Chapter 2

Elena's POV

The Syria documents were spread out in front of me, the screen showing a recruitment email from the International News Agency.

I stared at the words "war correspondent" for a long time.

When the door opened, I minimized the browser window on instinct. Riccardo walked in, his eyes landing on the printed materials on my desk.

"Syria?"

"Research for the subsidiary's project." I kept my tone as natural as possible.

His hand rested on the back of my chair. His fingers were close to my shoulder.

"That's not a place we do business right now."

"Preliminary research. It probably won't go anywhere."

His palm dropped onto my shoulder, his thumb pressing against the side of my neck.

"Either way," his voice lowered, "you're not going. It's too dangerous."

I didn't respond.

Dangerous.

That word coming from his mouth was like a needle jabbing into an old wound.

That family meeting had gone south. The Sicily crew had threatened to "teach him a lesson." I got word that he'd been cornered at a hotel in Milan, so I went there that same night.

Two a.m., I searched dozens of hotels in the freezing wind.

My phone died, my fingers went numb. Finally Luca called me back, his tone confused: "Ma'am? The boss flew back to Naples yesterday afternoon."

When I got back to the estate, Riccardo was in his study having tea with Serena. When he saw how disheveled I looked, he just raised an eyebrow.

"Where were you? Luca said he couldn't find you."

I cried in the bathroom for a long time that day.

It never occurred to him to tell me he was already safe.

"Elena." Riccardo's voice pulled me back. "You're not actually thinking about going to Syria, are you?"

"I won't go." I lowered my head, straightening the documents. "I'm just doing research."

Riccardo's brow furrowed.

"Have you had a problem with me lately?"

"No."

"Then why have you been avoiding me?"

"I haven't been avoiding you."

His hand gripped my waist, his thumb pressing into my hip bone, rubbing slowly through the fabric of my shirt. The gesture carried a familiar implication, and my body reacted before my mind could—my waist went soft for a moment, my breathing grew heavy.

"Are you thinking about Milan again? Milan was my mistake." His tone was like he was coaxing a petulant child. "Are we done with this now?"

I said nothing.

He started unbuttoning my shirt. First button. When his fingertip grazed my collarbone, I could feel my skin prickle.

My body had long since memorized his rhythm.

Second button. His palm pressed against me, rough calluses catching on the lace edge of my bra. He didn't go further—just traced the line, back and forth, slow.

My breathing scattered.

My rational mind cursed at me: Pathetic. He touches you and you melt.

But my hips tilted forward, my fingers gripped his shirtsleeve, knuckles white. His lips pressed against the skin behind my ear, his breath warm, teeth biting at the edge of my collar and pulling it aside, his tongue dragging across that patch of skin deliberately slowly.

His fingers finally slipped under the lace, his fingertip rolling over the peak, the pressure not gentle.

I couldn't help it—I made a muffled sound, my body leaning into his.

"Your mouth says one thing," his voice dropped, carrying a hint of amusement, "but your body's honest enough."

And then I thought of Serena.

I thought of how he'd let go of my hand every time he heard her voice. I thought of the newspaper photo of him draping his coat over her shoulders. Always Serena, the only woman who ever mattered in his life.

My stomach lurched violently.

I turned my head, pushed his arm away, and covered my mouth as I gagged.

His hand froze on my waist.

"What's wrong?"

"My stomach." I took a deep breath, my voice hoarse. "I think I ate something bad at lunch."

He stared at me, seeming like he wanted to say something—

But there was a knock at the door.

"Riccardo? Are you in there?" Serena's voice drifted through from outside, with that deliberately soft lilt. "The shower in my room is broken... can you come take a look?"

I buttoned my shirt, keeping my head down.

He turned and opened the door.

Serena stood in the hallway in a lace nightgown, the neckline plunging low. She saw me sitting inside, her eyes sweeping over me.

"Oh—did I interrupt?" Her tone was playful, but her eyes weren't.

"No." Riccardo's voice was flat. "Let's go take a look."

After the door closed, the study was so quiet I could hear the clock ticking.

Serena's laughter gradually faded down the hallway.

I sat there, looking down at my shirt—the buttons were misaligned, the collar crooked. I slowly undid them, rebuttoning them one by one.

This wasn't the first time.

Every time Riccardo and I were alone for more than ten minutes, Serena would "happen" to appear. Broken shower. Blown lightbulb. Stuck curtain rod. Missing cat.

And Riccardo would go every single time.

Every time.

I pulled the Syria application documents toward me.

International News Agency. War correspondent volunteer program. Syria deployment assignment.

This was the dream I'd given up when I married Riccardo.

But I wasn't his wife anymore.

I flipped the application to the last page.

Signature line.

I didn't hesitate, signing my name: Elena Rossi.

Not Castro.