First message
Miami was never meant to become permanent. One month. That was all I had given this city. Thirty days to expand my business, establish the necessary relationships, and ensure everything operated precisely as expected before I returned to Sicily. I had no interest in Miami beyond that.
That night, I finished business at one of my clubs shortly after midnight. I left through the front rather than waiting for my driver, deciding the walk would clear my head.
Then someone walked directly into me.
Back first.
My hand moved instinctively, catching a small waist before she could stumble. She had been walking backward down the sidewalk, talking animatedly to a group of women behind her, Club hopping, probably. Another pretty little Miami party girl drifting from one crowded room to another.
Careful, I murmured.
She turned around.
And every dismissive thought disappeared.
Her eyes met mine, and for several seconds, I simply stared. Beautiful. Distractingly so. There was something bright and unguarded about her. My hand remained around her waist and, strangely, I made no effort to move it.
Cristo.
Thirty-seven years without distraction, yet suddenly I was studying a stranger’s face as if memorizing it.
I should have released her, stepped aside, and continued walking.
Instead, my thumb shifted once against her waist.
I knew nothing about her. Not even her name.
Yet staring into those eyes, one thought arrived with absolute certainty.
I was in trouble.