Which is fucking terrifying.
Normal people don’t hear voices.
Normal people don’t have conversations with dead or estranged relatives in their heads.
Normal people definitely don’t get tactical advice from what might be their own fractured psyche.
But then again, normal people don’t have to prove their worthiness to inherit a criminal empire by personally executing traitors either.
I force myself to focus on something else.
Something that makes my skin flush and my pulse quicken in ways that have nothing to do with nerves about the mission.
Alessandro.
Yesterday at the gun range, when he moved behind me to adjust my stance, I was so sure he was going to kiss me.
The way his chest pressed against my back, the heat of his hands on my shoulders, the sharp intake of his breath when I leaned into him—every cell in my body was screaming for him to turn me around and finish what we started in my study.
But he didn’t, damn him.
He stepped back and watched me shoot with those intense hazel eyes that made me feel like he was seeing straight through to my soul.
And when I looked at him afterward, when the air between us crackled with all that unspoken want, I almost said something that would have changed everything.
I touch my lips without thinking, as if I can still feel his mouth against mine from that night in my destroyed study.
The kiss that tasted like desperation and possibility.
I want him to kiss me again.
Hell, I want him to domorethan kiss me.
I want him to stop being so careful, so professional, so determined to maintain boundaries that we both keep pushing against.
I want him to want me as much as I want him.
But right now, I need to focus.
I have a mission.
I have to prove myself worthy of the DeLuca name, worthy to inherit, worthy of the respect that should come with being Giuseppe’s daughter.
A sharp knock on the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
My heart jumps, but I know it’s Alessandro before I even check the peephole.
Something about the confidence of that knock, the authority behind it.
When I open the door, my mouth goes dry.
He’s wearing all black—tailored pants, a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his strong forearms, and a black jacket that’s probably concealing at least two weapons.
His dark hair is styled just messy enough to make my fingers itch to run through it, and those hazel eyes are serious, focused, scanning my face like he’s reading my mind.
He looks dangerous. Professional. Sexy as hell. Goddamn.
He also looks serious in a way that makes my stomach erupt with butterflies I’ve been trying to suppress all morning.
