Page 2 of Modern Romance November 2026 Books 5-8

Tears welled in my eyes. My mind floated on a sea of terrifying thoughts while he tied a rope around my wrists.

How long had he been in the room? Long enough to prepare for my arrival. I hadn’t turned the lights on when I’d come into the suite earlier, still dreamy after the wedding and captivated by the romance of the night-time view from the terrazzo as the storm approached.

You clueless idiot, Evie.

He murmured something in Italian, the tone harsh and unmoved. I only caught a couple of words—silenzio again, and obbediscimi—which I guessed meant obey me, but my Italian was barely functional at the best of times. And these were not the best of times.

He yanked the rope attached to my wrists, hauling me through my bedroom and into the bathroom, then flicked the light switch.

My breath clogged as I got my first good look at him, much closer now than he had been on the beach yesterday. He wore only a pair of dirty jeans. The muscular slopes of his bare chest flexed, covered in tattoos and a dusting of dark hair that trailed down to a fine line through lean abs. He turned his back on me. My shocked gasp was audible above the hum of the room’s fan.

His back was covered in scars and bruises, some old, but many new. The welts crisscrossed his spine, his ribs visible. He was thin, too thin, but still appeared overwhelming, his shoulders wide, his arms roped with muscle, his damp hair an inky black in the fluorescent light. His tanned skin gleamed, the elaborate tattoo of a winged beast covering one shoulder and the gold cross around his neck somehow more vivid against his swarthy complexion. I noticed the blood-stained towels on the bathroom floor and the torn remnants of a dirty shirt in the tiled cubicle.

So, he had taken a shower. Probably while I was celebrating the marriage of his brother to my sister.

People had always called me petite because I barely scraped five foot. And I’d always hated it, but I felt petite now, in fact I felt totally insignificant. He towered over me as he strode towards the bathroom cabinet, still yanking the rope, forcing me to follow.

He rummaged through the cabinet. Then I spotted the butt of the gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

I’d seen guns before now—all Vito’s men were armed. But only from a distance. Up close, this weapon looked much more deadly, no longer like a movie prop, but horrifyingly, terrifyingly real.

His gaze connected with mine in the cabinet mirror as he slammed it shut. He stuffed the box of painkillers he’d grabbed into his jeans pocket then turned around. And drew out the revolver.

I began to shake again. Absolutely petrified now. My mind numb with fear.

‘Please don’t shoot me…’ I said, but the plea came out in a muffled grunt around the gag.

He tugged the rope until I was so close to him I could feel the heat of his chest, see the nick on his chin where he must have shaved with my razor… His clean musty scent filled my senses.

Then he trailed the barrel of the revolver over my cheek and down my neck, the light touch chilling my already clammy skin.

‘Obbediscimi,’ he ordered again, his tone low, but the demand for me to obey him unmistakable. His pupils widened to edge out the cerulean blue of his irises as he whispered the word.

What was that? Awareness? Arousal?

I shuddered.

But then he frowned, as if his response had annoyed him.

Was that frustration on his face? Anger? Denial? God, I hoped so, because I did not want to get assaulted right now.

I had virtually no experience when it came to sex… The truth was, I’d never even gone all the way with any of the tame boys I’d dated in secondary school. Mia had once joked that I was a clueless romantic. I wasn’t waiting for Mr Right, because I wasn’t quite that naïve… After all, I’d grown up without a dad, just like Mia, because neither of the men who had got our mum pregnant had been interested in being fathers. Not a massive surprise, given that our mum was the worst judge of character imaginable.

But what I had been waiting for was the connection I’d read about in novels—you know, the visceral connection that made your heart pump and your body go limp with longing. The hot instant spark which I knew could turn into something real and lasting, because I’d witnessed it happen between Mia and Vito.

But I regretted waiting for that spark big time now. Why had I waited, when I was about to die?

I jerked back from the gun barrel, tears scalding my eyes.

I tried to plead with him again. But it was no use, the gag made it impossible. And anyway, I didn’t speak Italian. I only understood a few words.

But as he tucked the gun back into his jeans, I suspected even if I had been fluent and not gagged, pleading with him wouldn’t have done me any good. Because it was obvious from his ruthless expression, he had intended to terrify me.

Wrapping the end of the rope around his hand, he hauled me back into the bedroom and started searching my chest of drawers.

The popping sounds came from outside again, and more shouts in the distance, closer now. I clung to them. Maybe Vito’s men would discover us, before anything really bad could happen.

But what made me less confident was Dante’s indifference to the gunfire. He didn’t even flinch at the sound.