Chapter 1 The Devil Doesn't Knock

• His hand was already around her throat when she whispered his name.
• “Luciano…”
• Not like a plea. Not like she was scared.
• Like she *wanted* it. Like she *knew* he shouldn’t be there and begged him to stay anyway.
• He pressed her against the cold marble of her father’s office desk, the weight of his body anchoring her in place. Her silk nightgown clung to her thighs, damp and useless now, ridden high by fingers that knew far too much.
• “You’re playing with fire, piccolina,” he rasped, his breath hot against her cheek, “and you don’t even know how to burn properly.”
• She smiled.
• Maybe she didn’t.
• But she was willing to learn if it meant setting *him* on fire.
• Outside, the storm cracked like the sky was warning them both. Inside, thunder had nothing on the war in her chest. She wasn’t supposed to feel like this. She wasn’t supposed to want *him*—
• Luciano De Rossi.
• Her father’s oldest friend. His deadliest associate. A man who had killed people for looking at him the wrong way.
• He should’ve walked away when she moaned his name that first time.
• He should’ve pushed her off his lap the night she climbed into it like she belonged there.
• He should’ve ignored the scent of vanilla and sin that seemed to follow her like perfume.
• But he didn’t.
• And now she was under him.
• His palm splayed across her stomach. His mouth claiming her throat like it was his right.
• She arched into his touch. "He’s downstairs," she whispered. "My dad. If he walks in—"
• "Then he walks in." His eyes glinted, dangerous and dark. "And I kill him."
• Her breath caught.
• He wasn’t joking.
• Luciano never joked.
• ---
• She didn’t know how it started. Not really.
• Maybe it was that night she walked into the cigar lounge barefoot in one of her stupid little nightdresses, pretending she didn’t know who’d be there.
• Maybe it was the way he *looked* at her—like she was something sharp and sweet he shouldn’t taste but *had to*.
• Or maybe… it was always going to end like this.
• With her legs wrapped around a man made of scars and sins.
• With her heart thudding in places it shouldn’t.
• He kissed her like he wanted to erase her from existence. Like if he didn’t consume her, she’d destroy him instead. The age gap didn’t matter here. The mafia, the danger, her father’s gun in the next room—none of it mattered.
• It was just heat.
• Hunger.
• A war without words.
• ---
• The door creaked downstairs. Footsteps.
• She froze.
• Luciano didn’t.
• “You’re shaking.” His voice dropped low, intimate. “Not because you’re scared of being caught… but because you want to be.”
• Her eyes widened. "That’s not true."
• "It is." He smirked. "You’re as twisted as me. You just haven’t accepted it yet."
• And then he was gone. Just like that.
• Heat vanished. Fingers missing.
• The air where his mouth had been? Cold.
• The footsteps came closer. Alessia frantically straightened her nightgown, heart pounding in her ears. Her lips were swollen. Her neck? Probably marked. And the scent of him clung to her skin like a dirty secret.
• She turned, just as her father stepped into the room.
• “Sweetheart,” he said, eyeing her with suspicion. “What are you doing in here?”
• Alessia smiled.
• Sweet. Innocent. Not even a trace of sin.
• “Couldn’t sleep.”
• But somewhere in the shadows, behind the bookcase—Luciano watched.
• And he smiled too.