...Dear Miss Ricci You don’t know this yet, but you will be my wife. Sincerely Your soon-to-be husband He thought I was his—that’s what his emails indicated. He thought that because our families signed on the dotted line many years ago, it was a done deal. But I ran away from that life for a reason. Little did I know, he would find me. And he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Cruel wanted me to be his wife. And all I wanted was him in my bed....

CHAPTER 1

Rya Fourteen years ago My feet drag on the cobblestones. It’s hot, and I don’t mean cool-breeze-flowing-up-my-shirt hot. I mean, damn hot. It’s meant to start cooling down in Rome in September, but here we are, and I wish I could tear off my clothes. But my father may very well kill me if I did that, even if he isn’t here right now. I know he would find out. That’s what happens when he has connections—everywhere. I walk past restaurants, and people nod to me and quickly look away. I’m only sixteen, but they all know who I am. It’s in their best interests, and they would be silly not to. My sister laughs as she kicks off her shoes and starts running ahead, not concerned about our father’s wrath or how we’re viewed or should be acting. She’s three years younger than me and somewhat free-spirited. I have no doubt she’ll be giving Papa a run for his money when she turns sixteen.

I look back to Marco, who has basically been our bodyguard for as long as I can remember. He’s shaking his head but trying to hide a smirk. She wants to see the Colosseum together one more time before I leave. Butterflies dance in my stomach with excited energy at the thought of the one-way ticket to New York I’ll be putting to use in only a few hours. Who am I to deny my little sister one more outing before I leave? It also gives me time to say goodbye for the last time to my friends. “Rya.” Tourists walk around us as Honey yells out my name. She’s easy to spot even amidst the crowd with her bright pink dress and dangling shoes in hand. We are a stark contrast as I wear my sandals with baggy jeans and a cropped T-shirt. I sure as hell should have worn a dress, it would have been much cooler. “I don’t want you to go.” Honey runs at me, her arms wrap around my waist, and I awkwardly brush my hand down her back to return the hug. Honey’s hair is long and chestnut colored—she takes after her mother, my stepmother—whereas mine is almost caramel in color. I’m going to live with my mother, which does not make my father happy. But I feel like living here, I can’t really live. I know that’s not the entire reason. What I mean is I can’t live without being watched. And I’m always watched living here. I hate it. I want to sneak out. I want to kiss a boy I don’t know. I want to be felt up without the fear of one of my father’s men shooting him for touching me. I want it all.

I want my freedom. And yet, it breaks my heart to leave Honey. I love her. Yes, she can be annoying like any other little sister. But for as long as I can remember, I have put her to sleep every night by reading a book to her. Who’s going to read to her now? Her mother drinks—a lot. Our father—he’s always busy. So it’s just her and me against the world. It’s been fun. But I want to escape. No, I need to escape so badly that I want to pull my own hair from my scalp. But how do I explain that to a thirteen-year-old? “I’m sure you and Papa will come visit me in New York, and I’ll come back here for visits as well,” I say, trying to reassure her. She’s tall, almost my height now. Her mother was a supermodel whom Papa met at Fashion Week in Milan. She saw his power and money, and that was more than enough of an attraction to stay. She gave him a child, hoping it would be a boy, but out came Honey instead. Beautiful Honey. The only way you can tell we’re sisters is our eyes—almost cat-like in shape and silverish in color. Marco stays back as we weave through the last of the crowd. I spot Angel straight away. She waves at me, but what stops me in my tracks are the two men behind her. They look older, not our age, at least I think. But possibly not quite as old as the men who surround my father and stare at me in ways that make me extremely uncomfortable.

“Rya, hurry up. I have a drink for you,” she shouts through the crowd, not caring what they might think. I look over my shoulder at Marco, who shakes his head but doesn’t say anything to stop me. I pull back from Honey and look down. “Go and stay with Marco. I won’t be long. I have to say goodbye.” She obediently nods as she looks over my shoulder, curious about the men. “Go,” I encourage again, with a huff of a laugh she walks away. Most definitely, her curiosity is going to give Papa grief. I make my way over to meet Angel. She smells of fresh linen. I’ve always loved that scent, as it almost feels homey. Our laundry has never had a scent. It’s as though it conspires with my stepmother to ensure nothing about our house is homey. Angel’s arms tightly embrace me as she utters, “I’ll miss you when you’re in New York.” I struggle in her tight hold, trying to take in a deep breath. I’m going to miss her too. But this is way too many hugs for my liking in one day. “New York?” someone says from behind her. She pulls back but holds my arms. I look over her shoulder at the two men, both good-looking. But one—the one who’s looking at me as if he’s almost angry—holds my stare. “This is Crue and his brother Dominic.” She waves at them. “Friends of the family,” she says with an eye roll. “Ignore them. They saw me sneak out of Mother’s party and insisted they come, or they were going to tell her I snuck this.” She pulls out a bottle of wine with a Cheshire cat smile. “And this,” she says, gesturing to a small bottle of whiskey shoved between her breasts. She pulls me in for another hug. As she does, she passes me the bottle, and I glance over my shoulder to ensure Marco isn’t watching before I lift the small bottle and drain half the whiskey. Dominic whistles before he steps forward and places his arm around Angel. I embrace the burn down my throat, but I am confused. She hadn’t told me about a new man. Angel happily takes the bottle and shrugs him off, saying, “Dominic, knock it off,” before taking a swig. “I recall you calling me God the other night.” I gasp at his words. Angel’s cheeks blush and she hands me the bottle of wine, leaning in close as if that’s the chaser. “Don’t judge. I was sad about you leaving. He was there.” “You lost your virginity to him?” I ask while opening the bottle of wine, and then I take a sip. “Yep,” he answers, obviously overhearing us. “Rya.” I turn around to see Marco has Honey leaning against him. She’s tired. I swear, sometimes she still reminds me of a child. “I’m not ready to go yet,” I tell him. “Your father—” he starts, but I cut him off. “Will do nothing. I’ll be back later.” Marco shoots a glare at the bottle still in my hand. “I’ll come back for you. That’s all I am giving,” he says. I nod and give him my sickly-sweet smile. One that he doesn’t seem all too delighted by, but that always works for Honey. Marco is basically our uncle, not by blood but by marriage. We love him, but he always lis-

Listens to orders from Papa. There are times when he offers me a sliver of freedom, but it’s not often. I watch them walk off and feel someone step up next to me. “You a princess or something?” I don’t even turn to him. Earlier, he stared at me as if I had a second head. Or like he was mad at me. Instead, I shake my head and focus on Marco and Honey as they disappear into the crowd. “That’s the princess leaving,” I say, lifting the bottle to my lips and drinking as much as I can. “Whoa, there. Just because you aren’t a princess doesn’t mean you should trust us,” he says. I pull the bottle from my lips. “Trust us?” I ask, now finally turning to look at him. His skin is tanned, his black shirt clings to his body—possibly from the heat—and his brows scrunch together as he stands there and lets me simply stare. Crue says nothing, just licks his lips. I seem to do the same thing, watching his dark eyes drop to mine. There is a silent intensity in that stare. And if I didn’t know any better, I would say his breathing got heavier. “How old are you?” Crue asks. “Sixteen,” I reply. He shakes his head and steps back. “Why?” Crue looks over his shoulder at Angel and Dominic, who are making out, him holding her up and her legs wrapped around his waist. Right, I’m on my own with this one, then. “Are you leaving?” he asks. I don’t know why, but every hair on my body raises. It feels like there is an underlying question, but I answer anyway, “Yes.”

“Why?” Crue takes the bottle of wine from me, lifts it to his lips, and takes a sip. He offers it back to me, and when he does, our fingers touch. Butterflies take flight in my stomach. What the fuck! So I pull the bottle away and take a sip, hoping to drown them out. I don’t think I’ll ever see this man again, so there’s no point in feeling any sexual tension around him. “I’m going to live with my mother. How old are you?” I ask, and Crue smirks. “Nineteen.” He looks at his brother when Angel shouts Dominic’s name and slaps him. They’re still giggling and making out. “How old is your brother?” My eyes don’t follow his. Instead, they trace the outline of his jaw, the slight stubble of hair growing there, and I wonder if it’s as sharp as it looks. “Almost eighteen.” Okay, he isn’t too much older than Angel. Crue looks back at me. “What do you plan to do in New York?” “I plan to not have my father arrange my marriage. It’s why I’m leaving,” I answer, averting my gaze. He can’t force me to marry anyone if I'm not here. It’s basically selling ownership of my freedom, and I am not down for that. “Hmm,” is his only response. “What about you? Are you destined to marry anyone?” I ask sarcastically. “If I choose.” “Lucky you,” I grumble. “I wouldn’t say that.” Crue smirks.

“Why?” I ask, becoming invested in this conversation. “Because the one I’m arranged to marry is running off to New York.” The bottle of wine in my hand feels red hot and I want to drop it to relieve the burn. Did he just say what I think he did? No. “Bit stunned?” Crue asks. “Figured I would come meet the one I am matched to.” He turns and walks off, while I stand there, confused and slowly shaking my head. I was told I had a match, and because of that, I had worked out a plan to get away. Escape. To be free. Crue is to be my husband when I turn eighteen. This man who is walking away from me right now. “Stop!” I call after him. He does, and when he looks back, I rethink my decision to leave. Should I stay? How bad would it be to be married to someone like him? I’m not really sure. “Why would you want to know?” I ask. His hands slide into the pockets of his dark jeans, and I walk closer to stand by his side. “If you had a choice, would you marry?” I question. His response is quick and unyielding. “Yes. My father did it, and his father before that.” That means Crue is next in line. And his family?

I’ve heard horror stories about his family. My father is powerful, but his family… well, they don’t play around. And it seems that I’m about to break a family tradition. Marriage to a Monti. It’s why my father was hoping for a boy. His generation skipped being married to a Monti, but I guess now that’s not the case. “Do you not want to be in love? Not forced to marry someone not of your choosing?” I ask, baffled at his answer to my previous question. “You may be able to run away, but I cannot.” His gaze slides to his brother before coming back to me. “If I’m not married by thirty-four, I will come find you, princess.” His words take me aback. “What if I am married?” “That will be bad for your husband.” He smirks, then strides off.

Today Dear Miss Ricci You don’t know this yet, but you will be my wife. Sincerely Your soon-to-be husband “Thirty. Oh my God, Rya, thirty.” Monica throws her arms around my neck. My dress is half zipped up, and I struggle to get it all the way up because of her. I blow out a half-frustrated huff that’s assumed to be because I am struggling with the dress. But my mind keeps drawing back to the email I received earlier. It came from an email address I don’t recognize, and I put it straight in the trash when I saw it. Tonight isn’t the night to worry over random emails, and it’s probably a scam or something anyway. “I know. Now, please pull away so I can get dressed.” I huff and tap her naked back. Monica couldn’t care less though—nudity to her is like clothes. The number of times I have gone over to her house and she has been butt-ass naked is insane. At least this time, I suppose she’s wearing a bra and panties. She also knows I hate affection, but she always needs it. “I’m just excited, and you look so beautiful.” Monica finally pulls back and claps her hands. I zip up my teal dress, and I have the impression her excitement is more over the dress than me. Her breasts bounce, barely strapped in by her silky bronze bra, as she lets out another shrill noise. She intends to wear a low-cut dress that suits her figure perfectly, meaning she can, if she wants, have any man she desires. I’ve watched it happen multiple times throughout our friendship. My dress, however, is slightly different. The teal color—different from the black I usually wear for every occasion, from work to social gatherings to dates—complements my sun-kissed skin and eye color, which is as close to silver as anyone could get. It’s only because the sales assistant at Macy’s begged me to try on this dress that I fell in love with it in the first place. So here I am, stepping out of my comfort zone and wearing something different. I guess turning thirty is a new decade and all. “Thanks, though maybe I should be wearing black. You know, for the end of my twenties,” I tell her. “Like those photoshoots they do where it’s like a death.” “Please, those bitches don’t realize your thirties are amazing. You stop giving a fuck so much more than in your twenties.” She reaches for her red dress and slips it on, throwing her bra to the wind. “Is any of your family coming?” “No. Though, an old friend is going to be visiting. I haven’t seen her since I was sixteen.” I smile. After all these years, I’m excited to see Angel, but I can’t help a sliver of guilt for not returning home for over fourteen years. “I’ll go back eventually and visit them. It’s just that once I’d finished college and started working, I haven’t stopped,” I tell her, but she already knows the facts. “And they can always visit you,” she replies, turning around expectantly for me to zip up her dress. “Now, let’s walk out into that room that’s already filled with people who love you and let loose. You promised me tonight you’ll get freaky.” She says ‘freaky’ with a little side shuffle in what I think is supposed to be a dance. And I know there’ll be no getting out of it. I came straight from the office and quickly changed in the back room of the hotel where my birthday party is starting. And I know Monica will be dragging me to God knows what clubs. I slip on my black heels and give myself a once-over in the small mirror. I don’t know if I was meant to look any different at thirty, but I look fucking hot. I can’t remember the last time I had a night out, but tonight feels like the night. I might even pick up a man. It’s been a while, and I certainly have an itch to scratch. I follow Monica through the door, and shouts immediately erupt when people start to sing “Happy Birthday.” I recognize most people straight away from work. I awkwardly receive hugs and kisses on the cheek as I walk through the crowded room. Monica’s already ahead of me, beelining for the bottles of champagne and giving me that much-needed elixir so I feel less awkward under this type of spotlight. I’ve never been much for celebrating birthdays, but you know, thirty and all, so I don’t have a lot of choice. I begin a light discussion with one of my colleagues on our recent case. “I just don’t know how you do it,” one of the interns says, absolutely baffled. “It’s because she’s one of the best,” my boss says, intruding on our conversation. I’ve been working for him since graduating college. I take a small sip of my champagne. “The stats from the last four years would clarify I am the best at our firm.” “A lawyer?” someone asks from behind me. I hear the heavy accent before I turn around, and I'm stunned when I see the speaker. My feet don’t want to move, and the white noise around me disappears. He’s here. My heart skips a beat. Holy shit, he’s actually here. I didn’t think Crue would hold to his words from so long ago. In truth, I had completely forgotten about it until right now. Surely, he’s not here for that. But here he stands, looking better than ever. The once clean-skinned man now has ink peeking out from his black collar and up his neck, with such confidence it makes you want to look away. But I’ve been dealing with powerful men all my life, and I’ve become unyielding even to someone like him. Is he here for that reason?

Why else would he be here? I’m so confused, yet with an audience around us, I’m quick to dismiss any further attention. But, damn, it’s hard when Crue looks like that. Almost every woman is looking in our direction now. “Crue,” I say, smiling. His dark eyes fall to my lips at the sound of his name coming from them. “Princess,” he replies, but it’s flat as if he’s forced to be here. Which confuses me even more. “I don’t know what to say,” I tell him, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear while the other hand clutches my glass a little too hard. “Happy birthday,” he says. “I don’t exactly do apologies, so I’m not going to bother with what I’m about to do.” My fake smile falters. About to do? What does he mean? And then I understand when he reaches into his jacket, and I see the glint of the gun before he even grasps it. It all happens in slow motion. I’m unsure what to do, but my body seems frozen. I moved away from Italy all those years ago to remove myself from the violence that surrounded me. And yet, after all these years, here it is. Standing in front of me. Is he about to kill me? Except his eyes are no longer on me, and his hand is now on his gun. There aren’t more than twenty people mingling in the back room of the restaurant connected to the hotel. I stare in horror as he pulls the gun from a holster. And before I can ask any questions, he shoots. I flinch at the sound, and his gaze darts back to me. Someone screams—a lot of people do, actually—and he slides the gun back into the holster, that foreboding gaze impenetrable. And then he smirks—actually fucking smirks—with no care in the world for what he has done. “I’ll be seeing you real soon, princess.” He turns and casually walks out, two men flanking him. My legs are shaking, and my heart is hammering, though I’d never let him see that. I wait until he’s gone before I dare look elsewhere, like being on high alert and watching a predator leave the vicinity. What is Crue doing here in New York? And who the fuck did he just shoot? “Rya! Rya!” Monica grabs my arm with shaking hands. “We have to move. We have to go.” He’s not coming back, though. Crue’s done what he needed to do, and now he’s gone. Before I can think better of it, I turn to my left, and that’s when I see a pair of boots just visible around the bottom hem of a tablecloth, and a pool of blood staining the floor. My boss. Dead. And the man who has filled so many of my dreams over the years was the one who killed him. Fuck.

“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.