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“Are you sure that was the right decision?” Dominic asks. I crack my neck from side to side as I look at him. “Are you second-guessing my decision?” I raise a brow at him. “No, of course not.” He twirls his wedding band around his finger. “But Angel wanted to see her.” “Angel can see her, just not tonight,” I explain. Not that I fucking have to—he should know better—but Dominic loves to push my buttons. “Do you plan to tell her that?” Dominic asks, looking over his shoulder to where Angel is throwing things around because she’s incredibly mad that we told her she had to stay back while we worked. “Nope, she isn’t my wife.” I reach for the bottle of whiskey, and he shakes his head. “Sometimes I hate you,” Dominic whispers. “Good. I’m not here to make friends,” I remind him. “I’m your fucking brother,” he growls. “And? I’m not our father. You should know that.” Dominic might have had a soft spot for our father, but if he knew why I’d really put a bullet in our father’s head, then he might not second-guess me. Not that I give a shit. I worked and killed to get to where I am so I wouldn’t have to answer to anyone. Blood or not. “Well, maybe he isn’t so much of a devil as we all thought. Because you sure as shit are worse.” “I take that as a compliment,” I say, lifting the glass to my lips. Reaching for my phone, I type up an email, with her name in the header. Dear Miss Ricci It was a pleasure to see you again tonight. I hope you will soon accept an invitation to join me for dinner as an apology for ruining your birthday. And please note, I never apologize. At your earliest convenience. Reply. Crue

Iread the email, then re-read it again. It can’t be real, right? No way. I shake my head as I look up at the police officer who has been asking me questions for hours on end. He says something and then hands me a card. My once beautiful teal dress is now covered in dirt. Sitting on the sidewalk in New York city is not for the faint-hearted. “Are you okay?” I look up at the question. Monica’s shoulders sag and the distant and empty stare tells me she is sad, which is very unlike her. But I suppose under the circumstances, it’s expected. “If I’d have worn black, do you think this still would have happened?” I ask, causing her to smirk. “Okay, next time, stick to the black.” She offers me her hand and pulls me up. I

wipe my hands down my dress once I am on my feet. “They say it’s a pretty open and shut case, or so I overheard them talking. Someone said they caught the guy, and nothing else will be happening.” When she says the words, I look down at my phone. Open and shut case, my ass. But if you have influence in your name, you can get away with murder these days. Especially him.

Quickly typing and sending a message, I wait for my mailbox to tell me if it’s true. I don’t know whether he’ll reply immediately or even at all. Or if it’s him to begin with.

Is this really you?

Don’t know what else to say, but when my phone dings and his name pops up in my emails, I know it’s him

Dear Miss Ricci

Should I come over now?

Reply. Crue.

Reply. Why does he sign off with that? It’s demanding. And rude. And Crue being here might be problematic. So I ignore it, slide my phone back into my purse, and look at Monica. She doesn’t know much about where I came from, and I don’t intend to share it with her. She’s met my mother a few times and knows my father lives in Italy. That’s it. How do you tell someone that your father is a killer? You don’t.

“I’m going to go home. I’m not exactly in the mood to party anymore,” I tell her. She nods and walks with me. My apartment isn’t too far, and thankfully, it has security, so I shouldn’t have to worry about that psycho. My job pays well, and it’s the first thing I invested in. Well, I guess it did pay well until my boss died. Hopefully, that won’t affect my work. I’ve been with this firm since straight out of college and worked my way up. I’m a good lawyer, and defending criminals came naturally to me. But I know despite our outstanding reputation, even this will make headlines. Sure, we’ve made a few enemies in the past, but I can’t understand why Crue, of all people, would target my boss. But that feels like a Monday problem because I’m dead tired. “I may catch a cab, but I’ll walk you back first,” Monica says. “I can handle myself, and it’s close. Go home, cuddle your cat.” I step out to the road and wave down a cab. She seems torn about leaving me, so I open the door and nod for her to get in. “How are you so relaxed?” she whispers. “I mean, he did it right next to you.” “I’m fine. I deal with criminals, remember. Go to bed.” I reluctantly give her a one-armed hug before she climbs into the cab, and then I watch as she drives off. I take the short walk home to decompress. When I arrive at my apartment, the doorman opens the door as I approach. He gives me a once-over, most likely because of the state of my dress, but says nothing. As I step into the elevator and press the button for my floor, my mind drifts with so many variables.

Crue. Why is he here, and why now? My boss. What was Crue’s objective? But I try to push those thoughts away, knowing I’ll become obsessed with it like my cases. And tonight, I want to sleep. I exit the elevator and unlock my door before I step in and shut it behind me. “Your dress is dirty.” I don’t think, I act. Spinning, I shoot my hand out straight for the throat of whoever is behind me. He catches it though, and drops his head to the side. But that doesn’t stop me. My knee comes up and meets with his junk. Crue bends over, his hand letting go of mine as I fist his hair and pull him all the way down. I sidestep him, intent on getting to the kitchen, but he reaches for me, grips the side of my dress while he’s still bent over, and I kick again, only this time my heel meets his ribs. “Fucking hell,” he shouts. And just as I start to move again, both of his arms circle my waist and pin my hands to my sides. I’m breathing heavily, and so is he. I try to wiggle away, but he grunts and tightens his hold, keeping me in place. “Could you not make my cock hard after you just fucking kneed it,” he grumbles. I pause at his words, my body straightening and locking tight. “Who taught you to fight?” Crue asks. “Let me go.” “Who taught you to fight?” he demands, and I have the distinct impression he isn’t a man who often asks questions twice. “My father put me in jujitsu when I was eight. When I moved here, his requirement was for me to continue any form of fighting. I chose kickboxing,” I tell him, trying to get my hands free. “Now… Let. Me. Go.” “Lethal,” he whispers near my ear before dropping his arms around my waist and stepping back. I turn around to face him. “Why are you here?” “Are you married?” Crue asks, looking down at my hand. “No.” My brows scrunch together in confusion. “I’m thirty-three,” he tells me. “Oookay.” And it hits me. All at once. How could I forget? Probably because I just watched him kill someone. Was this really what this was all about? The arranged marriage between our families? “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. Do not be late. One thing I do not tolerate is lateness.” “Do not tolerate?” I ask. “What does that even mean?” “The last man who was late to one of my meetings lost a finger,” Crue explains as he heads to the door. Then he pulls it open and walks out without a backward glance. I’m left standing there, wondering what the hell is happening and how he managed to get inside my apartment. Sometimes I wish time could be brought forward, and today is that day. I wish it was Monday because I spent all day wondering what I plan to do. I know this matte

Is above the police, and besides, I’ve dealt with my fair share of powerful men, especially the criminal type. And one thing I know is that they can be unrelenting. And in the way of a calling card, Crue put a bullet in my boss’s head. So begrudgingly, I must go because who knows how else he might lash out. Maybe a dinner setting will allow us to speak about it in a civilized manner. At least, that’s what I am trying to convince myself of. Crue emailed me the address and told me not to be late. Again. I’m totally going to be late. It’s already thirty minutes past the time he wanted to meet, and I’m still in the car he sent to fetch me. The driver has not commented about my tardiness, so either he doesn’t know or doesn’t care. I intend to be late. Crue can deal with it. And what the hell do you wear to see a man who told you once a long time ago that he intends to marry you when he turns thirty-four? It’s such a weird number. And, to be honest, after a few years, I forgot all about it, thinking he didn’t really mean it. That was until last night. The car comes to a stop, and I look toward the double doors of the building. Maybe I should have the driver turn around and take me home. Might be a smart idea. But before I can even think of telling the driver to take off, my door is open, and I’m met with a smiling man. “He’s going to be so pissed you’re late.” He says it with a smirk.

I’m confused at first. Who is this man? And then I see the similarities to Crue. They both have soft, dark hair, but where Crue has a slight wave to his, Dominic’s is stick straight. Where Dominic’s skin is ink-free, Crue has tattoos. “It’s good to see you. Angel never shuts up about seeing you.” Dominic offers me his hand, and I take it and pull myself out. When I’m standing in front of him, I notice his wedding ring. Last I heard they were still an item. But did something change in that time? “You see Angel?” I ask, remembering she was supposed to be on her way to visit me. “She’s my wife. Did she forget to tell you?” What? I offer a polite smile, the one I use when I’m in court. My silence, however, is enough of an answer. I knew her and Dominic Monti had been a thing since I left Italy. But over the years we didn’t talk about it much. And I never asked if she’d changed partners. We didn’t really go into depth about our lovers… or perhaps because I was the only who had multiple lovers. We mostly spoke about the stuff we binge-watch on television, what’s happening at work, and changes with the families back at home. Small things—unimportant things. But how could she not tell me she was married? And to Dominic Monti? Dominic looks over his shoulder and into the restaurant. “You better go before he kills both of us.” I nod and clutch my bag to my stomach. My heels click on the sidewalk as I approach the double doors. I spot Crue at a table in the back as soon as they open. His eyes are already on me, and his hands are fisted together on the table. The hostess leads me to him as a waitress places food on his table. “Is there anything else?” the waitress asks as the hostess pulls out my seat opposite him. “No, that will be all.” They give us polite smiles and then leave. “You’re late,” he says, a tic running through his jaw. I nonchalantly shrug. “Time moves differently in New York.” His jaw tics again, and he picks up a knife and cuts into his steak. “Eat,” he orders. I look at the food in front of me and grimace. “I’ll be fine.” “Don’t like steak?” he asks as he takes a bite. I watch as he chews slowly, his lips moving with each bite. He looks like he’s trying to contain his fury. I am not sure for how long and I take some pleasure in knowing that. “No,” I reply. “We are at a steak house,” he points out as he swallows and lifts his glass of wine to his lips. “That was your choice,” I remind him. “And you were late,” he adds, with a hint of anger radiating from him. Definitely the grudge-holding type. “So?” I shrug. “I warned you not to be late.” “And I couldn’t care less what you warned,” I fire back. He sucks a hiss through his teeth before he goes back to cutting his steak. “Who told you it was okay to have

This much attitude?” he asks, and a rattled laugh escapes me. “Is this a joke?” I reply, leaning in. “You have forgotten where you came from and what women mean to men.” “And what precisely do they mean?” I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. “That they obey and do what men say.” I blow out a frustrated breath. Then I laugh, shaking my head, disbelieving in how that world followed me all the way to New York. No, he has followed me all the way here. “Is this why I’m here, for you to tell me how I should act?” I ask, leaning in again and tilting my head. “Are you not afraid of me?” he questions, leaning in until only a breath separates us. “No.” “You should be.” He smirks.

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