The terra-cotta tiles held the day's heat like a secret, warm enough that Tisha could feel it rising through the soles of her bare feet, up through her ankles, into the ache that lived low in her body. She stood at the edge of the terrace with her arms crossed over her chest, the loose white shirt of Pete's hanging off her shoulder, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. Two sizes too big. She'd grabbed it from the foot of the bed that morning without thinking, the way she used to grab his shirts from the floor of the Ritz-Carlton suite, back when she was nineteen and stupid enough to believe a week could be a lifetime.

The sea hammered the rocks below. A wet, rhythmic pulse that vibrated through the stone, through the soles of her feet, up into her teeth. She could taste salt on her lips. Wild fennel grew in the cracks of the cliff, its green smell cutting through the brine, and somewhere behind her, through the open window of the villa, Santiago was breathing in the slow, even rhythm of a child who had finally worn himself out.

He'd been a different boy on the plane. Not the wary, watchful Santiago who'd learned to scan doorways before entering a room, who'd learned to whisper instead of shout, who'd learned that Mama's hand tightening on his meant danger. No. On the plane he'd been a normal two-year-old, pressed against the window, his small face lit with wonder as the clouds slid past, his voice rising in excitement.

"Mama, look. Mama, look."

"I'm looking, baby."

"Is that where we're going? Is that Sicily?"

"Almost."

"Is Papa coming too?"

She'd felt Pete's hand tighten on her knee. The whole flight. A warm, heavy weight that hadn't moved, that had pressed through the thin fabric of her jeans like a brand. She hadn't looked at him. She'd watched Santiago instead, watched the way his gray eyes caught the light, the way his small fingers spread against the window glass, and she'd thought: He looks like him. He looks exactly like him.

"Papa's coming with us," she'd said, and the words had tasted like ash, like surrender, like the last door closing.

Santiago had clapped his hands. "Papa! Papa!"

Pete's hand had tightened on her knee, and she'd felt him lean closer, felt the heat of his breath against her ear, felt the low rumble of his voice. "Thank you."

She hadn't answered. She'd watched her son press his face to the glass and thought about all the things she'd never be able to explain to him. All the things she'd never be able to protect him from.

The clink of glass came from inside the villa. She heard Pete moving through the rooms, the low hum of him being domestic, the sound of a cabinet opening, a bottle being set down. He was making himself at home. Of course he was. He'd bought this villa, or rented it, or simply taken it — she didn't know, and she didn't want to ask. She'd learned not to ask questions about where things came from, about who'd owned them before, about the price of anything in Pete Bianchi's world.

The soreness between her legs was a physical memory. She shifted her weight, and the ache pulsed, and she closed her eyes against the feeling. The night before. The first night in this place. She'd thought — stupidly, naively — that she'd get her own room. That Santiago's presence would be enough. That Pete would understand that things were different now, that she was a mother, that she had to be careful, that she had to protect her son from the reality of what she and Pete were to each other.

She'd been wrong.

The villa had two bedrooms. Santiago had fallen asleep in the smaller one, his small body curled around a stuffed whale she'd bought him in Mykonos, his gray eyes closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks. She'd tucked the blanket around him, kissed his forehead, and stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching him breathe.

Then she'd turned to find Pete standing in the hall, watching her.

He hadn't said anything. He'd just held out his hand. And she'd taken it — because what else was she supposed to do? What else had she ever been able to do when he looked at her like that, with that hunger in his gray eyes, that certainty that she belonged to him?

The bedroom had been large. The bed had been enormous. He'd undressed her slowly, with a patience that made her skin prickle, made her want to run, made her want to stay. She'd stood there in the middle of the room, naked, her arms crossed over her chest, her thighs pressed together, and she'd told herself she could say no.

She could say no.

She was a mother now. She had a son to protect. She had to be strong.

"Tisha."

His voice had been low, rough, that gravelly baritone that had haunted her dreams for two years. He'd reached for her, his scarred hands finding her hips, pulling her toward him. She'd let him. She'd told herself she was letting him because she had to, because Santiago was asleep in the next room, because she couldn't risk his anger, because she had to keep the peace.

But when he'd kissed her — when his mouth had found hers, when his tongue had slid past her lips, when his hands had gripped her ass and pulled her against him — she'd felt the heat rise in her, the same heat she'd felt on the runway, the same heat she'd felt in his hotel room, the same heat she'd felt every time he'd touched her, every time he'd taken her, every time she'd told herself she hated it.

She hadn't hated it.

That was the worst part. She'd never hated it.

He'd pushed her onto the bed, and she'd gone willingly, her legs spreading, her arms reaching for him, and she'd hated herself for how much she wanted it. For how much she'd missed it. For the way her body had remembered him, the way her cunt had clenched around nothing, the way she'd been wet before he'd even touched her.

"Please," she'd heard herself say, and she hadn't known if she was begging him to stop or begging him to take her.

He'd taken her.

He'd spread her legs and pushed into her, and she'd felt the stretch, the fullness, the familiar pressure of his cock sliding into her, and she'd moaned — a sound that had come from somewhere deep in her chest, a sound she'd tried to swallow, a sound that had escaped anyway.

"That's it," he'd growled, his hips grinding against hers. "That's my girl. You missed this, didn't you? You missed my cock."

She'd shaken her head, but her body had betrayed her. Her hips had risen to meet his. Her hands had gripped his shoulders. Her legs had wrapped around his waist.

"Tell me," he'd demanded. "Tell me you missed it."

"No."

"Liar."

He'd pulled out, and she'd felt the emptiness, the loss, the ache. She'd reached for him, and he'd caught her wrists and pinned them above her head, and he'd looked down at her with those cold gray eyes that weren't cold at all, that were burning, that were full of something she didn't want to name.

"Say it."

"Pete—"

"Say it, Tisha."

She'd closed her eyes. "I missed it."

"Say my name."

"Pete."

"Say you missed my cock."

She'd felt the tears prick her eyes, but she'd said it. "I missed your cock."

He'd pushed into her again, and she'd cried out, and he'd covered her mouth with his hand, and he'd fucked her with a brutal, grinding rhythm that had made her see stars, that had made her forget where she was, that had made her forget everything except the feeling of him inside her, the feeling of his body against hers, the feeling of his hand on her mouth, stifling her screams.

She'd come — against her will, against every promise she'd made herself, against everything she'd told herself she was protecting — she'd come with a shuddering, wrenching orgasm that had ripped through her like a wave, and she'd felt him follow, felt him empty into her, felt his body shudder against hers, felt his forehead press to hers as he gasped her name.

Afterward, she'd lain in his arms, her body still trembling, her mind a blur. She'd felt his hand on her hair, stroking it, soothing her. She'd felt his lips press to her forehead. She'd felt the steady thump of his heart beneath her cheek.

"I missed you," he'd said, and she'd felt the words vibrate through his chest. "I missed you so much, Tisha."

She hadn't answered. She couldn't. Because what was she supposed to say? That she'd missed him too? That she'd thought about him every day? That she'd lain awake in her small apartment in Mykonos, Santiago sleeping in the next room, and imagined his hands on her body, his voice in her ear, his cock inside her?

She'd felt the shame rise in her, hot and thick, and she'd pressed her face into his chest and tried to disappear.

Now, standing on the terrace with the sun sinking below the horizon, she could still feel the ghost of him inside her. The soreness between her legs. The ache in her body. The memory of his hands on her skin.

She heard him move inside the villa. The clink of a glass. The low murmur of his voice — he was on the phone, probably. Business. Always business. The mafia didn't take vacations, even when they were in Sicily. Even when they were supposed to be starting a new life.

She thought about Santiago, asleep in his room, his small body curled around his stuffed whale. He was happy. That was the thing. He was happy in a way she hadn't seen him happy in months, maybe ever. He had a father now. A father who looked at him with something like wonder, who'd spent the whole flight pointing out clouds and birds and the curve of the earth, who'd carried him off the plane and set him down on the tarmac and watched him run in circles, laughing.

She thought about the way Pete had looked at Santiago. The way his gray eyes had softened. The way his voice had dropped, losing its edge. The way he'd knelt and let Santiago touch his face, his hair, his scarred knuckles.

"Papa," Santiago had said, and Pete had flinched — a small, almost imperceptible movement — and then he'd pulled Santiago into his arms and held him, and Tisha had seen something she'd never seen before in Pete Bianchi's face.

Tears.

She'd looked away. She hadn't been able to watch. Because if she watched, she'd have to feel, and if she felt, she'd have to admit that maybe — maybe — she'd been wrong about him. Maybe he wasn't the monster she'd made him out to be. Maybe he could be a father. Maybe he could be a good man.

But the blood was on the floor of the basement. The body was in the ground. The evidence was in the hands of a journalist, published for the world to see. And Pete Bianchi was still free, still powerful, still dangerous.

How was she supposed to raise Santiago in that world? How was she supposed to let her son grow up with a criminal for a father?

The sea hammered the rocks below. The salt air clung to her skin. She heard Pete's footsteps inside the villa, moving toward her, and she felt her body tense, felt the heat rise in her, felt the memory of the night before flood back.

She didn't turn around.

His footsteps stopped directly behind her. She felt his hands land on her hips, felt his chest press against her back, felt the heat of him through the thin fabric of the shirt she was wearing — his shirt, she realized, she was wearing his shirt, and he'd noticed, and he knew, and he was pressing against her like he wanted her again, like the night before hadn't been enough, like he'd never get enough.

She closed her eyes.

The sea kept hammering below.