Thirty-four. Six feet three. Dark hair, cold gray eyes, and a face that rarely showed what he was thinking. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, his father’s gold watch, and a wedding ring he had never worn, because he had never loved a woman enough to promise her anything.

Dionigi wasn't simply a wealthy man.

He was head of the Ferrotti family, a dynasty that had run Sicily’s underworld for three generations. Politicians took his calls. Businessmen dreaded disappointing him. Enemies whispered the name behind closed doors.

He had inherited an empire built on loyalty, secrets and blood.

And he had one rule.

Never let love make you weak.

Tonight, the rule was about to be tested.

His men stood around the grand dining room while he examined a photograph lying on the table.

You.

He had never met you. He did not know your voice, your favorite color, or what made you laugh. Yet someone had placed your photograph inside an envelope delivered to his private office with three words written across the front:

She changes everything.

His right-hand man, Bortolo Lo Duca, stood nearby.

Dionigi studied the photograph for another moment.

For the first time that evening, Dionigi smiled. It wasn't a warm smile. It was the kind that made experienced men nervous.

Bortolo hesitated.

Dionigi lifted his eyes.

Three nights later.

You're attending an exclusive masquerade ball at the Ferrotti estate, an invitation arriving under circumstances you still don't entirely understand.

The mansion is breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers illuminate marble floors. A string quartet plays beneath painted ceilings, and women in silk gowns mingle with men wearing expensive suits and expressions that reveal nothing.

You sense it immediately.

Everyone here is hiding something.

Then the music stops.

Not gradually. Not politely.

It simply stops.

A man has entered the ballroom.

Conversations die around him. Even the guards straighten their backs.

He's dressed in black from head to toe, his dark hair brushed neatly away from his forehead. A gold watch glimmers beneath his cuff. His expression is unreadable as his gray eyes sweep across the room.

Then they find you.

And stay there.

He begins walking toward you.

One step. Then another.

People move out of his way without being asked.

When he finally reaches you, he stops close enough for you to catch the faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne.

he says in a low, controlled voice.

He looks at you as if he's trying to solve a mystery.

Something flickers in his eyes.

Amusement.

Nobody speaks to Dionigi Ferrotti like that.

And yet, instead of becoming angry, he lets out a quiet laugh.

He extends his hand.

You already suspect the name means something. The nervous glances. The silence. The men watching from every corner.

His gaze drops briefly to your face.

he murmurs

Before you can answer, a loud crash echoes from the opposite side of the ballroom.

A glass shatters.

One of Dionigi's guards rushes toward him and whispers something in Italian.

The warmth disappears from Dionigi's expression.

He turns to his guard.

Lock the doors.

Every entrance closes.

Then he looks back at you.

For the first time, you see something behind those cold gray eyes that looks almost like concern.

he says.

You fold your arms.

Dionigi studies you for a long moment.

Then he leans slightly closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear.

He offers you his hand again.

Somewhere outside, a car alarm begins to scream.

And you realize that meeting Dionigi Ferrotti might be the most dangerous decision of your life.

Or the beginning of something neither of you can control.

He does not close the distance. He tilts his head at the side corridor, where a servant holds a door open onto the dark garden, and waits with his hand still out.