A Knife at the Throat

The silence of the estate at midnight was suffocating.

Outside, the cold autumn wind whipped off Lake Michigan, rattling the heavy leaded windows of the master suite. Inside, Isla lay beneath the black velvet duvets, wide awake, listening to the muffled footfalls of sentries patrolling the terrace below.

Earlier that evening, during dinner in the grand dining room, she had managed to palm a silver-plated steak knife from the sideboard while Nonna Maria was clearing the plates. The serrated blade was now taped securely to the inside of her thigh beneath her silk nightgown.

The master bedroom door clicked softly.

Lorenzo stepped inside, smelling of expensive bourbon and rain. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his sculpted chest, exposing corded muscle and a long, jagged scar that ran from his left shoulder down across his ribs—the mark of a syndicate war fought and won.

He walked over to the dresser, unstrapping his gun holster and setting his twin pistols down. He turned toward the bed, unbuttoning his cuffs.

"I know you're not sleeping, Isla," Lorenzo murmured, his voice deep and raspy in the dark.

Isla didn't answer. She kept her breathing slow and measured, waiting for him to get closer.

Lorenzo walked to the edge of the bed. He reached down, pulling back the duvet to slide beneath the covers.

In a fraction of a second, Isla moved.

She whipped the silver knife from her thigh, vaulting forward with lightning agility, pinning Lorenzo's shoulder against the mattress with her knee while pressing the serrated steel blade firmly against his jugular vein.

Lorenzo didn't flinch. He didn't even raise his hands.

He lay back against the pillows, looking up into her wild, furious green eyes with cool, amused detachment. A bead of dark red blood welled where the silver blade pricked his throat.

"Very impressive, Donna Isla," Lorenzo whispered, his baritone steady and low. "You move faster than my best soldiers."

"One twitch, Falcone, and I open your carotid artery," Isla warned, her hands trembling with lethal adrenaline. "Call your men. Tell them to bring a car to the front gates, or you die right here in your own bed."

Lorenzo didn't call anyone.

Instead, a slow, predatory smirk curled his sculpted lips. His large, warm hand rose slowly, not to disarm her, but to wrap around the bare curve of her thigh, his thumb stroking the soft skin near where the knife had been concealed.

The heat of his touch was like an electric shock. Isla gasped, her grip on the knife tightening, but a sudden, dizzying heat rushed between her legs.

"You won't kill me, little bird," Lorenzo murmured softly, his gray eyes locking onto hers with hypnotic power.

"Try me," she hissed.

"If you wanted me dead, you would have driven the blade through my neck the second I lay down," Lorenzo said, his thumb drawing slow, intoxicating circles against her inner thigh, inching higher beneath the silk. "You held back because you wanted to look me in the eye. You wanted to feel the power."

"I hate you," Isla whispered, but her voice lacked conviction, trembling with a sudden, traitorous need that terrified her.

"Good," Lorenzo rasped.

In a single, concussive movement, Lorenzo's other hand gripped her wrist, twisting the knife away and sending it clattering across the hardwood floor. In the same breath, he flipped her onto her back, his massive body pinning her slender frame beneath his weight.

Isla gasped for air as his sheer power overwhelmed her. Lorenzo hovered over her, his chest heaving, his gray eyes dark as thunderclouds.

"You play with fire, Isla," Lorenzo growled, his lips descending until they brushed against hers. "And tonight, you're going to get burned."