Julianna

"Detective Capulet." The familiar deep voice called me.

I glanced up from my work desk. Police Captain Foster was standing at the doorway to the stairs, his thick eyebrows furrowed over his sharp gray eyes. He was only late forties, but the stress of the job had cut deep grooves into his forehead and dusted his hair with salt and pepper. Captain Foster had been almost like an uncle to me. He and my father had attended the Academy together. They had even been partners at one time.

"Yes, captain?"

"The chief's office, now."

Oh my God. My stomach dropped like a stone. Had someone seen Roman leaving my place last night? Had one of the witnesses from Club Luxe recognized me?

This was it. I was caught. What the hell was I going to say to the captain? To my father?

"Capulet?"

"Coming," I called out automatically.

I pushed away from my desk, my breathing going erratic. Somehow I managed to follow him up the stairs. I felt like I was being led to the principal's office, everyone turning to stare at me as I walked past, wondering what I did wrong.

I could turn around and run. Disappear. I wouldn't have to face the consequences of my fated actions. Nor would I have to explain the intimacies I shared with Roman Tyrell.

The captain entered my father's office and held the door open for me. This was it. Last chance to run.

A Capulet never runs from danger. A Capulet does their duty.

Running would only make things worse. And where would I go? All I could do was beg for forgiveness and hope I wasn't fired.

I entered the office and stood just inside the room, flinching as the door clicked shut behind me. The captain sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk. My father, Chief Montgomery Capulet, sat behind his large desk, his palms flat on the surface amidst small neat piles of paper, a computer and a single photo frame. The frame faced away from me but I knew what it contained: a photo of me and my mother taken two weeks before she died.

My father's narrowed eyes caught mine, the dark look on his face growing darker. A knot developed in my throat. How many times in my life had I seen that look on his face, that heavy disapproval, that bitter disappointment, that tightly controlled anger? It took every ounce of effort not to throw myself on his desk and beg for his forgiveness. Please still love me.

A figure I only just noticed, sat in one of the chairs facing my father's desk, turned to look at me. It was Espinoza, a similar grim look on his face. Oh God. They were all here. The only people whose professional opinion mattered to me.

I walked like I was facing the firing squad to the only spare chair, right between the captain and Espinoza. I could feel all three pairs of eyes staring at me, burning holes through my lies like fire through paper. I fell into the chair, gripping my hands together in my lap and stared at the desk. I couldn't meet anyone's eye. I couldn't bear to see the disappointment. The air was heavy and hot, my neck prickling under my collar as I waited.

My father leaned forward in his large brown chair, the leather creaking mournfully under his solid build. I swallowed hard, hoping that I would somehow find the right words. Time to bite the bullet. I looked up and opened my mouth to apologize. "Dad?—"

"Where are we with Vinnie Torrito's murder?" my father interrupted, shooting me a glare. He had a rule that I was never to call him dad or show any sign of affection at work.

I blinked. Was this what this meeting was about? Had my guilt forced me to jump to the wrong conclusions?

I realized I was still sitting in stunned silence when Espinoza spoke instead of me. "We questioned Giovanni and Roman Tyrell, as well as a few of their men. They all alibied each other out. So far we can't find any holes in their alibis. The only thing we have is the traffic cam video showing one of their SUVs in the area during the time."

"That's purely circumstantial. It's not enough." My father growled and leaned back in his chair, the hinges protesting. "What about witnesses?"

I couldn't believe my luck. No one had found out about Roman and me. Yet, a small voice in me whispered.

I cleared my throat and spoke up. "We've canvassed the area around the body dump but no one saw anything. Or at least if they did, they're not speaking to us."

"Any trace on the body?"

I let out an easier breath. "No trace. Whoever committed the crime was a pro and knew to clean up and wear gloves."

"And the slug?"

"It's not a match to anything in the system. We haven't found the gun. Uniforms have searched all the dumpsters in a three mile radius to the body dump."

"We won't find the gun. Even if we do these bastards are too smart to have it lead back to anyone." My father swore. He rarely swore in front of me. He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, and rubbed his face with his hands. "I'm getting pressure from upstairs to stamp out gang activity, which means putting Giovanni and Roman Tyrell away. We haven't been able to pin anything else on them. This murder is our best chance."

"What if," I spoke up, "what if it wasn't the Tyrells?"

I felt all three sets of eyes focus on me, burning holes in me. I regretted my words immediately.

My father's lips pressed together. "Don't be stupid, Julianna. Jacob Tyrell was killed two weeks ago by the Veronesis. Now one of Veronesi's men has turned up dead. Of course, the Tyrells were behind this kill. If they didn't pull the trigger, then they hired the man who did. This has the potential to lead to a full-scale war. When that happens, too many innocents will get pulled into it, they always do. We cannot let this escalate. We need to find some way of pinning the Tyrells for this murder."

I frowned. "What about Jacob Tyrell's murder? Shouldn't we be focusing on that case as well?"

My father stared at me. "That is not your case."

I bit down a rise of annoyance. "If these two cases are related, it might help us to have a look at the case file for Jacob Tyrell's murderer."

My father shook his head. "I already have people sifting through that evidence. There's a hell of a lot of it. Your job is to focus on putting Giovanni and Roman Tyrell away. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Espinoza and I said together.

My father directed his next comment straight at me. "Don't disappoint me."

My stomach tightened. "I won't, sir."

"Good. Now get out of here and find me something to pin on those Tyrell bastards."

I was silent as Espo and I walked out of my father's office. Why was my father so determined to pin the Tyrells for Vinnie's murder? We had no evidence they'd done it. My father was instigating a witch-hunt to try to bring down all the Tyrells.

What if Roman wasn't like the rest of them?

"Look past the last name I was given. You know me."

* * *

Later that night,I tossed the empty Chinese takeout box into the trash can by my desk and stood up, stretching, nodding goodnight to a fellow officer as he walked past me towards the elevator. I scanned the empty workstations and darkened offices. Perfect. I was the last one on the floor. What I wanted to do, I didn't want to do while worrying that someone might be looking over my shoulder.

I pulled my chair under the desk and opened an internet browser. Glancing around myself one more time, I typed in "Roman Giovanni Tyrell" and clicked search before I could change my mind.

The search results came up in an instant. There were articles from various social magazines about the European heiresses and trust fund babes he'd been connected with. I cast my eyes over the various photos of him at parties, in clubs, on yachts, a bottle in one hand, the other slung around a bevy of beautiful girls. My heart squeezed. Was I just another one of his revolving door of girls? How many more of them had he invited to Paris with him? And if he was used to dating heiresses, what had he been doing with me?

I closed the browser, a growing sick feeling in my stomach. I opened an email I'd received from an old colleague who was working for Interpol in Lyon, France.

Good to hear from you, Julianna.

Here's everything we have on Roman Tyrell.

Jerome.

I opened the attachments.While Roman Tyrell had been in Europe he hadn't been linked to any of the European Mafia families. He had been picked up no less than five times for drunk and disorderly behavior, and disturbing the peace, all of them from bar fights. He had a string of speeding tickets. Nothing more serious than that. Drinking, speeding and fighting. How had he graduated from drunken fist fights to torture and cold-blooded murder?

I found the witness statements to the fights and read through them. I frowned. They had all claimed that Roman had been defending himself or someone else. According to the gossip columns, Roman was the one who was supposed to have started the fights. He even bragged about it in an interview. Why would he do that? Why would he make himself appear worse than he was?

He'd been enrolled in a Criminal Law Degree at the Regent University, located in the green heart of Regent's Park in London.

Criminal law. How ironic.

He'd pulled out of his degree the day of his return to Verona with only one semester to go. As far as I could see, he hadn't transferred to another university closer to home. Why did he just quit like that?

I searched back through public records from before he left for Europe. He had attended St. Andrews Private School, Verona's most prestigious high school. I had gone to the local public school and was a grade below him. Our circles would never have crossed paths, not until last Saturday.

I couldn't get access to Roman's school records without a court order, but I did have access to the files kept by the school police. He had a few reprimands in his record: truancy, fighting, problems with authority figures.

I sank back into my chair. To the world, Roman Tyrell looked like a violent, irresponsible playboy. I remembered the man I had spent the night with: charming, funny, insightful. The Roman that the world seemed to think existed wasn't the Roman that I had experienced. How could it be possible that the world got it so wrong?

"My father is a difficult man."

I pulled up the file on Roman's father. Giovanni Tyrell, known Mafia boss, controller of the Tyrell empire, suspected of running drugs and guns from Colombia, his illegal activities covered up by his legitimate interests: property investments, clubs, restaurants and transportation companies. There was a suspected string of dead bodies in his wake, but with no convictions.

I chewed on my lip. Roman's mother's murder case file would be in our system. It would have been before our files were digitized so it'd be stored in the file room down in the basement. I wasn't about to check out the files from the file room. I searched for newspaper articles online instead.

Maria Tyrell, Wife of Mobster, Murdered.

She'd been discoveredby their housekeeper in her garage with her throat slit. No weapon was found at the scene.

My heart skipped a beat when I read the next few lines. Roman Tyrell, her youngest son, was discovered hiding in the corner of the garage covered in her blood. He may have been the only witness. He'd been treated for shock but was otherwise unharmed. He had been twelve.

Jesus Christ. I imagined a young Roman finding his mother dead in the garage. My heart cried for him. That was something no child, no human, should ever have to go through.

I would have been eleven. Old enough to remember. How did I not remember this? This was huge news.

I looked at the date of the newspaper articles. Of course. This was the same time as my mother had died so I'd fallen into a deep grief-hole where nothing else had penetrated. Fourteen years ago, Roman Tyrell and I were on opposite sides of the city, living in two different worlds, yet struggling with the same grief.

I kept reading further, my stomach twisting into knots. Roman Tyrell hadn't told the police anything. He'd refused to speak to them even after the case went cold.

It had been a gang-related hit, the newspapers mused. Others, were more sensational.

Did Roman Tyrell Kill His Own Mother?

My stomach turnedas I read, unable to stop. Police believed that Roman Tyrell held the key to solving his mother's murder. Why wouldn't Roman speak up? Was he protecting someone? Or was he the one hiding the violent secret? Like father, like son.

I swallowed my anger down. How could the papers even speculate that a twelve-year-old boy could do something like this? Roman Tyrell had not even been a teenager before this city began to persecute him, all because of who his father was.

What about Maria Tyrell? Roman spoke of a gentle, kind woman when he spoke about her. I stared at a black and white photo of Maria. Her thick dark hair was a wave that tumbled over her shoulders, framing a sweetheart face. She had been a beautiful lady with a wide warm smile; the same smile as Roman's. My heart clenched.

I dug through the digital records and found the file on the massacre at the docks where Jacob Tyrell, Roman's brother, had been slain. The "dirty docks massacre", the newspapers had called it. I glanced around, making sure I was still alone before I began to click through the crime scene photographs. A single gunshot wound on each body, a V slashed into each of their chests. It had been without a doubt a professional hit.

Except for Jacob.

Jacob Tyrell, wanted for murder and gone underground for four years, had been found dead in a converted apartment on the top floor of one of the buildings. There was a V on his chest like the others, but he'd also taken a beating before he had died. An entire clip of bullets had been released into his torso and he had a stab wound to his leg. It had been personal. It left no doubt that the massacre had occurred to target Jacob.

So much violence. How much blood could a man's life be bathed in before the darkness began to soak into his soul?

Roman's words to me kept echoing in my brain. "My family is…complicated. I didn't want to be a part of it. I wanted to be my own person."

This was why Roman had left Verona all those years ago. This was why he wanted to return to London after his brother's funeral. But he hadn't returned to Europe. He stayed in Verona. Why had he changed his mind? Had he given up trying to fight his family legacy?

Or was there some other reason?

Maybe we were looking at this wrong. Maybe, it wasn't his father who was lying for Roman, but Roman who was lying for his father.

I slipped into the empty tech room. One side of the room was covered in large monitors, a curved control station with more buttons, panels and keyboards than a spaceship command center. I had spent hours in here beside the techies, scouring through traffic cameras around Vinnie's dump site. I knew how to handle the controls, at least enough to be able to access the city's traffic camera footage. If I could somehow trace Roman's steps from the hotel to wherever he went that night, maybe I could prove that he hadn't been with his father. Maybe I could tear his father's alibi apart.

In the interview, Roman had said that his friend Mercutio had picked him up and dropped him off at his father's. From a DMV search of Mercutio Brevio, I knew that he had a black Ford Taurus registered to him. I wrote his license plate number on a piece of paper beside me.

I couldn't see which way Roman had left the hotel. We hadn't gotten the security tapes from the Marriott Hotel yet as we were still waiting on a court order. Assuming Roman had been headed to the airport, they would have turned right out of the hotel. I pulled up a map on the city's traffic cameras on one monitor and then located one that I suspected might have caught a glimpse of him.

I lined up the time to seven ten p.m. that Sunday, just as Roman would have been saying goodbye to me. And hit play. The seconds ticked over as I stared at the grainy screen, eyeing the various cars that passed the intersection. I spotted what looked like a Ford Taurus and hit pause. I leaned in towards the screen. I could see two figures in the front seats. When I zoomed in I could make out their faces. I recognized Roman's wide shoulders in the passenger seat. I pressed play again and watched as they drove off-screen. I turned back to the map of traffic cameras, picked out the next camera that they might pass and lined that footage up.

The work was painstaking, but I was able to follow the Ford Taurus towards the outskirts of Verona. I frowned. They really were headed to the airport. So why didn't Roman catch his flight?

In the footage from a freeway camera mounted high on an overpass, I spotted several SUVs converging around the Ford. My skin began to prickle. One of the SUVs sped up beside Mercutio's vehicle, then veered in front of the car to block it. The Taurus braked and skidded to a halt. A second SUV blocked the back of it. The few other cars on the road braked before merging into the left lane to get around the road blockage.

"What the hell?" I muttered.

A man got out of the front SUV. I paused it and zoomed in, squinting at his face. My eyes widened when I saw the scar cutting across his left side. Scarface. The man from the cemetery.

He had a gun in his hand.

I zoomed out and hit play. The passenger door of the Taurus opened and Roman stepped out of the car. Seeing him, even in black and white, caused something to tug in my chest. A limo drove up in the left lane and stopped beside them. Scarface pointed his gun towards Roman. I watched in disbelief as Roman got into the back of the limo. Scarface got into the front. The convoy drove off.

Roman had been kidnapped. By whom? Who were these men? Who was Scarface?

Did something happen to Roman to get him involved with Vinnie? Why did his father claim that they were having dinner?

I ran the license plate of the black limo. The hairs on my arms rose when I read the registration details.

Tyrell Industries.

Giovanni Tyrell had kidnapped Roman on the way to the airport. But why?

I followed the convoy through the traffic cameras. I lost them soon after they turned off the highway. I sank back into my chair.

"I'm running away from my father."

What if Roman didn't want to live the life his family did? What if that's why he left Verona? What if Vinnie's murder was something Roman got pulled into?

"Julianna, you're still here?" Captain Foster poked his head through the partially open door. I jumped and clicked the minimize button on the screen. The traffic camera footage disappeared.

I turned to face him. I hoped from his angle at the door he hadn't been able to see what was on the screen properly. "Yes, captain. I was just running through a hunch."

He stepped farther into the room. "Did you find anything?"

I shook my head. "Nothing interesting," I lied. I couldn't tell the captain about my theory on Roman Tyrell. Not yet.

He glanced at the blank screen, then looked back at me, his face unreadable. "Are you leaving soon?"

"In a bit."

He shook his head and gave me an affectionate smile. "You're like your father. You work too hard."

I let out a nervous laugh. "Thanks. I think."

"It is a compliment. I'm waiting for the day that you surpass me in rank. Anyway, good night. Make sure you get some sleep."

As soon as the captain left, I sagged with relief. I had to be more careful. I opened up the traffic camera footage again and stared at the screen.

What should I do with this footage? All that it proved was that Roman got into a limo owned by his father. They already claimed that they had had dinner together that night. Unfortunately, this new footage didn't disprove that. Why would Giovanni Tyrell force his own son into his car?

What was going on? Who are you really, Roman Tyrell? What happened with your father?

"My father is a difficult man. My family is…complicated. We have a family business and the politics… The politics are killer. I didn't want to be a part of it."

What if Giovanni did kill Vinnie, or at the very least, had Vinnie killed? Perhaps all Roman was guilty of was lying about being his father's alibi. How would I prove this?

Roman.

Roman was my proof.

* * *

The next evening,I stood in front of my closet looking across the items in my wardrobe. I needed to be sexy without being obvious. My eyes were drawn to a dress in a deep red.

He let out a groan. "You're wearing red lacy underwear?" His voice came out tight, almost pained. "Please tell me the bra matches."

My cheeks heated. Red. Roman liked me in red. I pulled out a red fitted dress with buttons running the whole way up the front and slipped it on. I slid my feet into a pair of nude heels and stepped in front of the mirror. It held on to the lines of my curves without being too clingy, and if I left the top button undone, you could see the peak of the top of my cleavage. It was perfect.

Except there was no place to hide a gun.

The thought of walking into enemy camp without a gun made me feel…naked. A shiver slipped down my spine like a melting ice cube. Did I really think that Roman could be dangerous to me?

No.

At least, not physically. My heart skipped a beat as if to make a point. A point which I summarily ignored. I grabbed my keys, Roman's address which I had copied from his file, and left before I could change my mind.

Less than thirty minutes later I walked out of the elevator to the top floor of an inner West Verona apartment block, all creamy walls, warm cherry wood and silver finishes. It appeared there was only one apartment on this penthouse level. I walked down the short corridor, my heels muffled on the cream carpet, stopping in front of a painted midnight blue door, a silver number "70" and a matching silver knocker centered at eye height. I smoothed down my dress and took a deep, steadying breath. It didn't work. I knocked on the door, my rapping echoing down the empty corridor.

I heard footsteps approaching the door from inside. The sound turned my heart into a tribal drumbeat inside my body. I shook my clammy hands by my sides and forced what I hoped was a sexy smile on my face. I had a touch of eye makeup to darken my eyes and a natural-colored gloss on my mouth.

The small peephole darkened. My skin broke out into goosebumps, the way it did when Roman looked at me. There was a pause. I could almost feel him stop breathing. Or perhaps I was projecting because I certainly had.

Here we were. After…everything. Less than two inches of wood separating us.

I heard the lock click. The door opened a few inches, stopping against the strain of the chain still hooked on. Through the gap, one of Roman's dark hooded eyes stared out at me. "What are you doing here?" His deep voice, like honey and gravel all at once, rolled like a wave over me.

"I…I want to talk to you."

"As who?"

I blinked, wondering if I misheard. "Sorry?"

"Are you here as Detective Capulet, or as my Jules?"

My Jules?"Jules," I blurted out. "I'm here as Jules."

As he stared at me, nothing seemed to pass across his eyes. The door shut in my face.

My shoulders sagged. He wasn't even going to speak to me.

I heard the chain being unhooked. The door opened wide and Roman Tyrell stood in front of me. I choked on my tongue. He was standing in front of me wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, his glorious torso on display, damp chest hair coiled on his firm chest, droplets of water scattered across his golden skin. My eyes slid down over his six-pack and those damn sexy V muscles. The V disappeared under his towel that sat low—too low, way too low—just above his pubic bone. My body flooded with desire from the top of my head to my toes, making me feel like I was melting into the ground. This was a bad idea. A very, very, bad idea. I should walk away, right now. If I could even walk. Nope, legs don't seem to want to function right now.

I was staring. I was staring at the bulge in his towel. Shit. I lifted my eyes, cheeks burning, hoping he hadn't caught me.

He was watching me, a slight smile pulling at the corner of his lip.

Fuck. He had so caught me.

"Come in, Jules." He stepped aside, revealing the interior of a stylish modern bachelor pad. I could hear the strains of an instrumental guitar coming from deep inside his lair. It felt like a trap. A beautiful trap.

"You… I… You…" I stuttered, unable to move from the spot.

His look was unapologetic. "I just got out of the shower. You didn't exactly warn me before you came over."

I found my voice. "Why would that have made any difference?"

His grin widened. "If I knew you were coming, I wouldn't have bothered with the towel."

My mouth dropped open. I was hit with another wave of lust, wetness trickling into my panties.

He laughed. "You're so easy to tease. Come inside."

I stepped inside his apartment before I could change my mind. I stopped at the edge of a formal living room decorated in black leather, chrome and mahogany. There were no photo frames, no books, no personal touches. It could have been a luxury hotel suite, cold and detached.

The door shut and locked behind me with a loud click. I spun. Our gazes fused together and I was stunned into blankness. He was so lovely. A perfect Roman statue come to life. I felt underdressed in my cotton dress and heels. Next to this god of a man I would probably feel under-dressed in a ball gown designed for a princess.

For a moment, we watched each other. His gaze drifted across my face and the longing that flashed in his deep-set eyes caused my stomach to twist into knots. It took everything I had not to close the distance between us and press myself against him. Too much. It was too much. He was too much.

This time, there was something different about the hunger in his eyes. It was…tainted with regret. Sadness. Reduced to "what if's" and "if only's" whispered into the dark.

I watched as his features hardened into that cold mask I'd first seen in the interrogation room. This saddened me more than anything. He was a master at tucking all his emotions away on command. I hated it. It made me feel so unbalanced. I wasn't as good as he was at pretending I was okay with all of this.

I schooled my own features into what I hoped was cool detachment and tried to ignore the fissures of heat running through me at the sight of his beautiful body. "You should put some clothes on."

"I'm quite comfortable the way I am."

"I would be more comfortable?—"

"Why did you come here, Julianna?" he interrupted, his voice an icy crisp version of the baritone that could reduce me to liquid heat. "What do you want?"

I cleared my throat. If he was fine being questioned half naked, then I would be too. "I traced your route after you left me at the hotel using the city traffic cameras."

He made a noise in his throat, his dark eyes appraising me. "No wonder you made detective so young." If I didn't know any better, I would have said that his voice held a hint of pride.

"I saw the SUVs creating a blockade. I saw the man with a gun."

His mouth pinched but he didn't respond. That was the only sign that I had surprised him. I moved slowly towards him, like I was approaching a wild horse that I wanted to tame. "It was your father in that limo, wasn't it?"

"You're the detective. You tell me." He shifted back, moving away from me.

I kept approaching, my voice low and steady, trying to tell him that he had nothing to fear from me. I was on his side. "He forced you into his limo. You didn't want to go with him."

"Nobody forces me to do anything." His back hit the door.

I only stopped when we were toe to toe. He didn't move, he just let me cage him. God, he smelled divine; fresh and clean. We weren't touching but I could feel the heat radiating off his body. I wanted to fall against him, to melt against his hardness, to run my hands down his body and lose myself in him again.

I couldn't lose focus now. "Where did he really take you, Roman?"

"I told you, we had dinner together."

"Don't lie to me. Where did he take you?"

He flinched. "This is poor form, Julianna. Using our history to try to trick evidence out of me."

"I didn't come here to get evidence on you."

He snorted. "Then why are you here?"

"I…I want to help you."

"Nobody can help me," he said quietly. The tone of his voice was hopeless and resigned. It stabbed me in the heart.

I wanted to reach up to touch his face, to comfort him. I was afraid that if I touched him I'd forget why I was here. "It's just you and me here, Roman," I whispered. "You can tell me."

"You, me, and the wire you're wearing."

"I'm not wearing a wire."

"Now who's lying."

He didn't believe me. He didn't trust me. He shouldn't. For some reason, it hurt that he didn't. A part of me had hoped he would look past my badge to the woman who had shared so much of herself with him that night. Roman Tyrell had learned to trust no one. I wanted him to trust me.

Before I could change my mind, I lifted my hands to my chest and found the top of my dress. I fumbled with the button for a moment before I got it open. My dress popped open, revealing my cleavage and the red lacy bra underneath, the same bra that he had pulled off me that night.

Roman's eyes dropped to my hands, then widened. "What are you doing?" His voice sounded shaky. Just like my fingers.

I dropped to the next button and kept going. He didn't stop me. He didn't say another word. He stared, his breathing growing labored, his hungry eyes becoming almost demonic-looking. I heard the sound of fingernails scraping wood and realized he was gripping at the door behind him. I grew lightheaded, the wobbling in my heels becoming worse with each button I released. One at a time I popped my buttons until I reached the button at my navel. The dress gaped open to reveal my torso.

"See," I said trying to keep my voice from shaking. "No wire."

He sucked in a breath. Without warning his hands grabbed my shoulders and spun us around so my back slammed against the door. The air was knocked out of me.

"Don't move," he commanded before his hands dropped from me, leaving scorching handprints. I wasn't sure I could move even if I wanted to.

He slipped both hands inside my dress, his fingertips brushing against my stomach. I inhaled sharply. He trailed his fingers up my front, sliding my dress open further until he'd pushed it off my shoulders and it hung from my hips.

His gaze fell to my half-naked body. My thighs shaking, I clung to the door hoping it would keep me upright. He made a low growling noise in the back of his throat. "No wire," he repeated.

I swallowed, hard. Suddenly it seemed like a stupid idea to have come here.

His head snapped up. His gaze bore into mine, his lip curling up. He was angry about something. I wasn't sure what. "You're playing with fire, little girl."

"I like the flames," I admitted in a tiny voice.

He let out a growl and glared at me. "You're going to get burned."

"I…I don't mind."

"Does anyone know you're here?"

"Yes," I lied.

"Liar," he said, his face and voice hard as stone. "You're here alone without a weapon or backup with a known criminal."

"You're not a?—"

"I'm a Tyrell. Don't forget that."

"That doesn't mean?—"

"I could fuck you against this door then gut you like a fish and nobody would ever find your body. These walls are soundproof."

"You…wouldn't." My Roman wouldn't hurt me. Right?

He's not your Roman, stupid!

His nostrils flared. "Some women want me because the danger turns them on. You are one of those women, aren't you, Jules?"

"I'm not," I protested weakly.

His gaze dragged lazily across my breasts. If I wasn't so busy holding on to the door, I'd have covered my chest with my hands. "Didn't you come here to walk on the wild side? To relive our night together?"

"No."

His eyes snapped to mine before narrowing. "Then what are you doing here?"

"Tell me what really happened that night."

He shook his head slightly. The motion made the strands of his hair fall over his forehead. I wanted to brush them out of the way, to touch his soft hair. "I already made a statement."

"I don't want your statement. I want you to tell me." I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't be this near to him and not touch him. I lifted my hand towards his face.

He grabbed my wrist before I could reach his cheek. "You need to stay away from me. Do you hear me?"

I wasn't sure I could. "I can help you. You just need to trust me."

"You can't help me. No one can."

"Please…" I begged, although I had stopped knowing what I was begging for. His proximity and his smell and his heat, all of it were drawing me in like a moth to an open flame.

Something banged behind me and we both jumped.

"Roman!" A deep male voice came muffled through the door. "Open the hell up. It's Abel."

My blood turned to ice at the name. Abel "The Butcher" Montero was Giovanni Tyrell's right-hand man, linked to over two dozen murders, a convicted rapist and ex-surgeon so he knew how to wield a knife. I found his thick file amongst our list of Tyrell's known associates and recognized him as Scarface from the cemetery. There had been something in Abel's eyes that chilled me to the bone as I stared at his grainy black and white arrest photo; they were dead. No soul left.

Now, I was trapped in Roman's apartment without a weapon, a violent man on the other side of the door. The only thing between us was Roman Tyrell. He was my only hope of getting out of here unharmed.

I watched as an emotion flashed across Roman's face too quick for me to discern what it was. He was a Tyrell. On their side, not mine. Once he opened the door, who knew what Abel and Roman would do to me. His earlier bluff to rape me, kill me and make my body disappear flashed through my mind.

I was so screwed.