~ 1

Chapter 1

The professor's voice faded the moment Luca Moretti walked through the lecture hall door.

Aria's pen stilled mid-sentence, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears. Six foot three of Italian lethality moved down the aisle with predatory grace, his dark suit tailored to perfection, gray eyes scanning the room until they locked on her.

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

Professor Hunter paused mid-lecture about corporate governance structures as Luca approached her 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 her name like a caress and a threat. "I need you to come with me."

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

"I'm in the middle of class." She kept her voice steady, proud of herself for it.

"It wasn't a request."

Around them, phones were emerging from pockets. Someone would be posting this on social media within minutes — mysterious Italian man disrupting Harvard Business School. She could already see the caption.

She gathered her laptop with deliberate slowness, making him wait. When she stood, she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. She'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.

She'd been eighteen when they first met, freshly reunited with the father who'd abandoned her and her mother in Boston. 

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

She'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 her skin.

Then she'd fled back to America and buried herself in her MBA, trying to forget that world existed.

"Lead the way," she said coolly.

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

She 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 she forced herself 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." She 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, she wanted to say. Let the brutal bastard reap what he sowed. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled up with the confused feelings she'd never managed to sort out about Vittorio Santoro.

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

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

"I'm sorry."

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

"Are you fucking kidding me?" She drove her elbow back, satisfaction sparking when she connected with his ribs.

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

The locks clicked.

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

Aria launched herself 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 her 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 her 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. She'd spent four years building a reputation at Harvard, networking with people who had no idea her last name carried blood and secrets. A kidnapping report would unravel everything.

"I hate you," she said.

"No, you don't."

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

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

"Logan Airport. Private terminal."

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

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

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

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

"I notice everything about you."

The words sent electricity down her spine. She forced herself 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." She 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." She leaned closer, reckless anger overriding common sense. "Or are you saying that's different now?"

His gaze dropped to her mouth. The air between them crackled.

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

"Doing what? Having an honest conversation?" She 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, Aria could see the Gulfstream on the tarmac, sleek and white and ready to carry her away from everything she'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." She reached for the door handle again.

His hand closed around her wrist. "No."

"You can't keep me prisoner."

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

The driver nodded.

Aria's heart hammered as they pulled away from the airport. 

She was going to be in a hotel. Hours alone with Luca. This was dangerous. She was angry and confused and still so pathetically attracted to him that it made her want to scream.

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

She didn't pull away this time.

The room was a suite, mercifully. Separate bedroom, living area with a full bar. Aria 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." She poured three fingers of whiskey, neat, and downed half of it. The burn felt good.

Luca loosened his tie, watching her with an expression she 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." She 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 her 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."

She set down her 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 them. Luca's eyes blazed, but he didn't move.