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The cappuccino I had at the café backed up my throat. I watched them enter the brownstone that Renz went into.

What. The. Hell.

As they reached the bottom of the steps, Sandro put his arm around the woman. I blinked again and squinted. Maybe I was hallucinating and the man wasn’t Sandro.

But I would know his hulking silhouette anywhere. He was in all black. He looked good in black. But I hated he had his arm around another woman. The familiar shredding in my chest started.

Before I could stop myself, I snatched the keys and got out of the van. All thoughts about putting Sandro in the rearview mirror evaporated in the face of my resurgent obsession.

The back of my mind was screaming at me to park my ass in the vehicle, but this compulsion to find out who was with Sandro was impossible to ignore. I was going to regret this later. I knew I would. But it seemed one thing I hadn’t gotten under control was my impulsiveness when it had anything to do with Sandro Rossi.

I snuck between a narrow alley to get to the back of the brownstone. People were milling around. A big catering truck was parked there, taking over what little space there was in the back. I stared at my attire of black cigarette pants and a Jabbin’ Java T-shirt. I could pass for Renz’s assistant.

Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

But it was a losing battle. The compulsion was too strong. Sandro and the woman were like magnets drawing me in, and I was helpless to control my limbs.

I kept my head low as I passed the workers, but someone grabbed me and shoved a catering tray at me.

“Bring this to the kitchen.”

A harried-looking woman noticed my shock. She gave me a double take and saw my T-shirt. “Oh, you’re with Lorenzo?” She grinned. “Be a sweetheart and help out a bit, would you? I’m kind of short-staffed.” She nodded to someone who disappeared into a door. “Follow her.”

I hope the smile I gave her wasn’t too shocked or excited. “Okay.” This was turning out better than expected. I was still cautious because I spotted men who hadRossi soldierstamped on their faces.

Without question, Renz and I had landed in a mafia gathering. Catering staff and arriving guests crowded the hallways. More mafia. I finally recognized some of them, although in my panicking thoughts, I’d forgotten their names except they were top soldiers of the Rossi crime family.

Shit.

I spun around just as their gazes shifted my way. I ran into a room where bottles of wine were being unloaded from boxes.

“Hey, you,” the guy with the wine said. He had a slight British accent and looked like another caterer. Maybe a purveyor of fine wine, or a smuggler. “Bring this up.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Alessandro Rossi and Griselda just arrived. They’re going to toast to the engagement.”

“Engagement?” I parroted.

“Yes.” He frowned. “Engagement. Alessandro is getting married to Griselda.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Although I hear she’s already pregnant, so they want this to go quickly.”

There were enough times in my life that made me familiar with the feeling of blood draining from my face. The way you felt like you were stepping into a nightmare, frozen, lightheaded, and with an overwhelming urge to throw up.

The time the Queen Bee in my high school declared at lunch that I gave her boyfriend a blow job in the locker room. It was an outright lie, but the boyfriend didn’t deny it.

That time I wasn’t sure whether I lost my virginity with consent or not.

And yes, the infamous time I left Harvard and rushed to Club Aristos after I heard Sandro got shot while rescuing Sera. His ex-fiancée, Griselda, blocked my entrance to the club and slammed the door in my face.

Except she wasn’t an ex-fiancée now, was she? All those times, I replayed how I would have handled those situationsdifferently. I should have known the woman with Sandro was her, but my mind was in denial.

The man snapped his fingers in front of me. “Hey, are you daft or something?” He stepped back and assessed me. “You have a gorgeous face. You want to earn extra money?”

Don’t be a tease, Bianca.

I’m going to be sick. I think I’m tipsy.

Then it’ll be more fun. Drunk sex is the best.