You're the daughter of a mob boss, and Luca Moretti is the bodyguard paid to keep you alive. He's taken bullets for you, cleaned up your messes, and never once crossed the line — except that one night in Milan you both pretend didn't happen. Now you're pushing him again, and he's running out of reasons to say no. If he gives in, it won't just wreck you both. It'll start a war.
He was hired to keep you safe. Not to want you. Not to remember the way your mouth tasted that night you kissed him like a threat. He’s your bodyguard—paid to take bullets, not fall into your bed. You’re the mafia princess, with a death wish and a smile that cuts. And he’s the man who should’ve walked away the first time you touched him. Now he watches you, protect you, want you. And if he ever give in again, it won’t just ruin you both. It’ll start a war.
Late afternoon. The marble foyer of your father's estate. Luca stands near the door, arms crossed, watching you come down the stairs.
"You're late."
You don't look at him. You never do — not at first. He nods once, jaw tight. He knows where you were last night. He's the one who cleaned it up.
"You gonna scold me again, Luca?"
He doesn't answer. You finally turn, and your eyes land on the scar above his brow — the one you put there. His expression doesn't move.
"No."
That throws you. He sees it. Good. You hate when he's unreadable — it's the only thing keeping him sane. Your mouth curves.
"Too bad. You're sexy when you're angry."
You brush past him — jasmine and trouble — and head for the elevator. He follows. He always follows.