Her muffled curses follow me out into the hallway, but when I shut the door, no sound escapes the room.
She’s too much fun to taunt. The twisted side of me demands she deserves it for being so irresistibly off limits. I slip our phones into my jacket pocket and stride down the hall. The bandages on my lower back pull my skin, but I was in too much of a hurry to leave the room this morning to change out the dressing. I need to put as much distance as possible between myself and the tempting little nurse before I lose control. I’m well on my way to a severe case of blue balls.
When I step into the elevator, my reflection in the mirror catches my attention. I flatten the stupid grin pulling at my lips.
Although valid under normal circumstances, the things she’s worried about aren’t actual concerns. In reality, she’s one of the safest people in the entire city right now. My boss poured tens of thousands of dollars into upgrading the safety of the studio apartment. The structural reinforcements make the space a veritable bomb shelter capable of withstanding any natural disaster. Even if the building collapsed, the people inside the room would be fine. Food, water, money, weapons, supplies—anything she might need to survive are right inside that apartment with her.
It’s one of five secret safe houses Giorgio Vivaldi owns throughout New York City. They were the among the first projects I suggested to him after I caught his ear. With a townhouse already in the works so he could escape his rotten family, the apartments extended the plan he already had in the works.
Plus, I tied her gag loosely enough for her to wriggle out of it—if she’s serious about taking it off.
I glance at the building’s official security camera as I exit the front door, checking Giorgio’s private camera remains invisible. Even when the early morning sun streaks across the sign, I can’t see the hidden lens.
Aware of how easy it is to trail someone in the city, I push all my worries away and focus on my surroundings, taking a few detours to shake even the best of trackers.
I walk past the alley I killed the goon in last night as though I don’t have a care in the world. No one will find the body. Ever.
After about an hour of observing the hospital, I decide Narciso has yet to send anyone else to cover his tracks, so I shuffle down the sidewalk like all the other late morning chumps and wander a few blocks, just blending in for a while.
When I confirm no one is tailing me, I choose a street parallel to Mia’s apartment complex and walk the last few blocks with more purpose, waiting to cut between buildings at the last corner.
I slip in behind an arguing couple, bypassing the security with ease and taking the elevator to the proper floor. Sauntering down the hall as though I belong, I note the cameras and pull her key out of my jeans pocket.
A few steps from her door, I drop the keys and make a show of retrieving them, using the time to listen for sounds inside her apartment. Hearing nothing, I unlock the door and close it behind me.
The fridge hums. A single dirty mug sits on the counter, but other than that, the kitchen and living room are tidy. A blanket hangs off the back of the couch as though someone flung it off their lap and rushed out the door.
There are no photos on the walls. No fancy decorations.
Yet the space feels comfortably lived in. The couch, coffee table, and bar stools are dated but clean and gently used. The room smells of clean linen and lemons.
I lift my foot to step deeper into the apartment but stop before I leave the front mat. A communal shoe rack sits along the wall. Two feminine slippers and an assortment of tennis shoes and low heels fill the rack.
Deciding not to be a barbarian, I toe my sneakers off and leave them on the mat before walking into the kitchen on my socked feet. Although outdated, the appliances seem well cared for and clean. Unable to resist, I open the fridge.
I blink. The neatly organized and clearly labeled containers filled with homemade food lining the top two shelves are a surprise.
Mia Rivera is a nurse who works night shifts. She spends more time at the hospital than she does at home. When the hell does she have time to cook?
I pull out a container, pop it open, and nearly fall to my knees as the aroma transports me back to my grandmother’s dinner table. Despite my stomach rumbling and my mouth watering, I close the lid and return it to the fridge without scarfing down the lasagne alla Bolognese cold.
Now mia caramellina’s curves make sense. I’d weigh a million pounds if I could eat this kind of food every day.
A handwritten note sits on the counter from her roommate. Addressed to bestie and signed forever yours, the note has artsy doodles along the edges and enough shorthand to make me question if it’s written in English, but I get the gist. The author admits to watching the last episode of their latest TV series without Mia, so to apologize, she’s giving all the food in the fridge to her. She wishes Mia a restful weekend and can’t wait to catch up on Tuesday.
I check the back of the note, then study the front for a moment.
Is this a love letter?
Jealousy barrels through me, and the urge to crumple the note and light it on fire nearly wins, but I set it back on the counter and walk away.
Just the thought of sharing mia caramellina with another lover—even a woman—boils my blood.
I stop halfway down the hall and rub my hands over my face to avoid looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve known her for less than a day, and I’m acting like a caveman. Sure, forced proximity in high heat situations can build a connection between two human beings, but Mia Rivera is not mine. I can’t lose focus on what’s most important—finding out who is funding Narciso’s attacks on the Vivaldi family.
The bedroom furthest from the living room may as well be a matchbox. It’s so tiny. There’s barely enough space for the full-size bed, a rolling garment rack, and a nightstand. I kneel on the bed and push the drapes aside. Thick blinds also cover the window. A peek outside reveals a boring view of other apartment windows, but the buildings are far enough apart to warrant their own escape ladders.
I close the blinds and curtains and run my hand through my hair.
This is mia caramellina’s room. Several sets of scrubs hang from the clothing rack and a stack of medical books hides behind the door.
Letting my curiosity get the better of me, I search her nightstand and find it clean and organized and disappointingly absent of sex toys. Under her bed is just as meticulously organized, with two luggage bags of off-season clothing, a plastic bag containing extra linen, and a few odds and ends. There’s nothing from her past. No photos. No keepsakes. No old electronics. Nothing.
With a ball of dread in my stomach and uncertainty in my chest, I work through the rest of the apartment.
The bathroom is just as spotless as the kitchen and living room, but with a pedestal sink instead of a cabinet, they’ve used temporary hooks and shelving on the walls to give everything a place. Lipsticks, moisturizers, feminine products—it’s all visible from the doorway.
I head to the second bedroom and open the door with an odd sense of trepidation.
This is enemy territory. I should learn all I can about my competition.
When I catch the direction of my thoughts, I cut them off and focus on my task. I have no solid evidence her roommate is her lover, and no right to call Mia mine.
This room is much bigger than the other, but still not spacious. A colorful comforter covers the bed and handwritten poems and sketches line the walls. Clothes overflow the rack—which is identical to the one in the other bedroom—and a desk with a small tabletop easel and three different lamps directed at its surface sits in the corner nearest the window. The bright curtains and decorative pillows don’t match the comforter, but somehow the scheme works overall.
I look through the nightstand and desk. Every piece of paper points toward the owner’s interests: cookbooks, sketch pads, art magazines, and a few self-help books centered toward trauma recovery.
With nowhere else to check, I stop next to the front door and pull her phone from my pocket.
Besides three push notifications, one for the weather and two from medical blogs she follows, she hasn’t received a single call or message. Even her email inbox has only a few business emails.
My phone is the opposite. I sigh, shove her cell into my pocket, put on my shoes, and wait until I’m back on the streets before I text my boss.
Less than an hour later, I let myself into his private townhouse with two heavy sacks of food.
Even with the multiple layers of security and the straight-out-of-a-magazine furnishings, it feels like coming home. I take my first full breath in what feels like forever and greet Tristan, Aurora’s eight-year-old brother, as he rushes down the stairs and across the sitting room. He doesn’t stop as he approaches me, barreling straight into my body and wrapping his arms around my waist.
I don’t mind. At all. The little punk is curious as hell and wickedly smart. He catches on to the slightest nuances and promises to be a trustworthy don. In fact, with Giorgio Vivaldi and Aurora Achilles as his guardians, he’s set to inherit two mafia kingdoms.
I’ll protect him better than if he were my kin. We may have no blood relation, but he’s my nephew. My family.
I wrap my laden arms around him and give him a squeeze before ushering him toward the kitchen as I answer his random questions.
“Do I smell burgers?” Aurora calls from the back of the house.
I chuckle and carry the food up the stairs, around the kitchen, and up to the third level. Tristan leads me to the master bedroom, chattering the entire way.
Aurora’s bright expression as I enter the room is a balm to my heart. When she almost bled out a few days ago, it felt like the world was falling down around us, but I oversaw clean up so Giorgio could focus on his queen.
This is as close to having a family as I can allow myself. I can’t pass down the tainted blood running through my veins.
“So much for you not being a courier, consigliere,” Aurora snarks as I set the first bag on the coffee table.
I cherish our unique brand of banter, even if I’ll never admit it. The first time I met her, she told me to grow some balls and become consigliere even if I wasn’t consigliere material because she wasn’t wife material, but she sure as hell was marrying Giorgio anyway.
I quirk a brow, pretending I’m insulted, and pick the food back up to head the way I came.
“Don’t you dare walk out that door with my food!” When I don’t stop, she aims her voice toward the bathroom. “Giorgio!”
The boss man walks out with sweatpants hung low on his waist and rubbing a towel over his wet hair.
“You started it, mia topolina,” he stalks toward the bed, steals a quick kiss from her, then finishes with a bland glance over his shoulder at me, “but I think taking food away from my wife is taking it too far.”
I grumble my way back to the coffee table and set out the spread. Giorgio retrieves Aurora’s favorites and carries them over to the bed.
“I’m seriously okay now. I can get my own food, you know,” Aurora insists.
Giorgio just grunts and sets her up like a queen on a throne with a feast laid out in her lap. She sighs as she reaches for her first victim.
As delicious as the takeout is, I barely eat half of what I normally would. The lasagne alla Bolognese in Mia’s fridge haunts me.
“Please tell me you brought me something to do. I’m going stir crazy in here,” Aurora says between decimating dishes.
“It’s been less than two days since you got home,” I point out.
“Which is an eternity without my computer, but someone won’t let me have any devices.” She flicks a glare at Giorgio. “He won’t even give me my phone unless he’s leaving.”
Giorgio’s unapologetic smirk pulls a snort from me.
“I told you not to sneak out of my bed again, mia topolina,” he says.
I cough to clear away my mirth and pull Mia’s phone out of my pocket. As I offer it to Giorgio, I address Aurora.
“I don’t blame the boss man for limiting your access to the internet. Knowing you, you’d take over the world and leave absolutely nothing for him to conquer.”
She quirks a brow and shoves an impressive amount of food in her mouth before crossing her arms over her chest and sitting back, silently promising retribution, but despite her show, she immediately reaches out for the phone when Giorgio offers it to her.
“What am I looking for?” she asks with a hand over her mouth as she continues chewing.
I shrug.
“Just the basics, I guess,” I say.
Tristan asks if he can dig into his piece of cake. Aurora leans forward to look around me and nods after checking how much he already ate.
“Is this part of the complication?” Giorgio asks.
I nod.
With her eyes glued to the screen, Aurora says, “It’s the same person you asked for information on last night, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I respond.
She pauses and graces me with a glance.
“Is she…?”
“She’s somewhere safe,” I say.
Aurora swallows, gives me a quick once-over, then nods and returns her attention to the phone. Her trust both soothes my soul and increases my guilt. After a few minutes, she sighs and extends the phone toward me.
“There’s nothing suspicious on here, and the owner’s information matches what you sent last night. Is there something specific you’re worried about?”
I shake my head.
“Fiero.”
I stiffen. She’s never said my name in such a serious tone before.
“Thank you.”
Gobsmacked, I blink at her.
“I know you’re the only reason we can rest easy right now. Make sure you see Dr. Karl regularly until your wounds heal. Capisci?”
The order makes her concern easier to accept.
“Of course, boss lady,” I say.
A few minutes later, I exit the townhouse and take a bus back to Mia’s apartment. I pull an empty cloth grocery bag from my inner jacket pocket and retrieve the homemade meals from the fridge, carefully stacking them inside. The delicacies deserve my utmost respect even if the cook may be Mia’s lover.
After ensuring the apartment looks the same as it did the first time I entered, I take the subway, then detour a few blocks south before entering the side door of the building.
My heart pounds against my sternum as the elevator carries me closer to my destination. Just the thought of reuniting with my feisty, curvy nurse quickens my pulse. I envision her spitting mad and flushed.
Which makes the gory sight before me when I open the door even more alarming.
“Mio Dio, what happened? Where are you hurt?”
She doesn’t respond.
I kick the door closed behind me, drop the bag on the floor, and rush across the room to the crimson-soaked bed.
With blood pooled under her head, caked in her hair, and smeared all over her arms, face, and shoulders, she lies on her side with her knees braced at an awkward angle, her wrists tweaked against the headboard, and her ankles stacked on top of one another, pulling her leg bindings tight against her skin. Her shoulder and hip bear her weight.
She rouses as I pull the loosened gag away from her face and run my hands over her, searching for wounds but finding none. Did she bite off her tongue? She’s crazy, but not that crazy. Right?
She gives a wet cough as I cup her face between my hands.
“I’m fine. It’s just a nosebleed,” she murmurs.
The fear pounding through me doesn’t relent.
I can murder a scumbag in an alley, torture a snitch for days, and dispose of bodies without batting an eye, but the thought of this woman injured or in pain sends me into a spiral of panic.
I’m fucked. I can never let her go. She’s mine.
She’ll fight me every step of the way, but I’ll protect her just as fiercely as I protect Giorgio, Aurora, and Tristan.
Mia caramellina dug her razor-sharp claws under my skin, and the thought of extracting them fills me with despair. I yearn for more. More pain. More pleasure. More her.
Mia Rivera is mine.
There’s no escape for her.
