“You’re here for a tour of the house?”

Sergio Benedetti, looking like a giant in my tiny kitchen, shrugs a shoulder.

I am so freaking confused. Yesterday he stripped me naked and took dirty pictures of me to essentially blackmail me into keeping silent, and today, he’s here giving me a gift of a brand-new iPhone and he wants a tour of the house?

“I don’t believe you.”

“All right, a tour and coffee,” he says.

“Is this a joke to you?”

“I’m not much for joking.”

“What, you want more pictures?” I cock my head to the side, fold my arms across my chest. “Not enough material to jerk off to?”

He chuckles. “Plenty, actually.” He winks, his eyes are practically glowing, the look inside them telling me he means exactly what he said.

I clear my throat and look away, embarrassed.

He mistakes my silence for an invitation and next thing I know, he’s hanging his coat up beside all the others.

“You have a lot of coats,” he says, looking through the collection.

“They’re not mine. I’m house-sitting for friends of my parents while they spend the winter in Florida.”

“Ah. Makes sense. I didn’t imagine a university student could afford one of these houses.”

“What I can or can’t afford isn’t any of your business.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Just an observation.”

“Are you really not going to go until I give you a tour?”

“And coffee.”

“Why?”

“I’m thirsty and I want to see the house.”

He can’t be serious. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“No strings?”

“No strings.”

A voice in my head tells me that’s not quite right. That there are strings. That there will always be strings with him. But I shove that voice aside. There’s something about Sergio Benedetti. It’s not that I like him. I don’t. You can’t like someone after they do what he did to me. I don’t know what it is, though. I don’t know why I’m not really scared he’ll hurt me, even though I know who he is. He won’t. And there’s something else. Something about him that makes me want him to stay, as little sense as that makes. I wonder if it has to do with before, with the robbery. When he was the hero, not the villain.

“I want the pictures back,” I say, knowing it’s a long shot.

He shakes his head. “Can’t do that.”

“You can’t ever share them. It’ll hurt my parents if they ever thought—”

“Keep your end of the bargain and you have my word no one will see them.” He picks up the phone. “Just a tour and a cup of coffee. No tricks. No hidden agenda.”

I need the phone. I can’t afford to buy a new one right now.

“Okay.”

He puts the phone on the table and slides it toward me.

“This is the kitchen.” I’ll keep it short. I walk past him, my shoulder brushing against his arm when I do, feeling the solid mass of muscle. It makes my belly flutter. Makes me remember the feel of his hand on my bare hip last night. Makes me think of how he looked at me, and I swallow hard, feeling my face flush, grateful my back is to him.

“Come on, Pepper,” I say, although she’s not much of a guard dog when it comes to him from the way she’s nudging her head against his leg.

Pepper, the German Shepherd who came with the property, lopes toward me. She’s so old, she can barely see, but she’s usually good about barking at strangers.

“She’s quite the guard dog,” Sergio comments, probably aware why I called her.

“Her sense of smell must be off if she likes you.”

I catch his smile when I glance behind me.

“Living room,” I say, pointing out the obvious. I love this house, love the charm, the creaks and even the ghosts I imagine on dark nights, but it is small and Sergio makes it look that much smaller.

“This is great,” he says, touching the bookshelf, obviously appreciating the old wood and antiques. “How old is the house?”

I tell him, just talk to him like he’s not who he is. Like last night didn’t happen. It’s awkward, but I try to ignore it. It’ll be over soon. Coffee and a tour. He’ll be gone in fifteen minutes.

He follows me through the living room, and I point out the bathroom downstairs before climbing the narrow staircase up to the second floor. Pepper stays at the bottom of the stairs watching us.

“She’s too old to climb anymore,” I say.

He nods. “Low ceilings.” He has to duck his head.

“It’s got more space than you’d think,” I say, pointing out the two bedrooms. “This one’s mine.” I open the door to my messy room, walk in ahead of him and kick some clothes under the bed, close the dresser drawer that’s still open and turn to him. He’s checking out the fireplace.

“Can you use this?”

“I think so. I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to burn down the neighborhood. You could say I’m accident prone.” As if to demonstrate, I trip over a shoe on the floor.

“You’re messy. That’s why you’re accident prone.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

He stands there watching me, and I see the shadow behind that light-hearted, entertained look on his face, in his eyes. He’s dark. At his core, no matter how he tries to mask it on the surface, there’s a darkness to him.

I shudder. Tell myself I have to remember this.

“I know you from somewhere,” he says. Does he remember that convenience store robbery?

“Is that the real reason you’re here?” I ask. I know he isn’t interested in a tour or coffee.

Before he can respond, I hear the buzzing of a cell phone announcing a message. Sergio reaches into his pocket, reads the screen. He types something back then returns his gaze to me. His eyes, last night I’d thought they were black, but I see now they’re midnight blue with specks of gold in them. Like stars. Like a clear night sky with stars.

I take a deep breath in. He’s so close I can smell his aftershave.

Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Do I?” he asks.

He’s studying me and my heart is racing. I wonder if he can hear it. But then he’s reading another message. He’s preoccupied. His phone buzzes a third time. After reading that message, he mutters a curse under his breath. Texts something. Pushes his suit jacket back to tuck his hand into his pants pocket.

That’s when I see something glint, shiny and black in its holster under his arm.

“Do you have a gun with you?”

He doesn’t reply, just narrows one eye, weighing how to answer my question perhaps. Or trying to steal my memory, to know why he feels a familiarity.

“Did you bring a gun into my house?” I ask again.

“It’s not your house, remember?”

“Did you?”

“Would it scare you if I said yes?”

“You put one to my head yesterday.”

“Before I realized you were…you.”

“You scared me,” I admit.

He pauses. Wrinkles form around his eyes for a moment as if this is a revelation to him. “Do I scare you now?”

I don’t have to think about it. I shake my head. “No.”

“Good. Besides, guns are more part of your life than you think.”

“What do you mean?”

His phone buzzes again. It’s irritating to have him read his messages while he’s talking to me. He types a quick reply before giving me his attention, but I can see he’s distracted.

“Second amendment, sweetheart. The world you live in is a violent one. You’re just blissfully unaware.”

“Maybe that’s true for you, but not for me. I don’t deal with guns or the mob.”

“You’d be surprised.” He steps back. “I have to go.”

“Oh.” I’m oddly disappointed when he gestures to the bedroom door.

“I’ll take a raincheck on the coffee though.”

My shoulder brushes against his hard chest when I walk past him and out the door. I don’t look back as I descend the stairs, my heart still beating fast. In the kitchen, I look at the box containing the brand-new phone, wondering yet again how, twice in less than twenty-four hours, I find myself in a wholly surreal situation with Sergio Benedetti in the driver’s seat.

He opens the front door and a cold gust of wind blows in.

“You have good locks on these doors, Natalie?” he asks, twisting the doorknobs, testing the lock.

“That’s a strange question.”

He turns back to me. “You’re an attractive, young girl living alone in the city.”

“Woman. Not girl. And I can take care of myself.” His face tells me he believes otherwise, and I get that. Because last night didn’t exactly make my case.

“The locks?” he asks again, ignoring my comment.

“They’re fine.”

He walks out of the house but turns back like he’s about to say something. His phone rings this time and he steps out, but before answering, he mouths for me to lock the door.

My mind is still in a daze when I get to the coffee shop to meet Drew the next afternoon. I walk inside to find him waiting for me at our usual table. He makes a show of checking his watch and I do the same on my new phone.

“I’m barely seven minutes late,” I say, setting my purse down and pulling out a chair.

“Oh, nice,” he says, taking the phone from me and looking at it. “What happened to your old one?” He sets it down. The phone, a rose gold, came ready to go and had one phone number programmed in it. Sergio Benedetti’s.

No strings my ass.

“Long story,” I say, not wanting to lie. Drew’s my best friend. I’ve known him since I was a kid and we even dated through senior year of high school. But he was always more into boys than girls. Him coming out to me was the same day we broke up and I just remember feeling so happy for him that he knew, really knew, and was deciding to no longer hide it.

He was supposed to go to the warehouse with me, but canceled at the last minute. I’m glad now that he wasn’t there.

“Rough night?” he asks.

“Is it obvious?” I wave to Mandy at the bar. I work here, and I pretty much never deviate from my double shot cappuccino, so she gives me a nod to let me know she’s already working on it.

“Only because I know you. You went to that warehouse, didn’t you? I told you to wait for me.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.” And I don’t want to think about how things could have gone if he was there.

“Did something happen?”

Mandy calls out my name and I go to the coffee bar, grab my drink and hand her a $5 bill. “Thanks.” Back at the table, I take a sip. “Can I ask you a question?”

His eyebrows rise. “Sounds serious.”

“It is. Do you know a man named Sergio Benedetti?”

Drew all but spits out his coffee. “Benedetti?” he asks too loudly.

I glance at all the faces suddenly turned in our direction, and lower my voice. “Can you say it any louder?”

“As in son of Franco Benedetti? Next in line to take over the family business?”

“That’s him.”

“Why?”

“I kind of ran into him last night.”

“You kind of ran into him? How do you kind of run into a man like that?”

“That’s the long story.”

“Nat—”

“Don’t push. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You mean at the warehouse?” His eyes go huge.

“Let’s just say he was there conducting business.”

“Nat—”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” I’m not fine though.

Drew eyes my new phone. I should have scratched it up or something. He knows I could never afford a brand new, latest model iPhone.

“What exactly happened?” Drew asks.

“I really can’t say, Drew. Please don’t push me.”

“Did you see—”

“Listen, I just want to know about his family. I tried to Google, but I can’t find much about him. I know you hear stuff.” Drew works at a gentlemen’s club. It’s a high-end strip joint and he’s mentioned the clientele sometimes includes men from the local crime families.

“So you want to know about Sergio in particular, not the family.”

I nod, bite the inside of my cheek.

He gives me a little history. “But this is where his story gets juicy.”

“It’s already juicy.”

“Ever hear of the DeMarco family?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Crime family. They were loyal to the Benedetti family, but then they weren’t. Franco Benedetti, Sergio’s father, took Lucia DeMarco, the youngest daughter, and essentially has her locked away at some nunnery until she’s old enough to be given to Sergio.”

“What?” My heart sinks into my belly. “What are you talking about?”

“It sounds Medieval, right? He took DeMarco’s daughter to punish him. Make him pay for rising up against the Benedetti family.”

“I don’t understand. Who is Lucia DeMarco? What nunnery? And what do you mean she’s to be given to Sergio?”

“She was sixteen when it all happened. That was two years ago. He literally had her sent to the nuns in some private school or something. She’ll be a gift for Sergio.” Drew looks almost mystified.

“What year is this? That’s not legal.”

“Tell that to Franco Benedetti.”

“Will he marry her or something?” I almost choke on the word and can’t figure out why I’m so bothered.

“He’ll own her. I don’t think finding a bride for his son was what Franco was going for.” Drew waggles his eyebrows.

I feel a shudder run along my spine. Drew’s phone rings and he gives me an apologetic look before answering. I’m too caught up in what I’ve just learned to care though. To do much of anything but digest this piece of information.

He hangs up. “Shit, totally forgot my meeting with the counselor.” He stands, finishes the last of his coffee and stuffs his text book into his backpack. Drew attends University of Pennsylvania with me. “Speaking of, did you decide what you’ll do with the Dayton internship?”

This is the reason I was at the warehouse to begin with. Professor Dayton owns Dayton Architecture, a leading firm in the Philadelphia area. I had a shot at a spot there for the summer, and ignored the stories about him being handsy with the interns. At least until I got a taste of it last week in a private meeting.

“Well, I’m not going to sleep with him for an internship and since I couldn’t get the photos I wanted to work on, I’m guessing it’s off the table.”

“Prick.” He zips his backpack, looks at me. “You can report—”

“Who’d believe me? He’s too well connected. Besides, I’ll find something else.”

“I disagree, but it’s up to you. You going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I wave him off. “Don’t worry about me.”

He leans down to give me a hug, but I catch his sleeve when he’s about to go.

“Drew, is that all for real?” I ask. “The story about the girl?”

He looks at me for a minute, his expression becoming worried. “Nat, real or not, you can’t get involved with someone like that.”

I shrug a shoulder, break eye contact. “I’m not. It’s just a strange story.”

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay.”

I finish the last of my coffee and get up to leave. It’s already dark out and the weather report had mentioned snow, which I really hoped would just be rain, but no such luck. I put my hood up and shove my hands into my pockets to walk the six blocks home all the while thinking about what Drew told me.

The story seems ridiculous, unbelievable and old-fashioned.

Would someone really do that? Lock away a girl of sixteen? Own her? What the hell does that even mean?

Flurries quickly turning into large, fluffy flakes blanket the ground. It would be beautiful except that right now, my brain’s busy processing. I feel kind of stupid. Drew’s right. I have no business thinking anything about a guy like Sergio Benedetti. I shouldn’t even let him in if he comes back for that cup of coffee.

I’m not paying attention as I near Elfreth’s Alley. The snow’s coming down hard now and I’m rushing to stay dry. I’m digging my key out of my pocket when I turn the corner and bump right into someone.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” I think it’s one of my neighbors but whoever it is rushes past me without an apology or even an acknowledgement. I turn to watch him go. I know it’s a him because he’s pretty big. “Jerk.” I look down for my key, which slipped out of my hand. I need to get a keychain for it. It takes me a minute to find it in the rapidly accumulating snow and by the time I let myself into the house, my fingers are numb from the cold.

Pepper barks twice, lopes into the kitchen. “Hey Pepper.” I pet her, remember what Sergio asked about the locks, then force him from my mind. “Want dinner?” I ask Pepper as I take off my coat and boots. I drape my coat over the radiator, and leave my wet boots on the mat by the door. I’m just finishing scooping out her food when there’s a knock on my door.

I try to shove the first thought that pops into my head—the hope that it’s him—out. It takes me a moment to get to the door and the knocking comes again before I pull it open.

Sergio Benedetti is standing outside my door, handsome and formidable.

His smile fades when I don’t invite him in right away. “It’s snowing out here.”

I look around, let go of the doorknob and step back. The story Drew told me circles my brain.

I watch him stomp snow off his boots before stepping inside and closing the door to look me over. I look too. I’m wearing a sweater and an old pair of ripped jeans and thick wool socks.

“Weatherman was right for the first time in his career,” Sergio says. He’s studying me. He always seems to be doing that.

My mind is busy, too caught up processing what I learned today. “Are you going to keep showing up at my door like this?”

Pepper’s nails glide along the floor and I know she’ll go to him like she did last time.

He pets Pepper’s head, but his eyes are on me. “You should wear a hat,” he says, ignoring my remark.

I touch my hair, realize it’s wet from my walk home.

“Why are you here?”

“Coffee.”

“What?”

“Coffee. Remember?”

“Now?”

He looks at me like it’s the most normal thing in the world that he showed up here for coffee.

“What’s wrong with now? Besides, we never finished talking.”

“I didn’t realize we had anything to talk about. You said no strings, remember?”

“Make me some coffee, Natalie.”

“Are you used to giving orders and having them obeyed?”

He stops, seems to consider this, then answers with a grin. “Yeah, I am.”

I guess it was a stupid question. “I have a question first,” I dare.

He cocks his head to the side. “You’re a strange one, you know that?”

I ignore his taunt. “Who’s Lucia DeMarco?”