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I relax in my seat as Derrick’s name flashes on my phone screen.

Derrick is a Fed and also my informant, feeding me insider knowledge.

“Talk,” I answer.

“Feds are headed to both places now,” he informs. “Twenty minutes until they reach the Astor estate and thirty before they hit your girl’s penthouse.”

“Shit,” I hiss, veering back onto the road.

The fucking Russians took too long making a deal with me.

I glance at Genesis while speeding down the road. “You’re homeless now. If you want anything from your place that can be retrieved in five minutes and fit inside a single bag, you’d better rattle it off right now.”

She blinks at me. “What are you talking about?”

“List your shit or get nothing.”

She places her hand on the middle console. “I’m … confused.”

“You get nothing then.” I end the call.

3

Am I in a dream?

Or, in this case, a nightmare?

I’m stuck in a vehicle with Julian Bellini.

A cold-blooded killer in the Lombardi Mafia family.

His older brother, Damien, is the underboss of said family.

I also have history with this man.

For years, we’ve gone back and forth in a forbidden game.

He’s like a nicotine habit I can’t kick.

A drink I can’t put down.

A craving that’s sweet but deadly.

My heart thrashes against my chest, still recovering from him pinning me against the door. He told me to stop, but I kept talking shit. When I’m nervous, I run my mouth. My mother always said it was a habit that’d make it hard for me to find a husband. I, however, always found it to be more of an asset.No, thank youon a man who doesn’t appreciate a little bit of attitude.

I peer over at Julian, taking in the way his jaw tics as he drives.

Deranged or not, he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw him.

I was sixteen and in his parents’ kitchen with his sister, Melissa. Marta, their mother, was showing us how to make the perfect cannoli. Even though my mother didn’t like me at their house, claiming it was bad for our family’s reputation, my father overruled her decision.

Julian stumbled into the kitchen, holding his side, while his father muttered Italian behind him. He was so calm at first, and I didn’t notice the blood oozing from his side, soaking his white button-up until Marta scolded him for getting blood on the floor.

Melissa helped him into a chair while Marta scurried off, muttering, “Let me get my supplies.”

Entranced, I observed him slowly take off his shirt and drop it on the floor. Melissa pressed a towel against his wound and didn’t step away until Marta returned to help him.