Chapter 1 - THE WOMAN WITH THE WHITE LILIES
“The First Woman Who Walks Through That Door Is Mine,” The Mafia Boss Said—Then She Appeared!
The dining room of the Deuca estate had been built for thirty people and used, most nights, by four.
Alessandro Deuca sat at the head of a table long enough to require a second chandelier. He had eaten at it alone for eleven years, since his father's funeral, and he had stopped noticing the empty chairs around the year three.
Across from him, Mateo poured himself a third glass of wine he did not need.
Thirty-six years, Mateo said, and nobody dares look you in the eye.
Don't start.
I haven't said a word yet.
Your face is broadcasting loudly enough.
Mateo laughed, and the sound went up into the ceiling and came back down empty. Our feared Alessandro Deuca. Men won't sit across from you without double-checking their life insurance policies. But women — he leaned back, enjoying himself — rumor has it they take one look at your portfolio and sprint for the state line.
Maybe I prefer peace.
No. You like absolute control. Mateo set his glass down. You've spent ten years mastering everything. Shipping lines. Politicians. Rivals. The police. But you can't control the one thing that matters to a normal man.
And what's that.
A woman walking willingly through your front door.
The room went quiet in the specific way rooms went quiet around Alessandro — not because he'd spoken, but because he hadn't.
Careful, Mateo, he said at last. You're testing the boundaries of family tonight.
Good thing I'm bulletproof tonight. Mateo grinned. Let's make a wager.
Alessandro turned his glass once on the linen.
The very first woman who walks through those double doors, Mateo said, you take her out to dinner. Proper date. No shortcuts.
You're an absolute idiot.
Scared of a woman?
Alessandro looked at him.
Then prove it.
The clock in the hall moved. Somewhere behind the wall, staff cleared plates in the kitchen, and the low clatter of it was the only sound in the house.
Fine, Alessandro said.
Mateo's eyebrows went up.
The first woman who walks through those doors is mine.
Mateo laughed again — louder this time, delighted, already spending the story at some dinner three months from now.
The double doors at the end of the room opened.
A woman came through them backwards, shouldering one of the panels with her hip because both arms were full of flowers. White lilies, wrapped in paper, three dozen of them at least, stacked so high she couldn't see over the top.
She got four steps into the room before she registered the table. Then the chairs. Then the two men at the far end, watching her.
She stopped dead.
Oh — I'm sorry. Her voice came out light and fast. I think I came through the wrong entrance. The side gate was open.
Neither of them answered.
She shifted the flowers, trying to find a hand free, and failed. You shouldn't be here, piccola, Mateo said, in a tone that was half amusement and half genuine warning.
Apparently, yes. She took a step backward toward the doors. I'm sorry. I would go now.
The lilies slipped. She caught them against her chest with both arms and lost the paper on the bottom bunch; it slid to the floor and she stared at it like it had betrayed her personally.
Flowers for the charity gala tomorrow, she said. The driver got confused.
Mateo snorted into his wine. The sound broke something open, and he laughed — actually laughed, the way he hadn't laughed in that house in months.
Alessandro stood up.
He walked down the length of the table without hurry. He stopped beside her, and she had to tilt her head back to look at him, and the flowers between them made the whole thing ridiculous.
Let me have that.
Oh — no. Don't worry—
He took the stack out of her arms. She let go a half-second too late, hands still shaped around nothing.
You can breathe, piccola.
I'm breathing.
He set the flowers on the sideboard, aligned them, and turned back.
What's your name?
Amelia. She said it quickly, like a reflex. Amelia Bennett.
Alessandro Deuca.
Something moved across her face — a small, involuntary recognition, the kind people tried to hide and never could.
You've heard of me.
Um. A little.
Behind her, through the window, headlights swept across the gravel drive. She glanced back at them with visible relief.
That's my ride. Boyfriend. Fiancé.
Alessandro did not look at the window.
Fiancé, he repeated.
Thank you for your help. Really.
She took her flowers off the sideboard and went back out through the double doors, and one of them swung shut behind her with a soft, final sound.
Mateo was still grinning when Alessandro sat back down.
Well. Technically, you said she'd be yours. You didn't specify her marital status.
Alessandro watched the closed doors.
I don't care about technicalities, Mateo.
You're staring.
I'm cataloging.
Same thing.
Outside, Amelia Bennett hurried toward the waiting car.
Her fiancé, Julian Price, stood beside the passenger door.
He wasn't smiling.
“Where have you been?”
“Delivering flowers.”
“I told you to use the service entrance.”
“The gate was open. The driver took the wrong turn.”
Julian glanced toward the mansion.
“Did you speak to anyone?”
Amelia hesitated.
“Two men.”
His expression changed.
“Which men?”
“One introduced himself as Alessandro Deuca.”
Julian went completely still.
Then he grabbed her wrist.
“What did you tell him?”
Amelia stared at his hand.
“Julian. You're hurting me.”
He released her immediately.
But his eyes remained hard.
“Answer me.”
“My name. That's all.”
Julian looked toward the house again.
Then opened the car door.
“Get in.”
Amelia didn't move.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
He leaned closer.
“Because people like Alessandro Deuca don't help strangers without wanting something.”
Amelia looked back at the mansion.
Through the tall windows, she could see the dining room chandeliers.
And a man standing alone beside the table.
Alessandro.
Watching the driveway.
She turned away.
But before she entered the car, she noticed something strange.
A tiny folded piece of paper had been tucked beneath the ribbon around her bouquet.
She hadn't put it there.
Neither had the driver.
She slipped it into her coat pocket.
Julian didn't notice.
Not until later that night, when she unfolded it beneath the bathroom light, did Amelia discover the message.
Five words.
Written in hurried black ink.
DON'T MARRY JULIAN. ASK ABOUT ROSE.
Amelia stared at the note.
May you like
Her younger sister's name was Rose.
And Rose Bennett had been missing for eleven months.
