the woman said stiffly, her voice cool,
but I could see a flash of resentment cross her face.
“Yes, and you would be . . .?” I smiled breezily.
“Nina. I’m sure I’ve been mentioned before.”
Although she was bitchy and blonde, I appreciated that she could pull
off a classic red lip and wing liner. Nina gave me a knowing smile that
pierced me. She wanted me to know she had fucked him.
“Not once.” I gave her a cold smile as her own faltered before she left.
I felt deflation overcome me as I walked back. A hand grabbed my arm,
and hot breath appeared in my ear.
“Playing hard to get, huh?”
Before I had a chance to respond, Silvio had whisked me away, and
when I looked behind me the man was being escorted out forcefully and
threatened with a broken jaw, among other things.
Silvio took me up in a private elevator before we went through a
security door, where he punched in a code before beckoning me through.
Rocco was sitting by tinted windows overlooking the club. The office was
dimly lit with two mahogany desks on either side and a leather couch.
His eyes narrowed as he turned around. “Do you know him?”
“No. You’re not really going to break his jaw?” I huffed.
“Depends,” he said thoughtfully.
“On what?”
“What you can offer me to mitigate that.” His lip upturned in a smirk.
I walked beside him. “Did you resolve your trouble?”
 He nodded. “I always do. Nobody cheats me,” he said simply.
Above the dance floor, unbeknown to the revelers below, there was a
floor adjacent to Rocco’s office. I could see men sitting around roulette and
blackjack tables.
“You have a casino here as well?” I asked, stunned.
“I don’t make all my money from my pretty face,” he drawled.
Talking of pretty faces, Nina stood flicking her hair, speaking to the
men in the casino. Her name burned on my tongue before I swallowed it
quickly, remembering Allegra’s words.
“Occhio non vede, cuore non duole.”
His brow creased. “What are you thinking about?”
I shook my head, and he pulled me into a hard kiss before placing me
on his desk.
“Take it off,” he demanded roughly.
I pulled off the dress and he laid me down flat. Anticipation rifled
through me as his mouth licked my inner thigh before he rotated his finger
and tongue inside of me until I felt his name was the only word I knew. I
clawed my nails down his arms, the feeling of him working his tongue deep
inside me too intense. My nerve endings were on fire as he sucked and
nipped until I felt like a candle wick that had been left next to a flame for
too long.
Waves of pleasure consumed me as I thundered toward my climax. My
hands reached around his neck as my nails dragged across his back and I
felt his own moans echo before he slowly disentangled himself from me.
“I’m not finished yet.” His eyes gleamed wickedly.
He picked me up and walked us toward the large windows. A thrill of
excitement went through me as I realized where he was going. He pushed
me into the cold glass, his tongue pushing against mine, dominating my
every nerve. His eyes melted into pools of dark liquid, and I could tell a
thought was consuming him.
“Tell me you want me to fuck you nice and slow,” Rocco commanded.
“I want you to fuck me nice and slow.” I slurred my words as he
released me from my bra and his mouth engulfed my breast. “Rocco,” I
gasped as he entered me slowly before building up pace.
“You just saved a man from getting his jaw broken,” Rocco whispered
hoarsely as hot liquid seeped down my naked thighs.
I’d taken a hammer to the hands of the two men who were found chip
mucking. I’d considered a bullet through the skull, but that would have
been too easy.
A long-lasting reminder would be a cautionary tale for anyone who
even thought about crossing me.
Nina gazed at me insolently from beside Franco. I could tell he was
getting a taste of that by the half-lidded look he gave her while they were
talking. It was a good thing he didn’t play poker often, because I could see
right through him.
I didn’t like the idea of taking Sophia to the club. If any of my enemies
saw how I looked at her, they would know within two seconds she was the
one vulnerability I had. For all of the measured actions I’d taken over the
years, she was my one recklessness.
I’d had a doctor prescribe her the pill after the wedding, but a niggling
feeling of not wanting her to be on it started to take over me. Raw
possession seemed to consume me. The thought of her pregnant crept into
my head and bloomed like a seed in soil. I used to laugh at the stories of
Made Men who threw away their wives’ contraception. I thought they were
hotheaded cazzones, and now it looked like I was becoming one of them.
Fabio had given me an amused look when he’d seen the flurry of dirty
handprints on the always pristine windows of my office.

I pressed my pen up and down, the clicking sound mere background noise
as the heavy thud of bass music started up. It was still early, but my eyes
kept rolling to the clock like I was a kid awaiting the bell at school.
 Sheer obstinance had kept me pinned here, wondering if Sophia was
thinking about me as much as I was thinking about her. There was
something in the way she stared at me after seeing me bloody after a
disagreement made me wonder if she had it just as bad as I did. Her
expression rarely betrayed her thoughts, but I noticed the small flicker of
anxiety followed by relief that crept onto her face that night. I was starting
to pick on some of her tells, maybe one day I would actually get to know
what she was thinking.
Fuck it, I wasn’t going to last the night.
The familiar chime of the laptop shutting down sounded out before I
closed the screen. Fabio looked up and smirked, throwing a hundred-dollar
bill at Franco.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Franco bet me you would be out of here before ten. I’m starting to
think you don’t like us anymore,” Fabio chuckled.
“I never did,” I deadpanned.
The truth was worse.
I had grown attached to my little firecracker of a wife and I’d thought
once I got the pent-up sexual frustration out of my system it would have
waned, but in fact, it had made it worse. The infatuation had grown from a
symptom to a full-blown addiction. Every hit was better than the last, with
wave after wave of euphoria engulfing me every time I fucked her. I wanted
to spend every second kissing her, touching her, with my cock or tongue
buried inside her.
I suspected this wasn’t normal.
None of the other men acted like this with their wives, most of them
didn’t even like their spouses.

The low sound of giggling and glasses clinking greeted me when I walked
in. I inwardly groaned at seeing the pair of pink stilettos by the door.
“Marco!” Mia yelled from the lounge.
 The lounge was dimly lit. Mia and Sophia were sitting on the leather
recliners eating popcorn and watching movies. Three empty wine bottles
were laid out on the glass coffee table, which explained the amount of
giggling.
“You’re meant to say Polo,” Mia sighed.
“‘The Notebook’ again, Sophia?” I rolled my eyes. If I had to watch this
prick build a house one more time, I was going to shoot the TV.
“We were just having a little girls’ night seeing as Sophia’s bachelorette
party was so lame,” Mia sighed, annoyed.
“Well, you can plan your own soon,” I said crisply.
I hadn’t gotten around to talking to Mia about Liam’s proposal, but now
seemed as good a time as any. The idea had started to make perfect sense,
although I didn’t want to admit that to Liam. The cazzone could wait a little
longer for my answer.
“The leader of the Irish Kings asked me about a marriage contract for
you. I’m leaning toward yes.”
“No way. Besides, Irish Kings? That means he isn’t Sicilian,” she said
slyly.
“He’s Catholic—same thing.”
She frowned at me, trying to find another angle.
“Maybe Mia should pick her own husband,” Sophia said in a small
voice.
I looked over at her, annoyed, and she shrugged. “Sure, pick somebody
from one of the New York families and we’ll call it a day. How about
Stefan Pirlo? He’s looking for a wife.”
“He’s creepy and his eyes are too close together,” Mia said in a clipped
tone.
“Enrico’s looking for a new wife. He’s a boss, so you’ll be kept well.”
“He’s sixty,” she said, repulsed.
“It’s either Liam or one of those two. Pick well, or I’ll do it for you, and
I won’t be going by looks,” I drawled.
Mia sniffed loudly, and Sophia raised an eyebrow at me in warning.
“I’ll think about it,” she said coldly.
“You’ll do what you are told. Your reign of freedom is over, Mia.
Done,” I said firmly.
“I’m leaving now. Bye, Sophia,” she said petulantly, ignoring me.
 “No drinking and driving.” I pointed to her bag, and she threw the key
fob on the floor.
The door slammed, and I crashed beside Sophia. She smiled at me
before getting on my lap and wrapping her arms around me. I could taste
the alcohol on her hot breath as it ran up my neck.
“This is going to be fun,” I drawled.
“You’re not going to force her to marry this guy if she doesn’t want to,
are you?” Her cadence had an edge to it.
“No, but it’s better than her wasting her time with all these jerks who
don’t give a damn about her.”
She frowned at me for a second, taken aback. “Stop the press—Cross
De Luca has a heart,” she whispered.
“Don’t tell anybody. It’s a well-kept secret.” A small smile upturned my
lips as I ran my hands up her back.
She shook her head as she stroked my lips softly. “How did you get so
handsome, huh?”
“God-given talent.” I smirked.
She turned to face the television, her thick hair tickling my face for the
rest of the night as I watched the whole of The fucking Notebook from start
to finish. Again.
I was in at the deep end.
Completely fucked, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about
it.

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My head felt like it had been hit with a brick; dryness parched my mouth
like ash as hot water sluiced through my skin.
I never wanted to drink again.
I had a vague recollection of Ryan Gosling and wine. Lots of wine.
I walked into the bedroom to find Rocco sitting against the plush
headboard wearing an amused look. He was shirtless, in a black pair of
Armani briefs.
My heart gave a flutter of betrayal knowing I was diving headfirst into
this man.
I walked closer toward him until I was only inches from him, and he
tugged off the towel and pulled me onto his lap before giving me a small
slap across my ass that rebounded through the silent room.
“You don’t know what you do to me.” He captured my bottom lip in his.
“What do I do to you?”
“You make me realize I should have kept you the first time you stepped
into my club.”
The words flooded my chest like a tsunami.
My fingers traced his tanned skin. I counted three bullet holes, the
fourth one the nastiest.
“That was the one that almost killed me.”
“I’m glad it didn’t.” I placed a small kiss over the scar before he
captured my mouth roughly, and my hands gripped the back of his neck
tight.
It wasn’t the first time, but every time he touched me was more
exhilarating than the last. I let out a soft moan as his tongue worked down
from my neck until he latched onto my breast. His mouth was hot and wet
as he licked and squeezed until my eyes rolled back with pleasure before he
stopped.
His forehead creased for a second, and when he sat beside me tension
rolled off him.
“What is it?” I glanced up in trepidation.
“Don’t make a habit of getting bombed. I don’t want another Mia to
take care of,” he said dismissively.
“Mia said your papá used to drink,” I murmured tentatively.
“Fucking understatement. She was lucky enough not to know him.”
“What about your mamma?” We hadn’t gotten this deep into any
conversation before. Rocco was a closed book, and I was delving
somewhere I probably shouldn’t.
“She left when I was six and never came back.” His jaw clenched as
sadness washed through me. “Are we going to talk or fuck?” he said
roughly.
The door that had been widened briefly had shut, and he removed all
emotion from his face. This was the first time he’d ever opened up to me
apart from when we’d visited his childhood home, and I didn’t want to push
it.
“No more talking.” I gave him a quick kiss and felt his body tense as I
released him from his briefs. I stroked him softly, making his eyes flick
back in pleasure.
“Sophia,” he moaned loudly as I got on top of him.
He held my body in place as I writhed on him, his fingers flicking my
clit roughly, and I knew he was still pissed off from the earlier subject.
“Tell me you want me to come inside you.” He broke the kiss and
grabbed my face hard.
“I want you to come inside me,” I breathed out.
Without warning, he pushed me firmly on top of him. I gasped as
soreness seared through me but continued to ride him. His hoarse voice
beamed through my ears.
“Take it for me. I know you can.”
“You feel incredible.”
“Just like that, baby.”
A glow of satisfaction wove through me as he said my name again and
again, until I collapsed against him.
 He treated me like I meant something to him.
Every part of me was melting.

I was waiting for the snap, for his patience to run out with me, but it didn’t
come. Even when I almost cost him a hundred grand because I was
distracting him while he was on the phone, kissing him, straddling him,
doing everything I could to get his attention, he allowed it to happen.
I vowed I wouldn’t cook or clean. It took me a month to fold.
Maybe I just wanted to surprise him. For once.
Although I wanted to be resistant with my domineering husband, I
didn’t need to be. He rarely said no to anything I asked.
He let me paint the bedroom lavender.
He taught me to drive stick because automatic was “for pussies.”
He kept all his promises and was gentle.
The last one was the biggest shock. The hardness of his exterior
contrasted with how he treated me.
The levee had broken.
Rocco De Luca had done the one thing I hadn’t wanted him to do: he’d
made me fall for him in every inexplicable way.
I had surrendered.

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A flash of headlights against the window let me know Franco had arrived.
Fuck.
Something inside me stirred as I watched her sleeping. She’d twisted
herself into my subconscious.
I’d thought by marrying her I would quench the thirst that overtook me
when I first saw her, but it had made no difference. I hadn’t spent a whole
day or night in my house since I’d first fucking bought it, and suddenly I
found myself home every night with her, stroking every inch of her body in
front of a roaring fire, feeling her soft kisses all over my scars and tattoos as
I made her come again and again.
One thing she did draw the line at was laundry. She pressed a large hole
into one of my shirts and turned the rest of the laundry pink when she put
red underwear in with a white load. I didn’t even care when she dented the
fuck out of the Aston Martin when I taught her to drive. All she’d had to do
was casually mention she wanted to learn, and like a stunad my iron will
seemed to melt.
It didn’t matter that she’d nearly lost me a hundred grand because she
was grinding on top of me when I should have been paying attention to a
business call.
I’d never considered my mortality before—it was an occupational
hazard—but when I looked at her, she made me reconsider everything.
I finished adjusting my cufflinks, checking the time on my phone. I had
spent so much fucking time at home lately that I’d barely been at the club.
“Rocco?” She looked up sleepily.
“I’ve got a meeting. I’m leaving.”
 “It’s three in the morning.” Sophia frowned, glancing at the alarm clock.
“The type of men I meet only come out after dark, baby.” I smirked,
stroking her cheek.
“Are you leaving the city?”
“No, I’ll be at the club.”
“Okay.” She gave me a small smile, understanding I didn’t have to
release that information. “Don’t be too long.” Sophia offered her wrist out
to me, and I allowed her to pull me toward her.

A few nights later I stifled a yawn as Franco and I drove through the busy
streets of Brooklyn.
“Married life making you soft, huh?” Franco smirked.
“Single life keeping you a complete dick?” I retorted.
“I’m built for sharing,” Franco snickered as we pulled up to the club
entrance.
If I wanted it, I was entitled to a little side action. Nobody would call
me out on it—not even Giovanni. But I had no reason to stray when I had
the principessa of the Cosa Nostra naked in my bed every night.
We pulled up to the club. Revelers were still pouring in, and I could
taste the sweat and intoxication without even exiting the car.
Franco and I went through various accounts before there was a knock
on the door and Rafael poked his head in. He raised an eyebrow, indicating
whoever it was behind him. I motioned for him to let them in, and he stood
aside.
Long, tanned legs were the first thing I saw, accompanied by a dress so
short it could probably serve as a bandana.
“Tatiana, what are you doing here?”
“I was at the club, wanted to drop by,” she said innocently.
“I’m busy.”
“Don’t you have five minutes for an old friend?” She pouted.
Franco’s phone rang, and he frowned as he answered.
 “There is a situation downstairs—your presence is required,” he told
me.
“Wait here and don’t move,” I instructed Tatiana.
She gave me a demure smile and sat on the seat opposite me.
A fight had broken out in the club and the cops had been called.
Anderson hadn’t picked up, and they’d sent some rookie moron who
actually thought he could shut down my club. Twenty minutes later, after
telling him to call his commanding officer, I got a sniveling apology from
the officer, who pled his unyielding loyalty to me going forward.
Cazzone.
Rafael reminded me Tatiana was still upstairs, and I walked into the
dark office to find her sitting exactly where I’d left her.
“How’s tricks, Rocco?” She smiled up at me, a flicker of satisfaction
echoing on her face.
“What do you want? And make it quick,” I said dryly.
“Did you get my pictures?” She flicked her hair, giving me a seductive
look.
Tatiana had been persistent since the wedding, but I’d paid her thirst
traps little attention. Blocking her only made it worse. I’d taken to muting
the bitch so I didn’t have to see her naked every time I opened my phone.
“Delete my number, Tatiana, or the next time, this conversation will not
be polite,” I said sharply.
“If things change, you know where to find me.” Her lip curled into a
smirk, and she stood up and left.
Fabio entered the room, giving a low whistle. “If you don’t want her,
I’ll take her.”
“Take her. She’s fucking nuts.”
“They all are. Vicky finished with me because she thinks I’m cheating,”
he grunted.
“You are. I thought she was your world,” I deadpanned.
“Well, the world ain’t that big in the universe,” he snickered.
The phone rang and Fabio grabbed it before handing it to me.
“Gianni wants to talk to you urgently.”
“Yeah?” I said into the receiver.
“Gennaro Zanetti just pulled up and left with Sophia. Did you know
about this?”
“No,” I breathed out, annoyed.
 “She had a bag with her . . .” He paused and the line crackled.
“I’m on my way home.” I hung up. “Track her phone,” I instructed
Fabio.

Glasses clinked jovially as Eros Ramazzotti played out softly in my parents’

dining room. A huge birthday banner had been hung up with white-and-
silver balloons decorating the oyster-colored room. A rectangular dining
table had been erected in the middle of the large room, and Papá, the guest
of honor, sat up top like a king.
“Papá has been quite worried about the living arrangements. I had to
stop him from going over to Brooklyn.” Mamma’s voice cut into my
thoughts.
“I like Brooklyn,” I said firmly.
She gave me an irritated look. “Rocco offered Angelina a penthouse in
the city. That would have been more suitable.”
I smoothed my dress down, trying to ignore her. It was pale blue and sat
above my knees.
“Sophia, are you listening? Is there something wrong?” She eyeballed
me with concern.
“She looks fine to me,” Zia chuckled throatily.
“Meaning?” I raised my eyebrow.
“I have been married three times.” She gave me a knowing look that
made me flush, and Mamma tutted loudly.
“Sophia.” Alessia beckoned me to her further down the table, and I
walked away, relieved to exit the conversation with Zia and Mamma.
“Hi, Alessia.” I smiled.
She sat on the edge of the table with some of the other women. Their
eyes danced over me like hyenas stalking a gazelle.
“You look lovely,” Alessia said warmly.
“Doesn’t she just?” Veronica gave a saccharine smile.
“How is married life?” Alessia sipped on her glass.
“Great.”
 I didn’t want to have this conversation. I felt like all eyes were burning
into me.
“Where is Rocco today?” Veronica asked innocently.
“He had a big deal to close.”
He’d refused to come to Papá’s birthday point-blank. Papá was equally
happy he didn’t.
“Interesting. How is that whore of a sister-in-law?” Veronica giggled.
“She isn’t a whore, and I didn’t see Romeo exactly fighting her off with
a bat,” I said sharply.
Veronica flushed, and the air became arctic. “La principessa thinks
she’s so special,” she chuckled throatily.
“I don’t, and that isn’t my name,” I said firmly.
Maybe living with Rocco had snapped the last of la principessa’s wings
off forever, because I felt no remorse whatsoever at speaking my mind.
Rocco told me he never took shit from anyone he didn’t like. Maybe I was
leaning the same way.
Veronica eyed me, affronted, and her cheeks darkened. “You think
Rocco doesn’t have a piece of ass on the side? So naïve.”
“You don’t know anything,” I hissed.
“I know Tatiana Torres is fucking your husband.”

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I felt as if I’d been drenched with cold water. Veronica looked down at me
victoriously, a spiteful smile lighting up her face.
“Stop the charade, Sophia. You’re just like the rest of us—stuck with a
Made Man who can’t keep his dick in his pants,” she slurred before
storming out of the room.
“Ignore her. She’s always been jealous,” Alessia tutted, and there were
murmurings of agreement from the other women. “Let’s find a quiet space.”
Alessia pulled me to one side and looked at me with concern.
“Do you think it’s true?” My heart thundered in my chest as something
cold overtook me.
Her face froze, and she shook her head, but it was too late.
I could see the doubt in her eyes.

The journey back to Brooklyn from Staten Island felt like the longest one
ever. Gennaro drove as Sade’s “Smooth Operator” played on, the words like
bullets punching holes in my subconscious. Although I could drive, Rocco
didn’t like me driving on “Papá’s streets.” Maybe there was a part of him
that thought Papá would take me back to Staten Island without a second
thought. Gennaro asked me questions that I answered on autopilot, my mind
decorated with the name “Tatiana.”
 “Occhio non vede, cuore non duole” wasn’t so much of a comfort with
the startling realization I didn’t want to be the other woman in my own
marriage.
My mind became a never-ending hamster wheel. I tried to scan it for
telltale signs of cheating, but there weren’t any.
The house felt empty when I walked in. I felt as if a boulder were
resting on my chest. Veronica’s Cheshire Cat grin unfurled in my mind as I
walked toward the bedroom, Rocco’s iPad laid innocuously on the dresser
calling out to me. I had never been inclined to check before.
But maybe I needed to set my mind at ease.
Relief funneled through me as everything seemed normal. Emails,
invoices, and the photo folders were empty.
But my heart stilled when I went through the messages, it was full of
pictures.
A topless photo of a girl lying down without a face in frame, only a
clear shot of a butterfly tattoo, the most recent.
Pure dread ran through me.
I needed answers. I dialed his number.
“Rocco . . .” I paused as the line was picked up.
There was faint music in the background. He was at the club.
“Hello?” a female voice answered flirtatiously.
My heart thumped.
“Is this Sophia?” the voice chuckled softly. “I’ll tell him you called—
we’re a little busy right now.”
The line went dead, the voice all too familiar.
Tatiana.
Something gripped me in my chest as a wave of pain engulfed me,
making it hard for me to breathe. The sadness was replaced with anger and
then a numbness that seemed to blank out any pain or feeling. I sat on
Rocco’s side of the bed. Everything seemed to be collapsing around me, my
heart shattering into a million pieces.
I had given him the opportunity to be honest from the start. I’d expected
there to be others. I could have protected myself.
Instead he’d made me feel like I was special before sucker-punching
me.
Anguish gripped me until my gaze found the snow globe on the dresser
table.
 Paris.
I held it in my hands and shook it slowly, watching the white flakes
scatter around the miniature Eiffel Tower before I tossed it on the bed.
I wouldn’t return home to Papá’s smug reaction; it wouldn’t be long
before he found someone worse to marry me off to. I jumped off the bed
and emptied the nightstand, finding what I was looking for: my passport. I
knew what I was going to do next before my legs had even walked next
door.
I lifted the mattress and took a stack of money. In its place I laid the two
rings off my left finger.
I picked up the telephone again, and this time a familiar voice picked
up. “Genny, I need you to come back,” I pleaded.
“Why?” he asked down the line.
“I’ll tell you later,” I said impatiently.
“Did something happen? Is that why you were so quiet on the way
home?” The words were stilted with anger.
“No.” I said firmly.
“Don’t lie to protect him, Sophia. I’ll call Papá right now and have his
fucking ass capped.”
“I’ll explain everything when you get here.”
He groaned. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

The house was plunged into darkness when I arrived. Everything appeared
inconspicuous, and if hadn’t been looking for something dramatically
wrong I wouldn’t have noticed a damn thing.
I glanced into the bedroom briefly, where again everything was neat. It
was only when I noticed the sheets in the second bedroom were creased that
I realized a fucking stack of cash under the mattress was missing, replaced
by two small rings. I held them in the palm of my hand, wanting to crush
them.
I picked up my phone, feeling anger building in me like molten lava.
“Fabio, where is she?”
 He paused for a second. “Her phone is showing a home location.”
“Wait.”
I pulled open the drawers, lingerie, and accessories flew out until I
found her phone nestled in between two thongs.
“She ditched the phone,” I said through gritted teeth.
My eyes caught the surface of something reflective on the bed. I picked
up the glass ball and rolled it in my palm.
“Get Franco to check all outgoing flights from New York to Paris.”
“Huh?” Fabio said, confused.
“Just fucking do it.”

There was a knock at the door, and I swallowed hard.

“It’s me. Where is he?” Gennaro’s silhouette appeared in the doorway.
“Not here. We need to leave.”
“Leave?” He frowned at the black bag under my arm.
I had only packed essentials. Although my wardrobe had significantly
grown here, it didn’t feel right to take his things with me.
“Sophia, I cannot take you from your husband’s house. No fucking way.
Not even Papá would do that without him having hurt you in some way.”
“He has a mistress,” I snapped.
“Did you expect him to be faithful to you?” He smiled condescendingly.
“Yes,” I muttered.
“Sophia, you know how these things work,” he said impatiently.
“I don’t give a damn how things are meant to work. Take me to the
airport, Gennaro, or I’ll walk there my damn self.”
His smile turned into a frown when he realized I was being serious.
“Take yourself,” he said smugly.
He knew very well I couldn’t leave or take one of Rocco’s cars without
Rocco himself authorizing it. Rocco’s men wouldn’t let me leave here
either; their loyalty stood with their Don.
“Just get me out of here,” I exploded.
“This is absurd! Take you where with what?” he snapped.
 “I have cash,” I blurted out, and my cheeks flushed.
Gennaro’s eyes narrowed. “You stole from him? What do you think will
happen when he realizes?”
I opened the door and he shut it. “If you walk out of this door, he will
drag you back. You know what he is capable of,” he warned.

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Fabio gave me an amused look when he arrived at the house. I’d pulled
everything apart, more out of irritation than a need to actually look for
anything. I felt like taking a lighter to all her belongings.
Fabio read out a list of transactions on her Amex card while I tapped on
the kitchen island impatiently.
“How much did she take?” he asked.
“Half a million.”
“She wasn’t on either of the flights.” He read a text out from Franco,
who’d pulled up the flight lists.
She’d booked tickets on a card she knew I could easily trace and had
laid a false trail. My clever wife.
Fabio looked at me tentatively. “What do you want to do next, Rocco?”
An unsettling feeling ran through me like a shiver down my spine. “Call
Tysen and track her,” I managed to spit out.

“She’s staying at the Four Seasons in the Champs de Mars area of Paris—
that’s the main hit of the transactions. Nothing too extravagant. Cafés,
restaurants, and all that bullshit. She’s definitely there.” Tysen reeled off the
information over the phone.
 Sophia was naïve to think the cash she had stolen wouldn’t have its own
unique trace. Tysen had used his contacts in Europe to pinpoint her exact
movements.
“You’re going to do this one yourself, I’m guessing.” Tysen paused
down the line.
“Of course.” I lit up a cigarette in irritation.
I wasn’t going to tell her papá about this either until I knew every
goddamn fact. If she was with another man, I wanted to know before
anyone else. Despite knowing Gennaro had helped her escape, I hadn’t
acted out of revenge to any of his businesses or him.
Yet.

TWO WEEKS LATER

The smell of fresh bread hung sweetly in the air as I sat outside a little café
by the Champs-Élysées. I pulled out my sketchbook, starting to draw with a
fine pencil before I was distracted by the page containing the lavender rose.
The memory caused a painful thump in my heart.
The adrenaline of my escape had flooded through me for several days
even after I’d arrived in Paris. I’d walked around for hours just marveling at
the rare sights. I’d spent days taking in different landmarks—Notre Dame,
Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre. I felt like a child again, looking at everything
with fresh eyes.
It was difficult to work out where the fault lay when the whole
relationship was built on a house of cards, a business agreement. Romance
and business should never mix; the heart was too precious to put any price
on it. I lay awake at night wondering whether any of it was real or not, but
the memories seemed like water running through my fingers, impossible to
capture.
Gennaro had given me a reluctant send-off, imploring me to call him if
things went wrong. New York had faded into small lights in a cloudy sky as
we’d ascended higher, and Sophia De Luca née Zanetti was a distant
memory.
 Nobody knew my name or who Papá was. It was thrilling, exciting, but
deep down I was waiting for the bubble to burst, constantly looking over
my shoulder. There was no way I’d be released from the tight grip of the
Cosa Nostra so easily.

I walked the short distance to the Eiffel Tower. I’d held off going there until
last as it was the place I’d been dreaming of visiting for so long. It felt
surreal to be standing in front of it finally. Snow had started to fall softly,
but it fell harder while I stood there.
I’d waited for this moment for so long, but now it felt hollow, like
beautiful sunshine without the heat, or like wearing the sweetest perfume
without smelling none of its scent.
“Pretty overrated if you ask me,” a deep voice rasped in my ear.
Ice flooded through me as I turned around slowly.
Standing behind me, in the most romantic city in the world, was my
husband. He was dressed in a simple black suit, and his gaze held mine
lazily for a second as silence loomed between us.
“Rocco,” I whispered.
“Expecting someone else?” he said sharply. He pulled something out of
his pocket.
I moved back suddenly, but the object was small and round.
“You forgot this,” he said, placing it in the palm of my hand.
The miniature Eiffel Tower shook in the small globe, synthetic white
flakes flying down around it while I looked up at the real thing.
The weather was cloudy and cold, reflecting my exact mood. Franco
cursing the cobblestone streets and the influx of romantic couples at every
turn improved my dismal mood slightly.
“Give me the Bronx any day,” he muttered.
“Uncultured cazzo.” I smirked.
After checking into the Four Seasons, we’d done a little recon of
Sophia’s last steps to find out where exactly the fuck my wife was. The
hotel receptionist had told me she’d last asked for directions to the Eiffel
Tower.
I knew it was her even from a distance.
Her dark hair flowed softly in the wind, and every pissed-off feeling I’d
had toward her seemed to blow out like a candle in a mighty gust of wind. I
gave Franco a nod, and he retreated back, disappearing into a small cafe,
where he sat by the window looking out at the view.
I could taste her even before she was aware of my presence, the scent of
vanilla pushing strongly through my senses, a ghostly shiver of
remembrance reverberating through me. Every bit of anger, resentment, and
anguish flooded through me at a million miles per hour now I was so close
to her again.
Her eyes widened into saucers as she turned around slowly. Maybe she
hoped I was just a mirage, a figment of her imagination. A single tear rolled
down her cheek as I handed her the snow globe.
“You found me,” she whispered.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
She shook her head, wiping the tears with the back of her hand.
Anger surged through me. Tears and pleading wouldn’t do anything.
“I want a fucking explanation.”
She sucked in her breath and looked down before I tipped her chin up.
“Sophia.”
“What are you going to do to me?” She swallowed nervously, looking
around at the crowd of people.
“If you’re thinking of running, I wouldn’t,” I warned, flashing the silver
in my waistband.
She sighed a deep breath of acceptance. “Okay,” she said softly.

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Sophia’s eyes stayed on the floor as we walked through the cobblestone
streets. The journey was silent, and Franco trailed behind us stoically. Her
eyes stared at me questioningly as we arrived at the hotel.
“How did you find me?” She frowned as we entered the large suite.
“The cash has a trace. You were giving me a map toward you every
time you spent it,” I said acerbically.
“Oh . . .” She paused.
“Sit down,” I instructed, and she sat on the couch with her legs huddled
together.
“Who are you here with?” I asked sharply.
“Huh?” She looked up blankly.
“Don’t play dumb, Sophia. Are you staying here with another man?” I
growled.
She looked at me half-annoyed, half-confused.
“Or is it the same guy you were shacked up with all those years ago?
Did you think I was going to fucking finance your great romance now
you’re out of your papá’s grip?” Venom seeped through every word I said.
“You’re the one having an affair!” She crossed her arms angrily.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, Rocco.” She repeated my words.
Sophia stood up, and despite me towering over her, she pushed me hard
in the chest. Her eyes were reminiscent of her papá’s: cold and chilling.
“I know all about Tatiana. In fact, everybody does,” she seethed.
“What about her?”
“You’re still seeing her. I saw the photos she sent you.”
 “I assume you would have also checked to see if there were any
messages back, which there weren’t. If you’re going to snoop, Sophia, at
least get the fucking facts right,” I snapped.
“Which is why I called you the night I left. She picked up. Explain
that?” she yelled.
I looked up at her, dumbfounded. How the fuck had she turned this
around on me? “I wasn’t with Tatiana at the club. She came to see me and I
left her in the office.” Realization dawned on me, and I shook my head.
“She must have answered when I was downstairs.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Ask Franco—he will tell you.”
“He’ll lie for you, you mean?” she snapped.
She had me there.
“Review the fucking security tapes and you will see I’m not lying,” I
said firmly.
“The nudes?”
“I don’t look at them. Every time I block her fucking number, she
comes up with a new one. There is nothing going on,” I said emphatically.
“I don’t believe you. Veronica Gattuso said—”
“Fuck Veronica Gattuso!” I roared.
She shook her head, tears cascading down thick and fast. “If you would
have told me you wanted other women, I would have understood, but you
made me—” She winced, wiping her face roughly with the back of her
sleeve.
“There hasn’t been one other person but you since the day I met you,” I
growled.
Her eyes widened before she bit her lip and looked down.
“You stole from me!” I roared.
She sat down on the red velvet chaise longue and wrapped her arms
around herself. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it. You left me without a second fucking
thought. You don’t know how I felt walking into that goddamn house
knowing you’d left me.”
“I swear, I haven’t been with anyone else since I met you. There was
only one other person a long time ago,” she whispered.
I stood up and walked to the window, staring out at the bleak Parisian
scenery. “Tell me his name, and start from the beginning.”
 “His name was Damien Lockwood. He worked for Papá.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, some low-level fixer I’d long
forgotten about.
“Papá had a suitor picked out for me. The contract was signed, and I
panicked. The way he used to stare at me and touch me . . .” Her voice
turned to a whisper. “Damien was the only person who used to talk to me
like I was a real person, not la principessa. He was kind to me. He saw how
unhappy I was and offered me a way out. He made me feel special . . . We
ran away to New Jersey, some low-rent motel to avoid being found, but we
were anyway.”
“He was your first?”
“Yes.”
I fought down the irritation that rumbled in my throat at the thought of
another man touching her.
“Papá found us. He killed him and his father. I was brought back in
shame, and the rest of the story you already know. La principessa was no
more, her image smashed forever. Papá told me Damien took me to set Papá
up to be killed, but I don’t know that for sure.”
“Did you love him?”
She sucked in her breath for a few seconds. “No. It was just a way to
escape.”
“Is that what I was?” A simmering resentment stung me.
She shook her head.
“I’ll ask you again: why did you run away here?”
“Because this was the only place far enough that it would stop me from
thinking of you. Or so I thought. Paris was always my dream, and I couldn’t
be happy with you. I couldn’t stay, Rocco. I didn’t want to be the other
woman in my own marriage—I wanted you to love me only. ”
Franco walked in on the last part of the conversation before walking
straight out of the room again, giving me an alarmed look.
“Do you love me?” The familiar grip in my chest started to pull tightly.
She paused for a second, but the hesitation on her face melted. “Yes,”
she whispered softly.
Elation was replaced with a bolt of anger.
“You left me.”
“I thought you wanted Tatiana and the other women,” she mumbled.
 I pulled her up by her arms roughly. “I’ve done everything I could to get
to you—why would I give it up for somebody else?”
“Because you told me you were cashing in because Papá owed you,”
she whispered.
I narrowed my eyes at her accusingly. “I thought you wanted that too.
You told me you didn’t want it to be romantic?”
She shook her head sadly. “I thought it would be easier that way, but I
couldn’t stop falling for you.” She looked at the floor.
There were a few seconds of silence, and half of me wanted to say
nothing, but the other part won. “Me neither.”
Her eyes widened before a sparkling smile erupted on her face. “It’s not
just business?” She raised an eyebrow.
“It’s personal, baby, no matter how much your papá tried to keep you
away from me. I wanted you from the first time I saw you, and I’ve been
fighting for you ever since.”

Liquid euphoria coursed through my veins and my heart swelled with

happiness. Something churned inside of me looking into Rocco’s familiar
gray orbs. How could I have ever thought anywhere in the world was far
enough not to feel his pull? It felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest
as I’d told Rocco about Damien. His jaw had ticked with familiar
annoyance, but I could tell we’d cut through the worst part.
“Do you forgive me?” I asked.
He ran a thumb across his jaw thoughtfully. “For running away or for
stealing?”
“Both.”
I looked up at him, and his eyes crinkled in concentration.
He nodded slowly. “On two conditions. When I tell you something, you
believe me. Fuck what anybody else thinks.”
“What is the second?” I trembled slowly under his gaze.
He ran his hand through his hair, his gaze stuck on me. “Come here,” he
commanded.
 I walked forward, and he held my chin in his hand, his thumb stroking
my mouth. “No more running, Sophia. Swear to me you won’t do that
again.”
I nodded slowly. “I swear.”
His hand caressed my neck as he whispered in my ear. “I love you,
Sophia De Luca.”
My arms wrapped around him as a metronome of emotion sang through
me.
He loved me.
Only me.
Forever.
I put my head on his chest, inhaling the familiar musk, feeling the
warmth of his body against mine.
“I missed you,” he breathed into the top of my head before bending
down and kissing me. His tone was half-affectionate and half-accusatory,
and I could tell he was still annoyed by the way his mouth crashed down on
mine roughly before he broke the kiss and stared down at me.
I left him just like his mamma did, and I felt some of that pain in the
rawness of his voice. It was the darkness and rough edges of Rocco’s life
that made him the man standing in front of me—a man that would do
anything for me without hesitation. Underneath the icy exterior of the King
of the Cosa Nostra, his heart beat for me—only.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I said firmly.
“Don’t let your mouth write checks your ass can’t cash,” he said
roughly.
Clearly, he wasn’t going to let this go anytime soon.
“I promise.” I looked up at him earnestly.
“You sure about that?” He held my stare, wiping away the last of my
tears.
“Oui.”
“What other French have you learned?” His gaze held mine lazily as
lust imprinted into his eyes.
“Voulez vous coucher avec moi?” I whispered into his ear.
“I think I managed to translate that.” He smirked.
Rocco picked me up bridal-style before throwing me on the bed so hard
I bounced up painfully. I smiled greedily on my knees as he stripped off
slowly, and when he pulled his briefs off, his cock was already standing
strong and erect.
“Take it off,” he demanded. He pulled my legs toward him before
settling down between them.
I shuddered as I felt his hot breath against my thighs before he lingered
over my head. I knew what he was going to do before I felt his spit on my
tongue. His way of telling me I was his—something I was sure I already
knew deep down.
His hot mouth fell to my thighs before his tongue probed me in the
place I wanted him the most, until my nerve endings were fit to explode. It
was rough, slow, messy, and romantic, and our bodies spoke all the hidden
words “I love you” didn’t cover. I called out his name until I was hoarse,
and when I woke up in the morning, we did it all again.
We stayed in bed for the next two days, only leaving for the shower.
Every kiss, touch, and caress was fueled with fiery passion.
On the third day, I awoke to a fully dressed Rocco emerging with two
cups of coffee and a garment bag over his shoulder.
“Come back to bed.” I smiled from underneath the covers.

She was fast asleep when I left her this morning, her dark hair splayed out
on the pillow. The ends had curled from the number of times I’d run my
hands through it. I still felt dazed waking up to her, like everything
beforehand had been a bad dream. I stared at her, rolling a cigarette in
between my fingers in contemplation. I could have walked away and not
forgiven her but there was something inside of me that knew I couldn’t be
complete without her.
I didn’t do things by halves and falling in love was one of them.
Hours later, Franco had given me a dark look from the passenger seat as
I drove us to our early-morning task. “You do realize we have adjoining
rooms, Rocco? Christ, I want to cut my fucking ears off. When are we
going back to New York?” he asked agitatedly.
“Got a couple more things to do, then we’re going.”
 “Like what?” he groaned as I parked outside a jewelry outlet.
When I walked back into the room, I could see her stretching slowly.
My chest gave that unfamiliar jolt it did every time I was in her vicinity.
“I can’t come back to bed—we have plans,” I said slyly.
“What kind of plans?” She pulled a hair tie off her wrist and put her hair
into a messy bun.
I sat on the bed beside her and pulled out a box. She gasped when I
opened it. A thick band of diamonds rested on a simple band, in the center
of a lavender rose. The near enough same rose that I had worn on our first
wedding day, but this time it would mean a lot more. It was an eternity ring,
I wanted to show Sophia that romance was definitely at the core of this
proposal.
Maybe I was a little more sentimental than I wanted to let on when it
came to my wife, but I didn’t give a fuck.
Besides, I hadn’t mentioned that I’d melted her old rings down into
bullets when I was pissed off at her.
“Rocco,” she whispered as I slipped the ring on.
I held her small hand in mine for a second, considering my words. “Our
first wedding was built on a business arrangement. What would you say if I
asked to marry you all over again today?”
She nodded, wiping the tears from her eyes messily with the back of her
hand.
“I’m going to need a little more than that.” I smiled.
“Yes!” She jumped onto my lap and wrapped herself around me tightly.
“Je t’aime pour toujours,” she whispered into my ear.
I love you forever and always.

The End

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The idea of Beautiful Sinner came to me as a random thought, but it took
two years to pen the full storyline. Despite the late nights, multiple rewrites,
and moments that veered from despair to jubilation, I enjoyed every second.
To June-Anne, who helped me to unclip my wings and soar.

To my editor, Bryony, thank you for adding depth to my words and for your
overall magical touch.
Special thanks to Lavande Art & Design for the beautiful cover work and
convincing me that lavender is the best color.
Stacey Blake at Champagne Book Designs, thank you for your beautiful
formatting and everlasting patience with me.
Lastly, thank you for reading I hope you will enjoy Rocco and Sophia’s
story.
Per sempre vostri,
Sarah Sofiane

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Sarah Sofiane’s novels mainly comprise of sinners— the dangerous and
sexy kind with a destructive smile and an even darker heart. Sprinkled in
with a sweet but feisty siren and chemistry so strong— it fizzles through the
book pages.

When she isn’t penning spicy stories, you’ll find her swatching make-up in
Sephora to fuel her blusher addiction, or on a tropical beach sipping on her
favorite cocktail— a margarita.

Visit Sarah’s website to sign up for her newsletter and receive all the latest
release information and updates.

Follow her on Instagram for character mood boards, sneak peeks and
occasional pictures of Sarah drinking cocktails on tropical beaches.

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