My phone's ringtone—Puccini's "O Mio Babbino Caro"—sliced through the silence of my Manhattan penthouse, a cruel little joke considering my estrangement from my father. 

I'd chosen it deliberately, a constant, low-hum reminder of everything I'd left behind in Naples ten years ago. A reminder of him.

I groaned, reaching for the phone on my nightstand. As senior legal counsel for Paramount Ventures, silencing my phone was a luxury I couldn't afford, even on my first real vacation in years.

"Pronto," I answered, the Italian slipping out before I could stop it. Sleep always makes my guard drop.

"Hello Valeria, how are you doing?" Edward Kensington's gruff voice filled my ear. His British accent was sharper than usual, laced with that unmistakable edge of stress.

"Uhm—" I started, but he steamrolled over me, as always.

"We have to close out on the investment deal this week." The tension in his voice was palpable. "I need you to come to New York immediately. I hate to stop your vacation."

I pushed myself up against the headboard of my king-size bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets sliding off my shoulders. The LED display of my alarm clock glowed accusingly: 3:07 AM. 

"I'll be there in the morning," I replied.

The line went dead. Edward never wasted time on pleasantries.

I slipped out of bed and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering Manhattan skyline. The city never slept, much like the underworld I'd escaped. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, allowing myself a moment of weakness before the armour would come back on.

This deal. It was the key. After this deal, I'd be named partner. It was everything I'd worked for—ten years of sixteen-hour days, sacrificed relationships, and meticulously constructed Americanization. After a decade, I would finally be one of the senior partners of a legitimate business, a business with absolutely no ties to his world.

I hated the thought that my ambition, this burning need to prove myself, came from Salvatore "The Butcher" Ricci, former capo of the Ricci crime family. I'd spent so long running from his legacy, trying to build something for myself that wasn't stained with blood money. And finally, I was here. Finally, it was happening.

What Edward didn't know—what nobody at Paramount knew—was that Valeria Ricciardo was born Valentina Ricci, daughter of one of the most feared men in the Camorra. I'd buried that identity when I fled to America at eighteen, leaving behind not just my father but also him. My first love. The boy who'd been groomed to be my father's successor. The boy whose name I hadn't spoken in ten years.

Turning from the window, I headed to the shower. I had a flight to catch and a deal to close. Whatever waited for me in New York, I would handle it with the same precision I'd handled everything else in my carefully constructed new life.

After all, I hadn't survived growing up in the Ricci household without learning how to navigate dangerous waters.

The Costello Holdings offices dominated the top three floors of a sleek glass tower in Midtown Manhattan, the company name gleaming in understated brushed steel. I checked my reflection in the polished elevator doors, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from my beige halter-shoulder dress. The Louboutin pumps, adding four inches to my height, were a calculated advantage. In negotiations, every edge counted.

"Ms. Ricciardo? They're ready for you in the main conference room," the receptionist informed me as I stepped onto the 47th floor.

I nodded, following the young woman down a corridor lined with black and white photographs of New York landmarks. Tasteful, expensive, and deliberately bland—nothing to reveal the true nature of Costello Holdings.

Paramount Ventures was losing money, and this deal was our last lifeline. Edward had been vague about our potential investors, only mentioning "private equity with European connections." 

But I'd done my homework on the flight from London. Costello Holdings had materialized five years ago, making strategic investments in real estate, technology, and entertainment. The pattern was unmistakable: money laundering masquerading as legitimate business.

Someone was cleaning dirty money, and Paramount was about to become their newest laundry cycle.

The conference room doors swung open, and my heart skipped.

Seated at the head of the polished mahogany table was a ghost from my past. Michele "The Prince" DiMarco. He'd transformed from the lean, hungry boy I remembered into a man whose presence filled the room. His once unruly black hair was now closely cropped, his olive skin a perfect backdrop for eyes the colour of aged whiskey. The bespoke suit—Tom Ford, I'd bet—draped perfectly over shoulders that had broadened considerably.

Recognition flashed in his eyes, quickly masked by a cool professionalism that told me this was no coincidence.

"Ms. Ricciardo," he said, standing and extending his hand. "Michele DiMarco. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

His accent was still there, a subtle undertone, like a fine wine that had been allowed to breathe. I took his hand, ignoring the subtle jolt that shot up my arm at his touch.

"Mr. DiMarco," I replied, keeping my voice level. "I believe Mr. Krane was expected as well?"

Michele's smile didn't reach his eyes. "My partner sends his apologies. We had some other pressing business matters he had to attend to." He gestured to the empty chair at his right. "Please, join us."

The meeting was a blur of financial terms and legal clauses, but my mind was racing behind my composed facade. Michele—or Michael, as he now styled himself—had found me. After all these years, he'd tracked me down and orchestrated this meeting. The question was why.

Two hours later, the other executives filed out, leaving me alone with the man I'd once thought I would marry.

"I would like to discuss some additional terms in private," Michele said to the departing suits. "Ms. Ricciardo and I have a few details to iron out."

When the door closed, silence descended on the room. Michele studied me openly now, his gaze moving from my face to my body and back again.

"Why am I here?" I finally asked, abandoning all pretense. "What do you want from me?"

Michele leaned back in his chair, his posture deceptively relaxed. "I had to see you again, Valentina."

The name hit me like a physical blow. "That's not my name anymore."

"No?" He tilted his head. "You've become Valeria now? A small change. Still holding onto a piece of who you really are."

I stood, gathering my documents. "If you have nothing substantive to discuss about the deal, I'll be leaving."

"The deal is important for your firm," Michele corrected, his voice hardening slightly. "For Costello Holdings, it's merely... convenient."

"What do you want?" I demanded again, my knuckles white around the handle of my briefcase.

Michele rose from his seat and came around the desk, leaning against it as I stood rigid before him. He was close enough that I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and bergamot, expensive and subtle.

"You've forgotten me, Valentina," he said, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "Why? Because you chose to forget me. We were beneath you, right? Your family? Me? We were all beneath you."

"That's not why I left," I replied, hating the defensive note in my voice.

Michele drew a slim cigar from his inner pocket, clipping the end with a gold cutter before lighting it with practised movements. He took a deep draw, exhaling a stream of fragrant smoke before reaching out to touch my hair.

"You haven't changed," he murmured, his fingers trailing down a dark strand. "Still so stubborn."

I remained perfectly still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me retreat. 

"This is not why I'm here."

He stepped closer, invading my personal space until I could feel the heat radiating from his body. I burned with a conflicting mixture of anger and an urge I couldn't place.

Michele extinguished his cigar in a nearby ashtray and took my hands in his, his thumbs tracing small circles on my wrists where my pulse betrayed my agitation.

"It's very good to see you again, Valentina," he said, his eyes holding mine. 

"Now that you're in town, we can meet at the property downtown to talk business. I just wanted to see you today. I hope I didn't offend you."

The abrupt shift in tone left me disoriented. He returned to his seat, though his eyes still roamed over my body with undisguised interest.

"I'll meet you tomorrow," I managed, gathering my composure.

His smiled. "It's good to see you again, Valentina."

As I left the building, my mind raced. Michele DiMarco had been the son of my father's consigliere, groomed from childhood to eventually take over the Ricci family business. Our families had encouraged our relationship, seeing it as a perfect alliance. What they hadn't counted on was that we would actually fall in love—or that I would ultimately choose freedom over family.

Now, a decade later, he'd found me. 

The address Michele had given me led to a renovated warehouse in Tribeca. The gentrified neighbourhood had come a long way from its industrial roots, now a haven of upscale lofts, art galleries, and restaurants where reservations were booked months in advance.

A doorman in a discreet black suit nodded in recognition as I approached. "Ms. Ricci. Mr. DiMarco is expecting you on the top floor."

The private elevator required a keycard, which the doorman provided, and its brushed metal surface embossed with the Costello Holdings logo. As the elevator ascended, I took a moment to centre myself. This meeting wasn't about the past; it was about securing Paramount's future. Personal history had no place in business negotiations.

The doors opened directly into a stunning loft apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Manhattan skyline, now bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. The space was minimally furnished with pieces that spoke of wealth and taste—Italian leather, brushed steel, and rich hardwoods that reminded me of Neapolitan craftsmanship.

Michele stood at a vintage bar cart, pouring amber liquid into two crystal tumblers. He'd shed his suit jacket and tie, his crisp white shirt open at the collar and sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms marked with a few faded scars. Badges of honour in his world.

"Valentina," he greeted without turning. "Eighteen-year Macallan, if I remember correctly."

It had been my drink of choice during our last summer together, stolen from my father's liquor cabinet during a midnight rendezvous at the DiMarco family's beach villa in Positano.

"Thank you," I said, accepting the glass and taking a deliberate sip. The smoky liquid burned pleasantly down my throat, warming me from the inside. "Beautiful space."

Michele gestured broadly. "A recent acquisition. The previous owner was... motivated to sell."

There was a story there, but not one I wanted to hear. "You mentioned discussing business downtown. Is this a Costello Holdings property?"

"Among other things." He settled into a leather armchair, motioning for me to take the matching one opposite him.

"Tell me, how much do you know about Paramount's financial situation?"

The question caught me off guard. "I know enough."

Michele's smile was knowing. "You know they're three months from bankruptcy. You know the Kensington family has been siphoning money from the company for years. And you know that without an immediate influx of capital, there won't be a partnership position for you to take."

I kept my expression neutral, though internally I was recalculating. Michele had inside information that even I wasn't privy to.

"What exactly are you proposing?" I asked.

"A partnership of sorts." Michele leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Costello Holdings will provide the capital Paramount needs. In return, we gain controlling interest and place our people in key positions."

"Including me," I stated flatly.

"Especially you." His eyes held mine. "You'd retain your title, your salary would double, and you'd report directly to me."

I set my glass down carefully. "Why would I agree to that?"

"Because the alternative is watching everything you've worked for crumble to dust." Michele's voice was soft but implacable. "And because deep down, Valentina, you miss it."

"Miss what?" I challenged, though I already knew the answer.

"The family. The power. The knowledge that you belong to something greater than yourself." His gaze was penetrating. "You've been playing at legitimacy for a decade, but it's in your blood. You're Salvatore Ricci's daughter. The blood of the Camorra flows in your veins."

I stood abruptly, moving to the window to put distance between us. "My father is dead to me."

"Yet here you are, about to partner with another family." Michele came up behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck. "What do you think Costello Holdings really is, cara mia? We've expanded beyond Naples, established ourselves in America, but the core remains the same."

I turned to face him, our bodies inches apart. "And what is my role in this expansion?"

"You know American business, American law. You've built connections, and earned trust." His hand came up to cup my cheek. "You're the perfect bridge between our old world and the new one we're building."

"And if I refuse?"

Michele's thumb traced my lower lip, his touch sending ripples of unwanted desire through my body. "Why would you refuse? I'm offering you everything you've worked for, plus the power and protection of the family. No more pretending to be something you're not."

"You don't know who I am anymore," I whispered, but there was less conviction in my voice than I'd intended.

"Don't I?" He stepped even closer, his body now pressed against mine, backing me against the cool glass of the window. "I know you wake up some nights with your heart racing, remembering the sound of gunfire outside your father's compound. I know you check every restaurant for exits before you sit down. I know you keep a gun in your nightstand even though you tell yourself you've left that life behind."

Each word struck with frightening accuracy. I felt exposed, and vulnerable in a way I hadn't allowed myself to be since leaving Italy.

"How long have you been watching me?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

"I never stopped." Michele's confession hung in the air between us, laden with a decade of unspoken emotions.

The tension between us shifted, anger giving way to a different kind of heat. Michele's hand moved from my face to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as he pulled me closer.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his lips hovering just above mine.

I knew I should. This man represented everything I'd fought to escape. But my body remembered him—the taste of his mouth, the strength of his hands, the way he'd once made me feel both safe and dangerous at the same time.

Instead of pushing him away, my hands slid up his chest, feeling the solid warmth beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. "Michele..."

My voice broke the last of his restraint. He captured my mouth in a kiss that was both familiar and new, gentle at first, then increasingly demanding as I responded. The years melted away, muscle memory taking over as my body moulded to his.

Michele backed me further against the window, lifting me easily until my legs wrapped around his waist. His mouth moved to my neck, trailing hot kisses down to the swell of my breasts visible above my dress.

"I've dreamed of this," he growled against my skin. "Of you, back in my arms."

My head fell back against the glass as his hands found the zipper of my dress, slowly drawing it down. The cool air on my exposed back contrasted with the heat building inside me. Rational thought was rapidly disappearing, replaced by a primal need I'd suppressed for too long.