Melissa

Sebastian? Kissing another? That disgusting pig...

I saw them before anyone else could. Clutching the seatbelt, I restrained my hand from tapping Jasmine's shoulder. She was the one in the driver's seat, while Marie was sitting in the back.

I clenched my teeth shut, convinced my eyes were fooling me—but there they were, outside his car dealership parking lot. Her leg hooked over him, his hand slipping into her jeans. I'd always suspected him. *How do I tell her? When?* Jasmine's going to lose it if I do.

The light turned yellow. She pressed her foot on the gas, ready to surge forward at green. *Take a deep breath, Melissa… You have to tell her. She needs to be prepared before she sees them herself and spirals.* *Fuck, what was I supposed to say?*

"Jasmine," I called, scratching my furrowed brow as I braced myself.

She swayed her head to the radio's blaring music, blissfully unaware. *God, I hate myself.* She'd be sobbing soon, but it wasn't my fault. That asshole boyfriend of hers…

"You know how I've always warned you Sebastian's no good for you?"

She cracked one eye open, side-eyeing me. "We've already been through this, Mel. I know he's not perfect—anger issues, whatever. But I love him as he is. He's the sweetest when it counts."

"Well, Sebastian's *sweetening* someone else," I snapped, instantly regretting the words as they tumbled out.

"What did you just say?" Jasmine hissed, fury simmering beneath her skin. I lifted a shaky finger toward where I'd seen them, cringing inwardly. Jasmine froze, both hands strangling the steering wheel. Her mouth hung open in shock, brows knitted, eyes glued ahead—*not on the road*.

"Jasmine! **JASMINE!**" A horn blared. I lunged, wrenching the wheel. She jerked, foot slamming the gas. The car swerved, tires screeching, hurtling toward Sebastian and the woman.

**Bam.**

The sickening crunch of metal devoured our screams. My chest burned as if the seatbelt had branded itself into my skin, locking me in place as we plowed into the car.

When I pried my eyes open, shattered glass littered my lap. Cuts striped my arms, blood blooming across my white shirt. Smoke coiled from the mangled engine.

I twisted to check the others. Marie slumped forward from the backseat, her head cradled between limp arms. Jasmine shook her, panic sharpening to hysteria. "Oh God, it's my fault! Marie, answer me! I'll never forgive myself if—"

Marie stirred, lifting her head with a wince. "M'fine," she slurred, pressing a palm to her temple. "Head's killing me… Could've been worse. Could've been *dead*."

Jasmine lunged into a crushing hug. "Thank God—if I'd gotten you hurt because of my stupid—"

"*Ouch*," Marie snorted, half-laughing. "Take it easy, drama queen."

"It's *not* your fault," I cut in, throat raw. "*I* distracted you. *I* told you about Sebastian."

As if summoned by his name, Sebastian stormed toward us, arms flailing. "What the *fuck* is wrong with you three? Lost your minds?! Jasmine, what the hell's your problem?!"

*This motherfucker*. Berating her *now*, fresh off cheating?

His eyes bulged when he saw the wreck. Clawing at his hair, he spun, voice cracking. "You smashed into a **$300,000** car! Are you brain-dead?!"

Why wasn't Jasmine fighting back? I glanced over. She sat rigid, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, tears pooling in her eyes. When she turned to me, those big brown irises swam with sadness, lips trembling.

He kept roaring. "Bit your tongue in the accident?! **Answer me!**"

*Last straw*. I elbowed the door open—it groaned off its hinges—and stalked toward him, finger jabbing his chest. "Who the *hell* do you think you are? Screaming at her after we caught you tongue-deep in some side piece? You've got some nerve..."

His mouth hung open mid-rant, teeth bared like a cornered animal. Then a sneer twisted his face. "Oh, you saw me cheating, so you tried to *murder* me? Perfect. I'm calling the cops—**this** is attempted manslaughter!"

"You're not a fucking man for it to be!" I shoved him. "You're roadkill. No one'd cry for you—not even your mother."

He laughed, ugly and too loud. "Jenny, you hearing this? She's confessing. Christ, you're even dumber than you look."

My fist curled. I wanted to knock his teeth loose. Then Marie's hand gripped my shoulder. "Melissa—stop. We're already in *serious* trouble. Don't dig deeper."

She flicked her eyes at the camera.

"Yeah, that's right," he sneered. "All on tape. You skanks'll rot together. Cry on each other's shoulders in prison." He tugged his beanie down over that bleach-fried mess he called hair.

Sarah stepped forward, trying to reason with him.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe right. I saw my dad's face—how it'd fall if he ever found out. Found out we tried to run someone down. Found out I lost it.

One charge would kill everything. No uni. No team. Everything I'd worked summers for—gone.

And him? He gets to laugh. Gets to hold my life by the throat. That's the worst part—being at the mercy of someone this filthy.

The camera blinked red.

What if I smashed it? No point. It'd already collected enough evidence.

I turned to the crumpled hood. What if we finished it? Ran him over for real. Match the crime to the sentence. No witnesses but his sidepiece—and hell, she could fit in the coffin too since she loved to share men so much.

What am I even thinking?

The car's engine is busted.

Besides, I'm not Sylvio. I don't disappear people. He could, sure. Mom tried to hide his underground criminal activities, but everyone knew. I could call him, just say the word, let him scare the bastard...

No. He'd only help to impress Mom, then she would know. And she'd tell Dad. Despite their divorce, they're still on good terms.

This is mine to clean up. My mistake.

"Fine, fine. I'm not pressing charges, so don't get your panties in a twist," Sebastian muttered to Marie.

"You little—learn to fucking respect people," I snapped. His voice alone could set me off, even if he was letting us off the hook. Marie held me back, urging me down with a grip.

"Hey, Jas," he called, eyes flicking to the car where Jasmine still sat. "Call it a favor for old times, yeah?"

Then he shoved a worn company numbers book into my chest. "I might let it slide, but don't count on the customer doing the same. You trashed his fresh-off-the-lot sports car. That's gonna cost you."

"It's fine. We can reason with him," Sarah said. It sounded weak even to me.

Sebastian laughed. "Think everyone's as nice as me, princess?"

That grin—sharp and smug—cut right through.

"You don't know what this guy does to people who mess with his stuff. Jail'd be the safer option."

Then he turned, slung an arm around Jenny like she was some trophy and strolled off. "Ciao, ladies. Closing early today."

I raised a hand to my head. Too many tabs open in my mind.

First things first—comfort Jasmine. Then figure out who the hell this customer is and explain the situation. I might be stuck as a wage-debt slave for life to pay off the damage.

Funny—I panic over losing my phone, but crash into a Lamborghini and I'm suddenly zen as a monk.

Jasmine was still crying in the passenger seat, hair pasted to her cheeks in tear-soaked strands. I leaned across the console, bracing on the car.

"Jas, I swear—I'll be pissed if you're crying over that piece of shit. Don't. He's not worth a spit from you."

"I don't give a damn about him!" she snapped between sobs. "I ruined our lives over a distraction! He's right, you know—I'm stupid. Stupid! Stupid!"

She slammed the horn hard. The car blared like it was screaming with her.

"You're not," I shot back. "You're top of our class. Kind. Sensitive. That's why narcissists circle you like sharks. This isn't your fault."

"How are we gonna pay for the car? He said it's three hundred thousand. Can that even be real?"

I looked up. Black Lamborghini Huracán. Front crushed in. Engine probably toast.

It was a miracle we walked away mostly unscathed. If we'd been in that car... we might be dead.

"We'll find a way. There's three of us. I could pick up another job—"

"That'll take forever!" Jasmine wiped her face with her sleeve. "It's my mess. I'll take the hit."

"No," Marie and I said at once.

"We'll figure it out. What if we talk to Sylvio?"

Jasmine laughed—dry, bitter. "My uncle? Sure, he's rich. But he'd sell my kidneys on the black market before he'd give us a dime."

I exhaled hard. Still, worth asking. Rich people guard their money like they never have enough. Especially when they didn't earn it.

Most of Sylvio's came from drug trafficking and 'protection fees'—mafia crap dressed up as business.

"Let's see who the owner is," Marie said.

"Right." I flipped through the logbook, fingers skimming names.

Found it. *Lamborghini Huracán—property of Christian Marasco.*

No way...

My hand froze as my face went hot.

Could it really be him? The man from the boat.

I rubbed my wrist where he'd carved his initials into my pulse.

Only one Christian Marasco in the city. It had to be him.

Only one way to find out.

"Jasmine, toss me the basket from the back," I said.

She peeled her face off the steering wheel, eyes puffy and confused.

"You wanna shoot hoops now?"

"I get that it calms you down, but what if the cops show up? Do we really trust Sebastian to keep quiet?" Marie cut in.

Still, Jasmine handed me the ball.

I walked straight to a parked BMW near the dealership's front entrance. Gripped the ball in both hands. Threw it hard—dead at the window.

Glass shattered. The ball landed neatly on the seat.

"What the hell are you doing, Mel?!" Marie shouted, chasing after me, tapping her finger to her temple. "You've lost it!"

Jasmine got out of the wrecked car at the noise, heading toward us.

"We're already neck-deep in shit," I told Marie. "Can't get worse."

I looked straight into the lens of the camera pointing at me, flipping it a finger. "Fuck you, Sebastian. If this doesn't work, I'm driving this one right through your front door."

"She's gone full psycho," Marie muttered to Jasmine.

But Jasmine didn't flinch. "No. I know that look. Captain's cooking something. I trust her."

That made me smile. A real one.

I yanked the BMW's door open and ducked in, fingers scrambling beneath the wheel. I'd seen one of Sylvio's guys hotwire Mom's car once when she lost her keys—looked easy enough.

"Come on, come on. Work." I muttered.

Sparks.

Engine growled to life.

"I'll be back soon," I told them, tossing my arm over the seat to reverse, tires squealing as I zipped onto the road.

Could I really be seeing him again? After all this time?

Two months since the yacht incident, and I still couldn't shake him.

Christian Marasco—tall, smooth, and just dangerous enough to haunt me. Most guys barely hit my chin. He towered over me. Made me feel... small. That *blushing, aching* kind of small.

His name had stuck ever since he said it. I'd overheard Mom on the phone the next day—talking about him. Said the Marascos had a new young boss. Said he wanted peace with the Savoys, an end to the bloodshed.

My mind had gone straight to him. The man from the boat.

He *had* helped me that day. Kind, sure—but something in his eyes hinted at danger. He had a helicopter. Who has a damn helicopter just lying around?

I did my research. The Marascos weren't saints. Blood on their hands. Deals with the Yakuza, Russian mafia, underground rings masked as "nightwork protection." Said they kept the girls safe—but it was still a leash. Still control.

But Christian didn't strike me as greedy, or particularly cruel. Could he be different?

Maybe he's trying to change the way his family operates.

Maybe he's looking for something else. Something... softer. Real.

Maybe he just needs the right woman to start his own family.

God. What the hell am I even thinking?

Marie's right. I've completely lost it.

I drove right past the arrondissement of Twentieth Street. It was the first time I'd driven through this area. My family had always warned me against going there, though it was by far the wealthiest and most polished part of our city.

Every restaurant and business here was run by those tied to the Marasco Italian Mafia, and our families were, apparently, on bad terms.

Most buildings stood only two stories high, with brick roofs and stone-clad exteriors.

The restaurants boasted red-clothed tables beneath ornate black streetlamps, their glass windows revealing warm interiors adorned with Old Hollywood art deco: black-and-white portraits against beige walls, bundles of thyme and onions dangling above wooden kitchen counters, and swinging saloon doors manned by waiters who carried trays heavier than themselves.

*I'll try the pizza here someday*, I muttered as I turned left, desperate to distract myself from how close I was to the Marasco mansion.

I slowed the car as strangers began glaring at me. A black sedan now trailed a few lengths behind. Were they part of Marasco's undercover guards? Or was I just paranoid? This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come.

My nerves tightened like wires, but I knew I'd forget the fear once I saw him—just like last time. I pressed the gas, resolve steadying my hands.

The mansion loomed ahead, nothing like the sterile high-rises in my neighborhood. It resembled a rustic Italian villa, scaled to absurd grandeur.

*You could fit ten basketball courts inside*, I thought, craning my neck to scan the windows for his silhouette. But every curtain was drawn shut. Secretive, as expected of a family that had ruled the underworld for decades without a single arrest.

"Shit, there's a gate—" I hit the brakes. "C.M." was engraved on the ironwork in the same swirling script he'd used to sign my wrist months ago. My heart thudded wildly. I was close enough to smell his scent again—pinewood and and a faint trace of gunpowder—when a guard materialized at my window.

"Are you expected, miss?" he demanded. "The Marasco family does not receive unsolicited guests."

His tone snapped me back to reality. Of course I couldn't just show up unannounced and expect the city's most notorious mafia kingpin to swoon. He probably didn't even remember me.

"I must have lost my way," I said, forcing calm into my voice. "Sorry for the disturbance."

The engine hummed as I reversed, the mansion shrinking in the rearview mirror.

I could feel tears pooling behind my eyes, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment. *What was I supposed to do now? Where should I drive?* I had no one to ask for help.

Then I saw it—a sleek Jaguar Type E. My heart skipped a beat. I didn't know why, but I was certain it was him driving.

Wouldn't the head of the Mafia drive the most exclusive car, forbidding competition? *Yes*, my mind screamed. I slammed the gas, tires screeching as I skidded to a stop in front of his car, blocking the road. Trembling, I stepped out, praying to every god it was him.

A man in a suit—green-eyed, with straight brown hair—stepped out, hand hovering near his gun as he rushed toward me. I froze, too stunned to react.

"**Santino!**" A gruff, familiar voice erupted from the Jaguar. My heart recognized him instantly, spreading a grin across my face.

I darted past the other man, ignoring him entirely, and pressed close to the blackened windows of the Marosco kingpin—my *rescuer*. The window rolled down inch by inch, revealing dark wavy hair, intense brown eyes locked onto mine, and stubble along his jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

His arm rested lazily on the steering wheel, lips twitching as if fighting a smile. "We meet again, Melissa."

*He remembers my name.*

"Sir Marosco…" I stammered, shuffling my feet like they'd forgotten how to hold me upright. *Was I swooning? Is this what other girls mean when they talk about falling in love? Not the time, idiot. He's dangerous. You're here for a favor—act like it.*

His gaze hardened suddenly, sweeping over my face before dropping lower. He flung the door open, stood high and seized my arms, his voice a gravel-edged threat. "Are you hurt? Who did this to you?"

The intensity weakened my knees, nearly erasing my purpose here. *The car. I wrecked his car.* I squeezed my eyes shut, scrambling for composure. What if his fury turned on me?

"Your Lambo," I blurted. "We crashed into it at the dealership. Not on purpose—I swear! Well, *accidentally* on purpose I think…" I cracked one eye open.

His tension dissolved into cool calm. "It's not the end of the world. As long as you're safe. Cars are replaceable."

Santino barked a laugh behind us. "Hear that, couz? Looks like I'm winning the car collecting race—you didn't total *my* Lambo too, did you? Orange one?" He arched a brow, mock-serious.

"N-no! And it wasn't a joyride! My friend saw her boyfriend—*ex*-boyfriend—kissing some girl and lost it…"

Santino doubled over, howling at my misfortune. I shivered as Christian's thumb brushed the cut under my eye. Our eyes met.*If I kissed him now, right here, would he punish me for daring to touch a Mafia don? Or worse, would he get mad if his cousin laughs at us?* He was so close, so severe, yet I felt safer than I had in months. Words spilled out before I could stop them.