The second he locked the house and flicked on the lights, I pressed my body against Luca, pinning him to the door. I stood on my tiptoes to reach his mouth and ran my hands over his muscled chest. I wanted him—and would have him tonight.

"I missed you." I unbuttoned his shirt and purred when I felt his hands cup my ass, hard.

"I missed you too. I was a dick to you last weekend. I shouldn't have reacted like I did."

I grabbed his hand. "No apologies. Upstairs?"

"Wait."

I stopped, and he put his hands around my waist, hauling me close. "I'm sorry I was such an asshole. You were just doing what comes naturally to you as a reporter. I shouldn't have been so harsh. You were right to look me up. Florida's a messed up place. You need to be careful and protect yourself."

I wrapped my arms around him, and he spun me, carrying me to the staircase. He set me on the first stair.

We practically ran up the steps, and when we got in his bedroom, I kicked off my strappy sandals and climbed onto the middle of the bed. He followed, and I unbuttoned his shirt, stripping it off. I dove for his pants, unbuckling his belt. He finished the rest, unzipping and sliding his trousers off.

"Is this what you want?"

"Yes." His voice had been gruff, but mine was firm and clear. God, he was beautiful. And caring. And smart...

I almost let those three little words—I love you—slip.

He pulled my dress over my head, then groaned when he saw my matching black lace bra and panties.

"You are the best," he whispered.

Unhooking my bra, he groaned when I guided his hands to my breasts. Then we maneuvered until I was sitting on top of him with my legs around his waist.

We still had our underwear on, and he embraced me, his hands fanning my skin. Leaning me back, he kissed and sucked my nipples into stiff peaks. He was rock-hard as I ground into him. Little noises of excitement escaped my mouth. I couldn't wait to feel him inside me. I'd wanted this for far too long.

"Luca." I leaned in and tilted his head so he looked at me. He was breathing hard, and his eyes flashed with need. "Tonight. I want you. I'm ready."

To my surprise, he shut his eyes and pressed his lips together, then rested his forehead on my chest. This wasn't the reaction I'd expected. Panic crept into my chest.

"What? You don't want to? You don't want me? After all this...?"

Humiliating flashbacks of James telling me how inept I was at taking charge in bed ran through my mind, but I reminded herself to be calm. To listen.

"No. I mean, yes. I do. More than anything. But, Sky, oh God. I can't. Not with a good conscience."

I slipped off of him. It was as if a bucket of ice had been dumped over my head. "What? Tell me."

His eyes were still closed, as if he couldn't bear to look at me.

"What's wrong?"

A look of pure fear in that green-gray gaze greeted me when he opened his lids. He whispered, "It's not right. I might fall in love with you if we do."

My eyes watered slightly, and I shook my head, not understanding. He might fall in love with me? That was a good thing, right? But why did he look so miserable? Was I missing something? I'd only had two vodkas and one shot. I was buzzed; not hammered.

"What are you trying to say? I don't get it. Why—?"

He interrupted. "Skylar. I can't make love to you. I'm leaving."

My heart beat wildly, and I sank against the headboard. "What? Why? Does it have something to do with your parents? With me finding out about your parents? Is this why you wanted to talk to me?"

Kneeling before me, he bent his head. He spoke in a slow, strained voice. "Things have gotten really complicated in the past few weeks. Much more complicated than I anticipated. Last week, my uncle told me...I can't even say it."

"What? What did he tell you?" Why was he being so damn dramatic and cryptic?

"That he's really my father. That's why I kind of flipped out on you. I felt like everyone was hiding something from me. They have been."

"Holy shit," I whispered, floored and instantly sober. "I don't even know what to say."

"I know. I don't either."

"So, that's why you want to leave? Because of your uncle?"

He sighed. "Sort of, but that's not all. There's also you."

"Me?" I had the feeling I wasn't getting the entire story, but I tried not to act too skeptical or angry, yet anger rose in my chest. I felt like screaming at him.

"Yeah, you. I care for you. And I wasn't looking for a relationship when I came here. Like I told you, I'm not boyfriend material. I can't give you anything good right now. Maybe not ever. I don't want to ruin your life."

I let out a long exhale. "Why would you ruin my life if you care about me? I don't get it. You're being too complicated. Stop being complicated."

He finally raised his head and looked at me. "I don't want you to understand. I don't want you in my world. It's too fucked up. It's better if I go and leave you with only good memories."

I stared into his eyes. After several seconds, I spoke in a soothing voice. "Luca, are you in trouble? In the Mafia? Are you involved in something illegal? Just be honest. I won't judge."

He licked his lips, shook his head, and gave a wicked, bitter laugh. "No. I'm not. And you can't help me."

"Then what? What is it? You can trust me."

I reached out to stroke his face, and he took my hand and pressed his lips against my palm. The gesture was so intimate, so sweet, my eyes started to water. I wanted to leave, wanted to beg him to take me home. But I also wanted to soak him up, spend as much time as possible with him before he vanished from my life forever.

And I had to discover his secret.

Coolly studying his hunched posture, I let out a sigh. "Luca, let's get into bed. Go brush your teeth. Let's talk more tomorrow. We're both too emotionally strung out now."

He nodded and leaned in to kiss me before leaving. "I'm sorry. I haven't slept well since going to my uncle's house in Miami. I'm pretty destroyed."

While he was in the bathroom, I spun to sit on the edge of the bed and shoved the gauze curtain along the rail, away from my skin. I pulled my dress on because there was no way I'd sleep naked with Luca now that he'd rejected me—now that he was leaving. I felt a headache approaching and wished I hadn't drunk so much. Two drinks was my limit, and the fireball shot had been a shitty idea.

My eyes went to the nightstand. A stack of books rested atop the little table. They weren't there the last time I was in his bedroom, and I also noticed a yellow legal pad. I picked up the pad and read the words, which were mostly Italian.

I noticed a phrase underlined, though. Uomo di Sangue.

My eyes went back to the table and landed on the first book in the stack as I set the notepad down.

Uomo di Sangue, the title read.

Hmmm. An interesting coincidence. Or was it? Maybe it was research for his master's thesis, nothing special.

I heaved a sigh. Why was he leaving, just when we seemed to be coming to a breakthrough in our relationship?

I sank back into bed, feeling wide awake and strung tight with a crushing feeling of disappointment in my core. I was so close to cracking the code of Luca, of figuring out why he was so mysterious. Why he was holding back.

Then again, it wasn't like I'd given myself totally to him. I'd held back too. Not much, but some. I hadn't told him my feelings were changing. And I'd denied myself pleasure. All because of my stupid ex and the insecurities he'd planted inside me.

And now it was too late.

I swallowed a lump of tears. No way would I let Luca see me cry.

He came back into the room, looking defeated. After he clicked the light off, we snuggled close, as if our conversation hadn't happened. I was happy to let it stay that way. For now.

His voice was thick with sleepiness. "Thank you for not asking too many questions tonight. I'm not in any shape right now for a conversation. You're so sweet and so good, Skylar. Too sweet and too good for me."

I wasn't so sure of that. Especially not when I remembered something he'd said.

He was lying on his back, and I wrapped an arm and a leg around him. "Luca?"

"Mmmhmm?"

"Why did you say you were close to falling in love with me?"

"Because I am. You're the first woman I've felt anything for in...a very long time."

"So, why me and not the others? What's so special about me?"

He didn't answer. I hugged him tight, but said no more. It didn't seem like there was a point.

Then he piped up, his voice a rasp. "Because I see myself in you."

What was that supposed to mean?

Before I could ask, he began breathing deeply, puffing out little exhales, and I knew he was asleep. I wasn't ready to drift off, though. My mind was wound up, and the muscles in my legs felt twitchy. Probably because of the Red Bull and our baffling conversation.

Anger bubbled up inside me, and I considered leaving and walking home. I flipped onto my back. Eyes open, I stared into the dark. What were his secrets? How would I convince Luca to stay? Should I try to get him to stay, despite his shadowy life? Or should I just move on and chalk our encounters up as a hot, strange fling?

I flopped back to my side, facing away from Luca. With a snore, he rolled over so we were back-to-back. In all the nights we had stayed together, he'd never snored this deeply.

Where was my phone? Oh, right. My bag was near the nightstand. I got out of bed and went for my purse, fishing the phone out and quickly checking my email. Sighing softly out of my nose, I decided to take the phone into the bathroom and check Facebook too. Maybe I'd run a bath to try to calm down. Surely that wouldn't wake Luca. The bathroom and bedroom were so huge, they were practically in different ZIP codes.

I flicked on the flashlight of the smartphone so I could see in the dark bedroom. Glancing at the nightstand, I shone the light toward it, and...Uomo di Sangue. The image of the underlined words and the book title popped into my head, and on impulse, I grabbed the book.

Luca didn't stir. I tucked the book under my arm and tiptoed across the room, using my cell to light the way. Once inside the bathroom, I locked the door and ran the hot water for the big Jacuzzi tub. I doubted if Luca would wake from his slumber anytime soon.

Setting the book on the sink, I lowered the lid on the toilet seat and plopped down. First, I checked Facebook and liked a few posts, then re-tweeted a few news stories. I was numbing my hurt, complicated emotions with the safety and security of my phone, and it felt like shit.

Reaching over, I picked up the book from its place on the sink and flipped through, wondering if there were any pictures inside or if I would understand any Italian. Turning the hardback over in my hands, I ran my palm down the smooth front. It was thick and about four-hundred pages. The cover had a photo of an Italian-language newspaper splattered in blood.

Of course none of it was in English, but I figured out a few things instantly. The words "Mafia" and "Camorra" featured prominently on the book's summary. I pondered whether it was a fiction or a nonfiction book. Something told me it was a true story. It looked interesting too. Maybe there was an English language version I could order online.

In place of the author's name, it had a single word, Anonimo. I suspected that meant Anonymous, and I pulled up an Italian-to-English translation website on my phone that confirmed my assumption.

My eyes scanned the foreign words as I opened the front cover. I flipped to the inside of the black flap. All in Italian.

Tapping the name of the book into Google, I found a bunch of Italian entries and one English-language review in The Guardian in London. It was from a year ago.

"Uomo di Sangue—Man of Blood—is a frightening and true story about a Mafia boss in Naples, Italy."

Oh, interesting. Maybe Luca was in the book. Or maybe his family was in the book. Or, if he was really a graduate student, maybe his research was in the book. But didn't he study only fictional Mafia types? Curious, I flipped to see if there was a table of contents or index. There was, but the Rossi name wasn't listed. I returned to my smartphone and scrolled with my thumb to read:

It's rare that a work of narrative non-fiction would have such an impact on one country. This extraordinary book would be a sure winner for many journalism awards in the United States, but the anonymous Italian journalist who wrote this stunning and heartbreaking true story of a Mafia boss's impact on a city and country probably won't get an award for his work. He will be lucky if he doesn't get a bullet to the head. This is a frightening and detailed account of how the Mafia has influenced every facet of Italian life.

Wow. It sounded like an amazing piece of reporting.

I rose and checked my bathwater, wiping my wet finger on my bare leg. I sank to the crisp marble floor of the bathroom, my back resting against the side of the tub.

It's rumored that the anonymous author who wrote this book had previously worked for Il Mattino, Naples's largest newspaper, and later ran a popular Italian news blog, Politica Italiana. English-speaking audiences wouldn't likely know of the site's popularity, but think of Wikileaks, Edward Snowden, Woodward and Bernstein, and you get a taste of what was accomplished. The wunderkind behind the blog and the book was rumored to be a young man from a wealthy Naples family.

The journalist sounded brilliant. Why had I never heard of him, or at least of his work if he remained anonymous? I was so ignorant. I needed to read more about Italy—and the rest of the world.

My frown became even more severe as I continued to devour the article. It said the book's author went deep in his reporting to find out little known details of one Mafia boss, going undercover, becoming friends with underworld criminals and hanging out with Mafia members. He'd even witnessed a Mafia massacre. Impressive work, tough work, the kind of stuff I could only dream of.

Thinking about whether it would be feasible or safe for a female journalist to report like that, I reached back and checked the water again. The tub was almost full and the water scalding. I shut off the tap and scanned more of the review, wanting to read until the water cooled. The faucet dripped, and steam rose into the air.

Following the release of this book, the author suffered a great personal tragedy, allegedly retribution from the Camorra for revealing so many details about the crime boss. It's also rumored the author had to flee Italy and is on the run. It's even possible he's not alive.

What?

Heart racing, I flipped to the book's publication date then did a quick calculation. The book was published two months before Luca's parents were killed.

"Oh my God," I whispered out loud. Closing my eyes, I breathed in rapid, shallow breaths. My heartbeat whooshed in my ears. I sat like that for countless moments, wondering what the hell to do. What to think. What to feel.

Luca was the journalist. What other possibility could there be?

No. Don't let your imagination run wild. Okay, the author is from Naples. So what if Luca reads a lot about the Camorra? And what about his travels in the past year? What does that prove, really?

I put my phone on the floor, but the book still rested in my lap. Shaking, I picked it up and thumbed through the pages again, this time stopping on the first chapter. There was a quote at the beginning.

Chi più sa, meno crede.

The more one knows, the less one believes.

Luca's tattoo.

____