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~ Aria ~

The professor was halfway through a slide on corporate law when the back doors of the lecture hall swung open.

I didn't need to look up to know it was him. The air in the room just… changed. My pen stopped moving. My heart started thudding against my ribs so hard I thought the girl in the next seat could hear it.

Luca Moretti.

Four years. Four years since I'd last seen him, and my body still recognized him like a match to gasoline.

Professor Hunter paused in awe at Luca’s aura as he approached my row.

"Excuse me," Professor Hunter called out, but Luca continued walking like Hunter was invisible.

Students turned to stare. He commanded attention effortlessly, the kind of presence that made people instinctively straighten their spines.

"Miss Santoro." His accent rolled over my name like a caress and a threat. "I need you to come with me."

My stomach dropped even as heat pooled low in my belly. Nothing good ever came from my father sending his consigliere across an ocean.

"I'm in the middle of class." I kept my voice steady, proud of myself for it.

He didn't argue. He just stood there, staring at me with those cold gray eyes until the silence became unbearable. Students were already pulling out their phones. By tonight, I’d be a viral video: Harvard student kidnapped by a male model. "It wasn't a question, Aria," he said.

I gathered my laptop with deliberate slowness, making him wait. When I stood, I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. I'd almost forgotten how tall he was.

Forgotten nothing else, though. Not the precise line of his jaw, the small scar above his left eyebrow, the way his shoulders filled out a suit jacket.

I'd been eighteen when we first met, freshly reunited with the mafia boss father who'd abandoned my mother and me in Boston. 

He'd summoned me to the family estate in Provence like I was a business acquisition, not his daughter. Luca had been there — thirty-two years old, my father's right hand, and the most devastatingly attractive man I'd ever seen.

I'd spent three months that summer hyper-aware of his every movement, combusting under his rare smiles, fantasizing about what those elegant hands would feel like on my skin.

Then I'd fled back to America and buried myself in my MBA, trying to forget that world existed.

"Lead the way," I said coolly.

The late October air bit through my thin sweater the moment we stepped outside. Luca's hand landed on the small of my back, guiding me toward a black Mercedes idling at the curb.

I jerked away from his touch. "Don't."

His jaw tightened, but he dropped his hand. "Get in the car, Aria."

"Not until you tell me what this is about."

"Your father is ill. He wants you in France."

The words hit like a physical blow, but I forced myself not to react. "I have a life here."

"He needs you to oversee the legitimate operations. The hotels, the vineyards, the…"

"I know what the 'legitimate operations' are." I made air quotes around the words. "They launder money for the rest of his empire. I want nothing to do with it."

A muscle ticked in Luca's jaw. "Your father is dying, Aria."

Good, I wanted to say. Let the brutal bastard reap what he sowed. But the words stuck in my throat, tangled up with the confused feelings I'd never managed to sort out about Vittorio Santoro.

"That's unfortunate," I said instead. "But I'm not going."

Luca studied me for a long moment, something that might have been regret flickering across his face.

"I'm sorry."

He moved before I could react, one arm banding around my waist, the other catching my bag as it fell. I gasped, feet leaving the ground as he lifted me bodily toward the car.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I drove my elbow back, satisfaction sparking when I connected with his ribs.

He grunted but didn't loosen his grip. The car door was already open. He deposited me inside with surprising gentleness, then slid in beside me before I could scramble out the other side.

The locks clicked.

"Drive," Luca said to the man behind the wheel.

I launched myself at the door handle. Child-locked. Of course.

"You can't just kidnap me!"

"I can and I am." He settled back against the leather seat, looking infuriatingly composed despite my elbow strike. "Your father gave me very clear instructions. Persuade you if possible. Bring you by force if necessary."

"This is insane. I'll call the police."

"With what phone?" He held up my bag. "I have your belongings. And we both know you won't involve law enforcement. Your father's business aside, you don't want that kind of attention."

He was right, damn him. I'd spent four years building a reputation at Harvard, networking with people who had no idea my last name carried blood and secrets. A kidnapping report would unravel everything.

"I hate you," I said.

"No, you don't."

The certainty in his voice made me want to hit him. Or kiss him. Or both.

I turned to stare out the window, arms crossed, as we merged onto the highway. "Where are we going?"

"Logan Airport. Private terminal."

"Of course. God forbid we fly commercial like normal people."

Silence settled between us, thick and charged. I was intensely aware of him in the confined space—the subtle cedar and bergamot of his cologne, the way his thigh was inches from mine, the controlled power in his stillness.

"You've cut your hair," he said.

I touched the shoulder-length waves self-consciously. It had been down to my waist when we'd last seen each other. "Four years and that's what you notice?"

"I notice everything about you."

The words sent electricity down my spine. I forced myself to keep staring out the window. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't pretend there's anything between us. You made your position clear when I was eighteen. I was a child. Off-limits. Your boss's daughter." I finally looked at him. "Nothing's changed."

His gray eyes had darkened to smoke. "Everything's changed. You're twenty-two now."

"And you're still my father's consigliere. Still off-limits." I leaned closer, reckless anger overriding common sense. "Or are you saying that's different now?"

His gaze dropped to my mouth. The air between us crackled.

Then he looked away, jaw tight. "We're not doing this."

"Doing what? Having an honest conversation?" I laughed bitterly. "Of course not. That would require you to acknowledge that I'm not just a problem to be managed."

"You have no idea what you are to me."

"Then tell me."

"I can't."

"Won't, you mean."

The car pulled into the private terminal. Through the window, I could see the Gulfstream on the tarmac, sleek and white and ready to carry me away from everything I'd built.

Luca's phone buzzed. He checked it, then swore in Italian. "Mechanical issue with the jet. They need four hours minimum."

"Then I'm going home." I reached for the door handle again.

His hand closed around my wrist. "No."

"You can't keep me prisoner."

"I can, Aria." He leaned forward. "Marco, find us a hotel. Something nearby."

The driver nodded.

My heart hammered as we pulled away from the airport. A hotel. Hours alone with Luca. This was dangerous. I was angry and confused and still so pathetically attracted to him that it made me want to scream.

The hotel was boutique and expensive, all dark wood and soft lighting. Luca checked us in—one room, I noticed with a spike of anxiety and anticipation—and guided me to the elevator with that possessive hand on my lower back again.

I didn't pull away this time.

The room was a suite, mercifully. Separate bedroom, living area with a full bar. I headed straight for the bottles.

"Is that wise?" Luca asked, shrugging out of his suit jacket.

"I'm being kidnapped and dragged back to a world I've spent four years escaping. I think I've earned a drink." I poured three fingers of whiskey, neat, and downed half of it. The burn felt good.

Luca loosened his tie, watching me with an expression I couldn't read. "Your father isn't the monster you think he is."

"He's a mafia boss. He's had people killed."

"To protect his family. To protect you."

"I never asked for that protection." I poured another drink. "I never asked for any of this."

"Your mother kept you from him for eighteen years. He lost nearly two decades with his daughter."

"Because she knew what he was. Because she didn't want me raised in that world." The whiskey was making me bold. "She was right to run."

"Yet here you are, studying business, top of your class. You have your father's mind for strategy."

"Don't compare me to him."

"Why? Because you've convinced yourself you're different? You're not. You have the same steel in your spine, the same ruthlessness when necessary." He moved closer. "The same passion."

I set down my glass, hands shaking slightly. "Stop."

"Stop what? Telling you the truth?"

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want me."

The words hung between us. Luca's eyes blazed, but he didn't move.