Page 67 of Desperate Crimes

And I’ve seen some shit.

But this? This is different.

This is personal.

Dark ink coils up his arms and around his wrists, swirls across his shoulders and disappears into the waistband of his low-slung jeans.

My gaze trails hungrily over his chest—broad, hard, carved with the kind of muscle that doesn’t come from vanity but from violence.

Purpose. Power.

And I recognize some of it.

The malocchio—the evil eye—sits proudly on his left bicep, just like his father and uncles.

A family sigil. A warning. A claim.

But it’s the piece on his chest that really steals my breath.

A pit viper, fangs bared, is coiled around the stem of a single black rose. The detail is exquisite—every scale, every petal inked with reverence and rage.

The snake looks alive.

The rose looks like it’s blooming right over his heart.

It’s beautiful.

Dangerous.

And somehow, I just know it’s mine.

“See something you like, Princess?” His voice is thick with amusement, low and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet.

My lips part before I can stop them. “Nice ink.”

His grin is slow and wicked, like he already knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Glad you approve.”

He’s watching me now—really watching me—like I’m the one half-naked. Like he’s peeling me apart layer by layer with nothing but that look.

Goddamn, I feel it down to my core.

I swallow and try to focus on literally anything else, but it’s no use. The man is ridiculous.

The kind of hot that should come with a goddamn warning label.

Or a choke collar.

Or both.

The ink is gorgeous—fresh, I think—but let’s be real.

Nico Jr. would be hot in glasses held together with tape and a pocket protector.

He could show up in Crocs and a stained T-shirt and I’d still be pressed against a wall somewhere trying not to moan.

But this version?