Chapter 2: The Ghost Made Flesh

Dominic Romano has survived three tours in Afghanistan, a knife fight in a Moscow alley, and sixteen years in Vincenzo Moretti's inner circle. He's built his reputation on being unshakeable, unreadable, utterly in control. But standing in this mahogany-paneled study, watching Aria move with the fluid grace of a woman who knows exactly what she's doing, he feels his carefully constructed walls beginning to crack.

The past six months overseas were supposed to fix this. Distance, work, and the brutal reality of expanding their Eastern European operations should have burned away whatever madness had been growing in his chest. He'd thrown himself into the darkness of his world—negotiations that happened at gunpoint, deals sealed with blood, the kind of work that reminded him exactly what he was.

A killer. A weapon. Vincenzo's enforcer.

Not the kind of man who should be looking at his best friend's daughter like she's salvation and damnation wrapped in red silk.

But here she stands, and all his careful planning crumbles to ash.

"Papa," Aria says, her voice honey-sweet as she glides toward Vincenzo with arms outstretched. "I've missed you so much."

Dominic watches her embrace her father, noting the way Vincenzo's face transforms from the hard mask of a mafia don to the soft expression of a man completely devoted to his only child. It's a vulnerability that could get him killed in their world, but Vincenzo has never been able to help himself when it comes to Aria.

"Mia bambina," Vincenzo murmurs, holding her tight. "But look at you—you're not my little girl anymore, are you?"

The question hangs heavy in the air, loaded with a father's concern and something deeper—a recognition that the daughter who left nine months ago is not the woman who's returned. Dominic sees it too, feels it in every fiber of his being. The Aria he remembers had been beautiful in the way of blooming flowers—all potential and sweet innocence. This Aria is beautiful like fire, like storms, like things that could destroy you if you got too close.

"I'll always be your little girl," she says, but there's a smoky quality to her voice that suggests otherwise. Her storm-gray eyes find Dominic over her father's shoulder, and the look she gives him is anything but innocent. "Just... perhaps a more grown-up version."

Dominic's hands clench involuntarily at his sides. Two years of telling himself he'd imagined the electricity between them, that his attraction to her was a moment of weakness brought on by stress and proximity. Two years of convincing himself that what he'd felt was nothing more than misplaced protectiveness.

All lies. The proof stands before him in red silk and dangerous curves, making his mouth go dry and his pulse race like he's some green boy instead of a forty-year-old man who's seen enough darkness to fill several lifetimes.

"We have business to finish," Dominic says abruptly, his voice coming out rougher than intended. The words slice through the tender father-daughter reunion like a blade. "The Kozlov situation requires immediate attention."

Vincenzo releases Aria reluctantly, his brow furrowing as he studies Dominic's face. "Of course. Aria, darling, why don't you get settled? Unpack, rest. We'll have dinner together tonight and you can tell me everything about university."

"Everything?" Aria's smile is pure temptation. "Are you sure about that, Papa? College girls learn such... interesting things."

Dominic's jaw clenches so hard he's surprised his teeth don't crack. The innocent words carry an undertone that makes his blood burn, and from the way Vincenzo shifts uncomfortably, he's not the only one who hears it.

"Within reason," Vincenzo says quickly, obviously not wanting to contemplate exactly what his daughter might have learned during her time away. "Go on now. Dom and I need to discuss security arrangements."

Aria turns toward the door with fluid grace, but not before letting her gaze linger on Dominic one more time. It's a look that promises things he shouldn't want, shouldn't even be thinking about. A look that tells him she knows exactly what she's doing to him.

"Don't work too hard," she says softly, the words ostensibly directed at both men but her eyes locked on Dominic's. "Life's too short not to... enjoy ourselves."

The door closes behind her with a soft click that might as well be a gunshot for the way it makes Dominic flinch.

"Jesus Christ," Vincenzo breathes, sinking into his leather chair. "When did she become so... sophisticated?"

Dominic doesn't trust himself to speak. Instead, he moves to the window, putting distance between himself and the lingering scent of jasmine and sin that seems to follow Aria like a shadow. Outside, the courtyard stretches toward the guest house where he's lived for the past eight years, the space that had once felt like sanctuary now seeming like a prison.

"She's grown up, Vince," he finally manages, his voice carefully controlled. "It happens."

"Not like this." Vincenzo pours himself three fingers of scotch, his hands not quite steady. "She left here as my little princess, all laughter and innocence. She comes back looking like... like..."

"Like a woman," Dominic finishes, the words tasting like acid on his tongue.

"Like her mother." Vincenzo's voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Christ, Dom, she looks exactly like Isabella did at that age. Same fire, same danger. It terrifies me."

Dominic understands the fear. Isabella Moretti had been a force of nature—beautiful, passionate, and ultimately destroyed by the very fire that made her irresistible. She'd loved too hard, burned too bright, and paid the ultimate price for it. The idea of Aria walking the same path makes something cold and protective rise in Dominic's chest.

"She's not her mother," he says firmly. "Aria's stronger. Smarter."

"Is she?" Vincenzo studies him over the rim of his glass. "Because right now, I'm looking at a grown woman I barely recognize, and I'm wondering what else changed while she was gone."

Everything, Dominic thinks but doesn't say. Everything has changed, most of all the careful balance that kept his world in order.

They spend the next hour discussing business—shipments from Romania, territorial disputes with the Castellanos, the usual dance of power and violence that keeps their empire running. But Dominic's mind keeps drifting to storm-gray eyes and promises wrapped in silk. By the time Vincenzo dismisses him, his nerves feel raw and exposed.

"Take the evening off," Vincenzo says as Dominic reaches the door. "You've been gone six months. Rest. We'll start fresh tomorrow."

Rest. As if that's possible when every cell in his body is humming with awareness, when the very air seems charged with possibilities he can't allow himself to explore.

Dominic steps out of the study and into the marble hallway, immediately searching for any sign of Aria's presence. The house feels different with her in it—electric, dangerous, alive in ways that make his skin prickle with anticipation. He tells himself he's going to his quarters to shower, to change, to pretend this afternoon never happened.

Instead, he finds himself walking toward the back of the house, drawn by an instinct he doesn't want to examine too closely.

The courtyard spreads out before him like a Mediterranean dream—terra cotta tiles warm from the California sun, fountain gurgling softly in the center, olive trees casting dappled shadows across the stone. It's a place of peace, of sanctuary, where he's spent countless hours over the years finding solace from the darkness of his work.

But peace is the last thing he feels when he sees her.

Aria stands beside the fountain, her red dress a slash of color against the neutral tones of stone and water. She's changed from heels into bare feet, the simple shift making her seem more real somehow, less like the untouchable princess he's been telling himself she is. Her dark hair catches the afternoon light, and when she turns toward him, her smile is pure trouble.

"I was wondering when you'd find me," she says, her voice carrying easily across the space between them.

Dominic stops walking, every instinct screaming at him to turn around, to run, to put as much distance as possible between himself and this beautiful, dangerous woman. But his feet seem rooted to the spot, his body betraying him as completely as his mind.

"Aria." Her name is a warning, a plea, a prayer all rolled into one.

She takes a step toward him, then another, moving with the predatory grace of a woman who knows she holds all the power. The fountain continues its gentle song behind her, oblivious to the storm building in the space between them.

"Two years," she says softly, her eyes never leaving his. "Two years of wondering if I imagined it. If what I saw in your eyes before I left was real or just wishful thinking."

"You imagined it." The lie comes out harsh, desperate. "Whatever you think you saw—"

"I didn't imagine anything." She's close enough now that he can see the gold flecks in her gray eyes, can smell the jasmine perfume that seems to be permanently etched into his memory. "I didn't imagine the way you looked at me. The way you're looking at me right now."

Dominic's hands clench into fists, every muscle in his body coiled tight with the effort of maintaining control. "You're Vincenzo's daughter."

"I'm aware of that."

"You're nineteen years old."

"Almost twenty." Her smile is pure sin. "And you're forty. So what?"

"So everything." The words come out strangled, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "So this is impossible. So I'm your father's best friend, his enforcer, someone who's killed men with his bare hands. So you're innocent and pure and everything I'm not."

Aria laughs then, a sound like silver bells and dark promises. "Innocent?" She steps closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "Oh, Dominic. I think you'll find I'm not nearly as innocent as you remember."

Their eyes lock across the remaining distance between them, and in that moment, Dominic sees his hunger reflected at him with devastating clarity. This isn't the crush of a young girl on an older man. This is woman recognizing man, fire calling to fire, destruction courting catastrophe.

And God help him, he wants it more than his next breath.