Chapter 2: When She Tempts: Chapter 2

Last night I dreamt I was flying. A vast green valley unfurled dozens of meters below me, and on the horizon was a great, brown mountain with a snowy peak. I had a premonition that there was something special on the other side of that summit, but no matter how far I flew, the mountain never got any closer. Eventually, I started to fall. Just before I crashed face-first into the ground, I woke up.

Now, when I close my eyes, that mountain is there before me.

Then, I hear my brother’s voice calling, and it’s gone.

“Mari, Napole— I mean, Giorgio is here.”

I sit up on my bed and glance over my shoulder at my brother standing in the doorway. His expression is carefully guarded, but I know him well enough to see past the mask. He might be Damiano De Rossi to the rest of the world, but to me, he’s just Dem, and right now, he’s worried.

Worried about me.

I force a small smile. “Okay. I’ll be right down.”

“I’ll help you with your bags,” he says, stepping inside and looking around the room. “Where’s Vale?”

“Bathroom.”

My sister-in-law’s spent all day helping me pack. She’s far more stressed than I am about the fact that no one but Giorgio has any idea where he’s taking me.

She asked me what I wanted to bring, and when I told her it didn’t really matter, her face fell. Maybe I should feel guilty for making her worry, but I didn’t feel anything.

Even now, there’s nothing. Not a pang of anxiety. Not a whisper of sadness. Not even a small hint of apprehension. I’m leaving my home to go to an unknown place with a stranger while my brother wages a war against the most powerful man in the clan, and I feel…

Nothing.

My brother sits down on the bed beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders, tugging me into his side. “We won’t be apart for long, all right?”

He can’t know that, but I nod anyway. “Yeah.”

“It might be good for you to get some space from this place.”

I drag my gaze around my predominantly pink room. It feels like the inside of a Pepto-Bismol bottle. Pink chair, pink duvet, pink carpet. Even pink walls.

This room screams easy target.

Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I slide out from under Dem’s arm and go to grab my small purse. “We shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

My brother watches me, his shoulders slightly slumped. He’s always been there for me, but recently, it’s like I’ve forgotten how to talk to him. He often asks me how I feel, and the question stumps me.

I don’t know.

My bare feet press into the woven runner as we go down the steps. Behind me, Dem is carrying my two big suitcases, while Vale trails him with my backpack. They’ve refused to let me carry anything, as if they think I’ll break under even the smallest bit of weight.

And yes, I do feel fragile, but I’ve survived more in the last two months than what most people do in a lifetime. I don’t want to worry my brother, so I pull my shoulders back and lift my head a little higher.

I just have to keep at it.

One day at a time.

That’s as far as I allow myself to think.

When I reach the final step, my gaze lands on the man waiting for me in the center of the room.

Giorgio Girardi.

My steps slow. When our eyes meet, the all-encompassing numbness recedes for a brief moment, and an electric charge runs down my spine.

He’s so vivid…like a splatter of color against a grayscale canvas.

It must be my hormones. I already know there’s something about this man that taps right into my pituitary gland.

Until I saw him two weeks ago, I was convinced I was asexual. One look at him was enough for me to realize I’m not.

While my friends at school went through their boy-crazy phase, I watched from the sidelines, unable to muster up a single crush. Yes, some of my classmates were objectively good-looking, but I’ve known most of them for years. There was nothing intriguing about them. Nothing that made me want to know them in ways a simple friendship wouldn’t allow.

But when I saw Giorgio, I felt something very different.

He was masculinity personified. Tall, fit, classically attractive. The kind of dark Italian man luxury brands hired to be the face of their expensive cologne. His brown, nearly black hair fell in smooth waves over his head. I had no idea if he spent any time making it look like that, or if he just woke up looking perfect.

I was intrigued by him. For days after his last visit, my mind was filled with ideas I’ve never thought about before.

Like how his big hands would feel on my thighs, or how his lips would fit against mine.

And most importantly, how he’d look with his shirt off.

He has a broad chest, and I’d bet my bank account balance that if I peeled open his dress shirt, I’d find a set of perfect abs.

I realize I’m staring when he says my name and extends a hand. “Martina.”

The sound of my name on his lips sends heat spreading through my chest. I drag my eyes to his face and take the offered hand. “Hi.”

“How are you?” he asks in accented English. I guess my brother must have told him at some point that my Italian isn’t that great. I can understand just fine, but my vocabulary is basic. Dem and I moved to Ibiza when I was just a little kid, and I’ve done all of my schooling here in Spanish and English.

“Fine, thank you.”

“Are you ready to leave?”

If I’m being honest, no. My brother broke the news that he was sending me away less than twenty-four hours ago, and in my current state, I’m a bit slow on the uptake. My brain’s not processing things the way it normally would. Despite my fascination with Giorgio, when Dem told me I’d be living with him for the foreseeable future, I didn’t feel a thing.

Now, with him right in front of me…

I swallow. “Yes.”

“She’s as ready as she can be, given she doesn’t know where you’re taking her,” Vale pipes in from somewhere behind me. A second later, I feel her palm press against the center of my back.

My sister-in-law is formidable. Vale was dealt a rough hand by her family when they forced her to marry Lazaro, a man who can only be described as a psychopath, but she was strong enough to run away from him and rescue me in the process. She came to Ibiza with nothing, and through sheer stubbornness, she managed to convince my brother to give her a job. The rest is history. I glance at Dem, only to see his eyes sparkle with proud fondness as he watches his new wife.

Vale’s taller than me by a few inches, but she still has to crane her neck to meet Giorgio’s eyes. “Are you going to treat her well?”

Something that looks like mild amusement passes over his expression. “I was wondering when it was coming.”

“What?”

“The interview. Strange to do it after I already got the job, don’t you think?”

Vale tosses her hair over her shoulder and gives him a glare. “My husband trusts you, so you have that going for you, but that doesn’t mean I’m not worried. You didn’t answer the question.”

“Rest assured, Martina will be well cared for.”

The serious way he says it makes a pit appear in my stomach. What does that mean? How is Giorgio going to care for me? I’ve spent zero time pondering what living with him is going to be like, but my immediate assumption is that I’m not going to see much of him. He has his own life, his own responsibilities. He’ll probably lock me up someplace far from civilization and check in every few days, right?

Giorgio and Dem step aside to exchange a few words, and Vale watches them suspiciously for a few seconds before turning back to me. Her frown softens. “Mari, I’m sorry you have to leave. I wish Dem wasn’t insisting on it, but I understand why he thinks it’s necessary. He won’t be able to handle it if anything happens to you again.”

Or maybe my brother has finally realized what a liability I am. I got Imogen killed, and I nearly did the same to Vale, the woman he loves.

“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her lips tremble before she clamps them into a tight line. “Neither did you.”

But I did. In fact, it seems I can’t do anything right.

“Maybe I should go with you,” she whispers, her fingers tightening around my shoulders. “I don’t want to leave Dem, but—”

“You have to stay with him,” I interrupt. “He needs you.”

Dem’s been scarce on the details of his plan to take over as don, but everyone knows what he has to do in order to ensure the transition of power is done according to the all-important Casalesi custom. He’ll have to kill the current don by strangling him with his bare hands. It’s how our father lost his power.

I wish he could just have one of his men do it for him, but I know that’s not an option. If anyone other than Dem does the killing, the clan won’t recognize his claim—a recipe for chaos.

Dem’s killed people before, but I’ve never gotten the sense he enjoys doing it. With Sal, though? I wouldn’t be surprised if he was looking forward to it. Sal is the reason we lost our parents. Dem also said Sal was the one who set Lazaro on Imogen and me. I guess the don thought that if he managed to capture me, my brother would be his lapdog. That didn’t happen. In fact, the New York fiasco is what finally pushed Dem into this war. He’s going to make Sal pay dearly for all the ways he’s wronged us.

While vengeance might soothe my brother’s soul, it rings hollow to me.

No amount of vengeance will bring Imogen back.

Vale pulls me into her and wraps her arms around me. “When you return, everything will be better.”

“Yeah.”

The other conversation in the room stops, and Vale lets go of me hesitantly.

“It’s time to go,” Dem says.

Outside, while Giorgio and the driver load up the car, we go through another round of goodbyes. My brother holds me tightly and kisses my hair, whispering assurances to me, then Vale does the same again.

The low buzz of their words wraps around me, and then it’s suddenly gone, and I’m being helped inside the car. The door slams shut. Through the window, Dem and Vale wave at me, and I lift my hand and press my palm against the glass.

I shudder and wrap my arms around me as I force myself not to engage with that thought. My mental walls rise back up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Giorgio shooting me a wary look. He’s probably wondering what’s wrong with me. In a not-too-distant past, I would have been mortified, but now it’s just another bullet point on a long list of things that don’t matter.

We pass through the gate, and they disappear out of sight.

An unpleasant itch starts to build beneath my skin, so I reach inside my purse and take out my phone. Today began just like any other, with me scrolling through my feeds for a good two hours before I summoned up the strength to crawl out of bed. There’s nothing new for me to check or read, but I pull up Facebook anyway.

Graduation pictures, someone’s new dog, an ad for a bikini.

My finger hovers above it. It’s cute. If I was at home, I would be putting in my credit card details already, but I don’t even know the address of where we’re going. Regretfully, I scroll past.

The next picture makes me pause again.

It’s posted by Señora Bouras. Imogen’s mom.

It’s a picture of Imogen when she was a kid and the caption talks about how deeply she’s missed by her parents.

A tight sensation appears in my throat. They never got to say a proper goodbye. The story Dem told Señora Bouras was that Imogen died in an unprovoked attack, and that her body couldn’t be recovered. Señora Bouras didn’t believe him. I stood on the other side of the door to my brother’s office and eavesdropped on the call. He kept telling her she needed to let it go. He told her over and over until she must have hung up on him.

I don’t know what happened afterwards, but somehow, she allowed us to come to the funeral. There was an empty casket. While Dem was talking to someone, she took me around a corner where no one could see us and shoved me against a wall. Angry tears streamed out of her eyes. She told me it was all my fault that her daughter’s gone.

I didn’t say a word. There was nothing to argue.

I scroll past the long wall of condolences, knowing better than to leave one of my own. She won’t want to see it.

Instead, I pull up my messages and tap on Imogen’s icon.

Flipping my phone facedown on my lap, I press my temple against the window. I started sending Imogen messages a few days after I came back to Ibiza. I’m not crazy. I know they’re just going into the digital void, but they make me feel better. Sometimes, when my mind starts playing tricks on me at night, they’re the only thing that helps.

On the other side of the window, the sky is nearly dark. I can make out a few stars and a half-moon. Its edge is sharp and precise, and for some reason, the sight of it makes me shiver.

“You’re cold.”

I startle, whipping my head around in the direction of the voice.

God, I swear I forgot Giorgio is in the car with me.

His piercing blue eyes are trained on my bare thighs.

An unexpected bout of heat travels up my neck before it dawns on me he’s looking at my goosebumps.

I drag a self-conscious palm over them. “I’m fine.”

His jaw ticks, and then he shrugs off his suit jacket and hands it to me. “Put this on.”

My fingers curl around the expensive fabric. It’s still warm from him. I lift my gaze to his and exhale a shuddery breath. “Okay.”

He watches me as I put the jacket over my shoulders. I wish he wouldn’t, because the moment his scent reaches my nostrils, my thighs clench. Musk, leather, and something else I can’t quite name.

“Turn the AC off,” he commands the driver.

“Thank you,” I say quietly and reach for my phone again.

In my periphery, I see him adjust the cufflinks of his crisp white dress shirt, and something catches my eye. He’s got two tattoos peeking out from the insides of his wrists.

I think the one on the right is the crest of Casal di Principe. Dem has one of those too, only his is higher up his arm. All of the made men in the clan get them after their initiation.

The other, though… It looks like a different crest.

Giorgio’s movements halt, and I realize he’s noticed me staring.

He unbuttons his left cuff, folds it over, and drags his thumb over the tattoo. “Do you know what this is?”

I shake my head.

“Do you know my nickname?”

“Napoletano.” It’s what Dem calls him. “Why do they call you that?”

“I used to be part of a different clan based in north Naples—the Secondigliano Alliance,” Giorgio says. “Sal traded for me and made me a Casalesi when I was around eighteen or so. The clan wanted my expertise.”

I sink my teeth into the right corner of my bottom lip. “I didn’t know that was a thing. Trading people.”

“It’s rare,” he says, tugging his sleeve back into place, and doing up the cufflinks. “But it happens on occasion.”

“And the Alliance just let you go?” I ask after a moment.

“The dons made a deal.”

Sal must have given up something big if Giorgio’s expertise was that valuable to him. Why else would the other clan give him up? And speaking of his expertise, the only thing Dem told me about what Giorgio does is that he’s some kind of security expert.

I eye the man sitting beside me. “You hide things, right? That’s your job?”

“Sometimes I need to find them first,” he says, his gaze fixed on the back of our driver’s head. “But yes, I’ve been entrusted with many of the clan’s things over the years.”

“So I’m just another thing for you to hide,” I conclude.

“You’re in good company. Priceless art, ancient artifacts, enough solid gold to fill a walk-in safe…” Slowly, he turns his head and pins me with his gaze. “Every object under my protection is of immense value, Martina.”

Having his attention on me is like being under a spotlight. Suddenly, the car feels too small. It shrinks even further when he leans over and adjusts his jacket, tugging on the lapel to make it engulf me even more. “And you might just be the most valuable of them all.”