Life without Astor was missing the thrill she'd always given me. And yet I wasn't tempted enough to return to her.

I'd had my fill of the little Snow White. Now I wanted my real queen back.

I couldn't get Ginger off my mind lately. Even at the best of times, she wasn't far away from my thoughts, but lately it seemed even harder to block the memory of her. To pretend I wasn't still longing after a relationship. That ship had sailed a long time ago, when she left me and told me she never wanted to see me again.

I guess part of the problem was that Ginger never told me the real reason she left me. She just grew quieter and quieter, retreating into the recesses of her mind and not telling me a thing about what was going on in that pretty little head of hers.

I still wasn't sure why she'd dropped me like that. In fact, I didn't even know if it had been my fault or an issue with her. Maybe I'd crossed a line. Maybe she had someone else waiting for her back at home.

All those years ago, I'd tried to get the truth out of Kain. I'd begged, groveled for her last name, for an address. But he was adamant about not telling me, saying he'd made a promise to Ginger and he didn't want to break it. Later, I'd even hired a PI and sent him after her, but he didn't find a thing.

Now, seven years and five PIs later, I still didn't have a clue about Ginger's whereabouts. No idea of her last name, fucking nothing. She'd come out of thin air and then disappeared back into it. It seemed like I would never see her again. And I was fucking stubborn—my pride wouldn't let me pursue a woman who so obviously didn't want me.

When Astor walked in, she was a distraction I didn't welcome. I resisted her as long as I could, though by the point we slept together, she was practically sitting in my lap begging for it.

I knew she was attracted to me. Perhaps it was my position, my money. Maybe my appearance, or my dirty fucking mouth. 

None of it mattered. 

She wasn't the one I wanted. 

My thoughts slipped to Ginger again and again, until Astor reminded me of her so much that I knew I had to sever ties before I hurt both of us.

A few months after Ginger disappeared, I left the States. When my father, Michael, died, I inherited everything, including a priceless collection of art that I couldn't bear to look at anymore. I sold it at auction, and only after discovered my father had another collection, this one hidden, stolen, and bought on the black market. It was how I discovered a new world, one of art deals that dripped with crimson blood, brighter than any that had ever been painted. Through the art business, I entered a black market where there was a need for everything. Wanting to stay away from the drugs and murder—I'd had enough of that in another life—I chose the finer things in life, like art and jewelry. The diamonds were a newer addition, but the Cursed Beauty had held my attention for a long time before it came into my hands.

I'd traced our family history back to our first ancestors in the States, and even further down memory lane to Italy. The earliest mentions of our family name went to Venice in the eighteenth century, I devoured every bit of that knowledge with hungry eyes.

My ancestor, Massimo Marino, had been a successful merchant in those times. After a particularly eventful journey, he boasted to his wife that he had defeated a pirate at sea and brought their treasures back to Venice, where he was celebrated for his braveness.

However, only his wife, Anita, knew of the secret they'd both sworn to take to the grave. 

When Massimo defeated the pirates, he kept the most valuable piece they owned to himself, to be sold by one of his sons when the air cleared and make him a fortune. The piece of treasure was called the Cursed Beauty, a breathtaking blue diamond with an unprecedented size.

Massimo also told his wife that the pirates had cursed the diamond before he killed them. In the beginning, the couple laughed at their threats. But soon enough, it turned out to be true.

By the end of that winter, two of their sons were dead, leaving only small children and the Marinos' daughter behind. The curse continued, not one of the men reaching old age, and rarely even past their thirties.

I learned my father had kept the stone in the family. All of the men before him, including my grandfather, were too superstitious to sell it, but they were greedy men who wanted money, and instead of just giving the stone away as the curse demanded, they held on to it, trying to outlive the curse.

I remembered the diamond from when I was a kid, before my father sold it. How he'd shown it to me in his office, told me not to believe in curses. That I should be a brave, strong boy. That curses weren't real.

I repeated those words to myself every day, and yet, even after my father sold it, I was convinced I was cursed. That made me follow the diamond's journey through the world as it crossed from one pair of hands to another. Finally, my search brought me to the Tanaka brothers, who'd only recently acquired the stone.

I offered them an astronomical payment for it, and they weren't able to resist. But apparently my offer had come too late—they'd already lost two of their own.

Now the stone was back in my hands. But what the fuck was I going to do with it? Was I cursed twice now, or had the curse lifted once I owned the stone again? Either way, I felt as if a ticking clock were hanging above me, counting the minutes until my whole life went to hell.

I'd resumed the role of Massimo, my ancestor. Living in Venice, with the cursed stone, trying to convince myself I didn't believe in such nonsense while the diamond kept ruining my life.

Of fucking course I was blaming the Cursed Beauty.

What else was I supposed to do?

The only other option was to blame myself.

And I couldn't bear that.

So I became obsessed with the story.

I followed it to its roots and wouldn't stop until I found the diamond. But even now that it was in my hands, I didn't feel complete.

I knew what the problem was. I knew what my dick, my body, my mind, my heart, my fucking soul craved most, and it wasn't a goddamned blue diamond.

It was Ginger, my sweet, innocent Ginger, whom I'd let slip between my fingers so easily, as if she'd never meant anything at all, when really she'd been the most important person in my life.

God, how I wanted her back. After keeping my eyes firmly closed for years, I knew I needed her back. The memory of our past hit me hard, and I couldn't get over it. Now every thought, every memory was consumed by her. Only her. Astor could never compare.

I'd done the only right thing by ending it with the poor girl. I'd strung her along long enough.

Every day that week, I woke up in an empty bed after dreaming of Ginger. The dreams became darker and darker, making me wake up with a hard-on I had to get rid of in the shower, covering the tiles in a mix of creamy cum and the hot water spraying from above. 

Goddamn, I wanted her. I wanted her back.

Thoughts of finding her, forcefully bringing her back to me, wouldn't leave me alone. She was so fucking stubborn, her own behavior rivaled only by my own. I was going to fuck that attitude out of her. And I was going to make her call me Daddy again.

The mere memory of how she'd done that made me harder than ever.

I'd never let another woman call me that, even though some had asked.

For some reason, it was saved especially for Ginger, because of that special tenderness we'd experienced together. It wouldn't sound right from any other woman. I needed her to say it. Only her.

After a week of this fucking madness, I woke up with the hint of a word on my tongue.

It was something I remembered, something from her past.

I'd tried so hard to conjure memories of what she'd told me, of anything significant. And now there it was, a phantom memory, a whispered confession from Ginger as she lay in my bed.

She'd told me some of her past, and now I was finally going to find her.

But I was going to find her my-fucking-self.

The PIs weren't enough.

She was hiding, and Kain wasn't helping me, so I'd take matters into my own hands.

I walked out of my bedroom in a Dolce & Gabbana suit, my hair slicked back and my beard trimmed. I knew I looked better than I had in weeks, and the shy glances of a maid sweeping the remnants of a broken glass and blushing when I walked past convinced me I was right.

On any other day, I would've ripped that sinfully tight little uniform right off her body until the buttons flew all over the room. I would've fucked her, taken her, right then and there. But I held back, not even needing to restrain myself. My mind was on one woman and one woman only.

Ginger.

I headed into my office where the last PI was waiting for me. He was a handsome man, a little older and shorter than me, with heavily accented English and ties to the mafia that I didn't particularly want to know about.

In Venice, I was L'Imperatore, not Ryker. I wasn't my father's son, but an entity of my own. My past didn't follow me at every step; I could be who I wanted to be, and I was respected for it.

"Hello, Signore Marino," the PI, Alberti, said hurriedly. "So good to see you. I hope you've had a pleasant summer."

"You too, Alberti," I replied stiffly. "Any news about the case you're working on?"

He shook his head and then filled the silence with nonsense about his research, which was—as I'd predicted—leading nowhere.

I was disappointed. He'd been the one to track down the diamond, and I'd hoped that success would be repeated with my mystery girl.

"Let me stop you right there, Alberti. I want to be more closely involved. And I remembered something that might help."

"What's that, sir?" he asked curiously.

"I had a dream," I said. "I seem to recall the mention of a name, of a city. Perhaps it will help you with your search."

"Yes." He nodded eagerly. "What was the city?"

"She grew up there," I said. "It was called Honey, or Harkney, or something like that. Ended with hock. Honeyhock? No, that isn't quite it."

"I will find it," he assured me. "And you're certain Ginger is her real name?"

"Yes. She wouldn't lie to me about it."

The PI nodded and wrote something in a notebook. "Do you remember anything else about the town?"

"Only one thing," I replied. "It had an asylum."

"A… what?"

Sometimes he didn't understand every word I said, so I smiled and explained, "A madhouse, Alberti. It had a madhouse."