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ALESSANDRO

C hicago is colder than I expected.

The wind cuts sharply through my coat as I step out of the car, tossing the keys to the valet and adjusting my collar before heading inside. It’s just past noon, and the city is loud and alive despite the chill in the air, and while this is supposed to be my new home, I still feel a distinct separation between me and this city.

It doesn’t feel like Los Angeles, not at all. But I guess I’m just going to have to get used to it.

I bring my focus back to the high-rise in front of me. Bellissimo. From the outside, it looks like any other high-end wine bar, with sleek black awnings, gold lettered signage, and a subtle glow from the windows. An upscale place where people who need to feel important can go and sip overpriced wine while discussing life and business. It’s the perfect front, and a surprisingly profitable one at that.

Underneath that polished exterior, though, Bellissimo is the beating heart of the DeLuca family operation. Money moves through the wine bar like a river, washed clean of whatever dark origin it might have had. Above the bar is a series of private meeting rooms, and above those are the offices of the higher-ranking family members, Enzo’s included.

Except Enzo’s office is now mine. I’d been heading a small satellite operation in LA for almost a decade now after my father died, but the real home base of the DeLuca family mafia dynasty has always been right here in Chicago. Enzo DeLuca, my uncle, the long-time family Boss, had ruled with skill, but his old-school ways had started to sour as the family moved into the modern age. With his untimely death, it was time for me to enter the picture and take over, pulling the family into a new era.

Ha. Untimely is one way to put it, I guess. It softens the blow of reality that Enzo DeLuca had been gunned down in his own goddamn home, and now it’s my job to clean up the mess his absence has left behind.

I only hesitate for a second more before pushing the doors to Bellissimo open and stepping inside.

It smells like I expected—aged oak, expensive cigars, and overpowering cologne. It’s midafternoon, so it’s quiet, but a few heads turn in my direction, eyes going wide. Some straighten their spines, while others look away, uneasy. The murmur of conversation stops when everyone notices who I am, but I don’t let it bother me. It's elegant enough in here, with dark wood, velvet booths, and low lighting, but I’m not here to critique the wine bar. My business is strictly upstairs, at least for now.

Still, I take a second to look around, cataloging faces and shuffling them away for later. The bartender pretends not to stare as I cut through the room, heading towards the discreet elevator in the back of the bar. It’s just out of sight of customers, the button recessed into the wall so no one would find it unless they were looking for it.

I press it and wait. The elevator dings, doors sliding smoothly open. There are no buttons on the inside. A card reader hangs below the panel, and I slide my keycard through it. I wait for the green light, and the elevator starts moving upwards.

I feel my body start to unwind the closer I get to the top, a slow release of tension that makes me realize just how tightly I had been holding myself.

I knew I would take over the family business from a young age. I had been groomed for the position, and while I’ve been ready to lead, it was always with the idea that it would be on my own terms.

Well, that plan got fucked right out the window.

Enzo was murdered just three weeks ago. His death left the family in chaos, and I was summoned back to Chicago immediately. The funeral was a blur, and I barely remember a thing except for the weight of his ring, now mine, on my finger.

I glance down at the massive gold signet ring that now rests on my right hand. A thick band, it features an ornate capital D flanked by two snakes and a crown resting above them. The seal of the DeLuca family. I rub my thumb against it absently, the heavy metal warm from where it’s been resting against my skin.

I never expected to receive this so soon.

The elevator dings as I reach the top. My footsteps are silent on the deep pile carpet as I make my way down the hallway. The air here is different—heavier, like the ghost of Enzo DeLuca is still hanging around, smoking too many cigars and laughing loudly. The hallway is dimly lit, leading to a set of double doors at the end. There's a sleek black desk positioned in front of the doors, but it takes a moment for me to recognize that the small figure sitting behind it is a woman.

As soon as she looks up, she's the only thing I can see.

Her dark hair is pulled into a bun so tight it looks painful. Thick-framed glasses are perched on her nose, a cream sweater covering every inch of her skin. She’s small and delicate in a way that shouldn’t be in a place like this. But she doesn’t flinch when I enter. Doesn’t react like the men downstairs. She just lifts her sapphire gaze, cool and impassive, and meets my stare head-on.

It’s impressive, but it only lasts for an instant, because as soon as our eyes meet, something powerful passes between us. I feel like I've been struck by lightning, an impossible, visceral thing connecting me to this woman. I want her. I need her. It's not desire or lust, although just seeing her has all the blood in my head rushing south.

No, it's more. Something deeper, more primal than anything I've ever felt before.

The realization is staggering, but I can't tear my gaze away. It's her. She's the one. I never believed in soulmates or fate before, but in this moment, I know she is mine.

And from the way her eyes widen, I'd say she feels the same. The woman is a professional, though, and she swallows before pulling her eyes away so she can compose herself. "H-how can I help you?"

"You're the secretary." It's not a question, but a statement. I knew Enzo had a secretary, and I planned on firing her as soon as possible. I don't like other people getting between me and my work. But this woman? No. She can stay. "I'm Alessandro DeLuca. I assume you've been expecting me?"

"Yes, of course," the woman answers. Her voice is melodic, and it's a struggle to keep my mind focused. She stands, hands folded in front of her. "I'm Emilia Moretti. I handled most of the arrangements for the transition."

I take a step closer, reaching out a hand. "A pleasure, Ms. Moretti."

She blushes slightly and shakes my hand. The skin-to-skin contact brings back that shocking, intimate connection again, and Emilia lets out a small gasp. "You as well, Mr. DeLuca."

"Please," I say, smiling and releasing her hand. "Call me Sandro. We're going to be working very closely together."

"Yes, Mr. DeLuca," she answers quickly, and I can't help but smile at the flush of her cheeks. "Of course. You can call me Emmy, then."

I take another step closer. Our bodies are close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating off her. Her scent envelopes me, a delicate hint of jasmine. She's looking up at me, her full lips slightly parted, and the desire to kiss her is nearly overwhelming.

The door to my left swings open, and the spell is broken. Emilia pulls back, and I look over, annoyed. A middle-aged man steps out. He's got a cocky smile and an easy way about him, and I immediately don't like him. After so long in this business, I’ve grown a sixth sense when it comes to people, but Emilia has me thrown off.

"Mr. DeLuca," Emmy begins, immediately professional once more. "This is Marco Bellini, the late Mr. DeLuca's Underboss. He's been working with me on the transition and has taken the late Mr. DeLuca’s place between his death and your arrival.”

Marco holds out a hand. I can't imagine he's happy with me suddenly replacing his boss, but the look on his face is unreadable.

"We've met,” I answer, my tone cold. I don't offer him my hand.

"Ah, that's right," Marco cooly shoves his offered hand into his pocket to hide the awkwardness of my denial. "Over ten years ago, right? It's been a long time since you've visited, Alessandro."

There's a sneer in his voice, but I ignore it. He's not going to get a reaction out of me, at least not yet. "I've been busy. Anyway, you're dismissed from leadership duties. I've got it under control now."

His lip twitches, but Marco nods. "Yes, Mr. DeLuca. Just let Emilia know if you need anything."

With a quick nod, Marco is gone. As soon as he's out of earshot, I turn to Emmy. "Is he a problem?"

"No, sir." She shakes her head, but her expression is guarded. "He was Mr. DeLuca's second-hand man and a good friend of the family."

"Do you trust him?"

Emmy blinks, surprised by the question. She pauses for a moment, but when she speaks, her answer is vague. "I've worked with him closely for the last week, and he appears to be a loyal soldier."

She's hesitating. It doesn't make me uneasy—Marco doesn't concern me nearly as much as he thinks he should. Instead, I'm beginning to realize why Enzo kept Emmy so close all these years. She's unassuming and quiet, making her the perfect person to keep tabs on everyone in the family.

"Good. He's still useful. Keep an eye on him, though."

"Yes, sir."

I look her over again. She's even more beautiful up close, her bright eyes and hair a striking contrast against the soft curves of her body. Her sweater and pencil skirt are professional and modest, but they still highlight the delicious swell of her hips and breasts.

But there will be plenty of time for me to consider Emmy later. Enzo's office is calling to me. It's fate, and it's time for me to take the place I've been trained for my entire life.

"Is everything ready for me, Ms. Moretti?"

"Oh, yes. It's right this way, Mr. DeLuca." Emmy gestures towards the open door to my left. "I've made sure the transition is as seamless as possible."

"That's what I like to hear."

Enzo’s office is exactly as he left it—old-world elegance mixed with the smell of stale cigars. A massive oak desk, leather chairs, and a bar cart in the corner stocked with whiskey. A space designed for power, but still from a bygone era. A space that belongs to me now.

I turn back to the woman still watching me in her inconspicuous way.

She’s quiet. Small. Unassuming. The kind of person men in power don’t notice, don’t think twice about. That makes her dangerous and valuable in equal measures. Now I just need to see if I can keep my hands off her long enough to see how useful she can really be.