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He grinned at me while I threw a lamp at his head.
The loud twin. The charming one. The one everybody underestimates because he’s smiling while he plots their death.
Emilio DiAngelo talks too much, touches too easily, and looks at me like I’m the most fascinating person in a building full of killers.
I’m not fascinating. I’m a bartender from Baltimore who overheard the wrong conversation and got dragged into a war I didn’t start.
He was supposed to protect me. Instead, he provoked me. Challenged me. Made me hit him, bite him, want him in ways I swore I’d never want anyone.
Gigi raised me to survive on my own. She didn’t raise me to fall for a man with a crooked grin and blood on his hands who fights like a devil and fucks like one too.
But he came back, every damn time. Bleeding and bruised, with that stupid grin on his face.
And somewhere amongst our bickering, I stopped finding reasons to leave and started finding reasons to stay.
