Nicolo Esposito.
My eyes fly open to meet his dark forest-green ones—intense, unreadable, impossibly sharp. There’s a cigarette between his lips, the tip glowing, smoke curling around his face like it’s scared to touch him without permission. Of course it’shimcatching me midfall from my bedroom window like some hero in a movie.
He’s more of an antihero.
He sets me down like I weigh nothing. And then I look at him.
He’s in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his tattooed forearms, crisp and unwrinkled like he didn’t just catch a full-grown woman falling from the second story. The shirt stretches across his broad chest, clinging just enough to the muscle beneath it that I catch the faint outline of his abs every time he moves. The buttons are fastened all the way up, but the way the fabric strains against his frame makes it feel obscene anyway.
His body is…impossible. Towering. At least six-seven, built like something carved from stone and bad intentions. Broad chest, narrow waist, the thick curve of muscle visible even beneath the starched fabric of his shirt. His forearms are corded with strength—tattoos peeking from beneath the rolled cuffs, black ink crawling across his skin like whispers I’ll never be allowed to hear.
And then there’s his face. Sharp jaw. Straight Roman nose. Eyes a deep forest green—brutal and ancient-looking, like they’ve seen war. His black hair is slightly tousled, like he ran a hand through it in frustration or rage, and the stubble on his jaw looks like it could scrape skin clean off if given the chance.
I’ve had a crush on this man for years. Ever since I first saw him walking out of my pop’s office after a meeting, his dark gaze sweeping over me like the warm sunrays.
Nicolo’s mouth, full and frustrating, wraps around the cigarette with quiet focus. And those eyes. Those goddamn eyes—cold green, wild forest in a storm—pin me in place, and suddenly I forget why I ever wanted to run.
He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t need to.
Not when my brother rounds the corner, eyes narrowing the second he sees me. “What are you doing out here? I just left you in your room.”
I glance at Nicolo, fully expecting him to throw me to the wolves and rat me out on the spot. But he doesn’t. He just raises a single brow like this isn’t his business—like catching mafia princesses falling from their second-story windows is just part of his Thursday routine.
Looking back at Eli, I say, “I might have tried to leave through the window.”
“You what?”
“Are you hard of hearing? I know you’re a dad now, but you’re not that old, Eli.”
My brother glares at me before turning to the man that I so badly want to forget is standing beside me. “Seems like she doesn’t want to take anything with her to Italy. You can take her.”
“What the—no! You said I have thirty minutes to pack,” I try to argue.
Eli holds up his hand as if he’s done talking with me. “Youhadthirty minutes. That was before you tried to run off to God knows where. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to bring her back.” He says the last part to Nicolo before turning on his heel and walking away.
Why do I have assholes for brothers?
“Come on.” Nicolo’s gruff voice interrupts my train of thought.
He walks ahead of me, expecting me to follow him like I’m some sort of lapdog.
I cross my arms, standing my ground. “I’m not your dog.”
He stops before turning to look at me. “I’m not your brother or one of his men. I have no qualms about manhandling you to get you into my car. Either follow me on your own two feet, or I can throw you over my shoulder. Your choice.”
“Oh, how chivalrous. Giving me a choice. Not much of a choice when one of them is a threat.” I grind my teeth, trying to release the tension building up in my shoulders.
“Five seconds, nixie.”
My stomach flips, unsure whether it’s annoyance or anxiety.
“My name is not Nixie. My name is Mara!” I snap, and I swear his eyes go darker than they already are.
“Four.” He starts his countdown as if that will show me he’s serious. “Three,” he continues, throwing the cigarette butt on the ground and stepping over it as he makes his way toward me.
“Two.” I taunt.
Nicolo comes to a stop in front of me, his gaze holding my own. His eyes don’t soften even a fraction, harsh and unyielding, as if we’re in a staring contest.
