Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Tania raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Tall, dark, and broody? There’s a Roman legion of them out there, so you’ll have to narrow it down.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly, feeling my cheeks heat.
Tania smirked. “Suit yourself. But if one of those Venturi guys has his sights set on you, I’d run. Or... don’t.” She winks and saunters off, leaving me flustered. Before I’m shouted at again, I refill my tray and head back into the ballroom.
Distracted by my thoughts, I don’t notice the napkin on the floor, which disturbs my balance. A champagne flute teeters on my tray, the golden liquid sloshing dangerously close to the edge. My breath catches. No, no, no—
The glass falls.
It shatters against the marble floor, the sound too loud, too sharp, drawing too much attention.
A ripple of silence spreads through the nearest tables. Murmurs. Gasps. My stomach turns to stone.
“Careful, darling,” comes a sharp voice. Table five again. The woman’s tone is dripping with condescension, her lips curling with barely contained amusement. “That flute cost more than your rent.”
Heat rushes up my neck, humiliation licking my skin. I drop to my knees, hands shaking as I reach for the broken shards.
And then—
“Apologize.”
The word isn’t loud. It isn’t sharp.
It’s a command that brooks no argument.
The air shifts thickens and cracks like a storm waiting to break.
Slowly, I look up.
Luca stands a few feet away, his gaze locked on the woman, his expression unreadable. But the ice in his voice? The weight of it? That is unmistakable.
The woman stiffens. “I—”
“Apologize.” His tone doesn’t waver.
Her lips part, outrage flickering in her expression, but she knows who he is and what he’s capable of. She swallows. Her spine stiffens.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters.
My breath hitches.
Luca Venturi made a woman who could buy my entire existence apologize to me.
He turns to me next, and something unreadable flickers across his face.
“Leave it,” he says, nodding to the mess. “Someone else will take care of it.”
“I—I can’t just—”
“You can,” he interrupts smoothly, extending a hand.
I hesitate.
But then, against all better judgment, I take it.
His fingers curl around mine, warm, strong, steady. When he pulls me to my feet, a strange sense of security washes over me, like I’m back in his father’s garden, wrapped up in his protective embrace.
Safe.
“Thank you,” I whisper, unsure why my voice barely makes a sound.
His lips curve, the faintest ghost of a smile, then he glances down at where we’re still joined, at my wrist, which is turned up to face him, my heart birthmark on display, and that ghost of a smile is replaced by the darkest expression I’ve ever seen.
2
LUCA
WALKING THROUGH MY MIND
The moment I see it, I know.
The heart-shaped birthmark on her wrist is small and faint but unmistakable. The scar on her chin, from an accident in my father’s garden. The way she’s been walking through my mind all night like the ghost of a memory. It clicks into place like the final move in a long-anticipated chess game.
Aemelia Lambretti.
The daughter of the man who laughed and joked with my brother then conspired in his death without a second thought.
Does she know who I am—who we are? Does she remember playing and dancing with Rosita all those years ago while we talked business over red wine from our vineyard in Sicily, and her father grinned like a shark?
My stomach tightens, and so does my grip on her small hand. It’s her. It’s really her.
When my gaze flicks to hers, she’s wide-eyed, and for a moment, I can’t tell if it’s fear or guilt.
She’s so beautiful that it makes a long, dead place in my chest ache, like a lonely echo in a cave cut deep into the cold earth.
I’m on my feet in seconds, moving through the room with purpose, dragging her behind me. She doesn’t resist; she just keeps pace with me in her cheap shoes, her breath coming in gasps that trigger my suspicions.
“Where—”
“Just walk,” I growl, low and commanding.
“But I—I’m working—”
“Not anymore.”
I steer her through the crowd, and she tugs against my grasp.
“Don’t make a scene,” I warn my voice like iron. “Unless you want every pair of eyes in this room on you and more than a few guns pointed.”
That stops her.
She glances around, but no one’s noticed us. The band is playing, the champagne is flowing, and the guests are too busy basking in their importance to care about a waitress being disciplined for spilling a drink.
I guide her through the back entrance and into a side room—a private study filled with dark wood and low-burning lamps. As soon as I close the door, I let her go, and she whirls on me, her chest rising and falling in rapid breaths.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
I ignore her, already pulling out my phone. I send a quick message to my brothers.