Of me. From a life I walked into blinded by passion and fled in horror.
A startling realisation takes root.
This isn’t love. Far from it, because I’ve had the rose-tinted glasses torn ruthlessly from my eyes.
But this isn’t quite war either.
It’s some twisted in-between, a lethal carrot and a very big barbed-wire stick.
Either way, my mafioso husband has come fully armed and prepared to win this on every front.
I swallow, bunch my fists on the rough countertop. Then glance down at myself.
I’m tired.
Filthy.
Hungry, since I haven’t eaten since… God, I can’t even remember. And there’s no universe in which the six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, immaculately controlled man in front of me is letting me sleep behind another library or anywhere he doesn’t have sight of me tonight.
So I straighten.
No more running.
I’ve had an eighteen-month reprieve.
It’s time to return to the war.
To stand and fight and win it—and my freedom—so that if I walk away from Giovanni Dragoni again, I won’t need to look over my shoulder.
4
LUCIA
There’s zero melodrama to my temporary surrender.
I don’t say yes. Hell, I don’t say anything at all. I simply purse my lips and nod.
And the second I do, Giovanni’s nostrils flare and one hand rises, just like it did yesterday on the beach.
He holds it aloft for a moment, eyes drilling into mine as if checking for hidden weapons. Whatever he sees on my face must satisfy him because he clicks his fingers once and although it’s barely a sound, I still flinch from the power packed into that little move.
One little click and the world spins into movement.
Men appear as if summoned from shadow itself. Three of them, stepping out of nowhere, calm, coordinated, lethal. One of them makes my breath catch, before that same breath drops to my feet because of course it is.
The tourist. Flirty Guy.
The one who tried his tired lines with me only yesterday. All sunburnt shoulders and lazy smiles and “You local or just pretending?” charm.
My stomach clenches in wary surprise. Was he on the job when he attempted to flirt with the boss’s wife? Because… how stupid is he?
His expression shifts the moment he meets my eyes, a flicker of alarm, a fraction of apology. Christ, he really was that insane.
Instinct slams into me before logic can. And I look away from him without saying a word.
One of the many reasons I ran from my marriage was because I know how possessive mafia men are over their wives.
But more than that, I had first-hand knowledge of Giovanni’s near-obsession with me even before his true colours were revealed. Only at the time, I’d been thrilled and flattered, believed it was unalloyed with anything but passion.
