Page 7 of Shattered Engagement

“Not tonight,” I say, and I’m not sure if I’m reminding him or myself. “Tonight, my father doesn’t exist. Neither does my fiancé. There’s just—”

“Us,” he finishes, and the word feels like a brand.

His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing lightly across my lower lip. The touch is electric, sending sparks racing along my nerve endings. I’ve been kissed before, even had two boyfriends during my years at the university, but none of them made me feel this way with just the lightest touch.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his face inching closer to mine.

I should. I will have to marry Luca in two weeks, regardless of what happens tonight. But at this moment, with this stranger’s body radiating heat against mine, his eyes promising things I’ve never experienced, I can’t form the words.

Instead, I reach up and curl my fingers into the lapel of his jacket, pulling him that final inch towards me.

When his lips meet mine, it’s not gentle. There’s nothing tentative in the way he claims my mouth, his hand sliding from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. I gasp, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I’m dizzy with want.

I’ve never been kissed like this—like I’m being devoured, like he would consume me whole if he could. My arms wind around his neck as his free hand grips my hip, pulling me flush against him.

He tastes like expensive scotch and forbidden desires. Each stroke of his tongue against mine sends currents of electricity straight to my core. I press closer, shameless in my need, forgetting where we are.

When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, the amber nearly swallowed by black.

“Not here,” he says, his voice a growl that makes me shiver.

I know what he’s asking. Know that I should say no, should return to my hotel, to my bridesmaids, to the life that’s been mapped out for me.

Instead, I hear myself say, “Your place?”

His smile is sin incarnate. “Too far. Bathroom. Now.”

As he leads me toward the bathroom area, his hand possessive at the small of my back, I wonder what I’m doing. This isn’t like me—I’ve been raised to be prime and proper, spent my entire life being the perfect daughter, following rules, and preparing for my role as a mafia wife.

But maybe that’s why I need this. One night of my own choosing before a lifetime of duty.

I glance at Alessio as he holds the door to the women’s bathroom open for me, his eyes dark with promise. Something tells me this man will ruin me for anyone else, and for the first time in my life, I welcome the destruction.ar

3

Alessio

I guide her through the crowd, my hand firm against the small of her back. The club pulsates around us, but all I feel is the heat of her body beneath my palm and the slight tremble that runs through her whenever I apply pressure.

She said her name is Chiara. A lie, but I respect the need for false identities. After all, I’ve been living under one for most of my life.

Tonight was supposed to be about finalizing details. Vittorio has the latest intelligence on Giancarlo Calviño’s movements—my father, though he doesn’t deserve the title. After twenty years of planning, I’m weeks away from destroying everything he’s built. Years of infiltrating his organization, building my own power base, creating the perfect cover identity—all leading to this moment.

Then she walked into the club.

I noticed her immediately—the careful way she held herself, her eyes scanning the room like someone accustomed to assessing threats. The simple black dress, which cost more than most people’s monthly rent, was worn with the casual confidence of someone who was born into wealth. But it was the tension in her shoulders and the haunted look behind her smile that truly caught my attention.

She’s running from something. Just like I once did.

We reach the bathroom, and I hold the door open. A woman inside startles at the sight of us.

“Out,” I command, keeping my voice level but allowing the edge of danger to seep through.

She scurries past us without protest. Smart woman.

I lock the door behind us, turning to find “Chiara” watching me with those enormous green eyes. In the better lighting, I can appreciate her fully—olive skin, high cheekbones, full lips now slightly swollen from my kisses. She’s exquisite, and entirely too tempting for a man with vengeance on his mind.

“Having second thoughts,principessa?”I ask, noting how she reacts to the endearment. Definitely Italian heritage, possibly from an old family. The darkness in her eyes confirms my suspicion—she’s part of my world. The world of family “businesses” and unspoken power.

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