I laugh softly, nerves and desire tangling in my chest. “Someone could see.”
“They won’t,” he says, his voice roughened by want. “And if they do, I’ll kill them for daring to look at you.”
My breath catches. The words shouldn’t make me shiver the way they do—not with fear or horror but with a dark, lustful desire. Because his willingness to kill means that Sandro wants me all to himself.
Sandro tilts my face up again, his lips grazing mine, teasing. “You still think you’re failing as my wife?” he whispers.
I shake my head, though the movement barely registers before his mouth claims mine again—deeper this time, his fingers combing into the back of my hair as the other anchors me against him.
It’s dizzying. Terrifying. Perfect.
The world shrinks until all I can feel is him—his warmth, his strength, his promise.
Heat unfolds languorously in my stomach, excitement dancing across my skin as his hand roams lower to grasp and knead my ass. Then his fingers slide to the side of my hip and slowly dip to find the slit that reaches halfway up the outside of my thigh.
I gasp as his calloused palm slips beneath the fabric, moving inward along my panty line. And when he brushes my lace-clad slit, I find I’ve already soaked through the fabric.
Sandro moans, the sound painfully erotic, and my body clenches with anticipation. I want him inside me—and I’m not sure I even care about the potential witnesses standing en masse behind him. His body will shield my modesty. The shadows will cloak our actions.
And suddenly, the thought of getting away with such a lewd public act increases my excitement tenfold. Because I trust that Sandro will keep me safe. Keep me hidden.
All that delicious anticipation vanishes in an instant, my heart jolting uncomfortably in my chest as a sharp crack splits the air.
The sound is unmistakable, unsettling as it lifts the fine hairs at the nape of my neck. Goosebumps rise across my skin.
It’s a gunshot.
Screams erupt inside the ballroom.
Sandro freezes. In the same breath, he pushes me behind one of the columns, his body shielding mine. The music cuts off as chaos floods the terrace. More shots—closer now—followed by shouting as orders are barked in English and Italian.
“What—what’s happening?” I whisper.
“Stay behind me,” he says, his tone sharp, command-mode engaged. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun I didn’t even realize he was carrying.
“Sandro—”
“Don’t. Move.”
Through the space between the pillar and Sandro’s shoulder, I catch a flash of movement—men in black storming the ballroom. Another gunshot tears through the night, and guests clap their hands over their ears as the sound ricochets off the marble floor and walls.
Sandro edges forward just enough to see what’s happening. His jaw hardens. Then I hear a voice, loud enough to silence the chaos for one breathless moment.
“You think a new Don will make you untouchable?” The words ring through the room and across the terrace, mocking and sharp. And a tall, rail-thin man with a shock of raven hair and a black eyepatch covering one eye strides into view. He’s clearly of East Asian descent—Japanese, judging by his accent—and something about his features seems to echo Sora’s, though his are sharper, more dramatic. As if he’s malnourished or has recently been through a traumatic illness of some kind.
Sandro stiffens. “Kenji,” he breathes.
I peer around him as the crowd parts, fully revealing the man in a dark coat, who strides forward to the center of the ballroom. His men fan out behind him, weapons raised. Even from here, I can see the faint smirk on his face—like he’s savoring the fear and chaos he’s caused.
Stopping as all eyes find and watch him, he spreads his arms in an arrogant display. “Enjoying your celebration, Chiaroscuros?”
Raf stands near the dais, where the gifts from the Italian patriarchs still glint under the lights. Miko’s already drawn his weapon, flanking his younger brother instinctively. Gio and Leo stand across the length of the room, and both step forward to shield their families with their bodies—just like Sandro did for me.
Sandro mutters a curse. “That Yakuza cockroach is supposed to be dead.”
Apparently not. And though I’ve never laid eyes on him before tonight, I suddenly understand the gravity of the situation—and exactly who this man is.
Kenji Tanaka, heir to the Tanaka empire, brother to Sora—Leo’s wife—and the man who led the attack on the Chiaroscuro family. My stomach plummets.
