The villa was a siren's trap, cloaked in sunlight.
From the outside, it looked like a sanctuary white stone kissed by climbing vines, blue pools reflecting a sky too innocent to match the sins that lived beneath it. But within its walls? Secrets simmered like molten gold behind closed doors. And Valentina Cruz clad in ivory silk, her hair loose around her shoulders was the most dangerous secret of all.
She stood on the second floor balcony with one hand wrapped around the wrought iron, the sea breeze stirring her robe and the rage inside her. Down below, soldiers patrolled with sunglasses and smirks, weapons tucked neatly behind pressed linen shirts. Upstairs? She burned.
And behind her, Lorenzo Moretti watched.
She felt his presence before he even spoke. Heavy. Controlled. Devouring.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said, voice deep as dusk. "Anyone could be watching."
She didn't turn. "Let them. Let the whole house see me stretch my wings before they try to clip them again."
His footsteps were quiet, but she heard them felt them in her bones. He stopped just inches behind her, and the heat of him curled around her like smoke.
"You're reckless," he said.
"I'm caged."
She spun slowly, silk whispering against her thighs. "And you, you keep standing between me and the key."
His jaw tightened. "Valentina."
She took a step closer, her eyes glowing with something between pain and defiance. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we weren't who we are?"
He inhaled sharply. "Every fucking night."
They stared at each other, something magnetic pulling them closer, even as danger screamed in the silence. He was Emilio's half-brother. A bastard son they barely acknowledged. Her bodyguard. Her jailer. Her only addiction.
She reached out and touched his chest, her fingers resting right over the steady, thunderous beat of his heart.
"You feel that?" she whispered.
He didn't speak. Didn't move.
"Don't tell me it's just duty. That what's happening in this body of yours is just professionalism."
Lorenzo's hands shot out, gripping the railing behind her. Trapping her. Holding himself back.
"I dream about touching you," he said in a voice so raw it scorched. "But when I wake up, there's always blood in the dream. Yours. Mine. Emilio's."
She didn't flinch. "Then maybe the blood is worth it."
Something snapped.
His mouth crashed onto hers like a war cry. One of his hands tangled in her hair, the other gripped her waist hard enough to bruise. She gasped into him, silk falling from her shoulder like it knew it didn't belong there. Her body melted into his, all curves and clawing need.
She tasted like rebellion and danger.
He kissed like salvation disguised as sin.
She moaned when his knee nudged between hers, opening her just enough for heat to rise between their bodies. Her fingers curled into his shirt, desperate, dragging him closer. His teeth grazed her bottom lip, and she whimpered, arching into the contact.
But then
Lorenzo tore away like he'd been burned. His chest heaved. His hands trembled.
Valentina stood there dazed, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed, her robe barely holding together.
"Why did you stop?" she breathed.
"Because if I start," he growled, "I won't just take you. I'll ruin you."
She stepped forward. "Then do it."
His eyes burned with conflict. Pain. Lust. Reverence.
"No," he said at last, low and lethal. "Not in secret. Not like this. I won't be another chain around your neck."
She watched him retreat, step by aching step, as if walking away from her cost him something sacred.
When he disappeared down the hall, Valentina exhaled a breath she didn't realize she was holding.
She had kissed the devil's brother.
And God help her, she wanted to do it again.