Chapter 1

Palermo, Sicily

February

Bad girl,swaying your hips like this in front of other men—when youre supposed to be mine.

A powerful arm had wrapped around my waist from behind and snatched me to a mans chest before he leaned down to rasp in my ear.

In shock, I craned my neck to stare into a pair of piercing dark eyes, glaring at me from behind an elaborate black leather Carnevale devils mask covering the upper portion of the mans face. The rest of him was dressed in unrelenting midnight black, from his heavy brocade jacket and tails to his tall riding boots.

His?

I twisted around in his grip to press my palms against his chest and push, trying to break free of his grasp.

For nothing.

The mans chest was harder than a brick wall.

While it may be common practice for drunken men to touch and grab the women in the crowd during the wanton revelry of Carnevale, this was different.

His intense gaze raised the hairs on the back of my neck. A primal reaction to being caught in a predators sights, to be sure.

And what the hell did he mean by when youre supposed to be mine?

Shaking off the increasing panic which twisted my stomach, I tried to wrench away from him again as I fired back. Parlari, tischi-toschi. Va eccati!

He was clearly Italian and not a tourist, so I deliberately insulted him in Sicilian. I wouldnt dare call him arrogant and pretentious before telling him to go jump in the sea in a language he could understand!

I wasnt that brave.

His lips twisted in a smirk. Christa e a zita, muoviti ddruocu, colomba mia birichina.

Accept your fate and dont move.

I froze.

He had responded using two nonsensical, slang Sicilian phrases that only someone familiar with the language and culture would know.

He had also called me colomba mia birichina.

My naughty little dove.

My fingers clawed at the brocade of his costume, panic tightening my throat even as a spark of awareness seemed to warm my insides.

It could be nothing…

Dressed as the popular character Colombina from theCommedia dellArtein keeping with this years Carnevale theme, his calling me little dove, the literal translation of her name, was not significant.

Except that it felt significant in a territorially possessive sort of way.

The pounding of the blood in my ears warred with the pounding drums from the live music only steps away.

Who was this man? And why was he so fixated on bothering me, when there were countless half-dressed, fully drunk women gyrating and attempting to twerk he could choose from?

The chaos of the Palermo Carnevale ebbed and flowed all around us, a dizzying kaleidoscope of shattered crystal shards in crimson, cobalt, amethyst, and jade. Revelers danced feverishly to the pounding beat of the tambourines from the pizzica tarantelle performed in the center of the Piazza Garraffello.

His arm tightened around my waist, pushing our hips together. Stop fighting me, little dove. You cant win.

My feet were lifted off the ground as he swung me in an arch, moving in time with the music.

The mandolins, violins, and high-pitched, plaintive cries of the female singers lyrically calling out for lost lovers added a Dionysian, almost unhinged, energy to the night.

As he carried me off, closer and closer to the edge of the crowd, the tips of my shoes scraped along the smooth, worn cobblestones of the piazza.

I gripped his shoulders and arched my back, still trying to break free. Youre making a mistake!

Clearly, this was some suitor of my twin sister, Antonia.

He had to be. It was the only explanation for the way he was holding me.

His hand moved down my lower back. Are you trying to get out of your punishment?

Sciatiri e matri!

Punishment? Had he said punishment? No. He couldnt have. Furiously I scanned my brain for another word—any other word—I could have mistaken for the word punishment over the loud music.

My mouth opened on a choked cry as he cupped my ass and growled, This cute ass is going to feel the sting of my belt. Im going to teach you a lesson about flaunting your body for anyone else but me.

Before I could shake off my stunned reaction and respond, we were both shoved by the crowd surrounding us. The sudden impact loosened his grasp just enough for me to finally twist free.

I ducked low to squeeze between two revelers before snaking through the dense crowd. Jostled by the throng, I pitched sideways, too afraid to glance back at my pursuer.

All around me the air reeked of sweat, cheap wine, and fried food. The fabrics of the rented Commedia dellArte costumes exuded a musty scent of dust, mothballs, and neglect.

There were swaggering men dressed as Pulcinella with their gnarled nose masks askew and their bulging stomachs barely contained within the thin white linen of their ruffled tunics. A number of smarmy Pantalones in flowing black capes and pointed nose masks. And countless women dressed as sexy Pierrots with black-and-white striped thigh-highs under laced corsets complimenting their pouting, sad clown makeup. My sister being one of them, with the exception of her thigh-high leather boots.

Not wearing a mask here was a mistake. A mask gave people anonymity, which most used as a license for lecherous behavior. Many would argue that was the true soul and purpose of Carnevale. To have one last debauched celebration before the austerity of Lent.

My sister certainly would agree.

How we could be twins and such polar opposites was beyond me.

I hissed as the stiffened collar of someones Harlequin costume scraped my bare shoulder. Again cursing my choice of Colombina, with her off-the-shoulder white peasant blouse and cumbersome petticoat skirt, as a costume.

Finally, I broke free of the crowd along the other side of the piazza, which was flanked by a crumbling brick wall covered in colorful graffiti, a sad remnant of World War II bombing. Dilapidated, broken, bombed-out buildings surrounded the entire piazza, giving it a forlorn yet strangely timeless aesthetic. No one bothered to repair them, despite their being located in Palermos center.

Welcome to Sicily.

I crept my way along the wall, wedged between the swelling crowd and the powdery rubble of the decaying bricks, searching for my contact.

A clandestine meeting with him was the only reason I was here tonight.

Certainly not to take part in the drunken festivities like my sister. My contact had said the chaos of Carnevale would be the perfect cover. No one could overhear our conversation.

For a split second, I thought the man who grabbed me was my contact. He had certainly been making enough unwanted advances of late, but no. This man was too tall, too strong, too everything to be the desk-bound bureaucratic attorney I was meeting with.

And it was imperative that I met with him.

Time had run out.

I had fulfilled my end of our bargain. It was past time for my contact to fulfill his.

Otherwise, my father would…

A hand wrapped around my upper arm and threw me backward against the wall. A warm body pressed into my front, pinning me against the bricks.

I opened my mouth to scream but never got the chance.

The man from earlier had found me.

His mouth descended on mine, cutting off my attempt to cry for help, not that Id be heard over the festival music.

His lips smashed mine against the sharp edges of my teeth as his tongue thrust inside. He tasted like the sweet lemon icing from the taralli al limone pastries the food vendors sold along the square.

But that was the only sweet thing about him.

His kiss was brutal, possessive, and entirely too arousing.

I didnt even know this man.

There was something taboo and wrong about giving in to his embrace like this.

And yet… it was very Carnevale.

As they said, when in Rome. Or, in this case, Sicily.

My lungs burned as he stole every breath of oxygen from my body. His hands reached up to grasp my head, strong fingers weaving into my hair, gently twisting, causing just a slight sting of pain, which added even more of a frisson of awareness to his every touch.

He broke free, but only to yank his mask off and toss it aside. Fuck this thing.

My eyes widened as his head lowered again. No. Stop! I dont know who you?—

His mouth claimed mine again. His tongue swirling around mine, he moved his hand to snatch at the heavy fabric of my skirt just over my hip.

Cool night air teased my upper thigh where he pulled my skirt high.

My hand covered his fist in an attempt to pry his fingers loose. I had let it go too far.

He growled against my mouth as his teeth sank into my lower lip. Stop trying to play the virgin with me. We both know its not true.

Ice water replaced the rising heat in my veins.

He didnt want me.

He wanted my sister, Antonia.

Of course. Who would want the shy book nerd who hid from the world by devoting herself to her cello playing when they could have a vivacious, fun-loving party girl?

Anger gave me strength. This time I succeeded in jerking my head to the side, ending our kiss.

I reared my arm back and slapped him across the face so hard my palm stung.

His eyes narrowed as he gripped my upper arms. What the hell was that for?

My lips thinned. Listen, I dont know who you are, but?—

He cut me off, scowling down at me, his towering frame once more pressing me against the ancient wall. What the fuck do you mean you dont know who I am? Have you spread your legs for so many men you dont even recognize your own fiancé?

Sciatiri e matri!

Matteo Cavalieri had finally arrived in Palermo to claim my sister.