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"The wind is thirty knots off the sea, Kitten. The salt spray will irritate the skin around your eyes, and I have three shipments of industrial machinery clearing customs in Messina within the hour. We go tomorrow." He stubbornly draws out his words, getting on my last nerve and knowing it by the small smirk on his stupid, perfect lips.

I will not stomp my foot. I will not!

"Tomorrow is what you said yesterday," I snap, taking two aggressive steps forward. My shin bumps the edge of the low leather wingback chair, and I kick it aside with a sharp curse in Gaelic. "I am bored out of my mind, Romeo. You locked me in this palace with twenty armed guards, you fed me four courses of pasta, and now you expect me to sit on the terrace and knit like an eighty-year-old nonna?"

"You could rest in our bed," he suggests, his tone laced with that low, wicked drawl that usually makes my stomach flip. "I left you thoroughly sore last night, if I recall. Most women would still be asleep."

"I am not most women, you arrogant pig." I snap back, refusing to admit he leaves me satisfied every single night.

The sexy jerk.

The office door clicks open behind me.

The click of four-inch designer stilettos echoes across the marble foyer, followed immediately by the scent of gardenias, ambergris, and expensive French hairspray.

I stiffen instantly, arms dropping to my sides.

Sofia, lying beside the bookshelf, lifts her head and lets out a low, disapproving snort.

"Don Messina," a sultry, melodic voice purrs in Italian, thick with a Palermo accent that practically drips like olive oil. "The offshore accounts from Lugano have been balanced. I brought the ledgers for your signature."

Elena Rossi.

The twenty-eight-year-old daughter of our chief financial capo. A woman with a master's degree in economics, legs that go on for miles, and, according to Gemma over the phone, a reputation for wearing silk blouses with three buttons too few whenever she enters the Don's private wing.

My fingers clench into tight fists, biting into the palm of my hands.

"Set them on the desk, Elena," Romeo says, his tone shifting into that formal, Italian aristocratic register he uses for business.

Elena does not just set them on the desk. She walks right past me like I’m not even here, her silk dress brushing against my bare elbow. The air displacement carries her heat, and I can hear the rustle of her stockings as she leans over Romeo's shoulder, positioning herself entirely too close to his right shoulder.

"Signore," she whispers, her voice dropping into a breathless tone that makes my jaw lock. "The transfer fee for the Swiss bank requires your personal authorization stamp. May I guide your hand to the seal?"

May I guide your hand to the seal?

Is this bitch serious?

I don't need my sight to picture the scene: Elena bending forward, her cleavage inches from Romeo's nose, her hand hovering over his tattooed fingers while she plays the dutiful, innocent secretary.

Romeo clears his throat, his tone bored and distracted. "That won't be necessary, Elena. Leave the papers."

"Of course, Don Romeo," she breathes, lingering. "If you need anything else verified tonight... I am staying in the guest quarters until Friday. You only have to call."

Something inside me snaps like dry kindling.

Before Elena can take another step toward the door, I move.

I close the distance between myself and the desk in two strides, my hand reaching out with precision. My fingers catch Elena's long hair in a high ponytail, twisting the locks tightly into my fist, yanking her backward with enough violent force that her heels skid against the polished marble.

Elena shrieks, dropping her leather portfolio. The papers scatter across the floor like autumn leaves.

"Listen to me, you pathetic little bookkeeper," I hiss into her ear, my lips brushing the expensive perfume on her cheek. "You have thirty seconds to gather your paperwork and drag your skinny ass out of this office. If I catch you looking at my husband again or offering your pathetic services after hours, I will have Sofia tear those silk stockings off your legs, and then I will personally drown you in the fountain out front for all to see your corpse floating. Am I making myself clear?"

Elena trembles in my grip, gasping for air as my knuckles press hard against her windpipe. "Signora... I did not mean..."

"Out! And that’s Don Messina!" I bark, patience gone.

I shove her toward the hallway, hearing her knees smack against the marble floor. Elena scrambles on her hands and knees, scooping up three loose papers before bolting through the doorway, her stilettos clattering in terrified panic down the corridor until the heavy outer doors slam shut.