OLIVIA

Luca's dark and hungry eyes roamed over me like I was the only woman in the world, and he wanted to claim me. Did he want to kiss me? Please. Yes.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. "Let's find your brother first, shall we? I'll have my men collect clothes and personal items from your flat."

The matter-of-fact statement was a slap back to reality, my heated skin chilling in an instant. "Oh god, my flatmate Katie will freak out if strange men show up at our door."

I snatched my phone, desperate to avoid the dangerous intimacy between us. "Let me call her first."

"Of course. I have to give Marco instructions anyway."

Luca stepped into the hallway, and I dialled Katie's number. My leg jittered when the phone rang, then clicked to voicemail.

"Hey, it's Liv," I said after the beep, scrambling for the right words. "Something came up, so I'm staying with, erm, a friend for a few days. Could you pack some clothes and my toiletries for me? Someone will grab them later. And the box under my bed too. I'm okay, promise. You were right, I need to let loose a bit. Love you."

At least I wasn't lying—throwing myself at my host and almost kissing him was pretty much doing that. And if I was lucky, my overly cheerful tone sounded convincing enough. Knowing Katie, she'd come barging in otherwise demanding answers from him.

The door clicked shut as Luca returned, and I slipped the phone back into my bag.

"All set," he said. "Shall I show you to your room so you can settle in?"

The reality of my staying here sank in, and my pulse skittered. Pushing down my nerves, I followed him up a grand staircase, taking in the lavish surroundings.

"Here we are." He stopped before an imposing set of double doors, which opened into a suite easily triple the size of my bedroom.

I gasped, taking in the huge space dominated by dark, minimalist decor, much like most of his home. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the gardens, and warm lamplight washed over plush chairs and polished wood.

The massive king-size bed with a tufted headboard and matching bench in the adjoining bedroom was fit for royalty. Which Luca was, in a way. The criminal kind.

It was all dizzying and decadent, a far cry from my cramped, messy flat with Katie. Places like this only existed in glossy magazines.

"Feel free to explore this wing of the house. My room is at the end of the corridor if you need anything." His expression turned serious. "But the rest of the mansion is off-limits. And this isn't a request."

My smile faded. Despite his generosity, I was far from free here.

"This mansion is my family's home. Our privacy must be respected, or my brother will have a problem with your presence."

As much as my uneasiness grew, he was already going out of his way by letting me stay here. "I won't overstep."

His posture relaxed. "You can come and go as you please, within reason. However, you'll need to be accompanied by me or one of my men when you're out."

'Within reason' sounded less like a safety measure and more like a gilded cage. But I wasn't in a position to argue.

"Still, consider this your home while you are here."

My home. It was tempting to forget that this was part of our agreement.

Somehow, I'd gone from investigating the most powerful man in London's underworld to becoming his security-detailed houseguest. Had I struck a deal with the devil?

And yet, he was also the man who'd come to my rescue without hesitation, whisking me to his fortress.

"You must be starving after your shift." Luca motioned toward the hallway, and my empty stomach grumbled in response. "Why don't we get some food?"

As we walked downstairs, I tried not to gawk, but it was hard not to when, clearly, no expense was spared in this house. The enormous kitchen itself was a blend of industrial-chic and contemporary design fitted with the latest appliances, nicer than most restaurants.

I perched on a barstool at the large island in the middle, tracing the contours of his back as he rolled the sleeves of his tailored shirt and rummaged through the massive fridge.

Watching one of the most feared men in the city—possibly the country—gather ingredients and pots in his expensive clothes was almost comical. Another side of him I hadn't expected.

"Don't you have a personal chef or something?" I teased while he looked for something in his pantry.

"I do, but the staff's off duty. Lucky for you, I know my way around the kitchen."

The grin he flashed me over his shoulder made my stomach flip, and the memory of our near-kiss in his study came rushing back. 

That heat in his eyes, the way my body responded, I still hadn't fully recovered from it. Was he thinking about it too?

"No one's ever really cooked for me before," I blurted out while he diced tomatoes with lethal precision.

Only Noah. Even when money had been tight, my brother would perform magic, putting together tasty meals from our simple ingredients.

"You've never had a man make you dinner?" The way Luca held my gaze did unfair things to me. Why did he affect me so easily? "They weren't doing it right."

The pop of the cork echoed in the room as he opened a bottle of wine—Italian, from what I could tell—and handed me a glass. "Cooking is delightful with the right company."

Heat rushed to my cheeks at his implication. I took a slow sip to distract myself from the growing attraction, the rich notes of the wine mesmerising my senses.

Meanwhile, he chopped and stirred, his movements fluid and deliberate, forearms flexing subtly. He was a living fantasy, standing in his luxurious kitchen while the delicious aroma of his cooking filled the air. Talk about whetting my appetite.

Not that I didn't feel that way every time I looked at Luca...

Out of the gutter, Olivia.

As if that was easy. Seeing this domestic side of him was disarming. It made him seem more...human. And ridiculously sexy, as he scooped piping hot pasta onto two plates and ladled a glossy, vibrant red sauce on top.

"Prego," he said, placing one in front of me.

"Thanks."

But I was unprepared for the explosion of flavours on my tongue once I twirled some pasta around my fork and took a bite. "Wow. This is, hands down, the most delicious Italian food I've ever tasted."

A satisfied smile blossomed on his face. How the hell was he even more charming now?

"Cara, there's no Italian food like the real homemade stuff made by an Italian." His tone took on a smoky note. "And this is my nonna's special marinara recipe."

"Apparently, so." I took another heavenly bite, marinara sauce clinging to my face. Classy, but the food was too good to waste time.

"Here, let me—" He reached out and wiped it with his thumb, his gaze fixed on my mouth.

My breath caught at the touch, my lips tingling wherever his fingertip grazed. And when he brought his digit to his mouth and sucked the sauce off in a move far too calculated to be innocent, I had to grip the island to steady myself.

Damn the Luca Moretti effect.

"Delicious," he purred.

God, he was doing this on purpose, wasn't he? Toying with my senses, tempting me closer.

I fumbled for my wineglass again, needing to compose myself. Except, the fire he'd ignited inside me with just the swipe of his finger made other parts of me crave his touch.

"The closest I ever got to authentic Italian were the Italian classes at uni." Was this the best I could come up with? According to my non-functioning brain, yes.

"Allora parliamo in italiano."

Oh, nonono. There was no need for any more embarrassment. "Non sono molto brava. Had to drop it pretty quickly to pick up more shifts at the cafe for extra rent money. But I've always wanted to visit Italy to see the art. Michelangelo, da Vinci, Caravaggio."

It was a silly dream. Girls like me didn't holiday across Europe or study abroad, yet it was nice to imagine.

"There are three things that are better experienced with a real Italian, and language is one of them." He paused, and a mischievous grin curled his mouth. "Mastering Italian requires complete immersion. I'd be happy to help you."

My mind scrambled, imagining the intimate lessons that would ruin me for any other man.

If he keeps offering to demonstrate things, I'm going to say yes soon enough. I took another hasty gulp of wine. 

At this rate, I was going to be tipsy in no time. It was almost like a drinking game—a sip every time Luca Moretti turned me on.

"So, food, language. What's the third?" I tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Epic fail, because he leaned in, warm breath tickling the side of my face. "Sex."

A tumultuous ache erupted between my legs. I pressed my thighs together under the table, willing my body not to react, but the heat was building already.

It was official—staying here was the worst possible idea.

Luca took another bite, eyes dancing with satisfaction as he watched me squirm, enjoying this game a little too much. I needed to change the subject before we found ourselves where we usually ended up—that fine line where reason bowed to desire and my body overruled my mind.

Clearing my throat, I sat up a little straighter. "So, did your nonna teach you her recipes?"

"She did. Sundays were spent cooking together, a tradition she insisted on. It was...a different time back then."

"What about your parents? What are they like?"

The expression on his face changed. "My father passed away a few years ago. He was rather demanding of my brother and me. And he didn't want my mother coddling us too much."

The casual shrug masked his emotions, but not the hurt and loneliness in his tone. "She still found ways to sneak in affection when he wasn't around. Little moments to remind us we were loved."

My heart ached at the images. A little boy starved for his mother's warmth and tenderness. I understood that all too well, except his mother was willing to give it.

It was ironic how much those childhood moments defined us—whether for good or bad—even when we were way beyond the reach of our parents.

"She sounds lovely. Do you see her often?"

"It's...complicated," was all he offered in reply, and I didn't push.

"We never really had family dinners like this growing up." I wasn't sure what compelled me to tell him.

Almost like there was this need inside to share more about myself. To connect. As if we were kindred spirits, despite our worlds being opposites.

"My mum was too depressed to cook much after my dad left. And her parents wanted nothing to do with us once she spiralled deep into alcoholism."

Bittersweet memories came rushing back while I stared down at my empty plate. Every time she'd try getting sober, swearing a new attempt would stick, only to relapse again within weeks, sometimes days. Or hours.

"Addiction turns people into shadows of themselves." His eyes radiated an understanding that wrapped around me like a soothing blanket.

"She wasn't always lost to her demons. When Noah and I were little, she could be so bright and loving during her brief sober stretches."

Why did I feel this need to defend her, even now?

Regret welled up inside me, and I let it out all with an exhale. "It just...never lasted. I guess her love for us was not strong enough. Booze always won in the end."

Unworthy of the love of the two people supposed to love us unconditionally. At least we knew what she had abandoned us for—my birth father just left without a word.

"Family can be complicated," he said, and I wondered if he referred to his mafia family or actual relatives. But he didn't go further, clearing his throat instead. "It's getting late. We should call it a night."

The stool legs scraped against the floor when we stood up. I reached to gather the empty plates and utensils, but Luca's light touch on my wrist stopped me.

"Leave it. I'll take care of the cleaning up. You should get some rest."

I wanted to protest, but one look at his determined face told me arguing would be pointless. "Thank you again. For everything."

His look softened, dark eyes warm. "I can walk you back to your room."

"No, it's okay. I can find it." As much as I wanted more time together, clearing my muddled thoughts was a priority.

"Buonanotte."

Emotions churned within me as I wished him good night and wandered alone through the mansion's maze of corridors. How did he keep unravelling my every notion of who I thought Luca Moretti was?

It wasn't just the physical attraction or the forward flirtation that left me craving more. The unexpectedly caring side he revealed in tender moments was slipping past my defences, changing how I saw him. I craved his company, the gentle way he'd look at me, yet a deeper part of me feared what that meant.

A few more turns and I was lost. Literary.

So much for managing on my own.

Unless...I used it to my advantage. If the Morettis were involved in my brother's disappearance, this was the time to find some clues. 

Before I fell further for Luca's charms.

His study would be a good place to start, provided I could find my way there. Each closed door along the corridor taunted me, possibly concealing the answers I needed. Although I wasn't sure whether I was looking for evidence to confirm his guilt or to prove myself wrong.

Screw it. I paused outside one, pulse racing. With a deep breath, I turned the handle, bracing for alarms. None sounded, and it was unlocked.

Cracking the door, I peered inside. The room was too shadowy to make out much, though it was definitely not his study. No windows or black wood-lined walls. My hand fumbled until I found a light switch.

This—

Heat crept up my neck at the sight of the bondage equipment and luxury furnishings, like something from the explicit fantasies that played out in my head ever since I started at L'Ombra.

It was a private playroom. Luca's.

A quick look can't hurt. Or so I told myself as I stepped inside.

My fingers glided over the smooth leather and cold metal. Mirrors hung on the ceiling and some off the walls. Next to the display with toys stood a St. Andrew's Cross, reinforced for restraint. My legs trembled, and warmth flooded my core as I pictured being bound and exposed, my body arching against the smooth timber. Raw, vulnerable, lost to ecstasy.

Curiosity got the better of me. I picked up a riding crop, trailing the tip along my wrist and up my arm. I imagined that crop landing on other parts of my body, marking me as I moaned and—

"Do you intend to continue snooping, or were you hoping to get caught?"