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I stared at the marks on her inner thighs, thought with dark satisfaction how every step tomorrow would remind her of me. The idea pleased me immensely.

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching her sleeping profile in the dim wall light.

What would she do when she woke up tomorrow morning and realized this wasn't a dream? Would she feel shame and embarrassment from sobering up? Would she bolt out the door in panic? Or would she hide under the covers crying from regret?

Whatever her reaction, I needed a plan. Since I'd taken her most precious thing, I absolutely would not let her treat this as a no-strings one-night stand.

Just as I was thinking about how to naturally make her breakfast in the morning and smoothly discuss what came next, the encrypted phone in my suit pocket suddenly buzzed low.

I frowned. To avoid waking her, I quickly left the bedroom and closed the door.

"Talk." The second I answered, my voice returned to its usual cold authority.

"Don." On the other end was my second-in-command, Rocco, voice barely containing his bloodlust. "That mad dog Lorenzo from the DeLuca family crossed the line. He just hit our Brooklyn port with his crew, hurt some of our guys. He's clearly testing your limits."

My pleasant mood evaporated fast.

"Arrogant bastard." I bit out the words coldly, the brutal violence I'd deliberately suppressed starting to boil again. "Tell everyone. Safe house in Queens tonight."

I hung up, rubbed my temples in frustration.

Damn it. I had to leave right now.

I thought for a moment, walked to my study, tore off a note bearing the Moretti family crest. I picked up my pen, wrote down my private number, and added a simple message at the end.

"Sorry, urgent business. Call me when you wake. — Marcelo Moretti"

I left the note under the glass on the living room coffee table where she'd see it first thing.

Finally, I returned to the bedroom door, gazed through the crack at sleeping little rose one last time, then turned and left the apartment.

Chapter 3

Ruby

"Look at that pudgy loser!"

Chad waved my intimate photo album around the frat party like flyers, and everyone pointed at the soft flesh on my waist, laughing their asses off.

"Fuck!"

I bolted upright, gasping. My heart slammed against my ribs like a panicked deer. That crushing humiliation still clung to my skin like thick mud.

My brain was still foggy from the hangover, but my first instinct was to grab for my phone under the pillow like it was a lifeline.

What time was it? I had to get up. I was starting at IS·MA Group's secondary brand division tomorrow, and if I didn't pull my shit together today—fix this train wreck of a sleep schedule and my even worse emotional state—I'd absolutely bomb my first real job after graduating from FIT.

But my hand didn't find that familiar pilled mattress or my old phone with its shattered screen.

My fingertips touched smooth, cool premium leather of a nightstand, and beneath me lay impossibly soft charcoal silk sheets.

I froze.

And in that second, everything else came crashing back. The ache between my thighs. My lower back feeling like a truck had run over it. And that unmistakable soreness in the most private place, mingling with the aggressive scent of cedarwood and fig hanging in the air—all of it screaming one truth:

Last night, after fleeing Chad's nightmare party, I'd done something insane.

Memories slammed through my head like film on fast-forward.