WICKED MISTLETOE

NIGHTSHADES

ROSELYN ASH
SASHA LEONE

OCEANOFPDF.COM
Copyright © 2022 by Sasha Leone & Roselyn Ash
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author,
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

OceanofPDF.com
 CONTENTS

Prologue
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
Epilogue
Thanks For Reading!
Also by Sasha Leone

OceanofPDF.com
 PROLOGUE
EMILIA

6 years ago…

I’m a shadow, a ghost, a nobody.

My hands bury themselves deep into my hoodie pockets, elbows jutting
out like awkward wings as I hunch into myself, trailing behind the group of
four insanely tall high school seniors.
I’m not hiding—okay, maybe I am. But can you blame me? I’m just
trying not to draw any unwanted attention.
Fat chance of that working.
I can practically feel the derisive sneers and glares drilling into the back
of my head. Even the Christmas lights lining the hallway seem to join in,
their mock cheer only sharpening the sting. Ho-ho-freaking-ho. It’s January,
people. Let it go already. But no amount of festive decorations can soften
the biting bitterness pouring off these seniors. A 16-year-old joining their
ranks—in second semester? The horror!
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly see my brain and sink deeper into my
baggy cocoon. Screw them and their judgmental attitudes.
My gaze latches onto the feet of one of the guys in front of me. Nice
shoes—probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Mesmerized, I fixate
on his stride.
Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot.
 The world narrows down to those alternating steps. My brain goes quiet,
my breathing evens out, the hallway noise fades away, and suddenly I’m
zeroed in on their conversation with supernatural clarity.
“Think about it, Michael,” one of them says. “Just how smart can this
girl be? Are we talking genius level? This is a death trap for her. No way
she can survive senior year coming from where—the junior grade?
Sophomore?”
Great. They’re talking about me. Because of course they are. Why
wouldn’t they gossip about the freak newcomer?
Another one guffaws, and I resist the urge to look up. “I heard she has
OCD or some shit. And she has a neuro—neuro–something. A neuro
deficiency perhaps?”
Oh, for the love of— These idiots can’t even get their insults right.
Now laughter bursts out among them—loud, hysterical, and grating. It’s
like nails on a chalkboard, setting my teeth on edge. The fizzing in my veins
boils over, and before I can even think, the words spill out of me. “You
mean neurodivergent, blockhead?”
They come to an abrupt stop, and I nearly face-plant into one of their
backs. As all four giants swivel to face me, I hold my breath. Shit. Why are
they so freakishly tall?
My heart does the cha-cha in my chest. But I raise my chin defiantly,
keeping my gaze glued to Mr. Nice Shoes’ feet—no way am I craning my
neck to look at their faces. I may be small, but I’m not about to let them see
me cower.
“I’m neurodivergent,” I continue, my mouth apparently on a suicide
mission. “You want to know just how smart I am? Smarter than a bunch of
morons walking around the school with their pants halfway down their
asses, which is against the rules, by the way. Nobody wants a peep show of
your stinking underwear.”
Scraping together every ounce of courage, I glance up. They look
absolutely gobsmacked. Huh. Now I’m on a roll, my filter completely fried.
I’m so over people talking down to me. “And what’s with the stench?
Drugs? What are you guys? Some wannabe gangsters? Just because our
town’s crawling with crime doesn’t mean a bunch of high school boys like
you should glorify it. You could get arrested, you know.”
I wrinkle my nose in disgust as I sidestep around them. My hands are
trembling inside my pockets, and sweat dribbles down my back.
 Nice going, girl. Make enemies on day one. Stellar plan.
The cafeteria doors loom ahead. I push them open and⁠—
Silence.
I swallow hard. Every eyeball in there is already on me, gazes fixed like
I’m some kind of alien specimen.
Oh crap, did they hear my little tirade? Please, ground, open up and
swallow me whole.
A deep rumble snaps my gaze back. My eyes land on the familiar shoes
first, then travel up, up, and up until they meet his face. My heart does a
spectacular backflip and lodges itself in my throat. He’s laughing, but that’s
not what steals my breath. No, it’s his face.
Holy guacamole. God must’ve been showing off when He made this
one. Because why else is he so criminally good-looking? Strong nose with a
roguish little crook—most likely the souvenir of one too many fights.
Flawless golden skin that would make even the sun jealous. Full, pink lips
that look softer than a cloud. And those eyes. Sweet baby Jesus, those eyes.
For one eternal second, our gazes lock. Grey? No. Chrome? No. Silver.
Like moonlight. The kind that pulls you in and doesn’t let go. The guy who
walks nice also looks nice. Haha. No, forget nice—he’s downright lethal.
Breathtaking. Literally.
My eyes skip to his shoulder, and I freeze. What the hell am I supposed
to do now? Run? Faint? Spontaneously combust?
“At least you have a sense of humor to match that big brain you
supposedly have, piccola,” he says.
Piccola? Did he just call me small? The audacity!
But before I can retort, he looks up at the cafeteria, his voice booming.
“Listen up, unless you want to deal with me, you leave her the fuck alone.”
Wait, what?
I stand there, completely flabbergasted, as he strolls into the cafeteria
with the confidence of someone who owns the place, flanked by his three
friends who now eye me with newfound curiosity. In fact, it’s as if a
spotlight has suddenly turned on me, making me the focal point of a million
scrutinizing stares. The sensation is so crushing, it feels like my skin is
crawling off my bones.
Nope. I’m not dealing with this.
So, caught in a wave of embarrassment, I do the only thing my panic-
stricken brain can come up with: I duck my head and practically sprint out
of there. Did he really just threaten everyone not to bully me? My heart
pounds erratically as I stumble into an empty classroom and collapse into
one of the seats.
Why would he do that?
Why would he do that?
Why would he do that?
The question bounces around my skull in tune with my knees as I study
the desk, desperate for some distraction. It’s covered in stupid little
scribbles like ‘Mrs C has a huge rack’, ‘school sucks’, and ‘Scorpion was
here’. I roll my eyes at the last one.
“Scorpion,” I mutter with a snort. What kind of pretentious douchebag
calls themselves Scorpion? But my brain, the traitorous thing, bounces right
back to the mesmerizing stranger in the cafeteria. The dark–haired god with
eyes like molten silver. Shit, I’ve never seen anyone so devastatingly
attractive, not even in those ridiculous teen dramas.
“Why did he do that?” I wonder out loud, and my stomach grumbles in
response. Thanks, Captain Obvious. I get it, I missed lunch. I’m starving,
but there’s no way in hell I’m stepping foot back in that cafeteria. I hate
when people look at me—hate the crawling burning sensation on my skin
of eyes following me like I’m some sort of freak show attraction.
Nerves buzzing, I spring up from the seat and pace the room agitatedly
as my stomach throws a full-on tantrum. Maybe I should go to the library,
distract myself with a book or something. Yes, the library. Go to the library.
It’s safe there. Quiet. No prying eyes. I nod to myself, psyching myself up
before slipping out of the classroom and back into the now-empty hallway.
“Emilia Rossi?”
I freeze at the sound of my name. Slowly, I turn to see the principal, Mr.
Logan, eyeing me as if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. My eyes
widen in surprise. “Uh, yeah, that’s me.”
Duh, of course he knows it’s me. We literally met a few days ago when
Dad brought me to enroll in classes.
“Can you come with me for a moment?” he asks, flashing what he
probably thinks is a warm smile, but it gives me the heebie-jeebies instead.
I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? It’s only my first day here, and besides
that minor drama at the cafeteria, I’ve been as low-key as possible.
Invisible, even.
 Mr. Logan doesn’t wait for my answer. He just turns and starts walking
down the hall, expecting me to tag along. I do, though my legs feel like
jelly.
“Is something wrong?” I manage to squeak out.
“Of course not.” He tosses a glance over his shoulder, brows arched as
if daring me to spill some scandalous secret. “Unless you have something to
confess?”
I shake my head mutely, suddenly finding it hard to swallow. We round
the corner, and there it is—the door with “Principal Logan” etched in stern
block letters. He swings it open, gesturing for me to enter first, and my
pulse kicks up a notch.
“Have a seat,” he says, circling around to his imposing leather chair.
I perch on the edge of the visitor’s chair, acutely aware of how small I
feel. My hands slip from my hoodie and fold neatly in my lap as I focus on
a spot just past Mr. Logan’s ear, unable to meet his gaze directly. I’m trying
not to fidget, but it’s a losing battle. The silence is making me squirm. Am I
about to get the boot back to my old grade?
Mr. Logan takes his seat and gives me another one of those smiles. God,
does he practice that in the mirror?
“Emilia,” he begins. “I’ve been looking through your records…”
Here we go.
“…and I have to say, I’m genuinely impressed. I’ve seen high school
seniors struggle with AP chemistry, and you aced it at, what, fourteen?”
“Fifteen.” I correct automatically, even though I’m not sure where he’s
going with this.
“Right, right.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Our curriculum must
bore you to tears.”
You have no idea, buddy. I force a polite smile, fingers drumming
nervously on my thighs.
“I see the courses you registered for are all AP. How did you find your
first day of classes?”
“They were… okay.” A lie. In truth, they were mind-numbingly easy,
and I was bored out of my skull. But I’m not about to mention that. Last
time I whined about easy classes, I ended up skipping a few semesters and
becoming a high school senior at sixteen. I’m definitely not in a rush to go
to college and be even more of an outcast.
 Mr. Logan nods to himself, then leans back, steepling his fingers. “How
would you feel about a little mental workout?”
I perk up, excitement shooting through me despite my best efforts to
play it cool. A challenge? Hell yeah. “Depends. What’s the catch?” I answer
cautiously. There’s always a catch, isn’t there?
“I have this student. He’s promising and has a lot of potential, but he’s
not exactly motivated when it comes to school.” He pauses, letting his
words hang in the air.
I remain quiet, my gaze dropping to my hand as I doodle little circles on
the desk, waiting for him to get to the point.
“I want you to tutor him.”
I stop doodling. My eyes snap up. “Tutor a senior? That—that—” That’s
insane! I want to shout.
“Think about it as a service to humanity. Just like how your father
serves the community, this could be your own little contribution.”
I blink, trying to connect the dots between my dad’s detective work and
this tutoring gig. What does my dad’s job have to do with anything? Is this
some kind of weird guilt trip?
I push the thought aside before I can fixate on it, my gaze flicking over
Mr. Logan’s face, searching for any sign that this might be a joke. But no—
his expression is dead serious. “Wait… did the student agree to this?”
“He’ll have no choice if he wants to graduate.” He waves a hand like
it’s no big deal, but I can feel my stomach flip. My knees start bouncing
again, a nervous tic I can’t control.
Great. So I’ll be teaching a resentful senior who probably wants to stuff
me in a locker. Fan-freaking-tastic.
“I–I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Mr. Logan. If the student doesn’t
want to be tutored, there’s not much I can do. I don’t want to waste my
time.” Or get beaten up…
Mr. Logan leans forward. “Tell you, what. Why don’t you meet him
first? I’ll arrange for him to come to the library, and you can see for
yourself what you’re dealing with. If you decide he’s beyond help, then
that’s that. He won’t be graduating this year.”
I frown, finger absentmindedly returning to trace those same little
circles on the desk again. Great. If I don’t tutor this guy and he fails, I’ll
probably drown in guilt for life. I’m only sixteen, for crying out loud!—has
everyone forgotten that? But sure, let’s pile on the pressure. Why not?
 “Okay,” I murmur, even though deep down I know I’ve already signed
myself up. No matter how this meeting plays out, I’m going to end up
tutoring him. Damn my overactive conscience.
“That’s the spirit, Emilia!” Mr. Logan beams, clearly pleased with
himself. “I’ll have someone bring Rafael to the library. So go ahead and
wait for him there.”
As I stand, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch period, and I freeze.
Economics. Crap. I’m supposed to be in class right now. But Mr. Logan
seems to read my indecision perfectly and waves a dismissive hand like it’s
no big deal. “It’s fine. You’re excused from the class.”
Really? Shouldn’t he be a little more concerned that I’m missing my
classes just to babysit some guy who’s probably failing half of his? Not that
I’ll actually fall behind—I’ve already gone through the entire semester’s
material. But still. Talk about misplaced priorities.
With a sigh, I shove my hands back into my pockets and wade through
the sea of students heading to their next classes on my way to the library.
The library is a ghost town when I arrive, save for the elderly librarian
behind the front desk who shoots me a quick, nosy glance over her horn-
rimmed glasses, probably wondering what I’m doing here. And of course,
the Christmas decorations are still up here too. Seriously? Why do people
insist on dragging out the holiday spirit? It’s a new year, people. Does ‘new
year, new me’ mean nothing anymore? Apparently not.
As I walk to the back of the room, I catch sight of the snow falling
outside and groan. Damn it. That means Dad will be late again tonight. For
some reason, criminals all get some twisted thrill from bad weather. Snow
hits, and suddenly they’re everywhere, crawling out of the woodwork like
roaches. And, of course, Dad’s always right there, chasing after them.
Dropping into a seat with a clear view of the door, I mentally prepare
for this Rafael guy to show up. Rafael. I roll his name around in my head
for a moment, then shake it off as I wait.
And wait.
And wait some more.
My leg starts bouncing, fingers tapping the table, and before I know it,
I’m up wandering around the bookshelves like a restless ghost.
What the hell is going on? Did he just bail on this whole tutoring thing?
Rafael, Rafael, Rafael. His name sounds like trouble already.
 Should I just go to class even though I’m late already? Or am I
supposed to just wait here forever? What should I do? What should I do?
What should I do?
My mind is spinning with indecision when the library door squeaks
open. Oh shit. Quickly, I pull out the nearest textbook and scurry back to
my seat to pretend I’ve been deep in study mode this whole time. I place the
book on the table and run my hand over it—once, twice, three times—but it
does nothing to calm the sudden rush of nerves.
When I finally look up, I see his shoes first. No way. My stomach flips.
Same guy from the cafeteria? Mr. Nice Shoes? My gaze crawls up, and sure
enough, there he is. Those silvery eyes catch mine for a second, and it’s like
a mini staring contest before my eyes start burning and I quickly shift my
gaze to his neck.
Fuck! It’s definitely him.
He slides into the chair across from mine, and we’re both stuck in this
awkward silence. I’m just about to break it when he suddenly reaches into
his jacket. For a second, I think he’s mimicking me. Then he starts to pull
his hand out, and my brain jumps to something ridiculous—what if he’s
about to pull something insane like a knife? Okay, maybe not a knife—but
instead, he pulls out… a chocolate bar?
He pushes it across the table toward me without a word. And I just blink
at the thing as if it might attack me, confusion pulling my brows together.
Then my gaze drifts to the tip of his crooked nose.
“You missed lunch. Thought you’d be hungry,” he says by way of
explanation, and a little warmth wraps around my spine. My fingers hover
over the chocolate bar before I finally pick it up.
“Uh, thanks,” I mumble, quickly peeling off the wrapper and taking a
bite. It’s rich and sweet, and suddenly I realize just how hungry I am. I’m
aware of his eyes on me as I practically inhale the chocolate bar, but I
deliberately focus on his hands—big, rough hands, resting on the table.
A little embarrassed at myself, I flip open the textbook in front of me for
a distraction. Physics. Perfect. “So,” I ask, turning a few pages like I’m
casually running a tutoring session, “what’s your weakest subject? Which
one do you need help with the most?”
He waits a beat, then says, “Now that you’re not about to pass out from
hunger, I’ll give you my answer: no.”
My gaze snaps to his brows. “No?”
 “No, I do not want to be fucking tutored by a girl two years younger
than me—no offense. I don’t need it, no matter what Logan thinks.” His
face hardens into a fierce scowl. “I’ll come here every day like he wants,
but don’t you even dare try to tutor me, got it?”
Huh. Well damn, isn’t he just a ray of sunshine...
My eyes drop back to the book, but the words on the page blur into an
indecipherable mess as I try to think of how to get past this Mount Everest
of an attitude. I mean, I was all set to begrudgingly help the guy, mainly to
avoid feeling guilty when he inevitably failed. But now? Now that I know
who it is?
I’m actually excited to tutor him.
Not just because he stood up for me in the cafeteria or gave me a
chocolate bar. And not because I can’t fathom sitting across from him every
day and just staring at each other in awkward silence. Not even because it
might make me finally go mad.
No. It’s because I like being around him. Twice now. And every time my
spine tingles and my toes curl, like my body’s reacting to his presence
before my mind catches up. It’s like standing too close to a live wire—
there’s danger, sure, but hell, is it thrilling.
“Rafael, I⁠—”
“How do you know my name, Emilia?”
“Probably the same way you know mine. From the principal, Mr.
Logan.” I shoot him a look that says, “Seriously?” He grunts in response
and leans back, crossing his arms, watching me with an almost amused
intensity.
“Look,” I start again, “I’m grateful for what you did in the cafeteria, and
for bringing me the chocolate. You seem like a nice guy and⁠—”
A snicker cuts through my sentence, yanking me out of my train of
thought. I glare at him, but he just waves me on like this whole thing is a
big joke. Whatever. I roll my eyes and continue, “If we’re going to meet
here every day anyway, we might as well do the tutoring. What’s the point
of wasting both our time?”
The corner of his lips tilt up in a smirk, and he leans in with his elbows
on the table, “Here’s the deal: I’ll let you tutor me if you share something
about yourself—something only a few people know, something you
wouldn’t want others to find out.”
 What? This guy, who’s been nothing but a mystery, is now asking for
my deepest secrets? I chew on the inside of my cheek, weighing my
options. “Fine… but only if you tell me something nobody knows about
you as well.” I counter, meeting his gaze by accident, and⁠—.
Oh, God.
Everything muffles—even my thumping heart—and the world blacks
out at the edges of my vision. I’m falling, drowning, lost in the shimmering
depths that look like liquid mercury, a hauntingly beautiful silver, as
chilling as the winter frost outside yet burning with a fierce intensity that
makes my skin prickle.
“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” I whisper, the words
escaping unbidden.
Something flickers in those mesmerizing depths—surprise?
Amusement? For a split second, I see past the cocky façade, glimpsing
something raw and real. Then I blink, and it’s gone. Did I imagine that?
Suddenly, the reality of what I’ve just done crashes over me like a tidal
wave. Oh no. No, no, no. I just complimented him. Out loud. To his face.
Panic rises in my throat, choking me. What’s wrong with me? Stupid,
stupid, stupid!
My eyes skitter away to settle on his ears, my heart pounding so
forcefully I’m sure he can hear it. Heat creeps up my neck, and I can feel
the blush spreading, betraying me. Great, now he probably thinks I’m some
awkward, blushing schoolgirl with a crush. Which I’m not. Definitely not…
Right?
God, this is humiliating. I want to crawl under the table and disappear.
Or maybe sprint out of the library and never look back. Yeah, that’s it. Just
stand up, grab my bag, and run. I could transfer schools again. Change my
name. Move to another country…
But I’m rooted to the seat, waiting for his response. Anything. But he’s
just sitting there, cool as ever. How am I supposed to focus on anything
when he looks like that? Handsome, so damn handsome—Godammit, stop
it.
Then, as if nothing just happened, he asks, “Why don’t you go first?”
I frown, confused. “Huh?”
“Tell me something nobody knows about you, something you hate,” he
elaborates.
 Oh, right. My brain scrambles, trying to catch up. We’re seriously just
going to pretend I didn’t just completely humiliate myself? Okay, then.
I clear my throat, grasping for some semblance of control. Still, I
hesitate, unsure if I should share. But finally, I give in. “My middle name is
Azalea.” Only Dad knows, and I don’t even know why I’m telling him.
Maybe I’ve gone mad.
But he perks up like that’s the most fascinating thing he’s heard all
week. “Azalea, like the flowers?”
“Yes.” I’m thrown off by his sudden enthusiasm. Is he mocking me or
genuinely intrigued?
“Interesting.” He seems to look at me with new eyes, and I frown,
wondering why that is. “They’re beautiful flowers. Why do you hate the
name?”
I watch my index finger as I tap it on the table. “Because it’s none of
your business. Your turn.”
Silence.
I glance up with a frown, but when he responds, his face is distant,
detached. “I hate being backed into a corner and told what to do,” he says,
voice flat, almost robotic. “I don’t like being tutored either.”
My lips part in surprise. Are you kidding me? I just gave him something
real, and he gives me the most obvious, surface-level answer? Anger flares
in my chest, hot and sudden. Is this all a game to him? Two can play at that.
He notices my frustration and, of course, his smirk returns. “So, when
do we start our lessons?”
I want to tell him to shove it, but instead, I take a deep breath and flip to
a random page in the textbook. “We start now.”

My heart races as I glance at Rafael from the corner of my eye. My mind is

a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Dad would have an aneurysm if he
knew I was in this truck right now. Hell, he practically did when I told him I
was tutoring Rafael last week. He’s deep into an investigation on Alfonso
Moretti, Rafael’s dad, and when I mentioned the tutoring, he flipped out and
forbade me from continuing. Absolutely not, Emilia! he’d thundered, face
redder than a fire engine. That boy is trouble, just like his father!
 But Dad’s wrong. God, he’s so wrong it’s almost funny. Rafael isn’t
trouble like his dad—I know he’s not—despite what the gossip mill churns
out.
I sneak another look at him. Sure, he’s got that bad boy vibe nailed
down, but beneath that persona, he’s got more depth than people realize.
Biting my lip, I think back to our study sessions. It’s not that he needs
tutoring, per se. What he needs is someone to light a fire under his ass.
Once he’s motivated? The guy’s actually brilliant. Like, “make-Einstein-
look-slow” brilliant.
If only I could make Dad see that. But how do you convince a
bullheaded detective that the son of his prime suspect isn’t the devil
incarnate?
“What? See something you like?” Rafael’s cocky voice pulls me from
my thoughts. That trademark smirk plays on his lips as he spares me a
glance.
Heat creeps up my neck. Busted. “Oh my God, watch where you’re
driving,” I deflect, scooting closer to the window and hugging it
dramatically as I stare at the winter wonderland outside. Yep, because
awkward is my specialty.
His rich chuckle fills the truck as we slowly pull up in front of my
apartment. “We’re here anyway. See you tomorrow, piccola.”
“I told you not to call me that,” I grumble, snatching my backpack from
between my legs.
Unlocking the car door, I chance one last glance at him, and instantly
regret it. Our gazes collide, and suddenly I’m drowning in those eyes again.
Shit. Flustered, I practically tumble out of his truck.
I wave at him to go, but he just shrugs and leans back in his seat,
looking infuriatingly comfortable. I roll my eyes as I spin around and climb
up the front stairs, but inside I’m floating. The warmth I feel has nothing to
do with my threadbare jacket and everything to do with the boy in the truck.
This is only the third time he has driven me home, but each time, he
waits. Waits until I’m safely inside before leaving. As soon as the door shuts
behind me, he honks and then drives off. It’s a small gesture, but it makes
my heart do somersaults.
I bypass the perpetually broken elevators and trudge up the stairs to our
sixth-floor apartment. By the time I reach our door, I’m wheezing while
rummaging through my bag for my keys. Note to self: do cardio.
 The apartment is eerily quiet when I enter. With a sigh, I flick on the TV
for some semblance of life on my way to my room. There, homework gets
neatly arranged on my desk—a habit Dad drilled into me—before I change
into comfy clothes and return to the living room.
Our two-bedroom apartment is more like a sardine can with walls. The
living room, kitchen, and dining area are one cramped space, everything
squished together like a game of Tetris gone wrong.
I open the fridge, my stomach growling, and bite my lip at the barren
shelves. Great. Time to go shopping again, only Dad’s been MIA for three
days now and my pocket money is drying up fast.
“Guess it's a sandwich for dinner,” I mutter. A dinner for one. Again.
As I close the fridge, movement on the TV catches my eye. The camera
pans across a crime scene, yellow tape fluttering in the wind. Another
killing? I abandon my pathetic excuse for dinner and grab the remote,
cranking up the volume.
“... Local detectives have been on the trail of this drug lord for the past
year, and our sources tell us they believe the police were close to catching
him. But something must have gone wrong because when the detective
went to apprehend the suspect, he and his partner were ambushed and
brutally killed. Police investigations are…”
The remote slips from my numb fingers as pictures of the killed
detectives flash on the screen, my gaze honing straight onto that achingly
familiar face on the right.
That’s my dad.
My Dad.
Dad.
No. No, no, no.
“No.” Tears spill down my face as I stumble closer to the TV,
desperately trying to make sense of the horror before me. The room feels
like it’s spinning, and my legs give out beneath me. I can’t breathe, my
hands shaking, reaching out like they can somehow touch the image and
pull him out of that frozen frame. He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He can’t be
dead.
“Dad?” I choke out, the word a broken whisper. But the truth stares
back at me from that grainy news photo, and suddenly, my world just
crumbles to dust around me.
My dad is gone.
OceanofPDF.com
 1
EMILIA

Present day…

My eyes snap open, and a dizzying blur of red and green floods my vision.
Heart hammering, I blink until the Christmas lights strung haphazardly
around the ceiling swims into focus. For a moment, I’m completely lost.
Where am I? Not in Quantico, that’s for sure. No one gives a damn about
festive cheer in the academy. Then reality crashes back in waves: The safe
house. New York City. Tomorrow I’m⁠—
Suddenly, a cold gust of air slams into my face, jolting me further into
wakefulness. Something’s… off. My skin tingles just as the curtain sways
into my peripheral vision.
Shit. I didn’t open the windows. I know I didn’t.
Panic bubbles up in my chest, but I force it down. Cool it, Em. You’re
trained for this.
Forcing myself to stay still, I slide my hand under my pillow, inch by
agonizing inch. My fingers brush cool metal and tension melts into relief. In
one fluid motion, I explode to my feet, my trusty 9MM aimed squarely at
the shadowy figure lurking next to the flimsy green curtains.
“Who’s there?” My voice is steady, betraying none of the adrenaline
surging through my veins.
 “It really is you, Emilia.” The dark, husky voice washes over me with
familiar heat that sends goosebumps all over my body. Oh shit. Oh shit. I
know that voice. Even if the years had blurred every other sound in my
memory, that one was burned in. No one else has called me by my full
name in years. And no one else ever said it like that. “If you were going to
run away, you should have stayed gone. What made you crawl back into my
city?”
My city. Yeah, that seals it. No doubt now. There’s only one man bold
enough to claim an entire metropolis as his own.
“Rafael,” I whisper.
He emerges from the shadows, and suddenly I’m sixteen again, seeing
him for the first time. The gaudy Christmas lights paint him in reds and
greens, turning him into some kind of festive avenging angel. Breathe, girl.
Just breathe. But how am I supposed to remember something as simple as
breathing when he’s standing there, looking like sin incarnate and danger
personified?
My heart launches into a full-on gymnastics routine as I drink him in,
noting every detail the last five years have shaped. His dark hair is longer
now, parted in the middle, the tips curling rebelliously at the nape of his
neck. His face looks sterner, meaner somehow, like life has been chiseling
away at him with a vengeance.
But it’s his eyes that freezes me—the same chilling silver, as beautiful
as they are dangerous. Yet now, they’re only an eerie, lifeless void.
Still, this is Rafael. My Rafael, the man who gave up everything to save
me, even when it nearly cost him his own life. My friend.
Before I can think better of it, I’m dropping the gun on the bed and
flinging myself into his arms. A grin bursts onto my face, fueled by a mix of
sheer exhilaration and a deep, unexpected joy at seeing him again.
His grunt vibrates through me as I wrap my hands around his waist. But
instead of the warm embrace I crave, his body turns to stone. Right. I’d
forgotten how he hated being touched after… everything. Like tiny
pinpricks of needles piercing my skin, he’d once said.
Reluctantly, I pull back, my heart sinking a little as I force myself to
look up at him. My eyes, however, immediately get snagged on his
clenched jaw before zoning in on a rogue lock of hair that falls over the
bridge of his crooked nose. Even as he lowers his gaze to meet mine, that
stubborn strand keeps pulling my focus. I want to look him in the eyes—I
really do—but it’s like there’s this invisible force holding me captive,
keeping my stare glued to that infuriating lock of hair.
What’s wrong with me? Why is it so hard just to look at him?
Long, thick fingers appear in my vision and grip my chin, tilting it
upward with a slow, deliberate motion. He’s guiding me, insisting I meet his
gaze. My heart lodges in my throat as our eyes lock, and suddenly the world
narrows to just us. The pressure in my head builds, squeezing tighter and
tighter. It’s too much. Gasping, I shift my burning eyes back to his nose.
“I thought you were going to fix that?” he rumbles quietly, and I
swallow.
“I’m—I’m working on it.”
He studies me for long, agonizing seconds until blood rushes to my
cheeks, turning my face hot. Thank God for the Christmas lights glowing on
us. But when his gaze drifts lower, down my body, my breath stalls. Only
then does it hit me—I’m practically naked, wearing nothing but a thong and
an oversized t-shirt. His t-shirt. The one I stole when I left him and the
others five years ago.
Does he notice? Does he care? Because I haven’t been able to forget it
for a second. Five years, and I’ve still clung to this stupid piece of him.
Now here I am, standing right in front of him, exposed in every way that
matters.
Ugh. Just kill me now.
I steal a glance—and there it is. A flicker of recognition passes through
his gaze. But he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, his lips curve into that
familiar, lazy smirk. “You’ve changed, Emilia. Even more beautiful than I
remember. And look at you now—all grown up. What are you, twenty–
one?”
“Twenty–two,” I whisper, and he hums a low, throaty sound that seems
to reverberate through my entire body, pooling heat low in my belly.
“Perfect.” His voice drops even lower, rich with something I can’t quite
place. Desire? Possession? I steal another glance at his eyes and gulp at the
dark hunger I find in those depths. “It means I can finally claim you. It
means I can finally do this.”
And then he’s kissing me, and holy mother of God, it’s like being struck
by lightning. My lips tingle from the shock of it—of him—and I gasp. He
takes full advantage, plunging deeper, like he’s been starving for this.
Fuck.
 My whole body lights up, every nerve exploding to life, burning bright
just like the Christmas tree in the living room. I grip his shirt, fingers
twisting into the fabric as my head spins, drowning in the storm he’s just
unleashed on me.
I always knew he’d be a good kisser, but this… this is something else..
A moan slips past my lips, my eyes fluttering shut as I lose myself in
him. His mouth—it’s not just a kiss anymore, it’s a damn takeover—
demanding, fierce, and leaving me gasping for air. His hand moves from my
chin and slides into my hair, gripping me with just enough force to make
my head tilt exactly how he wants—so his tongue can map out every inch
of me and leave no crevice of my mouth unexplored. A wild rush of heat
spreads over my skin. My knees threaten to give out.
Before I know what I’m doing, my hands are gliding up his chest and
around his neck to drag him closer.
Big mistake.
Rafael goes rigid, breaking the kiss and stepping back so suddenly I
nearly topple over. My eyes fly open, and I blink up at him, panting and
bewildered, as I try to figure out what just happened.
“No touching,” he commands, and then he spins me around until my
back is resting against the solid heat of his chest. One hand circles my
wrists, locking them in place, while the other collars my throat. It’s not
choking, not really, but the implicit threat sends a shiver down my spine—
equal parts fear and… something else.
I inhale sharply as he uses his grip on my throat to turn my head back to
him, and then his lips descend again, claiming my mouth once more in a
kiss that leaves me dizzy and weak-kneed. I melt back into him,
surrendering, my bound hands clenching into fists, nails biting into my
palms, but I don’t care.
Suddenly, we’re moving. My feet stumble blindly as Rafael pushes us
forward, his mouth still fused to mine. The world tilts, and my breath
catches in my throat—I’m falling. Reflex kicks in, and I try to throw my
hands out to catch myself, but his grip is unyielding.
I hit the bed with a grunt, the air rushing from my lungs as Rafael’s
weight descends on me. Just as quickly as we fell, he breaks the kiss,
leaving me gulping for air like a fish out of water. With a savage ease, he
rearranges my hands beneath my stomach, effectively pinning me down,
before propping himself up with one hand next to my head. The other trails
a scorching path up my now-exposed legs, my shirt having ridden up
indecently high.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
This is fine. Everything’s fine. You’re just in bed with the man you ran
away from five years ago.
Totally normal.
A deep, guttural groan rumbles from him as his hand circles my bare
ass, and damn if I don’t moan too. His palm is calloused and impossibly hot
against my skin, and I can’t help but push my ass back into his grip, seeking
more of that delicious friction. More. Please, more.
His eyes fly to my face, dark and dangerous. “Rafael,” I murmur, my
voice a breathy plea I barely recognize. But it’s all the invitation he needs to
capture my lips again and steal what little breath I’ve managed to regain.
As he kneads the flesh of my ass, I moan into his mouth, writhing under
him, clamping my thighs together in a desperate bid for some pressure on
my clit. Rafael, ever observant, notices my predicament and wedges his
thigh between my legs, effectively separating them. The loss of pressure has
me whining in frustration, but he just breaks the kiss with that infuriating
smirk.
“You want more, Emilia?”
I nod, frantically.
“Then beg for it.”
“Rafael, please.”
“Ah, ha, piccola,” he tuts, voice a low purr. “That’s not begging. You
want the pleasure, you play by my rules and⁠—”
The shrill ring of a phone cuts through the heated atmosphere like a
bucket of ice water. Rafael’s phone, to be precise.
“No,” I wail. “Don’t answer it.”
But he’s already peeling away from me, warmth vanishing as he fishes
out a sleek smartphone from his pocket. With a final, intense glance at me,
he fucking answers it. I melt into the bed in defeat, well aware that this
interlude is over.
He thrusts his free hand into his pocket and paces away, speaking low,
rapid Italian into the phone. If I strain enough to hear, I could probably
make out what he’s saying—thank you, multilingual upbringing—but I
can’t summon the energy to eavesdrop.
 Not when my traitorous brain finally kicks into gear and decides now is
the perfect time for a bout of self-flagellation.
What the hell was that? Are you out of your mind?
Even if it's Rafael, you can’t just throw yourself at someone like that.
Slut.
What did you just do? What did you just do? What did⁠—
“I have to go.” Rafael’s voice cuts through the mental noise, and I’ve
never been so grateful for an interruption. Once those nasty little voices
start, they don’t stop—they just keep spinning, round and round like a
messed-up merry-go-round I can’t get off.
I sit up, frowning as I watch Rafael adjusting his shirt, already moving
toward the window he most likely came in through. “You’re leaving? Just
like that?”
“Don’t worry, amorina, I’ll be in touch.” And with that cryptic promise,
he’s gone.
I scramble out of bed and rush to the window just in time to see him
drop from my third-floor balcony. He lands with feline grace and melts into
the darkness, while I stand there, freezing as the winter wind bites at my
skin.
It’s snowing again.
Fuck.
As I slam the window shut, it hits me—the alarm didn’t go off. Gasping,
I stare at the window in disbelief. This is supposed to be a secure agency
safe house with top-notch security. Any breach should have triggered ear-
splitting alarms.
Some safe house this turned out to be.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I pad downstairs. I need to confirm
that I did, in fact, turn the alarm on last night. But when I reach the control
panel, my stomach drops.
It’s off… How?
I gape at it, mind racing. I swear I set it, double-checked it even, and
that was after locking every single door and window. It’s become a ritual, a
nightly routine born of paranoia.
What the hell?
Switching it back on, I feel the tension coil tighter in my chest as I pace
the living room, trying to make sense of it all. The oversized Christmas tree
next to the fireplace catches my eye, and I can’t help but sigh heavily as I
look at it—along with the mistletoe hanging over the doorway. Who
decorated this place anyway? What the hell was the point?
I didn’t ask for this shit.
The cheerful baubles and twinkling lights almost feel like they’re
mocking me, reminding me that Christmas is only two weeks away, and
that once again, I’ll probably be spending it alone, just like every year since
I was sixteen.
As I stare at the decorations, Rafael’s visit replays in my mind. The kiss,
the touch, the promise of more… and then his abrupt departure. It’s all so
confusing.
But with Rafael back in my life, there’s a flicker of hope. Maybe, just
maybe, this year won’t be as lonely as the others.

The Uber crawls through Manhattan’s crowded streets, and I find myself
pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the
world go by. Snowflakes dance in the air, settling on the sidewalks where
they’re immediately trampled by the endless parade of holiday shoppers
and hurried office workers.
My eyes linger on the families hustling along the sidewalks, laden with
shopping bags and radiating that particular brand of stressed-out joy that
seems unique to the holiday season. A little girl in a puffy pink coat squeals
with delight as her father hoists her onto his shoulders, and I feel a pang in
my chest so sharp it takes my breath away.
“We’re here, ma’am.”
The driver’s voice jolts me out of my brooding, and I blink, realizing
we’ve stopped in front of a towering behemoth of glass and steel—the
Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building.
With a nod, I step out, staring up at the structure. Feels like a lifetime
ago when I first walked through those doors, wide-eyed and full of hope.
Excited about my future, and a little scared I was making the wrong
decision by leaving the family I found behind to make something of myself.
Do I regret my decision?
Hell if I know.
 It’s only been five years, after all, and I haven’t even started working for
the bureau yet. I just finished my training at Quantico, and immediately
after my graduation three days ago, I was ordered back to Manhattan.
Questions still nag at me as I force my feet to move, carrying me
through the revolving doors and into the belly of the beast. The lobby is a
hive of activity. Men and women in sharp suits and sensible shoes bustle
about with purpose.
I make my way to the security checkpoint and fish out my credentials.
My hands shake slightly as I present my shiny new gold badge, and I can’t
help the little thrill that runs through me. It’s real. It’s actually real.
I’m really a special agent now. Holy shit.
The elevator ride to the 23rd floor feels endless. I watch the numbers
tick up, each floor bringing me closer to my new life, to the person I’ve
fought so hard to become. My chest tightens as I try to keep my nerves in
check.
When the doors finally slide open with a soft ‘ding’, I suck in a deep
breath and step out into the sprawling lobby of the FBI’s New York office.
This is it. No turning back now.
My eyes are immediately drawn to the bureau's badge, prominently
displayed on a cobblestone wall, and I smile as I take it in.
But the mood in here? Definitely not festive. Christmas decorations are
strung up like they’re trying to convince everyone it’s the happiest time of
the year, but no one’s buying it. Every agent I pass is all business, eyes
locked on screens and paperwork, clearly too buried under the never-ending
mountain of crap this job throws at them to even think about a little holiday
spirit. And honestly, I get it. This isn’t a place for twinkling lights and jolly
tunes—this is a place for getting shit done.
I make my way to the front desk and ask to see Stacey Rodrigues, my
direct supervisor and mentor.
A few minutes later, I’m being ushered down a long hallway, past a row
of cubicles buzzing with agents in full grind mode. The further we go, the
more serious it feels. Locked doors line the next stretch of hallway, and I
can’t help but wonder what kind of classified secrets are tucked away
behind them. Finally, we stop in front of a massive set of double doors
gleaming with the engraving: Stacey Rodrigues, Assistant Director In
Charge.
My pulse kicks up. Here we go.
 I knock sharply, and Stacey’s familiar voice calls out, “Come in.” I take
a deep breath, steeling myself before pushing the doors open.
Stace’s office is a sprawling, coveted corner space with floor-to-ceiling
windows offering a breathtaking view of City Hall and a glimpse of the
Hudson River beyond. But it’s Stacey herself who commands attention,
rising from behind her imposing desk with a grin that lights up her entire
face.
“Welcome, Emily,” she says, waving me to a chair in front of her desk,
rather than the plush seating area a few feet away. It’s a power move, I
realize, but a subtle one.
I sit, my back ramrod straight, hands folded neatly in my lap. Five years
of training kicking in automatically.
“I feel like a proud mother hen right now. Who knew I had it in me,
huh?” she chuckles, picking up a folder from her desk. “You’re the child I
never had, Emily. You know that, right?” Her eyes soften for a moment,
then sharpen again. “I hope you do..”
My eyes flick to her perfectly manicured nails. “I do,” I manage to say,
even though I rarely voice how much she means to me. Because I do care
about Stacey. She’s been my rock, my guiding star for the past five years.
She was the only familiar face at my med school graduation last year, and
again at my graduation from the Academy at Quantico a few days ago.
She’s family. It’s just… weird to say it out loud. The word holds too
much history, too much pain.
“Good,” she nods, seemingly satisfied. Then she slides the folder to me,
and I reach for it eagerly, hungry for my first mission. This is it, the moment
I’ve been working towards for five long years.
I open the folder… and the world stops.
Staring up at me is a face etched into my soul, more familiar than my
own reflection. Dark hair. Eyes like molten silver. A crooked nose.
Rafael.
My blood turns to ice as Stacey leans forward, her expression suddenly
serious.
“Your first mission is Rafael Moretti.”

OceanofPDF.com
 2
RAFAEL

“Their network?” I ask Enzo, my second-in-command, as we walk down

the deserted East Harlem street. The chill December air bites at my face,
and the only sound around is the rhythmic tap of our shoes on the cracked
pavement. Normally, this place would be buzzing, but not today. Not after
Michael sent out that little encrypted message to every business and
resident in the area.
The message was simple: disappear, or risk being collateral damage.
And they listened. Smart move on their part—I’d hate to scrape some poor
bastard’s brains off the sidewalk just because they couldn’t take a hint.
“Scrambled,” he assures me. “Those fuckers won’t send so much as a
fucking emoji in or out.”
Good. Giovanni Conti and his pathetic excuse for a crew are sitting
ducks, trapped in their own little cage. No more squirming out of my grasp,
no more playing hide and seek like they've been doing for the past few
weeks. No more distractions. The old bastard’s been a thorn in my side for
too long, the biggest obstacle in my path to owning this city. And I’m done
fucking around with him. It’s time to rip that thorn out and crush it.
I’ve got other, more pressing shit to deal with—namely a girl. A girl
who deserves my full attention.
But first, I have to deal with this bastard.
We stop in front of the so-called “quaint” little Italian restaurant I know
he’s holing up in. My lip curls in disgust at the over-the-top festive crap
plastered across the storefront—flashing red, green, and blue lights
practically assaulting my eyeballs. Fucking Christmas. A few twinkling
bulbs and some cheap-ass tinsel can’t mask the rot festering in this city.
But no worries. I’ve got a gift for Conti. Just not the kind you’ll find
under a tree.
With a quick nod, one of my men jogs forward to test the door handle.
Locked—as if that flimsy piece of metal could keep me out. Idiots.
I yank my Glock from my waist holster and point it straight at the lock,
then fire.
Bang! Bang!
Once, twice, until the thing bursts apart. The boom of the gunshots
shatters the morning silence, and the air thickens with the acrid smell of
gunpowder.
No silencer. I could’ve used one, sure. But where’s the fun in that? I
want Conti to know the boogeyman is coming for him. I want him shaking
in his designer shoes, knowing I’ve got him trapped and his only way out is
zipped up in a body bag. And I want every fucking dickhead in this
godforsaken neighborhood to understand exactly what happens when you
fuck with Rafael Moretti.
Lowering my gun, I step back as my men kick the door open and flood
into the restaurant. Their orders are clear; everyone inside is fair game,
except Giovanni fucking Conti. He’s mine.
A symphony of chaos erupts. Screams cut through the air, blending with
the rapid crack of gunfire and the jingle of Christmas tunes drifting from the
restaurant’s old, tinny speakers. The whole scene is almost laughable.
“Deck the Halls” playing while bodies hit the floor. My lips creep into a
savage grin at the twisted irony as I step over the carnage, Enzo by my side,
kicking dead bodies out of my way like they’re nothing more than
discarded Christmas wrapping paper.
My eyes zero in on the refrigerator at the back—bingo. The rumored
hiding spot of Conti’s little rat hole. Enzo throws his weight against it, but
the damn thing doesn’t budge an inch. Figures. Conti’s too slippery for
anything that easy. I signal to the three other men behind me, and they rush
forward, grunting and straining against the metal hulk, their efforts drowned
out by the ongoing firefight.
A frown creases my brow. Then it hits me—maybe the secret entrance
isn’t behind the fridge. Maybe it’s inside it.
 Clever, Conti. But not clever enough.
“Stop,” I command, then yank the door open, and immediately recoil
from the godawful stench.
Steeling myself, I power through, shoving aside strings of rotten meat.
And sure enough, there it is: a wall. A wall inside a refrigerator.
“Bastard really thought he was untouchable,” I mutter as Enzo squeezes
his bulk into the cramped space and gives the false wall a push. It slides
open with surprising ease, revealing a dark hole beyond. A fitting hole for a
rat like Giovanni.
Enzo takes a step back, and I duck my head to go through.
This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.
As soon as I cross the threshold, a bullet whizzes past my ear. White-hot
rage explodes in my chest. Motherfucker.
Immediately, I snap my gun up. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I
growl, pulling the trigger.
The shot echoes, followed by a sharp howl of agony. I slap the light
switch on the wall, illuminating the pathetic scene before me. And there he
is—Giovanni Conti, sprawled on the floor clutching his bleeding shoulder,
his gun on the floor just out of reach. I stalk towards him, savoring each
step, and kick the weapon away. “If you were going to shoot at me,” I
drawl, pressing my Glock against his sweaty temple, “you should have
aimed for my head.”
He whimpers, and I take a step back, disappointed at the lack of fight.
“Is this it? The great Don Conti? Pathetic.”
Something flares in his eyes—a spark of the old fire. And he spits out,
“Only because you came after me when I was weak. I was not expecting
you.”
I click my tongue in disapproval. “That’s the thing, Conti. In our world,
you can’t afford to be weak. Not ever. You should always expect an attack.”
I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Especially after
you directly sabotaged my trading route last week. You lost me millions in
firearms, cunt. Did you honestly think I’d let that slide?”
“Your father should have made sure he finished you,” he groans,
pressing harder on his bleeding arm.
The mention of my father sends a jolt of ice through me, but I don’t let
it show. Instead, a humorless chuckle leaves my lips. “He really should
have. He and a dozen others would still be breathing if he had the balls to
finish what he started.” I crouch down, getting right in his face. “You
should have surrendered when I gave you the chance, Giovanni. Maybe I
would’ve spared your miserable life.”
“Like you spared Arturo and the rest? Lies.”
“Hmm,” I tap my index finger against my cheek, pretending to consider
his words. “You know what? You’re right. You would have died either way.
But you get why, don’t you? I can’t exactly trust your allegiance, can I?”
“Fuck you, Rafael,” he spits out.
I stand up, towering over his wounded form. “If you had just stood back
and done nothing, I would have granted you a quick and painless death.
Now?” I pause for dramatic effect, relishing the fear in his eyes. “My men
will take great pleasure in drawing out your pain. Consider it a thank you
for the hell you put us through.”
“You think you can just kill your way into power? The city will never
be yours,” he threatens, but it sounds more like the desperate whine of a
corned animal.
My lips curl into a grim smile.
“Wrong again, old man. It’s mine already.” Without warning, I level my
Glock at his legs and blow out both his kneecaps. The screams that follow
are a symphony to my ears. When his voice finally gives out, he slumps to
the floor, a broken heap of flesh and bone. “When my men are done with
you, I’ll string out your entrails with the Christmas lights in your own
restaurant and gift-wrap your bloody head. You’ll become the cautionary
tale used to warn other idiots not to fuck with Rafael Moretti.”
Holstering my gun, I walk out of the backroom, Enzo close behind. I
pause in the main area of the restaurant, admiring our handiwork. Dead
bodies litter the floor and the Christmas tree is now decorated with splashes
of crimson.
Perfect.
Enzo and I leave the carnage behind and make our way back down the
street to where our cars are parked. He gets into the driver’s seat and tosses
me a glance, “Back home?”
“Yes, but first, we need to stop at a florist.”
“A florist?” His voice rises in surprise.
I don’t bother to explain. With Giovanni now out of the picture, my
thoughts have already shifted back to the next most important piece on my
chessboard.
 Emilia.
Five years. Five long, frustrating years I’ve been searching for her, ever
since she disappeared without a trace. All she left behind was a measly
letter that told me absolutely fuck-all. It was like she’d been wiped off the
face of the earth, like she never existed at all. But I never stopped looking.
As I climbed the ladder, got richer, more powerful, I kept upgrading my
private investigators.
And then she just waltzes back into my city? Without so much as a
heads-up? The sheer audacity of it makes my blood boil and sing at the
same time.
My cock stirs, and my hand flexes as memories flood my mind—the
feel of her soft ass in my palm, the way she ground up against me, her
sweet little moans. I didn’t plan that out, not during our first reunion. But
then again, when has anything ever gone according to plan with Emilia?
I certainly didn’t expect my chest to tighten when I watched her sleep in
my old shirt, either. Or for my breath to momentarily seize when her eyes lit
up with recognition. Or for the mouthwatering scent of her skin to fill my
head when she hugged me.
And I definitely didn’t expect how much those pouty pink lips would
tempt me… Goddammit.
I lost my damn mind. And that’s dangerous.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Emilia, it’s to always expect
the unexpected. So maybe I should have known I’d end up kissing her.
And that she’d kiss me back with equal fervor.
But does she understand what that means? Does she realize how she
sealed her own fate?
She wanted more. And fuck, so do I.
Emilia Rossi is mine.
And I will not let her slip through my fingers again.

OceanofPDF.com
 3
EMILIA

“You want me to investigate Rafael?” I blurt out, my mind still spinning,

struggling to process Stacey’s request. She knows about my history with
him—how the hell could she ask this of me? Wouldn’t it be a conflict of
interest? The very thought of spying on Rafael fills me with a sinking sense
of dread.
Stacey’s eyes, usually warm and understanding, harden with resolve.
“Flip the pages.” She nods toward the folder in my hand that I’m now
clutching so tight, my knuckles turn white.
Something primal within me screams not to look, to toss the damn thing
away and run. But I can’t. I’m rooted to the spot, my trembling fingers
betraying me as they flip the page.
And I instantly regret it.
Oh, God…
Grotesque images assault my senses—bodies mutilated beyond
recognition, flesh torn and twisted in ways bodies should never be. My
stomach churns, and I taste bile at the back of my throat.
“All those people were brutally murdered by a group known as the
Nightshades,” Stacey says, her voice oddly detached. “There’s more.”
I don’t want to see more. But I swallow and flip to the next page. The
wave of nausea that hits me is so strong I nearly double over.
Little kids—girls, murdered with their limbs hacked off, and their
middle sections gape open, showing missing organs. I feel a cold sweat
break out on my forehead, and a strangled gasp escapes me. “W–what the
hell?”
“Keep going.”
My fingers, numb and clumsy, fumble with the next page. The photos
here are blurrier, like they were snapped from far away. But I’d recognize
those faces anywhere.
Rafael Moretti, Michael Hart, Maximo Leonotti, and Romero
Lombardi.
My saviors.
Men I consider family, even though they must hate me now.
They’re sitting across from each other in what looks like a rooftop
garden, surrounded by flowers I know all too well. Nightshade. My lips part
as recognition dawns. Those flowers aren’t just pretty—they stand for
something.
Freedom. Revolution. Revenge.
Beneath the image, a scrawl of handwriting catches my eye: ‘the
nightshades’ first meeting.’
“No,” I breathe, shaking my head in denial. “This can’t be right.”
“That meeting happened two months ago, Emily. Since then, the city
has been turned upside down. Numerous deaths of the previous ruling mafia
families. Massacres. Slowly but surely, the men in that picture took over
New York, a borough at a time. They are the Cosa Nostra now. They rule
the city. And Rafael… he is their leader.”
“You’re wrong.” I insist. “They would never⁠—"
“There’s more,” Stacey cuts me off. “Flip.”
I shake my head again. I don’t want to see. But Stacey doesn’t give me
a choice. She leans over and flips for me. The first picture shows an elderly
man, on his knees, staring down the barrel of a gun. The picture is grainy,
probably pulled from surveillance footage, but I know the man holding the
gun.
I kissed him last night. I made out with him. And I wanted to do more.
So much more.
In the next picture, the elderly man is sprawled on his back, surrounded
by a pool of his own blood. Dead. Executed.
More pictures follow, each one more brutal, each one featuring Rafael,
Michael, and Maximo. I try to reconcile these images of cold-blooded
killers with the boys I once knew, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
 The folder slips from my numb fingers, scattering its gruesome contents
across the floor. My hands fly to my ears, clamping down hard, as if I could
somehow shut out the cacophony of thoughts screaming through my skull.
It’s pointless, I know. It never works—never has. But old habits die hard.
With monumental effort, I force my hands down from my ears, just like
my therapist drilled into me. Stay in control. I close my eyes and focus on
counting my breaths.
In. Out. In. Out. Slow and steady.
When I finally pry my eyes open, Stacey gives me an approving nod.
“Good job, Emily. You’re making progress.” Then she tilts her head
slightly. “But you’re still struggling with eye contact, huh?”
A bitter laugh bubbles from my throat. Eye contact. Right. Out of
everything, she picks that to focus on? But I bite it back. “Yeah. It’s the
worst,” I mutter, squeezing my hands into a fist.
Holding people’s gaze makes my brain crawl and my eyes burn. A
symptom of my condition, they call it. Like the urge to cover my ears or the
endless loop of repetitive thoughts. Knowing doesn’t exactly make it any
easier to deal with, though. Sure, I’ve fought off some of the habits, but the
eye thing… that’s still a losing battle.
“I’m trying,” I feel the need to add.
“That’s all that matters,” she says with a warm, encouraging smile,
always so supportive. But her support is bittersweet. It always makes me
wonder what my dad would think of me now. He’s been gone six years now,
and without him, I wouldn’t have met Stacey.
My gaze drops to the pictures on the floor, and it all comes rushing back
—the dead people, the pools of blood, the grainy surveillance footage.
Rafael… I swallow hard, my stomach twisting.
When I look up again, Stacey’s smile is gone, her face serious once
again. “I know you don’t want to believe this, but think about it. Rafael
came to see you last night. The very same night you set foot back in the
city. How could he have known if he wasn’t involved in the underground?”
How did she—no, of course, she knows. Stacey knows everything. But
how much?
Shit.
I swallow, her words sinking in. I know he’s been looking for me for
years. But I thought I was hidden. Protected by the confidentiality Stacey
promised. If he’s finally found me… it’s because she let him. Because she
wants to use me to get to him.
A bitter taste lingers in my mouth as I wrestle with the thoughts
spinning in my head. “Why me? I’m still just a newbie. You could send
anyone else to cover this mission—someone with more experience.”
“No one else will do,” Stacey counters, her voice firm. “It’s easier if
you go. You won’t rouse much suspicion, and the Nightshades are more
likely to let you in than a total stranger.”
The Nightshades. The name sends a chill down my spine. I shake my
head, clinging to the last shreds of my denial. “I don’t know about
everything else, Stacey, but I do know Rafael and the other guys would
never hurt kids. Never.” Not after the way they risked their own lives to
save me when I was nothing but a stranger to them.
She sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Your mission is simple,
Emily. You don’t have to do anything drastic. Just stay close to the man and
watch him. You think Rafael Moretti isn’t the one responsible for the deaths
of these kids? Prove it.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and slowly get up from the chair. This
is my first-ever mission, and it’s Stacey asking. I can’t say no. I can’t say
no.
“I will prove it,” I vow as I leave her office.
The world outside Stacey’s office is a blur. Whatever excitement I had
walking into that building is now completely drained. I absentmindedly hail
down a taxi, mumbling my address as I sink into the backseat. My head
leans against the window, cold glass grounding me, but it’s no use. My
thoughts spin out of control.
Rafael helped me all those years ago… saved me. They all did. Maybe
this is my turn to help them. I shudder, shutting off the part of my brain that
starts playing a reel of the events that happened that dark night. No. No. No.
I can’t go back there. Not now.
Instead, I let myself drown in more recent memories—Rafael’s warmth,
his teasing, his kiss. I sigh, embracing them.
There’s no hiding that I’ve always had this stupid crush on him, but I
never dared to think he felt the same way. He always seemed a little…
disgruntled. Even after we all ran away together, cramped into that tiny
studio for a year. His teasing was relentless, especially when the others
were around. So I buried my feelings, convinced they were nothing but a
childish fantasy.
Now, worry spikes through me. He’s definitely going to reach out again.
What if he hates me for what I have to do? He can’t find out. He can’t.
The taxi jerking to a stop jolts me out of my spiraling thoughts, and I
blink in surprise to find we’re parked in front of my Manhattan condo. The
driver’s impatient glance prompts me to fumble with the fare. Ignoring his
annoyed huff, I scramble out, clutching my jacket tighter against the biting
cold, my breath turning into frosty clouds as I jog to the entrance.
Inside the lobby, I give a quick nod to the doorman, grateful for the
warmth that seeps into my bones. The place feels like a sanctuary against
the cold outside. The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and I click
the button for the third floor, finally allowing my shoulders to drop from
their tense perch.
But as the elevator ascends, so do my worries. What the hell am I going
to do? How the hell am I going to get Rafael to open up to me? How will I
prove his innocence? Because he is innocent—of hurting children, at least.
He has to be. No matter what he is now, I know that like the back of my
hand. Rafael would never cross that line. We were those kids once. He just
wouldn’t be that cruel.
The elevator chimes again as it reaches my floor, and the doors open to
the quiet, empty hallway. I’m the only one on this floor, even though there
are two apartments here. Both belong to the bureau, but I’m currently the
lone occupant. Lucky me.
Halfway down the hallway, I freeze mid-step. Something catches my
eye. My body goes rigid, and my hand moves on reflex to the holster at my
hip. There’s something on the floor in front of my door.
I don’t move. My legs refuse. So I just stand there, eyes locked on that
spot, heart hammering like it’s trying to send a warning signal. My eyes
sweep the hallway, every nerve now buzzing with caution. It’s empty. Or at
least seems to be.
But that doesn’t mean I’m alone. It doesn’t mean⁠—
Oh, get a grip.
I force myself to take a step forward, then another, each movement slow
and deliberate.
With each step, the tension coils tighter in my chest. My hand hovers
near the holster, ready to draw at the first sign of trouble.
 And then I see it. And suddenly I feel ridiculous. My hand falls away
from my weapon as my eyes focus on the shape on the ground.
It’s just a bouquet of flowers.
But not just any flowers.
Azaleas.
What the⁠—
I crouch down to get a closer look. My heart’s still pounding, but now
it’s for an entirely different reason. The flowers are beautiful—purplish-red
petals, wide and funnel-shaped, stand out vividly against the deep green
foliage tinged with reddish–bronze at the edges.
A spicy, heady scent wafts up as I carefully lift the bouquet by its white
wrapping. My lips stretch into a pleased smile despite myself, and a thrill I
can’t quite squash rises up.
Rafael.
Only he would send me Azaleas.
Cradling the bouquet in my arms, I’m mindful not to let the flowers
touch my skin as I unlock my front door. Beautiful as they are, Azaleas are
poisonous. I’m not sure if mere contact is enough to cause a reaction or if
indigestion is the real danger, but I’m not about to find out, thank you very
much.
Pretty, but deadly. Just like the sender.
Before I go in, I shoot another glance around the hallway. Still empty.
Okay. The door opens directly into the living room, and as I shut it behind
me, something flutters from the wrapping around the flowers.
A card.
I deposit the bouquet on the coffee table before going back to the
doorway to pick up the fallen card. The moment I see the hard, masculine
scrawl, I’m transported back in time. It’s the same handwriting I remember
from our tutoring sessions.

Have dinner with me. Be ready by 8.

–R.

My mouth goes dry. Typical Rafael. Not a request, not a polite invitation
—an order.
 I stare at the card, heart thudding as realization sinks in.
This isn’t just dinner. It’s a date. And not just any date…
A date with the leader of the Nightshades.

Exactly eight o’clock. Right on time.

My heels click softly against the marble lobby floor as I make my way
toward the exit. Running a shaky hand down my coat, I smooth it out, while
silently reminding myself to breathe.
You’ve got this.
The revolving door spits me out into the freezing winter air, and I have
to bite back a curse as the cold slaps me in the face. My eyes immediately
land on the sleek, black limo parked at the curb, and I frown. Seriously?
This is a no-parking zone, but it seems whoever owns that car doesn’t give
a damn. I glance around, searching for any sign of Rafael.
Where is he?
The limo’s driverside door swings open, and out steps a mountain of a
man. Salt-and-pepper hair crowns a face that screams ‘don’t mess with me.’
If I passed him on the street, I’d probably mistake him for a bouncer or
high-end security. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. But as he approaches, a small
smile softens his hard features.
“Good evening, Miss Rossi. I’m Alfred, Mr. Moretti’s driver.”
Rafael’s driver. Oh. So, he didn’t come to pick me up himself.
Disappointment flares, quickly followed by a flicker of annoyance. What
did I expect? A grand, romantic sweep-off-your-feet entrance? Get real. I
shake it off and cast another glance at the limo with new eyes as Alfred
opens the door for me.
“Thank you,” I murmur, sliding into the plush interior where warmth
instantly embraces me. Shrugging off my coat, I flip my hair over my
shoulder before fastening my seatbelt. Alfred gets back behind the wheel,
and we’re off.
The drive is a blur of city lights and winding turns. My stomach twists
with anticipation. Where is he taking me? I have no idea, but Alfred seems
to possess some kind of magic when it comes to navigating traffic. He
weaves through the notoriously tight Manhattan streets like a pro, bypassing
Hell’s Kitchen and Houston Yards before turning at the corner of 33rd
Street, then 10th Avenue.
And all the while my mind is racing with possibilities about where
we’re going. I chew on my lower lip. Rafael has always been unpredictable.
That’s the part that scares me. I have no idea what I’m walking into.
Finally, the limo rolls to a stop in front of a massive skyscraper that
dominates the skyline.
30 Hudson Yards.
No way…
My lips curve into a smile as I crane my neck to admire the building.
Standing over a hundred stories high, it’s the sixth tallest building in the
city and promises jaw-dropping views. Rafael and I used to talk about
visiting once the development was complete. But it was only finished
earlier this year, long after I’d left for Virginia.
He remembered.
Alfred opens the passenger door for me, and as I step onto the curb, a
figure emerges from the shadows. My heart immediately kicks into
overdrive, my breath hitching when I catch sight of those familiar, silvery
eyes.
“Thank you, Alfred. I’ll take it from here.” He nods at his driver, then
places a firm hand on my arm. His eyes sweep over me, like he’s already
feasting on the appetizer. “You look stunning, piccola.”
A snort almost escapes me, but I manage to keep it together. “You
haven’t even seen my dress yet.”
His gaze drops to my plain brown coat and a hint of a smirk plays at the
corner of his lips. “You’re always beautiful, Emilia…. even when you’re
just wearing one of my old threadbare shirts.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. Oh my God. He’s teasing
me. I bite down on my lip, scrambling for a comeback. But before I can fire
back a retort, his hand finds the small of my back and ushers me towards
the entrance.
The opulence of the lobby nearly stops me in my tracks. I have to
consciously keep my jaw from dropping as I take in the décor.
Holy shit.
I sneak a glance at Rafael from the corner of my eye, but he seems
unruffled by the sheer luxury surrounding us. The old Rafael would have
been at least a little bit impressed. This new version… who is he? He looks
like he owns the damn place.
The elevator ride is an experience in itself, showcasing an animation of
the city's gradual development and its current beauty. It’s lightning-fast, too,
whisking us up to the 101st floor in about fifty seconds flat.
By the time we reach the actual restaurant, I’m blown away. Gorgeous
circular chandeliers hang overhead, throwing a warm, inviting glow over
the space, highlighting the understated but elegant gray and gold finishings
and decor. It’s like stepping into a scene from one of those luxury lifestyle
magazines.
My gaze drifts to the bar, where colorful Christmas lights add a bit of
festive charm to all this sophistication. And then, there’s the tree—huge,
lavishly decorated, commanding an entire corner of the room.
The place is breathtaking.
And also completely empty.
“Where’s everyone?” I wonder out loud as I glance around. At this time
of year, a place like this should be bustling. Instead, there’s only the hostess
who leads us to our table and a waiter who silently trails us with a bottle of
wine in his hand.
“It’s just us. I wanted to have dinner with you. Just you. No one else. No
noise. Just us.”
I cast another glance his way to try and confirm if his reaction has
changed since earlier. As I watch him survey the restaurant, it’s clear he’s
still not impressed. His gaze sweeps the room with a sharp, almost
assessing look. Not wonder, not awe—something else. Something far more
controlled.
Still, I only barely notice.
Because what the hell…
He reserved the entire restaurant?
My mind reels. How did he pull this off? Why would he? There’s no
way that’s cheap. Five years ago, we had to steal to get by, and now he’s
renting out fancy-ass places on a whim?
They are the Cosa Nostra now. They rule the city. And Rafael… he is
their leader. Stacey’s words pop into my head, and I bite my lip in worry.
Before I can spiral further, the hostess presents our table. And oh my
God… Whatever breath I have left is gone. My lips part as I take in the
mind-blowing vista before us—a perfect panorama of the glittering city
below. “This is—wow. The view is absolutely gorgeous,” I breathe.
Rafael shifts behind me and tugs at my coat. I glance up at him as I
shrug out of it, letting him slide it off my shoulders. His eyes widen, and he
inhales sharply as he takes in my dress for the first time.
Finally. There it is. That flicker of shock I’d been waiting for since we
walked into this place. I fight to keep my smile discreet while savoring his
reaction, but inside, I’m doing a victory dance.
After reading his note, I went on a rapid-fire shopping spree. My
everyday wardrobe consists mostly of slacks and jeans—not exactly fine
dining attire. So I splurged a little on this killer blue V-neck dress. And oh
boy, Rafael’s reaction made it well worth every penny.
“See something you like, Rafael?” I tease, throwing his words from
years ago back at him.
His gaze snaps to mine, holding me hostage for an intense moment. For
a heartbeat, I stop breathing as I watch the storm of emotions swirling in his
eyes. But then that all-too-familiar nagging itch starts in my brain, and I
can’t help but shift my gaze to his shoulder, annoyed at myself for breaking
the spell. Even now, even when I want nothing more than to lose myself in
his eyes, I can’t… Why is it so hard…
His hand moves to my chin, fingers warm and assertive as he tilts my
head up. I focus on the bridge of his nose but can see the little smirk playing
on his lips. “As a matter of fact, amorina, I do see something I like. Very
much.”
My heart roars in my chest, my throat runs dry, and my palms start
sweating uncontrollably. I didn’t see that coming. When he finally lets me
go, I feel an odd emptiness. But then I see he’s only pulling a chair out for
me. Nervously, I lick my lips and sit down, hyper-aware of his presence as
he pushes my chair closer to the table.
Rafael takes the seat across from mine, leaning back with the easy
confidence of a king on his throne. The waiter hovers nearby, looking more
than a little nervous as he presents the bottle of wine in his hand. Rafael
nods slightly, barely acknowledging him, his eyes still glued to me. God,
stop looking at me like that. I bite down on my lip, forcing my attention to
the fluid motion of the wine being poured into our glasses.
Focus on the wine. Anything but those eyes.
 “So, it’s been a while, huh,” I blurt out, grasping at the first words that
come to mind. But he just keeps staring, studying me like I’m some
unsolved puzzle. I squirm under his gaze, grabbing my glass and taking a
long sip of wine. It’s delicious, rich, and full, but my nerves are so frazzled
that I can’t even fully appreciate it. Damn it, why am I so rattled? It’s just
Rafael. Even with my silly crush, I’d never been this nervous around him.
So this shouldn’t be such a big deal.
But it is.
My heart is thumping erratically in my ears, and his eyes on me are like
beams of electricity, sending tingles everywhere they touch.
“Five years.” His voice is low, almost a growl. “Where did you go? Why
did you leave?”
And here we go. The million-dollar question. I frown into the wine,
swirling the glass so the dark red liquid swishes around. “I um… I
explained that in my letter.”
“Right. The letter.” He rolls his eyes as he picks up his own wine glass.
Finally, his gaze breaks from mine, and I exhale softly, grateful for the
momentary relief. “So, you went to medical school in Houston. Why come
back to Manhattan for your residency?”
I glance up at him in surprise, though I really shouldn’t be. Stacey
called me last night to warn me that she would release some information
about my past to prevent suspicion when Rafael inevitably started digging. I
just wasn’t expecting him to dig into it this quickly.
“What if I told you I missed the city?” I hesitate, feeling the words clog
in my throat. “Missed…you?”
His eyes whip back to mine, and for a brief second, they flare with
something—hurt, disbelief, maybe even a flicker of anger—before freezing
over, turning as cold and distant as a glacier. “I invited you to dinner,
Emilia. No need to lie to get on my good side.”
But I wasn’t lying. My heart sinks and a lump forms in my throat. I had
missed him, missed all of them. But clearly, the Rafael sitting across from
me now isn’t the same boy I left behind five years ago.
Before I can respond, the waiter returns, bearing a tray filled with food.
I frown, confusion briefly overriding my hurt. We haven’t even had a
chance to order yet. But, of course. Rafael must have ordered for us in
advance, huh?
 “I hope you still have the same tastes,” he says, studying me again with
those endless eyes. “I made sure to order your favorites. You do still like the
same food, don’t you? Or have you gone and changed on me, piccola?”

OceanofPDF.com
 4
EMILIA

The restaurant is eerily quiet. The only sounds are the clink of our
silverware and the waiter’s annoyingly calm voice as he presents each
course of mouthwatering dishes. Not exactly the best vibe for a place this
stunning. No, it’s like all this elegance is wasted on the thick tension
hanging between us now.
My stomach churns, and it’s not from the rich food. Damn it, I’m such
an idiot. I didn’t mean to piss Rafael off by saying I missed him, but clearly,
that’s exactly what I’ve managed to do. Now what? My mind races,
searching for a way to fix this mess I’ve created.
I chance furtive glances at him between bites. Should I say something?
Apologize? Or will that just make things worse? He’s got that closed-off
look, so I can’t read a thing on his face. It’s maddening.
I want to shake him, to make him understand that I meant what I said—I
missed him. And not just him. Maximo, Michael, Romero; they were my
friends too, even if it was only for that one fleeting year.
But Rafael… he was the one I missed the most. The one I couldn’t
forget.
And now he won’t even look at me.
I poke at my dessert, trying to stretch out these final moments with him.
My brain screams at me to say something. But what? Something light?
Something serious? Or should I just blurt out an apology, after all. ‘Sorry I
said I missed you.’ Yeah, right. Or maybe, ‘Let’s pretend I never said
anything.’ What a classic. I can’t exactly tell him the truth, either: ‘Oh, I
didn’t actually go to medical school in Houston. I was away for training in
Quantico to become a special agent, not that I didn’t want to keep in touch.’
Yeah, that will go over well. I can just see the look on his face if I ever let
that slip. Or that my first mission is to investigate him.
Ugh… Let’s just stay cool and try not to dig myself into an even deeper
hole over dessert.
“Are you almost done with that?” Rafael’s voice breaks through the
whirlwind in my head. Startled, I jerk my gaze up to see him frowning at
my barely touched plate. “Do you not like it?”
“No, um,” I stammer, clearing my suddenly dry throat. “It’s delicious.”
And objectively, it is—a work of art masquerading as dessert. I scoop up
more of the ‘tropical egg,’ which isn’t really an egg but made of coconut,
mango, and passion fruit. The flavors explode on my tongue, but I’m too
distracted to really take it in.
Because the man before me leans back in his seat, his silver eyes now
scrutinizing me again. Well, at least I got his attention back, I guess. Then,
suddenly, he reaches into his suit jacket and takes out a small Tiffany box.
My heart stops as he puts the sky-blue box on the table between us.
No. No way. This can’t be what I think it is.
He flips it open, and I inhale sharply, sending a mouthful of dessert
down the wrong pipe. I cough violently, eyes watering, dropping my fork
with a clatter. In a desperate move, I grab for my wineglass and gulp down
the crisp liquid.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I swear I see the ghost of a smirk,
as if he’s amused by my reaction, but I’m unable to tear my gaze away from
that damned box and the thing inside.
“What is this?” But I know. Oh God, I know.
It’s a ring. A freaking gorgeous ring. Rose gold, with a cushion-cut
center piece of pale pink diamond. Tiny diamonds circle it, shaped
remarkably like flower petals—Azaleas, just like the ones he sent me. And
just above the petals, more pink gems make up a tiny tiara in a small arch.
It’s ostentatious. Too much. Way too much. Probably costs more than
I’ll make in an entire year as special agent.
But I love it. Love it. Love it.
“I hope you still like pink? If you don't, we can change the ring.”
 “What?” I breathe, finally managing to tear my gaze from the ring to
fixate on the lock of hair toying with his brow. My fingers suddenly crave
to brush it back. How would it feel?
“You’re going to marry me, Emilia,” he declares, his tone as
commanding as the note he left earlier. Not a question. Just an order, a
statement of fact, delivered with the confidence of a man who’s never heard
the word ‘no’. Leaning forward, he places his elbows on the table. “You
want to be a doctor? I won’t stifle that dream. On the contrary, I want our
careers to take off together. But I want you by my side—as my Queen.”
My head shakes on instinct, heart pounding so hard in my ears it’s a
miracle I can hear him at all. This isn’t really a proposal, is it? But fuck, it
sure feels like one.
Before my brain can catch up, he pushes my dessert plate aside and
takes my chin between his fingers. Then his calloused thumb traces slow,
teasing circles over my skin, the friction sending jolts of electricity
skittering all the way to my core.
“You and me against the world, Emilia,” he murmurs, leaning even
closer, his warm breath fanning my cheek. “That’s the way it’s meant to
be.”
My eyes flutter shut as a wave of dizziness hits me. “What are you
talking about? It–it can’t work,” I whisper, even though my voice betrays
how badly I want to believe otherwise.
“Why not?” His thumb traces up my chin to the corner of my lips, then
drags across my lower lip. My breath catches, and my eyes fly open to find
his gaze fixed on my mouth, filled with a dark, possessive hunger that sends
a swarm of butterflies—no, the whole damn zoo—stampeding through my
stomach.
Oh God, is he going to kiss me? Is he going to kiss me? Is he going to
kiss me?
The thought ricochets around my skull until his lips on mine is all I can
think about. My lips part instinctively, quivering, begging for it.
Come on. Please kiss me. Please, please kiss me.
“Why can’t it work, Emilia?” he asks again, and I blink owlishly. Huh?
What’s he talking about? He must see the bewilderment in my eyes because
he smiles—really smiles—for the first time tonight, and my brain officially
throws in the towel.
 “If you’re done with your meal, we should go.” The spell breaks as
Rafael stands and comes behind me to pull my chair back. My heart drops a
little. I wanted you to kiss me, damn it. But he doesn’t even seem to notice.
Then, just as I’m sinking into disappointment, his chest presses against
my back, and my heart rockets up from the depths, right into my throat.
He’s so close. I swear I can feel every hard plane of his body, and it’s doing
things to me. Dangerous, delicious things. I bite back a gasp, my thighs
clenching at the rush of heat pooling between them.
Girl, get a grip.
But that’s impossible when he's so casually setting my whole body on
fire.
As if to torture me even further, he brushes the hair over my shoulders,
his fingers grazing the sensitive skin on my neck, and I jolt. I can hardly
control my breathing as he helps me back into my coat, and by the time
we’re in the elevator, I’m panting like I’ve just finished an intense cardio
session.
But that’s not the end of it. Before we even reach the ground floor, he
crowds me against the elevator wall. He doesn’t touch me, but God I wish
he would. My skin feels heated inside my coat, and I'm so, so aware of
every inch of his body so close to mine.
“Are you okay?” he asks, but his voice is dripping with amusement.
Oh, the bastard knows.
He knows exactly how he’s messing with me, and hell if I can hide it.
Not when he’s crowding me like this and smelling as mouth-watering as he
does. My hand twitches up, half-expecting to find drool at the corner of my
lips.
“I’m fine,” I manage to croak out, though my voice is a bit too
breathless… too needy.
The elevator dings, and we spill into the lobby. Still, he doesn’t give me
even a moment to collect myself. His arm snakes around my waist like an
iron band as we walk out of the building. The limo idles at the curb, and
Alfred is already outside opening the back door for us without a single
word.
I slide in first; Rafael right behind me. What felt like a spacious interior
earlier now feels almost suffocating. He’s sitting so close to me that his
thighs press into mine. I fan my flushed face with my hand, but it’s useless;
I’m burning up from the inside out. Shrugging off my coat, I hope for some
relief, but it only seems to amplify the intense, searing heat that radiates
from his presence.
“Champagne?” Rafael asks, nodding towards the well-stocked mini-bar
in the corner as he raises the partition between us and Alfred. The soft whir
of the mechanism seals us in our own private world.
“I’m good, thanks.” The two glasses of wine from earlier are already
working their magic, warming my blood and loosening me up more than I’d
like. I need to keep my head clear for… whatever this is.
He shrugs and leans in, way too close, his breath hot on my ear as he
says, “Tell me, amorina, are you wet for me?”
A gasp tears from my throat, my whole body going rigid the second his
hot, firm palm clamps down on my thigh. “Rafael,” I whisper, his name a
shaky mix between a plea and a warning.
“It’s okay, little wife. I just want to play,” he purrs, his fingers creeping
down my leg in an infuriatingly slow, teasing way until they find the hem of
my dress. My breath hitches, stuck somewhere between frustration and
heat. But all I do is watch helplessly as he gathers the material and pulls it
up, inch by torturous inch, before his fingers start their wicked crawl back
up my thigh.
“I’m—I’m not your wife.”
“Not yet. But you will be. Soon.” The certainty in his voice sends
goosebumps racing over my skin, and a pathetic whimper slips out as his
rough hand keeps climbing higher and higher and higher, until—I cry out,
my head slamming back into the seat when he cups me over my panties.
The pressure is unbearable. Heaven and hell all at once. Exquisite,
but… not enough.
“Fucking hell.” His low curse ring in my ear, and I moan shamelessly,
shifting in my seat to press myself harder into his palm, craving more
friction, more pressure, more everything.
But then, just like that, he pulls his hand away, leaving me aching,
breathless.
Bastard.
“No,” I whine, clutching at his jacket, trying to pull him back. “Finish
me.”
“We’re here,” he announces, smoothing down my dress like he wasn’t
just about to detonate me. I blink, dazed, and peer out the window,
struggling to focus on the world beyond our heated bubble. It takes several
heartbeats to realize we’re at my condo.
No, no, no. Not now. Not when I’m so close…
A reckless idea takes root in my lust-addled brain. “Walk me up to my
apartment,” I command, beyond caring how needy I sound. If he leaves me
hanging again like he did this morning, I might lose it.
He chuckles as he rubs the back of his hand across my flushed cheek.
“Whatever my little queen wishes, she gets.”
His eyes scan me, confirming no part of me is exposed, then he opens
the partition and instructs Alfred not to wait for him. With that, he opens the
back door, and I stumble out after him, feeling like I’m stepping off a roller
coaster.
“Whoa, you good?” he asks, grabbing my arms to steady me.
Hell no, I’m not good. I’m a mess of quivering limbs and burning
desire.
“Yes,” I mumble, failing miserably to keep the shakiness from my
voice.
He gives me a moment to find my balance before guiding me into the
building. As soon as we’re in the elevator, I’m on him. My hands fist in his
shirt, my body seeking his heat, and he chuckles again, bringing his hand to
my waist, “Easy, amorina.”
Frustration boils over, and I groan, dropping my face into his chest. His
free hand slides into my hair and massages my scalp in soothing circles, but
the tender gesture only makes me crave him more.
“Stop. Teasing. Me.”
“Teasing?” he echoes, amusement coloring his tone.
An eternity passes before the elevator finally opens on my floor, and I
practically drag him out and down the hallway, consumed by a singular
thought: I need him now. Now. Now. Now. My hands shake as I fumble
through my purse, cursing under my breath until I finally fish out my keys
and manage to unlock the door.
As I lock the door behind us, Rafael surveys the living room like a hawk
on the hunt, then he quickly goes into the kitchen, and finally the bedroom.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was on a mission to sniff out potential
danger, not that I care—I’m too busy trying not to explode.
I kick off my heels, padding after him on unsteady legs. The skin of my
inner thighs rubs together with each step, adding to my pleasure. At this
point, if he even just looks at me the right way, I might come. I’m that close
to the edge.
In my bedroom, he methodically checks the closet and ensuite before
turning to face me with a predatory grin stretching across his face.
“Now I’ve got you all to myself.” He stalks towards me, and as his
hands sink into my hair, I moan, tilting my head back in eager anticipation
of his kiss.
He doesn’t disappoint.
His lips crash against mine, and my world explodes. Electric heat surges
through my body, a wildfire ready to reduce me to ash. The heady scent of
his cologne wraps around my skin, clouding my senses until all I know is
Rafael.
“Rafael,” I moan softly, my arms twining around his neck as I return his
kiss with all my pent-up frustration. “Is this a dream?”
A low growl leaves his throat, and he breaks the kiss. “There are no
dreams anymore, amorina. Only nightmares. But don’t worry, I’ll protect
you. I’ll make sure you enjoy the darkness. Understand?”
“What-what are you talking about?”
“This.”
In a flash, he grabs my arms off his neck and spins me around, walking
us forward until my chest is pressed tightly against the wall. “No.
Touching,” he rasps, nipping at the shell of my ear.
I push back into him, relishing the groan that escapes his lips as my ass
presses against his erection. His head drops to my neck, his tongue tracing a
hot path before he sucks the sensitive flesh into his mouth. The suction goes
straight to my core, and I moan wantonly, arching my neck to grant him
better access.
He adjusts his grip, capturing both my wrists in one large hand, while
his free hand snakes around my body, cupping my tit and kneading the flesh
until I’m writhing against him desperately, my fists opening and closing
involuntarily under his hold.
Then slowly, his hand descends until he’s cupping my pussy again. Stars
explode behind my eyelids the instant he starts grinding the heel of his palm
against my clit.
“Rafael.” His name falls from my lips again in a breathy groan as I feel
my entire being set ablaze with every movement of his hand.
 “You’re drenched for me, amorina. So fucking wet, you’re soaking my
hand through your panties.” His words take a while to compute, and when I
realize he’s speaking Italian, a fresh wave of arousal slams into me. Fuck,
that’s so hot.
His touch abandons my core and returns to my wrists. With a firm grip,
he lifts both my hands up and places them on the wall on either side of my
head. “Keep them there. If they move away from that wall, I’m stopping.”
My fingers curl against the threat.
“You better not fucking stop,” I pant.
His hands move swiftly, unzipping my dress and unhooking my bra like
he’s done it a thousand times. He’s forced to briefly lift my hands off the
wall so I can shrug off the dress, and I can’t resist teasing him. “You
promised to stop if I moved, remember?”
Without warning, his palm comes down on my ass. The sharp sting
blooms into a delicious warmth that spreads over my burning skin, leaving
me grinning as he guides my hands back in place, my cheek pressed against
the cool surface.
“Happy?” he grunts.
“Not yet.”
“Don’t test me, amorina. You won’t like the results.”
“Says who?”
He taps my inner thighs, and I lift my legs obligingly, allowing him to
pull the dress away. Once it’s gone, his palm glides up from my ankle to my
ass, followed by feather-light kisses that leave tingles in their wake. When
he reaches my raw cheek, he nuzzles against it, then bites into the tender
flesh—hard.
“Says me.”
I yelp at the jolt of pain, but he’s quick to soothe it with his tongue by
laving the spot until the sharp burn morphs into a pleasure so intense it
makes my toes curl.
“Fuck.”
Fuck is right.
Still buzzing from the aftershocks, I barely notice when his fingers dip
under my panties and slide them down. My legs lift on autopilot, one after
the other, eager to be freed from the damp silk. Glancing back, I catch him
just in time, raising the soaked material to his nose, inhaling deeply. My
head spins as he rumbles out a pleased groan.
 “Intoxicating,” he murmurs, pocketing my underwear like a trophy he
just won.
I gulp audibly as he rises, excitement bubbling up in sync with his
hands dragging up my skin until he’s right where I need him the most.
When he parts my folds, a soft gasp escapes me, immediately followed by
heat flooding my cheeks at the obscene squelching sounds that fill the air.
I’m so wet, it’s practically dripping down my leg—how the hell did I get
this turned on?
His thumb rolls over my swollen clit, and I groan, goosebumps erupting
all over my body again. The rustle of clothes behind me catches my
attention, and I peek back to see him unbuckling his belt and shoving down
his pants. A delicious thrill runs down my spine.
“Are you on birth control?” he asks.
Before I can answer, his cock springs free, and my mouth instantly
floods with saliva. Holy mother of all that’s unholy. My eyes widen,
drinking in the sight of his impressive manhood—thick, sinewy, and
pulsating with raw animalistic desire.
“Are you on birth control, Emilia?” he repeats, more insistent this time.
There’s an edge to his voice now, a barely contained urgency that makes my
insides clench with anticipation.
But still, it takes me a few more moments to process the question, my
brain foggy with lust and spinning like a hamster on a wildly out-of-control
wheel. “Yes,” I manage to say. “I’m on the shot.”
“Good.” He grunts approvingly and pats my inner thigh. My legs part
for him instinctively, and he steps closer, notching the broad crown of his
cock against my entrance. He glances down at me, and at the same moment,
I glance up. Our eyes meet.
Then something magical happens.
For the first time in my life, I’m unable to look away from someone’s
gaze. It’s like staring into the heart of a storm—dangerous, thrilling, and
utterly mesmerizing. My brain tingles, a familiar pressure building behind
my eyes. But this time, the pain doesn’t come. Instead, he thrusts into me,
and my jaw goes slack as indescribable pleasure surges through my veins.
But even as my body is consumed by sensation, I can’t look away from
his eyes. I don’t want to.
I’m seeing someone—truly seeing them—and being seen in return.
 I stare at him in wonder, mouth agape, toes curling as he pushes fully
into me. “Your eyes are turning dark blue,” I whisper, marveling at the play
of emotions in his stare. He wants me. He really wants me. His cock is hard
as hell inside of me, but his eyes… they hold a depth that goes beyond lust.
There’s hunger there, for sure, but also something softer, something that
makes my heart ache.
Without conscious thought, my hands leave the wall, drawn to his face
like a moth to flame. I place my palm on his cheek, and his cock twitches
inside me as his jaw tightens, his eyes going heavy-lidded. Huh. Well, that’s
interesting.
Fascinated, I start exploring his face—the firm curve of his lips, the
crooked tip of his nose, his thick brows, and finally, finally, my fingers sink
into his hair.
Oh. Oh wow.
“So soft,” I whisper, threading through the silky strands and over his
scalp. His eyes snap shut, and a sound almost like a purr rumbles through
his chest. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a ravenous, savage hunger
in them, but somehow, it doesn’t overshadow the affection I still see
simmering beneath.
My heart flutters.
This is dangerous, a small voice in the back of my mind warns. You’re
getting in too deep.
But my curiosity flares, and I lean in, ready to bury my nose in his hair
and breathe him in.
“Hold the fucking wall, Emilia.”
I jolt at the command, dislodging his cock inside me. With a growl, he
captures my wandering hands and press them firmly back against the wall,
linking his fingers over mine as he thrusts into me again. I cry out, my head
smacking against the wall and breaking the fierce connection between our
eyes. But I don’t feel the pain.
All I feel is him.
I hold onto the wall for dear life, pressing my cheek against it as he
pounds into me relentlessly. Each thrust sends shockwaves of ecstasy
rippling through my entire being, building and building like a tsunami about
to break. He hunches over my back, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses
over my cheek and down my neck.
 Then suddenly he adjusts his stance and pushes up at an angle that has
his cock dragging over my g-spot just right, and oh god, oh god, oh god⁠—
My vision whites out. Bright lights burst behind my lids, and I’m lost to
the scorching pleasure ravaging my body, leaving nothing but raw, all-
consuming sensation in its wake. His name rips from my mouth as my
orgasm crashes over me in endless waves.
And he isn’t far behind. With a guttural growl, he curses in rapid Italian
I can barely decipher as he joins me, filling me up with his hot cum.
“Dio mio, sei incredible. Mi fai impazzire,” I catch through the haze.
My God, you’re incredible. You drive me crazy.
I shudder around him as he collapses against me, pressing me even
harder into the wall, our fingers still tightly interlaced.
For what feels like an eternity, I can’t hear or see a damn thing. My
heart is beating so fast and hard, I swear it’s trying to leap out of my throat.
Each breath is a desperate gasp, my chest heaving as I cling to the remnants
of pleasure.
Then, like a cruel slap to reality, a phone starts shrilling through the air.
My body goes rigid when I recognize the tune.
It’s my ringtone for Stacey.
Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
Rafael pushes away from me, releasing my hand and pulling out with
one last, tender kiss to my cheek. I remain sagged against the wall, legs
trembling, while he tugs his pants back up. My mind spins and panic
squeezes my chest. Still, some part of me can’t help but note—he didn’t
even strip fully. Just his cock. And honestly, that was enough. More than
enough.
“You good?” he asks, his hand running down my spine as he glances at
me in concern. The touch should be comforting, but all it does is amplify
the whirlwind of emotions inside me. My mouth is cottony, and my throat
feels tight, so I just nod. “Do you need me to get that for you?” He gestures
towards my purse on the floor, where my phone continues its insistent
chorus.
Oh hell no. My eyes widen in pure horror, and I push away from the
wall. “No!” The word bursts out of me. I move too quickly, and my knees
give out instantly. But before I can crumple into a pathetic puddle on the
floor, Rafael’s strong hands are there—steady, firm, saving me from myself.
Again.
 “Careful,” he scolds, his face pulled in a tight scowl. “I won’t get your
phone if you don’t want me to. I need to leave anyway.”
But I barely hear him. My attention is now wholly focused on my
ringing phone, so all I manage is another absent nod.
“Think about my offer, okay?” His voice drops softer as he brushes a
hand down my cheek before releasing me. When he’s sure I can stand on
my own, he takes a step back, and with a last lingering look, he leaves the
room.
Don’t go, I want to cry out. But I bite my tongue. This is for the best.
This is what needs to happen.
I have a job to do. I can’t let my feelings—or libido—get in the way.
Seconds later, the front door slams shut—right as my phone goes silent.
But relief doesn’t last. It just starts ringing again. “Oh, for crying out
loud,” I groan, snatching my purse from the floor and fishing out the damn
thing. I clear my throat several times, desperately trying to compose myself
before finally answering.
“Hello?”
“I was worried something might have happened to you,” Stacey’s voice,
laced with concern, hits me hard. And there it is—shame. Red-hot and
burning through me like acid, eating away at the afterglow of the most
intense sexual experience of my life. What the hell did I just do?
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” I repeat, as much for myself as for her. “I couldn’t
answer because he was with me. But he just left.”
“How was dinner?”
I bite my lip, torn between duty and the desire to keep this night for
myself. But I can’t keep it. This is my mission, after all. Bile creeps up my
throat as I recount the mundane details of our dinner conversation and
Rafael’s proposal. But there’s no way I’m mentioning what just happened at
my apartment. That’s too personal, too raw. The memory belongs to me and
me alone.
“Very good,” Stacey approves. “Things are going even better than I
expected. You’re definitely going to accept his offer, Emily. It will help put
you closer to him.”
I make a noncommittal sound, and she praises me for a job well done,
expressing her eagerness to hear more from me. By the time she finishes
talking, my nausea has piled up to the back of my throat, and I have to
breathe through my mouth.
 The moment the call ends, I bolt for my ensuite, where my fancy dinner
makes a violent reappearance. But it’s not the act of betraying Rafael that
leaves me retching—but because I have to do it again. And again. And
again, until I’ve succeeded.
Because it’s my job.
Because I need to prove his innocence.
Because I’m already desperate to see him again.

OceanofPDF.com
 5
RAFAEL

“Now that the first phase of our takeover is complete, we need to clamp
down on our boroughs. No cracks, no loose ends. Anyone who even thinks
about challenging us needs to piss their pants at the mere thought.” My
voice rings out in the conference room.
I scan the faces of my brothers, my eyes lingering on each one. Maximo
nods, his dark eyes focused on me from across the table. Next to him,
Michael’s fingers fly over his laptop keyboard, his brow furrowed in
concentration. The constant click-clack grates on my nerves.
For fuck’s sake, is he even listening?
“Michael,” I growl “You with us, or should I send a search party into
that tech-addled brain of yours?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, waving a hand dismissively without tearing
his blue eyes from the screen. “Sorry, bro, this is a make-or-break moment
for HartSphere. Our first app is about to go live, and I need to squash as
many bugs as possible before launch.”
I feel a vein throb in my temple. “Oh, of course. By all means, let’s put
this meeting on hold while you play tech wizard. I’m sure our enemies will
be as patient. Heaven forbid all the hard work you spent developing this
groundbreaking gaming app goes to waste.”
I expect my sarcasm to fly right over his head—he’s usually oblivious
when he’s working—but his fingers freeze mid-keystroke, and he looks up,
frowning at me.
 “You’re either fully in, or you’re out, Michael,” I remind him. “There’s
no straddling the fence in our world.”
“And I am fully in, Rafael.” He gives his laptop one last longing look
before closing it with a sigh that sounds like it’s torn from his very soul.
“Thank you,” I nod at him, knowing full well the herculean effort it
took for him to disconnect. HartSphere is his baby. He just started the
company, and he’s determined to make everything go right. It’s a single-
minded drive I understand all too well.
“Right, just make it snappy,” Michael grumbles, sliding his gaze to his
phone, which lights up on the desk. Don’t you dare. But he surprises me
again and doesn’t reach for it.
“Fantastic. Now that we’re all—” The words die in my throat as the
door flies open with a bang. I’m on my feet in an instant, ready to tear into
whoever dared interrupt us, but my anger fizzles out when I see who it is. A
grin splits my face as I wave away my anxious-looking secretary hovering
behind our unexpected guest. “Fratello! You decided to grace us with your
presence after all.”
Romero’s piercing green eyes land on me briefly before moving to our
other brothers. “I see the gang’s all here. Quite the mess you’ve made of the
city, boys.”
Maximo chuckles, “What’s wrong, Romero? Pissed you missed out on
all the fun?”
I sink back into my chair as Romero strides further into the conference
room and claims the seat next to Michael. “Is your offer still on the table,
Raf?” he asks.
“Always,” I reply without hesitation, leaning forward.
Two months ago, I seized control of our old town—Piccola Italia, aka
Little Italy. High on victory and craving even more, I reached out to my
brothers and invited them to join me at the high table. After all, what fun is
there in owning a city this big if I can’t share the power with the people I
trust most in this godforsaken world?
I thought they’d jump at the chance. Both Maximo and Michael did, but
Romero… he wasn’t as eager. Fresh off starting his shiny career as a
hotshot criminal lawyer, he couldn’t quite stomach the idea of joining the
other side. Until now, it seems.
What changed, fratello?
 “Good.” He opens his briefcase, pulls out a thick manilla folder, then
slides it across the table to me. “I want in, but on one condition.”
“Name it,” I say, my finger drumming a restless beat on the folder. I’m
curious to see what’s inside, but I’m even more curious about his condition.
What could possibly make Mr. Straight-and-Narrow abandon his precious
ethics?
“I need your help—all of you—to bring a sick criminal to justice.”
I don’t point out the irony of asking us for help, but Maximo does. Of
course he does. “Some would consider us the sick criminals.”
Michael rolls his eyes. “Speak for yourself, stronzo. I might dabble in a
few criminal activities, but that doesn’t make me sick.”
Maximo straightens, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he zeroes in on
Michael. Before he can start something, I rap my knuckles on the table.
“Let Romero speak.”
“You guys are different from this psycho,” Romero says, his voice tight
with disgust. “You have codes you stick to, honor. But he doesn’t. No code,
no honor, no limits. He’s going after kids, Raf. Le ragazze.”
The temperature in the room plummets. If there’s one thing that unites
us, it’s our hatred for cowards who prey on women and children.
“Little girls?” Michael’s face darkens. “That twisted fuck. Spill it. Every
detail.”
“Over the past two months, more than a dozen girls have disappeared
from the city,” Romero explains. “And each time a new one is taken, the
previously missing victim turns up… minus a few body parts. Open the
folder.”
Michael and Maximo crowd behind, peering over my shoulders as I flip
it open. Ice floods my veins at the first image. Behind me, Maximo lets
loose a string of curses.
A small, broken body lies discarded by a river bank, mutilated beyond
recognition. Her stomach has been cut open, showing that her intestines,
heart, and other inner organs are gone, leaving nothing but a gaping hole.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Every single girl ends up like this,” Romero continues, his voice
hollow. I look up at him as I close the folder. I don’t need to see more. I’ll
be seeing that image in my nightmares for weeks. “I suspect someone’s
making a tidy little profit selling their parts on the dark web. But the bastard
is slippery, always one step ahead of the law. If playing by the rules won’t
nail him, I’m prepared to throw the damn rulebook out the window.”
Michael stalks back to his seat and flips open his laptop with renewed
purpose. His fingers fly across the keys with a ferocious look on his face.
“If this piece of shit’s selling their parts on any part of the web, I’ll find
him. And when I do…”
“We’ll make him wish he was never born,” Maximo finishes, dropping
heavily into the seat next to Michael.
I turn back to Romero, studying him carefully. “Are you saying once we
bag this bastard, you’ll bail on us again?” I ask, and Michael stops typing to
glance at him.
Romero holds my gaze. “No. I want the power and authority that comes
with the underworld. There are too many loopholes in the system, too many
rules in the law that only aid and coddle monsters. I’m going to put an end
to their reign of terror, one way or another.”
I grin at him. Everything’s finally clicking into place. I have my city,
my brothers, and my woman. Emilia. Just thinking her name sends a jolt of
electricity through me. My grin widens as memories of last night flash
through my mind.
I need to get her to accept my proposal and move into my apartment
where I can keep her safe. Because once words get out about her, she’ll be
in danger. I’ve pissed off a lot of people during my rise to power, and
they’ll jump at any chance to hurt me. I’ll be damned if I let anyone use
Emilia to get to me.
As if he can hear what’s going on in my head, Michael’s gaze shifts to
me. “You know one thing I’m great at, Rafael? Multitasking. Want me to
look for Em while I hunt our sicko?”
Romero and Maximo perk up, suddenly laser-focused on me. My heart
swells seeing how much they care about Emilia. To them, she’s more than
just my girl— she’s a sorellina, the little sister they never had.
So it’s with a light heart that I announce, “No need for that, Michael.
I’ve already got her. And soon, she’ll be by my side, ruling this city as my
Queen.”

OceanofPDF.com
 6
EMILIA

Dark voices overlap in hushed, rapid Italian. I’m too busy trying to force
air through my nose to decipher their words, but their malevolent intent is
crystal clear. My heart’s a wild animal, thrashing against my ribcage as I
claw desperately towards a freedom I know is just a cruel mirage. I’m
trapped, and in too much pain to run.
Help me!
The plea echoes deafeningly in my skull, but what comes out is only a
weak, pitiful whimper. Behind me, someone chuckles, and I whimper again,
digging my nails into the cold, unyielding floor, desperate for any
semblance of grip.
Another chuckle, closer this time.
No. No. Please, no.
Then an icy, meaty hand clamps around my ankle. I shriek and⁠—
I jolt upright with a scream tearing from my throat.
My face is on fire, my heart pounding viciously, and my body won’t
stop shaking. Drenched in sweat, I sit in bed, gasping for breath.
It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare.
It wasn’t real.
No. It was real. Once.
Six years ago, that nightmare was my reality.
And still, it refuses to let me go.
 Hugging my knees to my chest, I start rocking side to side, my eyes
flying around the room as I try to ground myself in the present.
Christmas lights. Fireplace. Green curtains. My purse on the dresser.
The vanity. The closet. Sneakers by the door. The wall mirror.
I breathe. In, out.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, my breath evens out, and the shaking eases
as I catalog the things I can see.
I’m not back there anymore. I’m in my room. Safe.
This nightmarish ritual has tormented me every single night since It
happened. And it got so bad that that Stacey insisted I see a shrink—Lana.
Sweet, well-meaning, utterly clueless Lana. As if talk therapy and pills
could exorcise these demons. But she did give me one useful tool. This
grounding technique. Because sometimes, in those first disorienting
moments of waking up, it’s damn near impossible to convince myself that
I’m not still there. To remind myself that Rafael showed up when he did,
pissed as hell, ready to tear the place apart when he saw what was going on.
That he cared enough to save me when everyone else was just getting their
sick kicks.
And I owe him for that.
I blow out a long, shaky breath as my skin finally begins to cool and my
heart rate normalizes. Shit, I slept so well last night, wrapped in the
afterglow of what happened between Rafael and me, despite my self-
loathing, that falling right back into my nightmare makes me a little bitter.
One night of peace, then bam—straight back to the horror show.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and the sudden noise makes me
jump. Jesus Christ.
Frowning, I scoot to the side and pick it up. My eyes narrow at the
screen. 6 AM, and a message from an unknown number. What the hell?
This isn’t my secured line for contacting Stacey, but I haven’t given this
number out to anyone. So who could be texting me at this ungodly hour?
Curiosity piqued, I unlock the phone to read the message.
UNKNOWN
Meet me at the address below. 8PM. Don’t be late, amorina, or
else…

An address follows the cryptic line, and despite the ominous “or else,”
I’m already smiling, warmth spreading through me like sunshine after a
storm. It’s Rafael. I quickly save his number and text him back.
I don’t remember giving you my number. Stalker much?

My smile fades as realization hits me. If anyone’s the stalker here, it’s
me. Sure, I didn’t have to track him down or anything, but my entire
mission is to monitor his every move. My heart squeezes when I remember
my call with Stacey.
It’s only been a few days, but she’s getting impatient with my lack of
intel. Another girl was taken last night. I pointed out that Rafael was with
me, so there’s no way it could have been him. Her response? Look up the
term ‘accomplices’, sweetheart.
My phone vibrates with another message.
RAFAEL
Is it stalking if I’m simply taking what’s mine? Don’t be late
tonight Emilia.

My heart does a little stutter-step as I remember his proposal. “He’s lost

his damn mind,” I murmur to myself. Who proposes after just two days of
reconnecting? I’m no longer the Emilia he once knew.
I bite my lip slightly at that bitter truth and scroll up our chat to study
the address he sent. My blood turns to ice, lips parting as recognition slams
into me. No. No fucking way. It’s that place. The place of my nightmares.
Why would he want to meet me there? What sick game is he playing?
I blink hard, sure I’ve misread. But no, the same cursed address is
staring back at me.
What is he thinking? What’s he thinking?
There’s absolutely no way in hell I’m setting foot in that place again.
No chance.
Not for anyone—not even Rafael.

My fingers dig into the steering wheel, knuckles white as I peer at the dark
road ahead of me with trepidation. No streetlights. Not since two blocks
back. Yep. Even they were too scared to venture further…
“This is insane,” I mutter.
 When I went to the car rental service to rent this Corolla, I told myself it
was just more practical having my own wheels while I’m in the city. No
point wasting money on taxis, right? But it was a lie.
Deep down, I knew. Knew exactly where this Corolla would end up
taking me.
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to turn tail and flee. Eyes fixed on the
stretch of pitch-black road, pierced only by my headlights, my mind goes
into a frenzy. Seriously, what am I doing here?
I swore I’d never come back to this godforsaken place. We all did, six
years ago when it happened, didn’t we? I’m terrified, of not just what I’ll
find, but of how I’ll react. Of the memories that threaten to drown me.
What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?
Lana, in all her infinite wisdom, had once suggested revisiting the scene
might be ‘cathartic’, and I’d nearly thrown my coffee in her face. So, why
the hell am I heading there right now?
Because Rafael asked you to. No, commanded.
Because even though he might be a criminal now, even though he might
now be one of the monsters that nearly destroyed me years ago, some
stupid, naïve part of me still trusts him. I trust him.
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,” I chant, pressing down on the gas. Then some
kind of weird miracle happens. As I round the corner onto that fateful street,
the lights suddenly flicker to life, almost blinding me. I squint until my eyes
adjust to the new flood of light, and damn it, at least now I can see where
the hell I’m going beyond my windscreen. Doesn’t make me feel much
better, though.
I’m almost there. Almost. Just a few more seconds, and I’ll let Rafael
have it, give him a piece of my mind and⁠—
“What the actual fuck?”
My jaw drops as I drive up to my destination. Did I take a wrong turn? I
glance around the street in confusion, but no, I’m at the right place. Even if
I hadn’t been reliving this hellscape in my dreams the past few years, I’d
remember it. That’s the curse and blessing of having a brain that’s wired
like mine—I rarely forget anything.
But what is this?
Where there should be a crumbling warehouse, a hub of nightmares and
criminal activity, there’s a… supermarket? A massive, gleaming
supermarket. Huh? But when my gaze locks onto the name blazoned across
the front, my heart does a complicated little dance, and I know it was all
Rafael’s doing.
AZALEA’S.
My middle name. He built a goddamn supermarket with my name on it.
Right where my world shattered into a million pieces. I pinch myself, hard,
because this has to be some kind of twisted dream. But nope, I’m awake.
And I’m out. I’m not doing this. I can’t do this. I’m about to throw the
car into reverse, sanity finally kicking in, when my phone chimes.
Rafael: Three minutes to eight. The door is unlocked, piccola. I’m
waiting.
In that very instant, I understand just how worried I should be about the
hold Rafael has on me. Because despite my reservations, my better
judgment, and okay, fear, I’m parking and out of the car.
I need answers.
My brain starts buzzing with agitation as I approach the supermarket,
but I try to drown out the panic by admiring the strong, modern structure.
Maybe it’s not so bad, a small voice whispers, to have something named
after you. A middle finger to the demons of the past.
I pause in front of the thick, double glass doors, taking a bracing breath
before pushing them open.
Inside, darkness greets me, broken only by the faint glow of street lights
filtering through the windows. A shiver of unease snakes down my spine. I
stand stock-still, forcing air into my lungs as I squint at the signs hovering
above the shelves. Each aisle is meticulously labeled, but it’s the mistletoe
dangling from the ceiling that makes me frown.
On my right, the checkout registers sit in eerie silence, and next to them
an enormous Christmas tree looms ominously in the empty space. It should
feel festive, but in the deserted supermarket, it just feels… wrong. My skin
prickles. Through the dim lighting, I can make out bright, cheerful cherry
walls, and beneath my feet the once grime-covered concrete floor is now
gleaming tile, polished to a shine that reflects the faint light.
It’s all wrong. Nothing at all like the gloomy warehouse that once
served as a criminal hotbed. Now, it’s been cleaned, dressed up in a false
mask of normalcy. But I can feel it. Underneath the fresh paint and shiny
surfaces, the memories are still here… buried but not forgotten.
A dark chill settles at the base of my spine as I walk deeper inside, eyes
darting around with every sense on high alert. Suddenly, a huge, monstrous
shadow appears in front of me, and my heart jumps to my throat. Fear
skitters through my body like phantom nails racking down my skin as the
monster approaches me.
I don’t think—there’s no time. Training kicks in, overriding terror. My
hand flies to my holster as I plant my feet, refusing to give ground. In one
fluid motion, I pull out my gun, flick off the safety, and aim directly at the
monster’s heart.
“Stop right there!” I command, proud that my voice comes out strong.
But the shadow keeps advancing until the tip of my gun is pressed
against solid flesh. Then… it chuckles.
“Very brave, amorina.”
Rafael.
A dizzying wave of relief hits me, and I sway a little as I take a step
back from him, lowering my weapon and flipping the safety back on.
“You’re sick,” I hiss, willing my heart to crawl out of my throat and back
into my chest where it belongs.
What the hell is wrong with him? Luring me here, to the source of my
deepest traumas, only to try and scare the living crap out of me? And what
the hell is wrong with me that now, with the fear receding, a familiar heat
begins to simmer low in my belly?
“We’ll talk about how quickly and efficiently you pulled that gun out
later,” he comments, sending alarm bells off in my brain. Shit. Shit. Shit.
The Emilia he used to know didn’t even know how to hold a gun. I just
slipped up. Big time.
Before I can spiral into all-out panic about potentially blowing my
cover, he continues. “But right now, we have more important things to
discuss. Have you thought about my offer?”
I roll my eyes, trying to mask my relief as I re-holster my gun. “Is that
why you dragged me back to this cursed place?”
“It’s not cursed anymore. I cleared up the ashes of your nightmare and
made it into something new—a place where people can find happiness.”
My heart stutters, swelling in my chest as I watch him in the half-light. I
already knew he did it for me, but hearing him confirm it… “Why would
you do that?”
“Because I couldn’t stand to have the ground remain the same after
what happened. That’s not why we’re here, though. I want to add to my
offer. I know you still have nightmares about that night. I want to make
them stop. What if I told you I could do that for you?”
I stare at him, caught between disbelief and a desperate, aching hope.
“Unless you’re planning to slice my head open and reorganize my brain, I
don’t see how, Rafael.” God knows I’ve tried everything else. Before
Stacey settled on Lana, she’d paraded me in front of every top-tier shrink in
the city. None of them could exorcise my demons.
His lips twitch, but he says nothing. So I cross my arms, impatience
building, and with a bite of sarcasm, I push, “Well? How?”
No reply—Just his gaze traveling up and a sly smile stretching wider.
My nerves instantly start buzzing.
What now?
He gestures above me, silent as ever, and I tilt my head back with a
frown. I’m standing directly beneath one of the aisle signs. It reads:
‘A1:A2--cold beer, soft drinks, sports drinks, bottled water.’
But that’s not what he’s pointing at.
Oh.
Oh God.

OceanofPDF.com
 7
EMILIA

He’s pointing at the mistletoe dangling just below the sign, and my frown
deepens. When I glance back at him, I’m startled by how close he suddenly
is. “What—what does the mistletoe have to do with anything?”
Rather than answering, Rafael just closes the impossibly small gap
between us, sending my heart back into a wild, frantic rhythm. His fingers
sink into my hair, tilting my head back, and in that moment, time seems to
slow as his head descends, then⁠—
Bam! His lips slam into mine with a possessive force that steals every
bit of air from my lungs. The kiss is fierce, like he’s claiming me. His
tongue battles mine for dominance, and I can’t help but surrender as his
arms lock me tight against his rock-hard chest.
Oh. My. God.
A strangled moan escapes my throat, only to get swallowed by his
ravenous mouth. My body ignites, every nerve firing with pleasure.. I
should push him away, demand answers—but I’m gone, melting into him,
my bones liquefying as I become nothing but heat and want, completely at
his mercy.
Rafael groans, his grip tightening in my hair as the kiss turns harder,
more feverish. His other hand slides down my back, grabbing a fistful of
my ass through my slacks, and I mentally curse. I should’ve worn a dress.
His lips break from mine and start branding a fiery line over my face,
teeth nipping as he journeys down my neck. I gasp when he pulls the
sensitive skin of my throat into his mouth and bites. Hard. Enough to blur
the line between pain and pleasure
Fuck. My pulse roars in my ear, each thump echoing the pain-pleasure
sensations that ricochet through me. I lose all sense of control, and my arms
shoot around his back, desperate for more contact. But he goes rigid,
pinning my arms at my sides, and I groan in frustration that he keeps
denying me the chance to touch him. “Rafael, please.”
His eyes snap to mine, those silvery depths swirling with dark, primal
emotion, drawing me in like a magnet. My breath hitches as he slowly falls
to his knees, never breaking the magnetic pull. “Keep your eyes on mine,”
he commands. But really, I’m so entranced, I couldn’t look away even if I
wanted to.
My brain skitters, still high on a mix of drugging pleasure and lingering
pain, while he undoes the buttons of my pants and lets them pool around my
ankles. The cool air rushes in, teasing my skin and making me gasp as he
drags my panties down, too. Then, his hands clench my ass and pull me to
him until I’m practically hovering over him.
Oh sweet baby Jesus, is he really going to⁠—
My hands dive into his hair, clutching him for balance as he settles
between my thighs. “Rafael, I–”
“Shh,” he murmurs, blowing a hot breath through my folds. That one
breath sends a thrill of electricity zipping through my body, and I can’t hold
back a moan. My eyes flutter shut in pure bliss. “Open your eyes.”
And I obey, though it takes effort. He hums in approval, then presses his
face to my cunt, breathing me in like I’m the sweetest flower. Holy shit. The
first swipe of his tongue has me whimpering, my fingers clenching in his
hair for dear life.
Another hum rumbles from his chest. “Hmm, delicious.”
The flat of his tongue glides through my folds, sending shudders
through my body. Just when I think I can’t take anymore, he swirls over my
swollen clit, making me cry out. But he doesn’t linger. No, the playful
devil’s already moving on, circling my entrance, teasing me wickedly.
I tense in anticipation, and then—oh fuck—he stiffens his tongue and
pushes it into me. My eyes slam shut, my head falls back, and I shout his
name to the fucking ceiling.
He growls in response, a primal sound that vibrates through my core
and sparks a wild firestorm of need in my veins. Holy hell, this man knows
how to set me off. Fuck being quiet. My brain short-circuits as he tightens
his hold on my ass and devours me, his tongue plunging deep inside my
pulsing cunt.
In and out, he thrusts, over and over, a relentless rhythm that drives me
closer to the edge. “Yes, Rafael. Right there, baby. Yes. Yes. Yess,” I pant,
chasing my pleasure like a woman possessed.
He angles his head, one hand leaving my hip, then his lips are on my
clit. Oh hell, yes. He sucks me into his mouth like an expert; like he knows
exactly how to ruin me. And my God, he does. Suddenly, two fingers join
the assault, plunging deep into my wet sheath. And my whole body goes
haywire—ecstasy flooding every nerve, hot and electric. The pad of his
fingers curls right around the bundle of nerves that’s my G-spot, stroking it
mercilessly.
Then it hits. My fingers tangle deeper in his hair, and my mouth opens
in a silent scream before his name bursts out, loud and ragged. “Rafael!”
My vision blurs to white, and all I can hear is a drum in my ears. Holy shit,
I’m going to break. Pleasure detonates within me, each burst harder than the
last. My knees buckle, and light flashes behind my closed lids.
Before I can crumble, he grabs me, grunting as I sprawl over his body,
pushing him to the floor. His arms tighten on my waist for a moment, his
hard cock pressing into my belly. But then, with this controlled strength, he
flips me gently onto my back. The cool tile against my heated skin only
heightens my pleasure as he crawls down to settle between my thighs again.
One hand snakes up my belly to knead my breast, twirling and twisting
my nipple as he sucks my clit. I writhe beneath him, my back arching
sharply off the floor as I moan. He tightens his suction on my clit and
thrusts his fingers inside me again, rubbing insistently on my G-spot, and it
feels so good I can barely breathe. Each stroke sends aftershocks through
me, my body still quaking.
I shove my hands into my hair, screaming his name, my soul bursting
out of my body, soaring to dizzying heights as the pleasure slams into me a
second time. I can’t even—it’s too much, too intense, but I don’t want him
to stop. He’s still there, massaging my breast, fingers deep inside me as he
laps up my cum, stretching out my orgasm until I’m shaking, completely
spent. By the time I open my eyes, I’m floating, the room spinning
pleasantly around me, my pulse a hard thrum in my throat.
 Rafael takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and carefully cleans me
up. It almost makes me laugh. How is he so calm right now? When he’s
done, he pulls my panties and slacks up my legs while I’m still trying to
remember how to move.
“So, as I was saying before I got… distracted,” he starts as he picks me
up like a ragdoll and pulls me into him.
I give him a questioning look, having no idea what the hell he’s talking
about.
“My idea to help you with your nightmares,” he elaborates, and I can
only blink at him some more. He chuckles. “Did I put you in a coma?”
“As if,” I murmur hoarsely, shoving his chest weakly, earning another
chuckle.
He smirks, his eyes glistening playfully as he glances down at me. “Do
you want to hear my idea or not?”
I wave at him to go ahead, and he continues, “I want to reenact that
night with you. You know me, you trust me, and you give me your consent.
But we’ll pretend none of those things are true.”
I study him thoughtfully, trying to process his words, but the only thing
registering in my post-orgasmic haze is that he wants to have sex with me.
Maybe if I hadn’t just come so hard my brain fizzled out, I might be
reacting differently. But right now, my brain is mush, and all I know is that
anything sexual with him will be mind-blowing, even if he’s suggesting…
what exactly? Consensual non–consensual intercourse?
And damn him, I do trust him. More than I have any right to.
“Why would you want to do that?” I ask quietly, a small part of me still
lucid enough to question him.
He shrugs, absentmindedly rubbing his hand over his chest. My eyes
zero in, heat blooming inside me when I realize he’s unconsciously
touching that particular spot. It’s where the scar is. The scar he got when he
saved me. But there’s something else…
“Because I can’t stand seeing you in pain, tormented by nightmares
from that night. I’ve already dealt with those bastards, but I can’t punish
them for still invading your sleep. So, I’m willing to try anything I can to
help you move past it. Plus, it will be hot as hell.” He flashes a roguish grin
as he adds that last part, and I can’t help but smile a little. Rafael has always
had that effect on me.
 “Alright,” I say, my gaze still fixed on the hand rubbing over his chest.
That singular action, more than his words, convinces me.
I might not know much about his life now, but I know this: Rafael will
never hurt me. I know that as surely as I know how to breathe. And as I
agree, heat spreads through my body, concentrating between my legs—as if
I didn’t just almost faint from how hard he already made me cum.
His lips quirk up, “Yeah?”
I nod wordlessly. I’m not entirely sure his plan will work, but the more I
think about it, the hotter I get. I’ve never thought about a rape kink before,
and if someone else had suggested it, I’d be out of the door faster than you
can say ‘hell no’. But Rafael isn’t just anyone.
If I’m being honest with myself—which I’m not—I’d realize that
Rafael has the power to convince me to do just about anything. Instead, I
tell myself I’m only agreeing because I know he’ll make it pleasurable for
me. And hey, if I get a night or two without my usual nightmares, that’s just
a bonus, right?
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Thatta girl.”
With that, Rafael lifts me from his lap, and I feel a mix of
disappointment and surprise as he arranges me on the cool, hard floor.
What’s he up to?
He gets up, and my eyes follow him as he reaches for a wrapped gift
box from one of the shelves and offers it to me.
Where the hell did that come from?
“What’s this?” I frown as I accept it.
“A gift. Open it when you’re alone. I’ll be in touch.” He tilts his head
towards the door, and my heart sinks a little. Wait, he’s leaving already?
My lips part in surprise. “Oh. What about—what about—” I trail off,
too chicken to say it out loud, but he gets what I mean.
He smirks as he hunches down in front of me. “Where would the
surprise be if we acted it out now? It will happen when you least expect it.”
He raises his hand to my face and rubs his thumb across my cheek before
leaning forward to give me a soft, drugging kiss that has my eyelids
fluttering.
He pulls back, still smiling, and helps me to my feet. Then with a final
tap on my ass, he sends me on my way.
 I leave the supermarket, his gift clenched tightly in my arms. Once I’m
in my car, I have to take a moment to gather myself. Then my gaze drops to
the mysterious package and curiosity piques—I need to see what’s in there.
Pulling off the green bow on top, I carefully tear through the wrapper
and lift the cover. A scandalized gasp escapes me when I see what’s inside.
A matching wardrobe of red panties and lace gold bras, all with star
knots—kind of like a ribbon knot across where my nipples would be—and
green suspenders. There are three pairs of the identical lingerie and a note:

Start wearing these tomorrow. Make sure you

always have them on. I want to unwrap that
tight little body when I get my hands on you.

Twin flames warm my cheeks as I finger the sexy underwear. Then I

cover the box up and place it on the passenger seat. With a shaky exhale, I
start the car, mind racing.
Whatever happens next, one thing is clear—Rafael has the power to
turn my world upside down with just a few words. And I’m powerless to
resist.

OceanofPDF.com
 8
RAFAEL

I watch Emilia’s taillights fade into the distance with a mix of satisfaction
and unease churning in my gut. As soon as she’s out of sight, I fish my
phone out of my pocket and dial. It’s time to get some goddamn answers.
“It’s late, Rafael.” Landon, one of the best hackers on my retainer,
grumbles through the speaker. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
I snort. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Besides, it’s barely 9 PM, the night’s
still young, and we’ve got work to do.”
“Let me guess. Emilia Rossi?”
“Bingo. I need you to keep looking into her.”
There’s a short pause on his end, then, “Didn’t you find her? I’m sure
she flew into the city last week; I swear I sent you⁠—”
“Yeah, yeah, I found her.” I cut him off. “But something’s not adding
up. I need you to dig deeper into what she’s been up to for the past five
years.”
My jaw clenches as I replay our encounter. That effortless way she
whipped out her gun—it was too fast, too smooth. Too practiced. Where the
hell did she learn to handle a weapon like that?
Landon sighs heavily. “Alright, alright. I’ll see what I can do and get
back to you next week.”
“No. That’s too long. You have until the end of this week.”
“But—”
“I’m not paying you to take scenic routes, Landon. I want results.”
 I end the call before he can protest, then make my way toward the back
of the supermarket where the security room is.
My mind races as I walk. The pieces don’t fit, and it’s driving me
fucking insane. For years, I couldn’t find a damn thing about her, no matter
how hard I dug. Then suddenly, her records pop up out of nowhere, like
they were just sitting there waiting for me, and they’re so clean. Too clean.
Nah, something’s not right.
I shake my head, still mulling it over as I enter the security room. One
quick swipe and all footage of the last hour is erased. I’m not letting some
curious and overzealous employee get an eyeful of my intimate moment
with Emilia. No one gets to see her fall apart except for me. Satisfied, I
adjust my suit jacket, making sure I look sharp before stepping out.
After locking up the supermarket and setting the alarm, I make my way
around the building to the private lot where my car is parked.
As I get in, my phone vibrates with a text.
MICHAEL
I think I might have found something about our kidnapper.

That has my full attention. Immediately, I dial his number, connecting

my phone to my car’s speaker as I fire up the engine. He answers on the
third ring.
“Christ, Rafael. Ever heard of texting back?” he complains. “I’m
juggling multiple projects here. I can’t afford distractions.”
“Yeah, yeah. Spill it. Tell me what you found.”
“This isn’t the bastard’s first rodeo.” His voice mixes with the familiar
click–clacking of his fingers on the keyboard. “Six years ago, little kids
were snatched off the street following the exact same MO as our man. The
cases were swept under the rug—hardly any media coverage because it was
around the same time detective Rossi was killed. Then the warehouse fire
happened, and… the death of your dad—” He pauses to clear his throat, “I
mean Alfonso.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. I remember that time all too
well. The media was in a frenzy about the death of Emilia’s dad. Everyone
knew my father was behind it, but the son of a bitch had half the city in his
pockets. Cops, politicians, judges—you name it, he owned it. But then a
week later, my dear old dad… died, and the vultures had a field day trying
to piece together who took out the big, bad don.
 It’s no wonder a few missing kids didn’t make the headlines.
My thumb taps on the steering wheel as the gears in my head start
turning. Is it the same guy or a wannabe copycat trying his luck? Someone
who figured the same shit went unnoticed six years ago, so why not do it
again? Nah. This feels too calculated, too deliberate. “It’s the same sick
fuck, isn’t it?”
“Looks that way. I think our man got cocky,” Michael confirms.
“Probably thought with everything going on right now, he could slip under
the radar again.”
That’s his first mistake.
“I also found a pattern to the way his victims are decided,” Michael
continues. “He’s targeting orphanages in the roughest parts of the city.
Places with staff stretched so thin they won’t kick up a fuss over a missing
kid or two. Manhattan alone is full of dumps like that, so he hasn’t hit the
same place twice. Probably think he’s untouchable… But get this—he’s got
a quota. Twelve girls. Same as last time.”
A dozen kids. That motherfucker.
“Bet he didn’t bank on Romero taking an interest in the case,” I mutter.
Michael clicks his tongue. “One thing about him, though—he’s smart.
Very smart. He’s not going after the same places he hit last time, probably
worried someone might remember and connect the dots. But that narrows
down his options. I think I might even know which of the five boroughs
he’ll hit next, but I need a few more hours to nail the exact pattern he’s
using to pick his targets. Once I do, we can set a trap and wait for him.”
“Good. Great job, Michael.”
He grunts. “I want this fucker caught ASAP. No mercy for child killers.”
I hum in agreement. No argument there.
One thing my brothers and I share, despite our different bloodlines, are
the scars left by our heavy–handed fathers—fathers who passed down their
frustrations to their sons with their fists. It’s the glue that first bound us
together all those years ago.
Michael’s dad, ex-senator Rick Hart, might have had the public fooled
with his saintly image—like most of those crooked politicians—but I know
all too well the monster that lurked beneath. A monster that bankrolled my
father and had him do his dirty laundry. Hell, Rick might’ve even been
worse than Alfonso. Because, for all my dad’s flaws, I always knew where I
stood with him. Michael… well, his relationship with his old man was a
whole other brand of messed up.
Shaking off the ghosts of the past, I ask him, “By the way, how did the
launch of your game go?”
Michael’s end goes quiet. No more keyboard clicks. “Are you asking
because you’re curious, Rafael, or because you’re worried my company’s
about to rake in more cash than yours this year? Think you can’t keep up
with me?”
His voice is playful, and I chuckle. “Fuck you. We’re not even in the
same line of business.”
“If you must know,” he says, pride seeping into his tone, “StarQuest
was released without a hitch last night and is already one of the most
downloaded games in the world—and that’s just within twenty–four hours
of its launch. That’s why my schedule is so tight right now. There are so
many people downloading it that I have to constantly make sure it doesn’t
crash… while also trying to incorporate the feedback from our beta testers.”
“Sounds like a good problem to have. You bragging right now,
Michael?”
“Why the fuck are you still on the phone? You’re distracting me.” The
typing resumes, faster than before.
“Yeah, whatever, I’ll let you get back to it. Oh, and Michael?”
“What?”
“Congratulations, fratello. You deserve this.”
There’s a beat of silence, then, “Wow, so touching, Rafael. Hold on
while I grab a box of tissues,” he deadpans.
“Asshole.” I hang up with a chuckle.

OceanofPDF.com
 9
EMILIA

The sound of my footsteps is all that follows me down the hallway. Always
empty. Always quiet. It’s like the walls are mocking me, reminding me how
alone I am.
I sigh, keys fumbling in the lock. It clicks open, and I shoulder my way
inside, box of takeout in hand. As I turn to lock the door, movement flickers
at the edge of my vision. My heart leaps into overdrive, and the takeout
slips out of my hand as I instinctively raise my elbows, bracing for a hit.
But it never comes.
Huh?
Slowly, I lower my guard. The big shadow that caught my eye seems to
have… disappeared? If it was ever there. My brows furrow as I scan the
living room. There’s no way I imagined that. Right?
The only light comes from those stupid Christmas lights that cast weird,
dancing shadows everywhere. Maybe that’s all it was. Still, there’s this
gnawing feeling in my gut, like I’m being watched. But I don’t see a damn
thing.
Just as I’m about to chalk it up to paranoia, a massive shape suddenly
explodes out of the darkness and lunges at me. In the faint light, all I can
make out is a terrifying, skeletal St. Nicholas mask, white beard swaying as
he charges. My scream lodges in my throat, trapped by sheer terror. I try to
back up, but my back is literally to the door. Shit. My gun.
 I reach for it—nothing. Where’s my fucking gun? Of all the times to be
unarmed. What a rookie mistake. No choice now. As the masked figure
reaches for me, survival instincts kick in. I grab his wrists, twisting with
everything I’ve got. When I do, the familiar cologne wafts up to my nose
and silver eyes lock on mine.
Rafael.
He grunts as we grapple for dominance.
My heart keeps thumping, but the rhythm has changed from fear to
something far more thrilling. The memory of our chat at the supermarket
two days ago rushes back, igniting something wild inside me.
This is it. Game on.
I slam my foot into his shin and twist his hands up in an attempt to arch
them over his head. But he’s a solid wall of muscle—too tall, too strong;
doesn’t budge an inch. Sweat rolls down my back, adrenaline bursting
through me as I feint to the right, then duck under his armpit and make a
mad dash for the stairs.
His heavy footsteps echo behind me, spurring me on, my breath coming
in ragged gasps as I push myself to run faster. Just need to reach the
bedroom. Lock him out. Almost there, almost⁠—
His hand snags the back of my shirt and yanks me back into his solid
chest, his arm immediately banding under my heaving breasts. A scream
tears from my throat as he lifts me clean off my feet, my legs kicking
uselessly in the air.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls in my ear. The deep timbre sends an
involuntary shiver rolling down my spine. I writhe and squirm, fighting to
slip free, but his grip is ironclad.
“Listen.” His hot breath grazes the nape of my neck, and I quiver, my
nipples beading almost painfully. “If you want to end this at any time, say
Azaleas. Got it?” He’s giving me a safeword? I’ve never needed one before,
and the fact that he’s giving me one now… my core clenches at the thought.
Oh, hell, this just got a lot more intense. I nod, feeling the anticipation
thrumming in my veins.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“If I want you to stop, I’ll say Azaleas,” I respond.
“Good girl,” he purrs. Then his voice drops to a menacing baritone.
“But let’s be clear—you can say ‘stop’ and ‘no’ all you want. I won’t stop.
Because you want this, don’t you? Practically begged for it when I caught
you staring at me from across the room. That’s what those big honey eyes
said, even as you stood all sweet and innocent next to your little boyfriend.”
The words rumble through his chest as he groans, running his nose through
my hair like he's inhaling me.
Pleasure spikes through me. He’s following a script. Play along.
“No, please,” I say, putting a tremble in my voice just enough to sound
convincing. “My boyfriend will be home soon.”
“Wrong.” His hands slip under my shirt and curl tight around my
breasts, squeezing just shy of pain. My eyes slide shut as sparks rush
through my body, but I press my lips together, forcing myself to swallow
the moan trying to escape—stick to the script. “He won’t be back anytime
soon.”
I let myself go limp in his arms, then inject more fear into my voice.
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing… for now. If you are a good girl and cum pretty for me, I
might even let him go.” He rolls my nipples through my bra. “Have you
been a good girl, or have you been naughty?”
“Someone sent me a bouquet of Azaleas,” I begin, surprised at how
easily the lies follow. “So, I bought a pair of protective gloves, carefully
tore off the petals—you know, the poisonous ones—dried them out, ground
them into fine dust, then… mixed the particles with my coffee grounds.” I
pause for effect, flashing him a sweet smile.
“What are you getting at?” he grunts.
“Well… would you like some coffee before we proceed?”
He chuckles darkly, “Naughty then, huh? I hope for your sake you’re
wrapped up like a delicious little present.”
His grip loosens just enough as he tries to brush my hair from my face,
and I grab the chance, rearing my head back into his chin. He lets me go
with a vicious curse, and I bolt.
“Bitch! You’ll regret that,” he snarls. His voice is menacing, but there’s
something else—something dark and electric that ripples down my spine.
It’s a foreboding sign of payback that fuels my adrenaline. I dash around
my sofa, feet pounding towards my bedroom.
Finally, my hands wrap around the door, and my heart skips with the
thrill of escape as I push it open. Yes! I’m in! Before I can slam it shut,
though, a booted foot wedges in the gap, stopping the door. I glance up, and
his eyes are dark as night with a glint that promises punishment.
 I gulp, instinctively releasing the door to retreat deeper into the room.
I’ve trapped myself. Wetness pools on my panties as he enters with a slow,
deliberate intent, then locks the door behind him.
He strokes the white beard hanging from his chin, watching me with
that predatory calm behind the mask. He knows he’s got me cornered.
As he starts to approach me, I launch myself at him with a feral yell,
fists up like I actually plan to fight. If this were real, I’d go all out—years of
combat training would give me a good shot—but he’s way bigger and
stronger than my sparring partners, and this isn’t an actual altercation. More
importantly… I want him to catch me.
And he does. He grabs my wrists, twists me around, and uses his grip to
shove me forward. Then—click. Cool metal kisses my wrists, followed by
another click.
He handcuffed me. Oh god.
Before I can even process this new development, his hand tangles in my
hair and yanks, hard enough to send sharp stabs of pain down my scalp. My
eyes water as he pulls my head back into him. “You shouldn’t have hit me,”
he growls, nibbling my chin.
“Fuck you.” I moan, voice catching between defiance and lust.
“Do you hear that? Do you make that sweet sound for your boyfriend,
or is that just for me?” He jerks my hair again, pulling even harder, and I
can’t stop the tears rushing down my eyes at the painful sting. Gritting my
teeth, I drive my elbow back into his chest, and he grunts, releasing my hair.
I’m free—for now. My feet barely hit the ground before I’m sprinting
towards the bathroom. But with my hands cuffed behind me, I’m off-
balance and slow. It’s all he needs. He grabs my shirt again, and I scream as
he pushes me down. Pain reverberates through me, my knees hitting the
floor with a jarring thud. But fuck if the pain doesn’t spread out into
pleasure when he pushes me again until I’m forced chest-down on the floor.
Before I can even catch my breath, he’s on me, straddling my body,
trapping my legs between his. “Stay. Fucking. Still,” he growls when I try
to buck him off me like I still have a shot.
Spoiler: I don’t.
Suddenly, something cold and sharp grazes the skin of my back, sending
a shiver through me. I crane my neck to look and—oh shit. My lips part at
the wicked-looking curved knife in his hand. He runs the back of the blade
over my skin again, and I must be out of my mind because it only makes me
wetter.
The tip presses into my shirt, just enough to feel, as he starts dragging it
up until the material rents into two. “You’re wearing the lingerie. Good
girl.”
He moves the knife to the waist of my slacks, and with one swift
motion, he tears them apart, shredding the material and shoving the pieces
away until I’m lying on the floor in just the red and gold lingerie he got me.
My cunt pulses, clenching painfully around nothing while Rafael licks
his lips, watching me with a hooded gaze. Then he tosses his knife aside,
and his hand comes down on my ass with a loud smack. The pain radiates
through me, drawing a ragged cry from my throat.
“That,” he snarls, “is for kicking me and running away, pretending you
don’t want this when your panties are fucking soaked through.”
His hand kneads the flesh of my ass, sending waves of pleasure surging
through my veins. I moan, melting into the floor like I’m ready to surrender.
Then I remember I’m supposed to be fighting. He may have my hands
cuffed and my legs trapped between his, but that doesn’t mean I have to
make it easy for him.
I get even wetter as I renew my struggle, wrestling beneath him. He
spanks my ass again, then fists his hand in my hair, yanking so forcefully
this time that sparks burst behind my eyes. I scream, sensations exploding
—twin currents of pain and pleasure so intense I don’t know where one
stops and the other begins.
“You can scream all you want, but no one will hear you. No one is
coming to save you.”
My heart races as his words wash over me, eerily echoing my own
thoughts from years ago when I felt truly hopeless. But this time, there’s no
fear. Because this is Rafael. My Rafael.
“No, no, please don’t.” My voice cracks when I feel the knife return to
my hip. Real panic tightens around my throat, and I glance back, only to see
him calmly slicing through my panties. The rush of relief nearly makes me
dizzy. For a second, I was transported back to that dark moment in time.
Rafael’s gaze collides with mine, and his smirk grounds me again, so I
slip right back into our script, wriggling beneath him now that the knife is
away from my skin. “Please don’t do this... I don’t want this.” A big fat lie
—I’ve never wanted anything so badly.
 With a flick, he peels the ruined fabric from my hips, leaving my hot,
wet cunt exposed to the cool air.
“Little liar.” He leans over my back, dangling the underwear in my face.
“Look how soaked your panties are. And you want me to believe you don’t
want this?”
I shudder as he pushes the panties under my nose and my own smell
fills my nostrils, making me heady. I’ve never been this aroused in my life.
It’s maddening—the more I fight, the more my body screams for him, so I
keep fighting. I’m a raging fire, burning with need, but kicking is pointless.
He’s a goddamn brick wall, and I’m just a leaf caught in a storm.
He chuckles as his hand lands on my ass and slowly snakes down
towards my pussy. Immediately, I clamp my legs shut, but he just chuckles
again, adjusting his stance behind me so that his left knee forces its way
between my thighs, prying them apart like it’s nothing. My breath hitches,
and I can’t help but feel a rush of vulnerability mixed with excitement.
A sharp ache builds in my shoulders, my arms straining like hell from
being cuffed behind my back for so long. The discomfort only makes me
more desperate, more frustrated, and I grind my teeth as I buck against him
in one last attempt at pretending I have control here. But then his hand
slides through my wetness, and every ounce of resistance evaporates. His
finger slips into me with ease, and I swear I see the galaxy behind my eyes.
Holy shit. My body betrays me—my moan is thick and throaty, and my
pussy clenches his finger, welcoming the intrusion with an undeniable
hunger.
“Fuck,” he grunts, withdrawing his finger just as fast, leaving me a mess
of need. I whimper, my hips chasing his hand before I can stop myself.
“That’s it, beautiful. Show me how much you want me.”
“Fuck you.” I hiss, balling my fists together as I writhe on the floor,
desperate to rub my thighs together. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I need to come so
badly. His eyes glitter under the mask, full of sick satisfaction as he watches
me squirm, taking his sweet time undoing his pants. My pulse quickens, the
wait almost unbearable. Hurry the hell up. Every second drags, making the
ache between my legs even worse. I can’t take it anymore. Just do it
already.
When he pulls out his massive cock, I can’t help it—my mouth waters,
and I watch, mesmerized, as he strokes himself, squeezing the swollen,
angry red crown. It takes everything in me not to whimper. Then his hand
slips back between my legs, and it’s like my brain short-circuits. He rolls
my clit between his fingers, and I’m powerless to stop the moan that rips
out as pleasure slams into me, leaving me gasping, utterly at his mercy.
“That’s it, moan for me. You want this, you little slut. Girls like you
always want it but act like you’re too good for it. Like you’re too good for
me. So I simply have to take you for myself. Prove just how much of a slut
you are.”
His words stroke my pleasure even higher. But just as I start to revel in
it, his hand vanishes, replaced by his cock sliding wetly through my folds. I
moan his name, feeling so impossibly turned on, knowing I’m on the brink
of something explosive.
“That’s right, moan my name like you belong to me. Because you do.
You’re mine, mine.” He drives each word home with a thrust and fuck fuck,
fuck, it’s too much. I scream as a dizzying rush of pleasure swells within
me., It builds to a crescendo, and I come so hard, my cunt pushes his cock
out.
“Fucking hell,” he curses as he forces himself back into my tight sheath,
fucking me right through my orgasm. “You’re so fucking tight. You’re
going to milk every last ounce of cum from me. But not yet. No. I’m not
done with you.” He groans the last part and spanks my ass as if punishing
me for my own pleasure.
The pain mingles with his thrusting, stoking my arousal even higher.
Before my first orgasm even ends, another barrels into me, hard and fast,
followed by a third. My body shudders around him, my whole being
focused on nothing but the pleasure and even more pleasure.
His thrusts become faster, harder, his rhythm no longer paced but
frenetic.
Words spill from my lips, but I’m not sure what I’m saying. I’m lost,
completely delirious with pleasure, until he yanks my hips higher and my
body goes like a rag doll. His fingers find my clit again, rolling and pulling,
and somehow, unbelievingly—God, I don’t know how—I come again,
screaming his name so loudly I momentarily lose my breath.
This time he comes with me, his hot seed filling me as he groans my
name. Then his warm weight covers my back, and for a moment, we’re one.

OceanofPDF.com
 10
EMILIA

My eyes slide shut, my body sinking into the floor, completely wrecked. I
can’t feel anything—except this heavy numbness spreading through me.
His breath ghosts across my face, blowing strands of my hair into my
eyes. I should push it back, but I don’t have the energy. Hell, I don’t even
know if I can move anymore.
Then, surprisingly, he does it for me—brushing the hair out of my face
with this ridiculous tenderness, like he didn’t just tear me apart, body and
soul.
“Are you okay, love?”
I can only manage a soft, “Hmm.” And honestly, what could I even say?
I’m too spent, too ruined.
He shifts, pushing away from me. And—click, the handcuffs release my
wrists, followed by the soothing sensation of his fingers massaging my skin.
Then his warmth disappears, but I catch the sound of his footsteps padding
towards the bathroom.
Curiosity nags at me to open my eyes, to see what he’s up to, but my
eyelids feel like they’re made of lead. The soft sounds of running water and
drawers opening drift to my ears, but I’m too far gone to care. My limbs are
dead weight, and I feel like I might pass out right here, fused to the floor.
It’s like he’s fucked me straight into the floorboards.
Summoning every ounce of willpower, I force myself to open my eyes
when I sense him re-entering the bedroom. He’s taken off his mask, so I
notice the furrow in his brows as he scoops me up. Is he… worried about
me? My head lolls against his chest while he carries me into the bathroom
and slowly deposits me inside the bathtub. I let out a blissful sigh, sinking
deeper into the warmth, allowing the hot water to cocoon my aching body
and soothe every muscle.
The tub is too small for the both of us, but Rafael makes it work. He
kneels beside it and slowly passes the washcloth over my body with
reverent care. I lean back, too exhausted to do anything but let him tend to
me.
After he’s washed me, he carries me back to the bedroom and dries my
body. Then I watch through half-lidded eyes as he rummages through my
closet for some clothes. My brain doesn’t fully compute what’s happening
until he’s sliding sneakers onto my feet.
I blink at him, confusion cutting through the post-coital haze.
“Are we going somewhere?” My voice comes out scratchy and hoarse,
so I clear my throat.
He glances up at me with a determined look on his face, “Yes. We’re
going home.”
“I am home.” I point out, which earns me an irritated glare.
“No, you’re not. You’re going to accept my proposal, Emilia. And
tonight, you’re coming home with me. Tomorrow, we’ll come back for your
shit.”
A spark of defiance flares in me. “You can’t just order me to marry and
move in with you. It doesn’t work like that. And I think I’d like to sleep in
my own apartment.” But even to my own ears, my voice lacks conviction.
Darn it.
He ignores my protests, just wordlessly tying my laces before moving to
the other foot. “Rafael...”
“You’re coming home with me tonight, Emilia—kicking or screaming.
Arguing won’t change that. I’ll carry you over my shoulders if I have to.”
The sternness in his tone and tight set of his jaw tells me he means every
word.
The fight drains out of me. Maybe he really did fuck the resistance right
out of my body. “Fine.” I concede with a sigh. I can always argue more in
the morning when my brain’s functioning again. “But we need to bring the
takeout I bought with us. It’s probably cold by now, but I can warm it when
we get to your place.”
 A victorious smirk plays on his lips, and he leans down to press a soft
kiss on my temple, sending warm fuzzies through my body. I shuffle to the
closest to grab my coat and shrug it on. Then he grabs a hold of my hand,
linking our fingers together, and my heart does a little flip.
We leave my apartment and hop in the elevator to the basement level,
where the condo’s parking lot is. He leads me past a row of cars to a sleek,
black, BMW. My jaw practically drops. “This is your car? Holy hell, it’s
gorgeous!”
His grin is boyish and proud as he hits the key fob. With a soft beep, the
car unlocks, the lights flashing like it’s showing off for me. He opens the
passenger door, and I slide in eagerly, inhaling the intoxicating mix of that
new leather smell and Rafael’s cologne. It feels like luxury and danger all
rolled into one.
My hands roam over the sumptuous brown leather interior and the sleek
touchscreen dashboard, admiring every detail.
“Buckle up, Emilia.” Rafael reminds me as he settles into the driver’s
seat. I comply, but continue my tactile exploration of the car’s interior.
The ignition turns, and the engine comes alive with a low, vibrating
rumble that seems to resonate through my entire body, and I giggle, kicking
my feet out like an excited child. “Can I drive it later?” I ask, turning
towards him with hopeful eyes.
“Absolutely not,” he answers without hesitation, and I smirk.
“Are you sure about that, baby?” I place my hand on his thigh, and he
immediately goes stiff. He throws a sharp glance my way, and I freeze. Oh
shit, too much? “Is this… okay?”
His brows pull together, his jaw clenching tightly, but after a tense
moment, he gives a curt nod and shifts his gaze back to the road. I exhale a
quiet breath, relieved, and resume my gentle caress, tracing soothing circles
on his thigh. My heart is hammering like crazy. He’s actually letting me
touch him. Again.
Slowly, careful not to break whatever fragile trust this moment holds,
my hand drifts up his leg, then higher to his hard chest, up his collarbone
and along his hard jaw. When I graze his day-old stubble with my
fingertips, my breath catches, remembering the way he tensed before, how
his cock twitched inside me. At first, I wanted to initiate something sexual,
but now it feels too special for that. I’m really touching him again.
And somehow, it feels even more intense now.
 My fingers circle the shell of his ear, then glide over his brows, before
they slip into his hair. God, his hair is still just as soft. I gently rub the pad
of my fingers over his scalp, back and forth, half-expecting him to purr like
he did before. Instead, a low groan rumbles through him, and suddenly his
left hand flies off the steering wheel, grabbing my wrist.
“Enough of that,” he says huskily. “Don’t distract the driver.”
He nips my fingertips, then links our fingers together and rests them on
his thigh. My heart swells with emotions for him. Affection, desire…
maybe even love.
The words bubble up in my throat, but I swallow them back painfully.
No, it’s too soon to be feeling any of that. Sure, he’s basically browbeating
me into moving in with him and has flat-out proposed, but he hasn’t said a
single word about love either. Not really. ‘Little love’ doesn’t count, right?
Amorina is most likely nothing more than a pet name to him.
Besides, I'm in no position to discuss my feelings with him right now.
Not when I’m keeping this huge secret—when I’m actively betraying him.
Once I get to the bottom of this and prove his innocence to Stacey, I’ll come
clean about everything. He’ll understand. He will. He will. He has to.
We stay hand in hand for the entire drive to his apartment—a towering
skyscraper off Madison Avenue that screams luxury and power.
“Welcome back, Mr. Moretti.” A hulking man in a bulletproof vest holds
the glass door open for us. I frown, taking in the lobby. At least four more
men, equally imposing, stand at strategic points. Their jackets bulge
suspiciously, and I’d bet my last dollar they’re packing some heat.
Who wears a jacket indoors?
Rafael leads me to the elevators, seemingly oblivious to my growing
unease, and presses the P for penthouse. As we ascend, I bite my lip,
debating whether to mention those men downstairs. What would I even say?
‘Hey, what’s with the small army in your lobby?” But what if they’re not
related to him? Maybe they’re just building security. I nod to myself,
deciding to let it go. For now.
The elevator doors slide open into a large hallway, and I freeze. Men
with AK-47s and pistols on their hips patrol the hall like it’s a military
compound.
“It’s okay, amorina.” Rafael grabs my hand and pulls me out of the
elevator. “They’re with me.”
 They’re with him. Oh God, he really is back in the mafia now. My grip
on his hand tightens as we walk past the armed men, not because I’m scared
of them, no, because I’m scared of what this means. What if, in my bid to
prove his innocence, I stumble onto evidence of other crimes? Or worse…
what if he really is guilty?
I scan the hallway, cold fear seeping through my veins and down my
spine as, for the very first time, I’m forced to face a thought I’ve been
avoiding—what if it turns out he isn’t innocent after all? No, he is. He’s
innocent. He has to be.
Still oblivious to my inner turmoil, Rafael nods at the men as he opens
the front door. It’s not even locked. But of course, with the mini-army
patrolling the hallway and lobby, I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to
attempt a break-in.
We walk through the foyer, and for a second, I’m distracted from my
worries by the sound of voices coming from the living room. More men?
Rafael pushes open a glass door, revealing three men inside.
One is sitting crossed-leg on the floor, typing furiously on a laptop, his
back is to me. Another lounges on the sofa, holding up a newspaper like
he’s actually reading it. And the third occupies an armchair, flipping
through what looks like legal documents. All three stop what they’re doing
and turn their attention to us as we enter, and my jaw drops in recognition.
“Maximo! Romero! Michael!” I wiggle out of Rafael’s hand and rush
towards them, grinning wide. In an instant, my fears are swept away by a
tidal wave of joy as, for the first time in five years, I’m face to face with my
friends—no, my brothers.
They leap to their feet, shouting my name as they bundle me in a tight
hug, and I laugh waterlily, stretching my arms as wide as they can go, trying
to embrace all three at once.
But then Rafael’s hand settles on my back, gently extracting me from
the tangle of limbs and into his chest. “What are you assholes doing here?”
“Well, I discovered more about the–” Michael starts, only to trail off
with a pointed cough, his light blue eyes flicking to me. “We needed to
discuss a course of action for that… thing, so we came over to wait for
you.”
Thing?
Frowning, I glance between them. It’s painfully obvious they don’t want
me in on whatever they’re talking about.
 “You should have called me,” Rafael grumbles, sinking into the other
armchair and dragging me into his lap like I’m some sort of plush toy.
The guys are practically staring holes into us, their curiosity written all
over their faces, and I feel my cheeks flame under the weight of it. I start to
get up, but Rafael clamps his arm around my waist, locking me in place.
“It’s fine, amorina,” he says casually, like it’s nothing. “They know about
us.”
Oh great, perfect. Totally fine.
They awkwardly clear their throats, looking anywhere but at us now,
and I bury my face in my hands. This is not how I imagined our reunion to
go. How humiliating. As I peek through my fingers at the three of them, a
touch of melancholy tempers my happiness. Even though I still care about
them, they’re no longer the eighteen-year-old boys I knew and lived with.
They seem… harder now, colder.
What happened after I left?
The awkward silence stretches, until Michael suddenly glances up at me
with a small smile. “Hey, want to play my game?”
My hands drop, and my excitement returns full force. “Wait—you
released it?” Michael has always been a tech whiz, constantly talking about
his dream of someday releasing a fantastical war game. The guys used to
tease him mercilessly, but he never let it deter him.
“A few days ago, baby,” he says with a grin, getting up to hook the huge
plasma TV up. He connects the wires quickly, then picks up four controllers
from the console. “Only brought four, though, so Rafael will have to sit this
one out.”
“Oh no, I’m so hurt.” Rafael deadpans behind me, and I can’t help but
giggle as I push off his lap. This time, he lets me go, but I can still feel his
gaze tracking me like a damn hawk as I accept one of the controllers from
Michael. He keeps one for himself and tosses the other two to Maximo and
Romero.
Okay, this feels better. Like old times. Well, almost.
My grin widens, heart pounding in excitement as the game launches on
the screen. An epic theme song blasts through the room, and the dark screen
morphs into a breathtaking 3D image of the galaxy, featuring a massive
horned man armed with a gun and a rocket pack.
“Wow. It looks so good already,” I say, nudging Michael with my
shoulder. He tosses me a boyish grin as he pushes his dirty blonde hair
away from his face.
“Five million people across the globe agree with your assessment,
amorina. That’s how many downloads the game’s got so far.” Rafael calls
out from his armchair, sounding proud as hell.
“Keep up, Rafael. As of an hour ago, it’s at six million,” Romero cuts
in, sounding equally proud.
“Six million and counting,” Maximo adds, snatching up the newspaper
he’d been reading earlier. “People are still downloading it like crazy, and it
was just featured in The Times as ‘the game that’s taking the city by
storm’.” He points to the relevant section, where StarQuest is prominently
displayed.
“And it was released less than a week ago? This is huge, Michael. I’m
so proud of you.” I grin at him.
He reddens, muttering in that gruff way of his, “Whatever, let’s play.”

OceanofPDF.com
 11
RAFAEL

I never expected to enjoy watching Emilia with the guys so much, but
something about it feels so… right, natural, like puzzle pieces clicking into
place. For the first time in a while, I’m content with where I am. It's a weird
feeling, but a good one, taking me back to those old days squeezed into that
Queens studio apartment, all of us barely making ends meet but still…
together.
The memory stirs something deeper, and I fish my phone out of my
pocket to text Landon, reminding him I’m still waiting. He’s taking his
sweet time getting back to me. An urgent, nagging feeling gnaws at my gut.
It’s more than curiosity—it’s an instinct, a primal need to know where
Emilia’s been, what she’s been up to during our years apart. It’s driving me
fucking insane not knowing.
A loud robotic boom erupts from the TV where the game is still in full
swing, and I glance up, surprised not to hear Emilia’s colorful commentary.
Her character was killed a few levels ago, but she’s been enthusiastically
cheering on Michael while shit-talking Romero and Maximo for ganging up
to eliminate her character. It’s been non-stop chaos.
But now… silence.
My chest does a weird expanding thing when I spot her, fast asleep on
the sofa. Her legs are curled beneath her, head resting on the cushion,
brown hair tumbling over her cheek. Peaceful. It’s such a contrast from how
loud she was just moments ago. Christ, she’s beautiful when she’s asleep. I
pocket my phone and, before I know it, I’m on my feet, drawn to her like a
moth to flame.
The guys pause their game and watch me as I approach her. “What are
you doing, Rafael?” Maximo asks.
“Shh,” I hush him as I carefully slip my hands around her back and
under her legs, lifting her warm weight into my arms. She murmurs
sleepily, and then she does this thing—this tiny thing—that just wrecks me.
She curls deeper into my chest, nuzzling her face into my neck, and my
heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of my chest. Fuck. This
woman. It’s unsettling how close she is, but at the same time, it’s right. This
feels right. She feels right in my arms, with me.
Romero clears his throat. “We need to talk about why we’re here.
Michael found something about the case.”
I nod curtly. “Give me a moment.” My voice is steady, but my mind is
reeling. Thank fuck they had the sense to keep quiet around her. The things
we have uncovered… no way in hell could she handle knowing about it.
The brutal murders. Those poor girls. It would break her, and I want to
shield her from that for as long as I can.
With my woman nestled in my arms, I make my way into my bedroom
and, for a heartbeat I just stand still, absorbing the significance of this
moment. No other woman has ever crossed this threshold before. It’s my
space; my private world. The women I fuck I take elsewhere—but here she
is. Right where she belongs.
I lower her onto my king-sized bed, careful not to wake her. She
whimpers as she rolls over, but then she turns back to face me, eyes
snapping open. Oh, shit. I freeze, covers bunched in my hands, not sure
what to do next. Slowly, I start to pull them over her, hoping she’ll drift off
again so I can slip away. But no—as I’m getting to my feet, her hand shoots
out and grabs my wrist.
“Rafael. Don’t go.” Her voice is thick with sleep, but there’s a need
there that hooks me.
Fuck me. At that moment, I swear she could ask me to fetch her the sun,
and I would’ve been halfway out the door to go grab it, even if it meant the
whole world would be in perpetual darkness.
Instead, I lace our fingers together. “Scoot over.”
She does, and suddenly I’m lying next to her, trying to ignore the
tension coiling in my gut as she wraps herself around me like a vine—her
thigh draped over my legs, arms across my torso, head on my chest.
My spine goes rigid, every muscle locking up as if on command.
Phantom needles skitter across my skin, that familiar crawling sensation
I’ve fought with for years. Breathe. I inhale through my nose, pulse roaring
in my ears as I fight the instinct to shove her off me. This is Emilia. This is
different. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the onslaught of panic that
always follows.
But it doesn’t come.
Just like in the car earlier, her touch doesn’t send me spiraling into that
dark place. And slowly, slowly, the needles skittering over my skin fade
away, giving way to the warmth of her solid weight over me.
What the actual fuck?
My lips part, and my eyes fly open in disbelief. I glance down at her,
but she’s back asleep. My heart pounds, but not out of panic—this time, it’s
something else entirely. I had chalked up the car incident to being so
focused on driving that my body didn’t have the chance to react to her
touching me. But now? Here she is, touching me again, and I’m not losing
my shit. It wasn’t a one-off thing.
I’ve never been able to withstand anyone’s touch after what went down
six years ago with my father—after the guys and I burnt down his
warehouse for what his men did to Emilia. Since then, a simple touch has
been enough to catapult me back to that hellish moment, and it’s a constant
battle to keep myself from lashing out at whoever dares to get too close.
I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head at the irony. She’s wrapped
around me, blissfully unaware of how this moment is shaking the very
foundation of my reality. But then the gravity of it hits me, and a twinge of
worry starts building in my chest. I'm in deeper than I thought.
I wanted her, and so I went out of my way to have her. I want her to be
my wife, and she will be. But I never really considered how much she’d
worm her way into my heart or the wild implications of having real feelings
for her. The depth of the power she’d hold over me... it scares the fuck out
of me.
Time bleeds away as I watch her sleep, my mind racing a mile a minute,
trying to make sense of the chaos she has stirred up inside me.
My phone beeps in my pocket—once, twice—but I don’t dare move to
check it. I’m not about to disturb her for anything short of the apocalypse.
 Eventually though, she stretches and rolls away from me. Only then do I
carefully get up from the bed, rolling my neck and easing my stiff muscles
as I leave the room.
Back in the living room, Maximo’s impatience is palpable. “What took
so long? I’ve texted you twice.”
“My attention was otherwise engaged, so I couldn’t get to my phone,” I
shoot back. Their faces twist in disgust, and it hits me—they think Emilia
and I were having sex. I smirk, not bothering to correct their wrong
assumptions. It’s way more fun this way. “What’s up?”
Michael pipes up. “I’ve traced our guy’s pattern. I know where and
when the next kidnapping will happen.”
Romero chimes in, mentioning an orphanage about an hour’s drive from
my penthouse, and adds. “We think he might hit the spot soon—tonight or
tomorrow. So we need to act fast if we want to catch this sick fuck.”
Adrenaline rushes through me at the thought of finally putting an end to
this. It’s about damn time that monster gets what he deserves. I hold up a
hand, signaling them to hang tight, then make my way to the study where I
tear out a sheet of paper and scribble a quick note for Emilia, just in case
she wakes up before I’m back. The thought of her waking up alone,
confused and possibly scared, twists something inside me.
I take the note to the bedroom, careful not to make a sound, and place it
on the nightstand before stealing one last look at her sleeping form. She
looks so peaceful; I can’t help myself. Leaning down, I press a gentle kiss
on her temple. “Sleep tight and without nightmares, amorina,” I murmur,
then leave her side silently.
When I get back to the living room, the TV is off, and my brothers are
on their feet, faces set in grim determination. “Let’s go,” I growl.
Instead of taking our separate cars, we pile into one of my vans—one
that Michael already rigged up with his computers, wires, and all that tech
shit I can’t be bothered to understand. As we climb in, we all slip on our
earpieces, ready for when we need to split up at the site.
Maximo takes the wheel, fingers drumming like he can’t wait to gun it.
Romero slides into shotgun, his expression a musk, but his whole body
tense, like he’s mentally running through every possible scenario. Michael’s
already buried behind his monitors, tapping away with that geeky focus
only he gets. I drop into the seat next to him, frowning at the jumble of
numbers and letters flying across the screens. How the hell he makes sense
of that, I have no clue. But I trust him. To me, it’s just noise. To him, it’s
life.
“Let’s go over our plan one last time.” Romero throws out, glancing
back at me and Michael. We already went over it a dozen times yesterday
when Michael told us he was getting close, but Romero’s always the
cautious one.
“Relax, fratello, we know what we’re doing. We’ll get him. No need for
overkill,” I tell him and he just grunts. I get it—the stakes are sky-high. But
overthinking now will only trip us up.
The plan is simple but tight: we park our van in front of the orphanage
for easy access while Romero goes in. His lawyer card and charm should be
enough to smooth his way through without anyone kicking up a fuss.
Once inside, he’ll plant Michael’s micro cameras in as many rooms as
he can so we can monitor what’s going on inside. He’ll feed the head of the
orphanage some bullshit about him being there with the cops who received
a tip on a crime in the neighborhood and that we’re on a stakeout. After
which, he’ll head back to the van, where we’ll wait for our prey.
Maximo floors it the entire way, breaking every traffic rule known to
man, so what should’ve been an hour-long drive is over in thirty–eight
minutes flat.
“Nice one, fast and furious,” Romero teases as he puts on his cap,
getting himself Maximo’s middle finger in return.
Romero exits the van with that cool confidence and jogs up to the
entrance of the orphanage that’s definitely seen better days, and I feel a
pang of… something. Guilt? Anger? The place is falling apart on its
inhabitants—peeling paint, broken shingles, the whole deal. It’s a miracle
it’s still standing.
If we weren’t on this case, this would be the perfect hunting ground for
our sicko to snatch a child and remain under the radar. The way this place
looks, I doubt any of the staff here would even give a shit if one of the
children suddenly went missing. I file away a mental note to send an
anonymous donation when this is over. It’s the least I can do.
A few minutes after Romero knocks, the front door creaks open,
revealing an old place bursting with character. I hear him through my
earpiece as he takes out his card and hands it to the woman. “Good evening,
I’m Romero Lombardi, a defense attorney. Have you heard about the crime
ravaging this neighborhood?”
 He waltzes inside, charming his way past her, and before long, she’s
telling him to hold tight before bustling off to fetch the matron. There’s a
rustle of fabric and hurried footsteps as Romero struts around, definitely not
the obedient guest he’s supposed to be.
“Awesome!” Michael’s eyes light up. “One of the cameras is live! Can
you adjust it a little, Rome? The view is mostly the ceiling—ah, perfect.”
More images flicker to life on the monitors, and I lean in, studying each
one intently. We’re getting an eyeful—not only the kids’ rooms, but the
hallways, too, and even the front and back doors.
As Romero fiddles with the stairway camera, a stern voice cuts in from
his end: “You were supposed to wait for me downstairs. What are you doing
here?”
I tense, but Michael’s calm. “It’s fine. We already got more than
enough, Romero.”
We watch Romero crank his charm up to eleven, gliding forward with
that killer smile and taking the older woman’s hand, kissing it like he’s
auditioning for a movie role. “My apologies, miss. I couldn’t resist being
drawn in by the warmth of this place. It’s definitely not what I expected
from the exterior. What a great job your matron has done here.”
“Miss?” The woman titters, her fingers brushing the graying strands at
her temples as her expression softens. “I’m the matron, Mrs. Churchill.”
“Oh my! Your radiant, youthful glow had me think you must be one of
the assistants, Mrs. Churchill. Pardon my manners, I was informed the
matron was in her fifties, but you don’t look a day over thirty.”
More giggling. The older woman practically melts under his attention.
Christ, Romero could charm the scales off a snake.
“Oh, you young bucks these days have such a way with words. Sarah
mentioned you’re a lawyer. What do you need from us?” Her hand settles
flirtatiously on his shoulder as she guides him towards the study.
“Romero, that silver-tongued devil,” Maximo chuckles, watching the
matron pour him a drink.
Less than thirty minutes later, Romero has explained our presence to the
matron who waves a benevolent hand, even suggesting us ‘kind officers’
come in from the cold, but he graciously declines as he leaves the
orphanage.
“Remind me never to introduce you to my wife… if I ever get one,”
Maximo says, punching Romero’s shoulder playfully as he gets back inside
the van.
“As if a rogue like you would ever settle down,” Michael ribs back.
“Have you seen me, Michael? The ladies would be devastated if I’m
ever off the market,” Maximo grins, running a hand through his hair
dramatically.
I roll my eyes. Idiots, the lot of them. But they’re my idiots, and there’s
no one else I’d rather have at my back for this.
The banter fizzles out as we turn our attention to the surveillance
cameras, watching the matron bustle through the kids’ rooms, ensuring
everyone is tucked in tight before going back to her own wing of the
orphanage. Her footsteps are soft, but they only add to the tension
simmering in the van.
“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” Romero muses, breaking the silence.
“Reminds me of that time Don Moretti sent us to oversee the arrival of his
new shipment.”
I feel my muscles stiffen at the mention of that job. The thought had
already crossed my mind, but I squashed it down ruthlessly.
“Yeah, that was the first time the four of us worked together. I was so
excited!” Michael’s enthusiasm rings out, but it feels hollow, almost
taunting against the weight of my thoughts.
“The first and only time we worked for my father,” I snap, and the
mood in the van shifts instantly. They know better than to poke the bear. If
it hadn’t been for that godforsaken errand my dad sent us on, we would
have been at the warehouse as usual and would have seen Emilia when she
stormed in angry and ready for revenge. We would’ve stopped those
animals from laying a finger on her. Stopped everything that happened
next…
I fix my gaze on the camera, hating that the lightheartedness in the van
has vanished. But maybe it’s for the best. We need to focus on the reason
we’re here and⁠—
“Oh! What’s that?” Maximo suddenly exclaims. He’s pointing at one of
the hallway cameras, leaning so close his nose almost touches the screen.
At first, I see nothing. Then a curtain rustles and a man-shaped shadow
emerges, blending with the walls almost instantly.
My pulse kicks up. This is it.
“Gotcha,” Michael whispers, fingers poised over his keyboard.
 We watch in tense silence as the creep slinks down the hallway and
cracks open the first door. A quick peek, then it closes. Boy’s room. Of
course, no interest there. Prick.
He moves on, door after door, until he reaches one of the girls’ rooms.
My gut twists, knowing exactly what’s coming. The creep tiptoes to a bunk
bed, pulls out a handkerchief from his jacket, and clamps it over the nose of
the girl on the lower bunk.
Fuck. My fists tighten, and it takes everything in me not to punch the
screen.
The girl immediately bucks underneath him, struggling, but it’s futile. In
seconds, she’s limp in his arms. Then, as if nothing happened, he pockets
the cloth, hoists the unconscious body over his shoulder, and makes his exit.
Maximo’s out of the van in a flash, ready for his part.
Honestly, I didn’t expect us to catch the man on our first stakeout, but
we were prepared. Maximo will wait for the kidnapper at the side of the
orphanage and tail him to his vehicle, where he’ll plant a tracker. It’s all on
him now.
The kidnapper climbs out of the window and disappears from view. And
so we wait with bated breaths for Maximo. My gaze goes to the little
blinking dot that shows his position.
The dot creeps along, each second dragging. Then, finally, Maximo’s
voice crackles through the earpiece, “This cocky son of a bitch didn’t even
try to cover his tracks.” The disgust in his voice is palpable, mirroring what
we’re all feeling. “I put the tracker on his car—some busted-ass sedan with
Michigan state plates.”
He rattles off the plate numbers for Michael to run through his database.
“He dropped the girl in the trunk and is pulling out now. I’m coming back
to the van.”
Sure enough, the red dot starts moving, slow at first, then picking up
speed as the guy drives away. Moments later, Maximo appears, running
towards our van like the hounds of hell are on his heels.
“Let’s stop this fucker,” he grunts as he gets in and starts the van.

OceanofPDF.com
 12
EMILIA

My phone’s shrill ring jolts me from my sleep, and for a moment, I’m lost
in a sea of unfamiliarity—the room around me exudes a masculine energy
that’s both alluring and disorienting. Then, like a warm caress, Rafael’s
intoxicating cologne wafts over me, and the events of last night come
flooding back. Right, I’m in his penthouse.
I push myself up, frowning at the empty space beside me. My hand
drifts to where he lay next to me, finding only cool sheets. He’s been gone a
while.
The phone keeps shrieking—God, why did I pick such an annoying
ringtone? As the fog in my brain finally clears, I recognize it. Stacey. I drag
myself out of bed and stumble to my purse on the dresser. “Hello?” My
voice comes out as a croak, and I clear my throat, lifting the phone from my
ear to check the time. 4:15 AM. Geez.
“Emily. Another child has gone missing.” Stacey’s words hit me with a
bucket of ice water, chasing away any remaining drowsiness. “Kidnapped
from an orphanage in lower Manhattan. Is Rafael with you?”
My eyes snap back to the empty bed, and that’s when I notice it—a note
on the nightstand. My stomach clenches as I walk over to read it.
 Something came up at work, amorina. Make
yourself at home. If you’re hungry, there’s
some leftovers in the fridge or you can order
in. Will be back soon.
–Rafael.

Something came up at work? At this hour? My heart jumps to my

throat, and I squeeze the note in my hands as worst-case scenarios whizz
through my head. No, no, no. It’s just a coincidence. But my traitorous brain
chooses that moment to dredge up Michael’s words from last night when
Rafael asked what they were doing here.
“Well, I discovered more about the–”
More about ‘the’ what? What’s the thing he was talking about? The little
girl they were trying to kidnap? No. God, no. I can’t let my mind go there. I
shake my head violently, as if I could physically dislodge the thought. The
sick feeling in my gut intensifies. No, there’s just no way. There has to be
another explanation.
“Emily, are you there?”
Stacey’s voice in my ears is jarring. For a moment, I’d forgotten she
was still on the phone. “Yes, yes, I’m here.”
“Well? Is Rafael with you or not?”
“He’s not. He said something came up at work and⁠—”
A string of curses cuts me off, so vicious they make me flinch. Stacey
rarely swears around me. In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never heard
her lose her cool like this. “Find out everything you can and get back to me.
I’ll mobilize a small team here while we wait for you.”
The call ends abruptly, leaving me in a suffocating silence. My throat
feels tight, my stomach a roiling mess of anxiety and dread. This can’t be
happening.
I force myself into motion, trudging out of the bedroom on unsteady
legs to check every room. Living room—empty. Kitchen—empty. Dining
room, library—all empty. Are the guys with him? The question nags at me,
adding another layer to my growing unease.
 Back upstairs, I start opening doors. Laundry room, two guest
bedrooms, and finally… his office. I hesitate at the threshold, knowing this
is it. The point of no return. Once I go in there and start digging through his
things, there will be no coming back. If I find what I’m afraid I’ll find…
A shudder racks down my body despite the warmth blasting through the
heaters in the penthouse. But then again, it has nothing to do with being
cold. I inhale deeply. One deep breath. Two. Then I walk in, carefully
closing the door behind me with a soft click that feels as final as a coffin
lid.
The large desk in the middle of the office draws me like a magnet.
There are two drawers, and I hunker down, fully expecting some kind of
resistance as I tug on the top one. To my surprise, it slides open easily. Huh.
I freeze, a fresh wave of nausea washing over me as realization sucker
punches my gut. He trusts me. Completely, utterly trusts me. That’s why the
front door is unlocked, why his office is accessible. In his world, enemies
don’t make it past his men. And me? He has no idea I could be working
against him. These drawers are unlocked because the thought of me
betraying him has never even crossed his mind. To him, I’m not an enemy.
I’m his…
Bile rises in my throat, sharp and sudden, and I clamp a hand over my
mouth, fighting it back. Then I drop my hand and carefully breathe through
my mouth until it passes. When it does, I force myself to think.
I have to do this. If not for anything but to be sure what kind of person
the man I’ve fallen in love with really is.
With shaking hands, I rummage through the drawer, but there’s nothing
useful. Just a mess of receipts that make no sense, credit cards, some car
keys, and… my fingers brush something that makes my heart stop—the
familiar blue box he dropped on the table at our very first dinner together.
I slam the drawer shut.
The second drawer isn’t much better. It’s filled with random junk that’s
not particularly useful or damning.
Then I direct my attention to the desk itself. Could he really be so
brazen as to place something incriminating out in the open? As I sweep
over it, my fingers brush against something—a handwritten note in
unfamiliar handwriting. There’s a name on it: Little River Home.
It’s the name of an orphanage.
 My hands now shake so badly I can barely type out the name to Stacey.
Her reply is instant.
STACEY
That’s where the child was kidnapped.

It feels like the final nail in a coffin I never wanted built. No. There has
to be a good reason why he has this on his desk. There has to be. My chest
constricts until it burns to suck in oxygen, my heart pounding so painfully
and loudly in my ears it drowns out everything else.
I move to his laptop and stare blankly at the password prompt. I key in
his birthday—wrong.
I hesitate, then key in my birthday—wrong again. Tears of frustration
prick in the corner of my eyes. Damn it, what password could he have used,
what⁠—
A ridiculous notion pops into my head, and I almost laugh at the
absurdity. No way it’s that. I hesitate again, but desperation wins out, and I
type in the date from six years ago—the day everything went to hell.
The screen unlocks.
My jaw drops as I stare at the home screen of his laptop. I’m in. I’m
actually in.
Several tabs are open at the bottom, like breadcrumbs left out just for
me. This is almost too easy.
The first one is a Word document—a draft of some contract. I skim it
briefly, but it’s nothing useful. Typical business jargon. I back out, careful
not to close it. Can’t afford to leave any clues that I’ve been snooping.
The second tab pulls up a folder full of photos. Mean-looking men stare
back at me, and I feel a chill crawl down my spine. Who the hell are these
guys? I don’t recognize any of them, but they sure don’t look like the
friendly type. Are these people he’s working with? Or worse, people he’s
trying to take out?
Then I open the third tab, and my heart lurches. It’s a map of the city—
no, wait. I squint, trying to make sense of it. The map is dotted with moving
red points, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. It’s a tracker.
There are four dots, converging and moving in the same direction. It
takes a second, but then it hits me. It’s him. And Maximo. And Romero.
And Michael. My mind reels as I try to process what I’m seeing. They’re
being tracked. Somehow, someway. There’s a device on them—phones?
But more importantly, where the hell are they going?
My phone beeps with a text.
STACEY
Found anything?

I stare at the screen, paralyzed. This is it for real now. I have a moment
to make a decision. Lie and say I found nothing, that there was nothing
incriminating on his desk, and I couldn’t get into his computer. Or… tell her
the truth, potentially destroying not just Rafael, but myself and the others in
the process.
It shouldn’t be hard to make a decision, but fuck it is.
My eyes flick back to the tracker, studying it like it holds the answers to
the universe.
What I’ve done so far can still be forgiven. I could rationalize it. But
this, giving out their locations to the feds—that’s some next-level shit, even
though I’m with the feds now—that would be breaking the omerta. And
there would be no coming back from it.
But as I study the map, zeroing in on the little red line trailing what I
assume is their vehicle, the air knocks out of my lungs. The more I look, the
worse it gets. No, no, this can’t be right. My hands shake uncontrollably as I
double-check the path, hoping I’m wrong. But there it is, staring me in the
face. Little River Home.
What are the odds that they were right there the same night a child was
kidnapped?
“No.” I shake my head in denial as I take a step back from the laptop.
“No. No. No.”
But the evidence is right in front of me, undeniable and damning.
“Well, I discovered more about the–” Michael trailing off with a cough,
his light blue eyes settling on mine. “We needed to discuss a course of
action for that… thing, so we came over to wait for you.”
Rafael’s gruff, “You should’ve called me.”
The memories loop in my head like a horrible reel, over and over and
over, until I’m about to break. I clamp my hands over my ears and shut my
eyes, trying to physically block out the truth. But it’s no use. My knees
buckle weakly, and I let myself crumple to the floor, rocking back and forth
as my mind wages war with my heart.
 There has to be an explanation. There has to be. There has to be.
What other explanation could there be? Stacey showed you evidence
that you refused to believe, and now you won’t believe what you’ve seen
with your own eyes?
Another message chimes in, breaking through my internal turmoil. I
slowly drop my hands from my ears to check it.
STACEY
You there?

What does it say about me that even now, faced with hard evidence, I
still can’t fully accept that Rafael could be capable of something like this?
Am I really going to choose my heart over the right thing to do?
What would my father have done?
Even as it pops into my head, I know it’s pointless. Because I already
know exactly what he would’ve done. Tomassi Rossi was a hero who died
in the line of duty while trying to bring about justice. And who killed him?
Alfonso Moretti—Rafael’s father.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.
I feel the numbness creeping in, taking over as I type out a reply to
Stacey, spilling everything about the tracker. Time loses all meaning as she
asks me to share the screen so the bureau’s tech team can duplicate it to
follow the trail. I watch as the duplication happens, barely processing any
of that.
“Stay put,” Stacey commands once it’s done. “We might still need your
presence there. Be careful not to blow your cover.”
“Alright,” I answer emotionlessly.
There’s a pause, then, “I know you wanted him to be innocent, Emily.
But it is what it is. Are you alright?”
No. I’m not alright.
I’m standing in the ashes of my world, and I lit the match myself.
“Let me know how it goes, please. If you—if you arrest him.” I force
out before ending the call.

OceanofPDF.com
 13
RAFAEL

“This fucker.” Romero’s voice drips with disgust as he tosses a glance back
at me. “I thought you had Little Italy under control?”
I only clench my jaw, the rage building too strong to fire back a retort.
Fuck. I do have it under control. Or at least, I thought I did until this little
shit we’re following drove straight into my territory, proving that I
absolutely don’t have it under contro, notl if it’s been the hotbed for these
kidnappers all along.
We shadow him through the tight, winding streets I know by heart, into
one of the redevelopment areas—or what’s supposed to be. Half-finished
projects stand abandoned. Rotting. Perfect hideouts for vermin. Our target
vanishes around a corner, but we don’t need visuals. Michael’s monitor
shows the vehicle stopping in front of an old building that’s scheduled to be
bulldozed any day now.
But then again, it’s been scheduled to be bulldozed ‘any day now’ for
about six years.
My nails dig into my palms as the truth sinks in—these bastards have
been operating right under my nose this whole time, and I didn’t even
notice. Some king of the streets I’ve turned out to be.
Maximo pulls our van up to the curb and kills the engine. The silence
feels loaded, expectant.
“Let’s get this asshole,” I growl, already on my feet. Michael nods,
following suit.
 My brothers and I exit the van and walk down the street, boots hitting
the pavement that feels less like my territory and more like enemy ground
now. We round the corner towards the dilapidated building—just a hollow-
eyed corpse of brick and steel. No signs of life anywhere. Not even a stray
cat.
I almost question if we’ve got the wrong spot, but Michael’s got this
phone out, the screen glowing in his hand. And yes, the little blip on the
map confirms it. Our suspect’s car is indeed parked somewhere inside.
We’re dealing with a smart motherfucker, no doubt.
Smart enough to operate from a place nobody would look twice. Smart
enough to keep his head down until my brothers and I started our takeover
of the city.
Six years ago, he got away with his sick games because of the series of
crimes that took the city by storm. And hell, he would’ve gotten away with
it again if it wasn’t for Romero taking on the case and bringing it to our
attention. The thought makes my blood boil. How many more of these
fuckers are hiding in my blind spots?
We walk through the gaping doorway of the building and, sure enough,
there’s our suspect’s car—a run-down old sedan that looks like it’s been
abandoned for decades. But Michael’s tracker doesn’t lie. This is his car.
And when I place my hand on the bonnet, it’s warm.
A masterpiece of deception.
Maximo crouches, takes out the tracker from beneath the vehicle, and
pockets it. I scan the wide-open space, searching for any sign of a hidden
entrance. Since he’s not an amateur, he’ll have escape routes, security
measures. My brothers fan out, combing every inch.
A few minutes later, Michael’s low whistle draws us in. He points to a
ragged rug in the corner that wouldn’t catch your eye unless you’re looking
for something out of place.
My gaze locks on it as I go down on my haunches to peel it back.
Bingo. A wooden trapdoor, complete with an honest-to-god ring pull. How
quaint. I yank it open, exposing a small ladder leading down to a basement.
My brothers and I exchange glances—Maximo’s already got his weapon
drawn; Michael’s expression’s colder than usual. Romero’s eyes are sharp,
calculating, and I can feel the tension crackling between us. We don’t need
to say a word. We all know what to do.
 I slide my gun from my holster and climb down the ladder first,
followed closely by Maximo, Michael, and Romero.
We emerge into a narrow hallway, bathed in the sickly glow of red
emergency lights. My phone vibrates in my pocket with a call, and I stiffen,
coming to a halt.
Checking the screen, I see it’s Landon calling. He probably finally has
something for me on Emilia. I end the call, refocusing on the task at hand.
Whatever it is, it can wait. This can’t.
We continue walking down the hallway, silent as ghosts, until it opens
into one big spacious room. Instantly, we put our backs to the wall, then
inch forward to peek around the corner. One quick look tells me what we
need to know—three tables pressed together to make one large surface, and
on top, our kidnapped girl. She’s not moving, but I can see her chest rise
and fall. The room is otherwise empty.
At the far end, there’s a doorway, and behind it, muffled Italian filters
through. My instincts flare.
I signal behind me before I push away from the wall and quickly
approach the door. The closer I get, the clearer the words become. My mind
automatically translates as I listen, years of speaking both languages
making it second nature.
“What do you mean you couldn’t find the fucking surgeon, Luka?” A
commanding voice speaks—he’s in charge of this operation, no doubt about
it. That’s the voice of someone used to being obeyed.
“I swear, boss.” This must be Luka. His voice carries a hint of fear. “It’s
like he disappeared. He wasn’t home, his numbers were dead, and when I
called you, you didn’t answer, so I went ahead to grab her anyway.”
The boss curses, then another voice speaks up, “You should’ve used
your head, Luka. What are we supposed to do with the girl now that we
don’t have a surgeon to operate on her?”
Chills run down my spine at how casually they’re discussing mutilating
a child. I meet my brothers’ eyes, seeing my own disgust and rage mirrored
there. With a quick questioning look, I silently ask for confirmation. And at
their nod, I raise a finger—wait here so I can assess the situation first. They
don’t like it, I can see it in their eyes, but they trust me.
The door handle is cold under my palm as I push it open.
Three pairs of eyes snap to me, and almost immediately, all three have
their guns pointed my way. I force out a chuckle as I glance around the
room that looks like someone’s sad attempt at a living space—a ratty
mattress shoved against one wall, a mini-fridge humming in the corner, and
behind a hulking desk, another door, probably leading to a bathroom.
“Hello, boys,” I drawl. “Heard you’re looking for a surgeon, and lucky
for you, I happen to be—” The words die in my throat when my gaze meets
the familiar brown eyes of the man sitting behind the desk.
Tomassi Rossi.
Emilia’s dead father.
“Detective Rossi?” I choke out.
He frowns as he takes me in, then his expression shifts. “Rafael
Moretti,” he spits in disgust.
My phone begins to vibrate again—insistent, urgent—but I can’t tear
my eyes away from this man who seems to have risen from the dead. His
death was the catalyst for the torture we all faced at my father’s hands.
Emilia was heartbroken, consumed by grief and anger. So, hungry for
revenge, she went to one of my father’s warehouses and started the domino
effect of it all.
But here he is—alive.
Not only alive but apparently dabbling in child trafficking and organ
harvesting as well. What happened to that self-righteous son of a bitch who
used to hound my father?
“What have you done?” The question comes out raw, disbelieving. I’m
staring at him, trying to reconcile the upstanding law enforcer with this…
this monster. How the hell does one go from upholding the law to—this?
“You don’t get to judge me, Rafael. Not after what you and your friends
have been up to the past two months. So what if I faked my death to dodge
suspicion for any of my crimes?”
Crimes? Just how much evil has this sanctimonious prick committed
while playing dead? I grit my teeth, fury bubbling up. “And Emilia? You
just abandoned her.”
“I never abandoned my daughter.” He says it with so much conviction,
it almost makes me sick. “I knew she would be alright. I had… connections.
People who promised to take care of her on the occasion of my death. She
was fine; she is fine. Besides,” his eyes narrow dangerously, “you should be
more worried about yourself right now.” He folds his arms across his chest
and nods at the two other men, who cock their guns. “What are you doing
here? How did you find us?”
 I’m about to sneer out a response, but before I can, there’s a loud thud
outside the room. Then two young boys burst in, both panting heavily, panic
clear on their faces.
“Boss! We gotta split, now!” One gasps out. “Just passed by some
officers on our way here. They’re nosing around outside—think they found
something.”
His warning is accentuated by a loud gunshot from outside, and I
stiffen, glancing back just as Rafael, Michael, and Maximo pour into the
room, faces grim.
“There are over a dozen officers out there.” Michael frowns into his
phone as he speaks. “But they’re not in uniform. They—fuck,” his head
snaps up, eyes wide, “they’re feds.”
What the fuck are the FBI doing here?
“You fucking led them here!” Tomassi roars as he gets to his feet, raking
his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair.
I raise an eyebrow and snort. “What a wild accusation.” But inside, I’m
reeling. How did this go sideways so fast? What the hell is going on? And
why won’t my goddamn phone stop vibrating! Landon is not the type to
spam me with calls unless… unless it’s life or death. Something’s really
wrong.
With a growl of frustration, I turn away from Tomassi as I answer, “I’m
a little busy right now, Landon, we⁠—”
“Emilia Rossi is an FBI agent!” he gasps out, rocking my world.
Everything stops. My heart, my breath, time itself.
What the fuck?
“I’m on the run right now because the database I hacked into to get the
information got corrupted as soon as I accessed it, and they might be able to
trace my IP back to me. My life might be in danger right now, so I’m about
to go off-grid. You won’t be able to reach me for the next few days.”
Landon’s voice fades into white noise. My mind’s still stuck on the first
part—Emilia. FBI agent.
Before I can even begin to process this bombshell, an actual explosion
erupts through the main room.
The blast shakes the entire basement, sending shrapnel flying as the
walls shatter. The force of it throws me to my knees, ears ringing, the sharp
sting of dust and debris scratching at my skin.
The girl. Christ, the little girl was out there.
 Coughing, I scramble to my hands and knees, spitting out dust, eyes
burning. Through the haze, I see Romero and we share a quick glance. He
pulls himself up shakily, dust falling from his body as he tiptoes to check
out the incinerated room. One look at his face tells me everything. She’s
gone. Another innocent claimed by the FBI’s scorched-earth tactics. Fuck.
I hate the fucking feds. They don’t care about the collateral damage if it
means they’re able to apprehend their suspects.
Maximo and Michael slowly get up from the floor with low groans. I
start to move towards them, but before I can reach them, gunshots spray
into the room.
“Get down!” I yell, my voice hoarse. But I’m not fast enough. White-
hot pain lances through my arm as a bullet finds its mark. I hit the floor,
gritting my teeth against the agony. “Michael!”
I lock eyes with my brother, jerking my chin towards the door behind
Tomassi’s toppled desk. As we scramble for cover, I spot Tomassi on the
floor, panting as he tries to lift the weight of the heavy desk off his legs.
Our gazes meet, and he blinks at me hopelessly. Fuck. The sight of him—
trapped, desperate—makes something twist in my gut.
“Keep going,” I order my brothers while moving towards Tomassi. I
can’t just leave him there to die. Not like this. Whatever he’s done, he’s still
Emilia’s father.
I grunt as I try to help him lift the heavy desk, but it’s no use. My arm
screams in protest, weakening my efforts.
Tomassi curses, then grabs my wrist, yanking my focus to him. “There’s
a backdoor in the storage room your friends went to. You’ll see a shelf, pull
out the book with Emilia’s name, and it will open. There’s—” A bullet rips
into his throat, his body convulsing. Blood spurts from his mouth as he
gurgles out one last word. “Sta—Stacey.” Then his head drops. He’s dead.
This time, Detective Rossi is truly, irrevocably dead.
I suck in a sharp breath and whip around. Standing there, cold eyes
glinting above a smoking gun, is an older woman with black hair pulled
back in a severe bun. Slowly, I get to my feet, weary and on edge, body
aching from the explosion, but my gun steady in her direction as I retreat.
I know her. I remember her. She was there that night Emilia
disappeared, when I stormed into that damn restaurant she was working at
after reading her letter.
 The woman was one of the patrons, who watched me lose my mind
looking for answers. And when I finally stopped raging, she had the nerve
to look me in the eye and say, “It’s a good thing she ran away, isn’t it?” I
can still feel the fury that burned in my chest, the way it fueled me as I
stomped out, even more pissed off than when I went in. God, I hated her
then.
Time slows as the puzzle pieces click into place. She must have worked
with Tomassi. She might even be the ‘connection’ he was so sure would
look after Emilia. Did she recruit her? Is she the reason Emilia’s with the
bureau?
Emilia. Christ. She’ll be devastated when she finds out about her father.
But fuck, I have other things to worry about right now. Like the fact that
I’m clearly outnumbered here with several guns pointed at me.
“If you’re going to shoot me, do it already,” I spit out as I cock my gun.
“But I promise you, I won’t go down alone.”
One trigger-happy agent hisses at me and starts to squeeze, but the
woman stops him with a raised hand. “No.”
So, she’s in charge. I keep my gaze and gun trained on her as I edge
backward, every muscle coiled tight.
“But he’s getting away, Agent Rodrigues! What do we do?” The agent
asks, his finger still itching on the trigger.
Rodrigues holds my gaze as she says, “We need him alive. Besides,
according to the blueprint of this building, that room he’s going into is a
dead end, so it’s not like he can escape.”
Without lowering my gun, I back into the darkened room. I lock the
door behind me, not even sparing my brothers a glance as I take out my
phone to use my flashlight.
Then I walk straight to the shelf, scanning for the book with Emilia's
name and there—a hardcover copy titled Azaleas.
How the hell did Tomassi know I’d recognize Emilia’s middle name?
Well, no time to dwell on that now.
I yank the book, and a quiet click fills the air as the entire bookshelf
swings inward. “Let’s go,” I hiss, eyes flicking back to the locked door that
I expect to be kicked down any second now.
We jog out into the new hallway, making sure to close the shelf behind
us. The hallway’s tight, and I can feel the tension squeezing my lungs as we
head for the stairs at the far end. Up we go, taking them two at a time, then
out into the night.
By the time we hit the van, we’re ghosts. Gone without a trace.
“Shit, you’re bleeding out, Rafael,” Michael mutters when I slump next
to him in the van. His jacket is off in a flash, wrapping around my arm
while Maximo floors the engine.
“It will be fine. I’ll live.” I try to sound tough, but the pain tearing
through me makes my words sound hollow. Michael pulls the jacket even
tighter, and I have to grit my teeth to fight back a groan as the pressure digs
into the wound.
“Shit. Wasn’t that Detective Rossi in there? How is he still alive?”
Maximo asks. “The man has a fucking headstone somewhere in this city.”
“Well, he’s dead for real now.” Romero’s quiet correction fills the van
with heavy silence.
Michael’s brow furrows. “Hell, forget Rossi—how did the fucking feds
find out about that den? You think… you think he was right? Did we lead
them there somehow? Have they been watching us?”
Lead settles in my chest. I know how. Fucking Emilia. But I just glance
away, shutting my eyes as the last puzzle piece clicks into place.
“What if I told you I missed the city? Missed… you?”
That was her answer when I asked her why she came back to Manhattan
for her residency. But that was a lie. She didn’t come back for her fucking
residency at all, but because of us. For some reason, she was assigned to
monitor us and report our movements to her supervisors.
Chills fill my body as the reality of her betrayal sinks in. I was such an
idiot, inviting her back into my life, my home... my heart. That little traitor.
My jaw clenches, muscles rigid with anger while my brothers argue
amongst themselves about how we were found.
One word from me would clear their confusion, but I remain quiet.
Because I can’t bring myself to say it—not even now, after everything. And
that just pisses me off even more. The fact that I’m still protecting her
makes me want to smash my fist through the fucking window.
When we pull into the underground garage at my penthouse, I finally
speak up as Maximo cuts the engine. “You guys should head home. I’ll be
in touch.”
“What?” Maximo frowns at me, but I’m already out of the van, feeling
their confused gazes boring into my back as I make my way to the elevator.
 I nod to my security team as I pass them in the hallway, then push into
my penthouse. And there she is. Emilia. Pacing in front of the living room,
looking like she’s rehearsing for a part in some drama. The second I walk
in, her eyes go wide, mouth dropping open.
“Rafael, you’re hurt!” She rushes towards me, face etched with what
looks like genuine concern. It’s convincing, but now I see it for what it is.
What a little actress. Every touch, every smile, every moment between us—
was any of it real?
I step back before she can touch me. “Don’t,” I say coldly. Ice coats
every syllable. “What did you think would happen when you sicced your
fed buddies on us? That we’d sit down and chat over fucking tea and
cookies?!”
She recoils as if I just hit her, eyes flying to mine, and her arms just
drop to her sides like she’s suddenly helpless. Oscar-worthy performance
from the bureau’s finest. “You… you know?”
“What? You thought I wouldn’t find out?”
“I didn’t want to do it!” she cries. “But someone had to stop you and the
others, Rafael. Did you think your takeover of the New York Cosa Nostra
went unnoticed? The bloody trail you’ve left behind you? And, and now
what? Kidnapping little girls? Torturing them? I couldn’t stand back and
watch you destroy yourself. The Rafael I knew would never⁠—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I roar. My hands curl into fists as I fight the urge to
throttle her while she goes on her tirade. So self-righteous—just like her
father was. At least before he turned for reasons best known to him. “Shut
the fuck up, you sanctimonious little traitor.”
“Oh, please, Rafael. I wouldn’t have had to betray you if you didn’t turn
into this… criminal. What happened to you? I thought you hated your father
and everything he stood for. How could you go down this path!”
I scoff, shoving my hands into my hair. “You want to know how?
Maybe because I’m sick of being powerless. Of watching the people I love
get hurt and not being able to do a damn thing about it.”
Images flash through my mind—that first hellish year after we left Little
Italy. The gnawing terror when Emilia vanished with a trace. The soul-
crushing loneliness as my brothers drifted away, forging their own paths.
“Maybe because I wanted to be so powerful no one would dare stand
before me and spew the rubbish you’re spewing at me now. Maybe because
I want to be able to protect what’s mine.” But she only stares at me with big
eyes, shaking her head like she can’t understand.
I should fucking kill her for what she did—for putting my brothers and
me in danger. My fists tighten in my hair because I know I can’t do that.
Can’t stand to see her hurt.
“Get the fuck out of my house, Emilia. I don’t ever want to see your
face again.”
She flinches, her face paling, eyes brimming with tears. I turn my back
to her as my chest tightens and concern pierces through my anger. Fuck her
and how she makes me feel.
“Rafael, please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “We can get past
this. Don’t you see? The only thing standing between us is this… this
career you’ve chosen. You want to get married? Let’s do that. A wife can’t
investigate or testify against her husband.”
I glance back at her in disbelief. But she’s still looking up at me, eyes
wide with desperate, fearful hope, with tears rolling down her face. Is she
fucking serious? “You should have told me everything when I first
proposed. We could have worked things out then. It’s too late now.”
“No!” She lunges forward, her face crumpling up even more as she
grabs my arms. “Don’t say that. I only agreed to help them to prove your
innocence, I swear. And then I saw the name of the orphanage on your desk
and thought it might be best if you were stopped, and I—I…” She trails off,
choking on a sob.
I watch, almost fascinated by the way her face contorts like she’s in
pain, and despite myself, a twinge of doubt niggles at me, but I crush it.
“Fool me once and all that, amorina,” I say, twisting the endearment into
something bitter, mocking.
Then she does the one thing I least expect—she looks me dead in the
eye. And for a split second, it fucking catches me off guard. She holds my
gaze, unwavering, even as her lips tremble and more tears spill down her
face. “You’re breaking my heart, Rafael. Can’t you see my sincerity?”
The rawness in her eyes stabs me. But I force the feeling back. “I can
only break your heart if you gave it to me in the first place, Emilia. But you
haven’t, have you? If you had, you wouldn’t have been able to go through
with your plans to betray me.”
With that, I bury whatever doubt I still feel in the deepest part of me.
Then, rolling my eyes with derision, I continue. “The guys and I could have
died tonight because of you.” The reminder fuels my anger, effectively
snuffing out the rest of my emotions. “I should kill you for that. You know
the consequence for breaking the omerta is death. But you’ve got me so tied
up I can’t even do that. But don’t test me, Emilia. Your deceitful tears can’t
fool me, and if I have to look at your face for a second longer, I’m not sure
what I might do to you.”
She sobs, backing away from me like my words are weapons. Then she
spins around and flees from my apartment.
I watch her go, heart tightening painfully in my chest as the door slams
behind her.
And with a roar of pure anguish, I drive my fist into the nearest wall,
embracing the pain that vibrates from my wrecked hand.
Again and again, until my knuckles are a bloody mess and my throat is
raw from screaming.

OceanofPDF.com
 EPILOGUE
EMILIA

“You did well, Emily.” Stacey smiles at me from behind her desk. “We
didn’t make any arrests, but we were able to put a stop to the child
trafficking operation. That’s a great start for you.”
I nod numbly, gaze resting on a point beyond her shoulders. My brain is
fuzzy, thoughts moving like molasses. I’m vaguely aware that I should feel
something about this—pride, maybe? Relief? But The words ‘great start’
just echo hollowly in my mind. Great start to what? A life of lies and
betrayal?
“There’s something you need to see” She continues, turning her laptop
to me. “I debated if I should show you or not, but I think it’s for the best
you know and⁠—”
The rest of her words dissolve into meaningless noise as the video starts
playing. My entire world narrows to the screen in front of me, and suddenly
my heart is trying to punch its way out of my chest.
It’s my dad.
Not the dad in my memories, the one forever preserved in the amber of
the past. This is a dad that time didn’t forget—what I imagine he would
look like if he had the chance to grow older. His hair, once purely brown,
now carries strands of silver. New lines frame his mouth and eyes, telling
stories of years I never got to witness.
My lips part as I lean closer, watching the video greedily, drinking in
every pixel, every movement. “H–how?”
 She sighs heavily, her shoulders sagging slightly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t
tell you. We found Tomassi’s body after his altercation with Alfonso Moretti
and nursed him back to life. By then, the news about his death had already
spread. I was little more than a rookie back then. He was put into witness
protection and, well, you know what that means.”
I do know. God, I know all too well. New identity, new life, complete
secrecy—witnesses are hidden from the world, from anyone dangerous. But
I’m his daughter, for fuck’s sake. I should have been told.
But then I realize what she’s saying.
He’s alive. My dad is alive.
Sweet hope and happy disbelief soar through me. I’m already imagining
our reunion, the questions I’ll ask, the things I’ll tell him—but as I move
my gaze from the video to Stacey, ready to demand answers and beg for a
reunion, her grim expression stops me cold.
“I was going to let you two meet each other and catch up after you
completed your first mission, but…” She pauses, and I can see the weight
of her next words. “Rafael Moretti got to him.”
The words drop like stones into the pit of my stomach.
“What?” I gasp. The hope in my chest curdles into something dark and
awful. There’s no way. Rafael wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t.
But my brain conjures the cold fury in his eyes three nights ago when he
came home with that jacket tied over his bleeding arm. The way he looked
at me like I was a stranger. An enemy…
“I called Tomassi to the city when I saw how sad you were following
your first mission. But Rafael got to him as soon as he arrived. Just like he
got to you in your apartment the night you came back.” She watches me
closely, studying my expression. “He killed your father, Emily.”
I shake my head slowly, my gaze drawn to the video on the screen
where my father—my living, breathing father—is frozen in time once
again. I can’t breathe. My brain is a tornado of thoughts, memories,
emotions. Six years of grieving, of finally accepting his death—all undone
in an instant. To find out he was alive all this time, only to lose him again…
in the same breath? It’s beyond cruel.
“That family killed your father twice. First Alfonso, then his son. Are
you going to let it slide?” Stacey continues, her mouth twitching a little like
she enjoys watching my turmoil—but that doesn’t make sense.
 I stand abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. Then
without a word, I turn and leave her office.
Rafael killed your father. Rafael killed your father. Rafael killed your
father.
My brain plays those words on a loop, over and over, as I walk out of
the federal office building. A gust of cold air slaps me across the face, but
I’m already so numb, I barely feel it.
But as I walk and those damning words become louder and louder and
louder in my head, my numb fog is finally pierced by an emotion.
Anger. No. Rage. Pure, unfiltered rage.
So, what, because I betrayed him, he decided to retaliate by killing my
dad?
Hot tears spill down my cheeks, evaporating almost immediately in the
frigid air. I sniffle, trying to breathe through the familiar ache in my chest.
The ache that's been my constant companion since our fight three nights
ago, before I shut it all off.
Killed my father.
How did he even find out Dad was alive in the first place? The tiny side
of me still clinging to disbelief asks, and I pause for a moment. Maybe the
same way he found you the very first night you got back into the city, my
cynical side supplies.
But it doesn’t fucking matter how he found him. What matters is that
Rafael killed my dad. Stacey has absolutely no reason to lie to me about
that. And he had every reason to do it after I betrayed him.
My heart freezes and hardens against him.
Too bad his own father is already rotting in the ground, or I’d gladly
return the favor.
I stop walking, surprised to find myself in front of my old condo. Stacey
had me move out after what went down. It probably isn’t safe to be here
now, since Rafael knows this address and might be lurking, ready for
another round of revenge.
Let him try. My hand moves to my waist, touching my gun. I dare that
bastard to show his face.
The doorman doesn’t get his usual greeting as I march past. In the
elevator, I tap my foot impatiently the whole ride up, hand still on my
weapon. When the doors finally slide open on the third floor, I draw my
gun, prepared for an ambush. But the hallway is empty.
 No… not entirely empty.
My heart skips when I spot something near my front door—a huge blue
planter and a gift box. The sprout growing from the sand looks ridiculously
small in comparison to the oversized pot.
I take a deep breath, holstering my gun before bending down to inspect
the bizarre gifts. There’s a sticker on the planter. I tear it off and read the
message.
Think of this as our baby together and nurture it with love.
No signature. It doesn’t need one.
An angry growl bursts from my chest when a jolt of something
suspiciously like excitement zips through me, and I move my attention to
the flat square box next to the planter.
I snatch it up and slide it open, gasping at the contents.
No fucking way…
It’s even worse than the red panties and lace gold bras.
How dare he.
I’m about to throw the box back to the floor when I notice another note
inside. Reluctantly, I examine it.

You can run from me, amorina, but you’ll

always be mine, betrayal or not. When the time
is right, I’ll find you and I’ll take what’s
rightfully mine.

“The audacity of this murderous bastard,” I seethe. In what twisted

world does he think there might still be something between us? After he
killed my dad? Does he think he was so smart with it that I wouldn’t find
out?
My fingers crush the note. “You’ll find me? No, Rafael. When the time
is right, I'll find you first. And you’ll die by my hands.”
I slam the box shut aggressively, not able to bear the sight of his ‘gifts’
any longer.
This isn’t over.
Not by a long fucking shot.
 What comes next?
Pre-order DEVIL’S LILY Now!
&
Join my Newsletter for sneak peeks and news leading up to release!

Devil’s Lily Amazon Page - click here.

Newsletter Sign-Up - click here.

OceanofPDF.com
 WANT TO ROCK MY WORLD?
Leave a review on Amazon.
Just a few positive words from you could make all the difference for an
indie author like me. Tell me what you liked and what you want to see in
future books.
I read every single last review, and I make sure to take notes! Because if
there’s one person in this universe who I want to enjoy my writing,
it’s YOU!

OceanofPDF.com
ALSO BY SASHA LEONE

Soulless Empire
King of Ruin
Lord of Wrath
God of Lies
Crown of Hate

Ruthless Dynasty
Ruthless Heir
Lethal King
Sinful Lord
Unholy Tsar

Brutal Reign
Merciless Prince
Brutal Savior
Cruel Knight
Wicked Master
Twisted Lover
Savage Don

OceanofPDF.com