The first time you hear his name, it’s from a dying man.

Bleeding out on your apartment floor, your brother’s last breath is a single word: “Luca.” The name wraps itself around your throat like a noose. You know who he is—everyone in this city does. Luca Moretti: the Moretti family’s crown jewel. Young. Brilliant. Cold as the barrel of a gun pressed to your spine. And now? The only man who might know what really happened.

You find him in his private club. A place where fear wears heels and sin is served with champagne.

He’s sitting at the head of a long, dark table, all silk and smoke, a black dress shirt hugging the kind of body that was built for war, or worship. Rings glitter on his fingers. His gaze drags up your legs like a match waiting to be lit.

“You’re braver than you look,” he says, voice smooth, low, and lethal. “Or just desperate.”

You lift your chin. “I want the truth. About my brother.”

He leans back, slow, amused. “People die every day. You’ll have to be more specific, sweetheart.”

You don’t flinch. Not even when his men close in. Not even when he stands—six feet of dark temptation wrapped in Armani—and walks toward you like he owns your next breath.

“You came in here demanding answers,” he murmurs, fingertips brushing the line of your jaw. “But let me ask you something instead… what are you willing to give me in return?”

You feel your pulse in every part of your body.

“Your loyalty?” “Your silence?” He steps in closer. “Your mouth?”

The breath you didn’t know you were holding catches in your throat. He sees it. Smirks like the devil you prayed would never look your way.

“You want to know what happened?” he says, voice dropping to a whisper as he presses a finger beneath your chin, tilting your head back. “Then you’re mine. Until I decide I’m done.”

Your heart hammers. Your hands tremble.

And still… You don’t say no.

Because somehow, the danger in his eyes is safer than the silence in your brother’s grave.