Table of Contents

Sold to the Italian Mafia Boss

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
 Sold to the Italian Mafia Boss
By Fia Farina & Rosalie Rose
All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2023 Fia Farina & Rosalie Rose
This story is a work of fiction and any portrayal of any person living or
dead is purely coincidental and not intended.

CLICK HERE
to subscribe to my newsletter & get EXCLUSIVE
updates on all offers, secret previews, and new
releases!
 Chapter 1

Kate

This is stupid.
It’s the thought running on a loop through my mind as I walk fast down
the wet black sidewalks of Dublin’s downtown. This is so, so stupid. I’ve
lived half my life in Ireland and half in the United States. I know when it’s
wise to hit the streets, and I know when it’s an invitation for drama.
For someone like me, drama often means danger—and the real kind, too.
The kind you don’t always come back from. Dad would kill me himself if he
knew. Of course, he would. That’s what happens when your father is the
head of an Irish mob syndicate. The standards shift. An average twenty-
five-year-old woman would usually be fine with a taser in her coat pocket
on a dark city night, head ducked against the wind and spraying rain.
But I’m not an average twenty-five-year-old woman. Am I?
This is so fucking stupid.
When my phone buzzes, my heart jolts hard in my chest. I duck into the
old cracked shell of a bus stop, the plexiglass webbed and rippling with
rain. Overhead, the butter-colored streetlight flickers hard once, then twice,
before snapping out and shoving me into darkness. Well, if that’s not a
fucking omen…
“Hello?” I bring the phone to my ear, eyes skirting the opposite curb. But
the old residential buildings are, for the most part, dark, and there isn’t a
soul in sight. One lone beater comes kicking down the way, rain slashing
off its wheels. Then it’s gone, and I’m alone with the silence on the other
end of the line. “Are you there?”
“Is this Kate McNamara?” The voice is hard and low, male, twisted with
the brogue of an Italian accent.
I hesitate. But what’s the point? I know what I’m doing, right? I hope I
know what I’m doing. “Yes. This is Kate.”
“Do you know who I am?”
I swallow the hard stone that forms in my throat. “Yes.”
Silence.
I bite my cheek. Well, you came out here for this. Didn’t you? This is
what you wanted, isn’t it, Kate? “Your name is Giorgio Rosso. You…”
 “I, what?” There’s a hyena hint in his voice. An eagerness that’s primal,
that smells like fire. “Go on.”
“You used to work for Luca Romano.” His name is brimstone on my
tongue. A Romano is a name I’ve heard my whole life, almost as much as
I’ve heard my own. Spoken with almost as much fear. “My father owes him
a debt.”
“I’m aware.”
“And I want to see it paid.”
He chuckles, following the cold, amused sound with more silence. This
time I wait, too, listening to the rain as it thickens and drums on the
rooftops as it comes down in skeins, fluttering through the distant
streetlights. Finally, Giorgio says, “And how do you think you’re going to
go about that, Ms. McNamara?”
I steel my spine. “I can pay for it.”
“How?”
“How do you think? With money. Collateral. My…” I hesitate, reaching
for the edge of the bus stop frame to steady myself. I think of my father. I
put more steel in my voice. “My father is stubborn. An old-fashioned
gangster.”
“And you?”
“I like to keep things a little more flexible. A little more…modern.” And
I’m no idiot, either. I might make my living as a day trader, but I’m still my
father’s daughter. He never wanted me in his world of organized crime, of
old blood feuds and forced marriages, of debts and deaths and silencers
screwed on the ends of Glocks. Too bad. Too late. “I can handle his work.”
Giorgio doesn’t reply, and now I’m getting uneasy, skin crawling, pulse
twitching. I feel the rain in my blood and in my bones, and I feel the
February cold creeping up through the soles of my shoes. This is so fucking
stupid.
“You’re alone,” says Giorgio, and I think he means it as a question, but
that’s not how he says it.
“Yes,” I reply, uneasy.
“You left your car. Took a cab?”
“…yes.”
“I know.”
I go rigid, clenching my teeth hard. I’ve been in a lot of dangerous
situations throughout my life. I’ve had guns against my head. I’ve had tape
around my wrists and ankles. I’ve had debts leveraged over me before.
Once when I was a little girl, I was taken to a cottage in the country. I was
held there for five days while some Italian brute chain-smoked and kept my
dad on the line, bartering with my blood, with my flesh. I remember sitting
by the window watching cartoons with my captor, eating cereal, and
drinking surprisingly decent tea. The hills outside were spring green, and
the breeze was warm, and when my father negotiated for my release, he
bought it with a bullet in my captor’s head. I still remember the warm
sprinkle of blood across my face, how when it dried, it looked like freckles.
You’re good, girl? Those were Dad’s words. You look to be just fine. Got
your father’s steel in your spine, you do.
I remember that steel now. “I know that you know,” I say sharply to
Giorgio. “I know that you didn’t defect from Luca’s payroll. I know you led
me out here because there’s a GPS dead-spot, and I know you’ve been
following me for the last four blocks.”
There’s a high twang of tension in the silence that follows. I don’t know if
I’ve actually surprised him or caught him off-guard, but I don’t care. That’s
only part of the performance.
“Here’s what you should know,” I continue, more mildly. “I’m armed.
And you and your little muscle wouldn’t be the first men I’ve shot for their
stupidity.”
Giorgio chuckles—and the line goes dead.
My heart plummets. I know I’m in their sights. I don’t know what comes
next, but I know that whatever it is, it’s unlikely I’ll be in control of it. I
knew what I was risking, getting in touch with Giorgio. I knew what I was
risking by stepping up to pay my father’s debt. I know that tonight might
end with me dead, face-down in the gutter, with a message of five or ten
bullets in the back of my skull.
It’s better than living in fear. Better than watching my father lose both his
life, slowly, to cancer—and his empire, his dignity, his pride.
I want to run. Everything in me says to. My will to live burns hard, hot, a
torch in my chest. But I don’t let it reach my feet. I don’t let the fear
motivate me. Instead, I reach once again for that steel I inherited from my
father. I turn and sit on the bench, listening to the rain. I breathe. Whatever
happens, I can handle it. Whatever comes, I can take it. However this ends,
it will end with me fighting. Fighting like hell.
 Headlights spring to life at the end of the black city road. My heart
lurches into my throat. My hands tighten on my knees, and I resist the urge
to reach for the Glock inside my coat. Instead, I just gently bring my elbow
to my side and, with it, the pistol, grateful for the cold weight of it against
my ribs. I have killed before, and I wasn’t lying about that. It’d be stupid to
do it here, but I would. Stupid and counterproductive. But I’m my father’s
daughter, after all, and I’ll do whatever the hell I have to.
The car approaches. It’s sleeker than I thought it would be—night-black,
deep and glittering—some kind of panther-like Audi, sleek and low-bound,
silent even in the draping cold rain. Exhaust plumes, and it’s the back
window that glides down. I wait, looking into the dark, waiting for the nose
of a pistol, waiting for the muzzle flash, the sudden back pain, the cold, wet
concrete seeping against my back through my coat.
Nothing. I wait. Then the driver’s side door swings open. An older man
with thick white hair and a mustache, well-dressed and brawny but not
muscular, steps out. I stand, and he approaches, dark eyes glancing over me.
I wait again, white hissing into the edges of my vision. Fear is just a
feeling, fear is just a sensation, and fear has no control over me—
But when his gloved hand rises, I move without thinking, hand flicking
beneath my coat, fingers grazing the cool edge of my pistol. He’s a big man
and not young—so when his fist moves so fast, I almost think I’m
imagining it. But his weight is in it, and he clocks me so hard I see stars, his
whole fist slamming me square in the jaw. I stagger back, slamming into the
plexiglass wall of the bus stop.
“Wait,” I say, teeth-rattling, pain bursting red inside my skull. “I—”
His hand lands on my throat, silencing me, and he shoves me hard
against the plexiglass. A rasp leaves my throat but no words, and I grip his
wrist with both of my hands, trying in vain, trying to absolutely no success,
to break or just loosen his grip. I can feel my windpipe bending beneath the
brunt of his meaty palm. His expression shows nothing. It’s blank, not even
cold, as though he’s opening a door or starting his car. White creeps in
again at the edges of my vision—every vein in my skull pounds, feeling full
enough to burst.
Gun, gun, gun. What the fuck am I doing? I drop one hand, shoving it
beneath my coat. I have one shot at this—
I get my fingers on the pistol, yank it free and shove it against the man’s
ribs under his fine, Italian silk blazer.
 He swats my hand aside. I’ve hit the safety, and I can fire, but to what
end? I’d shoot the sidewalk or into a parked car, and I brought my silencer
but didn’t screw it on. I’ve barely filtered through the thoughts before the
pistol has left my fingers. It goes clattering to the sidewalk, and the driver
turns and kicks it neatly, sending it flying into the gutter.
Fuck. He’s got to have a gun on him, too. I just need to guess: waistband?
Breast pocket? Beneath the ribs? How quickly could I grab it, arm it, and
cock it? How quickly could I squeeze off a shot? My skull feels full to
bursting, his hand around my throat crushing every ounce of oxygen out of
me. Even if I shot, could I kill him? Who’s in the car? How many?
This was so fucking stupid.
I grab his wrist again, this time sinking my nails into his flesh, every
single one. I get them into the meat and drag them back toward him, flaying
off potato-peels of his skin, blood welting immediately to the surface.
“Fuck,” he snarls, voice heavy with an Italian accent. “Little Irish bitch
—”
He raises his other hand, bracing to bring it down hard. I don’t want to
get hit again. My skull is rattled, my thoughts and instincts frayed—but I
know I can’t get hit again. That’s when I go down. That’s when I go out.
That’s the potential end, and I’m not ready to die. Something sparks off in
me, a surge of wild animal energy, and I cock back, slamming my fist with
every last ounce of strength I have into the driver’s eye.
He roars, and fear comes ripping up my spine. I feel like I’m coming
apart, and I feel like that sound means this man is going to kill me. He
wants to kill me; he wants to do it with his hands and watch the light go out
of my eyes. But the blow breaks his grip just enough. And I slip from his
hand and rush toward the street.
A shadow detaches from the car—what the fuck, when did that get there?
It’s a man, extremely tall, broad-shouldered. I can only see half his face in
the dark, and it takes my breath away: the dark eye, the trim-bearded jaw,
the swept-back rich brown curls, the full, angry mouth. His hand shoots out,
and I’m so fucking close to the gun, I see it, aglitter in the gutter, and if I
could just kneel enough, if my reach is just long enough—
His hand catches my elbow, tightening, a vice grip. I lunge, reaching
desperately for the gutter. My fingers graze the grip of my Glock. Fuck,
further, please, just a little bit—
 I strain, somehow getting my hand around the grip. My breath is wild, ice
cold as I whip around, shove my pistol against the man’s chest—
He’s quick. Easily, his hand glides up my wrist, twisting it back. The
nose of the pistol goes straight up, and I squeeze the trigger just a heartbeat
too slow. The shot goes high as he disarms me neatly, the pistol—and my
last hope—slipping straight through my fingers.
“Kate,” says the man, his voice low, its timbre in my ribs. “You’ve
already lost.”
 Chapter 2

Luca

Her pale face, her dark golden hair, her wild eyes. She looks animal in the
dark, blood running from one nostril from the blow Dome gave her.
Horrible, mottled bruises are spreading across her neck. She looks like she
just survived something. Like she just saved her own life.
Does she know that she did?
Her pistol is light in my hand. I slip on the safety and deposit it into the
waistband of my pants. My grip on her wrist is tight, bent just so that if she
bends, it will snap. She’s frozen now, the fight gone out of her. She knows
the fight is over. She knows she is at my mercy.
But it was close. Far, far closer than I thought it would be. She’s a fucking
fighter, this one. And she succeeded in doing what almost no one does or
ever can—she caught me off-guard.
“The police will arrive here shortly,” I tell Kate smoothly. Dome,
grunting, is braced against the driver’s door. He has a silk handkerchief
against his face, already soiled with dark fresh blood. She got him square in
the eye and hard. I wonder if the damage will be lasting; it should be,
biblically. He let her go. What he got, he deserved. “I advise you to get into
the car without fighting.”
Kate’s eyes dart to the car, back to me, then to Dome.
“He won’t hurt you,” I say diplomatically. “Unless you fight.”
She swallows. She’s trembling. But I admire her courage. She hasn’t
begged for her life, hasn’t asked for mercy. She knew I was coming, I think.
She’s as clever as she is fearless. Then again, fearless can easily be a
synonym for foolhardy.
“Get in the car, Kate,” I say, beginning to lose my patience. “Or I will
make you get in the car.”
Quaking, her eyes wide, she nods once. I loosen my grip and her
shoulders soften—I didn’t realize how much pain I had her in. So, she’s
tough, too. This is going to be much more interesting than I thought it
would be. As she shifts toward the open back door, I turn, pressing her
against the car. She startles, looking at me sharply, her front against mine.
Something crosses her expression, and I clock it, even in the dark, even in
the rain: intrigue.
She finds me as interesting, it seems, as I find her.
“No bad behavior,” I warn her, stepping ever so slightly closer, pressing
her ever so slightly harder against the car. “Because you may be a valuable
hostage, but you’re worth a good deal dead, too.”
She hesitates, eyes locked with mine. Perhaps searching to see how
serious I am. After a moment, she nods once and slides into the car.
Dome leans back, looking at me. His face is full of black rage. His eye is
swollen shut, streaked with blood. Around his eye socket, his skin is taut,
puffy, angry, and red. Hell. She got him good. He looks like he could break
her in half. I give him a raised brow and a slight smile.
“Next time,” I advise my driver. “Don’t let go.”
I slide into the backseat, and Dome closes the door, trapping Kate
McNamara, my rival mob boss’s daughter, with me in the back of my car. I
reach beneath the seat and pull out a plastic bag. Inside is a fold of damp
cloth. I remove it and hand it to Kate without looking.
“Breathe,” I tell her.
“What?”
I sigh, facing her. When I lean toward her, she recoils. “Come,” I order
her more sharply. After a moment, she leans slightly closer. “Closer.” She
obeys, eyes wild with fear, and I press the cloth over her mouth and nose.
Immediately, she recoils. This time I slide my hand behind her head, into
her hair, trapping her. Her eyes go huge, but I can feel her take a startled
breath. The chloroform at once begins to do its work. She grips my arm as
though to fight me. But I’m far stronger, and it takes very little to keep her
there, in place. To keep the cloth against her face as she, against her own
will, breathes it in.
Her eyes flutter and close. As she loses consciousness, I gently lay her
down.
Even in sleep, she looks troubled.
And I think: This is going to be very, very interesting.
***
“The cunt blinded me.”
I sigh, unbuttoning the front of my suit jacket and sliding into the chair
behind my office desk. “You’re not blind, Dome,” I say in Italian. “Have
Sergio look at it. You’re fine.” I smile faintly, studying him over my desk.
The red bruising has deepened to black. “She’s a bit of a pistol.”
He grunts. “She is trouble.”
“Yes, well. She is Liam McNamara’s only child, after all.”
“The bastard was dead-set on keeping the girl out of his world,” says
Dome bitterly. He worked for my late father, who was Liam’s rival before I
was. “And yet, here she is. These men never learn. Since the days of war,
they do not learn to protect their daughters.”
“Children are a weakness.”
Dome must hear the note of bitterness in my voice. He looks up sharply,
startled. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” I say. “Is she awake?”
Dome clears his throat, guilt clear in his old, familiar face. “Yes. I believe
she is.”
“I’ll see her.”
Dome nods once, firmly, and turns out of the room, leaving me alone.
Children are a weakness. I drum my fingers on the desk, turning to face the
window. It’s early here in Northern Italy, our flight having been quick and
decent. Fog buries the landscape of winter-stark hills and snowy mountains.
The gardens are bare and black-boughed, the stone fences crimped with
white frost. Beautiful and desolate, a place fit for me, for the life I have
inherited, and for the life that I have built.
I’m not the first person to say that children are a weakness in this house.
My father did, too, once. And he was right. In the end, it was his child—me
—that got the man killed. In the end, his love for me spelled the end of his
life.
A knock at the door, and Kate walks in. Dome hovers like a shadow
behind her. I don’t miss the way he shoves her through the doorway, rough,
personal. But I say nothing. It’s not for me to care, really, how the
McNamara girl is treated here. Even if it is my house—Kate is nothing to
me but a hostage. And it would be good for her to feel a little fear.
I nod to Dome, and he closes the door, giving Kate a bitter, one-eyed
once-over. Once he’s gone, I set my sights on her more seriously, more
fully.
She’s showered and changed, the blood cleaned from her face. Her eyes
are tired and lined, a hangover, probably, from the chloroform and the time
change. Does she know where she is? She must at least suspect. And yet,
she barely looks frightened at all. If anything, she looks pissed off.
 And not too hard on the eyes. I try to quash the thought at once, but
really, what the hell does it matter? It’s only a matter of fact. She’s petite,
with sweet porcelain features and a hint of a warm undertone. She’s
flushed, and I don’t know if it’s because of the situation or because of me. I
tend to have such an effect on women, even on unorthodox ones. Her face is
dusted with freckles, soft and light, and her dark, honey-gold hair has a
natural curl to it that begs to be touched. It’s how she holds herself, though,
which intrigues me most: like she’s the biggest person in the room,
shoulders back and chin cocked, eyes narrowed to slits. She looks like she
could shoot you point blank and not blink as the blood sprayed across her
face.
I cut the tension, gesturing politely to the chair across from mine. “Sit.”
She doesn’t break my gaze as she crosses the room, and does I say. I get
the sense she’s not concerned with the image of obeying me. Of course,
she’s not. Last night, she pulled a trigger on me—didn’t even think twice,
didn’t even hesitate. She’s certainly not the kind of girl you want in bed
with you. Not the kind of girl you want to have your children. She’s the
kind you’d like at your side in a fight.
I’m not sure which would make any of this easier.
“Well,” Kate says, leaning forward. She rests both elbows on my desk
and twines her fingers, eyes narrowed. “You’ve kidnapped me. You’ve
dragged me over country lines. You’ve holed me up as a prisoner. You must
have some clever idea of how this all plays out in your favor.”
“Naturally.”
“Naturally. And I’d like to hear it.”
“You’re not a player in this,” I advise her, noting, with some pleasure,
how it strikes a nerve. She manages to keep her face straight, but her eyes
flash with annoyance. Good. She’s got an ego to bruise. That will make
things easier. “You’re a prize to be traded, bartered, and sold.”
“Sold.”
“That’s right.”
“Might I ask to whom and as what?”
“Well, that’s all to be decided,” I say, giving her a faint, icy smile. It’s
meant to belittle, and I can tell by her expression, by the tightening of her
lips, that it does. “I called in your father’s debt. You called a man you
supposed was my enemy. Why? To what end, Ms. McNamara?”
“I knew Gio was a rat. I do my research, too.”
 “Best you can.”
“Best I can,” she agrees, seeming to give a little. She eyes me more
coolly, with open suspicion. Sizing me up. “I wanted to speak with you
directly.”
I chuckle, too caught by this to stop myself. She arches a brow. “You
expect me to believe this—you being kidnapped and dragged from Ireland
to Italy—is all somehow part of your plan? You’ve got guts, McNamara.
But even you’re not that clever. And anyway, I can’t see how you’re in any
kind of a winning position here now.”
Kate smirks. Smirks. Like she has one over on me. Slowly, she sits back,
crossing her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a very fine sweater,
something one of the maids must have selected and provided for her. She
looks like a girl comfortable in a hoodie or a silk dress, and as someone
who grew up in both money and the mafia, I suppose she must be. She’s
immediately enigmatic, slightly difficult to read. Not something I’m exactly
used to.
Not exactly something I don’t enjoy.
“I admit I didn’t think I’d end up here,” she confesses, eyes dropping.
With her complexion and hair color, I thought they’d be blue, but they’re
not; they’re hazel, soft, and light. In the cold winter sun, they’re almost
transparent. Honey. “But I did intend to negotiate.”
“Clearly.”
“I’m of more use to you as myself than a hostage.”
I study her. She really does believe herself to be some kind of a player in
this rather than a piece on the board. Fine, then. Let’s see what she’s got.
I sit back, regarding her more seriously, and say, “Negotiate, then.”
 Chapter 3

Kate

Cocky. Of course, he is. Look at him. Tall, beautiful. Wearing power and
wealth and luxury like he was born in it. Like he owns it all. He was. He
does. I’ve been in this world a long time, and never have I met someone so
beautifully suited to it.
Luca is tall and elegant, with olive skin and rich, dark brown curls. His
beard is thick but neat, his eyes so dark a brown they’re nearly black. He’s
hard angles, some pretty, some rugged, a balanced composition that begs to
be touched, traced, admired. In any other situation, I would. I’d admire him.
With my hands. With my mouth.
But before I fall into the magnetism of his presence, I have to remind
myself: this man kidnapped me. This man watched his driver beat and
choked me. This man dragged me over country lines and locked me up like
some princess in a medieval fairy tale. He is not a good guy.
He is the enemy.
Negotiate. He said it magnanimously, like he was doing me a favor. Who
the fuck do you think you are, Luca Romano? I’m about to show him just
who the hell I am.
“My father isn’t going to waste his time negotiating with you,” I say
simply, shrugging a shoulder in as blasé a way as I can. I’m bluffing. I’m
good at it, I know that I am, and I’ve had a lot of practice. But something
gives me the impression that Luca knows a thing or two about bluffing
himself. “You’re beneath him.”
Luca chuckles. “That’s not why you’re here for him now. That’s not why
you’re throwing yourself at my feet.”
Heat rushes up the back of my neck. He says it without breaking eye
contact. I can’t tell if it’s fear or desire that has my heart racing.
Both—either—make me angry.
“Your father was the man my father feared,” I say icily, knowing it will
wound. I can tell by the way his smile sours, even just slightly, that it does.
“Not you. You can call in old debts left and right. But you have to know
how it looks, don’t you? You’re a smart man. Smart enough to keep
yourself alive all these years after your father left his empire to you. So you
must know. Calling in debts like this all at once makes you look weak. It
makes you look poor. Mismanaged, even.”
His smile is small, sharp, and quick as a knife. “Calling in debts the way
I do is anything but. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. I elect to let them
speak for me.”
I swallow. I have heard the stories. Of course, I have. Men strung up and
beaten to death in their family homes, in their kitchens, and in their living
rooms, and left swinging in their showers. Garage-made bombs strapped
under cars and set off on highways and drop-off lines for schools.
My father wouldn’t be so easy to target. Even in his current state, and
even with a few debts out, he is still a kingpin. Still the king of Ireland’s
criminal underground.
“You’ve had trouble getting to Liam,” I say, calling my father by name.
“You knew there was a risk in letting your man speak with me, and you did
it anyway. You took a calculated risk, just like I did. And here we are.”
“Here we are, and you have yet to negotiate.”
“I have access to more accounts than you would think. More accounts
than anyone else in the syndicate. More even than my father.”
Luca chuckles, catching me off-guard once again. Smoothly, he runs a
hand over his beard. I find myself wishing I was doing the same, and I have
to give myself a shake.
“I know you work in finance,” says Luca. “I know everything you’ve
done since you graduated college in America, Kate. I know you’re smarter
than you let on. I know you’ve spent your life in and out of this world. But I
also know that your father doesn’t want you in it—and I know that if he
knew you were here now, he would do anything to get you back. He
would…pay any price.”
My mouth dries. It’s true. Another risk I took. “So sell me,” I say, with
more confidence than I’ve got. “Sell me to him, sell me to some other high
bidder. Go ahead.”
Luca cocks his head, and I heat under the directness of his gaze. His
lashes are thick, off-set by his beard, by his thick, dark waves. I want to run
my hands through every curl. And I can smell him from here, some subtle,
expensive, custom Italian cologne; it smells like sea salt, like balsam. In
another world, maybe we do. Maybe we fuck.
But in this one—in this world—he wants to kill me.
 “There’s a reason you’re hearing me out right now,” I say, hoping against
hope that I’m right. “And it’s not chivalry. You know I wouldn’t be here,
wouldn’t have even risked being here, if I didn’t know I had a hand to
play.”
“I’m listening, Kate.”
Kate. Is that the first time he’s called me by my name? It cuts right
through me, a knife through warm butter. It makes my hands tighten on my
knees.
“I can offer you more than the debt,” I say, bracing. This is what you
came for, I remind myself. My heart is in my mouth. My father, I know, as
much as he loves me—will never forgive me for this. “I can offer you
fealty.”
Luca’s eyes narrow, and I can see by the light in them that this is not
what he was expecting. “Fealty,” he says, with a hint of amusement. “What
is this? The dark ages? Are you a knight, Kate? Am I a king?”
He’s playing with me, but I’m serious. Does he really think I didn’t think
this out? “Our families,” I say, keeping my voice stony. “Our empires have
been at war for ages. Decades. That war killed your father.”
He flinches almost imperceptibly, and I file away that nerve for later. It
will come in handy.
“I have accounts to give you,” I press. “Accounts to open and share. I
have contacts. Collateral. You have to have thought about it. Together, we’d
run half of Europe. Drugs, arms, real estate, all the capital you could think
of, all the capital you could want—and that’s not even taking into
consideration what I have in the states.”
He looks at me strangely then, like I’ve stepped through a mirror, and
he’s seeing me before him, real, tangible, for the first time. Like he’s
decoding me or trying to. He’s quiet for a long time. So long I begin to
wonder if I’ve lost him.
Then, finally, he sits back. “You have to know that even if we were to
strike a deal like this, you couldn’t simply walk out of here.”
I nod. “I know.”
“I’d need you vetted, not to mention every account. Every contact. I’d
need your vouching. I’d need you in meetings, in arrangements. This isn’t
just a paper you can sign, and then you’re out on bail.”
A chill inches down my spine. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
“You would need to remain here.”
 “Yes.”
“And you’ve calculated this.”
“Like I said—I’m good with numbers.”
Luca regards me with something near admiration. His gaze is so cold and
direct and blunt, though, that I can’t be sure. I can’t read him, not yet. But
the plus side to that is that he can’t read me, either.
At least—I hope that he can’t.
“I’ll think about it,” he finally says, and I detect more than a concession
in his tone—there’s also a little bitterness. I’m not exactly what he
expected; I don’t think. Maybe he’s registering that I won’t be easy to push
around or off-load. Good. Let him squirm. “In the meantime, you’ll be
allowed to make yourself comfortable.”
“No dungeons and chains?”
“Not if you pan out the way you seem to think you will.” He stands, and I
feel a soft surge of heat, looking at him in the cold, stark daylight. He’s so
tall. His shoulders and chest are so broad. His suit clings to his biceps when
he shifts and turns, with a silken, expensive kind of confidence. Damn. He’s
not making this easy. “Come.”
“Wait,” I say as he brushes past me. I quickly stand. “That’s it? You don’t
want to look over any of my offerings? You don’t want to run any numbers?
Make any calls, or—”
“Frankly, Kate,” he says, turning sharply. So sharply that even as I step
back, we nearly walk into one another. I expect him to draw back, but
instead, he presses forward, like he did last night by the car in Dublin. He
presses his front to mine with a savage kind of cockiness, and I step back,
my ass bumping up against the desk. “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw
you.”
“I—”
“Don’t. Don’t speak. You’ve spoken plenty.”
That silences me faster and more efficiently than I’d like it to. My heart
jumps up into my mouth. I register all at once that his whole body is against
mine, that he’s undoubtedly armed, and I’m not. That with the snap of his
fingers, he could have me dead, beaten, sold, locked away. Usually, I would
talk back. The ice in his eyes tells me not to.
“I don’t like cockiness in my enemies,” Luca says, his expression hard
and unyielding. He’s so much taller than me that I have to tilt my head back
to meet his gaze. And it’s penetrating. Cutting deep. “It tends to signify
stupidity. But you’re new to the people-facing side of organized crime, that
much I can tell. So I’ll forgive the attitude.”
Attitude? Who the fuck does this guy think he’s dealing with?
“I won’t kill you,” he says. “I won’t sell you off like a brood mare. I
won’t make a hostage auction of you. I know enough to appraise my goods
before I take them to market.”
My hackles rise. I can’t silence the bitter, hissed “Fuck you” that rises to
my lips.
His eyes narrow slightly. It’s amusement in them, though, not anger. “But
your fealty, until proven, means less than nothing to me, Kate. I’m telling
you to be good and obedient if you want to keep your life. I’ll give you one
opportunity to accept my generous offer.”
My obedience for my life. I bite my cheek. My heart is going hard, a fist
against the inside of my ribs. I don’t have much choice. But I can be patient.
For the right cause, for the right man—for my father—I can be patient.
“OK,” I mutter.
He leans in, tilting his ear toward me. “OK? OK, what, McNamara?”
“I’ll…be obedient.”
“Good and obedient.”
Heat surges into my face. “I’ll be good and obedient.”
“Yes, I think you will.” He turns, his eyes boring into mine. They’re rich
and deep and dark and terrible, sliding from mine to my mouth. Easy as
velvet. There’s purpose in that gesture. Intention. And as much as I want to
shove a pistol against this man’s ribs, I’d be lying if I said the way he looks
at me doesn’t turn me the fuck on, too. “Now, that wasn’t so difficult. Was
it?”
He turns away without another word, going to the door and giving it a
quick little rap. When he does, Dome pushes in, looking more pissed off
now than ever. His eyes lock onto me, and fear lances up my spine.
“Kate is tired,” says Luca, in such a condescending tone that I
immediately wonder how good it’d feel about breaking his fingers. Easy,
Kate. That’s neither good nor obedient. “I think she’d like to be taken to
bed.” His eyes dance. “Isn’t that right, Kate?”
Fuck you. “Yes. That’s right.”
“Good girl.”
Now I’m imagining breaking much, much more precious things than
Luca’s fingers. But I don’t say a word. I’m in as deep as I can manage. And
despite his willingness to play ball with me, I sense there’s a much more
lethal, red-eyed side of this man. After all, he had Dome nearly kill me last
night. And all he did was watch from the dark.
When Dome grabs me roughly by the shoulder and leads me back out
into the hall, I don’t fight. But I don’t break eye contact with Luca, either.
Two can play this game.
And something tells me that Luca Romano has no idea who the hell he
just got into bed with.
 Chapter 4

Luca

Ariana raps at the door to the office, and I look up. A man who didn’t know
her might think her beautiful: tall, curvy, with rich olive skin and dark curls
swinging wildly to the small of her back. She dresses well, in baggy, chic
trousers today and a long blazer, her silk shirt revealing every bit as much
of her as she’d like it to.
But a man like me, who knows Ariana well, might also notice the cold
deadness in her green eyes. He might clock the pistol tucked discreetly
beneath her arm, which flashes just a little when she moves. And he might
know her history: as an art and arms dealer unrivaled in both Europe and
the states.
“You look tired,” she says, without heat. She meets me beside my desk,
abandoning the customary kiss on the cheek for a hard handshake. As usual.
“Sit. We have much to discuss.”
“Ari,” I say with a sigh. “This is my office. My house. My country, really
—depending on who you ask.”
“Such a thing shouldn’t be dependent on who’s asked,” she says, tossing
her expensive, treated black leather briefcase carelessly onto the edge of my
desk. “That seems like the kind of knowledge that ought to remain
consistent across all polled.”
I sigh again, waiting until she sits to go to the corner and pour both of us
a drink. Ariana has always been like this. The only child of a Russian arms
dealer and an Italian mobster, she’s rarely—if ever—had to question her
own worth in a room. Any room. She was an enemy of my father’s, even
though she and I were the same age. I wasn’t foolish enough to make her
my enemy, too. Instead, I brought her on, one of the first changes I made
when I took over.
Dome and a few of my father’s old allies expressed their disgust at the
idea immediately, and some kept it up. A few have come around. But I was
living by an old creed and still am. Similar to the one I’m living by with
Kate upstairs, locked in her little ivory tower.
Keep your enemies close.
 “So,” Ari says, taking the negroni I give her with a look of annoyance.
She doesn’t like that I know what she likes. Good. I’ll need to keep her on
her toes. “Tell me about Liam’s kid.”
“As if you don’t know about her.” Ari is also known for doing her
research. In this way, we’ve managed to align pretty well thus far. “She
practically offered herself. I couldn’t say no.”
“You could have put a bullet in the back of her head and left her in a
Dublin gutter.” Ari sighs, sipping her negroni and kicking back, one boot
over her knee. “That would have sent the message better, and we wouldn’t
have Liam and his dogs sniffing around our side of the continent.”
“Liam is ill. Bedridden. Hemorrhaging money, losing men. There’s talk
of a mutiny.” I drum my fingers on the edge of my desk and drink my
Scotch deeply. I watch Ari over the rim of my glass. I’ve been in power for
half a decade; she’s been at my side for nearly all of it. Yet as much as I like
to believe I know her in and out, sometimes I wonder. “This is strategic.
You know that.”
“Strategic is the marriage.”
I look at her sharply. She cocks a brow and reaches into her briefcase.
Then she slides an iPad across the desk toward me. I stare at the screen, not
touching it. “What is this?”
“What do you think it is, Luca? The girl is worth most bartered and sold
to the highest bidder. These are the highest bidders.”
I stare hard at the iPad. The man is Russian, old enough to be Kate’s
father. “I’m not certain that’s the play.”
“She’s mafia royalty. What other play is there? Sitting here, locked up in
your little compound, she’s worthless. No, worse than worthless—she’s a
liability. Do you really want to play capture the flag with Liam McNamara?
Old and sick or not, he’s been at this longer than you. Much longer. He has
the forces. He has hands in this country. You’re inviting him to war.”
Does she think I haven’t considered all of this? “I have contacts from the
girl.” I’m careful not to be overly familiar. To call her, as I’m strangely
tempted to, Kate. “I want you to go over them. Vet them. Determine the
worth and return on each.” I flip the cover on her iPad closed and shove it
back across the desk, showing I’m not even entertaining the thought.
“That’s why you’re here. I’m not requesting your counsel.”
She smiles. Pure ice, pure steel. “You should be. Clearly, your judgment
has been clouded.”
 “She may be of more worth this way.”
She leans back, studying me. “There is one other way she’s worth more
to you than being married off to a Russian arms dealer. I’ll give you that.”
I cock a brow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“Think long and hard, Luca.” There’s something in her face: a blunt,
malicious amusement. This is who Ariana is to me. Dangerous. But more
dangerous across the board than beside me on it. So far, that is. “Come on.
Don’t be stupid. You have to know what everyone woke up thinking this
morning. Why did Luca Romano kidnap Liam McNamara’s daughter and
drag her across Europe?”
I bristle. “I’m not taking her for myself.”
“It would be so easy, you know. Whether you did it for loyalty or to send
a message. You could marry her and lock down all of those contacts,
whether she wants you to or not. You could fuck her and get her pregnant.
You could bind your organization to Liam’s like kings and queens used to
bind their countries. By blood.”
I clench my jaw. I’m not sure what it is about the suggestion that has my
hackles up. Maybe it’s the glitter in her eye—the fact that she’s clearly
enjoying this. A lot. Too much. Why? I get the sense that Ari knows more
than she’s letting on. It’s not the first time. I have checks and balances set
up on her, some she knows about, and some that I’ve kept under wraps. I’ll
have to tap into them. See what she’s been up to when she’s off-campus
lately. Whom she’s talking to. Whose lap she’s been sitting on.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, hoping she buys the bluff. Finishing my drink,
I stand. “For now, check into the leads I gave you. I want to know exactly
what kind of assets we’re working with, no matter how we deal with her.”
“As you wish.” Ari sighs, polishing her negroni and standing. She grabs
her briefcase. “But think about what I said. She has more worth as a wife.
Or,” she inclines her head, giving me a sharp smile, “as a corpse.”
And with that, she turns and leaves me.
***
I’m not sure what I’m expecting when I push, without knocking, into
Kate’s room. Well, the guest room she’s been allotted. It is, thanks to me—
the grandest in the villa. As much as I’ve considered Ari’s suggestion, and
as effective as torture and mistreatment might have proven to be, it didn’t
feel right. Kate may be the daughter of my greatest enemy, but she’s also a
woman. Intelligent, self-assured, and deserving of this most basic respect.
 Unless, that is, she does anything to lose it.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but it’s not this: Kate curled up on a
plush, embroidered reading chair, pulled up under the window. Snow falls
softly outside, over the stark wild grounds and near-enough-to-touch
mountains. The winter afternoon is peaking, as bright as it will be. The
window is white and radiant, falling on her honey-colored hair, on her full
lips. She has a hardback classic open on her lap, already two-thirds read.
And she doesn’t look up when I enter or when I close the door behind me.
I approach, startled to find myself…unsure. I slide my hands into the
pockets of my pants, hesitating as I reach her. Still, she doesn’t look up.
I finally clear my throat. “Have you been treated well?”
“You disarmed me and took my phone. Other than that, I’m thriving.”
Her voice is even. Not even a hint of anger. Interesting. “And the heat needs
to be turned up.” Without looking, she points to the heating vent. “How old
is this house?”
“A couple of centuries.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“A beautiful prison?” I move closer. She seems to have dragged the chair
to the window herself, the heavy mahogany feet having left soft scars on the
plush Persian rug. On the antique table before her, a fresh cup of tea steams.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she lived here and always had. She has
the aspect of a woman of the house. And yet she just commented on my
taking her gun from her… “I’m having the information you gave me
assessed.”
“By Ariana Starkova?”
I stare at her. I shouldn’t be surprised she knows Ari by name or that
she’s the handler of many of my European accounts. Still. It catches me off-
guard. “Yes.”
“Her father shot my father once. Did you know that?” Finally, she looks
at me. Her eyes lance, piercing me straight through. I exhale softly, feeling
a strange tension release—like I was waiting for her to look at me and
didn’t even know it. “In the chest. He nearly died. It took him three months
to recover.”
“I didn’t know that.” I should have, though. All of our fathers have a
rich, blood-stained history. Two of them are now dead, with Liam
ostensibly on his way to joining them. “Have you met her before?”
 “Once. In Rome. My father and I were there making a trade. But the
cover was a gala, some charity event in the heart of the city.” Kate touches
the corner of the page she’s on with extreme delicacy. “I was barely legal.
All dressed up, you know. Like that’s why we were there. And meanwhile,
my father had men loading Renaissance paintings into wooden crates like
souvenirs.”
I study her. She has no guard up now, strangely. She’s speaking softly,
fingers dancing reverently over the old book page. As though she’s telling
something to an old friend, not an enemy who kidnapped her just yesterday.
“Ariana came up to me on a balcony,” she says, and her face hardens
slightly. “I didn’t like her. I’m surprised that you do. She’s dangerous. She’s
not anyone’s friend but her father’s, and he’s dead.” Her eyes snap to mine.
“I heard you brought her on a few years ago. I thought you were an idiot
then.”
I can’t help myself asking: “What do you think of me now?”
“I don’t know yet. I guess that depends on what happens next.” She
sighs, closing the book. The Crucible. I press my lips together. “Have you
decided what you’re going to do with me?”
“Not yet.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I’d like you to have dinner with me this evening. Here, in the house. To
discuss things.”
She narrows her eyes. And to my surprise, she stands. She’s in sock-feet,
soft pants, and a long sweater. Her hair long and loose. As domestic as I’ve
seen her, given that the first time we interacted was on a dark street, both of
us armed. “I reached out to Gio,” she says. “Recall? I’m the one who got
this game started. I may be locked up in your house, but I’m not your pawn.
You’re not in control here, Luca.”
I narrow my eyes right back. “You’d be wise to watch your tone with me.
I’ve been a perfect gentleman so far—”
“A perfect gentleman?” She steps closer, so close we’re nearly touching.
Toe to toe. I refuse to so much as budge an inch. She jerks down the collar
of her sweater, revealing a ring of purpling bruises wrapped around her
neck. In the shape of Dome’s hands. “What kind of perfect gentleman
orders this, hm? I don’t care who you are. You’re a gangster. You can’t
impress me. But don’t act like you’re giving me some kind of mercy.
You’re not.”
 “I could have killed you.”
“Assess the accounts,” she says sharply. “Then we’ll talk. Until then, I’m
staying right here. And until you’ve given me the respect—and the fucking
agency—that I’m deserving of, I’m keeping my mouth shut.”
She turns away, and my anger and my instincts get the better of me. I
catch her by the elbow, more roughly than I mean to, and push her back,
directing her ass back into the reading chair. She sits hard, looking up at me
with blank astonishment. Fucking good, I think savagely. You should be
scared of me. I kneel before her, my grip on her arm tightening. I force her
to look me in the eye.
“You strike me as the kind of girl who’s used to getting what she wants,”
I say sharply. She squirms, trying to pull away from me. But I need to quash
this now, and I’m too pissed off to stop myself anyway. I tighten my grip
hard enough to bruise and yank her closer. She narrows her eyes, her soft
mouth tightening. “That ends now. You want a shot at surviving this? You
do as I fucking say, and you do it with a fucking smile on your face.”
Her eyes widen. Her mouth is a hard line. She’s gone pale, daubs of red
creeping across her cheeks. I can tell she’s in pain, but she’s strong, and
she’s holding up well. Putting on a good show. I hold her gaze, not letting
mine yield.
“Good and obedient,” she finally says, her voice like broken glass.
“Dinner.”
“Dinner.” I release her roughly, shoving her back in the chair hard. She
falls back, her expression flat and cold and pissed off. “Don’t be late.”
 Chapter 5

Kate

The maids, a pair of apparently silent women even younger than me, are in
and out throughout the afternoon and evening. They bring food and tea and
clothes, shooting me conspicuous, concerned looks. I keep my gaze directed
away, sitting sullenly in my reading chair, arms wrapped around my knees
as I consider my exit strategy.
But all I can come up with is anger. I love my father; I’d do anything for
him. But there’s something in the way that Luca talks to me that reminds
me of my father. Of being treated like a child, like a little girl who needs to
be chastised or protected. A girl who isn’t welcome at tables or in rooms
where the big men are talking.
And it pisses me the fuck off.
Dinner comes around earlier than I’d like it to. I throw on one of the
nicer sweaters that the maids deliver, a tight black cashmere number that
brings out the gold of my hair and the brightness of my eyes. I tie back my
hair and let a few strands loose around my face, the way I know men like.
Then I wait until the knock at the door comes. Dome waits, looming in the
hall. When I step out, he takes me by the arm, digging in his meaty thumb
right where he did earlier, undoubtedly darkening the bruise there.
I could be angry—but the way his face has swollen makes me smile, and
I look him dead in the eye when I do it. His gaze darkens, and he jerks me
down the hall more roughly than he should. Good. Let him. I’m not afraid
of him, no matter how many bruises he’s left mapped on my body.
Maids open the doors to the dining room, and I swallow my gasp,
schooling my face to hide how impressive I find it. It’s beautiful and
resplendent: huge and sprawling with a vaulted fresco ceiling. The walls are
paneled with mahogany, dark, with crimson velvet drapes that hang heavily
on the marble floor. They have a medieval aspect to them, and I wonder
again how old the villa is, how many great people have walked here, and
how much history has blazed and burned within and without these walls.
Luca stands at the head of a table laid with a feast for a dozen. A maid
guides me to the seat beside his, pulling out the chair and ducking her chin.
As she steps away, Luca takes her place. My heart lurches into my throat,
and I press my lips together, hating myself for having to divert my gaze. I
let him tug out my chair, then I sit, and he hovers there for a moment, like a
boyfriend, like a gentleman.
Then he sits. Maids appear to serve us, and as they do, we sit in coarse
silence. I feel Luca’s eyes on me. My pulse is going off, going haywire. I
can’t seem to think straight. I can’t make myself look at him.
Finally, when the first course is served, the maids leave. The doors close,
and we’re left in a dense, pressured solitude. Soft music plays from
somewhere, something almost classical but a little modern. Something
haunted. And I’m struck by the horrible but genuinely tempting urge to
place my hand over Luca’s on the table.
“You clean up well,” he says, and the moment of rapture fractures hard. I
shoot him a cold look and find his frigid face softened with amusement.
“How was your day?”
I stare at him. Gauging. Wondering. What kind of game is this? Does he
want me to play? Do I want to? “Have you read The Crucible?”
He smiles. But it’s not really a smile. It’s something subtler, more
venomous. He picks up his fork and knife and begins cutting into his food.
“Of course.” His voice is velvet. Have I noticed that before? I reach for my
wine glass and feel a strange sensation: that romance again like we’re on a
date. Enemies on a date. Perfect. “Why? Do you see some correlation
between your situations?”
“No. I just wanted to know if you’ve read it.”
His dark eyes flick to mine, and I hate myself for the plunge of heat that
awakens between my legs. “I won’t apologize for how I spoke with you
earlier. I admire your courage, but you must see that to me, it appears as
stupidity.”
I grit my teeth. My neck is aching from last night. The bruises were
going dark when I changed for dinner, and as much as I love the way I left
my mark on Dome, he clearly left one just as bad on me. “You’re not
wrong.”
“And yet. I admire it. You have courage.” Is that the second time he’s
said that to me? The third? “That doesn’t change the fact that you’re under
my control now.”
His accent appears in certain words and in certain letters. His English is
precise and excellent. Something he’s clearly spent a lifetime learning in the
way I’ve learned to cloak the Irish in me. I sound American to most ears,
but Luca doesn’t bother hiding his Italian sound or look. I admire that, as he
seems—maybe against his better judgment—to admire me.
“Ariana thinks I should marry you off.”
I nod, cutting into my food. “Of course she does.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s prudent.”
“Why else?”
“She has a vested interest.” I take another sip of wine. Stop. Considering.
“Let me guess—she offered some candidates. Russian, I’m sure. I know
you’ve vetted her; you’re too intelligent not to. I’m sure you’ve got a whole
cache of checks and balances on her. But the fact remains that she’s from a
competing empire. She’ll never be yours.”
“You almost sound,” says Luca, lifting his wine glass and studying me
over its rim, his dark eyes sparking, “like you’re talking about yourself.”
“Maybe I am.” I lock eyes with him again. “Level with me, Luca. What
do you really want?”
“You’ve been badly behaving,” he says, with an air of seriousness,
cutting back into his food and continuing to eat. Slowly. Deliberately.
“Continue with behavior like that, stubbornness and entitlement, and I will
marry you off or send your father a message.”
“By killing me.”
“Yes.”
“Or? If I’m…” I narrow my eyes, cock a brow to show just how
seriously I’m taking him. “‘Good and obedient’? What then?”
“Then…we may have options to explore.” He sits back, wine in hand.
Studying me again with those dark eyes. Storms in them both. I try to put
steel back in my spine, sitting up straight, thrusting my chin out. “I’m not
opposed to acquiring you as a contact.”
My stomach drops. I’m not opposed. I don’t like the sound of that. He’s
been thinking, hasn’t he? Or was it Ari who put the idea in his head? Fuck.
Fuck, he wants to marry me. Has he realized, as I did last night, waking
groggy in this Italian villa how much more advantageous it would be if we
were married? He’d acquire all of the contacts I’ve offered, all of the
information, all of the collateral…and he’d still have his prisoner. An
indisputable, lifelong bond to my father.
And even better yet, in a few months, in a year—he could have blood on
Liam McNamara. He could have a child by me and bind our empires
forever. It may be the offer I made him, but not in the context I meant. I
pictured myself as a business partner to him, a partner in crime.
Not a fucking wife!
“Ah,” says Luca softly. “You’ve done the math.”
My mouth is dry. My heart in my throat. Pulse going frenetic. “I won’t do
it,” I say, almost without thinking. My breath is coming ragged. I feel
something like panic coursing up on me, a tide nipping at my heels. I try to
bite it back, play it cool. Put into practice all I’ve learned over the years as
my father’s daughter, as Liam McNamara’s daughter. “I won’t marry you.”
He smiles that cool, aloof, non-smile again. Relaxes deeper into his chair.
“What is it you find so disagreeable, Kate? Is it my home? My reputation?”
He drinks his wine, dark eyes glittering. “Is it my looks? Tell me. Where am
I most deficient?”
“You’re my enemy,” I say sharply.
“I thought my father was your father’s enemy,” he says, again with that
cool amusement. It makes me want to slap him. “We’d fight, certainly. But
you would learn quickly, I think. You are a quick study.”
“Learn what quickly?”
He leans forward, and I’m too stubborn to lean back. We’re at the edge of
the table, and he rests his elbow beside my arm, his chin in his hand as he
locks eyes with me. A chill ripples down my spine, but I don’t move. I stay
there, our faces, our mouths, inches apart.
“In the end,” says Luca. “I always win.”
I narrow my eyes. Does Luca really think I haven’t known men like him
my whole life? Does he really think I don’t know how to play this game just
as well as he does? “Maybe,” I reply coolly. “You just haven’t met your
match.”
Something sparks in his eyes—and I know I don’t mistake the way they
drop to my mouth. It lasts only a millisecond, that look. But I feel it like
he’s kissing me, like his mouth is on mine, and angry, sweet fire blooms in
my belly. I don’t have much time to consider what that means—that feeling,
that sudden, horrible, traitorous want—because at that moment, the door to
the dining room flies open.
A pair of guards stands there in the doorway, hulking, decked out all in
black, packing heavily. One of the guards looks sharply from Luca—to me.
And I understand without being told that the villa is under attack. Luca
stands, saying something to the guards in quick, languid Italian. Then he
grabs me by the arm and drags me to my feet, down through the dining
room, past the guards, and into the hall.
“My father?” I ask.
Luca throws me a suspicious look. I don’t blame him. There was more
transparent hope in my voice than I meant for there to be. He doesn’t stop
until we reach my room—I’m careful to memorize the turns, the numbers of
steps and windows and doors, just like I did when Dome led me out earlier.
My room is locked from the outside. But given a chance, I’d like to know
my escape route.
“And where are you going?” I demand when Luca shoves me—more
roughly than he needs to—into the room and turns back toward the hall. “If
my father sent men, it’s a warning, not a war. He’s not going to get you like
this.”
A smile crosses his face: cold, sudden, lethal. He steps back into the
room, closing in on me easily, as is his habit. I step back, but his hand falls
swiftly to my hip. He grips hard, yanking me toward him, pressing his front
to mine. Half in defense, half in surprise, my hands fly to his chest. Jesus.
He’s all muscle. Iron hard, his heart beating against my palm. If I were an
idiot, I could fall into him so, so easily.
His dark eyes pierce mine. “You may be forgetting, Ms. McNamara, that
we’re enemies. But I’m not. You’re under my roof, but you’re not my ally,
not yet. That is a position that must be earned.” I know I don’t imagine the
way his eyes drop to my mouth, the way his grip on my hip tightens when
he says that word: position. Heat spreads between my legs, and I hate
myself for it. “Do you really think that I’d take your word for anything?”
I open my mouth to reply, but it’s then that he releases me—and it’s good
timing that he does.
Because at that same moment, a gunshot rings out.
I freeze, my mind turning to ice. Three things happen very quickly then:
first, Luca’s body gives a hard, sudden jerk, and hot blood sprays across my
face. Second, I hear not Italian in the hallway, not English—but Russian: as
a massive man all in black, rifle in hand, rounds the corner and crosses the
threshold of my room.
Third: my body takes over. It’s like I’ve done it a thousand times, and in
some ways, I guess I have. I kneel, my veins ice, and my mind suddenly
and perfectly clear. My hand glides over Luca’s hip, and then his pistol is in
my hand, solid, secure, my grip sure. Safety off, hammer cocked. I close
one eye—the way Dad always taught me not to—and as the Russian rounds
the corner, I pull the trigger.
His head snaps back. An arc of blood—so vibrant, so startling—whips
across the hall wall behind him as he falls like a tree. A second comes
around the corner, rifle raised, and he sprays bullets that shatter the
chandelier and pock the wall above my bed. But his aim is wild and
frenetic, and both Luca and I are low. I release an exhale and pop! Nail him
between the eyes.
He falls with a spasm, landing hard over the body of his comrade, finger
catching the trigger of his rifle and sending another wild, frenzied round
into the wall. Spent shells clamor across the tile until the magazine runs dry,
and once it has, I realize where I am and what I’m doing.
Without thinking, I’ve shifted myself—to protect Luca. Why? What the
fuck? I should be running. I should grab a rifle and shoot myself the fuck
out of this place. I should kill Luca, if he’s not dead already.
But that’s not why I’m here, is it? I didn’t volunteer to be a prisoner, but I
did submit myself to work with Luca. And running away, killing him—not
of that saves my ailing father or absolves him of his crippling debts. That’s
why you protected Luca, I tell myself sternly. That’s why you threw your
body down over his. No other reason. No attraction. No Stockholm’s
syndrome. Nothing.
There’s no further noise in the hall. The Russians are either dead or not in
this part of the house. I sit back, keeping my pistol armed, and look Luca
over. He was shot in the shoulder, and his face is white, strained, and
spattered with blood that’s flowing freely.
Our eyes lock. He looks like he’s just becoming lucid. “You saved my
life,” he says through gritted teeth.
“No, I didn’t. Not yet.” I lean forward, heaving him up into a sitting
position and propping him up against the foot of the bed. “Pressure. Yeah,
like that.” I take his hand and press it against the gunshot wound. He
grimaces, pain crumpling his handsome face. “I’m going to go see what’s
going on out there.”
But he catches my elbow as I stand, yanking me back down. “No. You’re
not. You’re staying here, where I can…”
“What? Protect me?” But there’s something shockingly vulnerable in his
cold, steely face, in his voice. So I sink back down beside him. “OK, fine.
I’ll stay. Relax, Jesus.”
 He breathes, settling back slightly. A sigh of relief? “I assume your father
didn’t send Russians.”
“No,” I say, gripping the pistol and casting a look toward the hall. My
breath has calmed, and my pulse has slowed. I’m ice. Totally steady. I guess
my life has at least prepared me for eventualities like these. “He didn’t. I
don’t suppose it was Ariana.”
He looks at me sharply, his eyes sobering through the pain. “No.”
I nod, taking him at his word. It doesn’t feel like the time to press, and
anyway, the adrenaline is cooling off, and I’m starting to get restless. I shift,
removing Luca’s hand and pulling aside the collar of his silk shirt. His olive
chest is stippled and sticky with blood, but the wound is small, and the
blood is already slowing.
“You’re lucky,” I say, replacing his shirt and then his hand, pressing mine
over the top of his, applying pressure. It’s not lost on me that I’m practically
in his lap or that he hasn’t even attempted to get his pistol back from me.
Heat spreads through my face and up the back of my neck, and I give
myself the mercy of averting my gaze from his. I still feel it on me, heavy.
Penetrating. “It didn’t hit anything vital.”
He’s silent. When I look up, I find his dark eyes boring into mine. More
lucid than the pain should allow. “I forget,” he says, almost softly. “That
your life has not been so different from mine.”
My heart lurches into my throat. I want to look away again. This time,
for some reason, I can’t. “Yeah. Likewise.”
He gazes at me—gazes, the ferocity in his face softening, a furrow
appearing between his dark, angled brows. He cocks his head as though
making me out. Deciphering. It makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
It makes me want to kiss him.
Then a sound comes from the hallway: the telltale, hard thunk thunk
thunk of heavy footsteps. I look up sharply, my heart contracting. My mind
tells me it’s Dome or one of the guards. Luckily, Luca is faster. He swipes
the pistol up, his hand over mine, pulling the trigger the instant the Russian
turns the corner. It’s a headshot, easier and more elegant than mine. The
man falls, slumping heavily over the others.
I look at Luca. His hand is still wrapped around mine on the grip of the
pistol. His eyes slant toward me, and he smiles. “My men don’t wear steel-
toed boots.”
I nod once, brows raised. Luca releases my hand. “Good to know.”
 A ringtone sounds softly from Luca’s pocket, and with effort, he pulls out
his phone and answers in Italian. I sit back on my heels, the pistol in my
bloody hands. Finally, after another series of quick exchanges, Luca puts
down his phone and looks at me.
“Looks like we’ve pulled through this time, McNamara,” he says. “Now,
help me stand.”
 Chapter 6

Luca

I don’t see Kate for three days. In part because I’m healing. In part because
I’m angry. In part because I want to make her squirm.
Yet when she’s escorted out into the snow on the third day by Dome, I
can’t help the way my stomach tenses. The way my pulse skips hard. The
way my jaw clenches and my grip on the Range Rover wheel tightens.
What the hell is that?
Dome swings open the passenger door, and Kate, with a look that could
melt the polar ice caps, climbs up into the seat. Dome slams the door and
steps back, giving me a curt nod. I rev up the ignition.
“Ready?” I ask Kate.
She turns that blazing glare on me. “I haven’t seen you in three days. I
don’t know where we’re going or what we’re doing.”
I drum my fingers on the wheel, glancing out the windshield at the villa.
In the snow, it looks more like a palace, cold and removed, hidden at the top
of the world. Arched windows and gothic spires; in summer, the fields are
emerald, and the cypress trees make it look Roman. But in winter, it’s
withholding and formidable. A fortress.
“So,” I say. “Are you ready?”
Kate snorts. Then nods once, hard. “Yeah. Fuck it. I’m ready.”
I suppress a smile and turn off down the long cobblestone drive. I like
that hint of an accent in her voice, the taste of Irish clinging beneath the
American. Does she try to hide it, I wonder? Or has it just eroded, been lost
to the years? I cast a sidelong look at her. Her gaze is ahead, her arms
crossed over her chest. She’s wearing winter gear, what I ordered the maids
to get for her: a padded parka, gloves, fleece leggings, and a hat pulled low
over twin honey braids. She looks…sexy. Though I’d never admit it. Not
out loud, that is.
We reach the gate, where the guards let us through, and glide out onto the
snowy road. At a distance, a pair of SUVs follow.
It’s not until we’re out on the road that Kate finally speaks again. “How
are you?”
It’s a soft question, though she says it with a tone. And it’s unexpected. I
cast her a glance. “Well enough. It’s not the first time I’ve been shot.”
“No. I didn’t think it was.”
I answer her with silence. It’s more tense this time. Dome told me every
time Kate banged on her locked door over the last three days and nights—
every time she demanded to see me. Every time she asked whether or not I
was dead. But I had things to deal with. Things to arrange. People to
dispatch.
“Who were they?”
I straighten, lifting my chin. We’re among the trees now, the evergreen
cypress and firs, all with steely dark bark and dusky green canopies. I turn
into them, off-road, and Kate sits up sharply, looking at me.
“Relax,” I say. “If I were going to execute you, this isn’t how I’d do it.”
Silence. A moment of the car leaping and bounding over snow drifts,
clinging to the barely-visible path through the trees. “How would you?” She
asks. “Execute me?”
“On your feet,” I say without hesitation. “On film, probably. It does have
a message.”
“Who were they?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m working on it.”
“Ari?”
“I sent her to Moscow. She has contacts to pull on. We have an idea of
whose men they were, but it wouldn’t be wise to act without knowing for
certain. And…I’m not certain they aren’t connected to your father.”
Her mouth opens sharply, her eyes wide and bright with indignation. “My
father—”
“Is my enemy,” I remind her. “As are you.”
Her glare could burn holes in steel. Luckily, we’ve reached our
destination before she gets the chance to really hit me with it. I pull off into
a clearing, parking up by a pair of huge rocks. The SUVs glide up behind
us, hanging at a distance. I watch three of my men peel out of each vehicle
and set themselves up in a seamless perimeter, rifles held to their chests.
Good. I’m not exactly looking forward to a repeat of the attack three nights
ago.
“What is this?” Kate asks, a hint of anger in her voice.
I simply give her a look, one brow raised, then unbuckle my seatbelt and
climb out, leaving her alone in the car. She’s quick to follow, plunging her
boots into the snow and following me out into the field.
“What the hell, Luca? How long are you going to jerk me around like
this? I know I’m your prisoner, but I’m not just any prisoner—”
“You’re rusty.” I turn, drawing a pistol from the holster beneath my arm.
It hurts like a motherfucker—every movement does. I’m bandaged up
heavily, and I’m not too proud to deny painkillers. I’m on a heavy dose, but
not enough to fuck me up. I need my wits about me. Not just because of
what happened—but because of her. She’s keener than I thought she was.
Quicker. And infinitely more dangerous. “If you’re going to be hanging
around, you need to be a better shot.”
Kate looks at me in disbelief, brows raised practically to her hairline. In
the cold, her porcelain skin has gone pink: her cheeks, the tip of her nose.
It’s amazing what transforms a woman. Just now, she looks so soft and
innocent as a cartoon princess. But just a few nights ago, she was animal,
lethal, pistol in hand and blood spattered across her face.
She has a temper—I like that about her, never trust a woman who doesn’t
have a temper—but this time, for some reason, she doesn’t take the bait.
Instead, she casts a look down the field, spotting the discreet set of targets
erected in the snow. Rusty. I can practically feel the word sliding up under
her skin, biting into her bones, nicking nerves. Maybe I know this girl better
than I thought.
Instead of saying a word, she plucks the pistol from my hand, turns,
squeezes one eye shut, and knocks out three quick rounds. Each one pings
off a different target. She tries a fourth—the furthest—and is answered with
what I imagine is a very frustrating silence.
She lowers the pistol, and I watch her, the focus on her pretty face, in the
hard set of that soft pink mouth. Breath clouds from her nostrils. She’s
gauging the distance, writing it off as too far. Even I struggle with the
furthest target from this shooting platform. I expect her to call it, shove the
gun back at me, and demand answers. Instead, she brings the pistol neatly
back to her eye, breathes deeply once, and fires on the exhale.
Ping!
“Rusty, my fucking ass,” she says, and now she does shove the gun back
at me, flicking the safety and letting it swing once neatly around her index
finger. “You didn’t bring me out here for target practice. You brought me
out here to pitch something. Thought it’d get me into your good graces to
get some fresh air, like an animal. Thought it’d win me over to keep me out
of handcuffs, to let me shoot your gun. Like a good cop.” She turns and
faces me squarely, her shoulders hard. “Fuck you. You’re not a good cop.
You’re a businessman. And I’d like to hear your pitch.”
Fuck. I stand there caught off-guard, yet again. I don’t, at this moment,
really care who Kate McNamara is or who she thinks she is. I’m so bluntly,
blindly turned on that for a minute, all I can imagine is taking a fistful of
that pretty hair and dragging her against me, opening her mouth against
mine, owning her tongue with mine. What would she do, I wonder? What if
I slid my hand into her fleece leggings, felt for her, stroked her? Would she
welcome my fingers? Would her breathing go ragged? Would she fall
against me?
How quickly, how easily could I make her come?
She’s not going to be too eager for any of that when she hears what I
have to say. I clear my throat, replacing my gun in its holster and sliding my
hands into my pockets. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off.
“You and I,” I say, noting the way her face tenses, the way she’s already
doing the math. “Will be getting married, legally, tonight. No ceremony.
Just the paperwork. But it is legal. And it will be binding.”
Red floods her soft, pale face. Her eyes blaze. But she seals her lips and
says nothing. I can tell, though, that she’s burning with it. Dying to tell me
to fuck myself, to go die.
“If you do not agree,” I continue, “I will do it by force.”
Her hand flashes out. I might have enough time to dodge or duck, but
something in me wants to feel just how hard she can hit, to gauge just how
much rage this woman is carrying around in her bones, in every taut
muscle. It’s a mistake—I’m expecting a slap. What I get is a practiced,
poised, closed fist straight to the mouth. My inner cheek breaks against my
teeth, and I’m surprised at the oomph of the blow. It rocks me a little and
snaps my head to the side, but I remain in place.
I touch my jaw tenderly, slowly turning to look back at her. Her eyes are
bright with tears. One of my guards has appeared, almost silent even in the
snow. He has Kate by the back of the neck, his gloved grip tight enough to
make her shoulders surge up to her ears. She reaches back, fumbling for
him, but her fight is spiritless, and he’s got her in a good hold. I wave a
hand, and after a beat, the guard releases her, gives me a curt nod, and
trudges back to his post.
 “Done?” I ask, looking at her hard. When I wipe a hand across my
mouth, it comes away bloody. “I’ll let you get away with that this once
because you saved my life the other night. But do it again, and there will be
consequences.”
“What consequence,” she asks through gritted teeth, “could be greater
than marrying you?”
“It is the way of things.”
“It is an archaic way of things.”
“Perhaps. But an effective one nonetheless.” I step toward her, looking
down to meet her eyes. “You will marry me tonight, Kate. And if you so
much as think of putting up a fight, I will make certain you pay for it.” As I
say it, I reach for her, slowly unfurling the knot in her scarf. Her eyes are
sapphire infernos, locked with mine. She trembles slightly, breath pluming
coldly from her nostrils. Her scarf falls open, and I unzip her parka and
unroll the neck of her sweater beneath.
Her neck is exposed, and the band of bruises from Dome’s hands the
other night laid bare. They’re days healed now, but still dark, mottled green
and yellow with stark streaks of red. Fuck. The appearance of them fills me
with blunt, sudden anger. And when my fingers dance over her skin, I’m
filled with something else entirely.
“Don’t test my power,” I say softly, leaning nearer. Her eyes dart to my
mouth and back to mine so quickly I might have imagined it. “Don’t tempt
me, Kate. You have no concept of what a terrible man I can be.”
She quivers as my hand slowly, gingerly clasps around her battered
throat. I run my thumb up the side of her neck and bring it to the soft angle
of her jaw. I press myself ever so slightly nearer, sense her sway toward me
—and then her lips part, just a hair. And her eyes flutter shut.
A knife of desire plunges up into my ribs. Everything in me screams to
pull away. A wise man, a controlled man, would. What the fuck do I have to
gain by kissing her? She’ll be my wife tonight.
What the fuck do I have to lose?
I tighten my grip on her neck, just slightly, not enough to hurt. And lean
closer, my pulse catching. Her eyes slit open, just a little, and lock with
mine. She doesn’t so much as blink. Doesn’t flinch away as I draw nearer. I
don’t close my eyes. Neither does she. Even as my mouth grazes hers.
Fuck. She tastes good. Like something specific: chamomile? Lavender?
Slowly, deliberately, I slide my tongue over her bottom lip.
 She makes a weak little sound, a mewl from deep in her ribs. And I feel
myself stiffen, feel my grip on her neck tighten. And when she leans in, my
breath catches in my lungs. Her mouth catches mine fully, not a graze of the
lips this time. And as soon as we’re kissing, her tongue is gliding into my
mouth. I grunt, startled—and the spell snaps out of place.
Kate recoils, going completely white. Her eyes widen, and she looks
horrified, one hand flying to her mouth. “I…”
She didn’t realize what she was doing. Why the fuck is that so hot? She
was just so seduced by me that she kissed me—her enemy. Her father’s
enemy. Her captor. “Tonight,” I say. “And don’t waste your energy or
efforts putting up a fight, Kate. It’s already decided.”
And with that, I brush past her, leaving her alone, scarf in the wind and
coat open, bruised throat exposed and snow just beginning to fall: landing
like a kiss on her parted lips.
 Chapter 7

Kate

“He’s late,” I say icily to no one in particular. There are ten men in the
room. Even given an automatic, I know better than to favor my odds.
“What? Italians aren’t known for their punctuality?”
“Actually, no.”
I turn sharply, feeling heat rush up my lower back, spread between my
shoulder blades, as Luca brushes into the room. It’s a parlor of some kind,
smaller than expected and crammed with rows of old bookshelves. A
massive antique desk sits at the head of the room, and before it, a trio of
men in no kind of denoting uniform. They have a file of paperwork in front
of them. I can’t read Italian—I probably should learn, given my
circumstance—but there’s no mistaking the pair of blank lines at the bottom
of the page.
So, I think bleakly. That’s where I sign my life away.
“I see you dressed up,” says Luca, meeting me at the desk. He’s not
dressed up himself, any more than usual, and neither am I—so I take this as
a joke. Strange. It’s really the first time I’ve seen him in humor, and the
occasion couldn’t be more grim for me. “Put on a smile, Kate. It is an
exciting day.”
“You’re a motherfucker,” I say, looking at him hard. He keeps his face
pointed forward, away from me, a cold, slight smile on it. I don’t miss the
way the three men at the desk jolt, flinching either at my tone or the crass
English word. “And I’ll make sure you pay for this.”
“I’m quaking.”
I grab his arm as roughly as he’s ever grabbed mine. Several of the men
along the shelves—guards—step forward. Luca dismisses them with a wave
of his hand, still smiling faintly, still looking ahead rather than at me.
“You should be quaking,” I say frigidly. “I’m not going to fight here
today. But I will fight. I didn’t come here to marry anyone, much less you.
And as soon as—”
“What?” He turns to me then, piercing me straight through with those
dark eyes. “As soon as your father finds out you’re here, hm? Please, Kate.
He already knows you’re here. He’s known from the night we left Dublin.
Do you want to know what I think? I think he knows where you’re most
valuable—and that’s in my bed.”
Ice floods my spine. I go rigid, my shoulders shooting to my ears, my
hands falling in tight little fists to my sides. I want to say something. To
curse him, to curse at him, to tell him how much I hate him for this, to tell
him all of the elaborate, slow, painful ways I’m going to kill him for this—
but for maybe the first time in my life, I’m actually speechless.
And this seems to satisfy Luca. He smooths the front of his black silk
shirt and looks at the three men behind the desk. He speaks to them in
Italian, and they speak back in low, hushed tones. If what Luca says to
them, or what he’s asked of them, seems unsavory—they don’t show it.
And a moment later, Luca takes up a pen and neatly signs his name at the
bottom of the page.
All eyes go to me. Luca straightens. Looks at me. Meets my eye. And
slowly extends the pen to me.
I look sharply at the paper. To that neat little line, empty, bare, perfect,
right beside his. His name. Romano. Kate Romano. In a sick way, it has a
nice ring to it. But it’s not me. It’s not my name. It’s not who I am—a wife.
His wife.
Do it for your father, whispers a voice in the back of my mind. A young
voice: mine, as a girl. A girl who was always, every time, saved. A girl
whose father always came for her. Do it for him. Do it to save him. Prove
that you can. Prove you’ll do anything, Kate. Anything. Anything.
I take the pen.
I sign my life away.
***
I’ve been staying in a different guest room than the first one for the last
few days due to the three bodies in the doorway and the blood and bullet
holes in three of the four walls. Not to mention the shattered chandelier. But
tonight, after I’m settled in my dressing gown and robe, a knock at the door
rouses me, and a guard guides me back to my first room, the elaborate one I
hate to admit I actually like.
It’s not until I’m inside, the door closed behind me—but not locked,
Odd…—that I realize I’m not alone.
My heart leaps into my throat. Luca is undressing beside the bed. I mean
to scream at him, curse, throw something—but I’m frozen in place as he
unbuttons his shirt, sliding it slowly from one arm and then the other. Jesus.
My mouth goes dry. He’s built. Every muscle is perfectly toned, his back
flexing as he shifts to unbuckle his belt. Heat floods between my legs, and
without meaning to, I back up, my shoulders bumping into the door.
He looks up, a faint expression of amusement crossing his face. He pulls
off his belt. The sound echoes through my brain. “I was wondering when
you’d arrive.”
“This is my room,” I say after a moment of blank-minded
speechlessness. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
Wait. No. Surely he can’t mean…
“We need to consummate our marriage, Kate. Don’t be so naïve.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. My hand is on the doorknob. The
guard didn’t lock it—now I know why. They couldn’t very well lock their
boss in here with me, could they? I could open it. I could run. I know the
way. I’ve memorized it now.
But what would be the point?
“Kate,” says Luca, and when I glance up, I find him looking at me from
across the room with the strangest expression. “I’m joking. I would not
expect you to sleep with me. But I’m going to sleep here with you. Because
eventually…you know it must happen.” He pauses, hand rising to idly
brush the bandages wrapped securely around his shoulder. “And—well.
Optics matter.”
Optics matter? I stare at him, still paralyzed, but my grip on the
doorknob loosens. If he wanted to, he could have me. Force me. If he
wanted to, he could have this or any door locked. I know part of this is a
game. I wasn’t lying when I said that his good cop act wouldn’t work on
me. I recognize it; I do. I know it’s only a ploy. But it doesn’t make me
appreciate it any less. Luca Romano could be being a far, far worse man.
And he’s electing not to be.
Why? Optics matter. He doesn’t mean the way he looks—he means the
way we look. A chill pricks at the crown of my head and begins to seep
down my face, down the back of my neck. His men, Ariana’s men, are
posted in this house. And surely, plenty of Luca’s and my enemies know
that I’m here.
“You’re taking me off the table,” I realize it as I say it and believe I’m
right when Luca’s dark eyes meet mine. They’re shadowed, his mouth and
jaw hard. “You’re marrying me so no one else can think they have a chance.
You’re…” The realization has my mouth going dry. It’s too intense to speak
aloud: You’re protecting me. If I’m married to Luca, there’s a much better
chance no one will come shaking down or shooting up the house. I lose
value to them. But both Luca and I gain value from one another.
How did I not realize?
“It isn’t sentiment,” says Luca mildly, sliding off his trousers. I let my
eyes glide over his long, muscular legs, thick with dark hair. I imagine
brushing my legs against them, twining our toes. I imagine the way his skin
would feel against mine. “It’s pragmatism.”
“I know.” Finally, I release the doorknob and slowly, sheepishly, cross
the room. When I reach the bed, I sit gingerly on the end, watching Luca
fold his trousers and shirt neatly, like he’s never had another person do it for
him. Maybe he never has. “Do you need that redressed?”
He snorts, a strangely human sound and gesture that has me breathing a
little easier. He’s not a God. He’s not a king. At the end of the day, he’s just
a man. “Are you volunteering?”
“Yes.”
He looks at me quizzically. Good. I’m starting to figure out how to catch
him off-guard. “Alright, then. Let’s see your nursing skills at work,
McNamara.”
He goes into the en suite bathroom, all marble and tile and glass, and I
follow. It’s not the first time I’ve dressed a gunshot wound. Not even close.
I’ve actually dressed two of my own, not to mention countless others. Did
Dad ever really mean to keep me out of his world? Does he realize I’ve
never left it?
And Luca…what of him? What of his father? That’s what I’m thinking as
I carefully but swiftly unbind his bandages and get to cleaning the wound.
I’m thinking, against everything in me, about how similar Luca and I are.
I’m thinking of how many times I’ve been in this exact situation.
“Wait,” he says softly. My hands are trembling as I stroke alcohol over
the gouge in his shoulder. Already it’s healing, the swelling gone down. It’s
no surprise. Luca must have some of the best care in Europe in this palace.
But still, it must be excruciating. And he barely bats an eye. “Wait.”
I seal my lips, lower my hands, and step back. Luca gets up, brushing
past me. I wait a moment, trying to catch my breath, wrestling the heat
that’s building in me. He protected me. He gave me a gun. He trusts me, or
else he’s the best fucking actor I’ve ever met. When Luca returns, it’s with
two glasses in hand, each with a liberal pour of whiskey. I take mine with
pure gratitude and drink deeply. Luca watches, amused. But he drinks his as
well, down to the dregs. I finish mine, hoping the heat and alcohol will
loosen the strange tension building inside of me.
I put my glass down and finish dressing Luca’s wound. My hands
continue to shake.
“Are you afraid?” Luca asks, and I lock eyes with him. My fingers rest
against his chest. His skin is so hot, burning but not feverish. He’s just
alive. Vitally, purely, wildly alive. And so am I, after everything. And so am
I, against all fucking odds. “I’m not going to hurt you, Kate.”
It hits me how close we’re standing. How he’s resting against the cream
marble counter with legs spread, and I’m standing between them. Close, but
not quite touching.
It would be so, so fucking stupid.
It would be the stupidest thing in the world. I know that. I have to know
that. But what does your gut say, Kate? What does your instinct say, and
has it ever failed you? Has it ever sent you after something you couldn’t
get?
I drop my gaze. I can’t look at him. I can’t stand him. I should hate him.
But I don’t—I respect him. I am grateful to and for him. And he’s right.
Optics matter. How we look and act together, from now on, matters. It could
make or break this deal. It could save or cost my father his life. It could
save or cost me mine.
He reaches for me and tips my chin with a curled finger. Our eyes meet,
and the ice breaks open through my ribs. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. He’s
so close and so warm, and my wild mind feels…safe, with him. Safer than
I’ve felt in days, months, and years. There’s something foolish in the air
between us, and I sense that he feels it too. That maybe it’s been there since
the first night we met. And now the stars are aligned—or designed—and I
have nothing to lose.
So fuck it.
I lean forward, sliding my arms over his shoulders. Heat rushes up
through me and builds between us. Our mouths lock. He grunts, a soft,
startled—pleased?—sound. Immediately his hands glide up my back, his
fingers shifting over my shoulders, brushing back the silk robe I was given
by the maids. It spills to the floor. Fuck. Fuck. This is so stupid. This can’t
happen. This shouldn’t be happening.
This is totally happening.
 His tongue thrusts into my mouth, and like the fool I am, I can’t suppress
a soft moan. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Kate…” He shifts, grabbing me easily by
one leg and then the other, lifting me up so I can lock my thighs around his
hips. I expect him to fuck me right here, messy, out of control. But almost
like a gentleman, he carries me to the bed.
Less like a gentleman, he throws me down. Roughly. His eyes are wild.
When he kisses me again, it’s harder, rougher, and I slide my hands into his
silken dark curls, grunting in surprise as his mouth opens and his tongue
enters mine. One of his hands finds my throat, gripping softly but firmly,
tilting back my head as his other hand slides beneath my dressing gown.
“You’re so wet,” he mutters, almost in marvel. “I thought you’d wear
your heart on your sleeve. You had me fooled.”
“I don’t like you,” I say sharply, almost stung, biting my cheek hard to
keep from moaning as his fingers, so, so easily, find me. “I want you. That’s
different.”
“How different?” He leans back, tightening his grip on my throat, his
dark eyes full of knowing. Cocky. As I open my mouth to answer, he slides
one finger inside of me. I moan, squeezing my eyes shut, stunned at how
good that feels, something so simple, something so slight. It’s him. Fuck.
He’s turning me into a puddle. “Tell me, Kate. What the difference is
between liking and wanting.”
“Fuck me,” I say, not caring how desperate it sounds. How desperate I
sound. “Put your money where your mouth is.”
His eyes dance with amusement, with easy blatant attraction. He likes
that. He likes a woman that isn’t afraid of him. He kisses me again, his
sweet fingers leaving me, brushing my nightgown up over my hips. His
mouth trails roughly down my jaw, my throat, and between my breasts.
When he reaches my stomach, bare, he drags his tongue down it, leaving a
line of fire. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The whiskey is in me down, making me a little
looser, a little cockier. Come on, Luca. Fuck me. I’m begging. But I won’t—
not out loud.
He drags off my panties, eyes snapping up to lock with mine. They’re
dark and dancing as ever, almost smiling. He’s proud of himself, I think.
I’m so hot for him, so hungry for him at this moment that I don’t care. It’s
shameless.
It feels better than almost anything.
 He stands, drags me to the edge of the bed, and grips the backs of my
thighs. I’m practically panting now—and this time, Luca doesn’t keep me
in suspense. He pulls himself free, and sweet anticipation rushes through
me. I admire him for the bare instant of pause, and then he thrusts himself
inside of me.
“Fuck,” I gasp weakly, throwing back my head. It’s so bad. We shouldn’t
be doing this. And maybe that’s why we are—maybe that’s why it feels so,
so fucking good. He moves into me again, deeper this time, and I arch my
back, breath slamming to a halt as pleasure floods me. “Fuck, Luca—”
His fingers slide into my mouth, and I groan again, happier at the gesture
than I should be. “You’re a wild one,” says Luca, his voice low and rough.
“Aren’t you, Kate?”
I don’t answer. I want to drag him into this, too. I want to make him want
me, too. I lock my legs around his hips, pleased when he roughly grabs my
waist and pulls me harder against him. He enters me perfectly, deeply,
hitting me in just the right spot. I cry out, arching my back, rocking myself
into him harder, faster.
“Fuck, Kate,” he mutters, heat in his voice. He digs his fingers into my
hips, fucking me harder, faster, his breath coming hard and ragged. “Fuck
—”
Heat builds between my legs. Fuck. I begin to lose myself, gripping the
silk duvet in both fists and arching my spine. Luca moves against me hard,
holding me fast, secure. And something about it, about him, sends me
straight over the edge. Pleasure crashes through me, heat shattering through
my veins. Luca groans, his thrusts deepening, slowing, as he comes in the
same instant I do. The sound of his pleasure is nirvana. And the way he
holds onto me, keeping my hips raised, gives me time to sink into the bliss.
I can hear myself moaning, as if from afar, and I fall into it, into the
sweetness, into the safety.
When I collapse, Luca lowers me back onto the bed. He lies back beside
me, breathing hard. I wait for the shame, for the regret to come rushing in at
the heels of the pleasure. But it doesn’t.
We lie there in silence for a long while. Until finally, after some time,
Luca says, “Well. That was unexpected.”
I look at him sideways, his profile in the ambient dark of the suite. He’s a
stranger, still. With his dark romantic features, with his deep voice, his soft
accent. I reach for him without thinking, dancing my fingertips over his
cheek. He doesn’t look at me, but he doesn’t flinch away and doesn’t tell
me to stop. And after a moment, he catches my hand and brings my fingers
to his lips.
“We are enemies,” he says, his voice very soft in the dark. “But you are
not my wife in name only, Kate. Whatever comes, we must be allies now.”
Allies…until I get what I need. I feel cold steel blooming through the
warmth of the moment, cutting through the safety of this strange place and
circumstance. Allies, until I get the opportunity to betray you.
“You know,” Luca says, turning to look at me, his dark eyes soft and
deep as they meet mine. “You saved me first. You set all of this in motion,
Kate.”
I gaze at him. A strange, soft fist of protectiveness clenching behind my
ribs. “I know,” I say softly. “I know.”
 Chapter 8

Luca

I wake early, but it’s more difficult to get out of bed than usual.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Kate is asleep, her head cradled in my arm, her golden hair spilled across
the pillow. She’s in her silk dressing gown, one leg extended out of the
blankets. Her thigh and calve, milky in the morning light, are bruised; from
what? The fight the other night? I hear the echo of gunshots and see the
blood arcing across the wall and the bodies of the Russians collapsing in the
hall. Who the fuck have I gotten into bed with? I should be concerned,
shouldn’t I? About trusting her. About sleeping with her. And yet, I’m not.
Kate is many things, as I’ve learned over years of studying her and a
week of knowing her. But a liar, even to me? I don’t think so. She’s candid.
She’s clever and blunt. And she saved my life the first chance she had to
take it. She could easily have let me die. Hell, she could have killed me
herself. But she didn’t. I know it’s self-preservation on her part. Survival.
But then, the way she kissed me at the shooting range, the way she dressed
my wound last night…the way she gave herself to me, fell into her hunger,
the way she let herself feel everything, everything—that can’t be faked.
She’d have to be one hell of an actor.
She stirs, lips parting, eyes opening. When she sees me, she freezes, her
arm tightening across my chest. “Oh,” she says softly. And then she smiles.
Fuck. It’s a knife in the ribs, that smile. I’ve never seen it before. It’s
open, loose, and easy. It’s daylight. And it makes me want to kiss her again.
More gently, with more purpose. It makes me want to make her melt, fall
back into the silk pillows, and close her eyes, and let my hands and my
mouth explore her body. Let me bring her there over and over until the sun
sets.
What the fuck am I doing?
I shift, forcing myself to go to ice. That’s not what this is about. This is
political. Respecting her—hell, liking her—is fine.
So long as it doesn’t get in the way. I pull away from her, turn my back
and grab my trousers. She says nothing, but I sense tension as it’s produced
in the air, fraying, made of static. I hear her sit up and roll out of bed.
Swiftly, silently, I get dressed.
“We have a meeting today,” I say coldly. “An American.”
“An American?” When I turn, I find her looking at me strangely. She’s
stepped into jeans and a thick black sweater, her hair tousled, her eyes
sleepy. Girlfriend, I think, all too easily. She looks like a girlfriend just now.
“Who? One of my contacts?”
“Yes. An Arthur Black.”
“Fuck.” She narrows her eyes. “Why? Why him?”
Something treacherously like jealousy blisters open inside me. “Why not
him? You have some sordid history you’d like to share?”
“No,” she snaps. “I barely do business with him anymore. He’s a fucking
sellout.”
“Barely do business?” I shift to look at her, pulling on my watch. We
look like a husband and wife, really, don’t we? Getting dressed in the same
room, bickering about guests coming to visit. “Your accounts exchanged
well over a million dollars last year. No collateral.”
“It’s to keep him at bay,” she says, jabbing a finger at me. “What the hell,
Luca? Why didn’t you consult with me first? He’s dangerous.”
“So am I.”
She rolls her eyes. It makes me want to grab her. Hold her. Kiss her neck
until she gives me that blinding smile again. “I thought we were past this
phase. I’m stuck here now. I’m stuck with you.”
“You didn’t seem too unhappy about that last night.”
She looks at me sharply, a flush flooding her cheeks. “Don’t,” she says.
“Don’t do that.”
I cross my arms. “Do what, exactly?”
Her flush deepens, and she averts her eyes. “Flirt with me.”
“Look. We might be married, Kate. We might have fucked last night. But
the reality remains that you are my prisoner, and for your safety, you still
need to pay out. And the debt is quite significant.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she nods. “I know that.”
“Do you want to save your father? Do you want to pay his debts the right
way?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” I straighten, raking a hand through my hair, and go for the door.
“Then let’s get to work.”
 ***
Arthur Black is a tall, handsome, full-watt smile American arms dealer.
His mom was a billionaire, a real estate mogul from Dubai who got her
hands into organized crime and is now sealed away in a maximum security
prison in New York State.
Arthur lives a high-profile life, not unlike her. He’s friends with
celebrities and star athletes; his roster of boyfriends includes everything
from rappers to Formula 1 drivers. And he holds himself like he’s not just
the smartest man in the room, but like he owns the room—and everyone in
it.
That’s precisely why I chose to meet him in town, at one of the Michelin-
star restaurants reserved for Hollywood actors and young royalty on winter
holidays. We meet for lunch and are seated in a private upstairs room where
the walls and ceiling are made all of glass. Snow coats the top, sending cold
blue light diffusing over the white tile floors and walls. I come in alone, just
on the off-chance Arthur has something wild planned.
But as soon as I clap my eyes on him, I realize I’ve overestimated him.
This isn’t the kind of man who brings armed guards or plots assassinations.
In fact, despite us being close to the same age, he has the aspect of a boy:
goofy, drenched in wealth he didn’t own, and too cocky to even hear the
word no.
“Where is she?” He asks, giving me a full, blinding grin as we shake
hands. “Come on, you know I’m not really here to see you, Romano.”
“I’m disappointed,” I say, returning the smile with one of my own. Sharp
enough that I see Arthur hesitate, gauge me. Size me up a little. “Please,
sit.” I already am, but Arthur is hesitating. When I command him to and
gesture dismissively, he, to my surprise, obeys. “You came a long way for a
visit with my captive. You couldn’t have imagined I’d let the two of you
have much time together.”
“Look, I’m glad you called. I’ve been admiring your organization from
afar since my mom was still out in the real world.” Arthur kicks back,
flicking a lazy finger at the waiter, who arrives with a bottle of top-shelf
whiskey and pours for us both before vanishing back into the woodwork.
“But the only reason I’m here is Kate. You wouldn’t even have my
information if it wasn’t for her, right? I don’t usually associate with people
of your…caliber.”
 “A bit early in the meeting to be insulting me,” I say, but I say it without
any sting and smile mildly, sitting back in my chair. Arthur drinks without
toasting—a bit brusque, a bit uncultured—and I wait until he’s taken a drink
to take mine. “And anyway, our calibers aren’t so different, you and I. In
fact, according to my most recent information…yours might even be in
danger of falling beneath mine.”
“I’m a baller,” says Arthur with a grin. “I know how to spend like I know
how to earn. Sue me, OK? But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what the
fuck I’m doing. I went to MIT. You know what that is, MIT?”
I study him. He’s enigmatic. Jittery but alternately calm. Cocky but
occasionally vulnerable. I’m not certain what will work best with him. But
that’s why I brought Kate. “I’m not here to listen to your credentials. As
I’m sure, you’re not here to listen to mine. Let’s cut to the chase. Liam
McNamara owes my organization a massive debt, one I intend to collect.
And soon. Not immediately; I’m not a monster. And anyway, I’ve helped
myself to a down payment.” I signal to the waiter, and a moment later, Kate
skulks obediently in.
Before she can greet Arthur, I stand, catching her by the waist and
leaning in to kiss her softly. Possessively. Her hands fly to my chest, but I
hold her firm, feeling Arthur’s shock as it suffuses the air. When I release
Kate, her face is flushed, her eyes full of murder. Some part of her, clearly,
even after last night—truly hates me.
Good. That should, at the very least, keep things simple. “Sit,” I say to
her, coolly but with a tone that brooks no argument. “Kate, you remember
Arthur, I take it? Arthur, you recall Kate McNamara—my wife.”
Kate sits stiffly, letting me slide her chair in for her like some perverse
kind of gentleman. I sit beside her, signaling the waiter, who comes to pour
a few fingers of Arthur’s whiskey for Kate. She drinks it in one gulp, then
rudely—but somewhat hotly—snaps her fingers for a top-up.
Arthur is looking between us, his expression blank with shock, his mouth
hanging open. “No—I don’t believe it. You’re not that stupid, Romano.
Liam will have your head.”
“Liam is wise enough to know this is the best investment he could have
hoped for,” I reply curtly. “Kate, you’re the one who’s good with numbers.
Isn’t that right? And Arthur here went to MIT. I’m sure you can both do the
math. Liam is locked in more than ever, and my debt is more apt to be paid
out—and soon. But now I’m thinking about fairness, you see; now I’m
thinking about interest.”
“Interest?” Snaps Kate, turning that murderous glare back on me. It’s
enough to send chills down my spine, though I can’t determine if it’s fear or
attraction or a seductive blend of both. “That’s what this is? You’re going to
buy out my partners as fucking interest?”
“Language, love,” I say, as condescendingly as possible. Her face lights
up, and I’m surprised at how much pleasure pulses through me when it
does. “You and Arthur go way back, is that right? Good. History is good
insurance.”
“If you think for a second that I’m gonna—”
I cut Arthur off with a raised hand. “Kate is mine now,” I say simply.
“Mine to fuck, mine to impregnate, mine to kill if I please. Mine to lend
out. Mine to sell.” As I say it, I reach for her and find her sitting stiffly with
shoulders rigid and hands gripping the edge of the table so hard her
knuckles have gone white. I brush the back of my hand over her cheekbone.
“Mine to do with whatever I desire.”
“What the hell does that matter to me?” demands Arthur.
“Your accounts are tightly linked. Don’t think I didn’t look closely at the
numbers, Arthur. You’re skimming off the top. By a fat fucking margin.”
Arthur goes white as a sheet. He and Kate lock eyes. And I can tell by the
way her spine softens that Kate didn’t know this—I didn’t think so. She
manages so many accounts, and if I didn’t have good men on it, I’m sure I
wouldn’t have caught it, either.
“So,” I say. “Interest.”
“What the fuck, Arthur?” Kate says, and she sounds genuinely offended.
Knowing her, she’s more pissed off that she didn’t catch the mistake herself
and had to be told by a third party. “How long have you been fucking me
over?”
Arthur snorts. “I haven’t. Are you serious?” But there’s a high note in his
voice. He’s nervous. And when he gestures at me frantically, his hand is
shaking. “Come on. We’ve known each other a long time, Kate. A long
time.” He looks at her pointedly. “You’re not gonna believe this
motherfucker over me, are you? Really? He kidnapped you! He’s the son of
your father’s worst rival!”
Kate only stares at him. Her expression is strange. She’s doing some kind
of calculus. “Wait, no,” she says after a moment. “I do know when. Three
years ago, right? When you tried to pull out and I locked you in…I sensed
there was something in that. A maneuver. You must not have started then,
though, not right away, because I was watching that account closely. But
you were pivoting, planning it. Because of that night.”
Arthur’s face goes so red it’s almost purple. I glance at Kate—now it’s
my turn to be surprised.
“Because I wouldn’t sleep with you,” she says, her voice almost awed.
“You petty little fucker. And to think, I trusted you…” Her eyes narrow to
slits. “What were you saying, Luca, about interest?”
“Come on, Kate,” says Arthur, voice wobbling. “You need me. Your
father needs me. You can’t afford to lose me—”
“Together,” Kate says, pointing a finger at me while looking fiercely at
Arthur, “we out-own you by tens of millions. If you don’t want your ass
erased from this corner of the world, I advise you to do exactly as you’re
fucking told. Do you think the only way to be ruined is by being in jail like
your mom, Arthur? There are much, much worse fates.” With every word,
she leans closer, her eyes never leaving Arthur’s, never blinking. “You get
protection through me. Through my father. Through his contacts. You’re not
from this world, and I get that. But so does everyone else. And the minute I
take my name off of you, the minute you become vulnerable. You wanna
know what it’s like outside of Hollywood parties and private yachts? I’ll
fucking show you myself.”
Arthur has been leaning back for every inch Kate has leaned forward.
He’s pressed flush back against the chair, pale as a sheet, sweat beading at
his temples. The cockiness is all a facade, then. And it folded like a house
of cards.
I snap, and instead of a waiter, a pair of my men appear. Two of my
biggest, hulking, dressed all in black, carrying the least discreet rifles we've
got in the armory.
“No,” says Arthur, shrinking. “No, wait, please, I’ll work with you—”
“Work with us?” Kate says it before I can. And then she stands up before
I even have the chance. I watch her in surprise as she rises, balancing all of
her fingertips on the table and looking down her nose at Arthur like he’s the
smallest insect in the world, and she’s primed to put her boot down on him.
“You’ll be lucky if I let you work for us, Arthur.”
The guards get him by an arm each and drag him out, and Kate watches,
ice cold, not blinking at his pleas and cries for mercy. Once he’s gone, a
door out of sight banging closed, she looks at me.
“You can’t kill him,” she says, sighing, sinking back into her seat and
taking a sip of her whiskey. She sits back, crossing one boot over the
opposite knee. She looks, for all the world, like a fucking kingpin.
Girlfriend, mafia boss—is there any uniform she can’t wear? “He’s
valuable. And whatever he was skimming isn’t enough to kill the account
over.”
I chuckle. “No? Then what was all of that?”
“A performance. No crime boss ever got anything without a little
grandstanding.” She finishes her whiskey and puts it down, leaning her
elbows on the table and locking eyes with me. “Don’t do that again.”
“Do what, exactly?”
“Throw me to the wolves. If we’re meeting my people, tell me.”
I consider her. Consider the request. Given the circumstance, she
performed quite well just there. But I can’t deny that coming into
negotiations with both of us on the same would help. A lot, I think, given
her apparent acting skill. “Why?”
“You know why.” She doesn’t blink. Her gaze is ice. As intense as mine
ever is. Fuck. She’s impressive. “You really want to capitalize on this
marriage, farce that it is? OK. Let’s do it. I want to pay my father’s debt.”
She takes a deep breath and exhales. “If that means fucking my position, if
it means losing my contacts to you and possibly bankrupting him—fine. I
want him to leave. Free of you, free of your threats looming over him.”
Her passion for her father wounds me. So far, I’ve been able to overlook
it. It makes me miss my father. It makes me respect her even more for all
that she’s doing, all that she’s willing to sacrifice just for the chance to save
him.
“Please, Luca,” she says and surprises me by placing her hand over mine
on the table. “I’m in this now. Let’s work together.”
“You’re brilliant,” I tell her, and her eyebrows go up, and she lifts her
hand from mine and sits back. “You’re cunning. You’re courageous and
clever and experienced and fearless, and I don’t trust for a moment that,
given a chance, you won’t turn on me. Give me one reason that I should
trust you, Kate. Right here. Right now.”
She’s pale. But she nods, seeming to understand. And she says, “You
shouldn’t.”
“Then nothing here is going to change.” I stand, turn, and walk out.
 Chapter 9

Kate

That night, Luca doesn’t sleep with me. I don’t hear from him, and when
I’m led to the dining room (embarrassingly wearing the nicest sweater I’ve
been given, embarrassingly having done my makeup and my hair), I
discover that I’ll be eating dinner alone. I do, fuming quietly to myself. I
think about Arthur. About how that meeting went—how Luca grabbed me
so possessively, so performatively, and kissed me...how much I liked it
when I should have hated it.
Luca—the asshole—he did me a favor in there. He discovered something
in the accounts that I foolishly managed to overlook. He protected me, even
if it benefited him, too. When is he going to stop doing that? What if he
never does? What if this marriage, this lie, this ruse of a marriage—
somehow, in some twisted way, becomes a real one?
I don’t see Luca all the next day, but I do wake up to a gift—a laptop
with internet. And all of my accounts and contacts loaded in. There’s a note
tucked between the screen and the keyboard. Get to work, McNamara. Luca
I don’t know why it makes me smile. I get dressed and have coffee and
biscuits delivered to my room. It feels better than I thought it would, to be
myself, to be working. And digging into the accounts feels good, too. I keep
glancing at the note, at Luca’s fine handwriting. Imagining his fingers on it.
Remembering the way he touched me that night. Wanting, so deeply, so
badly for him to do it again. Even though we shouldn’t. It won’t serve me at
all to get any closer to him. And at the end of the day, Luca remains my
enemy. He remains my captor. I should hate him, and some part of me does.
But some part of me likes him. Respects him. And wants him so badly I
can barely breathe.
I work until night falls, and when I’m told Luca once again won’t be
joining me for dinner, I take it in my room, cross-legged on the silk duvet in
my pajamas, drinking a glass of local pinot noir. And that’s how I fall
asleep, and that’s how I wake up, with him standing over me.
I wake slowly, eyelids lifting, still heavy with wine. The glass is on its
side on the white duvet, a bloody stain spreading out from it. The laptop is
dead, my dinner tray empty. And Luca stands over me, silk shirt open, a
beautiful tie loose over his shoulder. Wordless, he reaches for me and
brushes his fingertips over my lips.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, still half-asleep, disoriented. “The wine…”
“I’ll get another.” Not a hint of anger or annoyance in his voice. His
fingers trace my lips slowly, his touch velvet, awakening heat between my
legs as easily as flipping a switch. “I missed you.”
I missed you? My breath hitches hard. “You shouldn’t say things like
that.”
“Why not?” His voice is so soft, only a murmur. “It’s true. We agreed not
to lie to one another.” Slowly, he kneels. My heart bashes into my ribs.
Don’t, I beg him. But I can’t say it because it’s not real. It’s not true. I just
want it to be. I just need it to be. Don’t touch me. Don’t make me melt. Don’t
make me come. Don’t make me feel something for you that isn’t ice, that
isn’t steel, that isn’t hate.
But he can’t hear me because I don’t say a word of this. And even if he
did hear me, would he stop? Or would he know, like I know, that that’s not
what I really want? Would he see through me, like he already does?
His mouth grazes the inside of my knee, and I swallow a gasp.
Delicately, tenderly, he spreads my thighs, running his tongue up the inside
of one. I clench my teeth, lying back on the pillows, sliding my hands into
his dark curls. His breath is hot between my legs, his palms rougher than I
thought they’d be as they search up and down my thighs, slow and
decadent. He grips my ass, slowly pulling me closer to the edge of the bed.
I bite my cheek as he drags his tongue up higher, as he brushes my silk
nightgown up over my hips. He hooks his thumbs through my panties,
unfurling them easily and tugging them down over my thighs, letting them
fall to circle around one of my ankles.
I brace myself, tension stacked hard in the base of my spine as his hot
breath returns between my thighs. I’m shaking. Embarrassed to want him as
badly as I do. Embarrassed to melt in his hands when he’s only touched me
once before. He waits there, his thumbs stroking circles on my hips.
Against my skin, he murmurs, his voice barely a growl, “Tell me what
you want, Kate.”
Fuck. It’s a way out. An excuse to tell him to back off, to get his hands
off me. It’s an open door. It’s a get-out-of-jail-free card. “Lick me.”
He does. I shudder, clutching his hair, a gasp working through me as he
drags the flat of his tongue between my legs, slowly, delicately: savoring.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He opens his mouth, his beard grazing my skin. He shifts,
tongue stroking me softly, so lightly I can feel him only enough to drive me
crazy; an instant later, his finger slides inside me.
I fall back against the pillows, trembling, a moan escaping me raggedly.
His rhythm is slow, commanding. I lift my hips and fall into him, against
him, his face, his fingers. I feel like my whole body is coming apart. Every
cell burning off, disintegrating. His rhythm quickens, and another finger
enters me, and with his tongue working against me, it takes only a moment
before I can’t hold back my orgasm any longer. I’m not even embarrassed
when I break apart, my moans rising, rising until I’m crying out his name,
rocking my hips against him. He quickens his fingers, applies his tongue
harder, and I shatter, coming so hard I feel myself leave the room, feel
myself fall into sheer ecstasy. When I slam back into my body, my spine is
arched, my hands gripping fistfuls of his hair.
I collapse, panting, sweat beading beneath my arms and on my lower
back. Luca licks me again, more softly. He kisses the inside of one thigh
and the other slowly, still taking his time. Still enjoying me. He kisses my
knee and slides my panties back into place. He pulls my nightgown back
down over my legs. All the while, I lie back, breathing hard. Spent. He
shifts, lying back on the bed beside me.
After a moment of lying there, of slowly touching back to earth, I start to
get sheepish. I feel my face flush, and as if reading my mind, Luca reaches
over and tugs the throw from the foot of the bed over me. What the hell is
this? Taking care of me? But fuck it—why fight it right now, in the middle
of the night? Why not just admit that I missed him, and enjoy this, crazy as
it might be?
“Where have you been?” I ask him softly, looking at him sideways. He
tips his head to look at me, too, our eyes meeting in the dark. Something
about it feels sweet, almost innocent. Like children at a sleepover. His hand
falls to my thigh, stroking idly. Not even sexually. The gesture is warm,
possessive. Like a boyfriend. “I missed you.”
He smiles sharply. “Did you, now?”
I nod. “I don’t know why.”
“I’m spoiling you. That’s why.”
I flush more deeply but don’t bother hiding my smile. “I guess you are.”
He brushes his knuckles over my cheekbone. “I was checking up on
some things. Making sure Arthur is doing as he’s told.”
 “And? Is he?”
“So far.” His eyes glitter. “I think you really scared him.”
“Me? You’re the one who brought him there without me knowing. You’re
the one who kidnapped and married me.” I cock a brow. “You’re the one he
should be afraid of.”
His hand pauses on my face. “Am I, Kate? Are you certain of that?”
I bite my cheek. At the restaurant, when I snapped at Arthur, I meant it.
Some of the reaction was genuine; a lot of it was a put-on. Luca seems to
forget, as I do about him, just how alike we are. Just how much we’ve lived
and operated in the same dangerous world. We both know how to play this
game, as much as we’re betting the other isn’t outplaying us.
“I don’t want to be locked up in here,” I say. “I don’t like it.”
Luca sighs, dropping his hand from my face and relaxing onto his back,
staring hard up at the ceiling. “Even with the laptop?”
“Yes. Even with the laptop.” I hesitate. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the
internet access was partially restricted.”
“I can’t have you putting out a distress call. Though,” he adds, turning to
look at me, “I suppose the world already knows where you are. The
Russians came. Others might. It’s less likely, now word of our marriage is
spreading. But your father has failed to send anyone. Why do you think that
is, Kate?”
“Honestly?”
He nods.
“I think it could be one of a few things. One,” I tick off a finger. “He
thinks I know what I’m doing and can get myself out of it. Two—you’re
right. And he thinks I’m most valuable here as your wife, a lifelong
hostage, and potential mother of your children. Or three…” I hesitate, and
Luca’s hand slides over my thigh again, thumb stroking a soothing circle.
This time the gesture isn’t idle at all but calculated. Askance. OK, you
really wanna know? I drop my hand and look at him squarely, unblinking.
“Three: he’s planning a much larger scale attack and is taking time to get it
together properly.”
“And four?” His thumb strokes more roughly, more pointedly. Heat
awakens in me again. Pours across every inch of my skin, slowly,
deliciously. I try my best to ignore it. “He doesn’t come at all. The cost is
sunk.”
 I feel the blood drain out of my face. “Yeah,” I admit. “That’s a
possibility.”
“Would it trouble you?”
“My father did everything he could to keep me out of his world. He did
everything he could to protect me.” I bite my cheek, sighing and turning to
gaze up at the ceiling. “And when he couldn’t protect me, he did everything
he could to save me, to make it up to me. Always. There was never a time I
thought he wouldn’t come for me.”
“Perhaps,” says Luca, “he should not have put you in danger in the first
place.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know him.”
I sit up, stung, looking at Luca hard. “You don’t. You know your own father
but not mine. Everything he’s done, he’s done for me. For my family.
Everything he’s done, he’s done to protect me, to make my future better—”
“Bullshit.” Luca sighs, sitting up, then standing. He grimaces as he pulls
off his shirt, not bothering to fold it tonight. I watch moonlight glance off
his chest, off the curve of each bicep, his hard rigid abs. Don’t. Don’t look at
him like that, I command myself. It’s not an easy order to follow. “Your
father is a gangster, Kate. A dog, like all the rest.”
I blanch, stunned. “And your father? What was he, some saint?”
“He was a dog, too. As am I.” He turns to me sharply, anger snapping
across his face. His eyes darken to twin storms, his brows low. “As is every
man in this building, every man who carries a gun and calls himself a
mobster. You’re naïve to think any differently.”
“You’re jaded not to,” I snap back, standing. “I’m a good person. My
father is a good person. And you—”
“Me?” He turns again, this time stepping close enough to make me step
back. He catches me by both wrists, roughly enough to make me gasp, and
yanks me against him, our eyes locked. “You don’t know me, Kate. You
know that you want me. You know that you shouldn’t trust me. You know
that you like when I make you come. But don’t be stupid. Don’t let your
judgment be clouded. At the end of the day, you’re as much a bartering chip
to me as anything else.”
“Fuck you,” I say through my teeth. “I’ve known you for a week. I’ve
fucked you once. Do you think I’m some stupid little schoolgirl who’s
going to fall in love with you?” I jerk both hands free but hold my ground,
stepping even closer, looking hard up into his face. “I told you. You’re a
good salesman, that’s all. And I’ve listened to your pitch. I’ve bought into
it. So don’t talk down to me like you’re my superior—you’re not. You’ll
never have me believe that you are.”
He stares down at me, expression almost blank. I realize I’ve shocked
him. Good. It makes my heart race. And I don’t know if he’s going to grab
me or kiss me or fuck me or lock me up, and that makes my heart race even
faster. I wait, but as soon as I realize I’m waiting, I realize I’m also giving
him the power here. And haven’t I done enough of that?
“Get in the bathroom,” I say, more softly but still sternly. “We need to
change your bandages.” And without waiting for his answer, I stalk away
and expect him to follow.
After a moment, he does.
 Chapter 10

Luca

Bullets rain down against the steel targets, a veritable current. The thunder
of their landing booms through the woods, startling a murder of crows out
of the cypress.
“Good,” I say, flipping on the safety and shoving the rifle back to Gio.
“I’ll take a shipment for the house.”
Gio flashes his car salesman smile, falling into step beside me as I pull
on my gloves. “It’s on back order, boss.”
“Make it happen. I don’t care how much it costs.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” Gio loads the rifles back into the car, looking like a cat that
ate the mouse—as always. He’s been in the organization as long as I have.
It was my idea he turned into a faux traitor and became an informant for
me. Kate McNamara isn’t the first instance of it working out pretty damn
well. “So, you fortifying this place up for the girl, or what?”
He pulls out a cigarette, and I take the one he offers, letting him light it
for me. When he looks up the hill through the trees at the villa, I turn to as
well. It looks grand up there on the hill, flanked by black, snow-creased
mountains. And Kate is in there now. Sleeping? Working? In the bath,
maybe? My body tenses at every possibility. I still feel her hands on me,
changing my bandage. I still feel her sleeping with her back to me, a novel
angry wife. I still feel her, waking with a startled gasp in the night, letting
me slide an arm around her, letting me pull her close, and hold her until she
fell back asleep.
She is made of steel. I hate her for it. Because it’s impossible not to
respect her. Impossible not to—against everything in me, against all logic—
care for her.
“The girl,” I say to Gio, “amongst other things.”
“Mm.”
“What?” I glance at him, exhaling a plume of pale smoke. “Say what you
mean.”
“Word on the street is that her father is cooking up something big. After
the Russians got in, people think your security is, well…lacking.” He
flashes his jackal grin. “I guess that’s why the big show, with purchasing
better guns, hiring more muscle. But it makes you look weak, Luca; you
know it makes you look weak.”
I shrug. “I’ve looked worse. When I inherited this empire from my father,
it was in ruin. Now it flourishes. All but Liam McNamara’s debts have been
called in and paid out. I have Americans on my roster, with only more to
come through Kate. And any who I can get a sweeter deal to will leave
Liam. He’ll be destitute, stranded, with no army to protect him.”
Gio considers me, the cinder at the end of his cigarette glowing as he
inhales deeply. “And then? You’ll end him?”
What would Kate think? What will she think? “He’s the reason my father
is dead.”
“Mm.”
“Gio,” I say, cutting him a look. “Speak your mind, please. You’re one of
my oldest and most trusted allies. You know I value your counsel.”
Gio tosses down his cigarette butt and grinds it under his heel. “There is
talk.”
“There is always talk.”
“More, now.”
“Now?”
“Since your…wedding.” His smile is slippery as ever. “Some think that
once you start hitting the Irish pussy, you’ll become one yourself.”
I stiffen, clenching my jaw. If anyone else said some shit like that to me,
his teeth would be in the snow. But Gio…he might be unorthodox, but he
has a point. A point I think I already knew to fear. “The girl is a means to an
end.” I’m careful not to call her by name—I’ll need to be more careful
about all of it from here on out. “Nothing more. She’s meaningless, but for
her name, her connections, and eventually, her womb.”
“Is that so? I hear she put on quite the show with Arthur Black. Took the
lead on the meeting. Made the threats, made the calls. I hear you just sat
there, letting the lioness make your kills for you.”
“Enough,” I say sharply. “You’re crossing a line.”
“You said to speak my mind.”
“I mean, report facts,” I say, casting down my cigarette and turning to
face him squarely. We’re the same height, but Gio always hunches and
always carries himself like he’s better suited to back alleys and shadows. I
cock my head at him, holding his eyes hard. “I don’t mean for you to
editorialize. That’s just fucking gossip. And who the hell was at that
meeting that’s reporting to you, hm? A waiter? One of my guards?”
“Easy,” Gio laughs, throwing up both hands in surrender. “You know I
have nothing but love for you, brother. Nothing but love. You know I am
telling you this to help you. Your image matters. If people start sensing that
you’re answering to her, there’s going to be trouble. They might start to
worry you’re losing your edge.” His eyes dance. “They might start to worry
that when the time comes, you won’t want to finish the job. A lot of people
on this side of the continent want Liam McNamara dead, boss. It’s not just
personal for you. It’s personal for all of us.”
I consider him. It pisses me off to be called out, especially like this,
especially about this. But Gio is right, and his assessment is actually quite
insightful. Here is my first—and possibly most important—opportunity to
start unwinding this narrative before it gets legs of its own and takes off.
“At the end of this, Liam McNamara dies,” I say frigidly, looking from
the villa to Gio. He smiles, looking blood-hungry and wild. “At the end of
this, I put a bullet in his head. Kate matters only so far as she serves me.
Only as far as she serves the organization.”
Gio nods, looking galvanized. Looking like if he had a gun and Liam
McNamara in front of him now, he would relish spilling his blood. “Good.
I’ll spread the word.”
“I don’t need you to spread the word,” I say, knowing he will anyway.
The cooler I play this, the better off I am. The safer Kate is. I try to crush
the thought under my bootheel. Try not to let it show in my face, not here,
not to Gio. “This will all be over soon enough. And everyone will know
exactly who I am and what I’m capable of.”
“And I’ll be at your side. Until the end.” Gio extends his hand, and I grip
it fast, our eyes locked. “You’ll fill your father’s footsteps. You’ll outpace
him. I’ve always known it, Luca.”
I nod once. “Come on. Let’s shoot some more fucking guns.”
***
When I get back to the villa, I find Ariana has returned. She’s sitting in
my office with her boots kicked up on my desk, a cigarette in her mouth,
and a glass of whiskey in hand. “Ah,” she says when I enter, feeling the
strange urge to close the door behind me. “There you are. I’ve been
waiting.”
 “I didn’t know you were coming back today,” I say. In truth, I’d half-
forgotten about Ari. “Your Russian friends showed up the night you left.”
“Ha. They’re not my friends. You know that.” She sucks in smoke and
blows it out both nostrils, pinning me with a hard, unblinking stare. “You
married the girl. That was unwise.”
“You think so? After the Russians invaded and shot up the house, I got
the sense she was too valuable to waste.” There’s a tension in the air I’m
not used to. I feel Ari’s eyes on me, not leaving me, even as I cross to pour
myself a glass of whiskey. “And anyway, she’s proven quite useful.”
“Yes, I heard about your little meeting with Arthur Black.”
“It seems everyone has. Word travels fast.” I sigh, going to the desk and
leaning against it to look down at her. “Well? Were you able to clear any of
Kate’s Russian contacts?”
“Oh, yeah.” She leans forward, pulling a folio out of her briefcase and
dropping it heavily onto the desk. “Cleared a good few of them. I’m not
sure how willing any of them will be to shift alliances.”
“Who said anything about shifting alliances? I’ll make offers to some and
threats to others. We’re poised to get our hands deep into Liam’s network,
anyway. Arthur Black is already making the transition.”
“And? What happens when they turn on you?” Ari cocks her head,
narrowing her dark eyes to slits. “Those ties are old, Luca. Liam might be
falling into weakness and destitution, but he’s not dead yet. And I doubt
many—if any—are willing to cross him. You realize what kind of a war
you’re waging, don’t you?”
“The same war my father was locked into. The same war that killed
him.” I lean off the desk, downing the rest of my whiskey and pouring
myself another. “I’m starting nothing.” I put down the glass hard, harder
than I mean to. Look into the dark ripples of whiskey. “I’m finishing it.”
Ari sighs, and I hear the shift of her loose blazer as she stands and
crosses over to me. She lays a hand on my arm, more familiar, more warm
than usual. “Look at me, Luca.” I do. Her eyes are deep and dark and
insistent. “You need allies. Allies that you can trust.” She takes a deep
breath, hesitating. “Pyotr Petrov—”
“Fuck,” I mutter, pulling away from her. I pace away, raking a hand
through my hair. “Is that what you were doing in Russia, Ari? Fucking
around with some old war buddy of your mother’s?”
“Don’t be like that—”
 “I sent you to work for me,” I snarl, turning sharply to face her. I down
the rest of my whiskey and slam the glass down on the desk so hard the
crystal shatters. Half the glass, horribly sharp, bites into my palm. I recoil,
gripping my palm with the other, blood pouring from my hand. “Fuck.”
“Luca, Jesus Christ.” Ari looks at me hard, setting down her glass and
taking me by the hand. I flinch away, but she grabs me again, more sternly
this time, reaching into her jacket to produce a handkerchief. “You had men
watching me. You had every chance to check in on what I was doing in
Russia. You didn’t.”
I say nothing. The rage coursing through my veins is hot enough to scald,
and my hand hurts like a motherfucker.
“Because you trust me,” Ari says, looking me in the eye. She reaches for
the cart, uncapping a bottle of fine Russian vodka. She pours it over my
bloody hand, spilling it to the floor heedlessly, her grip tightening when I
attempt reflexively to recoil. “You know that you trust me. So trust me with
this. Petrov has always been open to an alliance—”
“Petrov was a scoundrel when my father was alive,” I bite out, finally
yanking my hand free, keeping the handkerchief held to it fast. “He was a
scoundrel when my father died. He’s a scoundrel now. I want nothing to do
with him, and I want you to have nothing to do with him.”
“He is willing to show his good faith.”
I slam my good palm down on the desk hard. Ari flinches at the
resounding crack of it. “He can fuck himself with his good faith. I trusted
you. You betrayed that trust. When I brought you in, everyone told me not
to trust you. I lost men, good men who served my father to keep you on my
payroll. I believed you were a good investment.”
“Have I not been?” Her eyes narrow. She crosses to the desk, planting
both palms on it across from me, our gazes locked. “You trust that Irish
whore more than you trust me, and you just met her two weeks ago.”
“Enough.”
“What, does that bother you? That I call her a whore? She is. She would
have sold herself to the highest bidder—” She raises her voice over my
protests, cutting a hand through the air. “Just like she sold herself to you.
Look at me. Look at me, Luca. You think you’ve played her? You’re a fool.
She has played you. She’s wormed her way into your protection, into your
affections, and best of all—she’s convinced you that it was all your idea,
not hers. She’s a woman, Luca. I know women. We are conniving. We stop
at nothing. We don’t care who we hurt. And you, even if you have forgotten
it, are her sworn fucking enemy. I don’t care how good the pussy is.”
“Enough,” I repeat, snarling the word. “Watch your mouth.”
She stares at me hard, her dark eyes thoughtful and cold. “You’re in love
with her.”
“I am not in fucking love with her.” My hand stings, but I throw off the
handkerchief anyway, pouring myself a third whiskey. This day has been all
bullshit and little else. And worst of all—it’s her I can’t help but blame. Her
I want to blame. Her who should be blamed. She is the trouble. She is the
fire in my house. “She is a means to an end. Nothing more. And at least she
knows to follow fucking orders. It’s more than I can say of you.”
“Petrov wants to meet with you. Here, in Italy. Rome. There’s a museum
event in two weeks. He’ll bring his offer.”
“His offer? There will be no fucking offer.” I shove Ari’s folio from the
desk, heedless of the dozens of papers that fly across the floor. Her eyes
shift to them and back to mine slowly, with derision, with cool venom.
“You stepped out of line today. If you want to keep your job, if you want to
remain in my service, you’ll fix this. Tell Petrov to fuck off. I have more
than enough to work with in Russia, here, through the girl.”
“Kate,” says Ari coolly. “Through Kate. Your wife.”
“My wife of convenience. Don’t make it sound like it is anything else.” I
finish the whiskey and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I want
you with Gio.”
Her eyes flash. “What?”
“I want you with him from now on. Every task, every job, every meeting.
You take him with you. You don’t step out of his sight.”
“This is a fucking joke.”
“This is a slap on the fucking wrist,” I hiss back at her. “Do you have any
idea, any idea at all, how many of my men, how many of my contacts and
investors and partners would love to see me strand you? Exile you?
Imprison, torture, kill you? You are not liked in this country, Ariana. You
are not liked in this house. The instant I sense you violating my trust again,
I will give them what they wish.”
She opens her mouth, but I silence her with a raised hand.
“Get out,” I say. “I can’t look at you.”
She clenches her teeth, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She grabs her
briefcase and leaves without a word. But once she reaches the hall, she
stops and turns, her hand on the doorframe and her face half in shadow.
“She will be your ruin, Luca,” she says softly. “And you’re a fool for not
seeing it.” She turns and goes. I pick up my whiskey glass and hurl it across
the room, relishing the horrible crash as it shatters against the wall, as glass
splinters rain onto the rug. I rake a hand through my hair.
This isn’t right. None of this is right. These moves were all precise, made
with calculation. But Gio hears suspicion. Ari is going rogue. And Pyotr
Petrov—one of my father’s greatest Russian enemies—now knows I’m in a
weak position. Financially I know I look good. But after the storming by the
Russians last week, and with the apparently inexplicable knowledge that my
numbers are down…I feel vulnerable.
And I don’t like feeling vulnerable. Not one fucking bit.
 Chapter 11

Kate

I meet Luca in the dining room for dinner, and the minute I step into the
room, I feel the tension. It’s wound so tight that it stops me on the threshold
like I’m detecting some kind of danger before I see it. He stands beside a
record player on an ornate table, both objects so beautiful and old and well-
kept that I’d be scared to touch them.
Even from behind, Luca is as beautiful as ever. He wears a suit so deep a
sapphire it’s nearly black, his dark waves swept back. He stands with
practiced ease, hands in the pockets of his silk trousers. He looks amazingly
expensive, refined. He looks like he’s not from my world at all, and in many
ways, I guess he’s not.
But in so many others…we have so much in common. In so many ways,
we know one another better, more intimately, and more closely than
outsiders ever could. We might be enemies, poised on different sides of the
battlefield. But at the end of the day, Luca and I are still, and have always
been, soldiers in the same war.
“How was your work today?” He asks. There’s a hint of something
dangerous in his soft voice. I reluctantly cross the room, hands clasped in
front of me. When I join him before the record player, he doesn’t so much
as look at me. “Did you discover any other traitors on your list of contacts?”
He means Arthur. “No,” I say, still embarrassed that I didn’t catch Arthur
skimming off the top. He’s already paying for it, but I’ll make sure he pays
with far more than cash. As soon as I’ve gotten some power back, he’ll
have much more than Luca to contend with. “Luca, are you OK?”
“I’m very well, thank you.” But the smile he gives me is made of ice. It
doesn’t even get close to touching his eyes. “What would you think,” he
asks, shifting his gaze back to the soft ripple of the record on its wheel, “if
you were one of my men?”
I could play coy and act like I don’t know what he’s talking about. But
I’ve sensed a shift in the atmosphere here over the last few weeks, and it’s
no wonder. With how things have gone… “I would be nervous.”
His glance is sidelong, muted. Like he’s watering down every emotion
inside of him. It scares me. I’ve only known Luca to wear his heart and his
intentions on his sleeve, for better or for worse. I’m not sure what to make
of a man I can’t read at all. A man that is hiding himself from me.
“Why?" He asks. “Why would you be nervous?”
“You had a massive security breach last week,” I say. “You were shot.
Six of your men died here, in your home, within days of kidnapping a
kingpin’s daughter. But the most significant piece of it all is that it wasn’t
even the Irish that invaded and almost killed you. It was the Russians.”
“Does it matter which Russians?”
“Hardly. Russians shooting up your house aren’t the ones on your
payroll.” But I hesitate as I say it, shifting to look at Luca more closely.
“Unless they are.”
“You don’t trust Ariana.”
“I’d be a fool to.”
He looks at me sharply. “You’re calling me a fool.”
“You don’t trust her,” I say, even though it’s more a hope than an actual
belief. “I’m not calling you a fool at all.”
He nods, running a hand roughly over his beard. “I was too hasty.” He
paces away from me, crossing to an ornate gold and glass liquor cart
between two towering windows. The crimson velvet drapes, four founts
pooling on the floor, are pulled aside and bound. Outside, the wind howls,
whipping currents of snow through the pitch-black night. They look eerie.
Like ghosts. “I should not have taken you for a wife.”
It’s a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t be. Luca is my enemy. My kidnapper.
My captor. And I know, I know better than to think that whatever has
transpired between us is anything but calculated. Still...the way he’s
touched me and talked to me, the way he’s been with me—maybe it makes
me an idiot, but some part of me was starting to believe it was real.
Stupid, stupid girl, I think, shamed at how stung I am. At the flush that I
feel creeping up the back of my neck. I steel my voice, school my face into
a mask. “Why?”
“I’ve made a target of myself.”
“You were already a target, and you were only brought into the crosshairs
more by bringing me here.” Slowly, I cross to him, stopping with one hand
on the cart as he pours both of us a glass of whiskey. I don’t take mine when
he offers it. “Marrying me was a calculated risk. One that is already paying
off.”
“One that is already costing me.” He faces me, his eyes finally flashing,
finally filling with life—with anger. “There are rumors circulating that I
may make an ally of your father.”
I stare at him, confused. “You may.”
“No, Kate. I will never call your father a friend.”
My stomach drops. “You’re acquiring my contacts,” I say with a
humorless laugh. “You’re binding yourself in business with me, with my
father—”
“No. Not with your father. With you, yes. With his organization, or
whatever the fuck is left of it.” He brushes past me, drinking, and kicks out
a chair from the table. He sits in it, legs splayed, eyes narrowed, grip loose
on his whiskey glass. “But this week has reminded me how much blood has
been spilled between our families. Your father is the reason mine is dead.”
“Luca. Please.” I go to him, kneeling, taking his hands in mine, and
looking up into his face. “Don’t make this a mission to kill my father. I’m
here because you called in his debts. I’m here to pay them off. With my
accounts, with my contacts—with myself, and my body, and my future.” I
feel tears well. Usually, and so far, I’ve kept myself from showing emotion
to him. But right now, with panic fluttering behind my ribs, I can’t help
myself. I just don’t have the self-control. “Let me pay those debts. Let my
father live. Better yet, befriend the organization. We’re married now,
whether you like it or not. We can make this a true empire. With longevity,
with legacy. Don’t you want that?”
He looks down his nose at me, beautiful, cold, brutal. He finishes his
whiskey and places the glass on the table. And I sit there on my knees like a
supplicant, his eyes brooding. “I don’t know if that’s what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“Your father, dead.”
“But why, Luca? Why now? What changed?”
His expression darkens. “What do you mean, what changed? This is not a
marriage of love, Kate. Don’t be naïve. I care about you as far as you’re
worth financially, politically, and powerfully. You’re not my girlfriend.
You’re barely an excuse for a wife.”
I flinch, embarrassed again that he has the power to hurt me. When did
that happen? When did I make the mistake of handing that control over?
“Ariana wants me in bed with Pyotr Petrov.”
It’s a knife, cold and blunt, thrust up between my ribs. I look up at Luca
in astonishment. “He’s a snake,” I say, almost breathless. “He is notorious.
The worst of the Russians. Your father and mine worked together to route
him out of Eastern Europe in the nineties; that’s how my father’s debt was
acquired—”
“I know that.”
“You’re considering it?”
“Of course, I’m not considering it,” he says frigidly. “But the fact that he
thinks he stands a chance is a testament to how I’m being perceived at large
right now. And Ariana’s intent…” He releases a sharp breath through his
nose, scrubbing his jaw roughly with one hand. “You’re out of control,
Kate. I’ve given you too much leash.”
I crumple my hands into fists on his thighs. It’s the first time I notice the
bandage on his hand, stained rusty with blood. What the hell really
happened today? What changed? What the hell did Ariana say to him?
“Luca,” I say softly, firmly. “Look at me.”
After a moment, he does.
“You have no leash,” I say, holding his gaze. “I am not yours. I will
never, never be yours. You have a set of literal controls over me. My
geography. This house. The lock on my door. The contract we signed.”
He stares at me, something sparking in his dark eyes. Anger? Interest?
Hatred? I can’t tell. I don’t care.
“But at the end of the day, Luca, I am not your friend. I am not your ally.
And in every sense but the most literal, I am not your fucking wife.”
His mouth twitches. It’s the hint of a cold, hateful smile. It’s an
admiration of me. Not as a girl he’s captured, but as an enemy, as an equal.
“What I am,” I continue, leaning closer, sliding my hands, intuitively, a
little possessively, up over his thighs. “Is an opportunity. A door to a world
you’ve been annexed out of for decades. And I’m more than willing to
work with you—I want to work with you. Whatever has transpired between
our organizations, between our fathers, I’m overlooking now. This is a new
time. And if you can just trust me, trust that we can change everything.
Write a new narrative for both of our families. For the family, we can make
together.”
His brows are low, his eyes narrowed to slits. But he doesn’t look angry
anymore. He looks calculated, thoughtful. Like maybe he’s considering
what I’m saying.
“Luca,” I say. “You will never put me on a leash. But why would you
want to? That’s not the kind of wife or partner I can be for you. But what I
can give you is better. I can give you an equal.”
“You’re cocky,” he murmurs after a moment, studying me. His
expression is intense, but now in a different way. And when he reaches for
me, I don’t pull away. Coward, fool that I am, I lean forward, heat flooding
through me as his fingers dance over my mouth. “I should kill you.”
I gently slide my hand over his wrist, bringing his palm to my lips while
holding his eyes. “You don’t want to kill me, Luca.”
“No?”
“No.” I remember what he said in bed, the way he practically ordered me
to beg, and yet, in a way, didn’t he hand control to me then? Hasn’t he done
that already, more than once? He trusts me more than he wants to, more
than he’s letting on. I should be happy about that. That’s a vulnerability I
can weaponize and use against him. That may be my ticket out of this.
But…do I really want one? “You want to fuck me.”
His eyes flash. “Is that so?” His voice is husky, and when I slide his
finger slowly into my mouth, I don’t miss the way his jaw clenches, the way
his eyes narrow. “If I were wise, I would sell you off. Burn the marriage
contract. Take your archives and cripple your father.”
“You are wise,” I say softly, pausing to drag my tongue up the bottom of
his finger, my eyes never leaving his. “And that’s why you haven’t done
any of that. You know I’m more valuable to you alive here.”
“Do I know that?”
“I suppose you’ll have to find out, Luca.”
“How do you suggest I do that, Kate?” His eyes fall to my mouth, to his
fingers, sliding in and out of it. He’s tensing, getting aroused. Good. Is it the
control I like, though? Or is it just that when I’m with him, all logic
dissolves? That when I’m with him, all I want is for him to fuck me and
make me forget everything else?
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He pulls me to my feet and stands, lifting
me and pushing me roughly onto the table. Plates clatter, and he swipes a
hand across the table, sending glasses and silverware crashing to the floor.
But I barely even process it. I wore a dress for him tonight. Hopeless. I was
embarrassed at first, feeling like a fool to find him in a mood like this. Now
I’m happy that I did.
He slides his hand roughly up the back of my neck and into my hair,
gripping a fistful of my curls so tightly that I gasp, my hands flying to his
chest. He looks at me hard down his nose, his eyes blazing. He looks so
beautiful, so powerful, so dominating that I can barely look at him. My
heart is in my throat. A little tremor works through me. And he doesn’t kiss
me as his hand drops to his belt buckle. Our gazes remain locked as he pulls
himself free, as he shoves my thighs apart with his, as he yanks my panties
aside.
“You’ll be the death of me,” he says coarsely, his voice low. He clenches
his jaw, pressing closer. Pressing himself between my legs, teasing me. I
tremble, weak, wet. Unable to tell him no. I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Because
right now, at this moment—I don’t want him.
I need him.
“Look at me,” he orders. I didn’t even realize that I had dropped my
gaze. My fists are balled against his chest, my pulse going absolutely
haywire, every inch of my skin burning, feverish. Slowly, I drag my eyes up
to meet his. “Good girl.”
Without waiting, without hesitation, he thrusts himself inside of me. And
I gasp, gripping his suit jacket, pleasure erupting through me instantly.
“Fuck,” I whisper, stunned. Luca scoops up one of my thighs, bringing it up
around his hip. His hand is still in my hair, still gripping so tightly my scalp
stings. I love it. More than I could ever admit. “Luca…”
“Open your mouth.”
I look at him sharply, fear lancing through me. But his eyes are clear and
lucid, stormy with desire. With possessiveness and jealousy and domination
that makes me—powerful, self-assured me—want to get on my knees for
him. His hand shifts from my hair, locking around my neck. His thumb
moves up over my chin.
“Open,” he repeats, more roughly, “your mouth.”
Slowly, I part my lips for him, my whole core shaking. Luca tips my chin
back and draws close, our eyes meeting again. I can barely breathe.
Everywhere we’re touching, we’re throwing sparks, the very air electric,
dangerous to the touch. He leans toward me as though he is going to kiss
me. Instead, he spits in my mouth.
Holy fuck. In the same instant, he does kiss me, hard, his tongue shoving
into my mouth. I moan weakly, hands shaking where I cling to him. And as
he kisses me, he thrusts into me again and starts fucking me right there, my
dress hiked to my hip, on the dining room table.
How the fuck did I get here?
Why, why do I love it as much as I do?
 But I do—I do love it. Who cares why? We’re here. We’re together.
Nothing else matters. Let it all fucking burn. I run my hands roughly into
Luca’s dark waves, sitting back on my ass and spreading my thighs for him.
The way he kisses me could end the world. It’s brutal, possessive, and
hungry. It’s full of something I would never say out loud: affection.
Love?
The thought is a bullet, catching me hard in the ribs. I don’t dare let
myself think of it again. Instead, I fall against him; I give myself to him. He
grunts, his hands on me rough but delicious, his rhythm fast and hard and
almost careless. “Fuck, Kate,” he mutters, clenching his jaw. “Fuck.”
I rock my hips into him. When I lean in to kiss him, his hand around my
neck tightens, and he holds me there, at bay. Close enough to touch, but not
touching. Maddening. He’s driving me crazy. He’s going to make me beg.
But I’m already slipping into the pleasure, and I’m already forgetting
everything but the heat of his skin, blazing against mine. I’m already
forgetting everything but the weight of him against me, the delicious
pleasure of him inside of me.
My moans rise, sharp, high, and I let my head fall back, let my body fall
against his. He’s fucking me hard now and fast, his hand flattening against
the flat of my back as he enters me deeply. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His breath
hitches, ragged, and he groans softly: it sends me straight over the edge. I
gasp, throwing back my head, crying out my pleasure as the orgasm swells
within me and breaks like a dam.
“Luca,” I gasp, eyes shut, head back. I grasp for him blindly, catching a
fistful of his shirt, throwing my hips against him as the pleasure shatters
through me. It’s a flood, pulsing, and he groans as he, too, hits the climax,
spilling himself inside of me. We move together in that perfect, sweet,
dangerous space of simultaneous climax, a place where, at this moment, in
this place, only we exist. “Fuck…”
I collapse back on the table, gasping for breath. He plants both palms on
the table, breathing hard himself, bracing himself as he comes off the high. I
can’t think straight. Why bother? I just lie there, my body wonderfully spent
and weightless. Until finally, after a few moments of our pulses slowing,
Luca pulls away and zips up his pants.
I can tell he’s angry. I don’t need to ask him why. I could probably
formulate a numbered list. The enemy in me wants to strike while he’s
vulnerable, convince him to my side, use this—us—against him. But the
softer side of me, the wife (in whatever context that I am a wife), the
girlfriend, the lover, wants to care for him.
But he doesn’t give me a chance. He paces slowly back to the liquor cart
and pours himself another drink. And he says, without looking at me, “Go
to bed, Kate.”
 Chapter 12

Luca

I find Ari in the underground bunker, right where I told her to meet me. It’s
been days since she and I talked last. Days since Kate and I talked last. I
needed time to do research, to run numbers, and to consult with the older
and more reliable members of the organization, men who once worked for
my father. It’s taken hours and days of debate and consideration and of
weighing eventualities. But I knew, that night I fucked her again.
Ari is right. I don’t love Kate—I can’t. How could I? I barely know the
woman, after all. But…there is something between us. We fucked the night
I forced her to marry me. The way she holds herself around me, the way she
speaks to me—it’s not with the air of an enemy seeking vengeance or a
captive looking to escape. Some part of Kate cares for me, too. And it’s far
more dangerous than either of us lying or playacting. That would be simple.
Understandable. I would know where she stands, and she would know
where I stand.
Instead, something treacherous and genuine has begun to bloom between
us. That is a clouding of judgment. A conflict of interest. A huge, lethal
fucking distraction. Kate is meant to be a bargaining chip. But if I begin to
value her truly, for what and who she is, she becomes far, far more. And the
more I care for her, the less valuable she is to the organization.
So what? You’re married now. Make her your real wife. Make her your
family. Have children with her, create a life. It could never be separate from
the business, mine or hers. But it could be inside of it; it could be safe. Our
relationship could gain respect over the years and concession. It could one
day be so real that people forget it was forced, a negotiation. We could be a
great love born of passion and circumstance.
We could. All of it could happen.
In a world where I don’t have to kill Kate’s father.
“You look gloomy,” says Ariana, dragging her finger down the oily
barrel of an AK. It’s one of the dozens at this end of the bunker, arrayed on
a shelf constructed just for this purpose. She looks in distaste at her fingers
as though the brand-new rifles are covered in dust. “Why the long face,
boss? Did your girlfriend finally break up with you?”
 I don’t bother wasting time. “We’re going to Rome.”
She looks at me sharply, all mockery and performance falling away like a
mask, leaving her face blank and open. “What? What are you talking
about?”
“Petrov. You said there’s a gala in Rome where he’ll make his offer.
We’re going.”
Ariana smiles, her dark eyes sparking. “Well, well, well. Look who’s
coming around.”
I don’t have any interest in playing games with Ari. I don’t trust her, not
after the shit she pulled in Russia. And worse—I don’t trust myself. I let
that happen. Like Kate let Arthur Black steal hundreds of thousands of
dollars from her over the years. Blind trust is a weakness. No, trust at all is
a weakness. It will always be exploited, and you’ll be left the loser.
But though I don’t trust Ariana as far as I can throw her, I recognize that
Petrov could potentially be a good connection. He’s a scoundrel, a man
whose reputation has disabled him as much as it’s ever helped him. If he’s
grasping for me, he’s grasping, period. A vulnerable man is easy to exploit
and easier to buy. His loyalty will come cheaply, and I only need for long
enough to return to Ireland, invade Liam McNamara’s compound, and kill
the man.
I have men, good men. But not enough. And the Russians have always
had a way of slipping over borders. They have untraceable transportation,
bank accounts, contacts, and safe houses. They have the resources I need,
and those resources are being offered. All for a chance to call themselves an
ally of the Romano syndicate.
I’ve spent the last few days clearing every man on Petrov’s payroll,
including the patriarch himself. And they’ve come out clean enough. As
clean, that is, as organized international criminals can be.
Ari watches me thoughtfully through my silence, her eyes bright and
eager. She looks like she’s just woken up well-rested and is ready to take
this mission by the horns. “Luca,” she says, crossing to me, smiling faintly.
“Let’s go to Rome. Let’s take Petrov for all he’s worth. And then—let me
do it.”
I narrow my eyes. “Do what?”
“Let me go to Ireland. Let me kill Liam McNamara.” She’s smiling fully
now, almost grinning. She looks wild, vital, jackal-like. This is the Ari I
hired all those years ago, a girl too clever and dangerous for her own good,
a girl nobody would take a chance on. A girl no one was stupid enough to
take a chance on…It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her like this. “I went
behind your back. For you, obviously—but that doesn’t change the fact that
I did go behind your back. Let me prove my loyalty to you. Let me make an
example of him.”
I consider her. Not the proposal, which is absurd—but her. Do I trust her?
After all these years? Should I? Probably not. Indeed, I probably shouldn’t
trust anyone. Not Kate. Not Gio. Not Dome or any of the men who walk my
halls with rifles in hand that they use to protect me but could turn on me at
any moment.
What kind of world is this? If my father were here, what would he tell me
to do? What instinct would he want me to follow? I glance at the racks of
rifles and run my hand over the blunt cold muzzle of one. My father is not
here. My father is dead, thanks in no small part to Liam McNamara. I can’t
ask what he would do.
That’s why I can never forgive Kate’s father. That’s why I have to kill
him.
“Liam McNamara,” I say icily, shifting my gaze back to Ari’s, “is mine.”
She watches me for a long moment, then nods. “Rome?” She asks, and
that light sparks in her face again, dangerous and warning as a muzzle flash.
I smile. “Rome.”
***
I don’t bother saying goodbye to Kate—what good will it do? I haven’t
slept with her since the night we fucked in the dining room. I haven’t even
spoken with her. There was something between us that night, a current that
ran far deeper than an arranged marriage. There was affection. And that
must die. Distance is my first attack.
Still, as I’m driving away from the villa, I can’t help but feel a strain in
my heart. I watch it shrink in the rear-view mirror. What if something
happens? What if there’s another invasion? I’m spread thin enough as it is,
especially now, bringing men with me to Rome. And enemies got in once—
what’s to stop them from doing it again? You’ve brought in reinforcements,
I remind myself as bluntly, as unemotionally, as I can. You obtained a
massive cache of weapons. You doubled security. She will be fine.
And why should I care, anyway? She’s an investment, sure. A good one.
But good investments are replaceable, aren’t they?
Is Kate?
 I swallow my apprehension. I have no room for it. Tonight, I meet Pyotr
Petrov, an infamous Russian gangster and long-time enemy of my late
father. Tonight, I make a move that could make or break my organization.
Help turn it into an empire or run it into the ground.
But no pressure. I drum my fingers on the wheel, watching the wipers
slash wet, sleety snow off the windshield. No pressure at all. I try to
remember myself: I am steel, cold as ice. Unfeeling. All of this, my life, my
world—is just business. Nothing more. Then why do I wish I was back
there, now, with Kate? Why do I wish she was sleeping beside me, knowing
she’s safe in my arms?
Because I would be worse than an idiot to fall in love with Kate
McNamara.
I would be dead.
***
The meeting takes place not in the museum itself but in an adjacent
storage building on the moors. The streets are lit up, aglow after dark, and
crowded with revelers. I leave my car in the garage and enter with a
contingent of security guards, Ariana at my side.
“I know you’re going to want to put him in his place,” she says, walking
in step with me and speaking low so that only I can hear her. “But resist the
temptation. He already knows he’s vying for your allegiance. Don’t make
him work harder than necessary.”
“Or, what? He walks away? Let him walk away. I have no time or room
for a man with an ego.”
Her eyes spark. “Because you’re too busy carrying your own?”
I catch her elbow as we reach the entrance of the building, pulling her
close and speaking low into her ear. “If you fuck this up, if you fucked this
up—I will kill you.”
She stiffens in my grip, and I ignore the reflexive feeling of guilt that
rises up in me. “You really know how to make a girl feel valued, Luca.”
“I have valued you for years, and you betrayed my trust. I’m giving you a
chance to repair it.” I tighten my grip, hearing the wind on the water,
hearing the forlorn cries of gulls caught on updrafts. I have been to Rome a
thousand times, but tonight, it feels like a dark cousin of its daytime self,
sinister, cloaked. I don’t like it, and it’s putting me more on edge than I’d
like to admit. “You should be throwing yourself on my mercy. You should
be grateful I’m even humoring this negotiation.”
 I release her roughly without waiting for an answer. In a perverse way, it
feels good to treat her so poorly. It feels good not to want to feel better, not
to feel obligated to behave like a better man. That better man is weak; he’s
the reason I’m here now. He’s the reason I couldn’t marry Kate away,
though it clearly would have benefitted me to do so. That man must die,
especially if he plans to kill Liam McNamara.
Inside, we’re taken below ground by a gilt elevator. The storage building
itself is stunning and glamorous, with a green brass dome and ornate
carvings along every eave. Inside, everything is sleek, meticulous, and
modern. When we arrive at the bottom floor, a wide clean expanse with
white walls, floors, and ceiling, Pyotr Petrov is already waiting.
He beams when he sees me. I bristle. He’s a behemoth of a man, well
over six feet tall and thicker around the middle than he was as a young man.
What muscle he has is obscured, and despite his age, he wears a fine Italian
suit and has wax in his mustache.
“Luca,” he booms when he sees me, throwing out big, ringed
magnanimous hands. “And what a pleasure it is to see you in the flesh!”
I don’t shake his hand, and I don’t miss the way the sight registers, a dark
spark in his smiling eyes. “Petrov. I had hoped never to encounter you in
my neck of the woods.”
“Oh, but I love Rome,” he booms, his accent thick, blunting every word.
“And I love Italy. The people—so free; the mafia—so…present.”
There are no chairs. There’s no table, no drinks to be poured. This isn’t
that kind of meeting. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Ari, at my side and slightly behind me, clears her throat. When I look at
her, I find her standing stiff, with hands clasped before her. She gives me a
warning look. And I feel something, then: a shift. The slightest, subtlest
thing, like a tumbler turning in a lock. Call it instinct; call me a fool for
even setting foot in here. But I feel in that instant the way my control of the
situation slips, and the power shifts places.
“I never did like your father,” says Petrov, and I look at him sharply. His
jovial smile has soured, and his rheumy eyes have gone dark, pupils blown
out to black. “And in another world, one where you treat me with the
respect that I deserve—this goes differently.”
I keep my face schooled and my breathing calm. But my hackles are up,
my skin crawling. I’m surrounded by my men. And while I held out some
hope, I could wring men and allies out of this situation—I’m not a complete
fool.
Ari. She’s still at my side. She hasn’t said a word. I don’t need to look at
her to know the exact expression on her face. I’ve known her long enough
now. And, after all, this was all a test. She’s a rat. I knew it. Maybe I’ve
known for a long time. I gave her a long leash, and still, she strained. She
got cocky. But I know without looking that her face is a mask, cool but
slightly quizzical, as though she doesn’t quite know what’s going on.
While I am suddenly certain that she does. And she always has. She
walked me into a trap. Some part of me is stung. The naïve, hopeful part.
The good, weak man. But the rest of me knew. That’s why I didn’t tell Ari
about my plans for this trip. She doesn’t know that I have the bulk of my
security just outside, that they’ll be in here in three minutes unless I give the
signal for them to hang back. She doesn’t know that all of the men with me
have been instructed to shoot to kill. Petrov. His men.
And her.
But for this moment, I need to stall. “What goes differently?” I ask
Petrov, cocking my head. I slide my hands into my pockets, playing the part
of cool, relaxed, and unafraid. All the while, I’m relishing the weight of my
pistol against my ribs, knowing just how quickly I can draw, how quickly I
can aim and fire. “The meeting hasn’t even started yet, Petrov. You really
think it’s going south so quickly?”
“Don’t play coy with me. You never meant to make a deal.”
“I did.” I mean it. And Petrov must catch the sincerity in my expression
because he looks in question—so tellingly—to Ari. Like they’re partners in
crime. Like she gave him bad or old information. And I remember that
Petrov has never been a good or clever gangster. There’s a reason he’s
banging down doors, searching for allies and contacts. He’s not good at this.
But I am. “Liam McNamara has one of the most secure compounds in
Europe. I can get in myself. I can. I will, likely.” I shrug, pacing idly as
though this information is barely pertinent. “But I thought I’d give you a
shot. You’re underestimated. You’ve never been the biggest dog, but you’ve
never stopped trying to be. I respect that.”
Ariana is looking at me hard. Calculating. The gears turning in her head.
She knows I’m onto her. Or is my acting fooling her? She doesn’t think
much of me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought I was actually dumb
enough to come here without backup.
 “What I don’t respect,” I say, not looking away from Ari. “Is foul play.”
Her eyes flash. But she doesn’t move, not a muscle. She’s frozen in
place. Practically paralyzed. Now she knows, I think, with grim pleasure.
Now I’m telling her.
“We’re criminals,” I say, still studying her, unblinking. “It’s just bad form
to renege on an agreement in our world, don’t you think? We’re already the
lowest of the low. We have to have some kind of honor.”
Ariana’s eyes dance, and she smiles a faint, cruel, knife-like little smile.
“Honor among thieves, hm?”
I smile back. “Something like that.”
But the time is up. The three minutes have lapsed, and I’ve made my
point. At that instant, the elevator door dings, almost comically—and out
pour a troop of my men, rifles up. They move like a TV SWAT team, fast-
paced and poised, muzzles aimed. The security I brought with me rushes
forward, and Petrov’s men, a half-circle gathered lazily around him, leap
into action.
Ari and I move at the same time. I whip out my pistol and level it,
catching her a split second before she can get her hands on hers. She raises
her hands, palms out in surrender. Still smiling, snake-like. Cool as ever.
My men are shouting down Pyotr’s. I hear the Russian boss barking
orders, his own big ringed hands raised in surrender. They’re outnumbered.
It’s over.
So, why the fuck is Ariana smiling like that?
“I warned you,” she says, her dark eyes hooded. “I warned you this
would be your end. You should know better than to not take me at my word,
Luca. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“You have always grasped at power,” I say, moving closer. My men have
Petrov’s on their knees, hands on their heads. Their shouts ring through the
wide-open space, Russian and Italian crashing together, a violent
cacophony. It fades from my hearing as I move closer to Ari, my eyes
narrowed, my heart going. Something isn’t right here. Something has my
skin crawling, but I don’t know what. I can’t put my finger on it. “I have
always given you enough to get by on. More than I should have ever trusted
you with. More than you ever deserved.”
She slowly raises her hands, clasping them behind her head. Obediently,
she kneels, bending to one knee and then to the other. It feels wrong,
somehow, to hold her here at gunpoint. She’s dangerous. An enemy at the
end of the day, not too unlike Kate. But I have a fondness for her, despite
everything. A kind of respect. We’re not our fathers, none of us. We’re not
just our parents. We’re not just a legacy.
And yet here all three of us are, continuing to fight in a war we didn’t
wage. Fuck it. If I’m going to fight, I think I’m at least going to fucking win.
“You think you’re wiser than everyone around you,” Ari says, her eyes
glittering, smiling. Malicious. Evil. My men are filing out of Petrov’s, their
voices booming through the storage facility. I don’t budge, and neither does
Ariana. “But you’re a fool. You let your ego and empathy cloud your
judgment, Luca. You should have shot the girl. You should have sold her to
the highest bidder and won yourself an ally. We’d be in Ireland now. We’d
have a bullet between Liam McNamara’s eyes. We’d have the respect of all
of Europe, and you would have an empire—a real empire,” she adds, more
bitterly. “Rather than the ghost of one.”
My men finish herding Petrov’s out the far door, leading them down the
stairs with guns divested and their hands on their heads. I have a chapter
here in Rome that will deal with them. And Pyotr Petrov will be brought
back to the villa in the north country, where I can deal with him personally.
And Ari…
Ari. We’re alone now, she and I—suddenly, the door banging shut. In this
massive, empty space, we’re very small. I’m aware of every breath I take.
I’m aware that I’m leveling my pistol with both hands right between her
eyes. I’m aware that her expression is one of grim bemusement—not fear.
“Don’t act like you give a damn about my empire,” I say icily. “Or my
father’s legacy. You exist without loyalty, selling yourself to the highest
bidder and scorching the earth when you go. You are nothing. You will
never be anything.”
Finally, her smirk slips, and she narrows her dark eyes to slits. “You have
no idea what I’m capable of.”
“I’m looking at what you’re capable of.”
Her expression changes slightly. She tips her head, studying me,
considering me. “It could have been us, you know,” she says, and somehow,
deep down, I think I always knew that this is where it was going. “You and
I could have run this empire. We could have used Kate properly. We could
have destroyed the McNamara legacy. You and I…we’re more similar, you
know, than you and she are.”
“You don’t know her. And you don’t know me.”
 “Don’t I, Luca? All this time, you’ve been watching me, keeping checks
and tabs on me. But what do you think I’ve been doing? When you watch
me, do you think I look away? Do you think I don’t study you, too?” She
smiles again. I begin to dislike this position: I with gun raised, her on her
knees, hands clasped behind her head. I begin to dislike that even though
she’s looking up at me, I feel the power dynamic shifting. Faster than I can
think to repair it. “You’re soft, Luca. That’s good. You should be. That
empathy that your father lacked—it might save you. It might save all of
this, and I wouldn’t be surprised. But she’s soft, too. No, she’s weak.”
“You don’t know her,” I repeat with more force.
“You’re in love with her. I told you it would be your ruin. It will be. I
could have balanced you, Luca. But you always looked down on me rather
than at me. Don’t you know it’s just as dangerous?”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s just as dangerous?”
“You overestimate your enemies,” she says. Her eyes flash, and my
nerves go frenetic. “But you underestimate them, too.”
She lunges. She’s a blur of dark curls, of Italian silk. She takes me
around the waist with all of her weight, springing off both feet. The
momentum rocks me. I shift, making the decision, and squeeze off a single
shot.
It flies past her as we go slamming to the floor, the bullet pinging off the
white tile floor, chipping it. My back hits the ground hard, but I roll,
bringing my knee into her stomach. Ari grunts, swinging wildly, slamming
her fist into my jaw so hard I see stars. Her hands go for the gun, and I
realize she still has hers, too. I manage to wrestle mine back, flipping her
onto her back, pinning her with my knees. She lunges, slamming her
forehead into my nose.
I hear the wet snap of the bridge breaking. Hot blood flushes from both
nostrils instantaneously, splashing onto her face. She doesn’t even seem to
notice, her black eyes wild. She draws her pistol. I swing mine back up, but
neatly, as though she’s done it a thousand times, she swats it from my hand.
It flies across the floor, clattering.
And now I’m on my knees before her, her pistol pressed between my
brows. I’m bleeding heavily, and she’s wearing my blood like a mask.
We’re both breathing hard.
Ari smiles wickedly, shrugging blood from her face with one shoulder,
her pistol never leaving my head. She glances at the glittery silver Rolex on
her wrist, a man’s watch she wears with ease and grace. “Ah,” she says.
“Just on time.”
“What’s that?”
“They’ll be arriving now.”
My stomach drops. “Who?”
“Pyotr’s men.” Her eyes are stormy. Proud. Cocky, even. “They can use
her as a bartering chip if they want. Or they can kill her and send a
message. Or, hell—they’ll probably just follow the plan. And use her as bait
to get face to face with Liam.”
The blood drains out of my face. Of course. Of course. This was all a
ruse; this was all bullshit. They’re taking Kate right now, probably at this
very moment. And they can do whatever they want to with her.
Because I won’t be there to protect her.
“You’re lucky I want to see how this plays out,” Ari says with that jackal
smile. “You’re lucky I want an audience when I blow your brains out,
Luca.”
I open my mouth to reply, but I’m too slow. She swings, clocking me in
the temple with her pistol with more force than I could ever have thought
her capable of.
And everything goes black.
 Chapter 13

Kate

My heart is in my mouth. My skin is crawling, feverish. But I’m cold, too.

Racked with chills, I pace back and forth through the massive en suite
bathroom, the tile freezing under my bare feet. It’s OK; I counsel myself.
Everything is going to be OK. OK. OK. But my mouth is dry, my pulse is all
over the place, and my thoughts keep catching and crashing into one
another.
It started this morning.
When I woke up—I knew. Something was different. Everything was
different. I’ve been so stressed lately that I could barely be expected to
notice the little changes that were happening to me. The heat that seemed to
be in my blood like a fever. The morning brain fog that had me staring
blankly at my computer screen for minutes at a time before snapping out of
it. And the other morning, when it was still dark, and I woke up with my
stomach cartwheeling and sweat rippling up the back of my neck, I thought
it was anxiety, food poisoning, or a fluke.
I stop in the bathroom doorway, looking at the three white plastic sticks
arranged beside the sink. My chest feels so tight it could crack. I check my
watch. Two more minutes.
Until what, Kate? I shake myself and begin pacing again, faster now,
running my hands roughly over my tired face through my tangled hair. You
know. You know what every single one of those fucking pregnancy tests is
going to tell you.
And I do—don’t I?
I trail to a stop again, this time gently sliding my palms over my belly. Is
it possible? Is it luck, is it a curse, is it a trap, or will it be the end of the
world? The alarm on my watch goes off, and I silence it, standing haunted
in the doorway, unable to even turn around. I close my eyes, trying to get
myself to calm down, to just breathe.
To think.
I hate Luca. Of course, I do. I have to. He kidnapped me. He has held me
hostage. He’s been cold and aloof and cruel and demanding. He refuses to
make peace with me. To make peace with my father, for fear of looking
weak. He is my enemy. I should hate him. I do hate him.
No. I don’t. I don’t think I have since that first night. And every day
since, that petulant anger has only loosened and weakened and fallen away.
I hold my belly and squeeze my eyes shut harder. I beg myself to hate him.
I beg myself to end this—all of this—before it begins.
But when I try to think of all the things Luca has said and done that
should arm me against him, I can’t drown out everything else. The way he
looks at me with faint awe, with admiration. The way he touches me. The
way he gave me a gun and trusted me not to kill him. The way he has been
at least relatively transparent with me. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t
have to do any good thing; he could have killed me. Sold me to the highest
bidder. He could have done anything, anything, and he did the best thing.
He chose me. For his own benefit, but for mine too. He took a loss to
protect me. He protected me. What kind of enemy does that? No, what is
happening between Luca and me isn’t simple, conventional, or orthodox.
It’s wild and crazy and stupid and brilliant and passionate, and even though
I’ve only been here with him for a little less than a month, I’d be lying if I
said I didn’t have feelings for Luca.
Fuck—I’ve been around the block. I’ve lived a full life, with love and
hatred and danger and safety and self and loss and fear. I don’t just have
feelings for Luca.
I’m in love with him.
And now this. And now this. A baby? Brought into this world of violence
and unpredictability? A baby born to parents on opposite sides of the war?
Is that the only option? I open my eyes, bracing myself. I know the truth
in my bones, in my body, and in my womb. But I need to see it. I need to
look it in the face.
When I turn, it’s not terror or grief that seizes me. It’s a relief. Because
all three of the pregnancy tests, unsurprisingly—are positive. I cross to
them, stroking my fingers gently over the little pink plus sign. One after
another after another. A baby. With Luca Romano. I catch my reflection—to
my shock, I’m smiling, tears welling in my eyes. Just hormones? Or
something else?
Are there things that make no sense, things that can’t be justified, things
that, when they fall into your lap by fate or design or accident, you can only
be grateful for? I would never have asked for this. For any of this. But now
that I’m here, and I know Luca, and I know myself, and I know who we are
when we’re together—God, it just feels right. Dangerous, but right. Full to
the brim with hope.
I don’t know when Luca will be back. I know he’s angry with me. I don’t
blame him. In fact, I’m angry at him, too. How could I not be? But now that
things are more serious due to this pregnancy, I get the sense that Luca will
be open to negotiating. We’re going to be a family, a real family now.
Bound by much more than a flimsy paper contract. Bound by blood. DNA.
What way would it be? To introduce our baby into the world when their
father has killed their grandfather?
Could this be it? Is this how I save us? Is this how I save myself, my
father? Is this how I save Luca from himself?
I don’t know the answer. But I know that if I’m happy he’s going to be
the father of my baby, all of this is more complicated than I could ever have
imagined.
But some part of me feels that that’s exactly why it will all work out.
***
The cold, blunt muzzle of a rifle brushes a strand of hair from my eyes.
For a moment, I’m dreaming, lying half under the silk duvet and half out
of it, vulnerable on my back. My hand rests on my bare belly, still so flat,
still so early, and so far from bringing life into this world. It’s pitch black in
the bedroom, and I’m hazy with sleep, and for a moment, I think it’s Luca
standing over me. Luca, with his dark eyes, with his soft mouth. Luca with
his hands, so gentle, so deliberate with me.
Then the horror slams into my chest like a truck. What the fuck, what the
fuck, what the fuck—
I sit up sharply, batting aside the muzzle of the rifle. I open my mouth to
scream and to curse. But my assailant slams a hand over my mouth before I
can make so much as a sound.
“Easy.”
The voice shocks me—a woman’s. I knew it. I fucking knew it. I go still.
Still enough that Ariana releases my mouth and lowers her rifle. My eyes
are adjusting, and in the dark, I can see her wolfish white smile and her wild
eyes. Her long dark curls are bound loosely at the nape of her neck, and she
wears all black, a big heavy man’s coat, and a high-collared black shirt that
hugs every curve. She looks lethal.
She looks in her element.
 “You sleep like a queen,” she says, slinging her rifle over one shoulder
and crossing her arms. She wears a big silver watch, and even in the dark, I
can see the cockiness in her hooded, smiling eyes. “Like you’re safe in your
palace. Like nothing and no one could ever get to you.”
I finally exhale, my shoulders and my neck loosening. She’s not going to
kill me yet, at least. I have time to negotiate. I have time to get myself the
fuck out of this. Slowly, I slide my legs over the side of the bed. “I sleep like
I’m tired,” I say, running a hand over my face. Ari knows me enough to
know I’m not naïve, innocent, or weak. I can’t convince her otherwise. All I
can do is meet her with honesty—that, I think, above all else, she can
respect. “I sleep like I was kidnapped and forced into marriage and
impregnated by my enemy.”
Her eyes flash, and her smile shifts slightly. Her expression becomes one
of calculation. I know her, too. Has she forgotten?
“Now, that’s something,” she says, kneeling before me. She’s quite tall,
and even crouching with me sitting on the edge of the bed, we’re almost at
eye level. “Pregnant, and so soon. How fertile your little Irish womb must
be.” She reaches for me, and I know better than to flinch away, even as she
dances her fingers over my belly. “But you’re not slipping by telling me
that, Kate.” Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “You and I both know how
much that pregnancy increases your market value.”
“Yes,” I say. Why lie? “So. Who will sell me to?”
Ariana grins, retracting her hands and resting her arms on her knees to
look up at me. The way she does it makes her look childish, impish. All
mischief. In another world, maybe we’re not enemies, I think grimly. In
another world, maybe she and I are friends.
But not in this one.
“The pregnancy helps,” she admits. “I was going to sell you to your
father. But now Luca will be highly, highly interested.”
My pulse rockets. I swallow, and Ariana seems to clock it, her gaze
dripping over me. Ever calculating. Moonlight is coming through the
window—I forgot to close the drapes, as per usual—and slowly, as my eyes
continue to adjust, it reveals her to me. The detail comes in gradations: the
rifle, brand-new, stolen from the bunker. The jacket, a Russian brand, new
and expensive. The watch—her late father’s.
“There is a third option,” says Ariana. Her smile drops, and she looks at
me squarely. Her gaze is so intense I almost want to look away. It’s so
intense that I don’t think I could even if I tried. “You burn your marriage
contract with Luca…and come with me instead.”
I stare straight back at her, knowing better than to laugh. It’s not
something she says lightly. It’s not something she says not meaning it.
“And, what? My connections, at the end of the day, belong to my father.
This child is Luca’s. You have nothing in Russia to return to, and I have
nothing to offer.”
She grins, wolfish as ever. “No. You’re right. It’s illogical. But it would
make a very good story, don’t you think?”
I feel myself smile. In another world. “A good story, maybe. But it’s not
reality. It’s not what’s going to happen.” I take a deep breath, holding her
gaze. Hoping I can get through to her. For all of our sake. “Ariana. You
don’t win this.”
Her eyes narrow, and any goodwill, any humor between us, dissipates.
Burns straight off list mist in the summer sun. “You know nothing,
McNamara.”
“I know a lot more than you give me credit for. Luca will kill you. My
father will kill you. You have enemies everywhere, and what little
protection you gleaned from Luca is gone now. It was gone the minute you
put that gun to my head, and you know that.”
She stands, towering over me. Menacing. Impressive. “Yes. I do know
that.”
So, it has all been taken into consideration. Of course, it has. I know who
I’m dealing with. Ariana isn’t new here. She’s not new to betrayal or
betraying. In fact, it’s somewhat her modus operandi, isn’t it? She is, after
all, a turncoat.
“Leave,” I say, standing. “Go now. Take everything you need. Take
money. Take weapons. And disappear. Go back to Russia. Leave this life
and never look back, and you’ll live. You can have the life you deserve,
Ariana. A normal life. A life none of our fathers ever got.”
A cloud passes over the moon beyond the window, and darkness erases
her features, all but the cold black glint of her eye. “I would rather die
fighting,” she says, “than run and live forever.”
When I open my mouth this time, she moves—so fast I don’t even
register her fist until after it has caught me in the face. I’m on the floor, on
my knees, blood running out of my mouth, my lip busted in and outside of
it. My breath comes ragged, and I look up at her, stunned. I find myself eye-
to-eye with the barrel of her rifle.
“Get up, McNamara,” she bites out, jerking the gun toward the door.
“The night has just begun.”
 Chapter 14

Luca

Ireland at dawn is mystical. On another day, in another life, it would be

beautiful. It finds its green hills endless, mist-draped and inviting. They
seem to vow to keep my secrets, to keep me and mine hidden from harm;
they seem to tempt me away from the fire and brimstone of the life I’ve
inherited. The life I have built.
It’s a wet morning, rain coming in a mist so heavy it almost feels like
drowning. I stand amid a fleet of vehicles lined on a rutted, muddy side
road in the deep country. Gio is at my side, dressed all in black, armed to
the gills. My men are in the cars, each one full. Armed. Ready for war.
“There,” says Gio, pointing. “Between the hills. Hard to spot, but it’s
there if you know what to look for.”
I bring the binoculars to my eyes, and the mansion materializes. Only a
corner of it is visible from where I stand and in the lousy weather. But it’s
there, sure enough. Not a mirage as much as it might look like one.
We learned of Liam McNamara’s compound not long ago, which is why
we’re certain he hasn’t gotten wise and thought to bail on it and find a
better, more secret safe house. We’ve been keeping tabs. Building up a local
cache of cars and guns. Getting men over the border practically one at a
time. It would have been easier with the Russians, sure. But I always had
my own plans in motion, working like gears in a machine in the
background. I wasn’t sure I’d have enough men; I wasn’t sure if those who
were loyal to my father and had grown distant since his death would answer
the call to arms when it came. But they did.
Word of my marriage to Kate has spread, and the rumors are spreading
like wildfire. There’s been a shift in favorability. A month ago, before I had
ever met Kate McNamara, all bets were on her father. I was the underdog.
But now the playing field is equal.
Or, it would be—if it weren’t for Ariana.
I learned of Kate’s kidnapping almost the instant it happened. But by
then, it was too late, and I was too far. In Rome, stranded, hundreds of miles
away from her. I should have known that Ariana had something like this
planned. I should have seen it coming. She’s right—my judgment was
clouded, and I underestimated her. Much like I underestimated Kate from
the beginning.
But not again. Never again.
“It’s time to move,” I say, returning the binoculars to Gio. “Get everyone
together.”
“Luca,” says Gio, stopping me as I turn to get back into my car. His
expression is strange—soft. Vulnerable. Guilty. “I’m—I wanted to
apologize. For how I spoke to you that day at the range when the delivery
came. It was wrong.”
I sigh. “You were honest. You helped me. If not to move in the right
direction, then to see what I thought to be the right direction.”
Gio nods, clenching his jaw. “I…”
“Gio,” I say, smiling tiredly. “Please. Speak.”
“She’s a good woman,” he says, averting his eyes. “I was trying to speak
to you the way I thought your father would, and I’m sorry. It’s not weakness
to care about the girl—Kate,” he corrects, eyes snapping to mine. He shakes
his head, again looking guilty. “Whatever I wished for you, I didn’t want
her to be hurt. I can see that you care for her.”
Care for her. Is that what this is, care? Is that the pain in my ribs, like a
knife, buried there since the moment I learned she’d been taken? It was
only yesterday. And yet…I hadn’t seen her for days leading up to it. I was
trying in vain to put distance between us. But I think I knew even then that
it wouldn’t work. There’s something between us: care, attraction, chemistry,
or simple understanding.
And there’s something else, too. I look away into the dark hills. This is
her home country, and it reminds me of her. Wild and rich and moody;
beautiful. A little unpredictable. I could see her moving among these hills,
honey hair streaming. I could see myself keeping her here like a garden,
nourishing her, letting her flourish.
What else could you see, Luca? The voice, a young man’s voice, a boy’s
voice, is so faint in the back of my mind. It’s a voice I’ve been silencing
since my father died. I’ve become so hard, and I’ve welcomed that
hardness. But what Kate saw in me, what she liked, what she respected—
was my softness. Could you see yourself in love with her here? Could you
see yourself building a life with her, a family? More than an empire, but a
real, a true legacy?
 “It doesn’t matter,” I say softly. Gio looks at me. “That I care for her.
Nothing will ever live between us once I kill her father.”
Gio nods once, looking out at the compound. “Yes. I think you’re right
about that. But…there’s a chance you won’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ariana is there now,” Gio says, and my skin crawls. Our contacts told us
mere moments ago that, just as we suspected, Ariana and her Russian
contingent were pulling up to Liam McNamara’s compound. Armored and
armed to the hilt. “Maybe she will kill him for you.”
“I doubt it,” I say. “Ari wants esteem, sure. She wants to win respect by
making a message of all of this and get the endorsement her parents never
did. The endorsement she never did. She wants to build something, and
killing Liam would give her something, but it won’t give her nearly as
much as keeping him alive.” I imagine that, if anything, Ari isn’t here to
exact revenge or win a reputation by putting Liam McNamara in the
ground. She’s here to deliver Kate to him like a present and take his favor
as far as it will get her. “It will fall to me. It was always meant to fall to
me.”
Maybe that is my legacy. Gio doesn’t argue. Just as he said that day, my
men will not follow or forgive me if I don’t kill Liam. I don’t blame them
for that. Would I follow myself, were I in their position? I doubt it. Blood
must be shed tonight. I can only hope that Ari and Pyotr lose some too.
And that through it all, Kate is safe—and can find it in herself to one day
forgive me.
I take a deep breath. No more stalling. “Let’s go.”
I get into my car and drive.
 Chapter 15

Kate

My heart pounds hard and fast. I should be tired after being up overnight,
traveling as we did through the dark and early hours. But in fact, I’m wired,
my mind racing a mile a minute. Ari sits in the back seat of a glossy black
SUV, rifle across her knees. She has the cool, resigned demeanor of a
soldier. But do soldiers, going to battle, smile like that? Like they feel no
fear at all?
She was kind enough to let me get dressed, though my lip is swollen, and
my mouth still tastes like blood after the blow she delivered to me in my
bedroom at the villa. She hasn’t said a word to me since we left, and her
silence is far more chafing than her dialogue. I itch to know what her plan
is. Where is Pyotr? Isn’t that who she’s working for? Is he in Rome still,
hiding away? Did he escape?
Was it her plan all alone to take his men, his arms, and use them in his
name though he’s not here to see it, not here to take the glory for himself? I
study her profile, her dark eyes, and her wild hair. She has a regal, lethal
aspect I can’t help but find beautiful. When I first learned she was in Luca
Romano’s employ, I thought they were sleeping together. Maybe they were.
Maybe they are.
Oh, my God—am I really going to let something like that make me
jealous? Now, here? Of all times? Jesus Christ.
Ari says something in curt Russian to the driver, a hulked-out young
Russian with knives lining his belt. He says something back, and Ariana
smiles, sitting back in the seat, looking strangely satisfied. As if sensing my
curiosity, she speaks the first words she has to me in hours:
“We’re close.”
I know. Of course, I know. Although I’ve never lived there (my father
would never allow it, as it is too dangerous), I’ve been to the rural
compound a hundred times. It’s one of his newest facilities, and it’s
certainly his most secure. Built like a prison and hidden in the hills, most
people wouldn’t ever know it existed. That’s the point, clearly. But
somehow, he was found out. My ailing father, trapped in his own fortress.
My own father, likely to die today.
 Tears sting the backs of my eyes. When Ariana looks at me, I resist the
urge to look away and hide my emotion. Whatever. Let her see. I’ve been
strong enough. If she’s here to kill him, I don’t care. If she sees that, it
breaks my heart.
“You could never have saved him,” she says with surprising sincerity.
“He made his own bed, Kate, long before you or I was born. Just as Luca’s
father did, and mine. Old men and their old blood and their old wars. It all
catches up to them in the end.”
Her eyes gleam, and before I can reply, the unmistakable sound of
gunfire fills the air. I jerk, startled. Up around the bend, the first of our
caravan of cars has reached the guarded gate to my father’s compound.
We’re not even going to get inside, I think, with horror. They’re going to
shoot the whole caravan up and kill me, too, not realizing I’m here.
“Don’t worry,” says Ari, ducking to look through the windshield. “All of
the arrangements have been made.”
I look at her, bewildered. “Arrangements? They’re killing each other up
there.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “A formality. You know how this kind of
business goes.”
I’m horrified, my heartbeat in my mouth. I clutch my stomach with one
hand as though my flesh could stop bullets. As though I alone can save the
little suggestion of life just blooming inside of me. But as I watch, I realize
—Ariana is somehow true to her word. The gunfire has subsided. One SUV
has pulled off onto the shoulder, windshield shattered. It’s the only car that
was hit, and now the gates are opening, and the posted guards are waving
the caravan in.
What the hell? What’s happening? Slowly, we begin to roll forward.
What kind of deal did Ari manage to make, and with who? My father? Has
she somehow been in contact with him? Spoken to him? Dad…My heart
clenches like a fist. It’s only been a little over a month since I was
kidnapped, since I last saw him. But when I left, his health was so terrible
and degrading so quickly. It was one of the things that made the decision to
reach out to Luca so easy. It was the main thing.
And look where it got me—he’s cleaning up my mess now when I was
trying in vain to clean up his. Shame lights my cheeks. We’re near the gate
now and pass the shot-up SUV. I realize the nose has hit an embankment,
and steam or smoke is gushing out from beneath the hood. Two bodies are
slumped inside. I twist around as we drive by, straining to get a look.
I stifle a gasp. The driver is just another one of Ari’s black-clad Russian
guards. But the dead passenger is unmistakable—Pyotr Petrov.
I look sharply at Ari. She’s smiling, looking dead ahead. “All according
to plan, hm?”
“How did you…but he was…”
“An old bastard that no one liked anyway. I told your father I’d bring him
a gift of good faith. You know, to open the gates.” She gestures with a
dismissive hand. “There is his gift. I hope he likes it.”
Holy shit. She’s really thought this through. A new thought enters my
mind: if Ari is bringing me to my father—why kill him?
Or is that not the play at all? “You want him to raise you up,” I say.
“Make you your own kind of kingpin at the head of your own empire. Don’t
you? You’re not here to kill him at all. But Pyotr was. You convinced him,
somehow. That he could do it. And you turned his men against him.”
“It wasn’t hard,” she confesses as the compound rolls into view. It’s a
vast complex of connected buildings, more military than residential, and
certainly nothing beautiful. In the rain, under the circumstance, it looks
haunted. “But it did take some time. Years, actually. Because Luca was
watching me so closely.”
“You always planned to betray him.” I’m not sure why I’m surprised or
disappointed. I really need to stop thinking the best of people. All it ever
does is get me into trouble. “Didn’t you?"
“No,” she says, her eyes going hard. “Not always. At first, I thought he
would be the first to truly accept me. But I was wrong. As the years passed
by, I saw that he did not trust me. Not fully, not ever. He wanted to, I think.
But I am a black mark. I have yet to find any man prepared to overlook my
birth and my parents’ history. Perhaps it will be Liam McNamara…what do
you think, Kate?”
I look at her sideways, considering. Perhaps foolishly, I choose honesty
again. “I think that my father will do anything to get me back, Ariana. Ask
high.”
Her eyes glint. “In another life, Kate,” she says, and I’m not sure what
she means by it, only that her expression goes soft again.
She says nothing more as we pull up among the fleet of Pytor—or, I
guess, Ariana’s—men. A pair of them open my door and help me out. Ari
follows. I stop, looking up at my father’s compound, my heart pounding
hard and fast. There’s relief in me and hope. I can’t wait to see him, to
speak with him and hear his voice and tell him that I’m OK, that I’ve been
OK, that I’ve kept myself safe and that I’m sorry for going rogue, for going
off on my own to pay his debts when I know it’s the one thing he’s ever
asked me not to do.
But…part of me is terrified. I’m married to Luca Romano. I’m pregnant
with his child. What will he think of that? Of me?
Of Luca?
I don’t have any time to think about it further because a set of my father’s
men is coming out the front door, armed and looking wildly pissed off.
They drink me in: assessing me for damage. One of them, a woman,
clenches her jaw and shoots Ariana a vicious look as soon as she sees my
swollen lip.
Before anyone can say a word, I do. “I’m OK,” I volunteer, raising my
palms. I’m glad Ari let me get dressed and presentable before we left the
villa last night. If I’d shown up in my nightgown, I think these guards might
have fired on sight. To kill. They’re as protective of me as they are of my
father. “How is my dad?”
“Ah, ah,” scolds Ari, wagging a finger. She catches me by the elbow—I
didn’t even realize I had started to walk toward my father’s guards—and
gives me a firm tug back to her side. “Not so fast, there. I’ve brought my
end of the deal. I want Liam’s.”
The guards look at her darkly, but the woman only nods and turns,
jerking her chin and indicating for us to follow. It’s a long, chillingly silent
walk up the stairs and into the compound. This part of the structure is cold,
bare, and sterile, like a hospital or an office. The hallways are labyrinthine.
I don’t miss the way Ari’s brow furrows, the way her eyes dart to take it in
and map it out, the way her grip on my arm tightens the deeper we get
inside.
But I know this place like the back of my hand. And with every step, my
confidence blossoms. It’s the first hint of control I’ve had since the night I
was dragged out of Dublin. Home. I am home.
But the feeling is barbed, and it takes me only half a heartbeat to realize
why. He’s not here. I touch my stomach, wishing suddenly and intensely
that I could tell him: I’m safe. I’m OK. Luca—I’m pregnant. I wish for him
harder than I should and realize that with Ari here, selling me like a prize,
he is, astonishingly—my ally. My protector. Even before he was my
husband, even before I knew he was protecting me, Luca was.
And it breaks my heart as much as it warms it. Because we’re
impossible. Aren’t we?
We step into a large meeting room, one I’ve been inside plenty of times. I
expect a whole council of men to be surrounding my father. Instead, he’s
alone at the head of the table, only a handful of guards arranged around
him.
“Dad,” I whisper, moving toward him without thinking.
“Easy,” snaps Ari, catching me roughly by the back of the neck and
yanking me back. My heart is thunder in my ribs as she swings her rifle
around and shoves it hard against my ribs. “Don’t forget that this is a
negotiation, Kate. Step back.”
I do, but it takes everything in me not to break free and run headlong to
my father. Oh, Dad…it’s only been a month. And he looks horrible. Pale
and exhausted and had aged ten years since I saw him last. No, no, no…did
I do this? Is it worry for me that did this to you? A horrible thought
penetrates my mind: did I waste a month? Did I lose a month with my dying
father, trying to save him?
What the fuck was I trying to prove?
“There’s no need for any of that,” says my father softly, and his voice is
as pure and strong and full of timbre as I remember. It barely sounds right
coming out of him. He just looks so…resigned. “Whatever you ask, you
will get, Ariana.”
“No!” I say, and Ari digs the muzzle of the rifle into my ribs so hard I
gasp, flinching away from him. Tears spring to my eyes, and her grip on the
back of my neck tightens enough to bruise. “Dad—”
“Shut your mouth,” says Ari, and I’m astonished at her tone. She’s
scared, I realize, my own horror calcifying. Scared people do foolish things.
Scared people make mistakes they usually wouldn’t. Suddenly, nothing here
feels safe or right or familiar. Suddenly—I’m scared I might actually die
here. “When I said this was a negotiation, I meant between Liam
McNamara and me. Isn’t that right?” This she directs at my father, her tone
derisive and disrespectful. It makes me want to attack her.
But I can’t. For myself. For my father. For the baby growing inside of
me. I need to think rationally. Wasn’t it overestimating myself that got me
—all of us—into this mess in the first place?
 I swallow, but it feels like my throat is full of glass. Hot tears move
silently down my face. I have a horrible, horrible sense that everything is
about to go wrong.
And it’s all my fault.
“You know what I want,” says Ari, jerking her chin at one of her guards
flanking her in the hallway. He walks forward with a laptop in hand and,
when waved forward by my father, approaches like a page before a king. He
sets down the laptop and opens the screen, then steps back. “We already
talked in generalities. Here are the details. Every account I want access to.
Every contact. There are properties on there that you will hand over
immediately. And, of course, the cash—you’ll wire it offshore before I
move this rifle from your daughter’s ribs.”
I close my eyes, dread pouring over the crown of my head. I left Ireland
trying to save my father from his debts. Here I am, draining every last coin
from his coffers. Fracturing his relationships, his infrastructure. He will die
having lost everything. His people. His empire. His pride. His dignity. His
legacy.
What have I done?
My father gazes at the screen. Finally, in his kingly way, he waves a
dismissive hand. I expect Ari’s guard to move forward and take the laptop
away. Instead, something else happens.
Ariana’s guards turn as one—and walk uniformly out of the room. I
watch, rapt, confused. When I look at Ari, I expect to see her stoic and cool.
Instead, she is bone white. She doesn’t even glance and doesn’t even
flick her eyes in the direction of the departing guards. She trembles slightly,
head to toe. Her finger is on the rifle trigger. Her eyes are on my father,
unwavering.
And his are on her. When she smiles, it is the most venomous expression
I have ever seen cross her face. “You bought me out,” she says, almost like
it amuses her.
And my father says, closing the laptop: “Cheaply.”
I flinch. For Ari, I flinch. For the ego that was growing desperately in
her. She’s been undermined again—and after so, so much work. My father
bought out Petrov’s men—and why not? He has the influence. If it was
truly cheap, he had the money. And why would those men wish to die if
they could get paid to walk out instead? Ari was their leader for a moment
only.
 Will she ever learn that loyalty, that respect—can’t be purchased?
She clenches her jaw, her eyes dancing. “I took you at your word.”
“There is no honor among thieves,” says my father, and I can hear an
edge in his tone now. He’s getting tired. He’s losing luster. We need to wrap
this up. But what is my dad’s intention? Ari still has me at gunpoint. And he
doesn’t know her like I do, now—she will die on this hill. She will die to
get revenge on my father right here, right now, at this moment. “Or don’t
you know that, girl?”
Ariana’s smile is twisted. She slides her hand into my hair, gripping a
fistful of it tightly enough to make me gasp. My father’s expression
tightens. When he was a younger, stronger man, he could have bluffed
himself out of anything. But he and I—we’re so soft now. Maybe we don’t
belong in this world anymore, after all.
“Why?” Ari asks, leaning over to study me as though she might find
answers written on my face. “Why bother with all of this? You got me to
kill Pyotr, but he was nothing. A cockroach, underfoot. You did all of this to
get your daughter back, but now you’ve tipped your hand. And I have no
reason to hand her over. In fact, I have a hell of a lot more reason to splatter
her brains on the wall here.”
“I want you to know that you are nothing,” says my father. “That I see
you as no threat. I could kill you now. I could have killed you an hour ago.
A decade ago. But I didn’t. Because you are to me as Pyotr Petrov was:
insignificant.”
The nose of the rifle digs deeper, and now I truly don’t understand. What is
he doing? Why is he bluffing? He knows what he’s doing, I think
desperately. Please, Dad, know what you’re fucking doing. I don’t want to
die today like this.
Not when my baby’s life is only just beginning…
“I’m insignificant,” says Ari with a soft, humorless laugh. “Look at you,
old man. Bidding everyone else to do your dirty work. Bidding your
daughter to sell herself to pay your debts. You’re the insignificant one here.
You’re irrelevant. Your wars are over. Your enemies are dead. And you
have nothing to do but sit and wait until you can join them.” She turns her
head and spits. “I’m going to kill you both.”
The guards behind my father shift faintly, but he raises a hand to stall
them—of course he does. If they shoot, they risk hitting me, too. And Ari
knows that.
 “But I’m going to kill your daughter first,” Ari says, smiling that
sickening smile. What light I thought I glimpsed in her eyes is gone now.
All I see are her blown pupils, huge and wide and empty. Pure evil. “And
I’m going to make you watch. And before I do, I’m going to tell you a
secret.”
“Ari,” I whisper, pleading, panic rushing through me. “Don’t do this.”
Ari drags her rifle down my side and presses it to my belly. “I’m going to
kill your grandchild, too, old man. And you can think of that when I turn
this gun on you.”
And true to her word, before anyone can move, Ariana digs the rifle into
my side—and pulls the trigger.
 Chapter 16
Luca

Pyotr’s men surrender at once.

Liam’s do not. And within fifteen minutes, the halls of the compound are
littered with Irish corpses. The Russians Liam bought leave the minute
they’re permitted, and my men see them out to their fleet of cars, picking
off stray Irish guards where they appear out of the woodwork. Lucky, I
think, more than once, as I pick my way over the bodies, rifle leveled, eyes
narrowed for enemies. Lucky, those Russians didn’t decide to hold up to that
cheap loyalty, or we’d be outnumbered and truly, seriously fucked.
We could tell even from the road what had happened. At once, the
Russians and the Irish lowered their rifles. Their demeanors changed, and
they began to interact more cordially. The way they all left the compound at
once, too, didn’t escape my notice—they were dismissed.
And Ariana was not among them.
Clearly, Liam had bought them out. It’s a win-win for everyone involved.
That is, except for Ari. Will Liam kill her, I wonder, as I stalk through the
halls. An Irish guard marches into sight, and I snipe her easily before she’s
even swung up her own rifle. Her head jerks back, and she crumples,
soundless, motionless, on the blood-streaked tile. Will Liam McNamara
torture her? Will he make an example of her, I wonder?
Some part of me grieves. Ari is a lost soul. In another life, I am her. I
suppose, in some ways, we really aren’t so different, after all. But unlike
her, my men have stormed this compound. We have won already. There is
just one formality left to handle.
Liam himself. The Russians told me where to go. I left Gio to man the
front while I sought him out.
I insisted I go alone.
And now here I am, alone. Gliding like a shadow through the dark halls,
my heart beating faster than I’d care to admit. Because somewhere in this
building is Kate.
And this is the last time I will ever see her.
There are bargains we strike with ourselves in life. There are bargains we
make with the universe. This one is mine: I will kill Liam McNamara. For
my father. For my men. For my organization and my legacy, and everything
the Romano name has ever stood for. I have no choice; I must kill him.
But I will not take Kate back with me to Italy. I will leave her here and
appoint her as head of her late father’s organization. I know now just how
handily she can deal in empires. I know what she’s made of, and she is a
formidable enemy. She will make a brilliant ally. Granted, one that will
always loathe me. It’s an exchange, nothing more. Her father’s life for hers.
Everyone wins.
Do we, though? Does she? Do I?
Because, in truth, if it were up to me, all of this would go a different way.
If it were up to me, Kate McNamara would be leaving this compound, this
country, with me today. No matter the cost, no matter her feelings, no
matter the grudges she would hold over me. I would take her. Force her.
Because I am not ready to let her go. Too late. There is honor among
thieves, the good ones. This is the best that I can give her, and I know it’s
not enough. But it’s better than nothing. Her freedom she can keep. She will
never again have to sleep in the same bed as her father’s murderer. She will
be set free of me, and my debt to my father will be paid.
I reach the office, and the doors are closed, the Russians having already
left their posts. I hang back a hallway away, pull a silencer from my pocket,
and screw it on. Discreetly, I release two rounds, taking out the only two
guards at the door. They fall into twin piles on the floor, silent, dead, blood
rapidly pooling beneath them. I feel nothing looking at them. I am vacant
and cold. Dead inside.
Knowing that this is the beginning of the end for Kate and me.
I take a breath. I know whatever happens next will happen quickly. And I
know, if I am not careful and exceedingly lucky—whatever happens might
also end in my dying. I should have brought backup. But it’s not the first
time I’ve let my pride endanger me. And if I survive today, I’m sure it
won’t be the last.
It’s time.
I kick open the door.
The sight that greets me is certainly unexpected. Liam McNamara,
looking horribly pale and ill, stands at the head of a huge conference table.
He’s flanked by a handful of armed guards, none of whom seem concerned
with what is before them—before me.
 Kate. Kate. When I see her, the cold falseness of my reality melts away.
Everything brightens. The colors of the room, the lights. I see her with a
sudden and astounding clarity: her sweet, tired eyes; her dark honey hair;
the surprise on her face at seeing me. The relief. Bare, evident, shameless.
She’s happy to see me. Me. After everything. Knowing why I’m here—she is
still pleased to see me.
Is that love?
“Luca,” she whispers, and her eyes are bright with tears.
It’s then I register Ari. She stands at Kate’s side, rifle hanging limp in her
hand—why? I notice immediately that her finger is on the trigger. Yet she’s
not firing. The rifle has an empty magazine.
And it all makes sense, then. Liam orchestrated this. Every bit of it. He
had Ariana armed with an unloaded gun by her men, which the men bought
out. Brilliant, really, I think, with resentment. But, of course, he did. How
the hell else could he let her in here, armed, with Kate under her control?
He would never do that. He is an orchestrator. He is a puppet master.
And for everything he has done, he has to die.
But in an instant, I go to raise my pistol—Ariana runs.
She takes Kate by both shoulders and hurls her forward, slamming her
into the table so hard I hear Kate cry out. It’s distraction and obstruction
enough—the minute she’s done it, Ari is blasting out of that room like a cat
on fucking fire. And it’s not my job. Not my duty. I am here to kill Liam
McNamara. I must kill him…
That woman just had a rifle aimed at Kate. Her finger was on the trigger.
Kate looks at me over her shoulder, her face pale and full of terror. She has
one hand clutching her stomach, and I don’t know how I know it, but I do.
At that moment, I feel it. I feel her. Kate. The Kate I stupidly, stupidly,
blindly fell in love with. The Kate I admire and respect.
The Kate I cannot let go. Is she? Could she be? Is she carrying my child?
Does this change everything?
No. It doesn’t change one thing. Ari—my ally, the woman I brought into
Kate’s life—just attempted to kill my wife.
And for that, she dies.
I wish I could take Kate in my arms. Hold her. Ask her for forgiveness. I
wish I could clutch her close and apologize: for it all. Taking her,
demanding of her, marrying her. Falling for her. Endangering her.
Abandoning her. Would she believe me? I know she would. Would she
forgive me? Yes—it’s in her nature. She loves me. And that’s how I know I
will have a chance to come back to her.
But I may never have a chance to stop Ariana again. So I run after her.
She’s a split second ahead of me, moving faster than I thought her capable
of. Her boots pound the tile, and she rounds a corner, bent forward, running
hard as an Olympic athlete. Does she know where she’s going? I don’t. But
I follow blindly. Because this is my mess. My mistake. And I’ll be damned
if I expect someone else to clean up after me.
Ari hits a long hall with no turns and no shelter. I swing my rifle up and
fire. But running, I miss badly, speckling the ceiling with bullet holes.
Plaster falls in a dusty white rain, and before I can aim again, Ari busts
through a steel door and out into the rain.
I’m on her heels, running so hard that all I can hear is the quiet,
contained thunder of my own pulse. The door leads to a steep kind of lot,
asphalt black and slick with rain. Ari is already down it by the time I break
through the door, and she’s already ducking into some kind of hangar-like
building. Rain crashes hard angrily on the corrugated steel roof. I aim,
peeling off a few more rounds.
This time, one hits. Ari staggers, slamming into the door to the hangar,
gripping her shoulder. Even from a distance, I see blood pouring between
her fingers. But by then, she’s already through the door.
“Fuck,” I bite out, racing down the steep incline. Her blood is on the door
handle. I yank it open and rush inside, only to be greeted by gunfire.
“Fuck!”
I dive behind a parked vehicle hidden under a tarp. There are dozens,
some sleek and low, some huge and hulking. And as soon as the gunfire—
Ari’s, ostensibly—goes silent, so does everything else. I’m breathing hard
on the concrete floor with my back against the tarp-covered car. I listen,
straining to hear footsteps. Nothing. Wherever she is, she’s hiding. And she
has the advantage of knowing where I am.
Fuck. This was a bad call. This was a mistake. I swallow, wiping rain
from my eyes, shoving my hair back from my forehead impatiently. “Ari,” I
call out after a moment. “Haven’t you had enough of this, hm? Aren’t you
tired?”
She ignores me, or else has vanished. I turn, debating, then decide to risk
it—and stand. Pop, pop, pop! Bullets shred through the tarp, and I drop like
a rock. Got you, I think, smiling. I know what direction the fire came from.
It’s unlikely I’ll be able to pick her off with so little to go off, though. This
is going to be risky; however, the fuck it goes down.
“Give up,” I call, knowing I can rile her. “You didn’t really think this was
going to work, did you? Think about it. Every move you’ve ever made,
you’ve been too slow—someone is always a step ahead of you.” I wait for
answering shots, but they don’t come. “Look how close you got today.
Admit it. It’s the closest you will ever get, and it wasn’t enough. You will
never be enough.”
No gunfire. But I can practically feel her rage, taut, twisted up tight. A
coiled snake snapping its tongue, hungry to strike.
“You were right, by the way,” I add, creeping in a crouch to the back of
the car. I peer out, just over the edge: and there, spot her. She’s arranged on
a metal staircase around a corner and some distance away. The rifle is raised
in trembling hands, picked, no doubt, off one of the Irish bodies abundant in
the hallways we fled through. She turns the nose of the rifle in a slow,
searching half-circle. She doesn’t know where I am. “I am in love with
Kate.”
The tendon in her neck stands out in anger. But she says nothing, only
presses her eye to the scope and waits patiently. And some part of me aches,
then. I see Kate in her, too. We are similar, the three of us. We’re not our
fathers.
And this war is over. I realize then: I cannot kill Liam. Why the hell did I
think I could? My men will not walk away from me. My men respect me.
I’ll make them respect me. Because I can’t lose Kate. I don’t care if our
marriage began as a sham. An arrangement. A contract. I don’t care about
the war of our fathers; mine would be far more shamed to think of his
empire falling. Not like this.
I meant what I said. I do love Kate. And if my hunch is right, if she’s
pregnant—there’s no way in hell that I can walk away from her. And I think
—I hope—that she feels the same.
Crack! I turn the slightest pivot and thank God I do. The bullet catches
me straight in the collarbone, so hard I fall back against the car. Pain
explodes through me, blinding, vibrant. Painting my vision full-red as blood
pours over my chest. I slide to my knees, grasping my collarbone, alarm
bells clamoring violently in my skull. Get up, get up, get up. But when I
grasp the rifle, my fingers are slippery with blood, and I miss the trigger,
and I can’t hardly aim—
 I lock eyes with Ari. She’s standing on the stairs, gazing down at me.
Regal. Lethal. A force to be reckoned with, and yet this is her reckoning.
Even if she succeeds in killing me now, like this—she doesn’t make it out
of this compound alive.
Fuck. Kate. Protect yourself. Take care of yourself. Raise our child…No.
I can’t just leave her. I can’t just resign myself to death. I didn’t take care of
anything for her. I didn’t write her into my will and estate. I didn’t know to
create something for a future child…
But my limbs are so heavy. My body is already so beaten, so bruised, so
bone-deep exhausted. Ari is walking toward me, curt confident steps that
rattle the metal staircase until she reaches the concrete floor. My heartbeat
rages. I fumble with the rifle again, but I’m useless, losing blood so fast I
can’t see straight. She missed on purpose. For an instant there, she had a
clear shot. It’s the second time that Ariana has shown me mercy, and for the
same reasons, I think that I have shown her mercy.
When I raise my eyes and meet hers, she has the rifle back up to her
nose, and her finger is on the trigger. Neatly, coldly, she kicks the rifle
straight out of my hands and lets it clatter to the concrete.
“Last words,” she says sharply. There is something forlorn in her tone.
“We die together today, Luca. At least there is some poetry in that.”
“You could have been great,” I say, after a moment, looking up into her
one dark, visible eye, looking into the barrel of her rifle. Looking at death.
“You could have been something.”
Pop! Blood rockets from her temple, and like a light switched off, her
gaze goes instantly blank. She wobbles slightly, then crashes onto her side,
dead, looking emptily into the distance.
I turn. Kate stands in the doorway of the hangar, pistol still raised,
clasped in both hands, one eye squeezed shut. A faint, almost imperceptible
wisp of smoke trailing from the barrel. Her eyes meet mine, and then she’s
marching to my side.
It’s when she reaches me that the last of my strength and will deserts me.
I tip forward, more grateful than I could ever express, when she catches me,
falling to her knees and pulling me against her.
“They’re coming,” she says, cradling my head, looking brightly down
into my eyes. “Look at me, Luca. Look at me."
I do, but it’s almost impossible. She’s haloed in light, somehow, and
blurring at all of her edges. She brushes her hand over my face and moves
my hair out of my eyes. “You got her,” I say, my voice rough and far away.
“Good shot.”
“Better than you.” She smiles, but her eyes are wide and brimming with
tears. One falls hot onto my jaw. “Help is coming. The doctors are coming
right now. You’re going to be OK.”
Red creeps in at the edges of my vision. “How do you know?”
“Because you’re the most stubborn man I’ve ever met in my life.” She
bends down and presses her lips to mine, and a weight releases at once from
my chest. “Luca.” Her breath stirs so softly against my lips, my face. I
forget where we are. We could be in bed in the villa, snow dancing at the
window. We could be entwined, naked, our tongues entangled. We could be
happy and safe, together. All bets off. All expectations burned away. Alone,
us, together. “I know that you know.”
“Hm,” I say. It’s all I can muster. The pain has already blown away, and
I’m relaxed now, and in my mind, I know that can’t be, that shouldn’t be,
that means this is serious, something is wrong. Ari was a good shot, too.
Did she nick an artery? Splinter a bone into an organ? Did she know I
would die slowly, or would she have done it? Would she have put a bullet
straight in my skull if Kate hadn’t appeared to save me? “What do I know?”
But I do know. Deep, deep in my mind. And when she says it, everything
in me wakes up. She bends close, her hair a soft golden curtain. Her lips are
against my ear, her breath. I feel flawless there. I feel safe like she’s got me.
It’s how I’ve felt, I realize, since I met her.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispers and lets the words hang there between us
like fragrance, like spring wind. A child. A legacy. A life. And it’s ours.
Going to be ours. Our first step together as a real couple. “You’re going to
be a father, Luca. You have to hang on. Promise me. I know you’re a
fighter.”
“So are you,” I tell her, finding the strength to raise my hand, bloody, and
slide it gently into her hair. When she sits back, our eyes meet, and my body
fills with warmth. “I wasn’t going to do it.”
Tears spill down her cheeks. “Luca…”
“I changed my mind,” I say, and I mean it, and I want her to know
because if I die, I can’t have her think I would have seen it through. Not
after I realized how I truly felt about her. Not after I realized that what we
had was real, that it could be real enough to bring a baby into this world. “I
promise you that I did.”
 “I believe you,” she says, and by the heartbreak in her voice, I know that
she does. “You don’t have to promise that, Luca. Just promise you’ll stay
alive. Promise you’ll fight as hard as you can. Please. Please.” She brings
my hand to her lips. Her tears fall on my fingers. “Please, Luca.”
I can hear something somewhere: a clamor and footsteps, shouts. Kate
clings to me, even when they try to move her.
Determinedly, stubbornly as ever, she stays at my side. Even as the
darkness comes swirling in, even as my eyes grow too heavy to keep open
even a second longer, she’s there.
She’s there, and it means more to me than I could ever say.
 Chapter 17

Kate

I stand at the window of the compound hospital, a pretty impressive affair

complete with two fully-staffed operating rooms. I’m exhausted. I haven’t
slept in two nights since we left Italy. And more than my body is exhausted,
my soul is. So much has happened over the last month. My entire life, my
entire world, has changed.
Through the window, I watch Luca sleep. He doesn’t look peaceful. He
looks fitful, as though he’s fighting the world, even unconscious. It’s been
touch and go; Ariana’s shot nicked an artery. The surgeon told us after that
it was the consistency of wet tissue melting in his hands, and I thought that
Luca was going to die.
But here he is, standing by his promise. Here he is, fighting for his life.
Please don’t stop, I beg him silently, touching my palm to the glass. I need
you now. We need you now. Don’t make me need you, don’t make me love
you, and then leave me.
Someone clears their throat, and I turn to find my father smiling faintly
and leaning heavily on his cane. I go to his side, but he waves me off. “I’m
fine, don’t fuss, don’t fuss, Kate.” But he lets me lead him over to a set of
chairs in the hallway. He sits with the exhaustion of a much older man, and
I would be lying if I said it didn’t break my heart. “Well. This was quite the
turn of events.”
I blush. “Yes.”
“You’re lucky with how it turned out. But I know that you know that.”
He sighs, leaning back in his chair, eying Luca through the window. “This
is a sight I can safely say I never thought I’d see. Harboring my enemy’s
son, keeping him alive instead of letting nature takes its course.”
“Dad…”
“I know,” he says, with a tone of musing. “Love is such a funny thing.”
“Oh, I don’t…” But why lie? Heat flows down the back of my neck, and
sheepishly, I brush my hair behind my ear. “I didn’t mean for it to happen
like this. Any of it. But you’re right; I did get lucky. All things considered,
this could all have turned out much worse.”
 “If he dies,” my father says, looking at me with cold, clear eyes, “we go
on as we were. We go back to war. He tried to call in my debts the way he
did to cripple me. He came here to kill me, Kate, you know that.”’
“That was before.”
“Love doesn’t change everything.”
“Dad.” I take a deep breath. “I am pregnant. Ariana wasn’t bluffing.”
He looks at me hard, and for a moment, I can’t read his expression. Is it
anger? Fear? “You were intimate with him.”
“Voluntarily,” I say very clearly. “The marriage was…I was angry. He
didn’t give me a choice.” I flush again, averting my eyes. “But everything
else? I was OK with it. I was…well, if I’m honest, I couldn’t help myself.
He’s not like I thought he would be. Not at all.”
My father is quiet for a long moment, looking back at the glass, at Luca,
sleeping. Gone, in another world. One where I hope he’s resting and safe, at
peace as much as he can be before he makes it back here.
“Perhaps you really do love him, then,” says my father, his voice
softening. “What is he like, then?”
I hesitate, not sure how much to say. Things are shifting rapidly, and
while Luca is unconscious, not much can be done in the way of moving
forward. He is, at the end of the day, the head of his organization. And
while we’ve called a truce with his men, the blood isn’t exactly good. His
men killed dozens of my father’s. The Russians fled. There are messes to be
cleaned up, and many of them are Luca’s and mine.
But what does it change to lie? I realized today, holding Luca in my arms
as he bled out, that I can’t lose him. I need him. Those aren’t the feelings of
a kidnapped woman. Those are feelings of love, and I know why; I know
where they came from.
“As hard as he tried,” I say, after a moment of thought, “he never could
stop treating me like an equal.”
“He locked you in a tower, Kate.”
“He gave me a gun. He gave me my computer. He kept me at least a little
apprised of his agendas and ideas. I could just…even in the beginning,
when I hated him, when I wanted to hate him, I could just sense that we
were good together. Partners. And then…well, then we became lovers, too.
And I felt safe with him. I felt protected.”
My father nods. “Good,” he says after a moment. “That’s how partners
should feel.”
 “You would approve of it? Me staying with him? Raising this child
together?”
“Approve is a strong word.” He gives me a pointed look, and I can’t help
but laugh. “And anyway, you’re an adult, Kate. You have been for a long
time. Much longer than I would have liked.” He sighs and takes my hand.
This is not the Irish mafia kingpin; this is my father. Warm. Caring. A
shoulder for me to cry on. A safe harbor in the storm. “I wish I could have
protected you better. You were so young when you were dragged into this.”
“I know. But I don’t hold it against you. I’m OK. And I like who I am.” I
squeeze his hand, turning to look him in the eye. “I can protect myself.
Today, when I shot Ari—that’s not the first time I’ve saved Luca. It’s
probably not going to be the last. And the same goes for him. This life is
dangerous. But I wouldn’t want anything else; it’s in my blood, Dad, like
it’s in yours. It’s who I am. It’s what I’m good at.”
He smiles fondly, and my heart skips a beat at the pride winking so clear
in his eye. “Spoken like a true expert.”
“I am, aren’t I? I’ve certainly put in my ten thousand hours.”
He laughs, and the laughter dissolves into a fit of coughing. My heart
lurches. After a moment, he manages to calm down his breathing. He looks
exhausted, with shadows under his eyes, his skin pale. “I am getting old,”
he says, and though it’s true, his age isn’t what’s killing him. “Kate. If you
mean to see this through, we need to speak. About who inherits all of this
when I’m gone.”
I stare at him, startled and scared. “No, Dad, I don’t want to—”
He silences me with a gentle wave of his hand. “Listen to me, Kate.
You’re right. It’s in you. This is your field. I won’t disrespect you by saying
it’s too dangerous. You know that much. And if you have Luca by your
side…I feel more confident that you’ll be well looked after.”
My pulse speeds. “Dad,” I say, looking away. “I fucked up. I fucked all
of this up. Leaving the way I did, acting against orders, just—going rogue
like I did. It was so irresponsible. And if anything had gone wrong, I’d…I
wouldn’t be here. There were a dozen moments when I thought I was going
to die. I don’t think I’m fit for it.”
He’s quiet awhile, looking at Luca again or maybe at his blurry reflection
in the glass. “That girl, Ariana. She wasn’t raised in the world you and Luca
were in. You are inheritors. You’re legacies. She wanted that so badly that
she was willing to sell her soul for it, so badly that she was willing to die
for it. And today, she did.”
I look down at my hands, still dark and stained with Luca’s blood. I’m
not proud that I killed her. I didn’t want to. But I know I had no choice, and
I’m happy that Luca is alive. That I was able to save him when a moment
more would have taken him from me forever.
“What you have is special. Don’t cast it aside because you made a
mistake, or two, or two hundred. I’m no saint. I’ve let men die. I’ve let my
empire sink into destitution in the past; I’ve lost myself to debt. And, of
course, I have failed, many times, to protect what is most precious to me.”
He touches my hand and looks at me calmly. “You.”
I smile, trying and failing to suppress the wave of tears that wells up in
my eyes. “I know. You’re what’s most precious to me, too.” I press my
palm to my belly. And you, I think, to the life that is not yet a life; you are
most precious to me, too. “I’m scared I’m not good enough.”
“You are, Kate. More than good enough.” He squeezes my hand. “You’re
meant for it.”
I look at him. And I sense his tiredness; I sense the end of the world on
its way. He’s been sick for a long time now. And while I regret how some of
this happened, I don’t regret all of it. After all, it brought me Luca. It
brought me the whisper of a future, of a family. It showed my dad what I
think he already knew: that I really am his daughter; I really do want to
make him proud. And I think this is how.
“OK,” I say. “When, in a million years, you finally pass on, happily, safe
and warm in your own bed—” He laughs, and so do I. “I will take over for
you. Luca and I.”
“You make an old, simple, tired man happy.” He leans in and kisses my
cheek. “You smell like blood and smoke. Like your mother used to.”
I smile and squeeze his hand. “I’ll make you proud.” I don’t mean to say
it; it’s more of a promise to myself, and I blush.
But my father looks at me then, with such presence and sincerity that it
takes my breath away, and says, “You already have.”
***
Our daughter is born in September in Ireland. It’s a lush and balmy day
that she comes into the world, with a soft wind that cuts right through the
heat and promises fall is on the way. She’s tiny, with Luca’s big dark eyes
and my honey-gold hair, and when Luca first sees her, he doesn’t say a
thing. He kneels beside the hospital bed, wraps his arms around mine, and
presses his forehead to his daughter’s, and he stays like that, right there, for
an eternity. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like long enough.
My pregnancy was hard, and throughout it, I was haunted by the fear that
my father would be gone before I gave birth. But summer brought him a
second wind, and he’s been in high spirits ever since. He comes to the
hospital and holds his only grandchild. And light fills his eyes, and he looks
younger again, like the fiery, passionate man who raised me.
September falls into October, and autumn arrives in gilt earnest. My
father is still managing much of the affairs, and he will until I’m ready to
get back to work. Luca passes off the reins to Gio and some older members
of the syndicate, men who worked side by side with his father, and then he
comes to Ireland.
The house he buys for us is small, a cottage really, made of stone and set
between three hills by the sea. It is perfectly rural, with a spice garden, a
stone wall, and a fat chimney that chugs lazily on nights that get brisker as
winter approaches. Most days, Luca doesn’t even look at his phone.
It’s mid-October, and I tell Luca when I wake up in the morning that
today will be the last warm day of the season.
“How do you know?” He asks while we’re still in bed, naked, brushing a
strand of hair back from my eyes. He presses close and touches his lips to
the corner of my jaw. I trace the twin bullet scars on his chest, the two I
witnessed him take. The two I witnessed him survive. “Is it some kind of
superstition?”
“Yes, I’m a witch.”
He kisses me, smiling, his dark eyes luminous in the early sunlight. Burnt
gold. “Tell me how you know.”
“I just have a sense for these things.”
“You have a sense for many things.” He says it with a kind of soft
admiration I’ve become accustomed to. It’s an intense, quiet sincerity that
makes my breath catch every time. I’m still learning so much about Luca,
even after being together for almost a year and in such intense
circumstances, yet there are things I know about him entirely. Like that
sincerity, like certain looks. Like the fact that he loves our daughter and me
more than anything, anything in the world. “What is your sense now?”
“My sense is that we should have a picnic. She loves the sun.” I look
over at the bassinet. She’s such a good baby. She has the steel of Luca in
her and almost never cries. She’s self-sufficient. I know she’s going to be a
stubborn one, and I love her for it so much, so deeply that sometimes it
hurts too. “My sense is also that you should kiss me right now.”
“That’s a good sense.” He lifts the duvet and slides closer, kissing my
jaw so faintly I can barely feel his lips. He drags them softly to my ear,
pressing them more firmly. Then my neck, my collarbone, and the space
between my breasts. “Do you know that I love the sun, too?”
“That’s the Italian in you,” I say admiringly, and he props himself on his
elbows above me, his body pressed flush to mine. Every inch of his skin is
fever-hot, as always. Something I love on chilly nights, something I love
now, or maybe just always. “We should go back there soon. She needs to
see where else she comes from.”
He studies me, his expression mysterious, inscrutable. Then he kisses me
very softly, just the way I hoped he would. His lips part mine, innocent and
delicate, like I’m a fragile thing that might break, blown sugar or maybe
glass. Then his tongue strokes my bottom lip and slowly slides into my
mouth, and I shiver as his hands move like velvet over my sides and my
hips.
“When I came here to get you,” he says, stroking circles with his thumbs
on my stomach, “I felt something for Ireland that I never had before.”
“Oh?”
“It felt like home,” he says, and my heart clenches. With happiness and
love and envy, almost the envy of myself that I have this, that this, he is
mine. Sometimes it feels unfair to the rest of the world. “I knew it was your
home. But I saw it for how it could be mine, too. I saw how the hills made
you. The rain and the sea. I saw you in all of it.”
I’m not sure he’s ever said something quite so beautiful to me, and it has
my eyes burning and my chest aching. It has me speechless.
“She’s like that,” he says, bending to kiss me again. This time, he lies
back and pulls me possessively against him, sliding his arm beneath my
head, his fingers moving to stroke my hair. “She’s Ireland.”
“She’s Italy, too,” I say, turning to look at him.
“Oh, yes. Of course. And she will know Italy, as well as her father.” He
chuckles when I give him a dubious, competitive look. “But for now, she’s
Irish. I’m learning to be Irish, too.”
I study him, blushing a little. Because sometimes it embarrasses me just
how much I love him. Just how much I want to fall into him and do nothing
else, forever. I trace his eyebrows with my fingertip and the line of his nose
and his jaw, and I drink in his dark eyes, and I wonder how I got this, how I
managed to deserve it.
But in moments like this, I can’t seem to care. I’ve wasted too much time
trying to prove myself. And to who? Everyone I love seems to see me even
better than I see myself.
“I’m not ready to go back to the real world yet,” I admit. I thought it
would be monotonous, this little cottage, this little garden, this little
marriage, and this little new baby; not a second has felt anything less than
precious. Fairy tale, in its own perfect, mundane way. “I want to stay awhile
longer.”
“Then we will. We’ll stay forever if that’s what you want.” His smile is
wicked. The smile of the man who kidnapped me, married me and put a gun
in my hand; the smile of a man who knows, damn well, that he made me
fall in love with him. “But I know you. And I know it won’t always be
enough, and when it’s not—that’s when we’ll go.”
“And we can always come back.”
“This is our home, Kate,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“We will always come back.”
He kisses me again, then stands and tugs Agnes from her bassinet. She
sleeps with her little fists furled, as though she has to do everything with
determination and nothing less. Her father and mother’s daughter, I think,
with the kind of love that feels like a stitch in the ribs. Luca climbs into bed,
holding her against his bare chest. I press myself to them both so she’s
between us like a warm, sweet little beating heart.
“A picnic would be good,” he murmurs, kissing his daughter’s hair.
“She’ll enjoy the sun on the last warm day.” And when the rain comes,
she’ll enjoy that, too, the snow, the ice, the storms, and all that life throws at
her. We’ll teach her how, Luca and I, together.
I kiss her, too, and then him. And lying there, it feels like there was an
order, after all, to all of the chaos. It feels like there were no mistakes made
at all, even though that’s what they felt like at the time; it’s kismet,
providence. Fate, maybe, or luck. Destiny, design. Whatever the hell it is, it
feels good at this moment.
Whatever it is, it’s ours.
 THE END
CLICK HERE
to subscribe to my newsletter & get EXCLUSIVE
updates on all offers, secret previews, and new
releases!