Eleonora's POV

A violent shove between my shoulder blades launches me into the foyer. "Worthless trash."

The warmth this house once held exists only as ghosts now - the phantom scent of Papà's pipe, the echo of Paola's laugh. The present tastes of dust and dread.

The blow comes from behind, a flat crack against the base of my skull. My legs give out. I hit the parquet floor - the same floor I spend Saturdays polishing to a high gloss - with force that rattles my teeth. A white-hot spike of pain drills through my temple.

My purse skitters under the console. Before I can draw breath, his boot connects with my ribs. A deep, bruising ache explodes beneath the bone.

I bite down until copper floods my mouth. Not a sound. Never a sound.

The first time, he left a violet-and-yellow halo around my eye. I was grounded for fourteen days. The questions from the community about my whereabouts irritated him, so now he never lays a hand on my face.

"This is on you," he snarls, his shadow falling over me. "Thirty days to find a mountain of cash because you're useless. My portfolio will bleed."

His foot draws back again. This time it finds my diaphragm. All air evacuates my lungs in one agonizing rush. My vision tunnels to pinpricks. A broken, guttural noise tears loose before I can swallow it.

Hot tears track through the dust on my cheeks. I fold inward, knees to chest, arms a desperate barricade.

The polished toe of his shoe presses into the small of my back, bearing down until my spine protests. "Keep testing me," he whispers, breath hot against my ear. "See if you live to claim your inheritance."

The weight lifts. His deliberate footsteps retreat toward the living room.

What a jerk.

I push up on trembling arms, swallow bile with the groan. Leaving my purse, I use the wall as a crutch, half-walking, half-crawling to my room.

The lock clicks. Only then do my bones give out. I slide down the door until I am a heap on the floor.

Silent tears fall - a steady leak of despair. I don't wipe them away.

Two more years.

It stretches before me like a prison sentence. What sum of money can justify days like this?

I could vanish. Find some forgotten town, take any work. Disappear.

You own nothing. Not a cent. Would you walk there?

Hopelessness sits on my chest, crushing. I curl tighter, forehead to knees.

God, I miss Papà. Mamma is just a smile in a faded photo, but they say I have her hair.

I was his everything. Even after Paola came, that never changed. For one fleeting season, I believed in fairy tales - a kind stepmother, a protective brother. Then the world dropped out from under me.

A fist hammers my door. "The living room is a pigsty! Clean it!"

I close my eyes, force steadiness into my voice. "Yes."

I wait, then peer out. Down the hall, his door - our parents' door - slams shut.

He claimed their room a month after the funeral. When I called it disrespectful, his backhand taught me the new order. "I'm the head of this family now", he'd spat. "I take what's mine."

After that first time, I sobbed until sick, mourning the stepbrother I thought existed. Now I know: the monster was always there, sleeping just beneath the skin.

I duck into the bathroom, dry-swallow two pills to blunt the throbbing in my side.

In the living room, I retrieve my purse. Then I see his handiwork: a crystal decanter lies in glittering shards on the hearth rug, an amber river of single-malt seeping into the wallpaper.

A weary sigh escapes me. I fetch supplies.

Two years. Then it's yours. Then burn this place and never look back.

I sweep every lethal splinter, wipe the sticky residue until my fingers prune. Done, I retreat to the kitchen.

My only sanctuary. Here, the alchemy of flour and butter, the quiet precision of a knife, makes sense. Needing the ritual, I begin the focaccia for tomorrow's parish cleaning - the Russo wedding requires the whole community to make the cathedral shine.

Kneading the dough, feeling its living elasticity, the knot between my shoulders eases. The pills whisper through my veins, softening the ache.

I let myself drift: a Larry cottage with an herb garden, a quiet man with gentle hands, bread baking for simple joy. A life where the names Matteo and Cosa Nostra hold no power, might even be forgotten.

On this Tuesday, the cathedral is cool and dim, smelling of lemon polish and damp stone. Sunlight strains through the high stained-glass windows we are there to clean. The upcoming wedding demands every surface gleam.

"Mind the crevices on the pew ends, Eleonora," Martina's voice echoes as she directs the brass polishing. "The Russos notice everything."

"I know," I murmur, dragging my cloth along ornate scrollwork. A wedding. The word feels alien, belonging to a universe of normalcy far from mine. My future is a closed door, a clock ticking down behind it.

My assigned area climbs upward. Soon I am perched on a ladder's top step, reaching to clean a grimy lower panel of a window. Outside is a blur of overgrown churchyard and mossy angels. Up here, the busy silence below becomes a distant hum. The residual soreness from Matteo's latest violence is a fading echo in my bones.

Two weeks pass since the incident at Elysian Reverie. Matteo grows more tense with each day, the debt he owes Alessio Marino a tightening noose around his neck-and my throat. He vents that pressure on me. Yesterday, he slid a paper across the kitchen table, his finger tapping the line where my signature should go. It names him my sole beneficiary should I die.

I shake my head. The fact he believes I am foolish enough to sign my own death certificate still stuns me. I know the truth. The moment ink meets that line, my life becomes forfeit. He wants what is mine-the inheritance-and he will erase me to claim it.

The threat thickens daily. The thought of enduring two more years begins to feel less like a countdown and more like a fantasy. Yet every possible escape route I trace in my mind leads to a dead end.

Aunt Anna's house is no refuge. Matteo would find me there within hours. To harbor me would place her in an impossible position, bound as she and all my family are by the unspoken but iron laws of Cosa Nostra.

Even if I dared to ask her for enough money to disappear, the act of helping me would mark her for retribution. Nothing moves here without their knowledge, without their consent.

A heavy, hopeless sigh escapes me. I lose myself in the circular motion, the clear streak left on ancient glass. For a few precious seconds, I am just a woman cleaning a window for a stranger's joy.

The voice comes from directly below, a low vibration that cuts the quiet like a blade through silk.

"Eleonora."

Him.

Recognition is a physical shock, ice water to the heart. My body jolts, a treacherous spasm on the narrow step. The damp cloth flies from my grip. The world upends - the saint's serene face, the stone floor rushing up, a collective gasp blooming below.

Then, not shattering impact, but a brutal interruption of momentum. Hard arms lock around me, one across my back, the other under my knees, catching me with jarring efficiency. Breath slams from my lungs.

I am held against a chest that feels like carved stone. The scent enveloping me is stark - expensive wool, cold leather, something metallic and clean, like a gun barrel after rain. Utterly alien to the smells of polish and dust.

Terror, pure and liquid, floods my veins. I freeze.

Slowly, against my will, my gaze lifts.

Alessio Marino's face is terrifyingly close. Features usually viewed from fearful distance are now in devastating detail: the sharp, unyielding jaw, startlingly thick lashes framing eyes not merely dark, but a fathomless, pitiless grey - a winter sea at dusk. They hold no softness, only piercing analytical focus, absorbing my wide-eyed shock, the frantic pulse he must feel hammering against his arm.

Time suspends. Cleaning sounds fade to nothing. There is only the solid reality of his hold, the dizzying proximity, the devastating intensity of his gaze.

My lips part soundlessly. Humiliation burns through the fear - to be so exposed, so clumsy, before him. To be held by him feels infinitely more dangerous than stone.

He doesn't smile. "Ladders require attention." Then he puts me down.

The hazel eyes hold me a beat too long. He shakes his head once. "Follow me."

It isn't a request.

"Where?" My tongue darts to wet dry lips.

He is already turning, his two silent shadows falling into step behind him. My lungs tighten. Marino doesn't attend Mass. I have a bad feeling.

Every eye in the cathedral burns into my back as I trail them out. Not a single soul moves to intervene.

Outside, air hangs thick with the scent of damp soil and neglected roses. They lead me past overgrown gardens to the old cemetery at the rear. My stomach turns to lead.

He stops before a lichen-stained angel, his back to me, studying the weathered epitaph. Silence stretches, pulled taut by my hammering heart. I wrap my arms around myself, tremors beginning deep in my bones.

Father, don't let him kill me on holy ground. Don't let him kill me at all.

A slight tilt of his head dismisses the two men. Their retreating footsteps make the privacy feel more dangerous. A breeze catches my skirt; I grab fistfuls of fabric to hold it down.

"Why am I here?" The quiver in my voice betrays me.

He turns. One hand stays pocketed, the other rises to rub his jaw, his gaze cutting. "You look tired."

The words hang between us, absurd and unsettling. "That's what this is about?"

His head tilts. "No." He moves then - a predator's fluid grace closing the distance. My breath hitches. "Your brother visited me."

"Stepbrother." The correction is instant, born of long hatred.

One dark brow arches. I rush to apologize. "Sir, I didn't -"

"Alessio."

The name, offered so casually, stuns me. No one calls him that.

He folds his arms, the gesture amplifying his imposing frame. "Matteo informed me you're untouched."

Heat explodes across my face, chest, limbs. Embarrassment is a fire under my skin. I nod, once.

"A virgin?"

Another nod.

"Never dated?"

A third. My cheeks burn.

His hand moves toward my hair. I flinch - a violent, ingrained recoil from years of anticipating blows.

He pauses, his gaze sharpening on my face before he winds a loose curl around his finger. "You think I'd hit you."

His comment turns my insides to ice. The tremble in my limbs grows. Unable to lie on consecrated ground, I whisper the raw truth. "I fear you."

He releases the curl. "I don't enjoy hitting women."

The words linger in the heavy air, a statement that offers no real comfort, only deeper uncertainty.

Alessio's POV

Eleonora Greco refuses to leave my fucking thoughts for fourteen straight days. Once Larry compiles every traceable detail about her, I have Matteo delivered to me. That fucker eagerly supplies every missing piece of information with shameless speed. It's obvious the man holds no loyalty whatsoever to his family.

But I don't base my understanding solely on Matteo's account. I need to confirm the facts from her own lips. I know she's too terrified to even attempt lying directly to me.

I observe her as a breeze catches strands of her hair. Even with her soft brown eyes shimmering with raw fear, she doesn't drop her gaze. She displays more backbone than her treacherous stepbrother, who essentially presented her to me as a packaged settlement for his fucking debts.

I made it explicitly fucking clear I would end him with my own hands if he whispered a single word of this arrangement to her while I was still considering it.

It aggravates the living fuck out of me how readily Matteo offers Eleonora's untouched state as transactional currency. She is worth infinitely more than a mere three hundred thousand dollars. She is worth more than his entire pathetic existence.

What truly enrages me is the knowledge that he has sufficient capital parked in stock market investments to cover what he owes, yet he chooses to sacrifice her instead. That fucker is willing to sell her virtue now, then pawn her off at twenty-five to some second-rate man who doesn't mind used goods.

I discover the reason for his timing-she gains control of her inheritance at twenty-five. Matteo undoubtedly wants that money as well, the greedy piece of shit.

It infuriates me.

Looking at this woman who has intruded upon my mind more than I care to acknowledge, her complete innocence is unmistakable. When Larry investigated her background, he found nothing. Not a single fucking mark against her name.

Every single Sunday she pours coffee and tea after Mass concludes. She delivers pots of homemade soup and meals to ailing parishioners. In the world I command, a woman this untainted is a fucking rarity. And I have always possessed an appreciation for acquiring rare and unique possessions.

Her tongue flicks out nervously to wet her lips, and the action draws my focus directly to her mouth. I would stake my entire fucking fortune that no man has ever kissed her. Completely captivated, I murmur, "Has a man ever kissed you before?"

Her eyebrows knit together as a deep blush spreads from her neck to her cheeks. Christ, she is so fucking innocent that a simple question about kissing makes her flush with embarrassment.

She gives a slight, tight shake of her head, and I can see the visible strain it requires for her to maintain eye contact with me.

I eliminate the space between us until only a breath separates us, leaning in to inhale her scent. She smells of warm vanilla and baking bread-a scent that makes my mouth fucking water instantly-underlaid by something delicate and floral, like spring blossoms. "See you soon, piccola coniglietta."

Calling her "little rabbit" feels instinctively correct. As I turn and walk away, I feel the intense heat of her frightened stare burning into the space between my shoulder blades.

Eleonora Greco may come from an insignificant family, but she possesses the one thing no one else in my community can offer me-absolute, unbroken purity.

Matteo is in for a severe fucking surprise because my intentions extend far beyond merely taking her virginity. If I claim her, I will marry the most beautiful woman in Los Angeles. She will warm my bed at night and bear my legitimate heirs. And finally, Uncle Lorenzo will have to cease his relentless fucking nagging on the subject.

To be completely honest, the state of marriage itself means very little to me personally. The entire notion of romantic love has never held the slightest appeal. But the prospect of owning this particular beautiful woman... that is undeniably tempting.

"Are we departing, boss?" Joey inquires as I approach him and Larry.

"Yes." I walk to the SUV with blacked-out windows and settle into the back seat. "Drive me to the club first. Then bring Matteo Greco directly to my office."

"Understood, boss," Larry responds while Joey starts the vehicle's engine.

During the drive to the heart of West Hollywood, where my club, Elysian Reverie, is located, my mind becomes completely saturated with the strategic opportunity laid before me. Before I ever saw Eleonora, I didn't give two shits about getting married. I acknowledged I would eventually take that step, but there was no sense of urgency whatsoever.

There remains no true urgency now.

However, the thought of having that beautiful little rabbit warming my bed is simply too advantageous a prospect to ignore. I will possess something no other man has ever laid a finger on.

The corner of my mouth lifts in a faint, cold smile, but the expression vanishes instantly when I consider Matteo. I am not known for offering second chances, but a deeply sadistic part of me desires to toy with that fucker as if he were a trapped mouse. I want to observe exactly how far he will debase himself before I finally end him.

When Joey brings the SUV to a halt at the club's entrance, Larry escorts me inside before returning to the vehicle to execute my order. Elysian Reverie is closed for business on Sundays, so aside from a couple of maintenance staff cleaning the premises thoroughly, the place is shrouded in quiet.

I proceed directly to my private office to personally verify the financial deposits logged over the past week. I employ people to handle nearly everything for me, but when it comes to money-the lifeblood of this entire operation-I do not trust a single soul.

Beyond the strip club and the attached casino, I own and operate a fleet of cargo ships that transport prohibited merchandise across global waters. Daniele manages the intricate scheduling for that fleet, while Frank ensures no serious trouble erupts here at the club.

He also oversees the restaurant and casino operations. Sunday is Frank's sole contracted day off, so I don't even bother checking if he is present in his own office.

I consider Frank an excellent candidate to eventually manage our Sicilian interests on my behalf when my uncle retires. Consequently, I must begin considering another individual whom we can carefully train to eventually succeed Frank here. It will not be an easy decision to make, because besides maintaining necessary alliances with the heads of the other four families, I genuinely trust only four men: Daniele, Frank, Larry, and Joey. I keep my inner circle deliberately small because, in my book, that is the only reliable method to stay alive.

A firm knock sounds at my office door before Larry enters, followed closely by a thoroughly terrified Matteo, who looks as though he hasn't slept a wink since our last conversation. His haggard appearance immediately reminds me of the deep exhaustion I saw etched on Eleonora's face.

Larry gives the fucker a solid shove forward. Matteo stumbles awkwardly and comes to a staggering halt directly in front of my imposing desk. I lock my eyes on him with pure, undiluted disgust, while his own pleading gaze is overflowing with abject terror.

The most straightforward solution flashes through my mind: I could kill him right now and simply take Eleonora. The clarity of that option is almost appealing in its simplicity.

My tone drops, laced with quiet, unmistakable danger. "If I decide Eleonora belongs to me, you will not interfere in any aspect of her life. Is that perfectly clear?"

Confusion flickers briefly across his face before it is swiftly replaced by a wave of profound relief. "So... you are agreeing to take her... and in exchange, the three hundred thousand is wiped clean from my name?"

I stare at him, letting the silence stretch and thicken until he looks genuinely ready to piss himself in fear. "I have not yet reached my final decision. But you should understand this: if you breathe so much as a single word of this discussion to her, it will constitute the very last action you ever take. Consider that your sole and final warning."

"O-of c-course, absolutely," he stammers, his head bobbing in frantic agreement. "I'm not a complete fool. The absolute last thing I want is for her to get some wild idea about running away from all this."

I frown, studying him with detached curiosity. "Is that a legitimate concern? Do you believe she is actually capable of that?"

His nods vigorously. "Ever since she was a young teenager, she's harbored these... ridiculous, childish dreams. Living in some obscure small town, in a little house with a white picket fence, married to some gentle, perfect husband. Wedding rings engraved with both their names. She's been saving herself explicitly for that specific fantasy." He delivers this explanation with a palpable sneer, as if her humble aspirations are personally insulting to him.

My gaze hardens into ice at his obvious derision. If she becomes my wife, her world will consist of fortified estates and limitless resources, not some quaint, pathetic fucking picket fence. "What other aspirations does she hold?" I demand, my voice leaving no room for evasion.

He shrugs, his expression dismissive. "The usual sentimental nonsense. She wants to be a mother someday."

Good. That piece of information slots neatly into my planning. That, I can provide for her.

I wave my hand in a brusque, dismissive gesture. Larry is already in motion, his large hand closing firmly around Matteo's upper arm to physically steer the man out of my office.

Once I'm alone again, I find myself staring at the spreadsheet on my laptop, but the numbers blur together in my mind. My thoughts are entirely consumed by the beautiful young woman who might soon be my wife.

Recognizing that she could easily slip away, I start to create a detailed plan. Since I can't let her know about the wedding in advance, I'll need to entice her to the ceremony under a cleverly devised pretext. Additionally, I want to ensure her stepbrother remains oblivious to my intentions of taking more from her than just her virginity. Once I have her positioned in front of the priest, surrounded securely by my men, any possibility of escape will be utterly eliminated. She will have no viable choice remaining but to marry me.

Do I feel any sense of moral unease about being prepared to systematically trick a woman into marriage?

No. Not one fucking bit.

In the territory I rule, I identify what I desire, and I take possession of it. Eleonora will learn. Obedience will become her new reality and her only safe harbor. In return for her compliance, her striking beauty, and the heirs she will provide me, she will live a life of unparalleled luxury and security. She will be responsible for raising our children within the safety of a fortress, entirely insulated from the grim reality that produced a man like her stepbrother. She will have a defined purpose, and I will have secured a possession of unique value.

With the decision now solidified in my mind, the corner of my mouth lifts once more in a cold, satisfied curve.

Soon, very soon, the little rabbit and the entirety of her untouched innocence will belong to me. Permanently. Completely. Irrevocably. She will be mine in every sense that matters.

Eleonora's POV

A dull ache settles deep in my bones as I step into the cathedral's hushed interior. My gaze travels over the vacant pews, and I pause to straighten two hymnals carelessly shoved into their racks. To free my hands, I first place the dish of pasta alla Norma for Father Coppola on a wooden bench. Then I move forward, carefully lifting the withered flower arrangement from its stand beside the pulpit and carrying the drooping blooms toward the small kitchen.

I set the sad bouquet on the counter and immediately reach under the sink for a trash bag. With a sigh, I begin dismantling the arrangement, disposing of the dead flowers before wiping down the surfaces. This is my Tuesday ritual, a small task to spare Father Coppola the trouble-though left to himself, he'd probably let the flowers wilt until Martina brings the new ones. Once the kitchen is tidy, I retrieve the pasta and make my way to his office.

My fingers brush gently over the tender spot on my hip-the legacy of Matteo's kick last night. I refuse to let the memory poison one of my few precious mornings of peace. Instead, I let the sanctuary's deep silence soak into me. This place always brings calm, and today is no exception.

Outside his office door, I give a quick knock before entering. "Morning, Father."

He looks up from his papers, and a warm smile softens his face. "Good morning, Nora."

Our Tuesday meetings follow a familiar pattern: we discuss the upcoming floral arrangements and what I'll bake for the parishioners after Sunday Mass. The Parish covers all the costs, which means I don't have to ask Matteo for a cent. I even receive a small stipend for my efforts, which I set aside for my own personal necessities.

I take the chair across from his desk, setting the pasta dish carefully on one corner. "I hope you like it."

"Thank you. Between you and Martina, I never have to worry about meals," he says, his gratitude evident. He takes the container and moves it aside. "Now, what's on your mind for Sunday?"

"I was thinking cannoli," I say, pulling my shopping list from my bag. "It's been a while."

He waves a dismissive, trusting hand. "You're in charge of the kitchen. Whatever you decide is fine with me. How much do you need?"

I show him the list and the total. As he counts out cash from a small lockbox, I ask, "Should we use roses again for the altar?"

He makes a non-committal, grumbling sound. "Whatever you think is best."

I always run my ideas by him anyway, a gesture of respect. He hands me the money. "I'll see you on Sunday, Nora."

"Have a good week, Father," I murmur, slipping out of the room.

These Tuesday and Sunday mornings are my sanctuary in more ways than one-the only guaranteed hours I have away from Matteo. Truthfully, he has been a living nightmare since the incident at Elysian Reverie. I tiptoe around the house, a ghost in my own home, yet his shouting greets me every evening. The blows are becoming more frequent, more calculated. The violence is escalating, a cold dread that coils in my stomach and steals my sleep.

As I begin the long walk to Martina's flower shop, my mind drifts to the Parish's cash in my handbag. It might cover a train ticket out of here. The mere thought of taking it sends a bolt of guilt through me, and my hand flies to my chest, tracing the sign of the cross. Forgive me, Father, for even thinking it.

The sun is relentless, hammering down on my head and neck. Soon, my cardigan feels like a woolen prison, sweat prickling my skin.

After finally getting to the flower shop, I follow Martina to the workroom at the back, fragrant with the scent of cut stems and damp soil. "Can we do roses for the altar this week?" I ask, striving to sound normal, to ignore the unsettling fact of Alessio Marino's unexplained attention.

"Roses are pricey," she says, snipping stems. "But I can mix in some baby's breath and daisies to stretch them."

"That would be perfect." My eyes wander over the buckets of vibrant blooms. "I made pasta alla Norma for Father Coppola today," I add, our usual unspoken system to avoid duplicate meals.

"Good to know. I'll make him some maccu later this week."

Soup? In this heat? I keep the thought off my face as she's focused on her work.

"What are you baking for Sunday?" she asks.

"Cannoli. It's been a while. Can you make sure we have enough cream?"

"Make extra," she advises. "The crowd's been growing."

"I will," I promise.

Martina's eyes fix on mine. Her brows draw together in concern. "Are you sleeping enough, Nora? You look exhausted."

A humorless laugh escapes me. "That's the second time I've heard that this week. I guess I need to try harder with my makeup."

Self-consciously, I pull my lightweight cardigan tighter around me. Despite the summer heat blazing outside, long sleeves are a necessity-a shield for the bruises on my arms. My summer dresses remain buried in the closet, jeans my only option to hide the marks on my legs.

Martina tilts her head, her face etched with a concern that goes deeper than appearances. "That's not what I meant, and I think you know it. Is everything alright?"

The direct question feels like a trap. I don't want to talk about it. I can't. I rise to my feet, nodding too quickly. "It's fine. I should get going. Need to be home before lunch."

She shakes his head slowly, seeing right through my evasion. She says, her voice low. "Whenever you're ready to talk."

I paste a thin, fragile smile on my face. "I know. Just... not now."

"I won't push you," she relents with a heavy sigh. "I'll see you on Sunday, Nora."

Then Martina plucks a white lily from a bucket and holds it out to me. "Go on, get out of this heat."

Taking the flower, I offer a genuine, if tired, smile. "See you Sunday."

As I walk the couple of miles between the the flower shop and the grocery store, the sun beats down on my head, and soon, I feel uncomfortable from the heat.

Suddenly, a black SUV pulls up beside me, and I give the vehicle a cautious look as I pick up my pace.

When I hear a door open, I glance over my shoulder, and seeing Alessio, I come to a dead stop on the sidewalk.

The growl of an engine breaks my concentration. A black SUV glides to a stop beside me. Instinctively, I quicken my pace, casting a wary glance at the tinted windows.

A door clicks open. I freeze on the spot. Alessio.

Oh, God. Not him. Not again.

He offers no greeting. "Where are you headed?" His tone leaves no room for anything but an answer.

I point a shaky finger down the street. "The grocery store."

"Get in." It's not a suggestion. He gives a slight nod toward the open back door.

Ugh. I exhale, a sound of pure resignation, and walk to the vehicle. Apprehension twists my stomach into a hard, cold knot as I slide onto the leather seat. He climbs in right beside me, his presence overwhelming the space. I immediately shrink toward the far door, putting every possible inch between us.

My heart hammers against my ribs, and a traitorous shiver dances up my spine. Part of me is grateful for the blast of air conditioning, but the greater part screams that there is no worse place to be than trapped in a car with a leader of the Cosa Nostra.

"Too hot for walking," he mutters, almost to himself. He shoots me a sidelong glance. "Why are you dressed for winter?"

I hug my arms around my middle, pressing my body against the door. "It was cooler this morning," I lie, the words tasting bitter. Forgive me, Father.

Without a word from Alessio, Joey pulls the SUV back into traffic, heading toward Martina's. A thick, oppressive silence fills the cabin. I am hyper-aware of every shift of his weight, every breath. I can't stop the fine tremor in my hands. And despite my fear, I can't ignore his harsh, unsettling attractiveness, a fact that sends a confusing and unwelcome flutter through my core.

He makes no attempt at conversation. When Joey finds a parking spot outside the grocery store, a breath of pure relief escapes me.

I force my lips into a semblance of a grateful smile and look at him. "Thank you for the ride."

But he says to Joey,"We're taking her inside."

"What?" My wide eyes are staring at him in disbelief.

As he exits the SUV, he whispers, "It's not open for discussion."

I nearly leaps out of my skin with fear when he puts his hand on my lower back while I'm getting out of the car.

This is beyond strange. It's unnerving.

Between the escalating terror waiting for me at home and the oppressive, confusing presence of Alessio Marino, the tension winding inside me feels like a wire about to snap.