The sun was a cruel, golden god over the Amalfi Coast, casting its searing judgment on everything below. Lemon trees ripened under its glare. The sea winked with false innocence. And on the marble steps of the Bellavita estate, Amara stood in a black silk dress that fluttered around her like smoke.
She didn't belong here. Not in this sun-bleached land of feuds and Ferragamo. But she had been summoned—an invitation wrapped in gold leaf and perfumed with bergamot, hand-delivered by a man with a scar across his neck who said nothing and disappeared before she could ask why.
She didn't need to ask. She already knew.
The name whispered through the vineyards and over limoncello glasses, carried on the salt-heavy wind like a spell.
Matteo D'Alessandro.
A man carved from obsidian and Old Testament fire. The kind of beautiful that made people uneasy. The kind of power that made bloodlines kneel.
He was the heir to the D'Alessandro crime dynasty. And apparently, he wanted to see her.
Amara adjusted her sunglasses and pushed open the tall iron gates. The estate stretched before her like a warning: carved stone lions, fountains shaped like fallen angels, hedges trimmed into ancient Latin insults. Even the birds seemed to hush.
Inside the villa, cool marble floors swallowed her footsteps. She was led wordlessly by a maid who looked too elegant to be a servant. Past a hallway lined with oil paintings of men who all shared the same eyes. Matteo's eyes.
She knew them from the photos.
And then, he was there.
Leaning against the balustrade like sin in tailored black. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to see a gleam of gold chain. A faint cut on his cheek. And eyes like smoke curling in a storm.
"So," he said in perfect English, with an accent that made the word feel forbidden. "You came."
Amara tilted her head. "You summoned. I'm not rude."
His mouth curved, almost a smile. "You look like a warning, bella."
"You look like an expensive mistake."
A silence stretched between them, velvet and dangerous.
He approached slowly, the way predators did in documentaries. Not rushing, not hesitant. Certain. And when he stood in front of her, close enough to breathe in the mix of tobacco, citrus, and something darkly male, he reached out and touched a curl of her hair.
"Fuoco mio," he said softly. My fire.
Amara didn't flinch. She met his gaze like flint meeting steel.
"What do you want from me, D'Alessandro?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Peace. Maybe power. Possibly love. Definitely revenge."
Behind them, somewhere deep in the villa, a door slammed. A warning.
Amara didn't turn. Her pulse stayed steady, even as the air thickened.
"Then we're going to need a lot more wine."