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He wears danger like expensive French cologne, and those eyes… they don't watch me. Theypinme. He looks at me like a problem he wants to unwrap. Like if I breathe wrong, he’ll end me… but if I breathe right, he’ll own me.

Even rumpled from whatever violence he’s just done, this man isimmaculate.

I should scream. I should fight.

But all I do is whisper, “You're going to kill me.”

His mouth curves. Not quite a smile. More like a rabid wolf sensing fear and baring its sharp teeth.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist like a steel trap. I try to twist away but he just tightens his grip, thumb pressing against my pulse point.

"Please—"

"Shhh." He pulls me closer, into the shadow he casts. "Time to go, little rabbit."

Chapter Two

Luca

Thedoorshutsbehindme, muffling the quiet chaos still unfolding on the other side of the wall.

A body to move. Two to clean. And a deal gone so sideways I should be putting a bullet in someone’s mouth instead of standing here, watching her.

She shouldn't be here. This room wasn’t supposed to be occupied. Theentire fucking floorwas cleared hours ago.

That’s what the Ravelli family pays good fucking money for. Privacy. Silence. Blood on sheets that never make it to housekeeping.

And still, I can't seem to drag her away and deal with the problem how I always deal with my problems.

Withdeath.

I release her wrist, my roar of frustration echoing through the empty hallway. She flinches—they always flinch—but this one… her chin lifts. Defiant. Like she has any right to challenge me.

"Fuck." I slam my palm against the wall beside her head. She doesn't blink. "You're a problem."

"I'm a maid." Her voice shakes, but her gaze holds steady. "I clean rooms. I fold towels. I—"

"You're lying." I lean closer, inhaling the lingering scent of rain on her skin. "Your hands are too soft for manual labor."

She flexes her fingers against her thigh. "I use gloves."

"Try again. Liars get killed. Don't fucking lie to me."

The curve of her throat moves as she swallows. I track the motion, imagining how easily it would bruise under my grip. How simple it would be to silence her permanently.

I'm Luca fucking Ravelli.

I've ordered hits on men for less than what she's witnessed tonight. One word to my cleanup crew and she disappears. Another nameless body in the Thames, never to be seen or heard of again.

But something stops me.

Her uniform’s still damp and crumpled on the floor—one sleeve inside out like she tore it off in a panic. The shitty hotel robe is too big for her, barely tied around her waist, and her eyes are glassy and red-rimmed. Mascara streaks paint down her cheeks like war paint after the war is lost.

She looks like hell. She looks like prey. And I fucking hate that I notice.

I take a step closer. She flinches, almost imperceptibly, but still… not enough. Not enough to scream. Not enough to beg.