Chapter 1 Emerald silk slips through my fingers as I smooth down my dress for the hundredth time. In the full-length mirror, my reflection stares back, all wide eyes and nervous energy. The dress had seemed perfect in the store-sophisticated without trying too hard, the kind of thing that might make certain people see me as more than just Marco's little sister. Now I'm not so sure. "Miss Sofia?" Josefina knocks at my bedroom door. "Your father is asking for you. The guests are arriving." My stomach does a little flip. He's coming tonight. I'd overheard Marco on the phone with Dante earlier, their voices low and serious about something I probably wasn't supposed to know about. Not that anyone tells me anything important anyway. At twenty-two, I'm still treated like the baby of the family, despite having run cons since I was ten and handling delicate extraction operations by fifteen. They may use my skills when it suits them-my reputation for getting people out of impossible situations is well-earned-but when it comes to the inner workings of the family, I'm still kept at arm's length. Which is ridiculous. Who was the one who outsmarted Matteo DeLuca and managed to get Elena Santiago out of the hospital he had on lockdown? Me. That's who. "Coming!" I swipe on one last coat of lip gloss, practiced movements taking over as I check the small knife strapped to my thigh. A habit from years of never being truly unarmed. I breathe deeply, centering myself the way I would before an operation. "God, I'm being stupid. So fucking stupid," I mutter. "It's just Dante. He's been around forever, he's Marco's friend, he's..." I trail off, because that's the problem, isn't it? We've worked jobs together, planned operations side by side. The fact that my heart races every time he walks into a room is my problem, not his. I've faced down armed guards and rival families without flinching, but somehow Dante makes me feel like that awkward ten-year-old running her first con again. I take one final glance in the mirror, straightening my shoulders. The emerald brings out the gold flecks in my dark eyes, making them look almost amber in certain light. At least that's what Uncle Lorenzo had said when he'd taken me shopping last week, insisting on buying me this dress despite my protests. "A Renaldi should always look the part," he'd said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of affection and authority that brooked no argument. "My little treasure deserves only the best." As Dad's oldest friend and advisor, Lorenzo Abate has been a major part of my life since before I could walk, the uncle who dotes on me with expensive gifts and treats me like a precocious child despite how long I've been running cons. Precocious child. Ha. He knows what I can do, but he still sees me as the little girl who needs his guidance and protection. And it is really fucking annoying. I descend the sweeping staircase. Already the foyer is filling with men in expensive suits, the air heavy with cologne and cigar smoke. I spot Marco first, holding court near the bar with a group of associates. His face lights up when he sees me, breaking away to press a kiss to my cheek. "There's my beautiful sister," he says, but his eyes are scanning the crowd behind me, always alert. Always protective. "I was starting to think you were going to hide upstairs all night." "And miss one of Mom and Dad's famous dinner parties? Never." I try to keep my voice light. Even as I assess the room, my gaze searches for a particular tall frame, those broad shoulders, that dark hair... Then I see him. Dante stands with my father near the fireplace, his powerful frame making even the massive marble mantle seem small in comparison. The flames cast shadows across the planes of his face, highlighting those knife-blade cheekbones. As if sensing my gaze, he glances over. Our eyes lock. I inhale, the room seeming to tilt slightly on its axis. Dante's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those storm-grey eyes. Something I can't put my finger on. Then nothing as he turns back to my father, saying something that makes the older men around them laugh. I exhale. "Control yourself, tesoro," a smooth voice murmurs in my ear. "Your feelings are written all over your face." I startle, turning to find Uncle Lorenzo beside me, immaculate in a custom suit, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled. His eyes, sharp as ever, miss nothing. "I don't know what you're talking about," I manage, accepting a glass of sparkling water from a passing server while mentally cursing myself. I've maintained covers under interrogation, kept my composure while disarming security systems with seconds to spare, yet here I am, broadcasting emotions like an amateur. Heat creeps up my neck. Lorenzo's smile is knowing. "Of course not. Just as you don't know why your brother keeps the best enforcer Mario DeLuca ever had so distant from you." He sips his whiskey, gaze flicking between me and Dante. "Men like Moretti..." Lorenzo pauses, choosing his words carefully. "They're not for girls like you, tesoro. Your father-he'd never... Well, you understand." The casual dismissal stings more than it should. "I'm not delicate, Uncle." My voice is sharper than intended. "I've proven that enough times." "No," he concedes, studying me with a new intensity that makes me uneasy. "I suppose you're not." Before I can decipher his expression, he melts back into the crowd, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and heated cheeks. I force myself to breathe normally. This is fine. I'm fine. I just need to stop thinking about that day by the pool last summer... The water had been cool against my sun-warmed skin as Dante helped me perfect my stroke. "You're still too tense," he'd said, his hands strong and steady on my waist. "Let the water carry you." I'd been hyperaware of his bare chest against my back, the rough calluses on his palms. Nothing like the swimming lessons he'd given me as a kid. This was...different. Dangerous. "Sofia." Dante's voice pulls me back to the present. He's moved across the room to stand before me. Up close, he's even more devastating in his perfectly tailored black suit. A small scar cuts through his left eyebrow-new, from whatever business he handles for my brother and Mario DeLuca. I hate that I notice these things. "Dante." I'm proud that my voice comes out steady, the same tone I'd use when coordinating an operation. "I didn't know you'd be here tonight." His mouth quirks slightly. "Your brother's orders. Apparently I need to socialize more." "Is that what this is? Socializing?" The words slip out with the sharp edge I typically reserve for interrogations, a bit more challenge in my tone than I intended. "Or are you here working security detail?" Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "Careful, principessa." "I'm not your princess," I counter, irritation flaring at the childish nickname he's used since I was a girl wearing party dresses and bows. "And I'm not little anymore." The words hang between us, charged with meaning. His jaw tightens. Before he can respond, the dinner bell chimes. Saved by the bell-literally. But dinner proves its own kind of torture. Someone's twisted sense of humor has placed me directly across from Dante. Every time I look up, his eyes are there. Every accidental brush of feet under the table feels like an electric shock. Uncle Lorenzo sits at my father's right hand, as always. Throughout dinner, I feel his gaze on me, calculating and speculative. When he leans over to whisper something to my father that makes them both glance my way, unease crawls up my spine. I find myself remembering last Christmas, when I'd found Dante alone in the library. The way he'd backed me against the shelves, the heat of his body so close to mine. "We can't," he'd whispered, even as his hand had come up to cup my cheek. Then Marco's voice in the hallway had shattered the moment. Now, watching him methodically cut his steak, I wonder if he thinks about these moments too. These almosts. These could-have-beens. "You're quiet tonight, Sofia," Uncle Lorenzo observes, his voice carrying down the table. "Usually we can't keep you from sharing your charming opinions." All eyes turn to me, including Dante's. I straighten subtly, trying not to let my irritation show. "Just tired from finals, Uncle." I force a smile. "Three exams in two days, plus that project I was working on." "Her little computer program," my father explains to the table with indulgent pride, patting my hand like I've drawn him a picture for the refrigerator rather than designed a security system that keeps his assets safe. "She's always been so clever with her little gadgets." Lorenzo's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "And how is the computer science program treating you? Still top of your class?" "She is," my father continues, pride evident in his voice. "Professor Alvarez called me personally to say Sofia's coding skills are the best he's seen in twenty years of teaching. My little girl's always been bright." I force myself not to wince at being called his "little girl" in front of everyone. "The security system she designed is actually quite impressive," Dante adds unexpectedly, his tone professional. "Stopped several intrusion attempts at the Miami property." Marco nods in agreement. "She has a knack for finding weaknesses others miss." Something like annoyance flickers across Lorenzo's face before his expression smooths out. "Charming hobbies. Though one wonders if such technical distractions might be taking you away from more appropriate pursuits, tesoro. Young ladies should have more refined interests." "Every modern business needs tech expertise," I counter, trying to keep my tone respectful despite my frustration. "Even ours." Did they not learn from the fall of Seamus O'Connor? The table falls silent. We don't talk about "the business" at dinner parties. Ever. Lorenzo's eyes gleam with something I can't quite read. "Indeed. Perhaps it's time we brought Sofia further into the fold, Francesco. She's clearly ready for more...responsibility." My father's laugh is too tight. "Let her finish college first, old friend." "Of course." Lorenzo raises his glass in acquiescence, but his gaze lingers on me. "All in good time." The weight of unspoken words makes the air feel thick. When I can't take it anymore, I excuse myself to get some air on the terrace. The night air is cool against my flushed skin as I lean against the stone balustrade. I hear Dante's footsteps before I feel his presence behind me. Of course he followed. He always follows. "You shouldn't be out here alone." His voice is rough. I turn to face him, summoning every ounce of courage. "I'm not alone. You're here." He steps closer, close enough that I tip my head back to maintain eye contact. "That's the problem, isn't it?" My heart hammers against my ribs, though I keep my expression neutral. "Why is it a problem?" "Principessa..." It's a warning and a caress all at once. His hand comes up, hovering near my face without touching. "You know why." "Because of Marco? Because despite what I've proven I can do, you still see me as some fragile thing that needs protecting?" There's a lump forming in my throat, and I swallow hard. Don't cry, don't cry... "Because your father and brother would have my head," he counters, his voice low. Then, even quieter, "And because once I start, I won't be able to stop." The raw honesty in his voice makes me shiver, cutting through my frustration. His eyes drop to my lips, and for once I have no clever response ready. The French doors creak behind us, and we spring apart as one of the staff steps out. "Miss Sofia, your father is asking for you." I flee inside without looking back, but I can feel Dante's eyes burning into me all the way up the stairs. In the grand hallway, I nearly collide with Uncle Lorenzo, who steadies me with a hand on my arm. "Careful, my dear." His grip lingers a moment too long. "You look flushed. Everything all right?" "Fine," I say too quickly. "Just needed some air." His eyes search mine. "You should be more cautious about the air you choose to breathe, Sofia. Some atmospheres can be...intoxicating in ways that cloud judgment." Before I can respond to his cryptic warning, he's called away by one of his associates. I continue to my room, skin crawling with the sense that I'm caught in currents I don't fully understand. In my room later after my father again shows off my "childish hobbies," I press my forehead against the cool glass of my window and watch as cars pull away into the night. Dante and Marco had moved to the library, heads bent in serious conversation as they walked out of sight. More secrets. More business I'm not deemed worthy to know. I need to get over this. Need to stop letting him affect me this way. Need to⁠- My phone buzzes with a text from Marco: Someone tried to breach the perimeter tonight. Stay alert. I glance at my window and move to the side, out of direct view, and open my laptop. Within minutes, I've accessed our security system, checking camera feeds and patrol patterns. Marco wouldn't have texted unless it was serious. In the distance, a car alarm wails. My fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to enhance our security protocols. I may be kept from certain family meetings, but protecting our home? That's my territory. The night suddenly feels a lot darker, but this-at least-is familiar ground. Whatever threat is coming, I'm ready. Another text arrives, this one from Uncle Lorenzo: Remember what I said, tesoro. Some men are not for you, no matter how clever you think you are. Be careful where you place your trust. Chills runs down my spine. How much does he know? How much does he see? And why does his concern feel more like a threat than protection? In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...