Chapter 2 The crystal tumbler of scotch does nothing to dull the edge of wanting. I watch Sofia disappear up the grand staircase, the emerald silk of her dress catching the light like a goddamn beacon. My fingers tighten on the glass until I fear it might shatter, same as my control if I let myself think too long about the way she looked at me on the terrace. "You're going to burn a hole through my sister with that stare," Marco says, materializing at my side. There's an edge to his voice that makes my muscles tense. I force myself to turn away, to face my best friend. My brother in everything but blood. The man who once said, Keep her safe, even from yourself. "Just doing my job. Watching the room." Marco's dark eyes narrow slightly, not buying it for a second. "Right." He gestures for me to follow him to the study, away from the lingering dinner guests. "Speaking of the job. The Calabreses are making moves again." The study smells of leather and aged wood, centuries of power concentrated in one room. I set my drink aside, unfinished. Alcohol won't help right now. Not with Sofia's scent-lavender and vanilla and something uniquely her-still lingering in my senses. "What kind of moves?" I ask, forcing my mind back to business. "Two of our warehouses hit last week." Marco runs a hand through his hair-a tell he's more worried than he's letting on. "But that's not what concerns me. There've been whispers about auctions starting up again." My blood runs cold, a chill that spreads from my core outward. The underground auctions had been shut down after Anthony Calabrese went to jail. Young women sold to the highest bidder, their lives reduced to price tags and ownership papers. "Thought that was handled when Elena and Mario took care of Anthony," I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice. Those auctions were some of the darkest work I'd ever encountered when I was stationed in Boston with Mario. Irish or Italian mob, it didn't matter. The things I'd seen still haunt my dreams. Thank God Siobhan shut that part of her father's organization down. "Apparently someone's feeling nostalgic." Marco pulls up security footage on his tablet. "This was caught yesterday. Two blocks from Sofia's favorite coffee shop." The grainy video shows a black van. A girl about Sofia's age being helped inside by what looks like a legitimate rideshare driver. She never comes back out. My stomach knots as I imagine Sofia in her place. "She still goes to that café?" My jaw clenches so tight it aches. "Every Tuesday and Thursday between classes. I've tried telling her to vary her routine, but..." Marco shrugs helplessly. "She's twenty-two. Thinks she's invincible, especially after the situation with Elena." Twenty-two. The number hits like a punch to the gut. Christ, when did that happen? I remember her at six, skinned knees and missing front teeth, following Marco and me around the estate with hero worship in her eyes. At twelve, all gangly limbs and braces, fierce intelligence already shining through. At sixteen, she started to change. By nineteen, she was turning heads at family functions, making me notice for the first time how protectively angry I felt watching other men look at her. And now... Now she's dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with the threats lurking outside. Dangerous to my resolve. To my control. To the promises I've made. "I'll increase security," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "Put extra men on her detail." "Already done. But I want you personally checking in too." Marco's expression darkens. "If the Calabreses are really behind these auctions..." He doesn't finish the thought. Doesn't have to. The implications hang heavy in the air between us. The Calabreses have a particular interest in the daughters of powerful families. The higher the status, the sweeter the victory of taking them. A Renaldi daughter would be the ultimate prize. A burst of feminine laughter drifts in from the hallway. It's Sofia's mother's, but it sounds too much like Sofia's. My hands curl into fists at my sides as the memory of Sofia's laugh wraps around me like silk. Musical. Genuine. Nothing like the polished, fake sounds that come from most women in our world. Keep her safe, even from yourself. The words echo in my head, Marco's voice from three years ago when he caught me looking at Sofia a beat too long at her nineteenth birthday party. The night I realized my feelings had shifted from protective to something far more complicated. Something I had no right to feel, not when I was a just over a decade older than her. But who's going to keep me safe from her? The memory of her on the terrace is still too fresh. The way she'd looked up at me with those huge dark eyes, challenging me. I'm not little anymore. No, she certainly wasn't. That dress had made that abundantly clear, clinging to curves that had no business being in my thoughts. "Dante?" Marco's voice snaps me back. "You good?" I straighten, shrugging off the dangerous train of thought. "Yeah. Just thinking about entry points we need to secure. The terrace is too exposed." It's not entirely a lie. I had noticed the security weaknesses out there. Just...after I'd noticed other things. Like how the moonlight painted silver across her collarbones. How her lips had parted slightly when I stepped closer. How every instinct had screamed at me to close the distance, to finally discover if she tastes as sweet as she looks. "Earth to Dante." Marco waves a hand in front of my face. "Maybe ease up on the scotch, yeah? We've got work to do." I nod, grateful again for the distraction of business. Of threats I can actually fight, unlike the war between loyalty and desire raging inside me. "Show me the warehouse footage," I say, locking away thoughts of Sofia behind the mental walls I've carefully constructed over the years. "If it was really professionals, they'd have left a signature." We spend the next hour analyzing security feeds, marking patterns, building theories. It's familiar ground. Safe ground. The language of violence and protection I understand far better than the complicated tangle of emotions Sofia stirs in me. But even as we work, my awareness thinks about Sofia safely tucked away upstairs. My body attunes to her presence like a compass finding north, without my conscious permission. My phone buzzes. A text from one of my men: Movement on the south perimeter. Handled, but heads up. My entire body tenses, my pulse spiking. The south side...that's where Sofia's window faces. I type back: Details. Now. "Problem?" Marco asks, catching my expression. "Maybe." I slide my phone over, showing the response: Two men. Armed. Got photos before they rabbited. Marco swears softly, his face hardening into the expression that makes rival families fear the Renaldi name. "I'll alert the house security. You⁠-" "Already on it." I'm moving before Marco finishes, taking the stairs two at a time. I tell myself I'm just doing my job. Protecting my best friend's sister. Nothing more. But when I spot Sofia through her bedroom window, silhouetted against the glass like a goddamn invitation, my chest tightens with something that feels a lot like fear. Not for myself, but for her. For what I might do if anyone ever touched her. For the lengths I would go to keep her safe, lengths that would terrify even Marco if he knew. I pull out my phone again, fingers hovering over the keys. I type and delete three different messages before settling on: Stay away from the windows tonight. Her reply comes seconds later: Why? What's wrong? Just do it, principessa. Three dots appear as she types. Disappear. Appear again. Finally: Fine. But I still hate when you call me that. I allow myself the smallest smile. She has no idea how much the name fits-royalty in her bearing, in her intelligence, in the way she commands a room even at twenty-two. In the way she rules my thoughts without even trying. I slide my phone away. Get back to work. Focus on the perimeter, on entry points, on potential threats I can see and fight. Not on the threat to my sanity that comes from wanting what I can never have. "Find anything?" Marco asks when I return to the study, his focus still on the security footage. "Clear for now," I report, all efficiency. "But I don't like it. The timing's too convenient-same night as your dinner party when security's spread thin managing guests." "Reconnaissance, you think?" "Probably. Getting the lay of the land for something bigger." I hesitate, then add what we're both thinking. "Or looking for easy targets." Marco's mouth compresses in a thin line. "Sofia." "I've got men watching her window," I assure him. "And I told her to stay away from it. She's safe." "You told her?" His eyebrows raise slightly. "Since when does my sister listen to you?" Since I backed her against a bookshelf last Christmas and nearly kissed her. Since the swimming lessons last summer that turned into something else entirely. Since whatever is growing between us that neither acknowledges in the light of day. "She knows I don't overreact," I say instead. "If I tell her something's wrong, she listens." Lorenzo Abate glides into the study, his silver hair catching the low light. Francesco Renaldi's oldest friend and advisor has a way of appearing exactly when you least want him to. "Trouble?" he asks, sharp eyes missing nothing as he takes in our tense postures. "Just business," Marco answers smoothly. "Nothing to concern yourself with during a party, Uncle." Lorenzo's gaze shifts to me, calculating in a way that always puts me on edge. "And yet our fearsome enforcer looks ready for war." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Or is it something else entirely that has him so...tense?" There's something in his tone that makes my hackles rise. As if he knows exactly what-or who-has been occupying my thoughts. "Just doing my job." My voice remains neutral despite the warning bells ringing in my head. "Keeping the family safe." "Yes, you are quite...dedicated to certain members of the family," Lorenzo muses, swirling his brandy. "Particularly our Sofia. Such attentiveness is admirable in an employee." The word "employee" lands like a slap. A reminder of my place in the hierarchy. I'm not a Renaldi by blood, just a useful tool. A borrowed prize from the DeLucas. A weapon to be pointed at threats. "She's Marco's sister," I say simply. "She gets priority protection." "Of course." Lorenzo's smile widens a fraction. "And such elegant protection tonight. I could hardly focus on dinner for watching you watch her. Does Francesco know how closely you guard his daughter?" Marco steps between us, his back to Lorenzo as he faces me. His eyes communicate a clear warning: Don't engage. "Uncle," he says without turning, "I believe Father was looking for you. Something about the Vitellis's proposal." Lorenzo hesitates then nods. "We'll continue this conversation another time, Dante." He claps a hand on my shoulder as he passes, his grip just shy of threatening. "Remember your place in this family. It would be a shame to lose such a valuable...asset." The study door closes behind him, and I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Ignore him," Marco says quietly. "He's been in a mood since Father started giving Sofia more responsibility with the tech systems." "It's fine." It's not, but I've learned to swallow worse for the sake of the family. For the sake of my place here. Marco studies me for a long moment. "You know I trust you more than anyone. With my life. With this family's future." He pauses, conflict clear in his expression. "With Sofia's safety." I meet his gaze steadily. "I know." "But?" Marco arches an eyebrow, clearly expecting me to say more. "But nothing," I press firmly. "I gave you my word years ago. Nothing's changed." Everything's changed. Every day she grows more beautiful, more brilliant, more boldly herself. Every day the walls I've built to contain my feelings develop new cracks. Every day keeping my distance becomes a sweeter torture. Marco seems to accept my answer, but something shifts in his eyes. A new awareness, perhaps. Or just renewed scrutiny. "We should get back to the party," he says finally. "Keep an eye out for anything unusual." I nod, falling into step beside him as we leave the study. As we re-enter the main hall, my eyes automatically seek and find Sofia who has returned from upstairs and is now chatting with a group of younger guests. She laughs at something someone says, and the sound cuts through the ambient noise like it's wired directly to my nervous system. She glances up, catching me looking. Instead of the expected challenge or irritation, something vulnerable flashes across her face. Something that makes me want to cross the room, clear everyone out of our path, and finish what we started on that terrace. Marco clears his throat beside me. I look away first. I have a job to do. A promise to keep. Even if it kills me. And God help me, it just might. 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...