Chapter 1
POV: Amanda
The badge sat heavy in my palm—more than a piece of metal, less than what it had once meant to me.
To my family. To my father.
Years of busting my ass in uniform, years of playing by the book—and now I stood in the precinct locker room, staring at it like it was a ghost of someone I used to be.
“Whitmore.”
My last name carried a higher weight than I sometimes could bear.
I turned. Captain Clifford filled the doorway, gray hair, arms crossed, face set in that permanent scowl that only deepened when the FBI got involved.
The investigation had gotten big. My obsession had gotten bigger.
Because it was the De Luccas.
The Mafia family who killed my father when he tried to put cuffs on them.
I made their downfall my life’s work. And when the case slipped through my fingers into FBI hands, going undercover became my only way to stay close. My only way to finish what he started.
So I took it.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Clifford asked.
“Ready’s my middle name,” I lied, snapping the locker shut.
He handed me a thin folder, the kind that already smelled of classified ink. And he knew I didn’t need it. I knew every page, every detail about the De Lucca family burned clear in my mind.
“De Lucca family,” he said. “You’ll be going in as Amanda Carter. Ex-military. Private bodyguard. Background’s airtight. They’ll buy it.”
Of course they’d buy it—because half of it was true. My real name was also Amanda; we only swapped the last. I'm ex-military. I had the training, the scars, the discipline.
I flipped the folder open anyway. A gallery of power stared back at me: nightclubs, shipping docks, casinos—each stamped with the black-and-gold empire seal.
And at the top, the man himself.
Adrian Matteo De Lucca.
Mafia heir.
When my father was killed, his father, Lorenzo De Lucca, had been the one running the family. Adrian had assumed control two years ago.
The photograph in front of me—black and white, sharp jawline, eyes like steel—radiated untouchable arrogance.
And beauty.
God, I hated that word. I hated how gorgeous he looked, the kind of breathtaking that twisted your stomach into something shameful.
“Your assignment is him,” Clifford said. “His rivals have already tried twice. He’s still nursing injuries from the last attempt. We need someone inside. Watch him. Protect him. And if we’re lucky, maybe he slips and gives us enough to finally bring them down.”
I tucked the folder under my arm, heartbeat steady but quick.
“Understood.”
Clifford’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a patrol shift, Whitmore. You’re walking into a goddamn lion’s den. The FBI wants eyes and ears. But until we’ve got leverage—you’re his shadow. His protection. Don’t break cover.”
“Yes, sir.”
By the time I walked out of the precinct, Amanda Whitmore was gone. In her place was Amanda Carter—bodyguard, soldier for hire, and the newest piece on the De Lucca chessboard.
The mansion loomed against the skyline like it had been ripped out of Tuscany and dropped onto American soil. Iron gates. Marble steps. The kind of wealth designed to intimidate—and it worked.
I squared my shoulders, reminding myself I’d been through worse: Kabul, Baghdad, raids that made this look like a weekend picnic.
And yet goosebumps shivered down my spine, my pulse thrumming like I was already in the crosshairs.
The gates opened. I stepped inside.
A woman waited in the foyer, tall, elegant, dark hair cascading around green eyes. Her smile was far too warm for these cold marble walls.
She was stunning. What the hell was it with Italian families—that everyone looked like they belonged on the cover of Vogue?
“You must be Amanda Carter,” she said, her accent soft, lilting. She extended a hand. “Isabella De Lucca. But please—call me Bella.”
Her grip was firm, genuine, nothing like the mob caricatures I’d prepped for. For a second, I let myself breathe.
Then she led me deeper inside, past oil paintings and gilded frames, until she stopped before a dark wood door.
“He’s expecting you.”
She pushed it open.
And that was when I saw him.
Adrian Matteo De Lucca.
Not a photograph. Not ink on paper.
Flesh and blood and carved like sin.
And blood, too.
He stood shirtless behind his desk, an old man in a white coat tightening the last of his bandages across a broad chest.
And his body—
God forgive me.
His body was delicious. Hard muscle stretched with scars and tattoos, a dangerous map inked on perfect skin. My heart skipped, my throat tightened, and for the first time in years, my training faltered.
The file hadn’t done him justice—taller than I expected, broader, darker, more alive. His hair pushed back carelessly, his eyes—light brown, molten, deadly—snared me on sight.
A Greek god dressed as a devil.
His gaze burned into me for three long, scorching seconds.
Then he barked—low, angry, sharp:
“What the hell is that, Bella?”
Shit.
Adrian’s glare could’ve sliced through marble.
His bandaged chest rose and fell with fury, every line of muscle pulled tight, every scar on display.
“You brought me a babysitter, Bella?” His voice was pure venom, thick with an accent that made every word a weapon.
“She’s not a babysitter, she’s protection,” Bella fired back, her green eyes blazing.
“I don’t need protection!” he roared, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. His hand slammed the desk, and a bottle rattled on top of it.
“You were shot last week!” she snapped, her voice rising to match his. “And you will be shot again if you keep walking around like you’re invincible!”
They were arguing in rapid-fire Italian now, voices colliding, a storm of words I could follow but not fast enough. I caught sorella—sister—and testarda—stubborn.
I’d been around enough family fights to recognize one thing: neither of them was going to back down.
So I stepped forward, my boots heavy against the polished floor.
“Enough,” I said. Calm, steady, but cutting through the noise.
They both froze. Adrian’s eyes snapped to me, sharp and burning, while Bella’s shoulders sagged in a mix of relief and defiance.
“Your sister hired me for one reason,” I said, locking onto Adrian, refusing to flinch under the storm of him. “To keep you alive. Whether you like it or not.”
He stalked around the desk toward me.
And damn—he was bigger up close. Broader. His shadow swallowed mine, and I had to tilt my chin up to keep eye contact. My neck stretched, every instinct telling me to stand tall even as heat coiled low in my stomach.
“And how the hell,” he murmured, voice a deadly rasp, “do you think you can protect me?”
His chest was inches from mine, heat radiating off him, the scent of clean soap, expensive cologne, smoke, and blood filling my lungs. My pulse thundered, but my training was sharper.
I took a deliberate step closer, tilting my chin up higher to meet his gaze. He looked down through his lashes, eyes locked on mine, and the air between us thickened—charged, almost sexual.
And I loved how distracted he was by it.
In one swift movement, my hand slid behind his back, fingers closing around the Glock tucked into his belt. I eased it free, smooth as breath.
He didn’t even notice until the weight was gone. His brows furrowed, his head snapping down as if he couldn’t quite believe what just happened.
Before he could react, I crouched low, hand flashing to his ankle. The second pistol was out of its holster before he had time to blink.
I straightened slowly, both guns dangling from my hands, a smirk curling my lips. His expression tightened, jaw flexing.
“What the—?” he started, but I was already moving.
I began disassembling the weapons in a blur of motion, steel clicking and clattering as pieces slid apart. My hands worked from muscle memory, stripping each gun down to bones and spilling the bullets into my palm.
“Like this.”
I laid the empty shells on his desk with a satisfying clink.
His chest rose, sharp and heavy, eyes narrowing with something halfway between fury and…something darker.
But I didn’t stop.
My gaze flicked past him, catching the subtle details I’d clocked the second I entered—the glint of steel under the desk drawer, the faint bulge in the spine of a fake book on the shelf.
I reached, fast and precise, yanking both weapons from their hiding places. One. Two.
They joined the growing pile in my hands.
And with the same ruthless speed, I tore them down and rebuilt them, metal snapping back into place with sharp, clean clicks.
Now I stood armed, his entire arsenal disassembled and reassembled at my mercy. His weapons hung from my fingers like trophies, proof of how easily I could gut his defenses.
“Because even the Mafia King needs protection,” I said, my voice low, steady, cutting through the thick silence.
Then I raised one of his own pistols, the barrel leveling with his chest.
“And I can give that to you. Because I don’t look like a bodyguard. Which means I can surprise.”
For a long, suffocating second, silence hung between us.
His chest heaved, broad and bandaged, his jaw set so tight I could hear the grind of teeth.
Then his gaze dropped. Not far. Just a flicker.
From my eyes…to my mouth.
Heat licked down my spine, traitorous and unwanted. My lips parted on instinct before I snapped them shut again.
Adrian caught himself just as fast, rage shuttering over his face like steel.
“You think this proves something?” he growled, stepping in even closer. His voice was low, lethal, but threaded with something darker, heavier. “That you can walk into my house and strip me bare in front of my sister? That you can point my gun at me like I’m some street thug?”
His hand shot out, fingers closing around the barrel of the pistol I held to his chest. Not yanking, not forcing. Just wrapping, heat searing against mine.
“I could break you in half,” he whispered.
My pulse kicked. I let the corner of my mouth curve upward, the faintest smile.
“Try.”
For a second—God help me—his eyes burned with more than fury. They burned with curiosity. With want.
And then Bella cleared her throat.
Adrian’s head snapped toward her, his hand tearing from mine like he’d been caught with it in the fire. His nostrils flared as he inhaled once, twice, and finally exhaled a curse under his breath.
“Fine,” he bit out, his voice rough, reluctant. “She stays. But this is your doing, Bella.”
Bella only smiled sweetly, unbothered.
Adrian turned his glare back on me. “And don’t think for a second you’ve earned my trust, guardia del corpo. You’ll have to fight for that.”
The way he said it—like a threat, like a promise—sank into my bones.
He spun away, snatching a shirt from the back of his chair and dragging it over his shoulders, hiding away the scars, the tattoos, the body I hated myself for memorizing.
“Show her the house,” he barked to Bella, then strode to the opposite door and slammed it shut behind him.
The room shook in his wake.
Bella exhaled slowly, then turned to me with a smile that held both apology and amusement.
“Come,” she said gently. “Let me give you the tour.”
The De Lucca mansion was less a house, more a labyrinth of polished marble, vaulted ceilings, and doors that seemed to stretch forever. Every room whispered of wealth, power, and history.
Bella explained as we walked, pointing out wings of the estate, the private chapel, the kitchens, the guest quarters, the guarded offices.
And then we stepped into the back garden.
Sunlight cut across the courtyard, glinting off a fountain, spilling over hedges carved into perfect symmetry.
And there—standing tall, broad, almost painfully familiar—was a man.
Dark hair streaked with gray at the temples. Shoulders still proud, body still strong. Hands folded behind his back as he surveyed the grounds like he owned the world.
I stopped dead.
Because he looked like Adrian.
Like Adrian, but older. Sharper.
Bella’s exhale trembled in the warm air. Her green eyes softened, heavy with something unspoken.
“That,” she whispered, “is the reason my brother got shot.”
