Chapter 1

Fabio

“Are you drunk, Eva?”

“Would that make my request viable?”

I have had my few moments of idiocy here and there, but that particular one haunts me to this day. It inhabits my sleep and crawls under my skin when I am wide awake.

Like a fucking blood-hungry predator, its talons dig mindlessly, close to ripping away every shred of sanity I have left. It also doesn’t help that I have to see my tormentor every day, since, much like oxygen, she is unavoidable.

It hurts to be around her, yet there is no greater pain than not being around her.

“Eva, I am not kissing you.”

“But you want to. I know you do.”

Her words were the beginning of my downfall. Because I did fucking want to. But limiting myself to just wanting to would have been better.

Because then, I could have just lived with wanting to kiss a girl that I had watched grow into a woman. Not that this would have made me feel any less guilty. But wanting to kiss her would have been better than what I did next.

I kissed her.

She was eighteen. Yet, my desire for her was unbearable. Like a dog with a bone, I jumped at the slightest opportunity to taste her. One fucking kiss and here I am years later, unable to fill up the indentation of that moment.

I clear my throat as I glimpse her off in the distance, her camera around her neck and her thick glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Her pitch-black hair twisted to resemble a doughnut on her head, her baggy black cargo pants, and her strappy lemon-green crop top.

I occupy my mind with the task of adjusting my suit as each of her steps brings her closer to me. Perhaps I am nervous. An emotion that only Eva has been capable of evoking in me without even trying.

I struggle not to fidget and scowl while glancing at the vibrant yellow garden around her studio. It stands in stark contrast to the impending darkness I feel within. Just like she is a contrast to that part of me.

She is pure. Something about her always makes the world feel a lot better, the damn sun shine brighter, and even the fucking wind feel more soothing on the skin.

An angel. My angel… No, no, she is just an angel. Not mine. So innocent, but yet so devious. An innocent sinner. She reminds me of Eden, of Paradise, but I am afraid I am already a man doomed for hell.

This will be harder than I had envisioned. It’s meant to be a talk. A quick talk.

“You look like you will hate this session,” her voice is like a soothing balm, her smile like toppings on ice cream, “You didn’t have to agree to it,” she stops before me. So dainty and crushable that I want to wrap a fragile label all over her.

“Hmm,” is all I say, and the fact that I am known not to be much of a talker is good in this case since, around Eva, I am mostly fucking lost for words.

“Hmm?” She snorts dryly, “Want to get on with it then? I take it you have zero seconds to waste.” She is not far from the truth. The longer I stay around her, the hazier the lines begin to look.

The pattern of torture has always been the same. I want to be near her, but I need to fucking maintain some distance between us. I have so much I want to say, but I also have to keep quiet around her so I don’t utter things I can never be heard speaking. It’s amazing how my tongue feels numb when I see her—not out of cowardice, but because I am mesmerized.

“My studio is behind you,” she points with her chin and I slant, giving her access to the door, “For the record, I wanted my father,” she chews the inside of her mouth. “He, at least, never looks like I am holding a gun to his head when I ask him to be my model,” she takes a step towards the door, “And I didn’t even ask you,” she spins, the proximity too fucking close and I do us both a good.

I step back.

She didn’t ask and everyone was surprised I had, in fact, offered. Her father didn’t give much thought to it. But Vittoria, her stepmother, that conniving matchmaker… well, she seemed pleased by the idea. The truth is, I offered because I needed Eva’s attention for a quick while, and I wanted it to be just the both of us.

They might have misinterpreted it as me coming around to accepting what Emanuele has tagged as inevitable, which is me getting married to her in order to become part of the Teso clan. I wonder what he would think of me and my fucking honor that he keeps babbling about if he knew that I kissed her on her eighteenth birthday.

“After you,” I take another unnecessary step back.

“He can talk,” she laughs softly, but as she reaches to push the door open, I step forward and help her with that. Old habits die hard, “I can open my door, Fabio,” she professes, and I nod, not budging. I want to hold it for her and she is going to fucking let me.

She swings her head from side to side as if considering it, then walks in. That’s more like it.

It was difficult to get a moment alone with her. If I am not working around the clock to get things running, I am with her father or with all three of them: him, Vittoria, and Eva. I need time with her to do what I am about to do.

I step into the monochrome space. White walls, black furniture, black equipment, and emotion-strapping white and black pictures taken by her plastered on the walls. I would never understand her inspiration behind this choice of art. Not the photography but the implementation of the art itself. Considering her effervescent personality, I would think she would choose to capture bright colors and rainbows.

She drags a stool and slaps the top of it. “Sit,” she leaves to start assembling lights and other things she thinks she will be needing.

There is no fucking way I am sitting and playing model. I am here to talk and leave. As quickly as possible.

“Eva,” one hand goes into the pocket of my dress pants, but she seems to be ignoring me, dragging as many lights as she can with her. I step forward to help her but the spears from her eyes as she glares at me force my hands into my pockets.

“We are taking pictures, right?” She lets go, stands upright, and rests both hands on her waist.

“To talk,” I clear my throat.

“Now you want to talk?” She lifts both eyebrows, an expression that brings her father to mind in a whiplash.

“We have both been busy.” Or I have been avoiding her. Talking generally is stressful, talking with Eva is close to having a seizure.

“I don’t want to talk.” She skirts me and heads around to the corner, where her laptop, a desk, and a couch are set up. The pencils, stick notes, fountain pen, and a mint green pen holder on the desk are the only items of color in the room.

“But we have to,” I am inching towards her, and when I realize my mistake, I walk to the stool.

She sets her camera down on the desk and I relax a little. I never know what to expect when she is holding that weapon that brings all my insecurities to the surface.

“Humor me,” she turns to face me, arms folding across her chest. A miracle, to say the least, since it’s keeping that view concealed. My mind is fucking filth.

“Did you…” I pause, thinking of the best possible way to ask this question without ticking her, “Did you tell your father about it?” I gulp, waiting for her to understand, but when she squints her electrifying tidal blue eyes, I can tell she has no clue what I am insinuating.

“It being?” She lets out a breath that tells me she is tired of trying to be difficult. I was waiting for it. Her span of being difficult is short.

“The kiss,” I grind out.

“What kiss?” She contorts her face, then lets it fall, then her eyes shut for a quick bit, and then they open, “You are joking, right?”

“No.” I am not. I never look or sound like it because I possess not one jesting vein in me.

“That kiss?” She scoffs. I am relieved that she thinks of it as nothing now. I can imagine she has had more, perhaps better, experiences with boys her age, and that, although mine was her first, it has no place in the grand scheme of kisses.

However, I also want to shoot anybody who has ever come that close to her.

“That kiss,” I confirm.

“That was years ago, and you are asking now?”

“Did you tell him?”

“Why would I?” She lifts both shoulders. “Did it happen?” She stands, and I grit my teeth.

“Eva…”

“You act like it never happened,” she intersects, “I could have been tricked by your actions into believing I dreamed about it,” she stands and circles the desk to plop on the couch behind it. “We can keep it at that, can we not?” she takes off her glasses and drops them carefully on the desk.

I nod once. “That we can do.”

She gets up and moves a bit too hastily, almost tipping over the items on her desk. “That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it?” she asks, stomping out from behind the desk and dashing toward me through the light stands and other props she brought out for the never-to-take photo session. “Acting like you never wanted to kiss me.”

I bite down my tongue because now it wants to speak. It wants to tell her how fucking much I had wanted that kiss and how it had felt like a defibrillator, waking me up from a life of gloom. But that she will not be hearing from me.

“I have always done my damn best to keep away from you and show restraint where you are concerned, Eva,” this truth she can hear me say. A glimpse of the truth. A snippet of my hell. The torture I have to go through every fucking day, perhaps for the rest of my life, depending on what her choice is.

“That makes the both of us,” she swallows, and I am not sure what to make of that.

“I will do you a favor,” I lock eyes with her so she knows that I mean what’s about to come out of my mouth, but I feel like the blood in my veins runs hot from her proximity, her eyes, her body. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t have to do what?” She folds her hands across her chest again, lifts her chin, and glares at me through lengthy, encasing obsidian lashes.

“You don’t have to marry me,” I stand, a mistake that I can’t undo because of how clumsy it will make me appear and I value Eva’s judgment of my person a little too much than is considered healthy.

“It’s not up to me.”

“It is…”

“Did you not hear my father?” She throws her hands in my face. “Did he sound like he is going to ever change his mind?”

“I am telling you, you can choose differently,” I am fucked because I both want to be chosen and not be fucking chosen. I take a moment to breathe her in and say, “I won’t do anything to you.” She smells like life, fuck. “I will keep my distance until after the marriage, that might not even happen if you so much as say the words.”

She flutters her lashes, scoffs, and takes a step back, “What do you mean?”

I don’t have to close the distance, but I do. I do not have to touch her face to explain myself, but my hand goes up of its own accord. It’s like every part of me functions independently when she is concerned.

“Eva,” the pad of my fingers brushes her porcelain skin, a little stroke from her cheek to her cheekbone, and she shudders out a breath, “You can marry whomever you want,” and I am making it difficult for both her and me by not keeping my fucking hands to myself, “I will disappear and never show my face again if that is what you want. If that will make you happy. If it means you get to have the life of your dreams.”

I tilt my strokes to brush a wandering strand of her hair behind her ear, then brush the ear with my thumb and index finger, relishing her irregular breathing. It mirrors my heartbeat being this fucking close to her and touching her this way.

“I will go against your father’s desire, all you have to do is say the word, Eva,” I grit, wishing I could clip my tongue for that slip.

She steps forward, her body subtly plastered to mine and my body singing songs of arousal. She tilts her head, straining as she throws it back to hold my gaze.

“Go to hell,” she grips my hand and rips it off her face.

It is exactly the place she and her father will send me to when they find out about my secret, I think bitterly. She deserves better and better is nowhere near me.

I tip my head, understanding that I have been given a direct order.

Fair enough.

Chapter 2

Eva

Epic declaration of nothing.

He is telling me that he would vanish from the face of the earth, and I have no doubt that he could, but for what reason?

He would much rather disappear, acting as though he is letting me make the choice.

We are looking into each other’s eyes, and I’m waiting for the unlikely possibility that he may back away.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” I drop my hands on my waist.

My body, my heart, my mind, my everything spring alive at the scent of him. Being this close to each other is as exhausting as it is exhilarating.

“Whatever you wish to do with it,” he maintains his expression void, but it is not his face that is my tell-tale, it is his eyes. Those rich green orbs disclose all that he tries to repress. And right now, they are telling me he cares about something. I am not sure what, though.

“Being forced to marry me must be horrible for you, isn’t it?”

“Eva, I didn’t mean…”

“You had to say it this way so as not to hurt little Eva’s fragile heart,” I puff my words out, enunciating all the way as if it will balm the sore spot his rejection has punched in my heart, “But I have good news for you.”

More like lies. Anything to make me feel like I am not groveling at his feet, waiting to be chosen by him. I have never known Fabio to take a step back when he wants something. He always has a way of making things work. If he is indecisive about this, about me, about us, if there is an us, then it only means one thing.

He does not want any of it. He doesn’t want me.

“You have it all wrong,” he grits, his jawline turning razor-sharp. It surely doesn’t help that he is what dream men are made of. It doesn’t help that his beauty smites and keeps one smitten for life. From hair to dress shoes, “I am not…” I lift a finger and he nods, grinding his teeth.

“I don’t care for anything you have to say,” I shrug. I have had my fair share of rejection this morning and I will not stand here for more, “I don’t care about the marriage and now seems like the best time to let you know I have a boyfriend.”

Aha!

His eyes. My tell-tale. He doesn’t like this information. And I get what I needed from the way his eyes fold and open gently to hinder the slipping of emotions behind them.

“Hmm,” he scoffs. I was expecting that one. His go-to answer for all things Eva.

“Yes, hmm,” I step away so the truth behind my own eyes does not call my bluff. I don’t have a boyfriend. I have never even thought about having one.

I have felt… satisfied with my life. Like I had everything I needed. Everyone I needed. But now they are forcing my hand to lie. Lie and pretend to be the typical college girl who is somehow mixed up with some… God, I hate this.

I strut to my desk and tap on it, my other hand stuffed halfway into the back pocket of my pants.

“Who is he?” He gruffs.

“A human,” I shrug.

“Does he have a name?” He is moving, coming closer to me and my heart is spinning, making me dizzy.

“He does have a name,” I puff, keeping my tone light-hearted.

“What is his name?” I could have guessed his next question.

“It’s Nunya.”

“Nunya?”

“Nunyabusiness,” I drop my head to the side to smile at him as he stops behind me. If I can lean in, just a little, not so much, just… I take pull head back, pushing down the urge.

“What does he do? How did you meet him? Who’s his family? Do you have a picture of him?” He prances to one wall to stare at a picture of a model I had taken recently. He is shirtless, holding a surfboard and smiling at the camera like it’s a wave, “Is that him?” He flips to face me. Is that jealousy I hear, or is he just being the overprotective Fabio I have always known him to be? “Answer me, Eva,” he growls.

“Why should I?” I strut carelessly to the armchair behind my desk and throw myself on it.

“Because it is important that I know,” he grits back at me, placing both hands flat on my desk.

I sit upright, squaring him up, “Why?”

“I need to know if he is worthy of you.”

“Worthy of me?” If the air wasn’t charged with both fervor and annoyance, I would have laughed so hard.

“Is he?” He bites out.

“That is yet to be seen, and why should I worry about it whatsoever anyway?” I pick up my camera, “Love doesn’t need any of that. We are young and in love,” I take hold of my camera and begin to fidget by adjusting the lens back and forth.

“I will find him,” he stands straight and takes one step back, then another. He breaks off the stare as he gets to the door, spinning and plucking himself out of my studio.

Good luck with finding the mystery man.

It appears that we will both be searching for my boyfriend.

I puff, drop my camera gently on the desk, put my glasses back on, and sink into my seat.

When he agreed to be my model, I should have known it was a trick. Fabio would never let me take pictures of him. I was eager, I was a little over the moon but a part of me knew there was something else to it.

He couldn’t even pretend and let me get one shot before coming clean.

I hate it.

I sulk, wishing Vittoria was here. She always knows what to say…

“You can do better kiddo,” at the sound of Salvatore’s voice, my heart drops to my stomach. I am one thought away from bolting, but he lifts a pistol and swings it in the air recklessly. “Kill the thought,” he snaps, as if reading my mind, and then scowls at my studio. It is good to see his hatred for my art is ever-blazing.

“Salvatore?” It is him. I know this. It’s obvious. But I cannot stop myself from wondering how he is here, in the estate. I can see he came in through the window but how did he get past the security at the back and front gate?

“In the flesh,” he smirks, “You don’t look too happy to see me,” he strides to the stool I had kept for Fabio and sits on it, “That makes two of us,” he scratches his stubble.

There is something being evil does to someone. It’s like it comes with its own makeup to rebrand a person. His curls have lost their sheen. His eyes and cheeks are sunken. His cheekbones are more acute. His collarbone almost tearing out of his skin.

I have always known he had it in him to be ruthless but to betray his family and take sides with the same man who murdered his mother, fought his father tirelessly for years, and threatened his family? That is a different level of ruthlessness.

“What are you doing here?” My eyes drift from his face to the gun in one hand and an envelope in the other.

“We will get to that, but first,” he stands and goes to the door, “I have a question for you, kiddo,” he locks the door and walks back to sit on the stool. He has always been the one to not care about his appearance, but he seems to have made an effort today. By this, I mean his white T-shirt is white and his blue jeans look bright.

“Stop calling me that,” I clip, trying for bravery because it looks like he does not wish to use the gun if I don’t give him a reason to. But I won’t put anything past him. If he can try to kill his father, our father, I don’t see why killing me will be any problem for him.

“I am in the mood to be a good big brother, and to make sure you don’t make mistakes,” he rests one hand, the one holding the gun, on his lap, “Tell me, how is it that you like that guy?”

I am trying to understand what he is asking.

“Fabio,” he throws hastily, “How can you even like him?”

“What gave you that impression?”

“It’s all over you,” he swings the gun up and down at me, “You were sulking, and I could give you some tips but that would go against my own plans.”

“Thank you but I can only imagine the kind of advice you would give me,” I gulp.

“I know you might not agree with me, but I want what’s best for you,” he stands, “You are my little sister.”

“You could have fooled me,” I pick up my glasses and put them back on with trembling fingers. I have seen guns before, but I have never liked them—let alone one in Salvatore’s hand aimed directly at me.

“Eva,” he grits and stalks to stand in front of my desk, “Let me do the talking, we can fight when all of this is over.”

“Over to you then,” I try to look at the bright side, but I can’t see any in this situation.

He drops the envelope on the desk, dragging his free hand through his hair, down his face, and then lingers to scratch his stubble. He digs his hand into his back pocket, brings out a cellphone, and tosses it on my desk.

“You could have at least shaved,” I grumble.

“Shut up,” he bites out. He looks like a shadowed version of our father.

“Just saying,” I fold my arms across my chest to help apply pressure on my pouncing heart.

“I said shut up,” he barks and I clamp my lips in a whimper, “I did not come here to have you bug me,” he uses the tip of the gun to slide the envelope towards me, “I have good news,” he smiles but it doesn’t leave his lips. “I am now the new head of the Bratva,” he blows out air like he is living a dream come true.

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“Yes, and the last time I said something, it was that you should shut the fuck up,” he flicks the gun at the envelope, “Pick it up,” he nudges.

I reach for it hesitantly, unsure of what it might be. It can be a letter bomb. My hand halts, hovering above the envelope.

“Chill, Eva. It’s an invitation. I made sure Boris never made any attempt on you when he was alive and that should mean something,” he strides back to the stool and sits.

Boris, the man who waged war against my father and sent his daughter Nina to woo, with triumphant success, my brother into joining their side. All of which came to an end when Salvatore messed with Vittoria, his arranged fiancée. Now my father’s wife, our stepmom.

“Thank you,” I reach for the envelope. If it is thanks he needs, I will give them. Anything to make him deliver his message and leave.

“You are welcome. Now, open it.” I pick up the cream and brown envelope and open it, only stopping briefly to admire its maze-like design. “I don’t have all day,” he bites out his irritation and I hurry to pull out a card from inside it.

I adjust my glasses and read it.

He is getting married?

My head shoots up, and he gives a mocking bow, “You are invited,” he stands, “Now, I would love for you to be there without being forced. You know, show up happy and support your big brother as you should.”

If I am getting him correctly, I will be there either of my own or through coercion.

“I don’t…”

“You don’t have a choice, kiddo, in case what I said earlier wasn’t clear enough,” he strides to the window that he came in through. “It’s my wedding and you are the only family member I find less irritating and want to see there.”

“I see,” I whisper to myself.

“Until we meet again. You can reach me and Nina through that phone. It’s a burner and it has our numbers saved on it. I know you miss me, big brother to the rescue,” he has lost his mind. “And Eva, you are young and beautiful, for fuck’s sake, leave that old dude the hell alone, focus on…” he darts his dark eyes around my studio and then shakes his head, “Just focus on something,” he makes an expression of irritation. He climbs onto the window and I am not foolish enough to scream because I know he means business with that gun.

I watch him as he sits at the window, and a part of me wants to reach out to the brother I never really had. The brother I could have had. I cannot say when or how it went bad, but it did and it never got better again.

“I know you are itching to go tell Father, so,” he jumps to the other side and pokes his head, “go ahead then,” he flicks his gun at me and then disappears.

I don’t even let his exit cool off, I push off my seat and scurry with staggering heartbeats outside my studio, heading for papa’s office.

I walk to the main building, clutching the burner phone and invitation to my chest, my heartbeat ricocheting in my ears, my vision hazy from tears mounding because of the panic jamming in my stomach.

“Eva,” my father’s strong arm catches me by the waist and plasters my quivering body to his, his buff frame enclosing me, “Hey, love,” he clamps his arms around me, and the longer I inhale his familiar, comforting scent, and see his wave of gray hair and beard, the more my heartbeat slows down.

He and Fabio are standing a little distance from the main door, but I hadn’t noticed them.

“He came,” I gulp more air and untangle gently from his embrace, “Salvatore.” I stretch the burner phone and invitation to him. The sound of Salvatore’s name makes him slit his onyx eyes, a shadow of guilt and pain masking his expression like the dark button-up shirt and slacks he is wearing. He reads the invitation and puts the phone into his pocket.

“Where is he?” Fabio asks, his demeanor changing to menacing and his eyes darting like that of a predator.

“He left through the window of my studio,” I point at nothing over my shoulder. “He is getting…” I point at the invitation, but my father is already on it.

“It’s okay,” he grinds, hugging me. “I will take it from here. You are safe, love,” he says, giving me a reassuring peck in my hair. “Fabio will be your bodyguard until I put a stop to this.”

I want to protest that the last person I want following me around is Fabio, but I bite my tongue. While this will be hard on me, I can sense from the change of his energy after my father’s declaration that this will be much harder on him.

Good.

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Chapter 1

Romeo

The fire crackles, whispering its own secret language and producing smoke that wafts through the air. It creates a woodsy scent that tickles against my nostrils and leaves a dry taste on my tongue. Besides the fireplace stand two metal poles for the sole purpose of sifting the hot charcoal.

Not that I’ve actually used them myself…

Streaks of sunlight slice through the expansive windows and bounce off the gold lettering etched across the spine of leather-bound novels that line the shelves. The library is mainly for show, but every now and then, I choose one to read. A man should never be too busy to enjoy literature.

My fingers curl around the wooden horse in my hand when a knock sounds across the office. It’s a firm thud that travels through the oak door, whipping my attention.

I act cool and raise an eyebrow at Mario, sitting in front of me, and his dark eyes widen in surprise.

“I thought my schedule was clear today,” I say, and place the knight onto the chessboard.

It’s rare for me to get visitors, especially during the day.

After the chess session, I plan to take a much-needed visit to one of our nightclubs downtown to check our revenue from last month. Our sales have spiked for some reason, and while I’m pleased, I need to restructure for the longevity of the club.

Mario gulps.  “I’ll check who it is.”

I lean back into the high-back leather chair as he scuttles towards the door. His promptness and dedication is the main reason why he’s been my trusted right-hand man for the last decade.

I gaze at the chessboard made from glass. Mario is a dreadful chess player. If I calculate correctly, I’m already two moves away from checkmate, and he’s only moved one piece.

Mario’s hand grips tightly around the golden doorknob and pulls it open, allowing the door to swing open. One of the guards is standing behind the door with sweat dripping down his forehead.

Did he run upstairs? If so, why?

“Good morning, sir,” the guard bows.

His black uniform clings against his giant frame, the collar pressing against his broad shoulders.

“What is it?” I ask, ignoring the formalities.

“There’s a woman downstairs who wants to see you. She says she wants to discuss important business regarding her late husband, Darius Williams,” the guard says.

Darius Williams? He was one of the richest entrepreneurs in New York and the leading competitor of all the private clubs in Downtown Manhattan until he passed away last month. His wife publicly mourned his death. However, like me, most of my family, the Serano’s, strongly believe that his passing was no accident.

Mario turns towards me. “Should he send her away, or…?”

“No. Bring her up,” I say, and clasp my hands together, “I’m curious to hear what business she has to offer.”

The guard nods and heads down the hall. Mario shuts the door and returns to the table, his black loafers tapping against the wooden floor.

“Do you have unfinished business with Mr. Williams?” Mario asks.

He rearranges the chess pieces into their correct order and picks up the chessboard, placing it into the side drawer of my office table. Pulling out a tablecloth, he dusts off the table.

“None that I’m aware of,” I say, as Mario wipes the table clean, “I’ve only met him once, as far as I recall. He was too honorable for the business he was leading.”

Another knock sounds at the door.

“That must be her,” Mario says, and places the table cloth into the drawer.

He marches to the door and opens it. A middle-aged woman stands on the other side, staring straight at me. She’s short but exudes elegance from head to toe, owning the space without even stepping inside. The woman struts into the room with her black stilettos and a purple cashmere shawl draped over her black, knee-length dress.

“Well, hello,  Mr. Serano,” she says, with a coy smile.

Mrs. Williams clutches her oversized purse as she walks past the white sofa perching on the silk rug.

She looks good for her age – that I can admit. She hardly has any wrinkles, and obviously lives a life of luxury.

With a slim figure and glossy red hair, she’d still be able to attract a few men, especially now as a deceased billionaire’s wife. Unfortunately for her, she’s far from being close to my type.

“Hello, Mrs. Williams. How may I assist you?” I say rather formally, and clasp my hands in front of me.

“Oh, please, call me Barbara,” she says coyly, and sits on the stool in front of the office table, “I’m sure you’re surprised by my visit.”

“Extremely,” I say, and squint at her, “I’m assuming there’s something you want.”

“Well, first, I have to congratulate you on your recent induction as Head of the Serano family,” Barbara smiles, flashing a pristine set of whitened teeth, “You know, your father and Darius had a long history.”

“I’m well aware.” I clench my jaw. “Did you just come here to exchange pleasantries, or is there something I can help you with?”

“Cutting right to the chase… No,” Barbara says, and the smile falls from her face, “I’m here because I need your assistance in… taking someone out of this world… discreetly, of course. I hear you and your family are very skilled in that department.”

A dry chuckle escapes my lips. “Oh, is that so?”

“Well… You have quite a reputation. And not only for your handsome men and Italian charm. You’re a house with many talents, and I would like your… assistance.”

She bends forward and picks up her purse. Zipping it open, she whips out a brown folder and hands it to me. I quirk a brow in suspicion as I open the folder and slip out a photograph.

“Who is this?” I say, and peer at the picture.

It’s a full-length image of a young woman. She’s stunning – curves in all the right places and a sizeable bust. Her eyes seem to be looking straight into my tainted soul. Even in her faded blue jeans and casual grey top, she draws my attention. Her dirty blonde hair is tied in a high ponytail. I feel a stirring in my pants as I wonder how her hair would look loose behind her naked body with her back arching in the air.

Mmmm.

I cross my legs and shake my head. Now isn’t the time to get carried away. But I can’t stop my eyes from staring at her slim frame. Her tiny shoulders look easy to grip on to, and those wide hips would do wonders in my playroom. I can already envision her ocean blue eyes rolling to the back of her head as I thrust my cock into her.

Wow.

I can’t deny it.

She’s beautiful.

Not just the standard kind of beauty I fuck on the weekends or the escorts I hire during my late-night urges.

No.

She has an innocent, raw, and natural kind of beauty. She’s exactly my type, and I want her.

No. I need her.

“This is Darius’s so-called daughter,” Barbara scoffs, “He had her out of wedlock before we got married. Even though he’d never met her, he wanted her to carry on his legacy. Left his business to her in his will. Of course, I can’t allow that to happen. A stranger barging into our lives, into our world, bringing down everything my husband fought so hard to build.”

“So, you want me to kill her so that you can obtain her portion of the inheritance. But surely his dying wish was to leave her his business – hence the will?” I ask, and trail a finger around the corner of the photograph.

“Oh that,” she laughs, as though it’s a mere detail. “That was merely a weakness on his part. He was an ill man with a heavy conscience – he couldn’t have been thinking straight when he made the changes. I was by his side when he was building his empire. And I will not allow a one-night stand to take everything Darius and I made together. Of course,” Barbara says, leaning forward as she places one elegant hand above mine, “You will be highly rewarded.”

My eyes widen as Barbara nibbles her lip and stares at me.

Great, now she’s hitting on me.

She may be hot for her age, but Barbara is old enough to be my mother. Even if I was desperate and horny, I wouldn’t sleep with a woman like her. I know all about her kind. Money-grabbing, relentless, merciless. Maybe she reminds me of myself in some aspects. I always get what I want, no matter what the price.

I stifle a grin. “Unless you’re compensating me in the form of money, I’m going to have to decline.”

Barbara’s face falls. She snatches her hand away, and her cheeks flush as she clears her throat.

“Yes, of course,” she says, “In exchange for this favor, your men can work at Delirium downtown. They’ll be responsible for all the security. Who goes in, who goes out. Everything…”

“Delirium,” I say, and my eyes widen, “That’s one of Mr. William’s exclusive private clubs. I heard he made a million during opening week.”

Barbara grins. “Correct. I’m sure your guys will enjoy the extra bit of cash. All you have to do is make sure that by tomorrow night, this young lady is dead.”

I gaze at the picture again.

The delicate hands. The snow-white skin. The wide grin.

I glance down at her bust. It looks firm, even underneath the loose top that conceals it. I slide my tongue against my teeth and wonder how her nipples will taste if I slide my tongue over them.

Mmmm.

I squeeze my hand into a fist to stop my erection from growing harder. If a picture has this much effect on me, I wonder how I’ll control myself in front of the real deal.

I have to make her mine.

I glance up at Barbara. Her wish will be granted. In a way. “We have a deal. I’ll ask Mario to arrange the paperwork.”

* * *

Jennifer

Jazz music bounces off the high walls of the auction house.

Propping my elbows onto the table counter, I monitor the front door and try not to take a nap even though I’m beyond exhausted. Last night, a rat sprinted underneath my bed, and I spent the entire night trying to catch it. There’s nothing more annoying than tiny little creatures that can scuttle away at the speed of light. Pest control charges a fortune in this city, and I’m already wasting money on my minuscule New York apartment.

To be fair, it’s a lot better than living in Sweet Home, Alabama, but I love the affordability and serenity of the countryside. People are a lot more laid back and kinder in the South. There’s a sense of togetherness that bonds everyone. New York, on the other hand, is filled with people ready to kill you to get what they want. Literally, a guy almost pushed me in front of a car to steal my taxi the other day — crazy bastards.

My eyes are already heavy with sleep, and I can barely manage to blink them open. Shaking my head, I lean forward to grab my steaming hot cup of coffee. I can’t allow my boss to catch me sleeping. I’m already on thin ice after breaking an antique mirror from Egypt last week. It’s going to take me ages to pay it off with my current salary. That’s what happens when you’re a clumsy idiot.

I glance at my cellphone. It’s almost six o’clock.

Almost time to leave.

I stand up and begin packing my bag. If I leave now, I’ll be able to catch the six-fifteen train instead of sitting for an hour on the subway. That leaves more than enough time to grab some Ramen before I collapse into bed.

But before I can daydream about another lonely night, I hear a knock, and my door starts to open.

“Hello?” I try not to sigh as I plaster a tight smile across my face.

Seriously? Couldn’t they have popped in an hour ago, or even tomorrow?

Oxford black shoes tap into view, scraping against the linoleum marble tiles. The shoes are sleek and glisten under the bright fluorescent lights. My eyes trail up the grey slacks and land on a fitted white shirt pressed against the broad chest of a well-proportioned man.

Wow.

His arms bulge slightly, and I can see his biceps popping, even through his shirt.

“Hello.”

His deep voice beckons me. I gaze upwards and, oh God, I try not to swoon at his full, pink lips. They pull my attention, and thoughts of what they could do to my body flit across my mind. He has a razor-sharp jawline with stubble and deep dark eyes that match his dark hair. What is this Greek God doing in my office?

I clear my throat. “Hello, I’m sorry, was I expecting you for an appraisal? Are you interested in purchasing an antique?”

The man smirks and glances directly at my chest, which is slightly exposed in my low v-neck dress.

Okay, rude.

While he may be attractive, that isn’t enough for me to side pass on disrespectful behavior. I pick up my agenda and whip it under my chin, disrupting his line of vision.

He shakes his head and gazes back at my face.

“No, we didn’t have an appointment, miss. I’m… Let’s say, an impulsive buyer. I’m looking for this,” the man smiles, and pulls an iPhone out of his pocket.

He turns the screen towards me. An image of a golden necklace with an emerald scorpion stands in the center. It’s an eighteenth-century model and looks slightly familiar.

Hmmm. I’ve definitely seen this before.

I whip open the catalog and page towards the end.

“There it is,” I say, and point at an identical model of the image, “It’s in the back room. I can take you there if you’re interested in seeing it.”

I glance at the clock and see that it’s two minutes to six.

Please say no, please say no, please say-

“Yes. I’d like that,” the man replies with a curt nod.

My shoulders sink. I try to maintain my smile as I walk around my desk and lead him through the corridors of the auction house. We stroll past walls of ancient paintings, medieval artifacts, and several rare finds displayed across the room.

“My name is Jennifer, by the way. Jennifer Lace,” I say, and turn back to him, “And you are…?”

He quirks a brow as he glances down at me. I feel tiny in his presence – he must be at least six feet tall.

“Sir is fine,” he says, and avoids my gaze as he looks around the building.

“Okay…” Usually, rich clients are the weirdest kind, and this one, in particular, has the “rough-tough, I take everything I want” vibe. So there’s no point in arguing.

We stop at the back of the auction house, and I press the keypad to unlock the door. The room is dark and slightly dusty, and we usually house our oldest and most expensive items here. The man brushes his arm against mine as he stands beside me, and a wave of electricity sizzles through me.

Woah.

Goosebumps race up my arm, leaving a memory of his touch. We lock eyes for a moment, and I see a reflection of myself in his dark orbs. I look flushed, and my cheeks are rosy. Man, he might be extremely handsome, but it was just a small touch. Looks like I’ve been on my own for way too long…

I step to the side to allow him to pass. “You can go first… sir.”

The man smirks.

He shakes his head. “Ladies first.”

“Uh, okay,” I say, and continue forward.

I feel his eyes piercing my back as I walk beside a glass cabinet displaying a row of jewelry. I trail a finger above it as we saunter past, gazing at the vintage jewels inside. We halt at the end of the row, and there stands the magnificent necklace.

It’s even more stunning in reality, and the green center shines brightly.

“Here it is,” I say, and wave my hand toward it, “The eighteenth-century green scorpion.”

He leans down to take a look at it.

His dark eyes widen in surprise. “It’s gorgeous.”

“Yes, it’s definitely one of our best pieces,” I say, “It’s pure gold, and the emerald in the center is over 100 carats and is one of the largest set emeralds in the world. This necklace was crafted during the 16th century for an Indian princess from her suitor.  Unfortunately, he died before they could marry. She remained faithful to his memory and never married but wore the necklace every day until she died.  It’s a very valuable and highly sought after piece. We’ve had several inquiries already.”

“Wow, you really know a lot about this stuff,” he adds with a dry chuckle.

“I kind of have to,” I say, “It’s my job. But I’ve always loved historical items. I majored in History and found that when you match each item to a story, it comes alive. This just isn’t a valuable necklace – to me, it’s a symbol of eternal love,  a love that never dies – no matter what. And, that, to me, is beautiful.”

I stare at the necklace and rub my fingers across the glass. When I glance back up, I find him staring at me with a look of awe.

My cheeks heat up. “Sorry. I’m an antique geek…”

He smiles softly. “Don’t apologize. That was… impressive. A lot of people scorn history like it’s something dead and finished. That’s a sad story, though. Remaining faithful to one person through life and even after death – is that kind of love even possible?”

I blush again. “Maybe you’re right.”

His eyes trail to my lips and then down to my bust as he twists a ring around his thumb.

Seriously? Can’t he look at my face for at least more than five seconds?

He might be insanely attractive, but I don’t feel comfortable around him. I can sense he’s trouble, and I want nothing to do with that. What I want is my peace of mind – a simple life.

“Anyway,” I chirp in, in an attempt to grab his attention, “The piece costs ten million dollars. Would you like it securely shipped or hand-delivered?”

“Oh, no, I just wanted to inspect it up close. An acquaintance of mine asked me to check it out,” he says.

My mouth drops. “You were just checking it out?”

Did I miss my train for this? Unbelievable…

“Apologies if I wasted your time,” he says, but his eyes dance with laughter.

He definitely isn’t sorry. In fact, it seems as he’s enjoying my frustration.

I press my lips into a thin line. “Well, since you had a nice time, ‘checking it out,’ I think we should go back to the front desk. I need to close up.”

“Okay. I just have to do one more thing,” he adds.

His eyes darken as he grabs my waist and places his lips on mine.
 

“I think she’s ok,” I say, my voice tight. “I’m going to fucking kill them all.”

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