Chapter 1

It was the summer I turned eighteen that I tried to seduce my godfather for the first time. And he pressed his gun under my chin.

I wore a white slip dress so thin it might as well have been water, straddling the lap of Sicily's most ruthless godfather, pressing his own Beretta 92F against my jaw.

Cold metal. Burning palm.

That cross tattoo on his hand branded my skin like it was trying to sear itself into me.

"You are crossing the line, Lola."

His voice came through clenched teeth. His throat bobbed. But his eyes—those Mediterranean-deep eyes that hid whirlpools beneath still surfaces—stuck to the hollow below my collarbone.

To the mole there.

The one he'd seen when he bathed me ten years ago.

I leaned forward. My lips grazed the gun barrel, tasting oil and leather and something darker.

"Then kill me," I whispered.

My legs tightened around his waist. Through his towel, I felt him harden—felt the war in his body between protector and predator.

"Or claim me. Your choice... Uncle Asher."

His pupils blew wide.

Black swallowed the blue.

*

The ocean crashed against the cliffs outside. Same sound as that night ten years ago.

I still remembered everything.

The gunshots tearing through cicada songs. The blood hitting piano keys—warm, so warm it steamed. The rough hands dragging me from a pile of corpses, fitting headphones over my ears, playing something loud and ancient.

"Count to one hundred," he'd said. "Then I'll be back."

I counted to thirty-seven. He kissed my forehead—his lips burning, his hands shaking.

I counted to sixty-eight. More gunshots.

I counted to one hundred. He returned covered in blood, lifted me into his arms, carried me to the car.

Since then, I never celebrated another birthday.

And never looked forward to summer.

Except for him flying back to this seaside villa every July to spend this damn anniversary with me.

Ten years. Ten summers. Then times he handed me gifts, said "Happy summer vacation, little princess," then vanished into his study like I was something to be locked away.

But this year I was eighteen.

Legally adult.

And physically—

I looked down at my dress. The fabric clung like a second skin, nipples visible, hipbones sharp.

I knew I was ready.

The shower stopped.

Also stopped my heart.

The doorknob turned. I pushed the door open.

Steam poured out, and there he was.

Thirty when he saved me. Forty now. Time had carved him—fine lines at the corners of his eyes, a sharper jaw, that permanent five-o'clock shadow. But those eyes. God, those eyes. Mediterranean depths. Surface calm. Undercurrents that could drag you under and drown you underneath.

His towel sat low. Water tracked from his collarbone, down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, disappearing into—

"Lola."

He pinned me in place with my name.

"What are you doing in my room?"

"This year I prepared a special gift."

I untied my robe. Silk slid off my shoulders with a whisper.

The slip dress left nothing hidden. His gaze moved over me like touch—shoulders to waist to thighs. I watched his throat work. Watched his hand tighten on the towel.

"I'm eighteen," I said, stepping closer. "Not a little girl anymore."