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He appears conflicted, jaw clenched. "It's not that. It's?—"

"No, Nico," I interject, affixing a smile to my face. Not entirely fake, yet not wholly genuine either. "I don't need your explanations. Perhaps they're your rules. Or you suspect I'm some covert spy. It's irrelevant, at least for now. Let's enjoy this. I'll feel guilty tomorrow."

"Guilty for being with me," he says fiercely, reclaiming my hip as if asserting ownership: this piece of me and my entirety. He draws me closer. "When youwantto be with me."

"This version. This facet. This nuance." I pull away despite my reluctance, grateful for the other families' presence to maintain our propriety. "This moment."

He stares meaningfully as I turn to take my shot. I'm perplexed by his mounting frustration. I was transparent about this earlier.Besides, what does he expect from me? A relationship?

When I used to envision my ideal mystery man, of course, I'd contemplate what a relationship might be like. I'd imagine a vague yet bright future filled with painting, living, laughing, and loving like that clichéd poster—clichéd precisely because it epitomizes what authentic life should be like.

My ball strikes the rotating windmill blade and rolls back several inches. Nico grins, and I reciprocate. Somehow, it's that effortless. With the versions of ourselves capable of burying everything else.

"Let me help," he offers, positioning his ball.

"I doubt you can."

"Don't be so pessimistic, Vignette."

He strikes his ball, so it collides with mine, propelling it beneath the windmill and out the opposite side. I watch incredulously as it rolls into the hole. I rush to him, laughing, bouncing excitedly. "Does that qualify as a hole in one? What's your verdict?"

"I think if I don't kiss you immediately, I'll die."

He enfolds me in his arms. The kiss is swift and respectful yet simmering with desire.

The quickness of the kiss intensifies its illicit allure.

"And yes, Vignette, that was indeed a hole in one."

ChapterEleven

Nico

My hand rests possessively on her hip as I lead her away from the miniature golf course. Theone-nightstipulation weighs on me, though it shouldn't. She's essentially a stranger. Why should I care? That ought to be my attitude. But can't a man be intrigued, curious, perhaps slightly obsessed?

"Are you hungry, Sienna?" I inquire.

She turns with a dazzling smile. The miniature golf awakened her adventurous spirit. Yet occasionally, that look dissipated. As if reminded, she resented me or what I stand for. Now, her mask is firmly in place. A captivating mask.

"No," she replies. "I think you should take me home."

"Are you concerned you'll feel guilty for grabbing a bite with me?"

I speak without thinking. I only recognize how deeply I've wounded her when I notice her glaring across my car's roof. "I don't think you're in any position to use that against me."

"It wasn't us," I snap, slamming my palm against the roof. "It wasn't me. It was the old Family, the old Bratva. I wasn't at the helm then."

I get into the car, already lamenting my loss of composure. I typically maintain control, but not with Sienna, my vignette. She slides in and says, "So you know who it was, then."

"I know who was engaged in conflict, but not which specific crews were involved."

"You swear you weren't involved?"

I clench my teeth. "We’re done speaking about this."

"Says who?"

I pivot, gripping her leg, and squeeze her voluptuous thigh with savage pressure to eliminate any question about dominance. She attempts nonchalance, but desire floods her face. I press my lips against hers with unparalleled conviction.