"You have a great condo." I rolled onto my side away from Carlo and looked out the narrow, floor-to-ceiling window at the buzzing downtown Miami street.

He pressed against me and kissed my shoulder. I'd thrown on his button-down shirt before he woke up so he wouldn't see the scars on my arms. Went without underwear, though, knowing that would distract him.

The bed was too soft, and I sank into the pillowy mattress. I wanted to leave, but still didn't have the information I needed. Hopefully this wouldn't require a weeks-long relationship. I didn't have time for that.

"Meh. It's only a studio. It's all I can afford now. I can't wait to be rich. Really rich. Like my boss. You should see the places Rossi has."

I rolled over and stroked Carlos's bare chest with my fingertips. "Oh yeah? How many homes does he have?"

"I know he's got the downtown penthouse. Not too far from here. He likes to walk to work. On the weekends, he sometimes goes to this little place across the state. He took a bunch of his top-billing lawyers there for a Christmas party. It's a huge mansion on an island. Palmira. I think he also has a condo somewhere in the mountains. Asheville, maybe."

As Carlos talked about how he loved the snow because it was so different than Miami's humidity, I tuned him out.

"What's this?" he abruptly asked, running a finger over three faint red marks on my inner thigh.

"Oh!" I wouldn't tell him I'd carved the marks intentionally. With a razor blade. "Can you believe that's from waxing? This bitch at a place on South Beach really messed with my skin."

Carlos cooed and settled himself between my legs, kissing the marks softly before moving his lips to the junction of my thighs.

A couple hours and one weak orgasm later, I hugged Carlos goodbye with promises of drinks and dates that would never happen.

I went to my hotel and changed into a casual sundress and a lightweight sweater, then sat at a café drinking espresso on the bottom floor of Federico's building. It would be worth scoping this out for a while, but I suspected Luca was on that island.

He adored sun and sand. I remembered how he looked one morning, running along a beach south of Naples, rivulets of sweat running down his tan chest and thick back muscles. He hadn't known I was watching him that day. I didn't want to ruin that moment of looking at his perfect form.

Surely he'd choose Palmira Island over Miami. It was smaller and safer. Calmer.

He was definitely somewhere in Florida. That's what my cousin had said.

And God knew her cousin—Bruno Castiglione, Naples's most powerful mafia boss—had informants throughout the government and Italy's banking system.

Luca must have talked to someone in Italy, and that someone told someone, and that someone was on the payroll of Bruno. Or maybe Bruno's men had infiltrated Luca's computer. It didn't matter now. All that mattered was I was going to rescue him.

Luca was smart and handsome, but he wasn't infallible. He had never figured out Bruno—the subject of his book—was my second cousin.

To be fair to his excellent reporting skills, I did have a huge family. It stretched back centuries and through neighborhoods in and around the sprawl of Naples. Even I hadn't met everyone.

It wasn't like Bruno and I were close or had even grown up together. Bruno was older than me by twenty years.

He was just one of dozens of relatives, some more criminal than others. It was only after Luca broke up with me that I hacked into his computer and stumbled on his notes about Bruno. While we were dating, I had no idea what his project had been about, because he never shared it with me.

If Luca hadn't cracked open my heart, I wouldn't have had the breakdown or snooped in his computer. If I hadn't had the breakdown and gotten angry, I wouldn't have told Bruno Luca was the author of the anonymous bestseller.

This was all my fault, and I wanted to make it right.

It was awful, though, how Bruno had Luca's parents killed. Signora Rossi was so kind. Made such delicious panettone at Christmastime. I'd cried and cried when I heard.

Still, Luca brought his troubles onto himself by writing that book. But that was all in the past.

"I'll always be grateful to your loyalty, Annalisa," Bruno had told me right after I revealed my discovery about Luca's book. He'd squeezed my little hands with his big ones, and I felt useful and needed. For once. "That's why I'm paying for you to get better, so you'll stop hurting yourself."

I'd gone away to the hospital in a little town three hours south of Naples. One long year—that's what it took to get better, the professionals said. But it didn't stop me from doing some of the things I loved, like fucking tall, dark-haired men. One of my conquests was even a doctor. And I'd managed to cut myself a few times in the hospital, once with a piece of broken glass I found on the grounds.

The psychiatrists tossed out all sorts of diagnoses. Probably genetic, they said, but my stepfather's advances when I was twelve hadn't helped either. After the long and tedious treatment, I'd convinced everyone I wouldn't cut again. I'd be a good girl and take her meds. Live a normal life.

After I was released, I'd tried, and somewhat successfully, forgot about Luca. Then, a few weeks ago, Bruno called and asked me to visit while he was on house arrest. He told me Luca was in Florida, and the news triggered all the old, intrusive, obsessive feelings. My need to see him flared up like lighter fluid on a bonfire.

Looking back, telling Bruno about Luca's book was the worst thing I could have done. How could I have been so horrible? But that was back when I hated him. Now I loved him again. Now I was certain about my feelings.

Now that I was in the Sunshine State and off that stupid medication, my mind was calm. Purposeful. Invincible. I'd make it all up to Luca by finding him and never letting go. I'd help him hide from my evil cousin. I would die for Luca.

"You need to stay away from him," my best friend had told me before I flew here. "Get back on your pills and return to that hospital."

Closing my eyes, I allowed the morning sun to wash over my face. I wasn't crazy, no matter what my family and friends thought. I was in love. Luca would understand after I proved my loyalty to him. He would kiss me long and slow like he used to, and my pain would vanish.

The memory of our first meeting was still fresh and pure, even here on this busy Miami street.

The way he'd strode confidently into the newsroom at the paper in Naples wearing a charcoal gray jacket over a white button-down, expensive jeans, and dark leather shoes. How the corners of his mouth turned up and the way his eyes seemed to dilate when he saw me.

"I'm Luca. It's my first day. I'm covering crime. You?"

"I'm a features writer." My heart had fluttered—something it never did with men. "Maybe we can get coffee soon."

By the end of the week, we were at the reporters' favorite bar down the street from the paper. I was two years older, but he had a calm confidence unlike most guys in their early twenties. Three drinks later, we moved to his car where he pulled me onto his lap—where I gave him head for the first time. The love I'd felt for him even then seemed like it could engulf me.

It engulfed me.

A car horn jolted me out of my memory. Annoyed, I swiped and tapped my phone, reading about Palmira. The island was filled with people and shells and wide, sugar-sand beaches. Four hours from Miami. I looked at a map, then shuddered at the name of the road I needed to take to get there.

Alligator Alley. I hated reptiles.

____