ROM
THREE WEEKS LATER
I drummed my fingers against the wheel. “This the right place?”
“That’s the one,” Alessio said.
“It better be worth the twenty-minute drive.”
“You sure you don’t want anything? The reviews are saying they’ve got the best pour-overs.”
I huffed. “I’m good.”
My brother had a habit of hyper-fixating on things. Video games. Conspiracy theories. Now—coffee.
There was a Starbucks five minutes from the palace. I’d suggested we go there, which had earned me the kind of look you’d give someone eating sushi with a fork. Apparently, Starbucks coffee was a notch above espresso-flavored piss. His words, not mine.
“You’ve lived in Brooklyn too long,” I said dryly. “You’re turning into a fucking hipster.”
Alessio smirked but didn’t argue. He patted his pockets. “Shit. I left my wallet behind. You got any cash?”
“Check the glove compartment.”
He rummaged through it and then stopped. “Since when do you wear makeup?”
I frowned. “The fuck are you talking about?”
He held up a tube of lip gloss between two fingers, inspecting it like it was evidence in a crime scene.
A sharp pulse went through me.
“I don’t,” I said. “Some girl must’ve left it.”
“Want me to toss it?”
“No.” The word came out too fast.
Alessio’s brows lifted slightly. “Oooh-kay.”
I exhaled through my nose, my temper fraying. “Just go get your fucking coffee so we can get back to work.”
He shrugged, put the lip gloss back, and grabbed a ten-dollar bill from the compartment. “You’re always in a bad mood lately,” he tossed over his shoulder before stepping out of the car.
The moment he was out of sight, I popped open the glove compartment and pulled out the tube.
It was small and sleek, and the label was starting to wear off from being carried around. I turned it over between my fingers. The familiar shape. The shade she always wore. Berry.
I still didn’t know why I’d kept it. At least, I told myself I didn’t.
A while back, I’d stashed it in the car, out of sight. Otherwise, my habit of constantly rolling it between my fingers was bound to turn into a nervous tick.
I wished I could say my life had gone back to normal after Mia and I said goodbye. That walking away had reset everything.
It hadn’t.
Everything felt like it was going to shit.
My father had returned from Colombia a few days after The Golden Circle dinner. It hadn’t been a good trip. The Colombians wanted guarantees we couldn’t give and refused to say who else they were negotiating with.
We were now facing two existential threats: Morales’s election and the potential collapse of our long-standing deal with the Colombians.
But in a twisted way, it was working in my favor. Both of my parents were too focused on the negotiation to keep me in their crosshairs. My mother, who had been relentless in asking about Mia, had mostly dropped the subject in recent weeks. Now, she spent her time trying to pinpoint where the Colombians were thinking about taking their business.
I was worried about the family—reasonably so—but this wasn’t the first time we’d been backed into a corner. We always survived.
We would survive this, too.
With Mia out of my life and out of my family’s scrutiny, I should feel relieved.
I didn’t.
The longer I spent away from her, the worse everything became.
Nights were the worst.
I slept even less than before. The insomnia had never been this bad—not even after the accident. I’d lie in bed, eyes closed, a movie of her playing on repeat inside my head. No off button. No escape. Sometimes I swore I could smell lily of the valley in my penthouse, a place she’d never even fucking been to.
In the midst of all this family turmoil, I should be staying productive, should be using my skill set to gather intel, find new targets…
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I didn’t want to talk to people. Didn’t want to put on an act.
I didn’t even want to fuck anyone.
The thought of it—of touching someone who wasn’t her—made my stomach turn.
If they didn’t look like her, smell like her, moan like her…I didn’t fucking want them.
I needed a distraction.
Alessio slid into the passenger seat and exhaled, lifting the giant cup he held in his hand. “It’s fucking excellent. You wanna try?”
My brother didn’t sleep much either. He’d go days before finally crashing when his body gave out. The work he did demanded it. When someone was close to breaking, you didn’t stop just because it was dinner time.
You pushed until there was nothing left to squeeze out.
I took a sip and handed it back to him. “Not bad.”
“It’s a Gesha from a micro-lot in Panama, lightly roasted to preserve its jasmine and bergamot notes.”
“Tastes like coffee.”
He sighed. “You’re a lost cause. Let’s get back. I want to get a few more names from him before we wrap up for the night.”
Two weeks ago, I’d called Alessio and asked if he needed an extra pair of hands at the palace.
He’d seemed surprised but told me to come by whenever I wanted.
I’d been showing up every day since.
I started the car. “It’s not even four. You’ve got somewhere else to be later?”
“I’m having dinner at Nero’s with him and his wife.”
I arched a brow. “Well, aren’t you two fucking cozy?”
Nero De Luca was Rafael Messero’s consigliere. At one point, he had a brief stint working for Alessio. The position had been meant as punishment, but somehow, the two of them had become friends.
“You bringing a date, Les?” I asked.
“Nah.”
“Why not? Not seeing anyone?”
“Mind your own fucking business.”
I laughed and began to drive. He was always cagey about his personal life, which made me think he didn’t have much of one. In our world, the women were terrified of him because of what he did for the family. But he had to get laid once in a while, right? He was twenty-seven, good-looking, and covered in tattoos that stretched all the way down to his fingertips. Although, maybe spelling out the words “MORE PAIN” across his knuckles wasn’t the best way to attract the opposite sex.
“There’s gotta be someone out there for you,” I said, passing through a green light. “Someone who’ll even like the hair.” His long, dark strands were tied in a low knot, and I liked to give him shit about it. “You just have to go looking for them, Les.”
“I’m used to being alone. I don’t mind it.”
Lucky him. For me, solitude was the perfect breeding ground for thoughts of her.
Twenty minutes later, I parked outside the palace. Alessio and I got out and moved through the massive warehouse, past stacked shipping containers, toward the reinforced room at the center of the building—Alessio’s interrogation chamber.
The guy we’d been working on was slumped over in his chair. He was a low-level recruit who’d been brought into the fold about six months ago on a recommendation from one of our made guys.
He’d turned out to be an undercover agent. It didn’t seem like he’d managed to get any information we needed to worry about, but we wanted to be sure.
I narrowed my eyes. He was too still.
“Shit,” Alessio swore, shoving his half-finished coffee into my hand before rushing over. He pressed two fingers to the guy’s neck, waited a beat, then muttered another curse under his breath.
“This is your fault, Rom.” He glared at me. “I told you we were going too hard.”
My jaw clenched. “Thought he could take it.”
“That’s my call to make, not yours.” His sharp eyes scanned me, sizing me up. “Why the fuck have you been so goddamn angry these past few weeks? I don’t need that shit in here.”
Alessio was steady. Always. He had to be, given the kind of work he did. An emotional interrogator wasn’t one who was good at his job. And Les was really fucking good at his job.
I exhaled through my nose. “Look, my bad. It was an accident, all right? It won’t happen again.”
He folded his arms, unconvinced.
“Why don’t we get started on the other guy?” I offered, nodding toward the next room.
“No.” He shook his head. “We’re done for today.” He ran a hand down his face. “You take out whatever the hell you’re dealing with on a few punching bags before you come help me again.”
“Fine.”
“Get out of here.”
I walked out, got back into my car, and sat there for a second gripping the wheel. My pulse thumped in my temple.
I didn’t want to sit still.
So I drove.
The congestion was lighter than usual, but traffic in Manhattan never truly let up. Taxis honked. Pedestrians weaved through moving cars. Steam billowed from manholes, looking ghostly in the late September air. The heat had finally broken, and the city was slipping into fall. The leaves had started to change—red and orange against a backdrop of glass, steel, and brick.
I’d noticed it on my walks around the city. Walks that always, somehow, took me past Broderick Lane.
I’d seen Mia through the window a couple of times. Just glimpses. Nothing more.
On the days I saw her, I felt a little better. Lighter.
But it never lasted. A few more days would pass, and the gray would seep back in, heavier and darker than before.
Thirty minutes later, I was in the elevator, heading up to my penthouse. Inside, I kicked off my shoes, fell onto the living room sofa, and flicked on the TV.
Jurassic Park. A rerun of The Office. And then—her.
I set the remote down and leaned back against the cushions.
She was on TV a lot. Interviews. Rallies. Some ribbon-cutting ceremony or another.
For everyone else watching, Mia was a side character given a few minutes to say her piece before the cameras zoomed back in on her father.
But for me? She was the star of the fucking show.
Today, it was a rally at Washington Square Park.
The crowd was massive. Mia stood onstage behind her father, hands linked in front of her, poised and polished as always.
It took me a few seconds to notice something was off.
I braced my elbows on my knees and leaned toward the TV, narrowing my eyes.
Her skin looked ashy. Her smile wasn’t quite right. Strained. Like she had to work extra hard to keep it there.
She lifted a hand and pressed her fingers to her temple.
A bad, bad feeling crawled up my spine.
She swayed.
I shot to my feet, watching as one of her father’s aides stepped up to her. He caught her elbow to steady her. My relief at him being close enough to help clashed with the violent urge to snap his fingers just for touching her.
He leaned in and whispered something into her ear as he led her off the stage. She didn’t say anything. She just gave the smallest of nods and leaned on him for support.
The crowd barely reacted. They were too focused on her father, hanging on whatever empty words he was feeding them.
I stared at the TV, waiting to see if the camera would pan to where she’d walked off to.
It didn’t.
My heart pounded against my ribcage. “What the fuck are they doing to her?”
She looked exhausted. Maybe sick. Was she getting any rest? Was anyone taking care of her?
“Ugh!” I grabbed the remote and hurled it across the room. It slammed against the wall and clattered to the floor.
This wasn’t working.
I could stay away if I knew she was fine, but keeping my distance when her piece-of-shit father and his incompetent team were running her into the ground?
No.
Fuck. No.
She deserved better than that.
I thought I’d satisfied my urge to protect her when I let her go. But it hadn’t gone away. It had embedded itself in my bones, a need that wouldn’t fucking quit. And with it, something else had been simmering. Something I’d tried so fucking hard to deny.
I couldn’t deny it anymore.
I. Wanted. Her.
I was done sustaining myself on glimpses through windows and memories that wouldn’t let me sleep. I wanted the real thing. I wanted us in the same room, breathing the same air, having a fucking conversation.
And then I wanted more. So much more. I wanted everything she’d give me.
Even if it wouldn’t be her all.
We weren’t possible. Her dad was trying to put me and my entire fucking family behind bars. But I wouldn’t be asking for a fairy tale.
I’d be asking to be her dirty little secret for a while.
Fucking Cosimo was right.
I tilted my head to the ceiling and dragged my palms down my face.
How the fuck was I going to pull this off when she was constantly surrounded by her father’s people? I had no idea.
The only thing I was sure of was that I was done staying away.
