Mia Tempesta

Leonardo Moretti

I should’ve known better.

Nothing good ever comes from a night that starts with too much whiskey and ends with a broken nose. Or so I thought...until I saw her again, tearing through Midtown after a perp like the city owed her something.

A Fed. Doing a street cop’s job.

Naturally, I stepped in. Call it civic duty. Did she thank me? No. She cursed me out. Half of it, I didn’t even understand.

She’s a mess: loud, reckless, disobedient, vulgar, and so damn insufferable.

And somehow, she’s mine.

They say the biggest sin is pride.

But mine? It’s greed. Pure, unrepentant greed. Because I’ve had a taste of her, and I refuse to let go. She’s a storm sweeping away everything and everyone in her wake.

And me?

What do they say about dealing with storms?

Face the eye?

Lila Monroe

I should’ve known.

I should’ve known that night was a mistake.

Tall, tattooed, a Roman statue with scars and a mouth made for sin?

Yeah, my standards dropped six feet under that night. My own damn fault. I’ve always had a thing for red flags, and though the Italian flag doesn’t have red, it should. It definitely should.

Now I’m stuck with Leonardo Moretti.

Capo turned “retired.” (Right. And I’m a nun.)

He thinks he’s patient. Controlled. Smarter than me.

But I’ve got a clock in my head: twenty-eight weeks. That’s all he gets.

After that? I vanish.

I don’t do ties. I don’t do mafia.

And I sure as hell don’t do men who look at me like I’m already theirs.

Giovanni's wedding

“The fuck do you think you’re doing? This is a private event.” I train my eyes on the woman who doesn’t even reach my chest and scowl. A federal agent at Giovanni’s wedding? Like they’re trying to announce to the whole famiglia that Nadia was an agent.

Cristo santo.

Muscle memory takes over; Glock up, barrel level. Her long, wavy copper hair falls loose over her shoulders. Green eyes that don't flinch lock on mine and her mouth quirks into that little, dangerous smile. The gun doesn’t faze her. She just stares, bored.

Instead of fear, she smirks. Dares me.

“Put the gun down, old man,” she says, smooth as a knife. “That’s a crime here. This ain’t Sicilia.”

“You’re trespassing, puttana,” I growl, stepping into her space. My jaw ticks like a trapped animal. “You want to get shot?”

She laughs and shimmies closer, like she’s trying to crawl inside the danger. She must like the chaos. I can smell her perfume, it's not flowers, thank God — I hate that shit. This was darker. Smoke. Spice. Something expensive and sinful, like the inside of a velvet box you shouldn’t open.

It crawled up my throat, heavy, slow, like a warning.

Oud, maybe. A little rum. Heat that shouldn’t be there.

“Go ahead. I wanna see you try. Shoot a federal agent. Come on, grandpa.”

Grandpa. One syllable and something inside me snaps. I want to snap her neck for that sound.

She tips her head. I grab her collar to pull her up to my face;she’s almost on her toes. Before I fully register the move, she slams her forehead into mine. Clean. Flat. Like she’s done it a thousand times.

There’s a crack. Fire blossoms across the tip of my nose. For a beat my brain forgets how to register pain; then it remembers in a bright, burning line. Blood runs hot and metallic into my mouth. I taste copper and fury.

I laugh. A raw, ugly sound, half roar, half curse. “Sticazzi! Porca puttana—sei fuori di testa!”

Blood and profanity pour out of me. I shove her, hard. She snaps back as if I’d offended the night itself.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she snaps, as if the headbutt never happened adjusting her windbreaker and scowling at me.

Giovanni steps between us out of nowhere, wasn't he dancing with his wife a second ago?. He says something quick, body bags, mayb, his English too fast to catch clean. My ears drum with blood; I only hear my own voice spit: “Cristo! Questa pazza mi ha spaccato il naso!”

He raises a hand, trying to quiet me. He’s calm and cold like a blade. “Leo, basta. She’s not a threat. She’s—” He doesn’t finish because his new wife is already barreling over, full-tilt.

“Lila!” she barks. “What the hell? He’s—”

“Totally my type,” Lila cuts in, as casual as if she’s discussing hors d’oeuvres. She rubs her knuckles against her chest like nothing happened, then glances at me, eyes slow and hungry. “Too bad he’s… you know.”

Nadia blinks. “He’s too old for you. Like, twenty years.”

Lila tips her head toward Giovanni, smirking. “Says the woman who married him. I was thinking…” She drags her gaze down my body, slow, deliberate. “…of fucking him until he passes out. Bet he’s got killer stamina. He looks like that six-four grump you showed me once.”

Nadia laughs so hard she’s wiping tears. “He does...because he’s Luca’s older brother.” Lila’s eyes flick between the three of us, Luca, Giovanni, me, and her grin widens, pure sin. “Oh, hell yes. Good genes. I approve.”

This americana thinks she’s bulletproof. I press the bloody cloth harder to my nose and growl,

“Put this pazza on a leash before I throw her off a balcony.”

Nadia wipes a tear, still laughing. “I don’t know, Leo… she might be the one.”

Lila winks. “Tell me when and where, gramps.”

“Americani del cazzo.” I spit the words, low and lethal.

No fucking way. A federal agent just broke my nose.