Page 1 of The Kiss that Captured a Billionaire (Heart & Soul #2)

One

Palermo, Sicily

The scent of blooming gardenias and citrus drifted through the open doors of the grand palazzo, carried on a cool Mediterranean breeze.

Laughter mingled with the delicate clink of champagne flutes and the soft notes of a string quartet playing from a vine-draped terrace.

Golden light from wrought-iron sconces spilled across marble floors, casting long shadows, and highlighting the centuries-old grandeur of the Alliata family estate.

Theo Kallistratos adjusted the cuff of his tuxedo jacket, his gaze sweeping over the crowd of European royalty, business moguls, and political heavyweights who filled the opulent ballroom.

Beneath the sophistication pulsed raw power—Sicilian influence wrapped in silk.

His companion for the evening, Allegra Rossi, was striking in crimson silk that clung to every curve. She leaned in with practiced grace.

“Dance with me, Theo,” she purred, her fingers lightly brushing his wrist.

He offered a tight smile. “Not right now.”

Truthfully, he was relieved when a liveried attendant approached with a discreet bow. “Signor Kallistratos, Don Alliata requests your company in his study.”

Theo turned to Allegra. “Excuse me. Lorenzo wants a word.”

She huffed, but pasted on a smile. “Tell Papà Alliata I send my love.”

As he stepped away, Theo exhaled, loosening the tension in his shoulders.

Bringing Allegra had been a mistake. Not because she lacked beauty or poise—far from it—but because lately, her half-sister Gina had been stirring up trouble, and Allegra, in her desire to outshine her sister, had grown more demanding by the day.

Still, when his mother had casually mentioned that Lucinda, Lorenzo’s daughter, commented in passing that Allegra didn’t have a date for the anniversary party, he’d agreed out of misplaced chivalry—and an even bigger dose of guilt—to escort her.

Now, he regretted it.

The corridor beyond the ballroom was quieter, the air cooler. Ornate frescoes and centuries-old oil paintings lined the hallway, silent witnesses to the history of an Italian dynasty.

A footman opened the carved mahogany door to Lorenzo’s private den. Theo stepped into a world of masculine opulence.

Dark wood shelves groaned under the weight of leather-bound tomes and ancient manuscripts. A gilded globe stood near the fireplace, its edges worn from decades of touch.

Italian masterpieces adorned the walls, their moody brushstrokes heavy with legacy. The scent of aged paper, sandalwood, and fine scotch enveloped him.

Lorenzo Alliata stood behind a bar cart, pouring two fingers of whisky into crystal tumblers. At seventy-two, the Don of Palermo retained the stature and presence of a man half his age. His silver hair was neatly combed, his tailored suit immaculate.

“Theo,” he said warmly, holding out a glass.

Theo took it with a nod. “Lorenzo. It’s unlike you to abandon your own celebration.”

Lorenzo chuckled, the sound low and full of history. “Even a Sicilian must take a breath between dances.” He raised his glass. “To family.”

“To family,” Theo echoed.

They settled into leather club chairs near the hearth. The fire had been banked low, casting a gentle glow. Lorenzo studied him with eyes sharp as ever. “How is Alexandros? And your parents?”

Theo smiled. “Good. Alexandros and Dani are happy—expecting their first. My parents are already fighting over who gets to spoil the baby.”

Lorenzo blinked in surprise. “I heard Dani is Stuart Bouras’s granddaughter.”

Theo’s mouth quirked. “That was a surprise to all of us.”

“They make a beautiful couple—and the merger between Kallistratos and Bouras will be good for business,” Lorenzo stated.

Silence settled briefly, broken only by the distant strains of music from the party and the soft crackle of the fire.

Then Lorenzo leaned forward, swirling the amber liquor in his glass. “I need to ask a favor, Theo. One I would prefer remain between us.”

Theo’s brow furrowed. “Of course. Anything.”

“Do you remember Livia?”

Lorenzo paused, his gaze drifting to the flames. Theo stilled. The name drifted through him like smoke—sweet, choking, impossible to hold.

“Yes,” Theo replied softly, thinking of Lorenzo’s youngest daughter—Lucinda’s twin. “She was wild, untamed… a spark in every room she entered.”

Lorenzo’s expression darkened with old grief. “Her death was… a tragic accident.” He took a slow sip of his whisky. “We still grieve her as if it were yesterday.”

Theo set his glass down with care. “I know no parent wants to outlive their child. As long as she is in your hearts, she is never truly gone.”

Lorenzo looked up, his voice steady but laced with sorrow. “The pain does not lessen, but we have learned to live with it. Now… there may be a part of her that we can still hold. She had a child before she died.”

Theo stared, stunned.

“She—?” he started to repeat. “But… Livia was what? Sixteen? Seventeen years old when she died?”

Lorenzo nodded, his expression taut with restrained emotion. “Seventeen and stubborn. Just like me.”

Theo sat forward, disbelief tightening in his chest. “Are you sure? You’re saying you have a grandchild… and you’ve only just learned of them now?”

Lorenzo didn’t answer with words. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket and withdrew a cream-colored envelope. His hands trembled faintly as he passed it to Theo.

“It arrived two weeks ago. No return address. Postmarked from New York.”

Theo took the envelope, noting the elegant handwriting on the front—slanted and unmistakably feminine. The paper was smooth, pristine.

He frowned and slid the contents free. There was no letter—only a photograph.

He held his breath.

In the faded image, Livia sat barefoot on a sunlit blanket, her long, black hair wild around her shoulders, her smile radiant and so full of life it made his heart ache. A young man sat beside her, his arm slung around her shoulders, his eyes shining with a proud, jovial expression.

Cradled in Livia’s arms was a tiny baby swaddled in a pale, pink blanket. She was holding out one slender arm, and the infant’s arm lay alongside it. On each, in the same spot near the inner elbow, was a birthmark—an uncanny shape resembling the Italian peninsula.

Theo swallowed hard.

That birthmark wasn’t a coincidence.

He turned the photo over, revealing scribbles on the back. Scrawled in blue ink, almost too faint to see, were the words: Chris and Livia. The infant's name was illegible, lost in a smear of faded ink.

The date: twenty-three years ago.

No last name. No clue who Chris was. Just a moment in time, frozen and haunting.

He looked up slowly. Lorenzo’s eyes glistened, glassy with unshed tears, and when he spoke, his voice was raw.

“It’s her handwriting, Theo. My Livia’s. I’d know it anywhere.” He cleared his throat. “Someone mailed that, after all these years… I don’t know why, but it doesn’t matter. A part of Livia is out there—somewhere—and I need you, I’m asking you, to find her.”

Theo’s throat felt tight as he stared back down at the photo. The baby—she was beautiful. Dark hair, enormous eyes, a soft, perfect curve to her cheek. A tiny hand curled over Livia’s breast.

The sight hit him harder than he expected.

He wasn’t one to notice babies. He never thought of them at all, really. But this one tugged at something deep inside him—a protective feeling he didn’t understand.

Maybe it was because his brother was about to become a father. Or maybe it was the way Livia and Chris looked—whole and happy, as if nothing in the world could touch them.

“Do you have any idea what her name is?” Theo asked quietly.

“No, that is all I have,” Lorenzo said, his voice barely above a whisper. “There was nothing else. No surname. No address. No explanation. Just… this.” He gestured toward the photo. “I’ve had the envelope tested. The only thing we found was the New York postmark. That’s all I have. That—and you.”

Theo met his godfather’s eyes. A man he’d admired all his life. A man who ruled with grace and strength in equal measure, now vulnerable and pleading in a way Theo had never seen before.

“Please, Theo. Use whatever resources you have. Whatever strings you must pull. Just… find her. Bring her home.”

Theo nodded slowly, then looked down once more at the image in his hands. Twenty-three years. One photo. A single clue. It wasn’t much to go on.

But it was enough.

He lifted his glass, his voice steady. “To family.”

Lorenzo touched his glass to Theo’s with a quiet clink, then drank deeply.

As the fire crackled softly beside them, Theo felt the weight of something shift inside him—like a door cracking open to a future he’d never seen coming.

The Gerster Theatre, New York City

The soft crackle of old vinyl drifted from the record player, Ella Fitzgerald’s voice wrapping around Rose like her favorite sweater on a chilly day. The basement apartment smelled faintly of lemon oil and cedar—fresh polish layered over memories too old to name.

It had taken her four months, but she’d finally finished. The last of her grandfather’s belongings sat neatly folded in a cardboard box marked for the local thrift shop.

She exhaled slowly, a deep, almost reverent breath, and set the last sweater into the box before she pulled it out again and held it against her.

As her hand caressed the worn fabric, a strange calm settled over her, like a gentle exhale from the walls themselves. She would keep this one—her grandfather’s favorite.

She glanced around the apartment. It felt quiet now, still in a way that made every creak of the floorboards above feel louder.

The small space, carved into the far corner of The Gerster Theatre’s basement, had always felt cozy when her grandfather was alive. Now, with his knickknacks and blueprints and antique tools gone, it felt enormous. The emptiness just reminded her she was all alone.