Savage Betrayal

Chapter One

Tia

“We must put an end to this Moretti scourge,” Don Valencia states, slamming his fist down onto the table, his fork held like a sword he would like to spear through Leonardo Moretti’s heart right about now. 

His plate of pasta jumps with the force of his displeasure, the china clinking as it finds the surface of the dinner table once more. Next to him, his grown son, Tony, remains focused on his food, tearing off a large chunk from the garlic roll served with his meal. 

Father doesn’t even seem to notice as he studies our dinner guests with dignified understanding. “That’s one of the reasons I invited you all here tonight,” he confesses, scanning the table of prominent families that haven’t collapsed under the Morettis’ pressure. Yet.

The numbers are dwindling from just a few months ago, when my father last hosted a dinner to assess the potential of forming alliances while we still can—and how marriage is the best way to do so. 

“My daughter Tia comes of age in just over a month, and I think each of the eligible men in this room would make a fine match for her.”

Next to my father, my mother looks on with patient resolve, her face neutral and accepting. Their marriage was arranged, she often reminds me. So, why wouldn’t I be as happy in my marriage as she has been in hers? It might not be a fairy tale romance, but it’s more pragmatic.

“Joining the great Guerra household with another family that’s rooted in Piovosa’s rich history,” Don Fiore observes, placing his utensils on his plate and leaning back in his chair.

“Indeed,” my father says. 

Don Fiore’s eyes scan down the length of the table to land on me. 

My heart skips a beat at his scrutinizing gaze, the way he seems to consider me like he would a prized horse he’s considering adding to his stable. Never mind the fact that the widower is well over twice my age and supposed to still be in mourning—or at least he would be if he cared at all for his wife of twenty years, whom he lost just months ago.

“With your daughters’ reputations of refinement and modesty, I’m sure it would be an honor to take Tia as a wife,” he says, his voice dripping with lecherous pleasure. 

Beside me, my sister Maria makes a not-so-subtle gagging noise, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling. Only after Don Fiore returns his attention to the head of the table do I dare glance Maria’s way.

At age sixteen, she’s probably the only one of my four younger sisters who can fully comprehend what’s coming for each of us eventually. And it’s coming to me far sooner than the rest. Marriage—likely to some gross old man like Don Fiore. Because that’s the only thing a houseful of Guerra daughters is good for. Our family name. 

Seeing as Don Guerra was cursed with five daughters and not a single son, an alliance made through marriage is the only way my father can protect his legacy. Especially now, with the Moretti family’s seemingly insatiable appetite to conquer and rule our thriving Italian settlement sequestered in the Allegheny Mountains.

We need help.

And marriage is the perfect way to guarantee it.

“It would establish an unbreakable bond between two families who might not be capable of stopping the Morettis on their own but, when joined together, could send them running with their tails between their legs,” Father says. 

“Yes, I would like to see that arrogant bastard brought down a few pegs,” Don Valencia states. 

“I’m ready to wipe the smug smile off Leonardo’s face,” Don Russo growls. “It’s as if he thinks he’s already won the town. The way he’s throwing parties nearly every other week, pretending like we’re not at war.” 

“So low class.” Don Amici scoffs.

“I’ve heard the balls he hosts are a new level of sophistication,” Lorenzo Valencia says, a hint of awe in his voice. 

His statement triggers in me a curiosity, a thirst to understand, that’s been growing inside for weeks now. I want to know what it is about the Morettis that drives people to such extreme emotions. Love them or hate them, it seems everybody’s talking about the Morettis, and I want nothing more than to know what all the fuss is about. 

Which is why I intend to sneak out. Tonight. After our dinner guests leave. I plan to go to a party hosted by Leonardo Moretti—the leader of the Moretti family, in all but title, and the rabble-rouser that my father speaks of as if he were the Boogeyman himself. From the way my father makes it sound, the Morettis are capable of unspeakable atrocities, and with Leonardo at their head, they have become all but an unstoppable force. 

But as much as my father hates Leonardo Moretti, my cousins don’t seem to think it’s too dangerous to crash his house parties. Apparently, the guy rarely even makes an appearance at them. So, why can’t I? 

Just this once.

My sisters and I live such sheltered lives, being home-schooled, residing on the family estate, and only entering the town with escorts. It’s a comfortable life, and one that’s so entirely dull. I don’t think I can stand another evening of reading by the fire. I want to see some of the world before my father marries me off to some gross old perv like Don Fiore. 

I glance sideways at the three Valencia men in attendance just in time to catch Don Valencia giving his younger son a thunderous scowl. This is not the household to be handing out compliments to the Morettis. Even a harmless one like Lorenzo’s. 

But the older Valencia son seems too preoccupied with the meal to have noticed the tension in the room. “This tagliatelle is delicious,” Tony Valencia says around his mouthful of pasta.

I try not to cringe as the stray noodles hanging from his lips are sucked into his maw with such force that sauce splatters across his chin and the napkin tucked into his shirt. 

“Of course, I’m open to negotiations and would like to ensure the match with my daughter would be… agreeable on both sides,” my father says.

I sincerely hope the hint of disgust in his tone means he’s less inclined to marry me off to Tony. The sloppy eating, I could probably learn to live with. But the gluttony of gambling debts the Valencia heir has accrued? He’s well on his way to spending every last penny of his inheritance before his father’s even in his grave. 

No, I don’t think I could stomach living with a man so willingly a victim to his vices. And while his brother Lorenzo might not be nearly so bad, he’s not much better. 

“My son Valentine would make an excellent match for your daughter,” Don Russo states with a sure grin.

“But isn’t Valentine just twelve?” I ask, boldly meeting the don’s eyes. “He can’t possibly be ready for marriage.”

“I hardly think you should concern yourself with matters you clearly don’t understand. Obviously, he would grow into his role as your husband. And I would think you should consider yourself lucky not to be strapped with someone… older,” Don Russo states dismissively, giving Don Fiore a sidelong glance before turning his eyes to my father. 

The silent look states that Don Guerra should get his unruly daughter under control before I embarrass him further.

“Tia.” 

That’s all my father needs to say. I know that hint of warning too well. If I don’t hold my tongue, I will very much regret provoking the punishment that will follow our guests’ departure. 

I bristle at the perfunctory way they discuss my nuptials as if I were nothing more than a piece of dining room furniture to be traded away. But as I’m little more than a pawn to these great men, no one cares to tiptoe around my feelings. 

The end game—the victory over the Morettis—is all that matters. 

Still, I’ll count my gentle scolding as a small blessing. Because it’s given me a window of opportunity to bow out of the stifling negotiations.  

“Pardon my ignorance, Don Russo. Of course, you would know better about the workings of these types of arrangements. If I might be excused, father? I’ll leave the conversation to those who understand such things.” 

“Take your sisters with you,” he agrees, sending me off with a wave of his hand.

Delicately wiping my lips, I set aside my napkin, then take Maria by the wrist and pull her out of her chair and toward the dining room door. Anna, Vienna, and little Sofia follow without a word. 

“Blech,” Maria says as soon as we’re out of earshot. “I’m dreading the day father decides who to marry you off to.”

I cringe internally. “Me too.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I feel terrible for you. But just think, if that’s what the options are, and you have first pick, who might I get stuck with as the leftovers?” Maria shudders visibly.

“Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to land Valentine Russo,” I tease.

Maria gives me a playful shove with her shoulder. “I’m not really interested in babysitting. Thanks.” 

I laugh, appreciating that I have at least one person to commiserate with. 

Still, I haven’t even told Maria about my plans for tonight…

* * *

It’s well past sunset, and the house lights have already started to darken as I ease my bedroom window open. Not daring to breathe, I watch and listen to see if any of my family’s guards made note of the soft shuffling noise, but if they’re in the vicinity, none seem to be drawn my way. 

Slowly releasing my breath, I ease my shoulders through the window and look to my left. The ivy-covered lattice that creeps up the side of our oversized home looked a lot less intimidating to climb down in the daylight—when I was concocting my elaborate escape.

Now, I just hope the wood hasn’t started rotting after the century’s worth of plant growth that creeps up the side of the picturesque New England mansion. But I’m not about to chicken out now.

I have been hearing about the extravagant Moretti house parties for months now. And tonight, I intend to see what the fuss is all about. After having spent my entire childhood following the rules, I am determined to have at least one good adventure. 

A shiver races down my spine at the wood’s agonized groan beneath my weight as I scale the siding. But I press on, clinging to the vines even as they scrape my palms and snag the skirt of my flirtiest dress. I’m more than a little grateful when I’ve climbed down far enough to drop the last few feet onto solid ground. 

Crouching, I turn quickly to make sure no one saw me. 

Looks like I’m in the clear.

Keeping low and moving fast, I head for the trees that line either side of our long drive. 

The air is crisp for a night in late April, but I don’t mind. My destination is a bit of a walk, which will keep me warm. As soon as I’m safe from view, I hunker into my fleece-lined Italian leather coat, cram my fingers into its pockets, and pick up a nice pace. 

Giddy excitement bubbles in my veins as I head toward the historic downtown of Piovosa. I make it into town on rare occasions and never unsupervised—like we’re some family out of the Dark Ages. 

But I know it’s because, in Piovosa, our family name is worth its weight in gold, and my father is only looking out for our safety. I just wish he weren’t quite so overprotective. It’s not like kidnappers are waiting around every corner to snatch up a Guerra girl and ransom her off for some exorbitant amount of money. 

Against all odds—or so it would seem based on my father’s extensive warnings not to leave the house unaccompanied—I arrive safely at my destination without a single abduction attempt. 

It’s not hard to find the party. Not when fancy cars line the pavement all the way from the street to the far end of the Morettis’ winding drive. The flashy Corvettes and sleek Porsches accompany me all the way up to the backlit fountain at the center of the circular courtyard. 

Few houses in Piovosa can rival mine. But as I stare up at the striking gothic architecture of Don Moretti’s home, I think we might have met our match. The towering monstrosity is something between a mansion and a castle in both size and shape, with countless spires and haunting gargoyles protecting the corners of each eave. 

Music spills through the grand double doors at the top of the front steps, and lights illuminate the windows with a golden glow that accentuates the structure’s silent dignity. The elegant display of warmth somehow makes my mission all the more exciting. 

Here, there appear to be no rules saying I must wait for an invitation. The atmosphere says all are welcome. And the thrill of meeting new people not preapproved by my father’s stuffy expectations fills me with a sense of giddy anticipation. This promises to be a night of adventure. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I comb my fingers through my thick mahogany locks, checking to make sure they’re in place after my rather brisk night stroll. Then I square my shoulders and climb up the sweeping front steps and into the home of my family’s sworn enemy. 

The grand entry steals my breath away as I take in the open space with a marble staircase curving down either side. The back wall is made entirely of gilded mirrors that catch and reflect the sparkling lights bouncing off the decadent crystal chandelier. 

Like an ornate version of a disco ball, the fixture dripping with jewels occupies the very center of the vaulted room. Visually, it’s stunning, with so many rainbow refractions glimmering from its countless angles that I can’t tell where the light starts or ends. 

But what really catches my attention is the sheer number of bodies that fill the space, some dancing, some laughing, some standing close together in deep conversation. 

Pulse quickening with the lively energy that envelops me, I stop to take it all in. I don’t quite know where to begin. I’m party crashing—there’s no doubt about that. But the distinct lack of bouncers or guards makes me think it doesn’t matter to anyone here. 

“Has he spoken to you?” one girl asks to my left, her tone almost dreamy in its breathlessness. 

“Leo Moretti? I wish,” her friend adds. 

I glance in their direction to see three girls clustered together, their hair perfectly coiffed, dresses about as short as they can get without being scandalous, eyes scanning the room hungrily.

“I don’t need him to speak with me. I just want him to look my way.”

“Screw that. I want him to take me to bed. The man looks like a god, and I’ve heard he fucks like one too.”

My cheeks heat at the lewd topic of conversation the girls are holding right there in the middle of the crowded room. And I can’t help the juvenile giggle that bubbles up my throat. My father would never allow me to keep company with girls who would even think something like that, let alone say it. 

And though I have no experience when it comes to men or the activities that go on between two people in a bedroom, it exhilarates me to think that I’m stepping outside of my safe little world to get a better understanding of this side of society. 

Even if I have no clue where to go from here.

Stealing myself, I take several tentative steps toward the center of the room, hoping I don’t look too out of place. But I can’t help keeping my head on a swivel as I take in the luxurious decor and the lavish partygoers—it really does scream a sophistication my father has never once mentioned when talking about the Moretti heir.

“Are you lost?” someone asks in a sinfully smooth, masculine voice. 

My heart skips a beat, and I turn to meet a pair of intelligent hazel eyes. The man before me is tall, well over six feet, with a sharp jawline darkened by the perfect amount of five-o’clock shadow. 

Possibly the bouncer I was looking for, who stops gate crashers before they get too far into the hall?

But that’s not what wipes my usually quick words from my mind. It’s the fact that he might just be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on. 

His black curls fall across his forehead in chaotic perfection. His broad shoulders fill out the mint-green dress shirt he’s rolled up to his elbows in a casual display of comfort. And his collar is unbuttoned just enough to show the hint of dark chest hair that tells me he’s several years my senior. 

Dressed in only the finest brand names, his Italian leather shoes and black slacks crisp, clean, and tailored to perfection, he looks worthy of the front page of a magazine. And all together, the package gives him an air of silent confidence that says, without a doubt, he has the authority to end my night of fun before it’s even begun.

He looks down his proud nose, and a slow, subtle grin tells me he knows I shouldn’t be here. One dark eyebrow forms a sharp and artistic arch as I continue to stare at him, open-mouthed, at an utter loss for words. 

“Did you come here with someone tonight?” His deep baritone makes my stomach quiver as his eyes shift to the door behind me. 

“Oh, uh, no. I was invited,” I say quickly. 

My immediate blush gives me away, I’m sure, and his eyebrow creeps higher up his forehead, indicating he sees straight through me. 

“By whom?”

Now what do I say? I have no idea who might have the power to invite me aside from the Morettis themselves. All I can do is hope that giving a name with authority will minimize his questions. Trying not to panic, I swallow hard and smile. “Don Moretti, of course.”

“Really? Marco Moretti invited you to this party?” Both eyebrows rise now.

Oh, dear god. I am so busted. “Yes? Well, I mean, no. Just in a manner of speaking. It was more like his son.”  

“Leonardo Moretti sent an invitation to your house?” 

It’s just a hint of challenge that gives away his skepticism, and I can feel myself buckling under the pressure.

“Mm-hmm,” I agree, flashing him my most winning smile.  

Laser intelligence cuts through me, asking a hundred questions in the silence that follows. I should not have come. What was I thinking? He knows I don’t belong, and I’m definitely about to get kicked out. Or worse…

This was such a bad idea.

Then he unleashes a devilishly handsome grin. “Well, in that case, welcome.” 

Relief floods me as the inquisition ends as quickly as it began. 

“Would you like a drink…?” He leaves the question hanging, waiting for me to supply a name.

“Tia,” I provide. “Just Tia.” I suspect throwing around the last name of Guerra might not be the smartest plan right about now. “And yes, a drink sounds wonderful,” I add with a smile. 

“Well, Tia, let me show you where they are.”

The man places a hand on the small of my back, bringing butterflies to life in my stomach as he gestures toward the mirrored wall at the far end of the entry. I follow his lead, and the crowd seems to part around us as we move. 

The way they shift raises goosebumps on my arms and a tingling sense of foreboding tickles the back of my mind. This can’t be the man himself, right? While still a man, he’s too young to be the conqueror everyone fears. Besides, I’ve been told on many occasions that he never attends his own parties. 

Still, this inquisitor of mine must merit enough respect that he doesn’t have to say a word.

We turn right around a corner of the mirrored wall and into a ballroom that dwarfs the size of the one in my family home. The entire back wall is made up of windows and French doors, each opening out onto a stunning terrace that runs the expanse of the ballroom. 

“Wow,” I breathe, astonished by the grandeur that somehow manages to outshine the opulence of my own home. 

“You like it?” 

“It’s incredible,” I confess.

We stop in front of the full bar, stocked with every variety of liquor, all in opulent bottles that must have cost a fortune. 

“What do you like to drink, Tia?” my inquisitor asks as the bartender turns his attention to us.

I don’t. I have no clue what I might like to drink. I quickly scan the bottles, looking for something that might sound remotely familiar. “I’ll take a Macallan.” I’ve never tasted it before, but my father offers it to guests as an after-dinner drink. 

My guide’s eyebrows rise in apparent surprise mingled with a hint of amusement. “We’ll take two.” He raises two long fingers toward the bartender. “Neat?” His eyes shift back to mine, clearly expecting an answer. 

“Neat,” I agree, confused by his question. Is he asking me if that’s cool for him to order the same thing? I have no clue why it would or wouldn’t be. But he’s been nice enough to speak to me, where most people didn’t glance my way. 

The bartender takes the beautiful bottle off the shelf and pours us each a small amount of liquid into two cut-crystal glasses. I accept mine and cup it between my palms, too nervous to take a sip right away.

“Tell me, Tia, what brings you here tonight?” my gorgeous guide asks, his hazel gaze probing.

My nerves come to life once again as I sense an undercurrent to his question. Even so, I can’t stop the thrill that races through me at the sound of my name on his lips. “Oh, you know, the same reasons everyone goes to parties like these.”

“Which is?”

“For fun?” I suggest, my answers coming out as questions as my confidence plummets. 

“What kind of fun?” he asks, his eyes mesmerizing in their intensity. 

I shrug, attempting to release some of the tension from my shoulders with the nonchalant gesture. “To meet new people and see new things. Am I supposed to be searching for another kind?” My stomach knots as I recall the conversation those three girls were having near the front door. About capturing a certain Moretti’s attention and maybe even getting him to take them to bed.

“Forgive me if I might sound suspicious, but it’s not every night that a daughter of Don Guerra comes strolling through my door.” 

My heart slams against my ribcage as I realize just how deep I might have stepped in it. “Y-You know who I am?”

“It’s my job to know everyone coming and going from this house, and you, Tia, have piqued my interest. Are you here to spy on me? Did your father send you?”

“No, I—I didn’t—I mean, he didn’t…” I flounder, once again lost for words as my mind quickly translates the full meaning of his words. Then it hits me. “Spy on you?”

Shit. This must be Leonardo Moretti. I am such an idiot.

But even as the fact stares me in the face, I can hardly believe that the man in front of me is the one who’s gotten so far under my father’s skin. He doesn’t come across as the dangerous and brutal criminal my parents have made him out to be. He can’t be…

“You’re Leonardo Moretti,” I breathe.

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to.

My eyes drop as I realize there’s no way out of this but to tell the truth and pray I haven’t made a massive mistake by disobeying my father. Because, as of right now, I’m entirely at the mercy of the Moretti heir. My only chance of survival is honesty and a prayer that he’ll believe me.

“I snuck out,” I confess, heat radiating from my cheeks as I study the glass clasped in my hands. “My father would kill me if he knew I was here. But I just… I want to live my life.” 

I press my lips closed to stop the rush of words that threaten to spill from me in a flood. And I glance tentatively up through my eyelashes, feeling I’ve said too much. 

But Leo’s gaze softens, growing sympathetic even, then a hint of humor glints in his striking eyes. “So, you’re not here to kill me, then?” he jokes, his disarming smile returning in full force. 

Heat races through my veins as an electric energy crackles between us. “And take that honor from my father? He would never forgive me.” The smartass comment is out of my mouth before I have time to think through how wise it might be.

But before I have time to panic, he releases a low, sexy chuckle. 

“May I ask you something, Leonardo?”

“Only if you’ll call me Leo.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks at his request. “Leo.” I test it out and find the name suits him better somehow. “How old are you?”

It feels like a juvenile question, but he’s not what I would expect of a man capable of tearing apart the town of Piovosa and dismantling generations of family wealth and power in five short years. 

The humor in his eyes intensifies, but he doesn’t challenge my question. “Twenty-five.”

“Nooo.” The uncouth word slips from my mouth before I can stop it, and I clap my hand over my lips.

“You don’t believe me?” he asks, another chuckle rumbling from his chest.

“I mean… I have no reason not to believe you. It’s just…” From what I’ve heard about Leo’s conquests, I can hardly believe he’s that young. Since he took the reins of the Moretti family, he’s expanded their power and territory with alarming efficiency. “I had always imagined you’d be older.”

Silence stretches between us, and I take a drink to stop myself from fidgeting. Poor choice. The alcohol burns as it trickles down my throat, bringing tears to my eyes. I choke and cough, fighting hard not to spit out the liquid fire. And when I finally regain a semblance of composure, Leo wordlessly offers me a napkin.

“Thanks,” I rasp, wiping my lips and then my watering eyes. 

“How old are you, Tia?” he asks, his eyes scrutinizing me perceptively. 

It’s a fair question after mine, but that doesn’t make me any less mortified to tell him. “E-Eighteen,” I lie. I mean, I will be soon enough, but I don’t want to sound any more childish than I’ve already managed in this conversation. 

Leo’s hazel gaze holds mine with a steady silence that seems to slice through my untruth with the ease of a hot knife through butter. Still, he doesn’t challenge me. “And you snuck out of your father’s house to come to this party looking for an adventure?”

Biting my lip as my nerves get the better of me, I nod. I’ve made such a fool of myself. I must look like a child to him. I am a child to him, with not just a seven-year age gap but a world of experience that stands between us. But his crooked smile that follows wipes the thought away.

“Well, then, the least I can do is show you around,” he offers, leaning close to place a hand on the small of my back once more. 

His proximity sends my body into an unexpected frenzy as my breath catches in my throat. I detect the hint of sandalwood, vanilla, and amber cologne in the air around him. The scent quickens my heartbeat, and I can’t help but take in the sight of him once more as a heady dose of attraction pounds through my veins. Leo Moretti is nothing like the demon I had envisioned. He’s just… hot.

“Where do we start?” I ask breathily, trying to regain my composure.

“How about the library? People come from all over to see it.”

“That sounds… wonderful.” In truth, that’s where I feel most at home. After so many hours immersed in the books that provide my only source of escape, I’m confident a library will put me at ease. 

Once again, the party guests move fluidly out of our way, like the Red Sea parting as Leo escorts me down the elegant hallways. He stops before two oversized double doors and slowly swings one open, gesturing that I should enter first. 

I stop short as soon as I step inside the two-story library filled with rich cherry-wood shelves that hold leather-bound tomes. The sight of all that knowledge packed into one vast room takes my breath away. 

“You like books,” Leo observes as we linger in the quiet room that no one else has ventured into. 

I nod. “It never ceases to amaze me that something so small can take you all over the world—even to worlds you couldn’t find in a million years—with just a few slips of parchment and a well of ink. What’s not to love?”

When he doesn’t respond right away, I glance up at Leo and find he’s standing closer than I had expected. My heart skips a beat as he studies me, his devastatingly handsome face close enough to touch, and I find myself trapped inside his intelligent green-gray eyes. 

“What?” I breathe, unsure of why he’s looking at me that way. All I know is I like it.

“I wouldn’t have figured you for a poet, Signorina Guerra.”

Heat pools in my cheeks at the flattering statement, and I glance around to distract myself before I say something embarrassing. “Do you have a favorite book?” I ask, following a row of hardcovers with curling gold print embossed along their spines.

My fingers trace lightly across them as I note their geographical categorization. 

“It’s been some time since I’ve read a book for pleasure,” Leo admits, following beside me with smooth, long strides. “But Treasure Island was always my favorite growing up.”

I glance sharply up at him, studying his proud features. “Really?”

The hint of a smile tugs at his lips as Leo stops and turns to me. “Again, you doubt me? It’s a wonder you braved my home at all if you’re so confident I would lie.”

“No, it’s not—sorry, I’m just surprised because Robert Louis Stevenson is my favorite author. I’ve probably read Treasure Island fifty times.”

“A brilliant book about adventure. ‘Hang the treasure! It’s the glory of the sea that has turned my head,’” he quotes, his eyes dancing. “Somehow, it doesn’t surprise me that you like it.” 

Is it entirely wrong that I find his ability to quote Stevenson on a whim entirely too appealing?

The energy shifts between us, that electric tension transforming into something more like a magnetic pull as Leo’s posture softens. The conversation takes a more personal turn as we stroll around the empty room, talking about the characters that inspire us and the books that hold a special place on our hearts’ shelves.

As Leo’s tour carries us back out into the hall, our conversation continues. I find myself surprisingly relaxed, my composure reclaimed as our discussion shifts from literature to history, geography, and culture. Things I’ve cultivated knowledge about through my top-tier education and thirst for information, while he’s learned much firsthand.   

“I’ve heard great things about the Guerra daughters. It’s an honor to finally meet you and discover for myself that the rumors are true.”

My stomach flip-flops dangerously. “What rumors?” 

“That you’re as intelligent and charming as you are beautiful,” Leo says. 

The statement is casual, as though he’s completely oblivious to what his words might be doing to my body. But hearing a gorgeous, older man like Leo call me beautiful does strange things to my insides. I can’t quite tell if my heart is in my throat or if that’s the butterflies trying to escape my tummy. 

“Leo!” a man calls, walking toward us. He looks just a few years older than I am. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I… who’s your friend?” he asks, his mind seeming to jump tracks as his eyes take me in for the first time.

“Meet Tia. Tia, this is my cousin Vinnie.” 

“It’s a pleasure,” he says, extending his hand.

And as I take it, Vinnie leans in to stage-whisper, “Don’t let him fool you. He might come across as intimidating and respectable, but he’s a sucker for a pretty smile.” Then he gives me a conspiratorial wink. 

A startled giggle escapes me, and I glance at Leo from the corner of my eye to gauge his reaction. He merely quirks an eyebrow at his cousin, who clears his throat and straightens. Once again, I’m struck by the authority he commands without lifting a finger. Not even my father puts people in line with so little effort. 

“You needed something, Vinnie?” he says after a moment’s silence.

“Oh, yeah. But it can wait.” Leo’s cousin gives a slight bow of his head. “Pleasure to meet you, Tia.”

“Likewise.”

We don’t linger long before Leo whisks me toward a door leading off the hall. A moment later, we enter the billiards, where several pool tables have multiple games occurring at once. In here, the scent of cigars lingers in the air, and the throbbing music bleeds through the walls without actually filling the room. 

Once again, Leo introduces me like a guest of honor. Though I know several of the partygoers as acquaintances of my family, it becomes increasingly easy to spot the Moretti family members—because I recognize so few. 

We travel through several more rooms, Leo showing me the study, the conservatory, the parlor. Each is more finely decorated than the last. As we weave through the crowded house, Leo converses lightly with his guests, introducing me to whomever he thinks I might find interesting along the way. 

And the longer I spend with him, the more I start to question all the warnings my parents have given about staying far away from the Moretti family. I sense nothing of the animosity my father has spoken about reflected in Leo’s actions. 

If anything, his easy charm makes it impossible to avoid what I’m quickly realizing is my first crush. 

We finish our tour back in the ballroom, where the party is in full swing, the music filling the space as people move across the dance floor and mingle.

“Would you… be interested in going somewhere a little more private?” he asks after several more guests bombard him, demanding his attention. “Somewhere we can talk without this constant interruption?”

And though I don’t quite understand why Leo seems so willing to keep talking to me, I can’t deny I like it. My pulse quickens, and I swallow to quell my nerves as I nod.