Chapter Three

Stefano

"How was the gala?" Carmine, my best friend, sat across from me at the breakfast table in Marco's mansion.

Romi set a stack of pancakes soaked in maple syrup in front of him.

"I love you." He cut his fork through the fluffy pile. He moaned as he chewed. "Mmm, fucking good," he said with his mouth full.

I stretched my legs out and rubbed my hand over my abdominals. "You're going to make yourself sick."

He flipped me off and shoved another forkful into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "I need sugar for energy."

"If you puke on me, I'm going to make you hurt."

He snorted. "There's no threat in that. I always hurt after we train."

Romi stepped out of the room. Carmine leaned onto the table. "Did you make an impression on the DA?"

I stretched out in my chair. "He was too comfortable in his environment. Big man at the party. I still managed to piss him off."

Carmine spoke around another bite. "Arrogance is a weakness. But we don't have the luxury of time. Cirillo wants a status on Dante. When I told him you were handling it, he settled down. He knows your methods. He and Marco want the DA neutralized."

"Moreau will break. I met the motivation we'll need. He has a daughter. If he thinks we're vulnerable, I'm prepared to change his mind." I remained silent for several seconds. "Whatever it takes." And it was going to take Celine Moreau.

Emilio was diving deep on her. I wanted to know everything from her favorite color to her time of the month. Last night, she'd pulled back, afraid of my connection to her father.

There were other reasons for her to be afraid of me. None of them were going to stop me from seeing her again. I wanted her alone, without her father's specter haunting her eyes.

Once she discovered I had her painting, she'd agree to see me again. Then I'd see what she was willing to do to get it back. If I was willing to part with it. She had access to what I needed, but I wouldn't deny I wanted more than information from her.

I wanted to break her glass shell, make her shatter, preferably on my mouth, then on my cock. Thank fuck, Romi hummed a tune as she came back into the kitchen. I couldn't think of Celine without my dick wanting in on the conversation, a conversation I'd already had this morning in the shower.

"Keep quiet on the girl," I said to Carmine. She was mine to play with first.

He nodded and pushed away from the table. "You ready?"

Romi was quick to take his plate.

He kissed her cheek. "I'm going to steel you away from Marco and marry you."

She playfully batted his chest.

Carmine followed me down to the lower level of the Bruno mansion. After we warmed up with a bit of shadowboxing, we worked on strikes and counterstrikes.

"Don't pussy out," I taunted.

"Meow." Carmine wiped sweat from his brow.

Hot and volatile adrenaline pumped through my veins. Sweat dripped down my back, soaking into the waistband of my compression shorts. I needed this, an outlet for the aggression building in my gut. I'd trained with a former soldier in the Israel Defense Forces. Krav Maga combined techniques from aikido, judo, karate, boxing, and wrestling.

I also played with knives.

"Jesus, fuck." Carmine bent at the waist and gulped a breath. "I'm going to puke."

A flirtatious giggle sounded from the doorway. "Pussy."

"Do you want in on this?" I squared my shoulders, cocked my head, and gestured with my fingers. "Come on, topolina, put on a pair of sparring gloves and show me what you've learned." The little mouse came to fight.

Allegra reached to the top of her head and tightened her ponytail. She was petite but black leggings revealed she had curves like a racetrack. Marco was going to lose his shit if he found her down here with me in nothing but a tight sports bra molded to her tits and leggings that clung to her skin.

"Does your husband know where you are?"

"Does he know I'm about to kick his brother's ass?" She slammed her palms against my sweat-slicked chest. As I shifted to an offensive stance, she pivoted out of my line, thrust her palm up against my chin, then moved past me, spun, and braced for the counterattack.

I grinned and ran my thumb across my lower lip, catching a smear of blood. In fifteen seconds, she'd done what Carmine hadn't been able to do in the last forty-five minutes. She made me bleed.

"Someone came to play," Carmine said.

She smiled and bounced on the balls of her feet. "I learned a few things the last time we sparred," she said to me.

"Don't get cocky," I told her. "Don't speak to your opponent. Your silence is more threatening." I threw a jab toward her chest. She easily blocked the punch. "Don't respond if they try to provoke you." I demonstrated by taunting her. "Come on, little mouse. Or do you need to grow a dick to show me you can fight like a man?"

She growled and lunged at me. Carmine laughed from the corner.

"Ignore him. Stay focused." I pushed her off. "Again. This time, distract with your left hook, and deliver a blow to my ribs with your right."

She huffed a breath, relaxed into her stance, then went on the offense. With a pivot of her hips, she landed a hard blow to my ribs.

I parried. She blocked. Sweat drenched her sports bra and beaded on her brow. With her next attack, she left herself open. I moved in, thrusting a knee into her hip.

She slammed her hands into my shoulders. "Dammit, Stef, don't pull your punches. I can take a hit." She blew a damp tendril of hair from her face. "I know you can't unleash your beast on me, but the only way I'm going to get better is if it hurts. I need to learn from my mistakes."

Carmine snorted. "Will you cry at his funeral when Marco kills him for leaving you bloody?"

"I guess you don't know my husband." She sidled left, faked, then thrust her elbow, catching me in the jaw. "My blood turns him on." She followed with a palm heel to my nasal septum.

Tears burst in my eyes, and blood gushed from my nose. I couldn't stop the grunt of surprise. Pain shot through my face.

She squealed and wrenched back from me, avoiding the spray of blood. She was proud of herself for that one. I was fucking proud of her, too. But I wanted her to stay focused.

Carmine laughed again.

I bent forward and blew the blood from my nose. When I lifted my head, I caught my reflection in the far mirror and smiled. Blood coated my teeth, smeared across my mouth, and dripped from my chin.

Her eyes widened as I took a step toward her. "Your enemy isn't down until he's unconscious or dead."

She nodded, lifting her fists, prepared to fight.

We circled. Then remembering her training, she attacked first. I easily side-stepped, crushed her jaw in my fist, spun behind her, put her in a choke hold and took her to the ground.

I straddled her back, fisted her ponytail in my hand and hovered my lips close to her ear. "Never underestimate your opponent." I flipped her over, squeezing her narrow hips between my knees, and pinning her arms over her head.

She gasped. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. Blood stained her lips, and my hands had left her neck red and flushed.

"Never turn your back on your opponent," I told her. "And never show mercy."

Her body became slack beneath me.

"You can get the fuck off my wife now."

I lifted my head and released Allegra's arms at my brother's edged tone.

Allegra hooked a leg around my knee, bucked her hips, grabbed my arm, and flipped me to my back. She sat astride me, leaned over my bloody face, and smiled. "I wasn't unconscious or dead."

I flopped my arms over my head. "You're learning."

She slid off me, stood, and practically danced her way to Marco. He curled his hand around her nape, lowered his face to hers, and kissed her filthy. "I came looking for Stef. I didn't expect to find you down here."

I rolled to sitting. If Marco was looking for me, he needed a job done. I stood and grabbed a towel.

"Ten minutes." I headed for the door.

"Guesthouse," he said.

I nodded.

"You, too," he said to Carmine.

I went to my room and hit the shower. As promised, ten minutes later, I made my way out to the rear of the property. Emergency meetings in the guesthouse were restricted to a select few. I was still surprised Knox had been given unrestricted access, but then he'd never betrayed us.

There was a traitor among us, living in the house, and feigning loyalty. She attempted to kill Luca and was suspected of killing my father. I relished the thought of Giada tasting the blade of my knife.

Waiting was hell, but I followed orders, and Marco hadn't issued the hit. Patience was my only virtue. Although I rarely used it for good. I would bide my time. I trusted Marco hated her and wanted her dead as badly as I did. At least, I'd never fucked her. Couldn't say the same thing about my brothers. Or my father. Once she'd climbed into his bed, she'd paid her dues and became a made woman for the mafia.

I didn't need a woman in my bed. I wanted an angel. And I'd have her.

I entered the guesthouse. Orlando and Knox sat on the couch playing a video game.

"Shouldn't you be working," I said as I strode to the back rooms.

The largest bedroom had been converted into Emilio's computer room. Emilio was an iron chef of the internet. He could take names and numbers—any number from social security to a partial license plate—and make them into a dossier of intelligence.

This room also served as the surveillance hub for the mansion. A bank of monitors displayed locations on the property. Emilio sat at an L-shaped desk with several interconnected computers. Carmine sat next to him. Blood still stained his lips. He'd pulled on a hoodie but hadn't showered after our sparring session.

He dwarfed his brother in height and build, but you could see the family resemblance. Their similarities stopped at their looks. Emilio could cause chaos with a computer. Like me, Carmine preferred to get bloody.

Marco stood next to Antonio, his consigliere. But in reality, Ant was the Bruno family fixer. Nothing was beyond the scope of his loyalty to Marco.

"What's going on?" I asked, approaching them.

Emilio's chair creaked as he leaned back and handed me a printed sheet of paper.

I grabbed it. "What's this?"

"Cell, address, class schedule, credit card balance, medical history." He glanced over his shoulder. "She's crazy, like sleep with one eye open crazy." His mouth twitched. "Actually, she might just be the perfect girl for you."

I folded the paper and slipped it into my back pocket.

Marco lifted a brow.

"It's personal."

Carmine smiled as he swiped across his phone screen.

If Emilio wondered why I hadn't volunteered Celine's identity as the DA's daughter, he didn't show it. He tapped his fingers on his keyboard. "How was dinner at the gala?"

"Fine. Moreau and I are going to become better acquainted."

"Stef." Marco solemnly spoke my name. "I trust you to do whatever it takes to get Moreau to understand this is my fucking city now."

Marco wanted Moreau, and I wanted his daughter.

Emilio spun around in his chair and faced us. "Cirillo found the connection between Lazaro Adami and Greek billionaire Isaak Karas."

I recoiled, my gaze darting to Marco and my hands curling into fists. I carried the guilt of this name for the months I'd believed my brother murdered. The name Bruno was associated with many things. Fine wine, money, mafia…and diamonds.

Karas was a shipping magnate, controlling supply chains across entire continents. His container ships migrated across the globe. Ports were his playground. And he'd been moving my diamonds, until the last delivery. A delivery Luca had made.

Yes, I knew this man. I'd never met him personally but worked with him through his contacts. He was reclusive to the point of being a ghost.

I would confront Adami, but Giada had shot a slug into his neck before Marco could bring him to me. Giada again. Always fucking Giada.

"The cunt is dead." I hadn't meant to speak aloud.

"Not, yet, Stef." Marco rested his hand on my shoulder. "She'll pay for betraying this family."

"We need, Luca," Ant said. "This shit involves him."

"No." I stepped away from Marco. "We don't need a trait—"

"Don't say it." Marco glared at me. "Luca never betrayed this family."

I disagreed. He chose Mia Thomas, daughter of dead diamond smugglers. They were dead because my father wouldn't pay a ransom. She was the sister to a dead brother who attempted to blackmail my father. Mia was a bitch on her knees for a brother who turned his back on his family.

Even after Luca learned the truth that Marco hadn't ordered the hit on his life, he'd walked away. For fucking pussy. I pulled a cigarette from my pack.

Not that I wanted him dead. But I didn't want him here unless he was all in. I didn't know what more he had to lose to realize where he belonged, but he hadn't lost enough. He was still hiding, and I needed to trust those in battle with me. Right now, his loyalties were divided and would be until he took his place next to Marco.

"No smoking in here," Emilio chastised without breaking his rhythm on the computer.

"Fuck." I dropped the unlit cigarette on the desk.

"Luca is loyal," Marco said.

"To whom?" I asked. "Was he loyal to Savio?"

Luca Bruno, my brother had died in a warehouse making a diamond delivery. At least, that was what we'd assumed until we walked into the office of Alex Ferraro, businessman and owner of the BDSM club High Protocol. A club where Luca and Mia socialized.

I hadn't believed it possible, but Luca had turned his back on his family.

Five years ago, Luca had sacrificed for Savio, claiming Giada's son as his own, even after discovering she'd also been sleeping with our father. "His son still believes he's dead."

"I know. It's safer this way. Stef, just listen." Marco nodded at Emilio. "Continue."

"While you've been collecting on accounts, Luca and Carlo have been dissecting the morning they were shot."

Shit had gone sideways during the exchange. Luca and Carlo had been ambushed, shot, and barely escaped. There had been enough blood evidence left behind that the disappearance had been ruled a homicide.

Carlo protected Luca. When Luca had turned his back on his family, he'd taken Carlo with him. I'd mourned my brother, but Carlo's family had to mourn him. I understood Carlo's loyalty to Luca. Carmine would do the same for me. But he wouldn't have had to. I'd have fought back. I'd have wanted blood.

I still did.

"Are you listening?" Marco asked.

I lifted my gaze to his. "I have to go." Because I didn't want to hear more excuses on why we were willing to allow Giada to breathe for another day. I started across the room. "Let me know when you're ready to do more than talk."

"Stef, Luca had subtly been challenging me and questioning my decisions." He cursed and raked his fingers through his hair. "Before the incident, he'd been spending more of his time in his BDSM sex clubs, playing playboy Dom, and it pissed me off. He was forgetting his responsibilities. Papà wasn't doing shit about it. Luca was a fucking capo. I needed him to get his hands dirty." He paused for a moment, then his voice grew quieter. "I made a decision, not one I regret, but one that changed everything. You were supposed to make that delivery."

I stilled, and tension saturated the air. "The hit was on me?"

Marco's mouth tightened, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. "Giada wouldn't have had time to plan the hit on Luca. The drop had been in the works for weeks."

Ant uncrossed his arms. "Luca wasn't a problem for Giada. Savio keeps him in line. And with him occupied here with the expansion into the States, he was contained."

I'd just been told she'd wanted me dead. I didn't have to ask why. She was poison to our family. She'd come between a father and his sons, including the one she'd given birth to. My feelings toward her weren't a secret. Once I'd threatened to cut out her tongue to keep her from speaking to me.

"You're fucking nuts," Emilio said. "She was probably afraid you'd kill her if she tried to seduce you."

"I'd rather cut off my dick," I grumbled as I picked up my cigarette, flipped open my lighter, and put the flame to the tip.

Emilio bristled but kept his mouth shut about the smoke.

"Tell me again why she isn't dead." I blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Because the bitch isn't working alone. She was against my marriage to Allegra, and when I refused to cancel the wedding, she killed our father. With him dead, I could have broken the marriage contract." But by then, Marco had fully committed to his relationship with Allegra.

"She's fucking stupid," Carmine said.

"Her pussy makes Bruno men stupid." Ant smiled and shrugged. He wasn't wrong.

"She's crazy, but she isn't stupid," Marco said. "None of this was some scheme to take power or to make Savio the future don of this family. Everything she's done has been an attempt to keep us from expanding."

Ant stubbed out his cigarette. "Someone doesn't want us doing business here. If Isaak Karas is at war with the Brunos, he's used Giada to fire the first shots."

"How do we get to Karas?" Carmine asked.

Marco cocked an eyebrow. "Take a breath because you're not going to like this," he said to me. "I'm going to need Giada to work at the bank."

"You said I couldn't kill her," I said.

"Not yet. But you make her nervous, and we need her unsettled. When the time comes, take her to your workshop—a less public place for you to make her scream."

"Porca puttana! Fucking hell."

"Come on. You can still be an asshole. She'd be suspicious if you were nice."

"I've set up a honeypot," Emilio said.

"Sounds sticky." Carmine chuckled and wagged his brows.

"Fuck you." Emilio shoved him. "I'm not talking about your Tinder hookups. Honeypots are basically online decoys set up to catch hackers."

"Like you." Carmine flinched before Emilio could slug him. Which was pathetic since Carmine could wipe the floor with his brother.

"Can you fucking focus?" I said to them.

"You talk like I'm some script kiddie hacktivist." Emilio spun in his chair. "And I can kick your ass in Call of Duty."

Before Carmine could continue their sibling rivalry on who was better at video games, Emilio continued. "You have a fuck-ton of money moving through the bank. We're cutting into someone's profits. They're going to want in our system."

"Good." Marco rubbed his hand along his beard. "Stef, you need to set Giada up in an office, put her on accounts, tell her we're looking for connections to Isaak Karas."

"I hate this shit." I'd rather lock Giada in my workshop, strap her to a chair, and make her confess. Violence didn't offend me, but I didn't enjoy torturing women. However, the thought of making Giada suffer had my dick flexing behind the fly of my jeans.

With my dick getting hard, another woman slipped into my thoughts, presenting me with another complication.

I wanted her, but not here. I didn't want her anywhere near Giada or my mafia family. Somewhere I could have her alone, where no one would see her tears, and no one would hear her screams. Because she wouldn't cry out for mercy when I had her in my bed, she'd cry out her pleasure and beg for more.

Carmine stood and followed me out of the room, out the door, and down the porch steps.

"I'm moving out," I said as we crossed the property. "Ask Anna to find me a building."

"Fuck you, Stef. If you're leaving, you're taking me with you."

"Then get Anna to find us a building. Somewhere we can work and play. A place with some fucking privacy."

Celine

After the gala, I'd spent the rest of the weekend in my room. Not that my passive aggressive silence would upset my dad, but it made me feel better knowing he knew I was still upset.

Actually, what really made me feel better was knowing that Stefano Bruno spoiled his plans. And Stefano had kissed me, but I wasn't going to obsess about it. Okay, I lied. The incessant replay had been on a constant loop in my mind, but now, I needed to focus.

"I tried to text you over the weekend." Presley sat across from me at a small table in the Union center of Eminence University. She was too cute and bubbly, outgoing and vivacious. She was everything I wasn't and wished I could be. "There was a party at the playpen."

Several guys on the EU football team lived in a house off campus. They called it the playpen. This wasn't the first time Presley had tried to get me to go with her and not the first time I'd ignored her text. Not that she should be surprised.

"I had the gala with my dad."

Her eyes widened as she popped a bit of chocolate chip cookie into her mouth. "Oh yeah, how was it?"

The first sip of ginger tea scalded my tongue. I grimaced as set the drink on the table. "Mostly miserable."

So much for the scolding I'd given myself thirty seconds ago not to dwell on thoughts of Stefano. It wasn't as if I'd ever see him again. Just because I'd scoured social media for him, didn't mean I was more than curious. It was pointless anyway.

However, another Bruno, Luca, did come up in my internet searches. Stefano's brother had been murdered, giving credit to what my father claimed, that Stefano was part of the mafia. Whatever that meant. I'd seen movies, but could he really be any worse than my father?

If my dad was right about the mafia, was he right about Stefano buying my painting? And if he did? Then he was probably just like my father. He could betray me as easily as he kissed me.

Another reason to forget about my painting, forget about the way his hands felt on my shoulders, the way his lips covered mine, the taste of his tongue, the feel of his dick grinding against my…oh god.

I squeezed my thighs together and focused on Presley.

"I met someone," I whispered because I needed at least one person to know that for one night, I felt safe and normal. Even if the man responsible could be dangerous. Could be? He was dangerous, but on that balcony, I didn't care. "At the gala."

"Celine," she squealed and slapped her hand to the table. "Girl! We've been sitting here ten minutes. Spill the tea. Wait." She narrowed her gaze. "Met, as in you were introduced to a guy then spent the night avoiding him, or you met a guy, talked to him, and…what?"

I smiled. "I talked to him."

A text pinged Presley's phone. Her thumbs flew across the screen as she replied but still spoke to me. "And?"

"And nothing," I said with a sigh. "He knows my father."

"That's unfortunate." She set her phone on the table and slunk back into her chair.

If my life were a book, Presley wouldn't have made it past the first chapter. She was sunshine and unicorns, and I was in the corner having a panic attack. She knew my home life sucked, that it was just me and my dad. How do you tell your best friend that your father murdered your mother? Just like I couldn't tell her the man I'd met was in the mafia. He might be hot and kiss like the devil, but I wouldn't fall.

"This is great, right? If he knows your dad, he must be older, someone you can call daddy as he feeds you his big—"

"Pres!"

"Was he hot?"

I smiled and nodded. "He's hot but not much older than me. He kissed me."

"Shut the fuck up."

My phone chirped with a text message.

"Was that your phone?" Presley's brows rose into her forehead. My phone never pinged. "Maybe it's the guy."

"It's not. We didn't exchange numbers." I scrambled to open my backpack and find the phone. The screen was lit with a message.

Unknown: Did you know strawberries pair best with champagne?

A flash of panic hit my bloodstream, surged through my system, and arrested my heart. I had four contacts in my phone. Marie, Presley, my dad, and my mom because I couldn't delete her number even though it now called a bakery on Washington Street.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. It's an unknown number. I'll just tell whoever it is that they have the wrong number." Because there was no way a certain Italian gangster could have my unlisted number.

Celine: You have the wrong number.

I hoped Presley didn't notice the tremble in my hand as I set my phone on the table with the pink phone case facing up. I didn't want her to worry as I dug in my backpack and curled my fingers around my pink pen and pink sunglasses.

Another text vibrated my phone. Presley snatched it off the table before I could. She read the text aloud. "No, I think I have the right girl." Her gaze questioned me. "Could it be him?"

I shook my head. "How? He knows my name, but my number is unlisted. He'd have to get it from my dad, and I promise, that never happened. Dear dad was pissed I even talked to him. I'm dead if he finds out about the kiss." That thought sent a shard of icy awareness into my chest. How badly did my father hate Stefano Bruno? Would he rather see me dead?

I grabbed the phone. A niggle of worry wormed into my thoughts because my dad could've given my number to someone, a certain businessman he'd tried to pair me with for dinner at the gala.

Champagne had been served, and I'd had the strawberry cheesecake. I dismissed that thought. My dad wouldn't. He'd only wanted me to schmooze with his associates at the gala.

Unknown: No, I think I have the right girl.

"Give me that." Presley snatched the phone again.

Celine: I'm sorry, Max. It was just a one-time thing.

She smiled and laughed lightly as she texted.

"Don't send that." I stared at the screen.

"Who cares? He's not your guy from the gala. Let's have some fun."

Unknown: Who is Max?

Presley immediately texted another message.

Celine: Who is this?

Unknown: Meet me, and I'll remind you.

Presley's face pinched. Her thumbs flew across the phone.

I scooted my chair closer to hers. I scanned the messages as bubbles appeared. "What are you doing?"

I didn't want some wrong number sending me random texts because he'd become interested in Presley, or worse would be engaging with someone associated with my father.

"He's a pervert," Presley said.

Unknown: I'll wait in the shadows for you, Angel, because you see beauty in winter, and I see beauty in you.

My painting. Presley continued to text before I could stop her.

Celine: Fuck off, fuck boy.

"Oh my god. Don't send that." Too late. "It is him." I grabbed my phone. Three seconds later his reply pinged.

Unknown: Apologies, I do believe I have the wrong number.

Celine: Do you have my painting?

Unknown: Angel?

Celine: How did you get my number?

Unknown: Will you have dinner with me?

I chewed on my thumbnail.

Presley read the text. "Are you sure it's him?"

I nodded.

"And he calls you Angel? You have to say yes."

"You know I can't."

"You abso-fucking-lutely have to. You need to take a chance. What's up with the painting?"

"My dad auctioned off one of my paintings. I think Unknown has it." I wasn't ready to tell her his name.

A half smile curled Presley's lips. "Trade. Dinner for the painting."

Dinner wouldn't be worth fifty thousand dollars.

Celine: Do you have my painting?

Unknown: I'll say yes if you do.

A tide of panic threatened to sweep me away. Enough of a warning wave that I turned off the ringer on my phone and slipped it into my backpack. "I can't."

"Are you really going to ghost him?"

"Yes." I stood and slung my backpack over my shoulder. "I have to go to class."

Presley followed me out of the building. "Just because you say no to dinner, doesn't mean you have to say no to everything. You met someone who doesn't trigger you. Maybe just think about texting him back. Be phone friends for a while. Then decide if you want more." She gave me a quick hug. "Gotta go."

She jogged off toward her next class, and I crossed campus to the Visual Arts and Design building. I thought the ginger tea would help settle my stomach, but those texts had heightened my anxiety.

Stefano had my painting. I wanted it back, but I had to admit that a small thrill had slipped under my skin knowing he had to be thinking of me when he looked at it.

I walked into the classroom. Professor Kyte glanced up at me, then continued to help another student with their work. I sat in front of my easel and stared at my term project. This was a focus on light, but all I could think about was the sinful man who waited in the shadows.

I'd always felt safe in the dark. Maybe that's why I was drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. I'd burn for him.

I picked up my brush and let the chaos of my thoughts seep onto the canvas.

***

After classes, I'd gone to my room for a nap. When my phone alarm vibrated, I jackknifed on the bed, startled as if I'd been caught getting my hands dirty. Maybe I was since I was imagining filthy things as I read and reread the text messages from Stefano.

Disgustingly perverted things because I didn't think Stefano would be sweet to a woman in his bed. After that kiss, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering how it would feel if that woman was me.

Time had stalled, and now, I had to rush to dinner. God forbid I was late to the table. I had alarms set for breakfast and dinner. Leaning over the side of the bed, I grabbed the phone and silenced the alarm.

Ten minutes to six. I brushed my hair, changed my shirt, and had a couple minutes to spare as I hurried downstairs. Garlic bread scented the air as I made my way into the kitchen.

"Oh good. Your father is just finishing a phone call," Marie said as she lifted a pan from the oven and set it on top of the stove. "He asked for a special dinner." She smiled over her shoulder. "I made your favorite. I think he wants to celebrate the sale of your painting. He's proud of you."

Not likely. But that he hadn't spoken to me since the night of the gala was enough of a reason for me to celebrate. My father was probably celebrating discovering a way to muddy the legal waters to ensure another courtroom victory.

I helped set the food on the table.

"I'm proud of you, too." She pulled me into a hug, wrapping her soft, warm arms around my shoulders, crushing me to her ample breasts. "This could launch your career," she said as she released me and returned to the fridge. "The only artists I've heard of are dead." She grabbed the salad dressing and handed it to me. "Da Vinci, Georgia O"Keeffe, Andy Warhol."

My dad entered the kitchen just as Marie set the lasagna on the table.

"Smells delicious," he said. "Thank you. You're staying, aren't you?"

Marie paused mid step, not because she never joined us, but because he never seemed to care one way or the other. And he never thanked her.

My eyebrows shot into my forehead. Something had him in a good mood. Over the years, I'd become skeptical of his good moods, but I didn't feel the contempt I usually did in his smile. That didn't mean I trusted tonight would end well. He was good at giving a false sense of security and then saying something cutting and making me feel worthless again.

Marie kept the conversation going. Since he didn't seem particularly interested in talking to me, I let myself relax. Maybe he'd decided to forget about the night of the gala. It's not like I had any control over who bid on my painting or who sat next to me at dinner.

"I have good news." He set his napkin to the side of his plate and focused his attention on me. "This is about you, Angel. After the situation with your painting, I thought it was time you started planning for your career."

Marie turned to me, a wide smile curling her lips. "I told you," she mouthed and then turned to my dad. "Were you thinking maybe an exhibit, or perhaps she can have more pieces listed with a few dealers? I mean, I don't know how it works, but this is exciting."

A twinge of unease wormed into my thoughts. He was too angry about the painting to suddenly have a change of heart. "I'm not sure I'm ready."

"I'm not talking about her painting." His clipped reply to Marie turned that twinge into a sharp pang. He glared across the table to me. "I've secured you a paid internship with the BrioFagan Group. You start tomorrow morning."

"I have classes tomorrow."

"Celine, this isn't just about you. I put my name on the line here. This is an executive level position. I'm opening doors for you. Stop acting like a spoiled brat."

"What is the BrioFagan Group?"

"It's a juggernaut of international business. A multi-million-dollar conglomerate. Importing and exporting."

"What does that have to do with art or psychology?" An internship was supposed to give me practical skills toward my career field.

"Do you seriously think you can make a living painting?"

Marie pushed her food around on her plate. "I thought you said her painting raised fifty thousand dollars at the gala."

"Celine and I both know that fifty grand had nothing to do with her fingerpainting."

"Thank you for the offer, but I'm going to pass." I pushed away from the table before my tears fell, giving my father even more power over me. "I'm not missing class."

"You're going," he said. "Be ready at nine a.m."

Because I couldn't speak without spewing hate, I fled from the room but still heard Marie chastise my father. Not that I didn't appreciate the validation, but she was only going to make the situation worse for both of us.

I slammed my bedroom door, and my gaze darted around the room. One. Two. Three. I gulped back the vomit crawling into my throat. I wasn't going to panic.

With tears wet on my cheeks, I flopped onto my bed. This was salvageable. Choose my battles and all that. I wasn't going to let him take my art away from me. I made a list in my mind. Things I could live with, and things I could live without.

His name was at the top of the list of things I could live without. Which was a testament to our relationship considering he was the only family I had. And to make life easier until I could leave, I could live with having a job as long as it didn't interfere with painting or school. I couldn't live without getting my degree. I'd already invested too much. I couldn't live without ginger tea.

I could live under a bridge in a tent. Did I really need the inheritance? I could get another job, maybe at the university, and I could live in Presley's closet. It was big enough.

But I'd sacrifice the last thing my mom had done for me before he killed her. He'd take it from me.

I curled onto my side and let my tears fall. I wanted to be able to say no to him without repercussions. I didn't want to live afraid anymore.

I must have fallen asleep. When I opened my eyes, my room was pitch black. I felt around on my bed for my phone. The screen lit, I rolled onto my stomach, and reread the last text messages from Stefano.

Unknown: I'll say yes if you do.

I touched my fingers to my lips, remembering the feel of his mouth against mine. His interest in me could have all been a ploy. Did I care? I wasn't going to meet him. I could just answer the text. I added his name to my contacts.

I smiled. I could live with lying because I couldn't live with any more regrets.

I typed a few different messages. Are you in the mafia? Delete. Where are you going to hang my painting? Delete. Are you only interested in my painting to get to my dad? Delete. Ugh. I dropped my head onto my pillow.

Celine: I love strawberries, but champagne gives me a headache.

I hit send. Then I noticed the time. Sheesh. It was almost three in the morning. He was probably sleeping. Still, I stared at the phone waiting to see if he'd reply.

Fifteen seconds later, he replied. One word.

Stefano: Angel.

I could hear his voice in my head whispering the word. Warmth bloomed in my chest and seeped low in my belly. I crawled under my covers with my phone.

Celine: Did I wake you?

Stefano: It wouldn't matter if you did.

Another text followed.

Stefano: Because you're already in my dreams.

Butterflies took flight. I pictured his whiskey-colored eyes and those long, dark lashes.

Celine: Oh, the nightmares you must have.

Stefano: You could tell me a bedtime story.

Celine: I tell my stories with paint.

And my paintings reflected my dark and disturbing thoughts.

Stefano: Then maybe we both have nightmares.

We did. I'd been living in mine for nine years.

Celine: You have one of my stories.

Stefano: Why do you call it Beauty in Winter?

He followed the text with a selfie. I sat up in bed and tapped the image. My heart beat so hard I felt it pound through my body and pulse deep in my core. In the photo, he lay in the center of a bed, his legs stretched out in front of him on black sheets, those strong thighs encased in black denim. But it was his bare feet, crossed at the ankle, that made my mouth water. Not that I had a foot fetish, it was just so sexy, so intimate to know he was in bed, too.

I touched the phone screen and zoomed in. I couldn't see the whole room, but there didn't seem to be much furniture. Just the bed, and my painting hanging on the brick wall in the distance. A single dim light source came from somewhere behind him.

He was alone, like me. At least I couldn't see any evidence that someone was with him. I stared at my painting again.

Celine: It's not beautiful.

But he was. Darkly breathtaking. I didn't want my painting back, not anymore. I wanted him to think of me while in bed. My breath grew shallow. I wasn't na?ve. Maybe I was but I had no doubt he wasn't. I swallowed hard. The worn fabric of his jeans molded to the mound of his cock. I wanted to think he was hard beneath the zipper. But I'd never be daring enough to send a sexual text.

I couldn't tell him my nipples ached and a flutter pulsed between my legs with just his words on my phone.

Stefano: Beauty isn't just soft. Beauty can be angry and violent. Strong yet vulnerable. I see you in the painting. That's why I couldn't let anyone else have it.

I stared at his words with a lump in my throat.

Celine: Good night, Stefano. Sweet dreams.

Stefano: My dreams are of you, Angel, and they're definitely not sweet.

Tonight, I didn't think mine would be either.

***

I woke in the morning wondering if I'd slept at all. For a moment, I'd escaped my prison. Texting with Stefano had made me feel as if I was living someone else's life. A forbidden secret I could tuck away. But reality had a brutal way of hammering back into my thoughts.

I picked up my phone and sent Presley a text that I wouldn't be in class today, and I wouldn't be meeting her in the Union center this morning.

Last night at dinner, my dad had made it clear I didn't have a choice. I had a job. A conglomerate would want an intern to look the part. Jeans and a hoodie would only piss off my dad more.

I went to my closet and pulled a pair of black trousers and a pink blouse from their hangers. Pink wasn't my favorite color. With the exception of my pink lip gloss, I actually didn't like how I looked in it.

But it was armor against my insecurities. It calmed my anxiety because it was my mom's favorite color. Unlike me, pink was soft and sweet, and I wished I loved it because my dad hated the color as much as he must have hated her. He hated her enough to kill her. Screw him. I'd embrace it because I wanted nothing in common with him.

I swear, if he suddenly developed a love of ginger tea, I'd quit drinking it.

Once I dressed, had my hair in a French twist, and a bit of makeup on, I stood in front of the mirror. Blonde hair and pale skin looked better against darker colors.

Like Stefano's Italian hands in my hair, and like my body pressed against his black tux. I imagined running my palm along his black jeans. I was ridiculous. I'd met him once, and he'd flirted over text messages. Yet, I couldn't stop thinking about him.

Pink blouse, pink earrings, and with my nails painted pink, I wouldn't be in a panic to find three things.

In case this morning was just a formality of introductions, and I could still make my class, I slung my backpack over my shoulder. Then I headed downstairs. My father was already in the kitchen with Marie having coffee.

I was pretty sure she hadn't gone home last night. Maybe he'd be in a better mood. Sex was supposed to release endorphins and oxytocin.

"Ready for your first day?" my dad asked.

I dropped my backpack on a chair. "Aren't you concerned about my education? If I fail my classes, then this semester is going to be a waste of your money."

"Why do you think I secured the internship? I doubt your concern because your education is already a waste. And it isn't my money. Your art degree is going to come out of your trust. I'd have paid for your education if you'd chosen a major with earning potential."

A knot of fear tightened in my chest, and the bitter taste of bile rose into my throat. Not that I wanted anything from my father. Actually, I liked the idea that he wouldn't be able to take credit for my education. But four years at the university would take a big bite out of the money. If he decided to charge me for books, room, and board my trust would be gone. All this would be for nothing. I wouldn't have money to run.

I just needed enough to escape.

Pink blouse, pink earrings, pink nail polish.

"You don't want to be late." He gulped the last of his coffee. "I'll drive you there and drop you off on my way into the office."

"You need breakfast." Marie handed me a banana and a granola bar.

I smiled my thanks and stuffed both into my backpack. "I can drive myself. I don't know how long I'll be there."

Hopefully, not more than the few minutes it took to convince my new boss that he'd be better off with someone else.

"No. Let's go."

Once in the garage, he climbed behind the wheel of his car, and I sat in the passenger seat.

I stared out the window as we drove downtown. Neither one of us pretended to want to talk to the other.

"This doesn't have to be difficult," he said.

"I don't see why I have to do this at all. I'm over eighteen. Since I'm using part of my trust for school, couldn't you give me an allowance?"

"That's not an option anymore. Leave your backpack in the car. You won't need it."

Any affection he might have had for me died with my mother. Had it not been for Marie, I doubt I'd have ever received a Christmas present or celebrated a birthday. She'd tried to make my sweet sixteen memorable. She'd reserved a table for twenty at A Slice of Pie, a pizza place near the high school. Kids would get a slice for lunch all the time.

The problem was I didn't have twenty friends. I had one, Presley. I called her and she managed to fill the restaurant with the wrestling team. While they devoured a dozen pizzas, I hung out in the bathroom counting toilet paper squares as I cried because I sucked at being social.

I had a better handle on my anxiety now, but I wasn't expecting my father to suddenly develop sympathy for me. I didn't understand why he didn't just cut me loose.

I fished my small purse from my backpack and made sure I had my phone. Adrenaline hit my bloodstream as he pulled into the parking lot of a modern, glass office building. Trees and flowers lined the medians. I followed him into the building.

Two women sat behind a polished black counter. Huge clocks hung on the wall behind them, each showing a different time in cities all over the world. Hong Kong, Dublin, Moscow, and New York.

Men with coiled wire coming out of their ears positioned throughout the room. One held a paddle as we entered the lobby. My father lifted his arms. The man scanned his body, then turned to me. I followed my father's example and did the same. Once we were cleared, he stepped away.

"Mr. Moreau," the woman stood and handed over an access card. "You're expected."

My low heels clicked on the marble tile as I trailed behind my father. The access card opened the elevator doors. His hardened gaze settled on me in the mirrored walls as we ascended to the twelfth floor.

"Do you know what he expects from me?" I asked.

"Don't worry, Angel."

I cringed with the nickname because it made me think of Stefano, and standing next to my father, I couldn't pretend they weren't connected somehow.

"He knows what he's getting, and I expect you to do as he says." The doors opened.

"We meet again."

The voice paralyzed like the painful pricks of a scorpion's stinger. Tentacles of fear touched me everywhere. My throat tightened, and my stomach clenched. I knew the voice, and I recognized the man.

"Mr. Byrne." I tried to remain poised.

"You remember."

I remembered the lecherous smile and the uncomfortable interest he'd shown toward me at the gala. I remembered that he'd wanted my painting for this office.

Facing him again made me even more grateful Stefano hadn't let him win the bid.

"I'm thrilled you accepted the internship."

As if I had a choice.

"Your father assures me you're ready to learn everything I have to teach you." Each step he took toward me put me on the brink of losing it.

"She's all yours," my father said, but the way he said it sent a tremor down my spine. And then he turned to leave. "Text me when you're ready, and I'll pick you up."

"I've got her, Charles, and I'll make sure she gets home."

The hair on the back of my neck tingled with Byrne's nearness.

The elevator doors slid closed, and I was alone with him. I turned and swallowed.

"Thank you for the opportunity," I stammered.

"The pleasure is all mine. Have a seat. We can talk about what will be expected. You can ask me questions."

He was the wolf, and I was the rabbit with the instinct to flee, but I sat in the chair and set my small purse to the side. "I do have questions."

He nodded and sat across from me.

"This is a paid internship, but I'm not sure how it would apply to my degree."

He leaned back in the chair. "We'll figure out a way. It's already been worked out with the university."

"Oh." I rested my palms on my thighs to keep from fidgeting. "I only learned of the internship yesterday." I chose my words carefully. "I assume you'd like a resume to see if I'm qualified, and that I have the skills needed for the position."

He crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. His fingers combed through his beard while his gaze stayed intently focused on me. "I'll teach you any skills required for the several positions you'll be learning."

Why had he chosen those words? Unless I heard innuendo where none was intended? "It's mid-semester, and I still have a full schedule of classes. I won't be able to work full-time."

"Get me your schedule. We'll work closely together, Celine." His thumb trekked across his lower lip in a slow slide. "Understand, because of the nature of my business, I need to know I can trust those closest to me."

I wasn't sure how to respond. I wanted to tell him that he shouldn't trust me. Not even a signed non-disclosure would stop me from keeping an insurance policy on Ian Byrne.

He stood from the chair. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together. You'll need an access card to the building. You'll come this way"—his hand slid onto my lower back as he escorted me to the elevator "—when you meet with me."

There was definitely innuendo, and his hand was perilously close to my butt. Somehow, I had to find a way to get out of this. Maybe by the end of the day, I'd prove to be the worst intern he'd ever met, and he'd be relieved to get rid of me.