11:13 p.m. – Palermo, Sicily
It was supposed to be a masquerade of shadows.
No names. No attachments. No regrets.
But when midnight brushed past like perfume on satin, she felt his eyes again predatory and patient hidden beneath a black mask stitched with gold thread. He didn't approach. He didn't need to. He owned the room just by breathing in it.
And now he was in her villa.
Raina's fingers trembled as she poured the last of the Amarone into a crystal glass. She had left the party early, slipping away through a private exit, but something someone had followed.
A knock. Slow. Deliberate.
Her heart skipped.
Three taps.
Just like last night.
"No puede ser" she whispered.
Raina unlatched the door and froze. He was already inside.
"Ciao, bambina," he said, the soft Italian curling around her like silk. "You ran from me again."
"I didn't run," she lied. "I just wasn't in the mood to be hunted."
He stepped into the dim light, the top of his shirt undone, exposing the black ink sprawling across his chest an ancient crest she'd seen once on a cartel dossier. A wolf curled around a dagger.
Lupo Nero.
Black Wolf.
The man standing in her living room wasn't a myth. He was real.
"You're one of them."
"I'm him, mi vida."
She backed away slowly. He didn't follow. His gaze burned through her, dragging memories of their first meeting heat, shadows, teeth grazing skin, her thighs clenched around his name.
"You left something in my car," he murmured.
"What?"
He tossed a velvet pouch onto the table. It spilled open. Her necklace.
The rosary. Her mother's.
She lunged for it, but his hand was faster closing over hers.
"You don't get to disappear, Raina."
She shook, not from fear but recognition. She had felt this pull before, years ago, in Madrid, when she watched her father get gunned down by a man wearing a black mask. The same build. The same tattoo.
No. It couldn't be.
"I saw you that night," she whispered, her voice cracking. "You were at the cathedral."
His expression changed. Barely. But she saw it.
A flicker of guilt. Or memory. Or both.
"You don't want the truth, carina," he said. "You want revenge."
He stepped closer.
"Or you want me."
And then he kissed her.
Hard.
Hungry.
And she let him.
Her back hit the wall, legs tangled around his waist. The glass fell, shattering like the rules she swore to follow.
"You're dangerous," she gasped as his mouth slid down her neck.
"Sì."
His teeth grazed her skin.
"And now, mi luna, you're owned by midnight."